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Chapter Text

The crowd was loud. Too loud.

The sound of so many people applauding and hailing was deafening, and made her wince in discomfort. Her eyes wandered over the gathered crowd, unable to spot any face, only seeing spots of different colours. Mostly brown and grey and green. Dull colours, still merrier than her spirits.

It had been some time – a few month, already – since she hadn’t been allowed to go out of the quiet custody of her rooms. Large, comfortable chambers in the lower part of the Tower of the Hand, that had the double benefit of being constantly watched and of being situated outside of Maegor’s Holdfast, not too close to the remaining members of the royal family.

And without any hidden passageway to escape.

The solar overlooking Blackwater Bay provided her with fresh air. Some days, when the weather was very clear, she could have sworn that she caught a glimpse of Dragonstone, all the while knowing it was impossible. It took at least ten hours on dragonback from the island to the capital – no one could see that far. It was just an effect of her grief and her imagination. She sometimes exhausted herself staying there, her eyes on the horizon, watching the ships sailing away, dreaming she was a sailor. Dreaming she had cut her hair, banded her chest, and slipped boy’s clothes on to escape to the Free Cities. Something she would never do but in her imagination, because of her little brother.

Aegon was her only surviving sibling. They had been allowed to live together in the comfortable chambers that had been assigned to them. Two rooms, a solar, a sitting room where they took their meals and read together.

They hadn’t been totally isolated, though. Aegon had been appointed as the King’s cupbearer and was regularly summoned during meetings of the Small Council. He didn’t speak much, his little brother, broken as he was, but he sometimes gave her news of the realm. The Queen Dowager visited her once a week, always followed by a maid bearing a tray of tea and sweet cakes, but didn’t share anything of value.

She had grown accustomed to quietness. Quietness provided a sense of safety. No desperate wails of grief, no inhuman shrieks of tortured pain. Aegon’s breathing and the waves crashing at the base of the cliff were often the only noises she had to listen to. Steps in the staircase out of their door, twice a day, the soft voice of the Lord Hand sometimes. As long as her brother stayed next to her, she didn’t mind.

And now, the sound of the boisterous crowd assaulted her as she was standing with the crippled King on her right, in the gallery of the Tourney Grounds, her stomach tightly knotted. Little Aegon was on her left, the Dowager Queen behind her. Alicent had given her a sad, heavy look as she had curtsied to her before taking her place. The seat on the right side of the King was still empty. The Lord Hand’s seat.

Their uncle Aemond. He had been chosen as Hand of the King, for King Aegon had been pleased with his brother’s efficiency as Prince Regent. And her mother had had Ser Otto’s head. He was late. It wasn’t in his habits, though, if she believed what her little her brother shared about the meetings of the Small Council. She hadn’t seen him since her mother’s death, but Aegon said that he was severe, solemn, and a model of rectitude.

Rectitude. The thought almost made her scoff. Aemond had killed her twin brother out of resent and hatred, because Lucerys had cut his eye, because Jace, Luke, Joffrey and she were not Ser Laenor’s children. And yet, her little brother – Daemon’s son – was wise beyond his years, and she trusted him.

She was drawn out of her musings when the King took her hand to present her to the cheering crowd.

The King.

The so-called King.

Who had fed her mother to his dragon after he had seized Dragonstone by surprise, making her and her little brother watch.

“Smile, my dear”, said her uncle Aegon with a cheerful, hideous smile. His face, now puffy with milk of the poppy, wasn’t handsome anymore. He looked more like a silver-haired toad clad in green velvet than a Valyrian dragonrider, and his burnt scalp and missing ear made the sight of his swollen face gruesome. A shiver of repulsion coursed through her back at the contact of his fingers.

She didn’t even bother to obey. Didn’t bother to hide how miserable she felt.

 She had been trimmed like a mare brought to a fair. Her hair was partly braided around her face, and fell in heavy dark curls in her back, past her hips. Her maid had donned her in a black brocade dress, the fabric woven in a pattern of leaves and embroidered with blood-red dragons, and ruby jewellery adorned her neck and ears. Black and red. Her mother’s colours. There could be no possible doubt about her identity. The neckline revealed her delicate shoulders, but kept her modesty all the same, as it befitted a maiden.

She was to be shown off.

To be sold off.

And the people of King's Landing acclaimed Aegon II for that.

She lowered her gaze. Below her in the arena, in their saddles, six knights were gawking at her, the visors of their great helms drawn up. Now her feeling of misery changed into loathing and disdain. They all wore their house’s colours on their tabards and shields, and she took time to identify each of them. To know who was willing to win the prize.

A golden lion on a red coat, blond beard and green eyes. Of course. The Lannisters had always been devoured by their ambition. Who was this knight, though?

Next to him, a silver tower with a bright burning fire, on a coat of green. House Hightower, proud as ever. She ignored who this knight could be as well, and felt stupid for being kept out of any valuable knowledge. Ser Brynden and Hobert Hightower had died during the war. A cousin perhaps?

The three black castles on orange of House Peake. Out of the question. She felt offended that this one had even the gall to try his chance, and that he was allowed to joust, for House Peake was not one of the Great Houses. The man was far below her, but pretentious and ambitious enough to present himself before her. She gave him nothing but a look of contempt.

Green with a golden rose. A Tyrell of Highgarden. Where were they during the Dance? Lady Tyrell had declared for the Greens, and yet hadn’t taken part in the war, using her son’s young age as a pretext. Hadn’t her own mother lost all her children, save little Aegon and her, and yet fought in the war all the same? Cowards, the whole lot of them. She already loathed him too, and would gladly see him fall.

“Where’s Aemond?” asked the Dowager Queen. “Maester Orwyle, please find out where he is, and tell him we’re waiting.”

“No need to fret, Mother”, giggled the King frivolously, “he’s probably locked in his office with some report. Again.”

She paid no mind to the jest that showed nothing but incompetence. Have could she have been surprised? At least, someone in this damned family was trying to do their task. Next to the Tyrell knight was a shield of undy green, white and yellow. A Butterwell. Seven have mercy. The descendant of an upjumped cattle thief. This one was as preposterous as the Peake man. The Crippled King really wanted to shame her with allowing lower houses to fight for her.

Her stomach rolled with horror at the sixth man. A giant, on a great warhorse, with a worn armour, a hammer on his shield, and a half-helm with a nose piece. Hugh Hammer, the bastard. The turncloak. So he had survived Tumbleton. There truly was no hope in this world if this man could have survived and Vermithor couldn’t. If he won, she’d sooner kill herself than submit to him. She’d jump by the balcony of the solar, and throw herself into the sea. Maybe, with a bit of luck, she’d crash on the rocks below and would be spared a drowning. She fought her nausea as the man looked her in the eye, an evil smile on his lips.

She could practically hear his thoughts. He was thinking of defiling her. Of having a complete revenge upon her mother. Upon her house. Of course, fucking – raping – a Targaryen woman would without any doubt give him a great sense of achievement. She wouldn’t give him the opportunity.

Or maybe she would have no choice, to ensure little Aegon’s survival, she thought, feeling utterly defeated. Bile rose in her throat as the dragonseed raised an eyebrow in a cocky manner, his smile broadening into a grin.

There had to be a seventh knight, though, as the Gods were to choose her husband – or so the King pretexted.

Little Aegon took her other hand and pressed her fingers as hooves echoed in the Tourney grounds, and she turned her head to see who was that seventh man who entered.

He was taking his time. Late, but not rushing in apology, his horse in a slow walk. Almost as if it was only the right time to present himself, and others had to be waiting for him.

All clad in black. A blackened armour, a black great helm with dark-green dragon wings, a black tabard lined in dark green. A silver braid escaped from under his mail coif.

Oh.

Oh.

Aemond Targaryen stopped right before her, forcing his opponents to make place, and greeted her with a gracious, yet stiff, nod of his head, his face unreadable in spite of his lips wearing their ever-lasting pout. Solemn and beautiful.

Echoes of another life rang in her memory. Echoes of his voice, soft and yet so scornful.

I don’t give a shit about tourneys.

He had changed his mind, and it gave her a strange feeling. Something she couldn’t explain. Like disdain mixed with loathe, and an unexplainable bubble of – hope?

The King made a choking noise beside her.

“What the –“ he croaked, and she gave him a glance.

His raised brows furrowed, and his mouth creased bitterly.

Didn’t he know about his own brother competing?

“Brother”, called the King with a false, high-pitched laughter that made a cold shiver creep down her spine, “are you willing to get your cock wet?”

She could hear the Dowager Queen stiffen in her back.

“Targaryens marry Targaryens, your Grace. It is our custom.”

His voice was smooth and velvety.

She had heard it, sometimes, when he passed before the doors of their chambers on his way to his office, when she was in her solar and he was in his, on the upper floor. She knew his voice. Not hearing the words he said, since he spoke softly, made it difficult to know why she found it agreeable. Maybe she liked his voice, now, it was because he had called her a Targaryen, had acknowledged her as part of their family, after all the blood shed between them. Maybe the recognition made her hope that he could have changed. That he could be a different man. Don’t be a fool, she thought to herself. She was only desperate, seeking protection and something to fill her solitude. The ironic inflexion when he said your Grace didn’t escape her, though.

King Aegon nodded, a mean glint in his eye, and straightened in his chair as his once shattered legs now refused to support him, his right hand raised to demand silence.

“Good people of King’s Landing! You have suffered during the war. Suffered hunger, and pillage, and then suffered under the rule of my half-sister, the cruel black Queen, who murdered my sweet sister and wife, Queen Helaena.”

Someone shouted Maegor with teats! in the crowd, which made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. The King only giggled at that.

“For your suffering and your loyalty, for rebelling against the false queen, you have deserved to be rewarded! The crown offers you a tourney and a feast!”

The crowd cheered even more loudly.

How would he feed them, though? The Seven Kingdoms were worn out after the Dance.

Her eyes fell on the Tyrell knight, with flowers on his helmet. How ridiculous.

Oh. Of course. House Tyrell had aligned with the Hightowers. They likely provided food for the capital in exchange of having a chance to marry her, even in this awful manner, and get closer to the throne. Ambition fuelled every family.

“But my sister’s children are my kin, and thus will be treated as royal blood. The Princess, my niece” – and he pressed her fingers to urge her to take a step – “is now the gem of the realm.”

False niceties.

He had always mocked her for her brown curls and dark eyes. Queen Alicent had always called her a plain-faced bastard. Always connected her to Ser Harwin Strong. This, amongst other insults, had led to the loss of Aemond’s eye, and to Lucerys’ death.

“The victor of this tourney will win the Princess’ hand!”

Aegon had already told her about the King’s idea, a few days ago, after a meeting of the Small Council. He had sobbed so much before he was able to tell how the King’s decision had taken all the counsellors by surprise. How Tyland Lannister, his scarred face now hidden behind a fine silk veil, had spoken against the idea. How the Hand himself had slammed his fists on the table, refusing what he had called an ignominy, raising his voice like he never did.

She had hoped that the Hand, if he truly despised his brother’s idea, would have enough influence to spare her this shame of being sold off like a prize. Like cattle.

She had lay in wait for any crumb of information. For him to speak of it when being in his solar, when descending the stone stairs. For coming in her chambers, at last, and announce the King’s decision himself.

Nothing.

She hadn’t seen him.

She hadn’t seen anyone but their assigned handmaid since Dragonstone had been seized and her mother had died, bathed in Sunfyre’s flames.

And yet, he was here, in his suit of armour, his single eye staring at her. Trying his luck along with the six other knights.

The feeling of betrayal was even more intense than what she had felt these past months.

Aegon had said that their uncle had insisted for installing them under his office, so that they would be treated with all regards due to their status. That he himself was treated well during meetings, and was allowed to listen to the discussions about the affairs of the realm. That the Hand sometimes asked him about her well-being.

And yet.

He was just like any other man, longing to have the chance of fucking her, of humiliating her for being her mother’s daughter. For being a spoil of war.

A small hand pressed hers harder, and she gave a look at her little brother, who was watching her expectantly, his purple eyes wide. She forced a smile on her lips, to reassure him. She had to be brave for him. She had to. Poor boy had witnessed their mother’s death. He had flown away from the Gay Abandon, leaving their baby brother Viserys behind him. His father had been killed by the black knight who now was about to joust for her hand. They were the last of their family, and had to stand with each other.

Whomever may win, she would only be miserable.

A life with a Tyrell or a Lannister she may endure.

But the lower knights? Never.

Hugh? Even less.

Aemond? He had started the war. Had killed Luke and Daemon. But he had ended the war too, and Aegon said he was working hard to restore the realm. Her little brother didn’t trust him – he didn’t trust anyone but her – but he didn’t seem to distrust him as he did others.

So what?

The knights all bowed their heads to the King and to her, before going to the ends of the lists.

The king said her name, and she turned to him. He was handing her a silk handkerchief. Black as night, embroidered with a golden dragon. His personal colours.

“The honour is yours, sweet niece.”

There was no honour in this, and he knew it. His legs didn’t allow him to stand and declare the tourney opened, and he obviously turned this to his advantage, making her take part in her own demise. He was watching her, his eyes gleaming malevolently in anticipation, an awful sneer deforming his bloated face.

She almost pitied him. Almost.

The man was so weak, so broken that he had always had to bully the members of his family to have a sense of power.

She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of looking distraught.

With a deep inhale, she squared her shoulders and plastered a courteous smile on her face.

“Thank you, Your Grace”, she chirped with a gracious curtsey, picking the fabric, very careful not to brush her uncle’s fingers with her own.

She turned her back to him, facing the tourney lists and the crowd of commoners, her head held high, before turning her gaze north and south, to the end of the grounds, taking a final glance to the competing knights.

The black one. If one had to win, it had to be him. Better a monster she knew than one she was yet to get acquainted with.

She extended her hand over the guardrail, waiting for the people to fall silent. Waited and waited and waited. And as she heard nothing but the wind and the stamp of an impatient horse, she opened her fingers and let the handkerchief slip, watching it as it slowly fell in the sand of the arena.

The crowd roared deafeningly.

Chapter Text

II.

The dapple grey courser of the Hightower knight – Ser Jeral, as the King had specified – took a gallop, and its rider lowered his lance to aim at his opponent’s shield of orange with three black castles – Peake. The lances cracked with a loud noise, and the crowd howled.

It was the second time both knights broke their lances.

They turned their horses at the end of the lists, and tossed down what remained of the shattered wood.

If only they could kill each other swiftly.

It was only the first tilt, and she had had enough already. The air was thick with the smell of gathered people, of fried onion and bacon, and with tension. In a way, she was grateful that it was autumn, and that the weather wasn’t that warm anymore, or else the stench would have been far worse. She already felt incommoded enough, although she was aware that it had more to do with the reasons of her presence here than the smell in itself.

On the third run, Ser Jeral spurred his horse so hard the beast neighed with pain, and charged blinly. Both lances were set, aimed at each other’s foe, and the roar coming from the commoners’ stands deafened the sounds of the hooves and the clinging armours. Ser Jeral’s lance made contact with Peake’s shield and slid on it, all the way to the edge, and hit the knight just at the junction of the helmet and the gorget, stabbing him through the throat and throwing him out of his saddle. Squires ran to help the wounded knight, lifting his visor only to let him choke on his own blood with a sickening gurgling sound.

She immediately regretted having thought of them killing each other. Death was a gruesome affair, and such wishes shouldn’t be expressed.  

There was one knight less, however. Ser Jeral Hightower had won his joust.

When the dead body of the Peake knight had been dragged by his arms, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, the Tyrell knight set forth against Ser Ashton Butterwell, dismounting him in one swift movement. The knight broke his leg in his fall, emitting a loud, unchivalrous yelp.

One less, efficiently carried out.

Then Emerryk Lannister, as Ser Tyland had precised to her, jousted against Hugh Hammer.

Her hands grabbed the armrests of her chair, squeezing so tight that her knuckles went white, hoping that Ser Tyland’s cousin would win his tilt and make the dragonseed empty the saddle.

“Why so tense, niece?” asked Aegon the Elder next to her.

She swallowed hard, and exhaled to ease her nervousness.

“Ah, the thrill of battle, I believe, Your Grace.”

He didn’t seem to detect the falsity of her smile, and giggled in a boyish, careless manner.

“Thrilling it is, indeed!”

He lifted his empty cup, and her little brother swiftly picked the pitcher to refill the King’s cup with Arbour red.

Both lances cracked, drawing their attention back into the lists, and as both knights fell the clamour raised again from the gathered people.

“Mace!” yelled Hugh Hammer, his voice deep and hoarse and bestial as he rolled on his belly and pushed himself upright, and he grabbed the weapon a squire handed him, running back with a loud clang of metal to Ser Emerryk, who was struggling on his back in his heavy suit of armour, which made him look like a metal-clad tortoise.

“I yield!” cried Ser Emerryk, extanding a hand towards the other knight as soon as he saw Hugh’s raised arm.

But the silver-haired bastard ignored him and promptly stroke his head with one mighty blow of his great mace, crushing both the helm and the knight’s skull with a spurt of blood and a noise that made her put her hand on her mouth. Crushed bones and the wet noise of something soft being splashed. A stomach-turning sound, followed with the exultant howl of thousands of mouths that craved even more violence, after the two past years of war and suffering.

They rejoiced in the knights’ death because there wouldn’t be any consequence for them. They wouldn’t be besieged, nor starved. Nor did they risk being charred alive with dragonfire anymore. The King would even feed them after the jousts. Bread and circuses, a powerful combination for one who wanted to keep power for himself. Human nature was hopeless.

Cold sweat gathered on her brow, and she felt on the verge of vomiting.

Hugh Hammer had won his first fight and had killed a dismounted, unarmed knight, setting aside all sense of honour. Only to have her. Should he prevail, how bad would he treat her? Would he beat her before or after he raped her?

“Lemon water”, she asked to the closest servant. She had to wash down the acrid taste in her mouth, but could only take one sip. Her stomach refused any content.

At last, the purpose of this farce of a tourney was very clear. Knights usually won their foe’s horse, sword and suit of armour. They fought with honour, letting their opponent live else they killed them by accident. Today, it seemed that there were no holds barred. Each man competing could use whatever means he thought deemed to reach his goal. And she was the goal.

The King clapped his hands loudly and cheered along with the crowd, distracting her from her thoughts. Her uncle was to fight. The Dowager Queen prayed aloud.

“May the Warrior give him strength and make his arm steady!”

The black steed was already stamping in the end of the lists, his rider ready, lance in hand. As soon as Ser Jeral Hightower grabbed his lance, the black knight spurred his mount and galloped like the wind, taking his opponent by surprise and hitting him square in the shield. The Hightower knight lost balance and tried for a few moments to stay in the saddle before his strength gave up and he fell heavily. One of his feet was stuck in a stirrup and the man was dragged in the sand by his panicked horse. When squires managed to catch the beast at the end of the lists, the knight was yelling with a dislocated hip.

One less.

As the Hand’s mount trotted back to his squire, he stopped before her and lifted his faceplate, his single eye wide and intent on her. A faint flush tainted his cheeks with pink, and his scar looked redder and angrier than she remembered. Because of the exertion? Because of the contact of the great helm on his skin? He nodded and once more, a shiver ran down her back.

“Mandianna”, he said, his voice gentle and velvety. Niece.

She rose and curtsied gracefully. Acting like a well-bred lady. Like what was expected from her.

“Qȳbor”, she answered. Uncle.

And something fluttered in her stomach with their quiet greeting.

Why?

Because her uncle was chivalrous and courteous enough to greet her, even if he fought for the right of marrying her by force?

Her eyes followed him to the end of the tourney lists.

“Would you favour my brother?” asked her King uncle.

This could be dangerous. She could smell it in his tone. Fear and resent equally mixed. The brothers had always had a difficult, unhealthy relationship. When they were young, Aegon bullied his little brother, along with her own brothers. And then Aemond lost his eye, and gained Vhagar, but Aegon still found means of shaming his brother, or so she had heard. For his scar, for his knowledge, for his shyness with women.

He wasn’t that shy, though. Not the time he kissed her. It was the day Lucerys was confirmed as heir to Driftmark. Aemond had met her in the library, and had kissed her gently. His lips had been soft and warm, and his hands, caring. She had never been kissed before he did. Had never been kissed after, either.

And then he had killed Luke. Or Vhagar had. The result was the same.

She had been left without her twin-brother, the first of her siblings to die. Been left behind, alone and grieving, a hole in her chest. Been left behind because she was useless. A girl whose dragon egg had never hatched.

The memory of this kiss sometimes plagued her at night, when she heard his footsteps on the upper stairs. When she heard him going downstairs, stopping before her door, then walking away.

Why would he never enter? Why would he never seek to see her, until today?

“I’m just curious that the Lord Hand himself is jousting, Your Grace.”

“Ah, I forbade it. But he is terribly stubborn.”

Stubborn, and clever, and a redoubtable warrior.

The King paused and giggled more, before leaning towards her, his voice already slurry.

“But it seems that, like any other man, he is not capable to resist the appeal of a young cunt.”

How could he speak so plainly of her? How could he make fun of her like this, when she was soon to be raped?

Heat crept to her face as his words shamed her, and she averted her eyes to the ground, blinking back the tears burning in her eyes. He was right. She had allowed herself to seek a little hope in her girlish memories, when there wasn’t any. Aemond must have kissed her out of curiosity, out of boredom. Not because he cared. Else, why would he be there in the arena, tilting against the other knights?

She knew the wedding was to take place tonight, right after the end of the jousts. She had already smelled the roasted meat and baked pastries, and her mouth had watered on its own in spite of her persisting nausea.

Seven help me.

Her little brother filled the King’s cup once more, and gave her a sharp glance. He did it on purpose, to inebriate the king. Maybe he aimed to make him fall asleep, utterly drunk, before the end of the day. Maybe he wanted to help her run away.

What could she do, helpless as she was?

She had no means to escape. No ship awaited her in the harbour. There were no dragons left since Vhagar had fallen fighting Caraxes above the Gods Eye, since the rioters and seized the Dragonpit and had slain the great beasts and the smaller alike.

Could she hide somewhere in King’s Landing? A young woman like her, without any skill to hide and survive, she would sooner be sold to a brothel or be raped and left for dead than rescued from her uncles.

And what of Aegon’s fate, should she leave him alone?

No. she was trapped here with him. She had to endure whatever their uncle Aegon the Elder decided for her.

Aemond’s and Ser Whoever Tyrell’s horses galloped against each other, and her hands clenched tightly into fists in her lap, wrinkling the heavy fabric of her dress.

Both lances cracked with a deafening sound, and the King laughed heartily.

“Well done, brother!” he shouted as the knights wheeled their horses and grabbed another lance, before spurring forward again.

The lances broke again.

And again.

On the fourth time, Tyrell’s lance went too low. Even she could see it. He had to bring it up, else he would strike the horse. Or maybe –

No.

He couldn’t do it purposely.

There was no honour in fighting like this.

But this tourney wasn’t a matter of honour, and every attendant had already witnessed it.

As the lance hit Aemond’s horse just above the breastplate that protected its chest and exploded out of the back of its neck, she jumped upright with the roar of the audience and the Dowager Queen’s loud gasp of horror. Aemond nimbly managed to jump off of the saddle and roll in the sand before landing on his feet.

He might have done this before. When he stabbed Daemon to death and jumped as Vhagar plummeted from the sky and right into the dark waters of the Gods Eye. Or so she figured.

“Come fight, you craven!” he shouted, and she didn’t recognize his voice, having never heard him raise it.

Tyrell dismounted and approached, his sword drawn.

“I’m no craven, my Lord Hand. We all want the same thing.”

The fight was very quick. Her uncle swiftly disarmed his opponent and killed him before the other man had even the time to yield, plunging his sword under the knight’s arm, where the armour offered less protection.

That left only two contestants. Aemond and Hugh.

It had to be Aemond.

It had to be him.

It had to.

“Sit, niece. Don’t torment yourself. Your husband is right there.”

She closed her eyes in a vain attempt to shun all of this. The noise. The odours. The feeling of the cold late autumn sun on her face.

With his horse dead, Aemond was now afoot, and Hugh was already mounting his horse.

“Aegon, stop this”, his mother hissed.

But the King only lifted a hand in a lazy gesture for her to be silent. And she obeyed her son, her eyes wide and full of sad disappointment.

Hugh didn’t ride well, being baseborn and having not been educated in the ways of chivalry, which was on Aemond’s side. He was heavy in the saddle, and his horse fought to have a perfect balance with such a load on its back, neighing as the knight brutalized its mouth with the bit. An incompetent knight. Just a brute who was there because his bastard blood had allowed him to tame Vermithor. She still wondered what the Old King’s mount could have seen in the bastard smith. She saw nothing but bestial force, brazen presumptuousness and violent ambition.

Her uncle stood, shieldless, his feet parted and knees bent to have a better stance, as his foe spurred and his horse galloped to him. He raised his sword, holding it with two hands, and this time she noticed the Valyrian blade he wielded. The way it shone in the sun was unmistakable.

“Dark Sister”, she breathed.

Little Aegon had seen it, too. He was transfixed, his eyes on their uncle and on his father’s sword, and she felt pity for him. His father’s sword was in the hands that had murdered his kepa.

“Ah, yes, Daemon forgot it in my brother’s shoulder during the Battle above the Gods Eye. Aemond has recovered, but his shoulder will forever be weaker and painful.”

She ignored the fate of Dark Sister after Daemon’s death, and couldn’t determine whether she felt relieved or offended with seeing it in Aemond’s hands. It belonged to Targaryens, though, and had been passed through generations from Visenya. Would she have preferred that it laid at the bottom of the Gods Eye? She would have preferred it didn’t come in Aemond’s possession in such a way, but theirs was a violent family.

His shoulder will forever be weaker.

He was disadvantaged. His foe was taller, stronger, and was on horseback. His foe was a Targaryen bastard. It really seemed that this family did nothing as well as killing its members from the inside. First for the throne, now for marrying the only daughter of the Black Queen, who had been burned by her own brother for the only reason that she was a woman. And in Westeros, women couldn’t have power. They were only the tools of men.

How ironic was it that she, allegedly a bastard and mocked for her brown curls and brown eyes as a child, was now the goal two silver-haired men fought for?

Why was she so stupidly hoping for her uncle to prevail, when she would only be a prize for him too?

Aemond waited for Hugh’s horse to come onto him, as each stride made them closer. Turning on his side, offering a smaller target to the dragonseed.

Waited.

Waited.

Waited.

“Breathe”, cackled the King, and she obeyed in spite of herself, taking a shallow inhale, unable to tear her eyes off of the two men, of Hugh’s horse at full gallop, of her uncle wielding the ancestral blade.

And when the bastard’s lance was just about to hit her uncle, Aemond rolled on the ground and cut the horse’s legs. The beast let an awful neigh as it crashed heavily, Hugh still in the saddle. The knight managed to get out, though, and rose on his feet with a heavy yell of fury. His squire gave him his mace just as Aemond’s gave him his shield.

“It’s not an even fight”, said Alicent in anguish behind her.

“Aemond has Dark Sister.”

She had spoken out of turn, and gasped as soon as she was aware of it, casting a horrified glance at the King, fearing that she had given her silly hope away. He was only giggling while draining another cup, her little brother ready to fill it again.

Hugh leaped on the Hand, striking his shield with force and carving through it with his mace, driving him back and back. He was taking advantage with his height and weight, but he was also tiring himself, and Aemond knew it as he swiftly, nimbly avoided the worst of his foe’s attacks, holding his sword and not using it not to exhaust his arm and shoulder. Hugh’s arm was growing slower by the time Aemond crouched and rolled to dodge a slice, and cut the bastard’s hamstrings in one swift movement.

Hugh yelled and cursed, and the crowd roared in delight as the silver-haired bastard fell to one knee.

She suddenly found herself standing at the guardrail, her fingers tightly grabbing the wood.

Kill him, she thought, her lips opening, barely self-conscious enough not to shout the words, biting her lower lip to force herself to keep silent.

Kill him kill him kill him.

The man had abandoned Jace during the Battle of the Gullet, leaving her older brother to die and sink to the bottom of the sea. He had burned and raped commoners as he had flown along with the Hightower army. And before that, a long time ago, before he tamed Vermithor and was granted knighthood, he was bold enough to lurk at her whenever she passed before his smithy on the port of Dragonstone, even when she was with Daemon. The man didn’t know his place. And his place was well beneath her.

Using his mace as support, he rose again with great effort, and turned to face her uncle.

“Come on, cousin”, he jested, his voice full of malevolent scorn. “I’m sure we can come to a trade-off. We could share her. A week each.”

She gasped and put her hand on her mouth to master the bile that rose in her throat again. Gods, he was even worse than she thought.

Aemond spun and stroke circular blows, quick as an eel, and Hugh managed to block his blade as steel sang against steel. And then Aemond stroke lower, cutting off Hugh’s hand right under the hilt of the mace, and the weapon fell in the sand with the fingers still grasping it.

With a last strike aiming for the neck of the bastard, he killed the man, his unintelligible yell of pain not to be heard anymore as the head fell to the side, blood spurting from the severed neck and flowing down the breastplate with the last powerful beats of the bastard’s heart.

“I don’t share”, said Aemond.

The headless body fell on its knees, then slouched on the ground with a dull sound, and the crowd exploded with applauses and cheering.

It was over.

She was to be handed over to the champion.

Her uncle.

Did she feel relieved that he prevailed upon the dragonseed? Well, yes, if she was totally honest with herself.

He removed his great, dragon-winged helm and shuffled along to the gallery, bowing his head to her.

“Mandianna. Tis my honour to become your husband.”

A shiver crept down her spine, and she couldn’t fight it, shuddering hard.

Before she could answer a polite word, King Aegon’s slurry voice echoed.

“Let’s head to the sept, then! Right now!”

“Aegon, your brother can’t enter the sept with blood on his armour!” interfered the Dowager Queen.

“Mother, will you accompany us, or go back to the Red Keep and wait until the feast begins?”

Alicent’s lips closed in a thin line.

“Very well, then.”

His hand closed around her wrist, and he lifted her arm for all to see.

“Good people of King’s Landing! Behold my brother’s bride! Our good Lord Hand gets wed tonight!”

She tried to ignore the clamour, tried to catch a glance of her now betrothed, but he had left the lists. So soon? Where was he? Did he loathe her so much that he withdrew from her sight as soon as he had won her hand?

Heavy footsteps and the clangs of an armour rang next to her. Aegon the Elder turned and froze in a stupor, his eyes growing wide as a deceivingly soft voice spoke.

“Unhand my bride, brother, else you want to lose yours, too.”

And unexpectedly the King obeyed, cackling again like a madman and letting go of her as soon as he heard Aemond’s words. She turned her gaze to him, feeling daunted as he stood tall and ominous in his black armour, his silver braid stained with the blood of his opponent.

Her uncle turned his eye from his brother to her, his face calm and impassible. The Targaryen violet was tainted with blue. Periwinkle blue. This periwinkle iris remained emotionless, however. The man didn’t feel anything, if the people’s whispers were true. She had heard of it well before her mother died. It was murmured in the Seven Kingdoms that his heart was carved off along with his eye, so many years ago. The Stone-hearted Prince, the Heartless Prince, they called him, amongst other sobriquets.

This definitely crushed the foolish hopes she had held onto, like a lifeline, during the tilts. Foolish hopes that he might care, since he had kissed once. Nothing was to be expected from this man. Nothing but coldness and cruelty. Her heart sank in her chest and despair weighed on her shoulders like a heavy cloak of lead, making it difficult to stand straight and not to give in as her knees felt so weak.

His presence was intimidating, yet she felt unable to tear her eyes off of him, her lips parted and heart hammering in her chest. How ironic could it be that the Gods blessed their family with such perfect features, when they filled their hearts with such cruelty towards their own kin?

Cold sweat formed on her brow as she obediently placed her fingers in the hand he presented to her. Dry and warm and callous under her own skin.

“Come, my Lady. You’ll ride with me.”

Chapter Text

III.

He stopped his chestnut palfrey before the steps of the sept.

The cheerful hails of the crowd had accompanied them from the Tourney Grounds and through the city to the sanctuary. It was evident that his side of the family was better loved than hers. King Aegon had won the smallfolk’s sympathy with the deaths of his children and wife, while Rhaenyra was held responsible of it. No matter how wrong they could be, the opinions of commoners made it the truth.

No one was aggressive to her, though.

They wouldn’t have dared. Not when she was on Aemond’s horse. His armour had been swept with a wet cloth to remove the blood just before he took to the saddle and sat her before him, to preserve her dress from being stained. To preserve a semblance of decency as he would enter the sept.

She had been rather stiff at first, but he had gently encouraged her to relax, and follow the horse’s pace, instructed her to lean back against him. She had obeyed, partially, and with reluctance, before she had to admit that he had been right. Moving along with the horse was much more comfortable. She had kept her back straight, had avoided the contact of his breastplate against her back as much as she could. There had been no betrothal, no courtship at all. She was his prize, won n the arena, about to be wed by force. She would have to lay under him later, and didn’t want to touch him more than necessary before she would be forced to endure him. Not after he had shown no tenderness to her.

The people had acclaimed him, the Good Lord Hand. The champion. Prince Aemond, the Pillar of the Realm.

They hadn’t always called him that, though. Little Aegon had told her of their uncle’s efforts to rectify the situation. To revive the economy and the trade with the Free Cities. To protect the West from the Red Kraken’s raids. To rebuild the Riverlands, and sow the fields again with seeds provided by the Reach.

 “Why wouldn’t you let me come in a wheelhouse, my Lord?” she had dared asking as they crossed the city.

Women watched her with big, pleading eyes, imploring her mercy. Princess, the Gem of the Realm! Aegon’s words had spread throughout the city. She had only a little purse filled with a few silver stags. What was left of her personal money. What little she could take with her as she had been brought by force from Dragonstone. Would such alms not start fights between the commoners? They looked so poor, so desperate! They weren’t hostile in the slightest, though. Not when the royal family was surrounded with their Kingsguards, who would have cut any of them to pieces, should they dare to lay a hand on them. These people looked so miserable that she felt guilty of her own feelings. She would be married to a man chosen by the Fortune, would be given to a man whose ability in combat had assured he won a coveted prize. He wasn’t the husband she would have chosen for herself, but she would be well-fed, and accommodated, and warmed up by a lit fire. These people had none of that. Could she really complain, when her fate was far better than any of those women’s life ? And yet, she couldn’t help the gaping hollowness in her chest.

“You’re safer with me, my Lady.”

My Lady.

They hadn’t ever addressed each other this formally, before.

Before the war. A war he started. A war he won.

His face was next to hers, and his breath fanned on her neck.

You’re safer with me.

Protection.

That was something she craved.

From whom, though? It had seemed to her that he paraded with his prize through the streets of King’s Landing, rather than protected her. The crowd was just curious, moreover. Hoping to catch a glance of a young couple, of royalty, to catch a glimpse of a dreamt life that would never be theirs.

He dismounted, and with a short, yet respectful apology, set his large hands on her waist, and she grabbed his forearms as he took her down the horse.

“Chin high, my Lady. Don’t show your distress to the King. Don’t let him use your misery against you."

His whispered voice was firm, determined, and she blinked as she listened to him, searching in vain for an answer on his emotionless face. He stepped back, letting go of her, and she mirrored his action.

Oh.

How should she understand his words? Was he encouraging her to strip all her feelings? Did he expect her to become as heartless as the people presumed he was? Never. It would be a betrayal to her mother, a renouncement of her values and education.

Or – Could it be why he always looked so cold? To shield himself from other people? Aemond was cruel, it was well-known. Aegon was even crueller. He always diminished those who were weaker than him, always laughing at them, throwing them hurtful words. Always took advantage of whatever frailty he could perceive. She had witnessed it – suffered of it – when they were children. Even those past months, isolated as she had been kept, the King hadn’t changed in the slightest.

She gave her uncle a grateful nod and a courteous smile as the King and Dowager Queen exited their wheelhouse, followed by her little brother. Little Aegon looked distraught, his cheeks pale and eyes wide as he joined her. She extended her hand for him to take it. To reassure him. To reassure herself too, perhaps. I’m glad Mother can’t see us, she thought. Two orphans whom the King toyed with.

“Shhh, my love. Don’t fret. Everything will be alright.”

“Will it?” he whispered. “He’s a good Hand, but still he slew Luke and my kepa.”

 She gave him a smile that was intended to give him comfort, but only looked sad.

“I will stay by your side, valonqar. You won’t be left alone.”

She pressed his fingers in hers. His cold fingers. That was the more intimate gesture they could afford in public. Aemond was right. They couldn’t appear weak, or distressed, not when they were surrounded by enemies.

“Will you lead me to Septon Eustace?” she asked softly.

Aegon – Aegon the Younger, as people formally called him – was her last close relative. Her question was as much an acknowledgement of their solitude as a proof of love and trust. A demand that he acted responsible, in spite of his young years. Because their uncle’s children were all dead, and he was Rhaenyra’s sole heir.

He swallowed, and nodded gravely, watching her with big eyes.

She turned to the sept.

A dais had been built before the portal, for the ceremony to be publicly witnessed. No one would deny the wedding to have be celebrated. It was yet another treat for the common people. She had the dreadful impression that it was more like a scaffold than a dais, and exhaled slowly to ease the tightness in her chest.

Aemond had climbed the few steps to the dais and was watching them both, a look of curiosity on his solemn face as he stared at her. Waiting for her to come. Her limbs felt heavy, leaded, when she took a step, and another.

Little Aegon held her hand as they slowly made their way through the gathered audience, walking with dignity past the steps  and to septon Eustace, white-haired and hunched-over with age. She felt sorry for inflicting her little brother the contact of her clammy palms, and tried not to sweep her free hand on her dress. The gesture would betray her nervousness. Some people were already looking at her with a sort of pity, she wouldn’t give them anything to feed their gossip. She chose to focus on her husband-to-be, already waiting for her.

Done in his black armour and his tabard of green and black, with his dark green cloak on his shoulders and his braided white hair, he was the very picture of the Warrior.

He had always been.

Last time she saw him, he was training with Ser Criston Cole the day their mother petitioned for Luke. He had fought quick and fluid and lethal. And then he had kissed her. Gently. Softly.

She lowered her gaze. It was customary for the bride to look shy, and her own shyness had nothing to do with customs. Being at the centre of the attention after so many months of seclusion, being in the presence of the very man who ordered his dragon to kill her twin-brother, it was intimidating enough. She shook like a leaf as Aegon stopped before him. As he took her hand from her brother, a sharp inhale of his made her lift her eyes to his face, though. His sole eye was on her, wide and expectant, even if he seemed perfectly composed. Calm and poised. His flared nostrils and parted lips made her think that he, too, could be nervous. His fingers were steady enough when he unclasped his cloak to slip it on her shoulders, though, and she felt strangely safe as the heavy fabric enveloped her in his warmth end scent – sweat fresh from the tilt, and lavender oil. The weight of his hands and the slight press of his fingers on her shoulders were intended to show his benevolence.

“I place my bride under my protection”, he spoke, his voice soft but determined.

Protection was what she longed for. Would she get it from him though? Could she trust him? Not right now. Not when she didn’t knew his motivations for entering the tilts.

She had no choice in the matter, anyway.

Septon Eustace wasn’t a friend of her mother’s, but he didn’t look at her in disdain as she had feared. He gave her an encouraging nod and spoke words they repeated in turn, he in a gentle yet steady voice, hers more quavering. I am his, and he is mine. Aemond’s fingers were warm on hers – till the end of my days – and he brushed her knuckles with his thumb before he ended the vows.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

Love.

What a farce.

He leaned towards her, and waited patiently for her. She didn’t move, unable to end the ceremony, to make it final. Septon Eustace, next to her, cleared his throat, signalling it was time for her to raise her face to his, and she did as expected, tilting her face upwards, keeping her eyes low not to see her husband’s face, before he closed the distance and pressed his lips on hers in a chaste kiss. His lips were firm and dry, and warm, and their contact wasn’t repulsive. He smelled of ashes and of lavender.

That’s a good thing, she thought. Since she was now wed to him, she felt relief at not loathing to kiss him. Had it been Hugh, she would never have accepted to. Not by her own volition.

And the audience applauded.

Some people were enthusiastic – like the king – some other, many other, mostly women, clapped their hands out of politeness, strained smiles, pitied smiles on their faces. Because of his scar, probably. Or because of his cruelty. She didn’t mind the scar if he wasn’t cruel to her. This, she still had to find out.

When she had thought of her marriage, as a child, she had always envisioned a joyful ceremony. A Valyrian ceremony on a beach of Dragonstone, with white dresses soaked in red at the bottom. A marriage by fire and blood. Instead, she was displayed before the portal of a sanctuary, not even believing in the gods represented on the statues inside, never have prayed to them. Her husband wasn’t exactly a stranger, but he behaved in such a guarded manner, always surveying his every movement or facial expression, that she wondered if he could bring himself to relax around her one day.

Perhaps he would, when they would know each other better. Perhaps not.

Perhaps she would never, either.

*

He had requested, against all customs, that she come in his room to help him out of his suit of armour before they joined the feast.

His brother had mocked him – so eager, so impatient to have someone to fuck – and his mother had hissed at him – it’s improper, have some respect. Mocking him and hissing at him was what they always did. Her little brother had watched her with terror. Afraid of what he would do to her, persuaded after Aegon’s words that he would hurt her.

He would not.

And she had given him a silent nod, her doe-like eyes hidden behind her lowered eyelids, her face composed in spite of her sudden pallidness.

Acting submissive and obedient.

He didn’t want an obedient wife. But, well, he didn’t want a wife in the first place.

He had to talk to her, to explain his intentions.

As soon as he had dismissed the servants and the door closed upon them, he let his shoulders sag in tiredness.

“Help me with the buckles.”

She casted a glance to him before lowering her eyes again, unmoving, hesitant.

“Please”, he added, careful to speak kindly. Like he would have spoken to Helaena, were she still alive. He pushed to thought of his sweet sister away in fear that the thoughts of her atrocious death come to his mind.

She cautiously approached him, and lifted her hands to his right shoulder. How could he start telling her what he had to? She was struggling to master the trembling of her fingers as she slowly undid the buckles of his gorget, taking shallow breaths trough her parted lips, her eyes fixed on her task to avoid his gaze.

 “You needn’t fear me”, he said in a low voice.

“Kirimvose, valz ȳrȳs.”

Thank you, husband.

Her voice was soft, very low, almost a murmur. The pronunciation was good. She must have practiced with Daemon. Her eyes were still on the buckle, having barely moved to his face since the wedding ceremony was over.

Of course.

What well-sensed woman would have ever dreamt of marrying a man with such a face? The scar still looked gruesome, after all these years. Not to speak of what laid hidden under the leather-patch. The evidence of the enmity between the two branches of their family. The gaping hole, now filled with a hard stone.

She removed the gorget with precaution and placed it on the table. Her fingers then moved to the buckles of his breastplate.

“I mean it. You don’t have to love me, either. I won’t touch you.”

She lifted her eyes to him, at last. Her brown eyes. Her doe eyes. Wide and full of anguish.

“Why did you wed me, then?”

She doubted him. Of course she would. He was a monster, even looked like one since her brother cut his eye.

“I’ve grown tired of war and blood. Ambition is a quality, when it doesn’t lead one to immoderate acts followed with such grievous consequences.”

“You have always been an ambitious man, uncle.”

Her voice was soft, and calm, and yet he couldn’t help the feeling that she was accusing him. She had every right to.

He had to tell her now.

That his taking part to the tourney was a poor excuse of an apology for his deeds.

“You’ve lost all you had because of me. It’s only justice that I protect you now.”

She paused in her tracks, now looking him square in the eye, and the distress in her eyes quickly morphed into anger. She removed his breastplate harshly, tearing on his left shoulder, and he winced in pain. She had done it purposely, he knew it. How did she know of this old wound? It didn’t matter. He was used to pain, he could endure it like he always had.

“Protect me? When you played your brother’s game in this farce of a tourney?”

“Would you rather have wed my cousin Ser Jeral Hightower? Or the Tyrell knight?”

That one had tried to kill him. Had killed his horse unfairly. His self-loathing weighed heavily, though, at his impatient remark, and he huffed in frustration.

“No.”

“As soon as I discovered that Aegon had allowed Hugh Hammer to joust, my only thought was to fight him and make sure he would never get to put his hands on you.”

Her eyes were full of defiance, blazing with dark flames. And she was even more beautiful in her impetuosity.

“Why do you care?”

Her voice carried so much hurt, so much mistrust.

Why did he care, indeed?

She was the daughter of a sister he abhorred, sister to boys he hated when they were children. He hated one – her twin – so much he had chased him through a storm. Only to be plagued with recurring dreams of his blood and shattered limbs flying in the wind.

“I’m sorry”, he said. “I had no other choice but to kill Daemon. But I regret every day that Lucerys died over Shipbreaker Bay. I lost my temper that day, and I feel sorry for it each passing minute.”

The flames in her gaze turned into the coldest disdain, a bitter pout forming on her lips. And she slapped him on his left cheek. His marred cheek. He saw her arm move, saw the blow coming, but didn’t try to avoid it. He deserved it. Her palm colliding with his scar sent a sharp pain, like a blade stabbing him to the back of his empty socket, and he grunted involuntarily. This wasn’t a light slap, a ladylike slap. She had put all her anger and resent and despair in the blow.

“You lost your temper? How poor an excuse is that?”

Her voice sounded high-pitched, full of anger and despair.

When he dared to look at her, she was staring with wide eyes, full of terror and tears, her hand hiding her mouth. She took a few steps back, to put a safe distance between them.

Surely, she was thinking that he was about to strike her too. To hurt her, for her boldness. Fearing his reaction.

He only hummed under his breath, before he swiftly took his pouldrons, spoulders and vambraces off, then the tassets and grieves that protected his upper thighs and legs. She averted her eyes as he opened his padded doublet and was left in his white linen shirt, soaked with sweat. He passed in his bedroom.

He was sure to have a migraine before the night was over. The pain started by her blow already pounded in his skull, radiating from his missing eye and inside his head.

He deserved it, he thought again, as he dropped his shirt at his feet and started washing his chest and armpits with a wet cloth, lacking time for a proper bath. Maybe a migraine was a good thing. He would feel something, this way. Something that could distract him from the bottomless abyss in his chest since Vhagar’s death. Not a day passed without the irremediable feeling of her absence. Of their severed bond. Not a day passed without the irremediable feeling of his guilt and of his own responsibility in the start of the war and in the disastrous state the Seven Kingdoms had been left in. Guilt and grief seemed to pursue him like a dog hunting a deer. Like an ancient dragon of conquest chasing a young dragon and his boy-rider through the clouds. Except that he didn’t try to escape them. They had become familiar, like the leather doublet he still wore even though he would never fly again. Perhaps, in time, they would become companions. But companionship with his conscience seemed to be far too kind a burden. Did he deserve his personal punishment to be alleviated?

He slipped the leather patch up to alleviate the pressure on his scar and applied the cool piece of fabric on his forehead, in search of some relief that the gods didn’t grant him, breathing hard. Cold water sometimes was efficient. It wouldn’t be enough today, he already knew it. And as he heard the ruffling sound of her dress by the open door, he turned his back to her and readjusted the patch, dropping the cloth back in the basin. Trying to hide his weakness.

“Did I hurt you?”

Fuck.

He hadn’t been quick enough, and she had time to see him.

Her voice was soft, controlled, devoid of any trace of her previous anger.

He shook his head, as much in self-disappointment as in denial of his own pain.

“Don’t fret”, he whispered patiently. More patiently than he usually did. “I’m used to it.”

She approached him, circled him to see him properly, and he could see that her eyes were set on his chest, her brows furrowed. She was looking at his scars. At the bruises on his chest and arms. Evidences of the fights of many months before, and of the fights of the day. He was black and blue, he didn’t need to get a look to know it. He had known far worse, though. When Vhagar fell, clutching Caraxes in her claws and jaw, when he had crashed in the water, having just the time to unfasten his saddle chains, Daemon had stabbed him through his left shoulder with his sword, aiming for his heart. And he had stabbed Daemon too, not missing his target.

The black-haired sorceress of Harrenhal had pulled him out of the water, and he had survived, in spite of Helaena’s prophecy. His sweet sister had described his death to him, before he even went in the Riverlands – swallowed by the Gods Eye – and he had resigned himself in dying that day. Except that he hadn’t.

“What will happen to my brother?”

“Your brother will be king one day.”

“Not you?”

The corner of his mouth stirred by itself in a sad smile.

“This cup has been taken from me, and I do not wish to drink of it again. Should he have me as his Hand, I’d serve the realm. Should he wish otherwise, I’d accept his decision and withdraw in whatever castle of his choice. Even Castle Black.”

She took a deep inhale and watched him intently. Gauging him. Gauging his sincerity.

How could he have been more sincere, though? The war he initiated had cost him so much. He felt so tired now, felt the weight of his mistakes and losses. All this pain and anger and suffering had quenched his ambitions. Taking the black would be a mild punishment for all his crimes.

“He says you’re a good Hand.”

“Does he now?”

His voice sounded surprised. He had feared it would sound scornful, which wasn’t his intention.

She came closer and took the wet cloth in the basin, then pressed it between her fingers to draw the excess of water, and brushed it lightly to his face, to remove a stain of blood on his right cheek. The contact of the wet fabric on his face felt even more intense than her blow, and he took a sharp inhale through his nose. She withdrew her hand, obviously scared of having hurt him furthermore.

“Thank you for making sure that I wouldn’t have to marry the dragonseed.”

Her voice was barely louder than a breath, and he stared at her in surprise. Surprise that she thanked him. That she acknowledged his first intentions.

He pressed his lips together, and nodded lightly.

“Don’t expect me to ever wear green, though. My colours are black and red, until the end of my days.”

He felt his mouth twitch to a lopsided smile, in spite of his efforts to hide that she piqued his curiosity. She was always so silent. So docile. Never complaining, never making any wave, never giving away anything about her state of mind. Aegon the Younger never asked anything for them, either. And in fact, the meek young lady seemed to be strong-minded. Well, this was an unexpected surprise, and he couldn’t wait to get to know her. Her repetition of their marital vows made a flicker of hope light in the back of his mind, too. She was loyal. Loyal to her side of the family, that is. But she had given it away, on purpose. It must mean that she trusted him enough, that she didn’t fear that he could tell his brother, that she trusted him not to betray her. And if the words were so important to her, maybe, maybe, she took this marriage seriously.

He had witnessed the loveless marriage of his parents. There had been respect, that much was true. But his father had never stopped loving Rhaenyra’s mother; and his mother had never been in love with this man who was as old as her own father.

He took this seriously, too. He was determined to be a better husband than his father – than his brother – had been. Because he was pious. Because marriage was a grace from the Seven, and the wife was an embodiment of the Mother, the husband one of the Father. It was blasphemous not to try to do one’s best when it came to start a family.

She lowered her hand, and replaced the cloth in the basin before she took a step back.

“Now finish to wash yourself and change your clothes. We’re awaited in the Throne room”, she said curtly, walking out of his bedroom, her long, dark curls swaying in her back.

For the first time in months, something pleasant bloomed in his chest, making him sigh with relief.

Chapter Text

IV.

She flinched when the door shut behind them.

She was alone with him in his chambers, for the second time of the day.

A dimly lit room, sparsely furnished. Elegant but austere. Four chairs of dark wood around a low table, a green velvet sofa by the windows, a larger chair closer to the fireplace. A table for one. And shelves everywhere, full of books, covering the walls. He practically lived in a library.

He passed next to her and picked a small wooden bowl shut with a lid, and a piece of parchment that lay under it on the table, and unfolded in the light of a candelabrum.

“As the Princess requested”, he read aloud, and gave her a questioning look.

She cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks grow hot under his stare.

“I took the initiative to ask for a balm. To heal your bruises.”

He scoffed through his nose, placing the recipient back on the table, and went to the chair by the earth, where a good fire was warming the room.

“You don’t live in the Tower of the Hand?”

“Mmmh.”

How should she interpret the low hum? Did he imply her question was evident and inane?

“Do you prefer your own rooms?”

“The Hand’s apartments are already inhabited. By you and your brother.”

Oh.

“I didn’t know there weren’t other chambers in the Tower”, she confessed.

How could she have? Little Aegon and she had been kept there as privileged prisoners, as royal hostages. She, particularly, hadn’t been allowed to leave their assigned rooms.

But he wasn’t the Hand already when his brother seized Dragonstone, captured them and fed their mother to Sunfyre. So who had chosen to keep them there? And yet, she was here now, while her little brother –

“Aegon – my Aegon – he’s all alone. I hope he is well. I hope he isn’t afraid.”

He hummed under his breath again, already unlacing his boots to remove them.

“He is with your handmaid. I’ve given strict orders that he be kept company. He’s already skittish enough.”

Why, he has every reason to, poor boy.

Aemond and she had walked on their own from the feast held in the Throne room to Aemond’s chambers, in Maegor’s holdfast, escorted by two Kingsguards only, Ser Willis Fell and Ser Marston Waters. She had thought his brother would choke on rage when denied the amusement of a bedding ceremony, but her husband – was it even right to call him that, given the way they had been wed? – had been inflexible.

I forbid it, he had simply said, his voice admitting no contradiction.

She had held her sigh of relief. Was she to feel relief at all, when she was to be bedded by him?

I won’t touch you, he had said in the late afternoon.

She wasn’t so sure of that by now.

The King demanded that the marriage be consummated. Aemond had barely managed to protect her from being carried and stripped naked by noble men on the way to his bedroom. The thought of foreign hands on her made her skin crawl with disgust, goose bumps erecting all over her body.

“I’ve also given orders so that the adjacent office be reassigned as your bedroom. For tonight, you can sleep in my bed. I’ll take the sofa”, he said matter-of-factly. She watched him, fiddling with her fingers to keep her hands busy, her throat tight.

Her other uncle wouldn’t be content with it.

“No”, she simply breathed.

He stopped in his tracks as he was slipping his second boot off.

“What?”

She swallowed.

“We have to – your brother will know – we must –“

The words wouldn’t escape her mouth, and she couldn’t bring herself to achieve her thoughts.

“No, we don’t have to.”

His voice was determined.

He didn’t understand. Her little brother was alone in the Tower of the Hand while she was here, in Maegor’s Holdfast. Far enough for something to happen to her brother, should she not fulfil her duty.

“I’ll be good”, she pleaded.

“No.”

“My brother’s survival depends on it. I’d do anything for him, even make this marriage legal.”

Her voice threatened to break with despair. He lifted his gaze to her, and the coldness of his eye softened into something that resembled sadness.

Could he actually feel something after all?

“And my brother wants to humiliate you with this farce of a marriage.”

Yes. She knew it. Had brewed the thought during the joyless feast. And then, there could be a means of making it backfire on the King. She had to be persistent on it. She had to convince her husband.

“My mother’s marriage to Daemon was a happy one. Mostly. Until the war began.”

“How lucky they were. I never witnessed any example of a happy marriage.”

The bitterness in his voice betrayed his hurt and resent. For his father and mother. For Aegon and Helaena.

“A marriage is also what both parties decide to make of it.”

He narrowed his eye.

“What do you mean?”

She gave him a tentative smile.

“We are wed anyways, aren’t we? What if we tried to make good use of it?”

“How?”

She bent her head in shyness, but took a chair next to his all the same.

“We’ll come to know each other, I hope. Maybe we can try to find happiness –“ she saw him quail at the word, and quickly corrected herself “– something akin to happiness, to peace, together. And your brother’s cruelty on us would be wasted.”

He kept silent, visibly considering her words.

“If we refuse his domination through intended sorrow, if we try our best to build something from this misfortune, then he loses. And we’re free.”

He watched her silently.

“What do you choose, my Lord?”

His index tapped impatiently on the armchair. She knew this habit.

She had been too rushed in her explanations, and had ruined his good temper. The memory assaulted her at once. He, doing the same gesture on the table dinner, that fateful evening years ago. Just after he had kissed her, just before he insulted her siblings.

She closed her eyes and let out a resigned sigh, before raising again and turning her back to him.

“Forgive me, my Lord. I wouldn’t wish to impose myself.”

She made to the windows, the stab of rejection digging deep in her chest.

“Aemond”, he whispered, and she turned to him, still seated in his chair, now nursing his bad shoulder with his right hand.

 “Call me Aemond. Not my Lord.”

“Will you call me by my name, too?”

“If that’d be your wish.”

She nodded. This was improvement. He had called her by her name, long ago. Before he was so guarded to her.

 “That’s a bold decision”, he said. “To decide to make this marriage a happy one. You, more than anyone, would have every reason to hate me.”

Yes, she knew this.

But there was so much at stake than her own resent.

She picked the pot of balm on the table, determined to try.

He had confessed his regrets, had acknowledged her losses, and it was more than any other surviving member of the royal family had ever said to her.

Maybe she had grown tired of despair, in the same manner he had grown tired of war.

“You ended this war. I think it’s time to start something over.”

He shook his head, a sad, incredulous smile on his lips.

“I deserved that slap you gave me. I don’t know if I deserve forgiveness.”

She scoffed in disbelief. Forgiving? Was the man so vain as to presume she would grant him redemption for having saved her from Hugh Hammer’s filthy paws?

“I didn’t say that I forgave you, Aemond Targaryen, don’t be so presumptuous. You’ll have to be worthy of it.”

Oh, the look in his eye. Scraped pride, and something else. Admiration? No, this couldn’t be, she must be mistaken. He had always despised her so much, when they were children, because she had brown hair and no dragon.

And still –

“Let me have a look at your bruises. They seemed bad enough earlier.”

“I’ve suffered worth.”

“Let me look all the same.”

His single eye went heavy with – what? Irritation? Raising anger? If she was to share her life with this man, she’d better let her spirit show. She had played submissive long enough, and he hated weakness.

She walked to him, slowly, cautiously, until she was close enough to touch him.

“Please, valzȳrȳs.”

Her pointed look contrasted with her soft words.

He sighed in resignation, and she gave him an encouraging smile as he unclasped his doublet, helping him to slip it off his shoulders. She let him do as he pulled his linen shirt over his head with careful, pained movements. He dropped it on the flagstones at his feet and leaned back in his chair in a falsely relaxed position belied by his stiff shoulders.

Broad shoulders, and a torso finely muscled through years of practice, and then of war. She bit her lower lip. He was beautiful. Beautiful and lethal. This was the body of a warrior.

The bruises were significant. Significant enough to distract her gaze from his beauty and to focus only on the evidences of his violent life. Purple had flowered on his shoulders and arms, mostly on his left forearm, where the dragonseed’s mace had repeatedly hit the oaken shield. A very large patch expanded under his left nipple.

A broken rib?

She lifted the lid of the salve pot, and brought it to her nose. Arnica and helichrysum, just as she had asked. She dipped her fingertips in the balm, and approached her hand from his arm in a cautious gesture.

“May I?”

A low hum was his only answer. He waited patiently as she lightly rubbed the salve into his bruised skin, a slight shift of his breath only betraying his discomfort from time to time. His eye never left her face, and she felt heat creep to her cheeks under his scrutiny, which made him smirk as she crossed his gaze. And she flushed even more.

She wasn’t comfortable with bending over him, and couldn’t reach properly the areas she had to tend to. The best option would be to – the thought made her scoff internally. What would he think of her? Would he despise her? Consider her a woman of little virtue? Maybe compare her to her mother? She well knew what names he called her. A bitch, a whore.

She swallowed heavily and tried her luck all the same, not believing her own boldness.

She sat on his lap in a side-saddled manner, her cheek instantly blazing even more at her brazen temerity. She felt all warm, on her face, under her dress and in her belly. She didn’t look him in the face, focusing on her task, reaching for a bruise under a collarbone. The position gave her an easier access and after a few minutes, she dared lifting her eyes to him.

He was watching her with amusement, his eye sparkling and his lips stretched in a smug smile.

“Such deft fingers”, he whispered. “But not handy enough in this position.”

Before she could do as much as frowning to process his words, he lifted her seemingly without effort, hiked her dress up and sat her back on his lap so that she straddled him, letting the heavy fabric down as soon as her thighs rested on his.

And the warmth increased in her insides under his gaze.

“Better?”

Was it a cheeky smile on his lips?

She felt doomed. She had initiated this, and now he pressed her. She didn’t feel panicked, though, only nervous. Curious.

He extended a hand to the hem of her dress.

“May I?” He mimicked her words in a low murmur, almost a purr, and she nodded wordlessly.

His hand sneaked under the layers of heavy brocade and lighter batiste, until it made contact with her stocking-clad calves, and she stiffened.

“It is only justice that I get to touch you too, don’t you think? If we have to get to know each other, I mean.”

Oh, how he used her arguments against her! A shy smile and a nod encouraged him, and he only traced small circles on her stocking as she took back to her task. The contact was distracting, and made the warmth in her belly even worse as his hand went to her knee. She squirmed uncomfortably, and blinked several times to focus, her breath uneven.

She had started this. If he was reluctant earlier, he was now complying. This was improvement.

The bruise on his ribs was worse. She tried to touch it as lightly as possible, but he hissed and his fingers tensed on her flesh. She withdrew immediately.

“I’m sorry”, she breathed.

“Might have broken a rib when my horse fell”, he grunted, and she nodded with a hum.

“It would be better for the maester to see it.”

“Fuck the maester”, he growled. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

There was another swell at the base of his neck. This one was less serious, and even though his breath hitched when she brushed it, he didn’t flinch. His finger untied the ribbon holding her stocking, and rolled the small garment to caress the skin of her thigh, just above the knee. Her lips parted with a gasp.

She decided that, if he allowed himself to touch her that way, she could too, and both her hands went to his chest, tracing the patterns left by ancient scars. Silver lines marking his chest and shoulders and arms. A very large one on his left shoulder, more recent, still pink and slightly purple, almost horizontal, had its exact match in his back, and she knew at once when he got it and who had given it to him. It was the place where Daemon had stabbed him through with Dark Sister. She dared to cast a glance on his face as she touched the scar in a feather-like touch, feeling conflicted emotions swirling in her chest. Grief and sorrow for the lost. Eagerness to try and trust the man whose lap she was sitting in. Arousal at their proximity and at his guarded gentleness.

His eye was darker, the periwinkle blue almost swallowed by his black iris, probably because of the sparse light of the room.

She lay her palms flat on his chest. His skin was wonderfully soft and warm under her hands, and she sighed in contentment.

“Abrāzȳrys”, he whispered, his eye now on her mouth. Wife.

In the dim light of the candles and of the fire, she felt daring. Felt that she had lost all modesty, and a hot blush crept to her face again.

He straightened his torso, approaching her, and she longed for proximity too. Putting a hand on his good shoulder for balance, she slowly closed the gap between them and pressed her lips to his.

She lacked experience, and didn’t know what to do apart from putting her mouth on his like he had done before the sept. She frowned in surprise but didn’t draw back as he moved and licked lightly her lower lip. It felt intimate, and a pleasant shiver coursed through her.

He didn’t rush her, letting her find her pace as she answered his kiss under his guidance. And she kissed him again. And again. And again. Finding unexpected warmth and solace in his hold.

He moved his face to her neck, letting her breathe, and she sighed at the feeling of his lips and tongue on her sensitive skin.

“Is this what you want?” he murmured softly, one broad hand on the top of her thigh and the other one carding her hair.

Her dress felt uncomfortable now. She wanted to discard it, to be relieved of the contraption of all these layers of fabric. Felt like her skin was too tight too, and warm and tingling under his caresses. And he had barely touched her.

“Yes”, she confirmed, already panting in his ear.

His lips went back to hers, and she gasped in delight as his tongue passed her lips and rolled against hers. Her nipples felt tight, and grazed against the fabric of her clothes, and she reached in her back to untie the laces. His hand left her hair to help her as soon as he understood what she was aiming to do.

He breathed her name when she managed to squirm out of her bodice, and leaned to kiss her shoulders and collarbones, making delicious shivers pass on her skin. His hand went bolder under her dress, caressing her buttocks, and she let a sigh that resembled a moan as he reached to her lady parts from behind.

She felt hot, and slick, and messy there. But the fact that he was slow and quiet and respectful gave her a priceless sense of security.

“Claiming your husband, my Lady?”

His voice was playfully teasing. Not mocking her. He kissed her again, deep and hungry.

“Let me remove this dress”, she panted, raising to her feet. She had the impression that he let go of her with reluctance, and she pushed the dress pass her hips, then stepped out of it, now clad in her light batiste shift and stockings – one of them now sagged down on the ankle. He extended a hand and guided her once again in his lap. Kissing her softly, gently, taking his time, letting her getting accustomed to this.

Missing the contact of his hands, she daringly grasped his wrists and lifted his arms to her hips, and he sighed in her mouth at her boldness. His broad, warm hands on her felt utterly delicious, though, even if through the fabric of her shift, roaming on her waist and back and down on her bottom, and she jolted as he grabbed her hips and rolled them on his crotch. Feeling the hardness tucked in his trousers rub against her intimate folds. The sparkle of excitement at the contact. He did it again, again, again, and she panted against his mouth, and he growled lowly, like a starved animal. A starved dragon.

He put his arms under her buttocks and raised to his feet, holding her fast against him, and she had no choice but to clamp her legs around his slender waist and her arms around his shoulders.

“Don’t, you’ll worsen your broken rib!”

“Worry not”, he breathed in her ear, confident and reassuring as he went to his bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed, still holding her. There was no light there save from the fire, and the flames made shadows dance on the sharp edges of his face. He reclined onto his back, letting his hands wander over her shift again.

It was as if the flames of the earth had moved directly into her veins. Fire coursed through her body, making her dizzy as she continued to kiss him and she explored his chest with her fingers – the hard planes of his muscles, the crests and valleys of his scars. It was like a chart of violence carved into his skin. His loud gasp surprised her when she brushed a pink nipple.

Oh. He was very sensitive.

His fingers went to her breasts in response, and she bit back a moan as he squeezed gently, and his thumb teased her nipple in turn. Could it be possible that this part of her body she touched every day in her bath with her own hands could bring such a pleasurable jolt in her body?

He sat back impatiently, and she stopped her kisses and touches, startled at his sudden movement.

“Allow me to remove this”, he whispered.

To remove what? His remaining clothes, or hers? She swallowed back her nervousness, and got to her feet, taking only a step back, missing his warmth.

He stripped from his leather trousers and breeches, and her mouth went dry at the sight of his erect manhood, thick and swollen, another hot flush creeping to her cheeks.

“Don’t fear”, he murmured, cupping her jaw to kiss her again. “I’ll be gentle.”

He sat back and guided her to straddle him once more, lifting the fabric of her shift so that her body was flush against his. As he laid back, he positioned her hips over his, and her eyes grew wide, and her mouth opened as her sex straddled his manhood, her lips parted over the length of it, and his hand drew the fabric away, giving him access to her.

“You’re so pretty”, he whispered, and the pad of his thumb pressed lightly onto the ball of nerves at the top of her womanly folds, making her gasp with the new sensation. His other hand tilted her hips in the same previous motion.

“Just like this, little niece. Cover me with your wetness.”

And he rolled his hips encouragingly, and she rolled hers to meet his movements and make herself press against his thumb, her breath shallow and whimpery as an ache grew in her cunt. It was like an itch, just like the time she had chickenpox as a child, and couldn’t stop scratching her belly. She felt an urge to grind against him, to scratch this particular itch, and her insides tightened under the feeling of it. It wasn’t enough. The more she rubbed, the more it seemed to slip easily, and she soon heard a squelching sound.

“It’s obscene”, she breathed.

“Beautiful”, he corrected.

Oh.

He was beautiful, his pale torso sprawled on the sheets, silver hair fanning over his shoulders, eye blown wide with desire, lips stretched in a teasing smirk. She let her fingers roam on the smooth expense of skin, tracing the scars and bruises with light touches, and his fingers tightened in the flesh of her thighs as he pulled and ground her hips in time with his own movements. How could his face remain so controlled when she was unable to close her lips, when she became nothing but a panting mess above him? When she didn’t know what she was doing, relying on pure instinct and search of relief and pleasure?

But it soon became too much, and she felt the urge to close her legs, unwilling to let go of him at the same time.

“I – ah – it’s too much, I –“

“I know”, he growled. “Trust me, don’t think.”

“What’s – ah –“

The squeezing in her gut felt only tighter, and something tickled at the base of her neck, just like on winter mornings, when the cold made something sparkle at the contact of metal.

“Let yourself go.”

He whispered her name reverently, like a prayer, and rolled his hips with more strength under her, pressing his length harder against her lips.

And something shattered inside her, waves of pleasure surging within her, rolling from the deepest part of her belly and down to every limb, making her vision go white and her toes curl by themselves as her every muscle spasmed under the force of it. A hoarse cry came to her ears, her voice so foreign it took a few seconds to identify it as hers. And the Prince beneath her still moved, sliding her all over his cock until the waves receded, until her shoulders sagged and she felt like a floppy mess between his hands.

And a light laughter bubbled from her lips. Careless, and free, and full of hope. She squeezed the feeling away immediately, though. He might be patient and gentle, she still had to decipher the man.

“It’s still time to stop, should you not wish to – I’ll find a subterfuge to prove we did it.”

She smiled at him, grateful that he was so caring, so considerate, so thoughtful. So estranged to the cold knight who had claimed her hand after winning the tourney.

“I don’t wish to. If you’ll have me.”

This very morning, she couldn’t have even thought of murmuring the words. The Gods might exist, after all, for offering her such a gift.

He swallowed hard, making a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Could it be that he – well, he desired her, it was evident, but why was he so tense?

“What do you know of coupling?” he asked, his voice rough and hoarse.

“I’ve seen beasts. I know what the male does.”

His smirk stretched more, into a lopsided smile, one that mocked her naïveté and ingenuity.

“How innocent.” The words weren’t scornful, though. Almost spoken in wonder and marvelled awe. “A woman can claim a man too.”

“Really?”

His hands squeezed her hips, lifting them until the contact of their skins was lost, and the wetness on her folds seemed to heighten the feeling of the cold air on her skin. One hand slid from her hip to her coarse hair, sliding through her soaked folds, and slipped lightly inside her, making her gasp loudly at the intrusion.

“This is the place that makes a woman so powerful.”

His finger slid out, and back in, and the first feeling of discomfort soon disappeared as he placed the pad of his thumb against her bundle of nerves once more.

“This is the reason men defeat their enemies.”

Just like he had done in the day. Defeating foe after foe, beheading the last one to slip a finger in her cunt. Ah. Two fingers.

She panted and winced at the stretch.

“That’s why you jousted?”

“No. But I’m grateful you’re letting me have you. Immensely grateful.”

She shivered in his arms. Being held like this, inhaling his scent of lavender and something that was just him, hearing the soft, raspy murmur of his voice, feeling his fingers preparing her, caring not to hurt her, it was – she felt dizzy and elated, not wanting him to ever stop.

“Relax. Take your time.”

She waited a little until it didn’t feel so uncomfortable, and gave a tentative roll of her hips, just like she had done before, her lips parting in a quiet gasp. It felt so new, so unlike what she had experienced before. She did it again, and each movement seemed easier, the feeling of his fingers inside her growing more pleasant as his thumb teased her swollen bud.

“Will it feel the same with your –“

“See by yourself when you feel ready.”

She didn’t know if she was. She mostly felt curious, and impatient, and wanting to feel this blissful pleasure again, and his teasing words made her want to try. She lifted herself on her knees and took his cock in hand, carefully. It was warm and soft and slick with her wetness, and as she tentatively slid her fingers onto the length of it, he hissed.

“Did I hurt you?”

“On the contrary.”

She pressed her fingers again, and gave another stroke, and his lips parted. His eye was black, the periwinkle blue now all swallowed by the blown pupil. Such beauty underneath her, such strength at her mercy. She stroked again, and again, and he put his fingers on her wrist.

“Not too much, Lady-wife, or you’ll spend me before I can please you again.”

What should she do, then? She felt clueless, and naïve, and –

He took himself at the root of his length, covering her fingers with his, and slid his cock between her folds once more, until the head of it reached her opening, where his fingers had been moments ago.

Oh.

She understood. She swallowed her nervousness, and slowly sat down onto him.

Oh.

The stretch.

The defensive clenching of her insides.

His hiss.

She waited a little, and his hand went to her cheek, cupping it in a soothing gesture, drawing her face to his so he could kiss her again. She sank further onto him, drawing back up, straightening her back, and sinking further down, willing her insides to loosen and take him. And with a smooth roll of her hips, something ripped inside her, and the sharp pain of her torn maidenhead made her sag on his torso, letting a soft sob through her shallow pants. He closed his arms around her, laying still, caressing her back with his large, warm hands, whispering soothing words in her ear. His warmth, his scent, it was like a shelter.

I’m sorry. It hurts only the first time. You’re doing well. Easy, take your time.

His words and embrace and light kisses made her feel cherished. Protected. And with each moments, she adjusted around him, and the stabbing pain grew fainter and fainter, until it was replaced only with a welcome fullness. And she moved above him, slowly, tentatively, his gasp in her ear making a thrill of pleasure course through her.

She propped herself on her arms to increase her movements and to look at him, so beautiful as he threw his head back and exposed his masculine throat to her. And the strap of the leather patch moved, revealing a blue glint –

His hand shot to his face, covering his eye-patch, his good eye wide in horror and shame.

“Don’t look!” he urged, his voice strained.

The scar wasn’t hideous. It looked angry and painful for sure. But in this moment, having him underneath her, buried inside her, she only could think that it added to his wild beauty. He was afraid, and insecure, and as vulnerable as her.

On impulse, she grabbed the pooling fabric of her shift, slipped it over her head and tossed it on the floor. Shivered in the cold air of the room, her skin covered in goose bumps.

“Now you can see all of me. I’d wish to see all of you, too.”

“I’m ugly.”

“You’re not.”

He held her gaze, hesitating, processing her words, until he removed his hand form his face and she could bring her fingers to the leather patch, sliding it slowly, carefully, not wanting to graze the scar and hurt him.

She had already hurt him earlier in the day, with her fishwife’s slap. He had endured the pain. Now she didn’t wish to shame him. She wanted to take care of him, to protect him like he had protected her.

Wasn’t it what they had sworn a few hours ago?

The patch slid on his eyebrow and forehead, and she took it off, leaving it on the bed. He might want to put it back later.

There was no emptiness in his socket, no saggy eyelid looking like a torn curtain, but unexpected beauty. A sapphire, enclosed between his eyelids, its roughs facets catching the dim light, enhancing his sharp features in spite of its blindness.

Her fingers cupped his cheek, her thumb carefully tracing the side of the scar without touching it.

“It’s part of you”, she breathed. “It makes you look fierce, but not ugly. Not ugly at all.”

He sat back, wrapping her in his arms, a hand plunging into her mane of curls, and kissed her desperately, rolling his hips in shallow, tentative thrusts, and the feeling of him moving inside her made her gasp loudly against his lips.

*

His little wife.

Beautiful and innocent and expectant, accepting him, here in his arms, beneath him in his bed.

He had wanted her for so long, had hope so many times to be able to have her like this, warm and flushed, sighing in pleasure, not horrified, not disgusted by his appearance. It felt too good to be real. Like everything he had gained in his life, it must come at a cost. How much would he have to suffer for this?

Well, he’d know in the morning.

For now, he’d better enjoy her soft kisses and caresses, as he was buried to the hilt in her silky flesh.

His beautiful wife, with her small breasts, a bit skinny perhaps because of her worries, her long mane of brown curls contrasting so nicely with her fair skin. Oh, the way her lips parted as he thrust into her. It made him want to devour her, to stay inside her forever.

He wanted to move more, needed to move more. Embracing her tightly, ignoring the stabbing pain of his broken rib, he flipped her so that she laid on the mattress beneath him, and the sudden change in their positions made her giggle adorably, before her light laughter changed into a moan as he sunk inside her again, slowly, cautiously.

Oh, her soft sighs and whimpers.

He needed to move – he restrained himself so much that his muscles trembled – and yet he didn’t want to lash out and hurt her.

“How do you feel?”

“I – ah –“

“Does it still hurt?”

She only shook her head in a lazy, sloppy movement.

“How do you feel?” he repeated, his tone more concerned than he would have wanted to. He had never had a virgin, he didn’t want to scare her, to make her hate the act. Children would be expected, he would have to bed her frequently, and didn’t wish for her to be reluctant, like so many noble women married to brutal men.

He gave another long, slow thrust, wondering how he could manage to be still so patient when her warm cunt squeezed him like this, and she made an incoherent sound. Not a pained sound, obviously, as her face wasn’t contorted, her lips parted, her eyes half-shut and glassy with desire.

Desire.

She desired him.

Him, of all men.

“Delicious”, she whined.

And he thrust a bit stronger, studying her features in search of any trace of discomfort, feeling both relieved and stunned at finding none. Her knees went higher, along his ribs, allowing him to sink even further, and he couldn’t escape the strangled moan that passed his lips. Unable to wait anymore, he hooked one of her knees in his elbow and pushed with more force, her body accepting him with such perfect abandon as her hands roamed on his shoulders and back and her breath went heavier. He kept his arms around her too, marvelling at the closeness, at the feeling of her flush against him. Her hand went from the small of his back to his buttocks, and something snapped inside of him. He found himself pulling out and snapping back in faster, stronger, and her heady sighs in his ear, the noises she was making, her breathy moans, her fingers gripping his flesh, her nails grazing his skin, it all spurred him, and he felt he was losing control.

And her cunt squeezed even more around him, threatening to make him break, his impending release already clawing in his belly, tightening his balls.

“Aemond, I –“ she whined, “what – ah – ’m dying!”

She clutched desperately at his shoulders, holding onto him, making him feel like he was her lifeline.

“Not death”, he rasped breathlessly, “don’t fight it –“

With his forceful, erratic thrusts, she clamped around him as her back arched in ecstasy, and he gritted his teeth, dropping his head in the crook of her neck to fuck her just a little longer – to prolong her climax before his shot through him and he emptied himself with deep, long thrusts and a low growl.

He collapsed onto her, panting hard, his heart hammering in his chest. And he could feel her heart hammering next to his, the strong force of life within her and before he could think, he pressed tender, loving kisses on her cheek as she sighed softly, her eyelids fluttering before they shut, a sated smile on her lips.

Beautiful.

Bracing himself, he pushed onto his arms to draw back, his manhood slipping out of her, and he mourned the warmth of her embrace as he straightened back and got out of the bed. He came to the basin, poured some water in it and dipped a washcloth before wiping the blood on his cock. Then he turned again to her, unmoving on his sheets, watching him, her chest now raising and falling more calmly. Putting one knee on the edge of the mattress, he leaned and encouraged her to part her legs once more, and he cleaned her slowly, carefully, meticulously removing all evidences of their coupling from her skin.

And once done, he unfolded the cloth to have a look at it.

Clearly soiled with her maiden blood and his sticky seed.

He had managed to avoid a bedding ceremony. Aegon would want a proof.

Fine, he sighed internally, feeling the familiar coil anger already tightening in his guts.

He bent to pick his discarded breeches on the floor and slipped them on, before covering his blind eye again with the leather patch.

“Are you leaving?”

Her soft, lazy voice emerged from between the sheets, and he noticed a trace of wariness.

“I’ll be right back. Just need to –“ He never fled an unpleasant explanation, before. He wished to spare her the rudeness of what he was just about to do. “This cloth will prove that we’ve consummated our union. Aegon won’t threaten you or your brother now. You’re both under my protection.”

“Gross”, she only whispered.

He hummed under his breath. How right she was. taking a deep inhale to brace himself, he strode to the door of his chambers, opening it with force, tossing the wet cloth at the feet of the White Knight standing guard in the corridor.

“Bring this to my brother. He shall be content with it”, he spat, before shutting the door and barring it, leaning his forehead against the wood.

What had he done?

He had just exposed her maidenblood. The proof that he had ruined her, after he had fought for her hand, defeated the other knights, brutally beheaded the dragonseed. He had managed to convince himself that it was for her protection. For her safety. Now that he knew how she felt, he understood that he had been lying to himself. He had done it to have her. To bed her. To fuck her, holding her beneath him like he loved her.

How pathetic.

He had convinced himself that he was do this to protect her, and in the end he hadn’t been able to protect her from him.

He was not worthy of her.

He was just as any other man. Low and undeserving. Nothing more than a beast.

A soft rustle of fabric, and the contact of a small hand on his arm made him jolt and spin. And she was standing there, before him, in her light shift, looking pure and innocent, a gentle smile on her lips. His heart squeezed painfully in the powerful fist of his guilt.

“Māzigon arlī naejot ilvos, valzȳrȳs”, she whispered. Pleaded. Come back to bed, husband.

Her hand brushed his skin down to his fingers, pressed them into hers, and she tugged lightly in invitation. His will weakened at once, abandoned him at her soft words. How could he deny her? Disappoint her even more?

And he followed her like an obedient puppy, until he laid close to her, in the warmth of her arms, listening to her even breath as she drifted into sleep.

Chapter Text

V.

Aemond felt rested.

He had slept all night through, his slumber uninterrupted by any bad dream – how unexpected – lulled by a sweet feeling of warmth and comfort, cradling a lithe, warm body against his. Cradled in soft arms, falling asleep to the sound of a light breath.

Her breath.

Her.

 In his bed, at last.

How many times had he dreamt of it? Chaste dreams of holding her, of kissing her, of burying his face in the thick mane of her hair – less chaste dreams of caressing her, of rocking into her, of the sounds she’d make.

It all came to reality.

His hand felt around, in search of her warm skin that kept out of reach.

He cracked his good eye open. It was still dark, the night sky barely turning pink with the first lights of dawn. It was later than he usually woke, however. How strange. How satisfying, though.

His muscles were a bit stiff in the morning, mayhaps, after the fights of the previous day, and his rib made him wince in pain as he turned on his back. How did he get wounded? He couldn’t even remember. He had fought quick and efficient, having felt threatened by Hugh Hammer only. The Targaryen bastard had no subtleness, wielded his weapon with brute force only, like the blacksmith he was. And in the end, brute force didn’t prove to be enough against years of training and agility.

She had looked at him with frightful eyes, at first. It was no wonder. He had just gruesomely removed the bastard’s head before her, and had come to her with his armour full of blood. With blood on his face. A kinslayer, thrice over.

But then, after the ceremony, she had listened patiently to him. Had clouted him too, for what he had done. The slap almost made him smile – it was oddly satisfying, to be at the end of her anger, because he deserved it. A single blow wasn’t enough of a punishment, though, and he felt – knew – she ought to whip him and draw blood to avenge all the wrongs she had suffered because of him.

But he couldn’t remember having a night so restoring since – well, since he killed Lucerys.

Bloody Lucerys. And his twin-sister was now –

Aemond wasn’t used to sleeping with someone else, but having her supple, warm body next to his had felt easy and right.

He might not be used to sleeping with someone else, but he was used to paying an expensive cost for whatever pleasant ever happened in his life. And the night had been utterly pleasant, in an unexpected manner.

They had shared their bodies, and that had been a pleasant – delicious – surprise, for he hadn’t expected her to willingly come to him, and he wouldn’t have forced himself on her. How could he have, after all she had already suffered by his fault? But more, they had shared trust. And that had been relieving beyond any expectation. She had spoken in earnest, and he now wished he could have not retained the dark truth he admitted when it was too late – when their union was consummated.

He extended his arm to her, in his bed, where she had spent the night.

Empty. The sheets almost cold.

Where was she?

He sat in one swift motion, the sudden pain in his rib making him groan. He was alone in his bedroom, the hollow in the second pillow the only evidence of her presence through the night.

She had looked so trusting and sweet, had been so comforting, to him. Where was she now?

He picked his trousers on the floor and slipped them on, along with a fresh shirt, and put his leather eye-patch before passing in the sitting room, where the chimney and a single candle were lit. Their discarded clothes still lay on the floor, and he clenched his jaw at the mess.

There she was, a white form curled in his favourite armchair in front of the fireplace, her back to him. The revived fire casted a warm glow in the room and a pleasant warmth in the cold morning air. It looked so peaceful, so intimate, to see her dark curls dangling as her head was resting in her hand, her elbow on the armrest.

He whispered her name, careful not to scare her, circling her to greet her on their first morning, his stomach tightening in anticipation. There had never been a first morning for him. What was to be said? How should he act?

“Aren’t you cold?”

She was only wearing her long undershirt, after all. He retreated to his bedroom before she even answered and picked his robe of dark green velvet to slip it around her.

As he came close enough, she was wiping her cheeks with the flat of her palms and lifted puffy, reddened eyes to him.

Fuck.

She had been crying, alone in the dark. Hidden from him.

Of course.

She well might hate him, feel dirtied by their coupling. He stood frozen, the heavy garment in his hands, unsure what to do now.

“Did I wake you up?” she whispered hoarsely, “I’m sorry if –“

He crouched on his heels next to her, and put a hand on the armrest. Close enough to her arm to feel her warmth, far enough not to touch her and make her uncomfortable.

“No. What’s the matter?”

She closed her eyes, pressing a hand on her brow.

His throat felt so tight he might choke. He didn’t intend to sound so brutal. What could – should – he say after what he did to her? His self-consciousness from the night came back in full force. Whatever apology he might speak, it would not restore her. He had ruined her forever, and his throat felt raw and tight as his self-hatred throttled him. Even if he died soon, who would ever marry her again?

“I’m sorry”, he croaked all the same. “I’m sorry I soiled you. My selfishness made me forget what a desecration this wedding is.”

Her eyes opened and lifted to him, wide and questioning.

“What? No – it’s not –“

His heart bolted in his chest, hammering against his ribs at her soft spoken words. Did she not hate him for what he’d done last night?

He went down, one knee on the flagstones, his fingers itching to touch her arm, even through the light cloth of her chemise.

“Here”, he whispered, handing her the robe. “It’ll keep you warm.”

He helped her slipping the garment around her shoulders, and his heart clenched at seeing her in his colours. Mine.

“Would you share your worries with me?”

“I was thinking of my mother. Of my brothers.”

He hummed low. Grief was a familiar feeling for him too. A familiar hollowness left by the irreparable absence of the lost. It was the hour he usually went to fly with Vhagar, and each and every morning he missed the old dragon and the sky.

“I didn’t know it could be like that between a man and a woman”, she whispered. “What you made me feel – it was so strong, so intense. I – I felt so alive-“

Strong.

Only she could use this word between them, now. A word that had caused such irremediable damage. He had vowed never to let it slip his lips again.

Her voice broke and she sobbed, once, catching herself with her hand on her mouth.

“I’m alive and they’re all dead. It shouldn’t – I shouldn’t –”

What did she mean? That her mother and her brothers shouldn’t be dead, or that she shouldn’t be alive? Did she long for death? He sometimes did. Her only remaining brother certainly did. What could he say to her? With all his apologies, her family wouldn’t come back. He ought to apology, though. Had to, if he ever wanted her not to hate him.

“It’s unfair”, she breathed, having caught her air not to sound pitiful. Admiration swelled in his chest at seeing her so suddenly composed, even with the teary gleam of her dark eyes. Yes, she was strong, and not in the way he had used the word many years ago. Resistant, determined, resilient. Made of the stuff of queens.

“It’s my fault. All of this is my fault.”

She nodded faintly at his murmured words, and guilt carved his heart like a poniard. And he welcomed the pain, his well-owed punishment. It was time for him to confess. She wanted to trust him, and he wanted to earn her trust. Wanted. Like he always did, selfish as he was.

“I’m so sorry for Lucerys.”

His voice threatened to break, his good eye burned.

“Not a day passes without this remorse. Vhagar escaped me, she disobeyed my command. I thought I just wanted to frighten him, and I enjoyed the chase. It turned out Vhagar enjoyed it more than me. And then Arrax breathed fire to protect your brother, and –”

He, in turn, put a hand to his face to hide from her, unable to utter a word. The memories assaulted him. The awful crack of the skin and bones under Vhagar’s sharp teeth. The limbs and blood flying on the air. Arrax’s torn wings plummeting in a downward spiral, followed by the red drape of Lucery’s cloak.

And he hunched his head between his shoulders when he felt her soft hand in his hair.

“No, Aemond.”

What?

He wiped his face with his palm, no tears spilled in spite of his burning eye and clenched throat, and lifted his face a little to look at her.

“You were bonded with her. She must have felt that you truly, deeply wanted him dead, even if you wouldn’t confess it to yourself. And so she did what you desired.”

Of course. Her words were only a spoken assertion of his darkest thoughts. Thoughts he had been trying to push back in the safest hiding place of his mind.

Nothing was to be hidden from her. She was too pure, too clever for him.

He hardened against the tightness in his chest, against what he knew to be upcoming sobs, the moral strength it required from him leaving his body as he sagged onto the floor. He deserved this. Her calm anger. Her reproaches. Forever, she would be an allegory of his remorse, his own private chastisement. And so, it felt right to be wed to her. To have her share his life. For her to be a constant reminder of his deeds and shame.

“Why did you kiss me that day? How could you kiss me and kill him a few days after?”

This question he had often asked himself.

That day in the library. Vaemond Velaryon had just lost his head to Dark Sister and Daemon, and Lucerys had been confirmed as the future Lord of the Tides. She had escaped their company to find a quiet shelter in the company of books. But he was there when she entered, and of course, a quiet shelter he would deny her. He ruined people around him, that was what he always did. Lucerys, Daeron, Helaena. Vhagar, lost along with Daemon and Caraxes. Why should she – how could she –have been an exception that day?

“I wanted you. I wanted your mother to give you to me. To unite what my father let sunder in indifference.”

Selfishly. He always wanted, and wanted, and wanted.

“And your wish is now fulfilled.”

His eye widened. Once again, she just spoke aloud what was carefully hidden in the meanders of his mind. The thoughts that had crept to the surface on the previous night, as he had thrown the soiled cloth – the proof of her ruination – at the Kingsguard’s feet, now hung in mid-air between them. Her eyes, her dark eyes, her doe eyes were on him, still bearing a wet glint, but no tearful anymore. Firm, but not full of anger or resent. Strong, if he could call her that, but only in his mind after all it cost them.

“It is.”

Enough lies. Enough half-truths.

“I’m a selfish man.”

“I know.”

Good. He longed for the pain she could inflict to him. Longed for his punishment, the only way to earn a form of redemption, if it could be granted to him someday. Scorching his knees in front of the statues of the Mother and the Father in the Sept only mortified his flesh but didn’t bring the solace he searched.

“But –“ he hesitated, feeling self-conscious and embarrassed, a feeling that had often plagued him when he was a dragonless second son. He wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue, and inhaled before speaking. “I don’t take what you said yesterday lightly. I want to be worthy of your trust. Of you. I want to earn your forgiveness.”

Her ribs swelled with a deep inhale, followed by a deep exhale. She kept silent a few moments, her eyes on his face, evidently considering his words. His confession. He couldn’t read any animosity in her dark irises, only reflection and solicitude.

“You’ll have to be worthy it, and I won’t be generous nor indulgent.”

Her soft voice belied her words. Hard and carrying the weight of the war and of his deeds. No, much more than that. He had to add the weight of their childhood, too, and of his insults, of his disdain, of his mistrust.

She had always followed her twin, or him, like a puppy, a troublesome little girl who could never run fast enough, bundled up as she was in her skirts. Aegon and Jaecerys always repeated girls were nothing but a nuisance. Lucerys was kind to her, but the boys always stuck together in the end, leaving her behind.

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

He nodded, his throat tight.

“Good.”

She looked tired. Like she had won this fight and allowed herself to drop her armour off.

He gulped with difficulty before he managed to whisper.

“How long have you been staying here? You need to rest.”

“I slept well at first, and then I dreamt of them. During the hour of ghosts, I believe.”

Of course. No hour could have been more accurately named. He himself had lost count of the many times sleep had evaded him during the hour of ghosts.

He extended his hand in invitation, not daring to touch her for fear of scaring her. As he would have done with Helaena.

“Come rest? It’s still early. I’ll stand watch to wake you up if you have another bad dream.”

A feeble smile stirred her lips.

“I’m not done with you.”

He blinked. What was she up to?

“How does it feel to kill someone?”

He gulped in attempt to ease the sudden clench of his throat. A clench that didn’t even match the one he felt in his ribcage, the guilt clawing at his heart. He had chosen to win her as his prize, had fought and killed for her, and yet he felt now that he was her prize, her prey to torment. As she had every right to.

“Back in the Riverlands, I was numbed by my anger and hatred, and my grief for Helaena. I thought burning all those people would relieve me of my sorrow, but in the end it only left me with night terrors and guilt.”

She kept impassible, her breathing calm, her face emotionless. That were not the deaths she wanted to hear about. He eluded the one death he feared to talk about, though.

“The dragonseed, yesterday – it was easy to take his head. To take his life. As it was easy to imagine what he would have done to you, had he won the tourney. You heard his proposal, as did the whole crowd.”

We could share her. A week each.

She shivered at his words, at the memory of Hugh’s words, perhaps, and his self-loathing at being the victor, at having soiled her, alleviated a bit. She hadn’t shivered in horror with him. The goose bumps he elicited on her skin came from the pleasure he gave her.

“You know what I meant”, she breathed.

“Lucerys –“

He choked on his words, and avoided her eyes. The sky was pink, and the sun would soon rise, and the castle would wake with it. And the sunlight would force him to face his own shame.

“Tell me how it happened. What happened. That day, in the Stormlands.”

He let his head hang, to hide his face with his untied hair. He could feel the heat of shame on his cheeks.

“Don’t stay on the floor. Take a seat, Qybor, and tell me.”

She had every right to give him orders. To command.

As he rose and approached a chair, she clarified her demand.

“Don’t just tell me. Recount. Narrate. I want all the details you’ll be able to remember.”

“Painful as it can be?”

She nodded, her face quiet like the stone statue of the Maiden. But a maiden she was no longer, because of him. Of his greed.

And so he recounted, dutifully, like she requested. How Borros Baratheon granted him to choose between his four daughters. How it irritated him, for in spite of their dark manes of hair, they were not her. How he picked the eldest, Cassandra, totally at random for he had no intention to love any of them once married. How Lucerys arrived soaked through and too late, when the match was already settled, and Lord Borros dismissed him rudely. How the boar of a man couldn’t even read Rhaenyra’s message and had his master do it for him. How his anger swelled as soon as his nephew’s voice echoed in the drum tower of Storm’s End.

“He let Lucerys leave when I tossed my dagger to him. For him to cut out his eye himself. And then – one of the girls – Maris, I believe, a mean-spirited girl – she taunted me. She said Luke might have cut off my balls along with my eye.”

He sounded pathetic. As he knew he was.

“And that’s what it took to kill my brother? A cruel jest from a rejected bride?”

He shook his head slightly in disbelief and self-hatred.

“And then?” she asked again.

“And then, I took Vhagar to the skies. I wanted to chase him. To scare him. It was midday, but the storm was raging so strongly it was dark as night, and the rain was pouring over us. Only lightings brightened the darkness.”

A darkness that matched his heart’s.

“He was afraid. Terrified. And Vhagar – she enjoyed the chase, and I did too. Arrax tried to hide in the crevasses of the cliffs, but we came from the rear and he breathed fire to Vhagar. And then it was too late. They flew up above the clouds, and I tried to keep Vhagar down in the rain, to force her not to go after them, but she soared, and killed them with one bite.”

Some things he had to keep silent. The horrid sound of crushed bones and torn flesh. The appalling sight of the boy’s and dragon’s bloods flowing in the altitude winds. Lucery’s terrified eyes. He had longed for this terror, until he didn’t want to see it at all – until it was too late – until he knew those terrified eyes would haunt him until the end of his days. This would forever be his silent torment, and she needn’t know of the gruesome details.

Her breath was so shallow he almost didn’t hear it.

“It’s my fault. I pushed them too far, until they had no choice but to attack back. And Vhagar slipped out of my control.”

He sighed deeply.

“Because I swear to you – I swear – I wanted to hurt him, not to kill him. I didn’t want to start the war – I didn’t want you to hate me more –“ He bent forward, his elbows on his thighs, and put his head in his palms. “And in the end, I fucked up everything. This. The Riverlands. Daemon.”

*

She had to remember how to breathe. To inhale, and not to let the weight of her sorrow crush her chest with her last exhale.

It was her fault. She had pressed him to tell her about Luke’s death. Her brother. Her other half. The witness and companion of her childhood.

And the man sagging in his chair before her had nothing to do with the proud uncle who had kissed her that day in the library, who had provoked her brothers and broken Jace’s nose, who had killed a man to win her hand. He looked so ravaged by his guilt, so devastated by his own sorrow and remorse, his cheeks hollow and his sole eye wild.

“Daemon?” she asked feebly.

She never thought Daemon’s death to be one of Aemond’s mistakes. And yet, as she watched him close his only eyelid as if he wanted to escape the sight of the Rogue Prince, she knew he felt remorse about that too.

“I thought he’d kill me. Maybe I longed for death. Be as it may, I felt ready to die, as I never did before. But even this didn’t go as expected.”

He paused, watching his fingers. Scratching the flesh of a thumb with the nail of a forefinger.

“I teased him. Provoked him. To make sure he’d want to kill me enough. And our dragons fought. Vhagar tore through Caraxes’ flesh, and as the Red Wyrm was dying, Daemon jumped out of the saddle and onto Vhagar, Dark Sister raised and at the ready for me. Aimed at my face.”

Oh, yes, she could imagine the scene. Daemon’s furious face, his white hair flowing in the wind, his vicious look. She shivered at the images in her mind.

“And Vhagar saved me. She shrugged him off.”

He gulped, and it sounded difficult.

“But he stroke all the same, the blow landing lower, in my shoulder. And I cut his hand off, like I did to Hugh Hammer yesterday.”

He rose his periwinkle eye, heavy with the memories of the war, and his voice was a barely audible whisper as he achieved his confession.

“To keep Dark Sister for me.”

Of course.

He wanted a Valyrian blade, for Aegon had inherited Blackfyre. He had always longed to be worthy of their Valyrian bloodline.

“Daemon fell in the lake. Vhagar fell to, following Caraxes. And I just had the time to unfasten my saddle chains before I crashed in the water with them.”

And there came the part she didn’t know of.

“How is it that you survived?”

“Alys.”

She tilted her head at the name of the witch. Her aunt, allegedly. She’d heard her mother and Daemon argue over her, when he came back from Harrenhal, before he flew back there to kill Aemond. Lord Lyonel’s bastard, Ser Harwin’s bastard sister. She only raised her brows a little, to show him he had her attention.

“What about her?” she asked as he kept silent, his eye now on the flames of the hearth.

“She saved me. Took me out of the water. Mended my wounds and brought me to life. Daemon had almost killed me.”

Almost.

Did she regret that her stepfather didn’t succeed?

It was hard to say.

If it weren’t for Aemond, had she been kept in comfortable chambers with Aegon? Had he died, Aegon the Elder might have demanded that shame of a tourney all the same. She might not be alive then. Hugh Hammer might have raped her. Might have killed her with his bare hands. Or she might have thrown herself out of the window.

The man sitting before her had treated her with respect. He hadn’t forced her in his bed – quite the contrary, she had to plead to consummate their union.

What of it now?

Did she hate him?

Hate was a demanding feeling, and she had no strength left for that. Other things, more important things demanded her strength.

“You made her your whore, or so they say.”

Indignation flashed on his face and in his eye.

“That’s not true.”

“Explain to me, then. Daemon told you slayed all the members of House Strong, except her, and she became your bedmate.”

“Because she looked like you. Save for her eyes.”

His whispered words drove her to her feet, and she turned her back to him, suddenly unable to look at him. What was she to do with this information? Had he been seeking her all this time? His kiss, that day, had not been hard and forceful. He just told her the Four Storms’ hair didn’t look like hers. And now, Alys Rivers –

“Is she in Harrenhal still?”

She had no intention of having a rival in her bastard aunt. Their family was too twisted already.

“Yes, she is. I buried her next to Ser Harwin.”

She spun to Aemond, expecting his cruelty. That name hadn’t been voiced aloud for so many years. She had forced herself not to think about Ser Harwin Strong. Not to think of him as her father. She barely remembered his features – only his broad shoulders and dark curls – and that he made her mother laugh.

Sorrow reflected in his eye and his shoulders hunched under the weight of it. He mourned the woman.

Did he kill her? He had killed so many people. Could she voice the question without losing what little trust was beginning to be built between them, though? Could she, when it implied another question – will you kill me too?

“She died in childbed. Bled to death.”

Childbed.

He had a bastard.

He had bedded a bastard and sired a bastard.

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

The word had plagued her since her childhood, and yet he dared –

“And the child?”

He shook his head, lips tight. Eye to the cobblestones. He mourned them, and why should she care? Why did pain bloom in her belly and chest?

“Stillborn.”

Contradictory emotions swirled in her chest. Pity for a woman she had never known, and who had died as many other mothers. Stinging jealousy too, for Aemond looked like a grieving widower, when he was freshly wed to her. And a selfish relief at not having to fear a mistress or another woman’s child.

They both flinched as the door clicked and opened softly, and a maester entered soundlessly. A middle-aged, dark skinned man.

“My Prince”, he muttered, seeing them. “Princess.”

What did they look like? She was standing, cradling herself in her arms, and her husband was hunched in a chair. Of course they looked like they had an argument and Aemond just lost it. Who was this man? Who was he faithful to?  She moved to the maester, placing herself between her husband and the man, shielding Aemond from the maester’s gaze and giving him some time to compose himself. To preserve appearances.  

“Maester”, she greeted him, a polite smile stirring her lips. “The Prince might require your attention. A bruise lets me think he might have a broken rib.”

“Of course, Princess.”

He bowed to her, and his long chain jingled softly.

As she turned to her husband, his face was unreadable, his gaze sharper and focused on her. Good. She smiled at him, and his eye widened. Did he think her naïve and innocent?

Aemond took his shirt off with a wince and reclined with a soft groan as his ribs stretched, staying still as he as examinated. But the maester said he thought the bone might be just cracked, and preconized a month of rest.

“No training, no riding, my Prince.” And Aemond rolled his eyes in exasperation.

The master straightened, and, retrieving a roll of paper in the pocket of his robes, handed it to the Prince once he had slipped his shirt back.

“A raven came with the first light of dawn, my Lord Hand.”

His addressing Aemond by his title made her shiver with unease. What matter could bring him in the Prince’s chambers, on the morning after their wedding?

Black wings, black news.

“Have you read it already, Maester Orwyle?”

The name made her blink in confusion. Naïve she was, indeed. The man was no mere master, but the Grand Maester himself, and she had ordered him around like she would have Gerardys. Naïve and unknowing of the inhabitants of the Keep, although she could hardly blame it on herself. She would have much to learn in no time.

As he read the message, Aemond’s face hardened in this expression of cold anger that she had already seen on him. During that fateful dinner, years ago. The previous day, as he came to the royal grandstand to claim his prize.

“I had expected this, but… So close already?”

“I’m afraid so, my Lord Hand. We might expect them in no more than –“

“Eight days, maybe less.”

The Grand Maester nodded at Aemond’s assumption.

Her gut clenched in dread. What news could the raven have brought? Did they have someone to fear? Was the war not over? She clasped her hands together to prevent them from trembling.

“Mmmh. I’d better get ready, then”, he grumbled, raising from his chair with a soft grunt and striding to the door to summon his servants. The Grand Maester bowed to her and swiftly followed the Prince to the door through which he disappeared.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, her voice unsure.

Aemond came to her.

“May I?” he breathed, his fingers extended to her wriggling hands, and as she nodded, softly took her fingers in his. His warmth felt reassuring, as did his calloused thumb as it brushed over her skin.

“It seems that Lord Stark and Lord Tully are vexed that the King didn’t wait for them to partake the tourney. They are coming to King’s Landing together, since they were already on their way to the tourney. Officially, to congratulate us on our wedding.”

She gasped quietly.

“How could they know so soon?”

“Someone’s been spying for them, of course.”

Her mother’s most faithful allies.

Lord Stark.

There had been negotiations for a betrothal between her and the Warden of the North. Nothing that had ended in a formal betrothal, though, since Jaecaerys died too soon after his meeting with Lord Stark. But her brother had always spoken favourably of his friend Cregan, as he called him.

Lords Stark and Tully had intended to fight for her hand. To possibly marry her.

Of course Aegon the Elder would not allow it. That was why Lords Peake and Butterwell of lesser houses found themselves in the lists beside the Tyrell and Hightower knights.

Her throat was so tight she could as well choke. And what mattered anyway? She could have been wed to a man who had supported the Black’s cause. And since Aegon wouldn’t have it, she was now wed to her brother’s murderer. And irremediably, now, since she had insisted on giving him her maidenhead.

But it could be worse, still.

She could have endured Hugh Hammer. And he wouldn’t have been as attentive as Aemond had – unexpectedly – been.

“Please, speak to me”, he breathed. “I can see you’re distressed.”

She smiled. A poor smile, a smile in the face of despair. What could she say to him?

“Do you regret they didn’t make it in time for the tourney?”

She shook her head.

“Well, it’s too late already, isn’t it?”

His face fell.

Where were the commitments she made a few hours ago?

“Now we’re wed, Aemond. Call it the will of the Seven, or your brother’s scheme, but my mother’s supporters have been kept aside.” She swallowed, and squared her shoulders, bringing her chin up. Then she pressed his fingers in hers. “I intend to take what life gives me, and make the better of this marriage.”

“But you hate me”, he whispered.

“No. I don’t. Love me, and I’ll learn to love you in return.”

His fingers trembled in hers, and one hand slid out of her grasp to caress her forearm. He seemed hesitant, almost shy. Vulnerable.

“I’m not used to gentleness”, he breathed. “I wouldn’t know how to do.”

She gave him a soft smile. His confession was proof enough that he was trying.

“Take me in your arms.”

And he embraced her, cautiously, enveloping her in his warmth and scent, resting his temple against hers. And his large hands resting in her back made memories of the night surge in her mind. His skin, and his kisses, and the feeling of him inside her and the wonderful fullness and –

Liquid warmth pooled in her lower belly. She wanted this again.

She turned her head and put her lips on his, and he groaned in surprise, taken aback just for an instant before he returned the kiss, fervent and desperate.

And she gasped loudly as the door opened suddenly and the servants brought trays of food, buckets of hot water for a bath, and fresh gowns for her to wear in the day, taking a step back in modesty even though the maids all kept their eyes to the floor. And Aemond let her go.

Chapter Text

VI.

He knew he was dreaming.

What else could it be, if not a dream?

Vhagar wasn’t here anymore.

And so he was aware that he was dreaming of flying with her. Gliding through the air, his skin sliced by the cold wind and the mist, even though he was wearing his riding leathers and a heavy coat. He didn’t mind the cold though, for the dragon’s heat protected him, and the joy of flying was much stronger. Wind played in his hair. He never braided it when he went flying.

He felt whole again, his bond with Vhagar restored through the dream. He could feel her usual slight irritation – her grumpiness, he thought with indulgent tenderness – matching his own. They were so alike. Preferring to avoid the company of others. Being content in solitude and silence, all of it provided by the sky over Blackwater Bay.

The old dragon of conquest dived, retracting her wings to plunge faster, just like on their first flight, when she had tested him, and the wind dispersed Aemond’s laughter. Oh, how he had missed this feeling! It was like his inner organs floated weightlessly in his torso, and tickled him from the inside. Like the dragon’s might was his own. Like he was a god, and surveyed his realm from the skies.

The surface of the sea was close now, he could see it since it was thicker in the altitude, and the speed with which they were heading to it made him think of their fall in the God’s Eye. But his dragon wasn’t mortally wounded, in his dream, and Dark Sister wasn’t speared in his left shoulder.

Soves, he thought. Soves.

Vhagar nosed up just a fraction of second before they hit the water, grazing its surface with her talons, her tail leaving a white trail of froth in her wake. A with powerful beats of her wings, they soared to the skies again.

And the joy of it made the sharp, cold drizzle insignificant, his heart expanding in his chest with the affection he shared with the majestic beast.

His eye caught a glimpse of colour in the mist. A red cloak, and a silver dragon, a small one – its shade almost concealing it in the fog.

Ah.

He knew where this led. This was not Shipbreaker’s Bay, but he already knew how the dream would end, and he didn’t want to. He wanted to dream of flying peacefully, not of killing Lucerys again.

So he braced himself against the ropes and steered Vhagar away. She turned left, at first, before he felt the shift in her mood. Her unwillingness to comply. To obey. To serve. And with a loud slap of tattered leather, she gathered speed. His mind filled with his own helplessness as she chased the young dragon, and he could hear – feel – her mind.

Prey.

Blood.

Death.

How long did it go? He couldn’t tell. Time seemed to stretch – or to retract. It could have been hours, it could have been minutes. He felt lost and powerless. Lucerys and Arrax hid in the mist, and Vhagar chased them – Aemond could feel how she used her powerful sense of smell to find them.

Suddenly, out of the haze, a burst of flames erupted near to Vhagar’s head, and even if he barely felt the heat of it, he knew instantly that it was a capital offense against the dragon of conquest. Visenya’s own dragon. Vhagar wouldn’t take it lightly.

Terror rolled through him like a frozen gush of wind as the bond filled with Vhagar’s fury – unbridled fury – and she went after Arrax and his rider. The other dragon soared higher and higher. It was younger and swifter, but she was much more experienced.

His shouted orders, his strong hold on the reins, all his will put through the bond – nothing could deter her as she flew up in chase of her prey. He could feel her lust for blood on his own tongue.

As she surged from the clouds and opened her massive jaw to shatter her opponent in a single snap of her teeth, as a long mane of dark curls whipped in the wind, his own horror was matched by the one he read in her brown eyes.

Her.

Not Lucerys.

He called her name in vain as he watched her wrecked form plummeting and disappearing in the sea mist –

– and sat in one rigid motion in his bed, his bare chest heaving and covered with cold sweat, sobs burning his throat, desperate tears that he did not try to master until he heard the soft screech of the door hinges and felt the mattress dip next to him. Warm hands on his shoulders.

Wiping his face with his palms, he came to his senses with a supreme effort of his will and a sharp inhale.

She was against him, holding him in her arms, whispering soothing words of comfort.

His eyepatch.

Where was it?

He covered his blind eye with a hand, pushing her with his other arm.

He wanted to reject her. To be left alone. He had always dealt with his night terrors on his own. Always. He pushed her and he wanted to gather her in his arms, too, to hold her flush, because she was real, and she was there, and it had just been a dream. She was alive. Alive and warm, sitting with him on the edge of his bed.

“Leave me be”, he groaned, resisting his longing in spite of his relief.

She pulled a little from him, but stayed on his bed, a hand at his elbow, not breaking contact.

“You called me.”

“Twas in my dream.”

She sighed.

“Seemed like a horrible dream, then.”

He kept silent, only gulping loudly and uneasily, his throat still raw, reluctant to answer. Unready to face his dream again. To face her, and look into her brown eyes. To speak of it with her, of all people. He focused on breathing slow and deep to master his heartbeat. If his body calmed down, his mind would, too. If only for a moment.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Oh, her soft words, full of concern. Sweet torture.

“Go back to your bedroom”, he croaked.

“No.”

She crawled into the bed and slipped under the covers. In the corner of his eye, he saw her, on her side and propped on one elbow. Her gaze on him.

Exasperation and want battled at once in his chest. Couldn’t she leave him alone? Couldn’t he indulge and join her?

He wanted to punish himself with solitude as much as he craved to have her in his arms.

“Fine”, he sighed in turn, grabbing the patch on his nightstand and slipping it on. He rose to his feet and reached for his neatly folded clothes. “I can’t sleep anymore, anyway.”

“Aemond.”

He turned his back to her, starting to slip on his trousers, keeping silent. If she didn’t want to leave him, he’d seek seclusion in his office, in the Tower of the Hand. Work would help him find solace. After all, he had a lot to do to repair his many mistakes.

“Aemond”, she called louder, her voice less soft, more authoritative. He faced her, his gaze hard. She had crept to the edge of the bed again, kneeling and sitting on her heels. The neck of her nightshift open and showing an expanse of skin and the slight swell of her breasts. He swallowed. He hadn’t touched her again since their wedding night, hesitant as he was to taint her furthermore with his darkness and his unworthiness.

“Don’t shun me”, she breathed. Her voice sounded like a plea. “We said we’d try.”

She was right. He shuned her. Cowardly. Had demanded that she slept in her own room, a smaller adjacent room that he had had reorganised and refurbished for her. He had exiled her, to protect her from himself. From his growing lust and longing.

Couldn’t she understand?

His frustration lashed out.

“Why are you so insistent about it? This marriage has nothing to offer you! I have nothing to offer you. Just – keep away and be content that I –“

He interrupted his words before he could say something irreparable. Something unforgivable. And clenched his jaw.

“I don’t want to keep away. I feel so lonely, I have no one to talk to.”

“I don’t talk.”

She nodded in silence. And rose from the bed, softly padding to him, her feet bare on the thick Myrish carpet. Took his fingers in hers. He closed his eyes, feeling his resolve soften already. She had vanquished him with this strategy before. Twice.

“I have work”, he sighed. “Stark and Tully are to arrive in a few hours.”

She pressed his fingers.

“Come rest a bit. Just rest.”

He wanted to.

Wanted her.

Oh, how he wanted.

But she deserved not to be touched like he wanted to. She was too pure for him.

He bit his lower lip.

“You need rest if you want to make it through the day, valzȳrȳs. It’s going to be a long, tiresome and challenging day. And if you’re tired, you may be rude to Lord Stark.”

“I may be rude to him whatever happens.”

“Well, we can’t afford that”, she said with a sad smile.

No, they couldn’t. The realm couldn’t. He had to make peace with his former foes, however reluctant he felt about it. He couldn’t risk Lord Stark to smell any distress in his niece. He sighed in defeat and lowered his gaze. She was a better diplomat than him. Rhaenyra had taught her well, he had to concede it. He followed her to the bed.

“Off with your trousers.”

He gave her an exasperated glance.

“They smell of horse”, she explained. “No horse between the sheets.”

He peeled the garment off, folding it again and putting it on the nearby chair, and joined her in his breeches. She made him soft. Weak. He wasn’t used to obeying a woman. Hadn’t he dismissed his own mother from the council?

He laid on his back, his hand folded on his belly, well aware that she was on her side again, facing him. She squirmed to get closer. Close enough that he could feel the heat of her body without touching her.

She sighed. Twice.

“Is something the matter?” he murmured.

“I’m cold.”

He stiffened. And huffed.

Alright.

“Come here”, he grunted, opening an arm so that she could use his shoulder as a pillow. His left shoulder. His bad shoulder, where her stepfather had stabbed him through before falling to his death. It didn’t hurt, though, the weight of her head on him. On the contrary, he only felt how much he had missed her those past days. What a fool he was. To indulge in this. To want her. To think she could want him.

And she nestled against him, making a soft noise of contentment, almost a purr, as she delighted in their shared heat.

Her body pressed against his. Her belly against the hard bones of his hip. Her breasts against his ribs. Her thigh draping over –

“Don’t –“

“Why?” she breathed, her voice already heavy with sleep.

Could he deny her? Could he shove her away, when she was where he wanted her the most? When she insisted on being in his bed?

Her hand rested on his chest, her fingers tracing light, lazy patterns on his skin.

But she wasn’t the one plagued with memories of atrocious dreams, and she fell asleep again, her head resting on his shoulder, face nuzzled between his shoulder and neck, a hand on his stomach, one leg tangled over his. He could feel the soft warmth of her thick hair, of her skin.

It made his body burn.

Don’t shun me.

That was what he’d done for the past week. Waking before her and leaving early for the Tower of the Hand, where he spent his days, taking a short break to share her meal. Not to leave her on her own. He met both Aegons in the council room. Her brother didn’t say anything, quiet as usual. His brother taunted him about his marital bed, and he demonstrated superhuman patience abilities with him, ignoring his lewd jests and pursuing discussions of what mattered to rebuild the realm.

At night, he often came back late, when she was already abed. Last night, she had waited for him, reading poetry by the fire. A genre he didn’t appreciate much, preferring the concise precision of history chronicles or the sharp objectivity of philosophy.

“This makes me think of you”, she had said, and started to read aloud.

But make sure, Friend, that this meeting
And amorous review is not dangerous,
Accompanying it not with severity,

Not with rigor, but with friendly grace,
Which gently restores to me your beauty,
Formerly cruel, now favourable.  

What did she mean? What should he understand? Foolish words of a lonesome woman, written for ill-married women like her? What consolation could she find in these words?

He had frowned, staying still.

And thought about the words. It was a plea to him. A plea for leniency. For commitment. The words opposing coldness to affection.

He grunted, and bent to peck the crown of her head – chaste and proper – before disappearing in his bedroom, not looking at the disappointment written all over her features.

She had managed to come in his bed, though.

And there she laid, right next to him, close, but not close enough because of the barrier of fabric that her nightshift made, and he listened to her heartbeat, calm and steady. It filled him with relief. She was warm and alive, and her heart beat strong in her chest. Strong with her will to live. His dream was just a dream. Her bloodied body, just a creation of his tortured mind. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight as if afraid to let her go, and breathed in the scent of her hair.

His own body reacted as she sighed in his neck. She trusted him, comfortably asleep in his arms, and it made his cock stir as much as the glimpse of her breast he caught in the open cleavage of her chemise, minutes ago.

Weak.

Doomed.

Ignoring the want that gnawed at his insides and made his cock painful, he closed his eyes and listened to her soft breath, certain that he would not sleep again.

*

She felt too hot, and squirmed in discomfort.

It usually was cold in her bed, in this strange room she had been assigned to, and she had spent the past nights curled up in a ball to keep herself warm, waking with aching, cramped limbs. Her extended legs felt comfortable.

She felt comfortable, except for the blaze behind her.

As she moved more, something tightened around her waist, preventing her from going away.

An arm. A strong arm.

And a soft groan in her ear.

Oh.

Aemond’s body was pressed against her back, and she was positively caged in his arms.

She’d wanted this for days. She longed for proximity, for his embrace, in spite of what he’d done to her. He hadn’t taken her in his arms since the morning after their wedding. A week ago.

She put a hand on his forearm, and his fingers flexed on her skin, making her hum in comfort. A light move of her hips confirmed what she felt against her backside.

His morning arousal.

Warmth bloomed in her belly and spread to her chest and face, the memory of that one night – his ragged breath, his skin against hers, the fullness, the pleasure – she wished to feel it all again. She ached, all of a sudden. Ached between her legs, ached in her lower belly. Ached to touch him, lust stained with the slight pang of betrayal.

What would Mother say if she knew she was in her uncle’s bed, already wet and wanting? She would likely look at her in disappointment.

Mother was dead, and she was alone. She had to survive. She wanted to live.

She pressed against him again, savouring his hardness against her flesh. And did it again.

He whispered her name, his voice hoarse.

Was it a plea or a warning? Both, maybe. It made her shiver with delight and she extended her hand backwards to touch him. His skin, radiating with the heat of his dragonblood. The firmness of his muscles. Her fingers reached the laces of his breeches, and made quick work of it, allowing her to slip inside and touch his hard member. Tracing it with her fingertips, savouring his trembling breath on her shoulder.

She took him in hand, and gave a slow stroke that made him hiss.

“Beware”, he grunted.

“Of what?” she whispered, her other hand intertwining with his one on her waist and bringing it to her breasts.

“Of what I want to do to you.”

She laughed and turned swiftly, her hands on his shoulders to make him lay on the mattress, and straddled him, taking him inside her like she had done on their wedding night, exhaling loudly as she sunk on him and filled herself with him.

No little games. Just a few caresses. She wanted him, and she wanted to have a semblance of control in this, not to be dependent on him. Not to be a victim, another Rhaena Targaryen, forcefully wed to her cruel uncle and enduring a terrible marriage. And the sun was already rising, they had duties to perform. They couldn’t be late. She wanted him, and had to be quick.

 He still wore the patch that he had put when she came to his room in the night, when he had screamed her name so desperately. She took it off, her fingers brushing his skin lightly, careful not to graze the sensitive skin of his scar, and revealed the sapphire hidden under the leather. One blue eye hard and cold and blind, the other periwinkle – yet almost black – and warm and widened with – what? – she wouldn’t name it.

How beautiful he was, underneath her, his white hair fanning on the pillows, his lips open as he gasped with each movement of her hips, his virile neck exposed. She put her hands on his chest, marvelling at the warmth of him, and rode him harder. Faster. His grip on her hips tightened as he accompanied her every move, grinding her onto him, his fingers likely to bruise her delicate skin. And the tension in her lower belly grew with the tingle in her folds and nub of flesh, and her name – a short, affectionate form of it – escaped his lips like a plea. She was sure of it this time, that was what his voice sounded like. A plea. Desperate and reverent.

Barely a whisper.

His hands travelled up to her chest, closing on her breasts, kneading them, pinching her nipples, and she mewled at the sensation, and in response he started thrusting beneath her, his hips searching her own, pushing against her, going deeper. It soon felt too much – and not enough – and she moved harder still, panting and sighing and moaning, listening to his ragged breath. One hand went down to where they were joined, and his thumb pressed on the ball of nerves above her entrance. His eyes were now on this point, where he entered her, and as his finger circled her nub, pleasure tingled in her spine, making her lightheaded, and erupted in waves, her muscles clenching around him as he anchored her onto him and she rode him, hearing him come with a hoarse moan, until they both stilled, their breath short, their chests heaving for air.

He gathered her in his arms and brought her against him, their skins warm and clammy with effort, and he kissed her, caressing her legs and backside, and she wanted to stay there forever, the curtains of his bed sheltering them from the outer world.

*

How he regretted that Vhagar was not here anymore.

He felt diminished. Targaryens were meant to be more akin to Gods than to men. Without his dragon, he felt no more than a man, now.

How he missed the skies.

How he wished she were here, flying in circles above the city, where he would have needed her the most. What an impression she would have made on the High Lords of the Riverlands and of the North, her gigantic shadow hiding the sun, the earth trembling beneath her weight as she would have landed on Aegon’s Hill to welcome them. They would have known their place.

But he was standing on top of the stairs before the gates of the Red Keep, his hands cautiously clasped in his back, his back straight and shoulders stiff, Dark Sister at his hip, waiting for bloody Cregan Stark and Kermit Tully. Polite and poised, as his wife had convinced him to be. And rested, thanks to her.

The two Lords’ parties were riding through King’s Landing, after having being met at the King’s Gate by Tyland Lannister, the Master of Coins. Aemond had chosen to send the man, in spite of his blindness, to greet them with his now hideous face. Rhaenyra had had him atrociously tortured and disfigured for having served the Greens. She wanted me sharply questioned, too, once. Lannister was loyal and honest. Disinterested. A true servant of the Realm, as Aemond had publicly acknowledged. He had stopped intimidating the man during Council meetings, as Lannister thought faster and showed to have much sharper wits when he felt confident enough. And Aemond didn’t need to terrorize people to be feared anymore. He had won their fearful respect first with fire and blood, and now, after the war, earned it with his dedication on rebuilding the realm.

He was even playing the dutiful host, waiting for his visitors under the autumn drizzle coming from the sea, his hair getting wavy in the damp air, the leather of his jerkin releasing an animal scent.

He hated it, along with the stench of shit and mud that permeated from the city. He was suited for heat and sun and blazing fire. For the pure air of the skies.

He felt relieved, though, that his wife had agreed not to come with him, and waited with her brother. Aegon the younger had been granted Daemon’s chambers, in Maegor’s Holdfast. She wasn’t treated like a prisoner anymore, and little Aegon wasn’t treated like a valuable hostage. It would have been unappropriated, the King had seen reason in their mother’s words. He felt relieved that she wasn’t there to greet her own mother’s supporters on their arrival, though. That she would meet them in the Throne room, where they would officially bend the knee to his own brother. That she had agreed to play uninterested for now, as he had asked her. Asked. Not demanded. He had demanded unconceivable things from Heleana. Things that added to the sum of his remorse.

His wife was patient with him. Patient and something else that unsettled him, that made it impossible to be his usual self – hard, rough and commanding – when he was near her. Before the tourney, he would walk the stairs of the Tower of the Hand, holding his breath and walking silently when passing before her door in search of whatever small sound betraying her presence. And once in his office, he would not leave until night, having quick, functional meals to sustain himself when working. Now, he interrupted his work and made his way back to his own chambers – their chambers by now – to have a quick lunch with her, often followed with a walk in the gardens.

They had to be seen together, she said.

No. He had to be honest with himself.

He didn’t hate walking in the gardens with her.

He even enjoyed it, if he had to acknowledge the full truth. She was smart and witty and wise, in spite of her youth.

He struggled to accommodate to another’s presence, though. To her particular presence. He had a feeling that he tainted her purity. Stained her, irremediably.

And yet, she had come to him. Had him where she wanted him – underneath her, inside her – and he had given in. As he had through the night, holding onto her as he slowly and unexpectedly drifted back to sleep. He had slept like a log until he felt her squirm against him. There was no return now, he knew it. By no means would he let her sleep in this room of hers, not when he found so much relief in her arms.

She appeased him.

And she willingly sought his company.

She smiled to him. Held his hand when they had their daily walks. Taught him how to be gentle and tender. And he had always been a dedicated, dutiful, successful student.

He knew about the unfinished negotiations to betroth her to Stark. The Wolf would never have this. Ever.

She was all his. His to protect. To bed.

The memories of the morning made him smile in spite of himself. The sight of his cock going in and out of her, her gasps and shortened breath, the trembling of her legs as her cunt clenched around him – and her face, oh, her face! Glowing in ecstasy, her perfect, plump lips opened, her small breasts bouncing with each tilt of her hips –

The uncomfortable feeling of his leather trousers getting tight under the pressure of his hardening cock was interrupted by the bugler announcing Stark and Tully passing through the gates. Two horses’ hoofs resonated under the portcullis as the High Lords entered the middle bailey.

Vhagar should have roared at this instant, he could practically hear her in his mind. The memory made his chest tighten painfully with sorrow and the empty space left by the dragon’s death.

Cregan Fucking Stark entered first. Tall and broad and stern, his dark hair tied in a manner that was not unlike Aemond’s, even though the man lacked decorum and looked unkempt. Tully rode right behind him, his dark red curls more brownish in the drizzle.

He waited on top of the stairs, so that the High Lords would have to stay lower than him to greet him. They weren’t on an equal footing and had to stay aware of it.

He straightened more, lifted his chin, and his fingers stretched in his back before clasping his elbows once more.

“My Lords”, he condescended to say, his voice deceivingly soft. “I hope your travel was not unpleasant, and the roads are not that muddy already.”

They greeted him formally, with polite words of My Lord Hand, of Prince Aemond, and courteous bows. Like they should, whether they were sincere or not.

“It was pleasant to see the grass grow again over the ashes of the fields”, said Stark, and Aemond’s lips twitched.

So, that was it. The man had come with accusations and resent. As expected.

“Fire increases fertility of the burnt land”, he answered with a perfectly courteous smile. A smile he hope looked as fake as it was, though. “Follow me, my Lords.”

He led the men and their party to the Small Hall, near the Tower of the Hand, where a light meal awaited them, and he would listen to the visitors’ motivations.

He made himself at ease, seating at the head of the table, extending a hand in a gesture of invitation, and both Stark and Tully sat in turn. Following the custom, Aemond offered them bread and salt, assuring them that the rules of hospitality would be followed, and that no harm would come to them during their sojourn. After having swallowed his own bread dipped in salt, he reached for a honeyed fig and placed it in his plate, wiping his fingers on a linen towel. Stark preferred cured meat, and Tully seemed to favour goat cheese.

“So, my Lords, a long journey it was. Why bother come here from your remote castles?”

Rude. He sounded rude, and contemptuous. He could have asked about Lord Stark’s young son. About Lord Tully’s young brother. He did not. He wasn’t one for small talk, and went straight to the point of their visit.

He stiffened a sigh. He had promised to try. Had promised her.

“How is Prince Aegon’s health?”

A casual question, to ask so much more. What about Rhaenyra’s death? Aegon’s legs? Who’s your brother’s heir?

“The Prince is melancholy, as one could expect, but he’s clever and wise. He’s His Grace’s cupbearer, and is appointed to the council meetings, where he is taught, and learns about the realm.”

“Cupbearer? It’s purely honorific”, interjected Tully.

“My sister was my father’s cupbearer in her youth. She learned much and more in the council room.”

His words, calm yet definitive, made the Trout gape, before the man had the presence of mind to close his lips. And take a bite of bread to give himself countenance. He forgot his place. He was talking to a Prince of House Targaryen, son to a King, brother to a King, brother to their pretender Queen.

“That is not the sole purpose of your presence, my Lords, as your letter mentioned.”

The two visitors exchanged a long look. Embarrassment, unease, irritation. Aemond narrowed his eye.

“My Lord Hand”, said Stark after a few moments, his voice low and deep, “Lord Kermit and I intended to partake the tourney for the Princess’s hand. We set forth as soon as the news of the event reached us. Yet, we have cause for complaint, for the King brought the joust forward.”

“Mmmh. My brother can be – impulsive.”

Did they think Aegon even listened to him? Either they overestimated his own influence, or they underestimated his brother’s vagaries.

“Perhaps, my Lord Hand. But we had answered the royal announcement, had sent ravens telling of our arrival.”

“You have to understand that we feel wronged, my Lord”, added Lord Tully.

Of course they would.

Aegon had deliberately changed the date of the tourney to prevent them from fighting, in favour of lesser knights, for it amused him greatly to see Rhaenyra’s daughter debased with such a marriage. He himself had to prepare secretly – and have a contestant stabbed during the night – to enter the lists, and fight for her. Aegon had also insisted upon Hugh Hammer tilting, though, and there had been nothing to do about it. Nothing but to face him, and ultimately behead him.

And now, the two Lords were in the capital, with men following them. Not an army, that was true, but loyal men. Armed men. Aemond could not see them other than a potential threat.

He reclined in his chair, doing his best to look relaxed, opening his hands in good will.

“What can be done now, my Lords? This marriage is legal. It was celebrated and consummated.”

Twice.

“It’s not, if the bride was constrained.”

He nodded, and smiled at the memories of the night and the morning. How she had imposed her presence in his bed. How she had taken the initiative of straddling him and fucking him.

“Be certain that she wasn’t.”

Tully scoffed, and Stark scowled at his companion’s lack of restraint. Aemond stared at the Trout, his eye cold and unrelenting, and Tully had the good grace to press his lips in embarrassment.

Good.

 “Rest assured, my Lords, that the Princess expressed her relief not to be married into a lesser house.”

 “We would wish to hear it from her, Prince Aemond.”

Stark’s voice was measured, careful. The man was smarter. A better diplomat, even if unyielding.

He smiled at him. A smile thin and cruel as a blade. A warning that Stark understood very well, as he could read in the gaze of the man. Grey eyes, calm and keen and vigilant.

“And you will. You’ll meet my wife” – and he stressed the word – “and Prince Aegon the Younger, in the Throne Room. Your audience with my brother the King is scheduled in two hours. For now, my Lords”, he said as he rose and the two men imitated him, “Ser Willis Fell and Ser Marston Waters here will walk you to your quarters.”

The Warden of the North and the Lord Paramount of the Trident weren’t used to being dismissed, and their eyes flashed with displeasure. Aemong kept his face composed with great effort to prevent his lips from twitching in a smirk as he watched them swallow their pride, bow to him, and follow the Kingsguards.

Chapter Text

VII.

She swallowed nervously, her throat tight and almost painful, the knot in her stomach threatening to make her vomit. Her clammy hands were neatly folded on her belly, but she longed – how she longed – to fidget with her rings, and forced herself not to.

Cregan Stark was a perceptive man, Jace had said.

The war was over, whether she liked its ending or not. She wasn’t to look fearful, or worried. Not when her security and Aegon’s were at stake. She didn’t want Lord Stark to possibly cause trouble on her behalf, on the pretext that Jace had once thought of giving her to the Northerner.

Aemond was standing between the Iron Throne and her. Aegon the Elder was perched on the Throne, a cup of Arbor red in his hand, little Aegon waiting with a ewer in his hands. The Dowager Queen stood on the left, both of them clad in green. Alicent was guarded, cautious with her, since she had visited her the day after the wedding, on the pretext of having tea together like when she was imprisoned in the Tower of the Hand. Not imprisoned, had corrected the Dowager Queen, housebound. It made little to no difference, though. As her mother-in-law had asked her how she adjusted to married life, she had answered question for question, Should I fear something from the man you raised, she had spat in answer, her tone bitter, and the Queen visibly made an effort to maintain her composure, her eyes widening only for an instant, before pouring her a cup of tea. She hadn’t seen her since.

  Aemond had donned a green so dark it almost seemed black – she had asked him to wear black, on her behalf, but he had refused. He couldn’t disown the Greens’ colours now, could he? Little Aegon and she wore clothes of black, with blood-red piping around the collar. True Targaryen colours, even though it didn’t show on her features, as the Master of Whispers had slyly reminded her. She had met him – or he had searched her, more likely – seemingly at random, when she had been on her way to join little Aegon in the Godswood. Her brother liked the quietness and solitude of the place, the wood being seldom visited, for the Queen had imposed the Faith of the Seven. She had practically bumped in the Clubfoot at a corner of a corridor, and the man’s honeyed words had provoked such unease that she had to muster all her courage not to flee. Lord Larys Strong, he had said to introduce himself, adding your other uncle in a whisper, thus voicing the worst-kept secret of the realm. Her bastardy. Ser Harwin and her mother’s adultery. One of the many causes of the war. The last scion of a family in its death throes, she had answered, and he had chuckled, With you, your Grace. She had stiffened at that. Should have slapped him. Never forget that I am a Targaryen, she had warned in the hardest voice she could produce. And the man had bowed. Accepting his defeat in appearance, before whispering, As the colours of your clothes show, indisputably. The colours of her clothes. Not her hair, not her skin, not her eyes. She had gulped difficultly. Had to have the last word, least she would appear weak. As does my temper, my Lord. And she had walked past him, had forced herself to keep a relatively slow and dignified stride when she wanted to grab the hem of her dress and run away from him.

The man was there, amongst the other members of the Council save Lord Corlys, his eyes on her, surveying her. She did her best to ignore him. He only added to her tension. Stay away from him, Aemond had whispered between kisses, after she had told him about this awful introduction. When she had asked why he kept him as councellor, he had explained that it was Aegon’s decision. The Clubfoot had helped the King flee when her mother had taken the city. Aegon wasn’t loyal to many, but Larys Strong was one of the few whom he trusted with his life.

The gates of the Throne Room opened, and the herald announced the visitors. She forced herself to bring her arms down, her fingers brushing the black brocade of her dress, forced herself to look indifferent and unconcerned.

“Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North. Lord Kermit Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.”

Her eyes were fixed on the men marching to them. On the tall, broad, imposing figure of Lord Stark.

“Breathe, sweetling. You’ll faint.”

Aemond’s murmured voice, the soft, warm brushing of the back of his hand on her own, his breath against her ear. You’re safe, it said.  She blinked, and exhaled, then inhaled, and tilted her head imperceptibly to him. To thank him. And he hummed under his breath, a sound she liked more and more.

The man before her, young yet impossibly tall, his bear furs making him look twice as large, was not unhandsome, but his rough features and keen ice-grey eyes unsettled her. Jace wanted to betroth her to him? By the seven flames, he scared her. He glanced at her brother and her, then at Aemond – and she didn’t like what shone in his eyes – before stopping before the Iron Throne. He took time to have a good look at the King, before he bent the knee.

“Your Grace.”

A deep, severe voice.

Lord Stark rose and stepped aside, and a young man, freshly of age, whose red hair she identified as Tully, imitated him.

She pressed her lips.

Had Lord Tully entered the lists, he would have died. Too slender, too young. The other knights would have wiped the floor with him.

Stark, on the contrary – he looked like a formidable warrior. He could have won, and he obviously knew it.

“My Lords”, greeted the King with a giggle and a welcoming motion of his wrist that sent wine spilling from his cup, “welcome in the Red Keep! A tad late, I reckon.”

The slur was unmistakable. Aemond stiffened at her side. Drunk. Pissed as newt, in the afternoon, to greet his guests. She felt heat creep to her cheeks, a burning shame for her uncle’s indignity. Never would her mother have behaved like this. Neither would have Daemon, for all his faults. Aegon defiled the very sanctity of royalty, weakened and ridiculed the sacred duty that had been entrusted to him.

Why accept it, if to do this?

She would have to ask Aemond.

“Indeed, Your Grace. Lord Kermit and I were on our way to partake the tourney, and met at the Ruby Ford, where Lady Darry offered her hospitality. She’s rebuilding her castle, with the help of the Gods.”

The help of the Gods. A polite manner to say with no funds at all.

“I shall send her a fair sum of golden dragons from my personal vault”, said Aemond. “To help her restore her house.”

He and Vhagar had burnt Darry Castle and its Lord along with his heir. Lady Darry and her younger children had been lucky enough to escape the dragonflame by hiding in the crypt.

Stark nodded.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate the gesture’s true worth, my Lord Hand.”

The words could be understood in two ways, though. A sincere compliment or a barely hidden sarcasm. She wished she could tell, as Stark’s face remained unreadable. Tully’s blue eyes, on the contrary, were full of angry resent, but he was smart enough not to speak.

Of course, they hated Aemond. He had set flame to the RIverlands, his dragon had brought nothing but devastation while the Blacks had taken King’s Landing. A horrid period it had been for her, too. Helplessly waiting in the Red Keep, listening to Helaena’s wails, then to her howls of pain as she laid on the spikes when she had thrown herself out of her window. To Tyland Lannister screaming for mercy during torture. News of Daemon’s death. Watching the storming of the Dragonpit from afar. Joffrey, riding Syrax in attempt to go and save his own dragon, being shrugged off and falling, disappearing between the red tiled roofs. And then, the clandestine flee to Dragonstone, only to find that Aegon and Sunfyre were already there. Master Gerardys’ legs, chewed off of his body as he hung from the walls of the castle. And Muña, Muña, bathed in flames and disappearing in Sunfyre’s maw –

“How surprised we were, when news reached us that Your Grace had brought the date forth, that the tourney was already over, and that Prince Aemond had won the Princess’ hand.”

She knew that already. Had discussed it with her husband. It didn’t make it less painful.

Her gaze snapped to Aemond’s face, then to the King’s. her husband remained perfectly emotionless, whereas Aegon the Elder seemed amused. She had thought at first that they were Viserys’ sons, after all, and that, and just like years ago – just like this fateful dinner that she couldn’t forget, when she had caught their exchanged knowing gaze – they had conspired together against her brother and her. Against the Blacks.

“For Lord Kermit and I had both sent ravens to announce our intention to compete”, Stark said to finish his sentence.

She bowed her head, her cheeks even redder. Anger rose in her chest, making her blood race in her veins. Angry against her husband, against the King, but also against the two Lords standing before her. Against men, for being men and disposing of women at their will. Couldn’t they see how humiliating this was for her? Three men were disputing a prize. A prize who was breathing, and listening, and stood right in front of them. But she was a woman, and thus wasn’t treated like anything but property.

She had already fought with Aemond on the matter. Telling him that he was his brother’s guileful accomplice, if they really had manipulated the schedule to outmanoeuvre Stark and Tully. That it was gross, and deceitful, and unworthy of Princes of the Realm. That only cowards avoided their opponents as a substitute for fighting them.

And he had endured most of her words, until she called him a coward. He had seized her wrists in his large hands and had brought her flush against him.

Do not assume I had a say in this.

And then, as he had walked step by step, driving them to his desk, trapping her between his strong body and the piece of furniture. She had expected him to be furious. To whip her with his words like he had, years ago, the day Muña petitioned for Lucerys to be the future Lord of the Tides. Instead, he had watched her with the same wide eye, but a different glint in his periwinkle gaze. With some kind of hunger, that had made liquid heat pool in her belly, and left her unknowing whether she wanted to kiss him or to slap him. And he had hissed in turn, Would you rather I let Hugh Hammer win your hand and marry you?

No, of course not.

Should it make her grateful though?

A tourney victor usually won a money prize, along with the horses and armours of his defeated opponents. She was just a grand prize of another sort. A sentient, sensitive prize. A strategic prize. A prize with a pussy to fuck.

At this, he had let go of her, had only grunted You know it’s not true, and had retreated in the Hand’s office until next day. Leaving her alone with her anger and the conscience that something else had driven him to fight for her.

Aegon giggled at Stark’s words, and a slurping sound let know that he had brought his cup to his lips, as if he was enjoying a good show. Before he could answer – before her husband could answer, she stepped forth.

“My Lords”, she called, her voice steadier than she would have thought, for she felt herself on the brink of shaking like a leaf under the powerful storm of feelings inside her. Stark’s grey eyes set on her with keen interest, Tully’s with surprise. “This is not a horse you are talking about. I may be a mere woman, but I’m a being of flesh and blood, and of sound mind. I’m tired of being spoken of like chattel that men fight over. The tourney is over, you couldn’t attend, I’m very sorry for you. The Crown is sorry for you, but it’s too late.”

The Crown wasn’t sorry in the slightest. It was just rhetorical. She knew it, Aemond knew it and so did the two Lords facing her.

“And how do you fare, Princess, with your brother’s murderer?”

She had been waiting for this. Had prepared for this. They hadn’t witnessed Aemond’s tears of distressful regret, his sincere remorse. Hadn’t found him in the middle of a night terror. Their marital life was their concern, and only theirs. Cregan Stark would never have a detailed answer. Her face hardened, and she brought her chin up, like she had seen Mother do so many times.

“This matter regards only me and my husband, my Lord.”

Stark smiled in disbelief, his eyes lowering to the ground, and he nodded softly.

“Well, I offer you my congratulations, in this case, Princess.”

His sarcasm was wasted on her.

“Targaryens marry Targaryens, Lord Stark.”

She turned her back to him, and went back to her place. Her husband’s sole eye was on her, wide and glinting with something she couldn’t place. It wasn’t amusement, she’d seen it enough in Daemon’s eyes. It was warmer. Admiration? Gratitude? She had just repeated the words he spoke in the tourney grounds, surely he remembered having pronounced them. He had acknowledged her as one of them, that day. At last. After all these years of scorning her and her brothers for their plain features. She was dark-haired, perhaps, but her temper showed that dragonblood coursed in her veins, too.

“Kirimvose”, he whispered.

She only nodded as she took her place and the King cackled like a madman. She felt enraged at him too, for jousting and fighting during the tourney, for becoming complicit in this. She was only a pawn. He had promised to protect her brother, and he had been gentle and respectful to her, but she couldn’t help the acrid taste of bile in her mouth. Warm fingers enclosed hers, and she stiffened in spite of herself.

She wanted to leave the Throne Room. To be alone.

Wanted to take a boat, and sail away.

Or maybe just her dinghy, and sail in Blackwater Bay, even for a few hours. She had to come back, for little Aegon.

How long was it since she had a moment of leisure for herself?

She missed the sea.

Lucerys had a dragon. She hadn’t. Lucerys was sea-sick. She wasn’t. They were so alike, and so different in the meantime.

There were too many people in the Throne Room. All those eyes on her, it made her feel trapped. More trapped than when she was in the Tower of the Hand, more trapped than in Aemond’s apartments, than she hadn’t dared to leave but to go to Daemon’s – no, Aegon’s chambers.

She wanted to leave. Needed to leave.

She couldn’t.

Muña wouldn’t have approved if she broke the protocol. She could practically hear her. When in private, you may do what you want. In audience, you’re the embodiment of royalty. Don’t falter.

Don’t falter.

She’d lash at Aemond later. In the safe confinement of their rooms.

She exhaled slowly, deeply, in attempt to calm her nerves, and forced her hand to remain limp in Aemond’s, if only for the show.

*

The Great Hall was positively abuzz, all the courtesans standing before their seats and waiting for the King to enter. She and Aemond were standing at the high table too. The two hours of respite between the audience and the feat had not been respite, indeed – she had changed into a fancier dress, with a square cleavage, the fabric imitating black dragon scales lined with red all over the bodice, and tight sleeves of black Myrish lace. A spectacular necklace of rubies and jet beads covered the expanse of skin she was reluctant to show and her partially braided hair flowed in her back.

Before her grandsire died, she mostly wore Velaryon blue. Before Aemond insulted her and her brothers. Before the war. Now she didn’t wear anything but Targaryen black. It made her look like perpetually in mourning – but wasn’t she, indeed? Aegon was certainly grieving, why would she not? They had lost so much.

Aemond had borne the cost of her anger. She had fought with him as soon as they had crossed the threshold of their room. She hadn’t shouted, no, but hissed at him like a furious snake. Hadn’t roared like a dragon – she didn’t need all the Keep to know of this.

He hadn’t fought back, only pretexted a growing migraine and groaned that he was going to change for the feast, and that she ought to do the same. And he entered his bedroom, which he didn’t leave until he fetched her to walk to the Great Hall. He had confessed that he was prone to headaches – sometimes severe ones – since the loss of his eye.

They hadn’t exchanged a word since.

He was now standing tall and rigid next to her, staring at the carried chair that transported the crippled King.

She worried her bottom lip, ceasing when she noticed Lord Cregan’s grey gaze on her. Not icy, but filled with concern, unwilling to turn to the King as he entered the Great Hall.

Aemond helped her with her chair as all took seat, then filled her plate with the same food he filled his – roasted venison, honeyed vegetables, a thick gravy sauce – and she lost her appetite at the amount of meat that lay before her. She longed for fish, freshly caught and almost immediately grilled on hot embers. For a simple dish. She had no taste for the sophisticated, heavy food served in the Keep.

“Eat”, he grunted to her as she kept staring to her plate.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Etiquette”, he added before lifting his fork to his mouth.

Alright. Etiquette and appearances. Wasn’t she the one who wanted to keep a semblance of unity between them, after they got married? Wasn’t she the one who didn’t want to expose them to Stark’s suspicions?

She picked a small piece of spiced cabbage and took it in mouth. As long as the vegetables weren’t covered with thick sauce, she could eat them.

“Are you still in pain?” she whispered.

He only hummed. Whether it meant yes or no, she still had to decipher.

“Eat some meat, too.”

She sighed.

“I have no taste for venison, Valzȳrȳs.”

He hummed under his breath.

“What would you prefer?”

“Grilled fish. Something simple.”

He raised his brows as if in surprise, and clicked his fingers to call a servant, giving him orders in a low voice as the boy rushed to him. Orders she couldn’t hear.

And she quietly picked at her vegetables until the boy came back, replacing the plate before her with a new one. A grilled sea bream stuffed with garlic and parsley. Her mouth watered on its own. She glance at her husband, who was observing her with interest, and a grin spread on her face in spite of all the resent she felt before.

“Kirimvose.”

He nodded, his lips curling into a thin smile.

The man disconcerted her. He was both commanding and yielding to her, harsh and lenient, aloof and observant. As music started and couples gathered to dance, she noticed him recline in his high-backed chair, his composure hardening, a grim mask slipping over his perfect features.

No dancing, so.

 She watched the dancers sliding on the smooth flagstones, and as the first dance stopped, Lord Stark stood and walked to the High table, stopping in front of her. He was clad in expensive grey wool, the direwolf of his house embroidered in silver stitches on his chest.

“Princess, would you grant me a dance?”

The lump in her throat made it impossible for her to utter any sound, and for an instant, she thought she might choke, until she took in a shallow breath.

“Go and have fun, ñuha jorrāeliarzy. Only remember you already promised me the galliard and the volta.”

She glanced at Aemond, whose eye was staring at her with intensity. With barely concealed desire. A hot flush crept to her cheeks. He had just called her my love, using their ancestral language to shun Stark from their exchange. And the two dances he mentioned were to be performed with the same partner, and the volta was more intimate as the male partner lifted the woman by the waist. The combination of both was troubling and something fluttered in her chest, like the soft wings of a little bird caged between her ribs. She ignored that her husband could dance, as they both had kept to their seats during the wedding feast. That day, she wasn’t in the mood for enjoying the party – neither was she tonight, but she had no choice. This was role-playing, after all.

“The Maester recommended rest, husband.”

“Dancing is little exercise, my love”, he added, squeezing her hand in his.

This time, he used the common tongue, for Stark to hear. His smile was perfectly courteous, but she could feel another purpose in his words. He was sending her on a diplomatic mission.

She sighed, and plastered a polite smile on her face before rising and walking around the table to take Stark’s offered hand.

The man was so tall, so intimidating. She shivered at the contact of his calluses, in spite of the gentleness of his touch, as he led her to the centre of the dance floor for the pavane.

“You’re the very picture Prince Jaecerys depicted to me”, he said, his voice low and deep, and she stiffened at the mention of her brother. At the implication of his words. Their uncompleted betrothal negotiations. She lowered her gaze.

“And how did my brother depict me?” she managed to answer.

“Fierce and beautiful.”

“To a woman, beauty is only a curse, my Lord. Ugliness brings more security.”

He chuckled lowly.

“You may be right, your Grace. I prefer fierceness too.”

Her eyes met his, and he smiled, baring his teeth, sharp and white, like a wolf’s smile. Would she have married him on her own accord? If he had helped Muña to win the war, yes, she would have. If only to be grateful to their greatest support. Or because she would have been compelled to. Not because she felt drawn to him.

She glanced at Aemond, still at the High table. His intent stare was on her above his silver goblet.

Him.

This was the man she felt drawn to, inexplicably.

To her family’s foe.

The most dangerous one.

The cruellest one, who hadn’t been cruel to her.

Stark noticed her gaze.

“Do you fear him, Princess?”

She smiled – to Aemond, not to Lord Stark – and shook her head slightly.

“Not anymore.”

“I dare say that you don’t look comfortable either.”

She glowered at him.

“Don’t speak about what you don’t know of. My husband and I are still getting to know each other.”

He hummed, and the sound was different from Aemond’s. She preferred her husband’s hum, and turned her eyes to him again.

“Allow me to feel concerned for your well-being still”, Stark insisted.

“Have you ever heard about the dragonseeds who fought for my mother, my Lord?”

He nodded, his ice-grey eyes now filled with despise. Good. He knew what Ulf White and Hugh Hammer had done, so.

“Hugh was allowed to enter the lists.”

His gaze widened with indignant surprise. The man was too honest, too sincere, his gaze always betraying his true feelings. So ill-fitted for the court, even more than herself.

“He didn’t behave chivalrously, as one could expect. Let me assure you that my husband is being considerate and respectful, which the dragonseed would never have been.”

She remembered his obnoxious proposal all too well, We could share her.

Stark’s eyes turned sad. He swallowed, and nodded. Her fate could have been worse.

“I understand, Princess.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

The music stopped, and they bent and curtsied to each other.

“And from now on, I don’t wish to hear of this ridiculous male rivalry anymore, my Lord. Trust me to be my mother’s daughter.”

Stark bowed deeper. He had heard her warning and her prohibition. And when he rose to his full height, he looked behind her and immediately bowed again. She turned, knowing to find her husband, who was patiently waiting with a smug smile.

“Abrazȳrȳs”, he purred, presenting his open hand to her. His migraine seemed forgotten. Or maybe he mastered his features completely. He watched Stark walk away with feigned disinterest. She placed her fingers in his, and followed his lead as the music started again. He danced better than she had fathomed, not being fully relaxed, but not too rigid, proving to be light-footed and nimble as they performed the complicated row of steps and jumps. His stern appearance looked so mismatched with the joyous music and dance that it made her smile, and as he answered with a smile too – a genuine smile, just as if he shared her amusement – she couldn’t help but laugh aloud, and his grin widened.

And as the volta followed on and the warmth of his large hands seeped through her bodice and corset, she desired nothing more than leaving the feast and retreating to his bedroom with him. To have him underneath her like in the morning. To feel his skin against hers. His lips on hers. To feel the stretch of –

Distracted by her thoughts, she missed a step and lost her footing, and clutched at Aemond’s shoulders. His arms around her waist steadied her. He embraced her, in front of the court, in front of his brother. In front of Lord Stark.

“I’m sorry, I –“

“Did you twist your ankle?”

His soft voice. Gentle and concerned. His breath on her temple, his warmth seeping through their clothes. It made her head feel dizzy already, and he barely touched her.

“I just – I just –“ She sighed, and summoned her courage to overcome her embarrassment and tilt her face to his before she could speak. Was it a sin to want her husband? “I would wish for us to retire.”

“So soon?”

Oh, this insufferable smirk!

Her blazing cheeks made her feel like a fool. She flushed even more, knowing that her face was red with embarrassment.

“Please, Aemond.”

He let go of her, only keeping her fingers in his. His lips, scorching on her knuckles. His eye, the iris suddenly swallowed by the black abyss of his pupil. His flaring nostrils.

“’Tis my pleasure to oblige my Lady wife”, he growled, and the low sound of his voice made her hair stand on end and her nipples harden beneath the layers of fabric.

Without a glance to the dais, he intertwined their fingers – a gesture so contrary to the etiquette he had reminded her of earlier, and marched to the door. And for a moment she forgot where she was, who they were surrounded with, only feeling young and carefree and alive.

Chapter Text

VIII.

She always made the prettiest noises.

When she slept against him and sighed in her sleep.

When she laughed, or giggled. And how surprising was it that she could still laugh or giggle after what she had gone through, after he killed her twin brother, after she lost her other two brown-haired brothers and the youngest of the silver-haired ones, after she watched her mother bathed in dragonflame. After she was forced to wed him.

When she was above him, straddling him, riding him, taking whatever pleasure she wanted from him. Pleasure that she shared with him.

Or just like now, underneath him. He pushed in a slow thrust, and the sound she made – half gasp, half whine – elicited a deep groan from his chest. She was laying in perfect abandon, her thighs wide open to give him access, and he knelt between her legs, sitting on his heels. He liked the angle. He could drag along her upper walls, and watch her from above, and – ah – wasn’t she perfect, with her dark mane of tousled curls, her half-closed eyes, her long lashes brushing the skin of her cheeks, and her mouth, open as she panted and moaned with each movement?

He was slow, deliberately slow.

It was their second coupling over. She had ridden him already, just after they escaped the feast since they were up for it – and this, all of this might be the luckiest he had got to be in his whole life.

He had been lucky with claiming Vhagar, of course. Had paid an expensive price for her too.

But this – her – it was being lucky on an entirely different level.

She wanted him. He didn’t understand why – and he didn’t want to think about it, for once. For once, he’d take whatever he’d be given. She wanted him. She smiled at him, and laughed when he tickled her, when he made her come. She’d even laughed with him when they danced together in the evening.

And he wanted to savour all of it.

She had asked – demanded – that he committed, and now that he had allowed himself to, there was no turning back.

Because, how long would it last?

Her back arched and she gripped his forearms to anchor herself as she whined his name. Oh, the sound of his name on her tongue as he fucked her! He gave a hard thrust, spurred by her voice, and immediately reined himself in. Not too rough. Not too fast. Make it last for her. This perfect silk of her made it hard to focus, but he could last – had to.

“Faster”, she gasped, and he clicked his tongue in playful reprobation. Playful? Since when had he felt like playing? And her frustrated whine only made him harder, painfully so, painful even in his balls.

He didn’t regret having survived Vhagar anymore. She made life worth living. She made love like she breathed, naturally, wholly committed to him, giving herself so entirely that it made him want to cry. And he never cried. Or, well, only when dreams of killing Lucerys plagued him.

She was squeezing him harder now, and her grip on his cock was blissful. And she whined again, and begged. He chuckled.

That, too.

It had been so long since he didn’t smile genuinely, or laughed. She made him laugh. To her, it might just be a short chortle. But it had been so long to him that it felt like real laughter. Only with her. Only. Others only elicited cold indifference at best, or anger, or contempt. She was like fire. She warmed him, warmed his insides and his soul. No, not fire. She was like the sun. She warmed him to his very marrow, and chased his darkness away. Brought him back to life.

Her hands went to his thighs, and gripped his flesh, her fingers digging in his skin and hard muscles, and the undulations of her hips became harder, more urgent. And he watched in awe as she fucked herself, her dark eyes even darker and blown with lust, bearing into his. He in turn thrust harder, increasing his pace.

“Yes”, she cried, “yes”, and he kept on with this speed and angle, careful to please her, dedicated to her delight, and as she began shaking beneath him, and her cunt clamped on his cock. As she released a long, broken moan, he snapped, and fucked her with all his weight, his own release tightening his balls and tingling the base of his spine, until it broke and blinded him as he spilled inside her in his final, deep thrusts.

He supported himself on one arm to catch his breath, still throbbing inside her, and her hands snaked on his arms, up to his shoulders, to bring him down to her. And she embraced him. Kissed him, her breath still short, humming with the lingering force of her pleasure.

She felt like home.

*

“Do you really intend to help Lady Darry with your own funds?”

Her voice was soft, her mouth against his brow as they laid naked in each other’s arms, in the sheltered solitude of his bedroom. His head rested between her shoulder and her breast, and he enveloped her in his arms, his hands on her back and hips. Her hands traced light patterns on his chest. Following his scars and fading bruises, as he realized, lowering his eyes to her fingers. Evidences of the violence he received and inflicted.

He was good at war. Even better than that. But the war was over, and he had laid such destruction he had enough work for the remainder of his life if he wanted to repair everything he had burned – or ordered to destroy.

“Of course”, he breathed. “It’s the least I could do.”

The Darry widow might refuse his money though, if she was proud. He didn’t know her. Didn’t even know which family she was born in. Hadn’t ever needed to bother with such knowledge. A dragon doesn’t care about sheep, he used to think. Now he thought otherwise. A ruler wasn’t only to be feared. Respect with a reasonable amount of fear seemed to be a better approach. Fear he had inspired, more than his share. Now he worked to gain their respect.

“You could send me.”

“Where?” he asked absent-mindedly. As much as he was dedicated to her when he took her, he was conscious that his duty and task invaded his mind even here, in her arms, after they had enjoyed each other.

“To Darry Hall. To deliver your gift.”

“What? No.”

He pressed his lips. His tone was too harsh, too definitive. But, then again, he absolutely rejected the idea. Eight days of riding, at least twelve days of wheelhouse if not fifteen now that autumn was back and the roads were muddy, with whom to protect her if he remained in King’s Landing? It was absolutely out of the question.

So he explained calmly, cautious not to be unnecessarily severe or rough. She only sighed.

“I was thinking it could send a peacemaking signal, that’s all.”

He hummed. She might be right. But he loathed the idea of her being on the road.

“Rather than risking your life on the King’s Road, I’d rather you wrote to Lady Darry, and tell her that we offer to foster one of her children. Whichever she sees fit, she’s up to choose. I’ll join your letter to the purse I’ll forward to her.”

She propped up on her elbow to have a good look at him, surprise in her eyes, and he had to pull himself out to let her move.

“What? It’s customary”, he said.

Fostering was common amongst noble families. It was a means to strengthen the ties between houses, to establish or develop networks and alliances, almost as much as weddings did. Aemond, as Hand of the King, had no-one’s hand to offer but Aegon the Younger’s, and a marriage between House Targaryen and House Darry wasn’t an option. It would have been nothing but a misalliance for the House of the Dragon.

“It’s a considerable effort that you’re making, Aemond. I appreciate it.”

The Darrys had supported her Mother’s claim to the throne, and had paid the price for it.

“If Lady Darry sends a boy close to Aegon’s age, they could become friends. Your brother needs a companion, in my opinion.”

“He does”, she agreed, laying back again, this time resting on his shoulder. He set a large hand on her buttocks, and she squirmed to give him better access. “Lady Darry surely will see the benefits for her son.”

They let a comfortable silence stretch.

“She might also refuse to part with any of her remaining children”, she whispered, evidently thinking aloud, “especially since you’re responsible for her husband’s death.”

“You have more reasons than her to hate me.”

His self-hatred threatened to surge in full force. He never felt it heavier than when he was in her arms, when she welcomed him instead of making him feel how unworthy he was of her.

She hummed again.

“That’s why you should send me.”

“Never.”

She started to protest and, bracing himself, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs, he flipped her on her back, settling between her knees, his mouth under her jaw and his fingers at the top of her thighs.

“Don’t try to distract me, Aemond, ah-“

“I’m too greedy and selfish”, and he grinned against her skin at finding her warm and wet, sliding two fingers inside her, curling them upwards. “Too selfish to let you go. In forty years, we’ll talk of this again.”

She was already panting underneath him. He wanted to devour her. To consume her, wreck her, ruin her for others. She had defended them as a couple in front of the Wolf. Had publicly chosen him, after the gruesome circumstances of their union. And for that, he wanted to give her pleasure, so much pleasure that she would forget that she could possibly have been wed to that Stark beast.

*

He didn’t deserve her.

Her hair smelled like the Summer Islands. Of coconut oil and of exotic flowers. He’d never visited the Summer Islands, of course. Her scent only made his imagination wild, and he pictured sunny beaches and clear waters in his mind eye. Pictured her, oiling her long curls, bathing in the late afternoon sun. Something she likely hadn’t done either, but this vision was so full of peace and simple joy and harmony it soothed him.

She was asleep on his shoulder – his bad shoulder again, as it seemed she favoured this side of the bed – and he couldn’t be more grateful. What greater happiness could there be in this world than to feel her warm skin and her supple body against his?

He was done for.

He had given in, entirely.

Because he felt that it wouldn’t last forever.

He was used to paying dearly for whatever good came in his life, and she was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Vhagar was a very good thing, and he had trusted her – loved her – with all his soul. But in the end, they had only brought ruin and destruction over the realm.

She was entirely different.

She had never been mean to him when they were children. She hadn’t been in the cave, that night, and had sincerely wept for him while the maester stitched his eyelid close. Had given him her ragdoll – Ser Symeon Star-Eyes, she called it – to comfort him. And he had been harsh, had roughly put it back in her arms, spitting that he didn’t need a child’s toy now that he rode a dragon. Years later, the day he had kissed her in the library, she hadn’t feared him like her brothers did in the training yard. She had watched him silently, expectantly, and had let him take what he wanted. Hadn’t reported him as she could – should? – have done. And he hadn’t insulted her, only her brothers. He had carefully not included her in his cruel words. Her eyes had been so hurt, though.

It felt like a jest of the Gods.

A very cruel jest, indeed, to give him a glimpse of joy and true happiness. But, hadn’t he been cruel? Didn’t he deserve such cruelty?

He could almost picture them, the Seven, with their solemn faces of stone, surveying him, a malevolent glint in their eyes and a lopsided sneer twisting their mouths.

Just you wait, Aemond Targaryen. This is not for you. This has never been meant to be for you. And when you think you’re happy, we’ll take it back. Just you wait.

Because, how could he possibly deserve her?

But now that he had given in, it was like a dam, breaking and flooding him. He’d drown in her, and happily so. It was a slow and sweet torture, to know he could temporarily enjoy something that wouldn't last.

He’d almost drown, once, and still dreamt of it. The darkness beneath the water, the cold, the weight of his clothes and the entrainment created by Vhagar’s massive body slowly sinking, dragging him to the bottom of the God’s Eye. Alys had saved him. But he hadn’t loved Alys as much as he loved her. He had always put his feelings on rein, because it was simpler to give nothing, since he didn’t usually receive much.

But her, oh, her.

She was such a giver. So generous, so selfless.

It irritated him that she let things lying around – open books that she wasn’t done reading, clothes, misplaced objects – and she quite didn’t understand his irritation when she asked whether he had seen that object or that. It didn’t matter to her. It did to him. He had always liked his rooms to be clean and tidy. She was chaotic and messy, and laughed when he huffed as she threw her stockings to a corner of his bedroom. He knew she did it on purpose, to test his patience. To see how far she could go. He hadn’t snapped at her – only at the maids cleaning the rooms, but they didn’t count.

And yet, it was her.

She had brought more books. Books she had been allowed to keep in her comfortable custody, under his office in the Tower of the Hand. But his shelves were already packed-in, and her books lay in piles. She didn’t seem to mind. His rooms were wholesome, the books wouldn’t be damaged by humidity.

Rats, he had argued.

It worried him that the Clubfoot had reached to her. The man was sly and unpredictable in his decisions, as long as they served him. Aemond had heard the rumors – the man was told to have had his own father and brother burned alive in a simulated accident in Harrenhal. Having sojourned – occupied? – the castle himself, Aemond couldn’t believe it was any accident. The walls and tapestries were too damp to be set ablaze by unpropitious fate.

*

Her breath formed faint clouds of white steam as she exhaled in the chilly morning air. She wasn’t cold, her heavy cloak protected her as she was sitting with Aegon under the Weirwood. Her little brother liked the quietness of the place. They were reading the same book, a book about the Seven Kingdoms before the Conquest. Her brother said he had yet to understand the Riverlanders’ feelings for the Crown.

“They joined the Conqueror against Harren Hoare. But a century later, our uncle Aemond gave them new Fields of Fire, with Visenya’s own dragon, because they supported Muña.”

Because Muña had taken King’s Landing, and Aemond was far from his own mother and sister, she thought. Had he burned the Black-aligned castles and villages as a retribution, or because he had lost hope to see the two women again? Worst: did he see himself as the Conqueror reborn, since he admired Aegon I so much, and rode the last dragon of conquest? The man whose bed she shared was capable of such cruelty. He wasn’t cruel to her, though. She had even seen him vulnerable.

“The Tyrells received Highgarden after the Field of Fire, and carefully avoided to enter the battle centuries later. Opportunists, one might call them.”

She still resented the Flower Knight for having fought so disloyally, aiming to the horse rather than to his opponent’s shield.

“Yet they declared their support to the Green faction”, murmured Aegon.

And now, Highgarden sold grain to sow the burnt fields of the Riverlands, in hope for a last harvest before winter. Highgarden sold grain to the Crown, and the Crown offered it to the Riverlands. Highgarden made money of another realm threatened with starvation.

And whose fault was it?

Aemond’s.

Or Daemon’s.

Or, if one thought of it, maybe her Muña was to blame too, and Alicent Hightower, and the late King Viserys. And what about Maegor the Cruel? What about his mother, the mighty Visenya? And what about Aegon the Conqueror himself? Maybe Targaryens were a plague, after all.

She sighed.

Making peace – building peace, indeed – seemed so long a process. She didn’t envy the Lord Hand, and had few economic knowledge that could have made her fit to rule. She had always known that her brothers would reign, but she wouldn’t. Her Muña was an exception – one that had brought the realm to war and ruin, and their family to near destruction. She wasn’t close to have any aspiration to the throne.

Aegon next to her pointed his finger to another name. Torrhen Stark.

The King Who Bent the Knee, they called him, the last King of Winter, whose descendent was now in this very keep, farther south than any of his kin had ever gone. Lord Stark, clever and observant. Jace had described him as honest and loyal, but had he really had time to know him? They shouldn’t trust him too much. Trust had proved to be too easily betrayed in the past years.

“What can we expect from the North? Torrhen Stark submitted to spare his people, and the Northeners remained faithful to their oaths. And yet Lord Stark bent the knee to our uncle Aegon yesterday.”

She had spoken her musings out loud.

“But the North remembers.”

Cregan Stark didn’t even try to pretend that he hadn’t heard their conversation.

Of course.

The man prayed to the trees, and they were just under the ancient Weirwood.

He slowed his pace as he walked closer, cautious but not threatening, his hands visible. His great sword hung at his hip, visible under the dark grey cloak. A man clad in grey had stopped a few steps away, standing guard.

Lord Stark bowed his head graciously, greeting them in turn, and they rose to greet him, too.

“My apologies for interrupting your reading”, he offered courteously.

Aegon kept silent. She gave a quick glance at him. Her little brother watched the man with guarded eyes, his lips tightly closed, mistrust showing on his face. How could she blame him? And yet, it was impolite not to say a word.

“My brother and I like to sit under the Weirwood tree. It seems to bring a deep feeling of peace.”

She closed her mouth before she said too much. Could she say that she didn’t feel at peace within the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast? That her soul – and Aegon’s – needed healing, and they found solace in the Godswood?

Stark only gave a kind, understanding smile.

“The trees listen to our thoughts”, he said, his voice deep and grovelling. “It is only natural to feel at ease in their company.”

Could she say she felt at ease? The grotesquely carved face seemed frozen in pain, its mouth opened and downturned in a silent wail. The thought hit her that perhaps it just echoed her inner own silent wail – maybe Aegon’s too – and that was why they felt less lonely when sitting together under the blood-red leaves.

She nodded in silence.

“May I join you for a moment?”

Her eyes flicked to his great sword, then to him again. He smiled sadly.

“I swore allegiance to your mother, Princess. Why would I harm her children?”

Of course. Muña had praised the Northener’s honesty and loyalty. She turned to Aegon, whose eyes were still hard and wary. The boy glanced at her too, and nodded.

“Please sit on the other side of the tree, Lord Stark”, he said in his high-pitched child voice.

“Thank you, my Prince. I only wish to pray to the Old Gods, and won’t disturb you.”

Lord Stark circled past them, keeping at a reasonable distance, before he took place between the larger roots of the tree, at its very base.

She pulled her cloak closer to her, now shivering in the morning air, and sat in turn. Aegon sat too, and settled the old tome on his crossed legs. He cautiously turned the pages to those about the Vale, and they resumed their reading.

She didn’t feel much at ease, but did her best to pretend, for her brother’s sake. Reading calmly with him, answering his questions, noting what he would have to ask the Maester when she lacked knowledge about details.

When the sun had fully risen, steps echoed again in the Godswood, muffled by the grass. She and Aegon rose their faces from their book. Light grey robes and a tingling chain.

“Maester Liffen”, she murmured. “Time for your lessons, Valonqar.”

They both rose, and the young maester bowed to them. She would go back to her rooms while Aegon would study with the man. Would read, or wait in utter boredom.

A rustle of fabric behind her.

“May I have a word with you, Princess?”

She hesitated, watching Aegon walking away, then turning to Lord Stark.

“Just a few moments, I assure you.”

Right. Did she have a choice, anyway? She squared her shoulders and gave a curt nod.

“I have gifts for you.”

What was it? Had he no manners at all? Aemond would have his head if he thought the man had tried to court her. Court? Was it even courting now that she was married?

“It’s improper.”

 “Personal gifts that I couldn’t offer before court.”

“All the more improper, my Lord.”

She turned to leave.

“Please, Princess. Just a minute. I am merely a messenger. These are gifts from my sister, to you. From a woman to another.”

She nodded again, steeling her nerves, and he waved his man to come.

“Jorrey here carries the items.”

The man called Jorrey bowed deeply to her and presented two packs for his Lord to give her. She received the first one, and partially opened the dark grey linen fabric that preserved it. It was a garment, a dress, neatly folded. A dress of rich black wool, embroidered with blood red dragons at the collar. She didn’t unfold it to have a full look at it. Not here, in the Godswood.

“My sister sends you a warm dress, for winter is coming.”

She frowned.

Why would she do such a thing?

“I fail to understand, my Lord.”

“As a gesture of good will. Of friendship.”

Friendship? She didn’t know the girl. Didn’t even know that Lord Stark had a sister. Was it a trap?

“Forgive me, my Lord. I ignored your sister’s existence until this very moment.”

She didn’t mean to sound insulting, but it was what her voice sounded to her own ears.

“Of course, Princess. She’s my half-sister. Sara Snow.”

Oh.

A bastard of the North.

Remembering her courtesies, she smiled at Lord Stark.

“Please thank your sister for me, my Lord. The needlework is beautiful.”

He smiled in turn, and handed her a second pack. She carefully put the dress on the grass, and as she straightened again, noticed that Lord Stark had removed the fabric around the heavy piece of cloth that was in his large hands.

Blood red fabric.

“This is your brother’s cloak.”

Jace’s cloak.

She picked it and hugged it against her chest. It didn’t feel like hugging him, and the emptiness of the garment stabbed right through her chest.

“It is a bitter gift, my Lord. But it has no value to me.”

Liar. She relished to keep it. To feel its weight in her arms, even though it lacked Jace’s warmth. But she was surrounded by the Greens. Keeping such a relic could be dangerous.

Lord Stark nodded gravely.

“Sara thought it should be returned to you.”

“Did she now?”

What did Sara Snow have to do with Jace’s cloak?

Stark watched her carefully, with an open, honest face and clear eyes.

“Your brother used it when they exchanged their vows under the Heart Tree of Winterfell.”

What?

What?

And Baela?

A heavy lump weighed in her throat, making it difficult to speak, and she had to breathe several times to force it down.

“I’m afraid you know things that I’m still to learn here, Lord Stark.”

“Did your brother not tell you? He wed my sister.”

Her knees gave up, and she staggered, taking a few steps to steady herself against the bone-white bark of the weirwood tree. Lord Stark immediately was beside her, his bear-like paws on her elbows. She shoved him away, and he retreated.

“Princess”, he grovelled.

“What is your purpose, my Lord, mmmh? Did you come all the way from the North to tell me this? That my brother disgraced himself by breaking his betrothal to Baela Targaryen?”

He had never spoken of it. Well, he hadn’t much time, since he died in the Gullet only a few days after returning from Winterfell. Had he told Baela, at least? Muña had certainly never known, and neither had Daemon. She would have to ask Baela, but when? Her cousin remained on Driftmark. She had nearly died fighting their uncle Aegon on Dragonstone, attacking him on Moondancer. Sunfyre had killed her young dragon, and she had barely escaped the same fate.

Stark shook his head, a sad smile on his lips.

“You’re giving me intentions that aren’t customary in the North. We’re honest to a fault. My sister Sara thought you might want Jace’s cloak to be returned to you, and trusted me to do it.”

“Why did he wed her?”

Had Jace seduced her? Had he incidentally spent a night in her bed, and proved himself honourable by marrying her rather than flying away on Vermax and ruinning her reputation?

“They fell in love. Deeply, passionately, and almost at first sight. Seeing them together, it was like seeing two separated parts of the same soul, finally being whole.”

He spoke of it like it was the theme of an ancient song. Her eyes burned, and she blinked the tears away. Her own soul felt severed.

Don’t think of it for now.

“Is there a child?”

Why did her voice sound so hopeful?

Stark shook his head again.

“Sara lost the baby when news reached us of the Battle of the Gullet.”

She nodded sadly. She could understand the shock such news could cause.

“My mother lost my sister in similar circumstances”, she murmured, remembering her wails and curses, then her grief after she had delivered Visenya’s monstrous, stillborn tiny body.

She handed the cloak to the Northener.

“Take it, my Lord, and give it back to your sister, for such a garment is not mine to keep. A wedding cloak belongs to the bride, not to the good sister.”

“We only wish to be your friends, Princess.”

Friends. She nodded, once, out of sheer politeness. Daemon, for all his faults, was right in this: princes didn’t have friends. They had family, and they had subjects.

As soon as he took the heavy garment from her hands, she whispered words of apology and all but fled from the Godswood.

*

Alicent and the King were sitting at each end of the table. Aemond was on her left – he always kept her on his seeing side – and little Aegon was across her.

“It’s been too long since we took our lunch like this”, said the Dowager Queen, a smile on her face. “Together, like a family.”

A false smile that could have been mistaken for a sincere one to someone more naïve than she was after her months of captivity in the Tower of the Hand. Alicent was still a beautiful woman, but she was calculating, and she had learned to read those cold eyes with time.

Aegon – Aegon the Elder – sighed, his toady face expressing nothing but boredom.

“I’d like you to join me after lunch, my dear girl”, the Queen Dowager said to her. “I have selected a few ladies for you. It is not befitting that you stay alone like this. A Princess of the Realm should have ladies attending her service.”

She could have argued that Princess Helaena didn’t have ladies-in-waiting. That she hadn’t had on Dragonstone. But the Queen’s tone was so definitive in spite of its apparent courtesy, that she only blinked and held the older woman’s gaze for a few second.

“Will you allow me to choose amongst your selection, Your Grace?”

Aegon gave a high-pitched giggle, suddenly conscious and back in his own head, and his mother silenced him with a cold stare before turning to her again.

“Of course, dearest. It wouldn’t be my wish to displease you.”

Aemond kept perfectly still, his back straight, his wrists resting on the angle of the table. Both Aegons couldn’t have been more different. Her brother was absent-mindedly studying a detail of the embroidered tablecloth while her uncle’s eyes were peering at her husband from above his goblet, malevolent amusement shining in his violet irises.

“Let it be quick, Mother, I have an appointment with the Wolf and the Trout in one hour.”

Aemond’s voice was low and soft, but betrayed his irritation, its iciness slicing through the air. She shivered in spite of herself. She hadn’t seen him since her conversation with Lord Stark, and wanted to tell him that the man had spent some time with Aegon and her in the Godswood. Didn’t want him to learn it from someone else – Larys Strong, for instance – and imagine she hid things from him.

Alicent clapped her hands twice, and servants entered with various dishes – goose stew, slices of warm ham covered in a thick, brown sauce, carrots with garlic and parsley, creamed spinach, honeyed turnips and parsnips. No fish, again, and Aemond threw a quick glance at her.

“About what subject?” asked the Dowager Queen, and it shocked her that Aegon didn’t phrase the question. Was he truly not interested about the matters of his realm?

“Supplies for winter.”

Since he had burnt the fields and charred the livestock, he felt responsible with providing replacement to prevent the smallfolk from starving.

“Eat your fill, niece”, said Aegon with mirth. “You have to gain weight. You like your women plumper, don’t you, brother? Older, too, if my memory serves me right.”

Her husband stiffened by her side, his breath suddenly shallow, his move suspended as he was putting a piece of goose in her plate. He didn’t answer, anyway, but the muscles of his jaw contracted as he clenched it.

Twice.

Thrice.

What was that? A slight about Alys Rivers, surely. Ser Harwin’s bastard sister. The woman might have been almost old enough to be his mother, then. The thought of her dead rival – should she call her that anyway? – made her uneasy.

 Aegon chuckled, and she thanked Aemond when he handed her plate to her, before he helped himself in turn.

He kept silent anyway, opposing nothing but contempt to his brother.

“Or did you develop a liking for younger bags of bones?”

Aemond muttered a curse under his breath, and she grabbed the pitcher to fill his goblet with water, pressing her knee against his in the process. As a silent reminder. Ignore him. Don’t let him see you’re vexed, and he won’t hold any power upon you. He gave her a quick glance. A silent approval.

Good.

 “Speaking of the Wolf” – Alicent’s voice, and a cold shiver ran down her spine – I heard he joined the two of you in the Godswood this morning. For a courteous talk, I believe?”

She believed otherwise, her tone was clear enough. Then she took a bite of her goose stew, and they all started to eat.

“He wished to pray to the Old Gods”, said little Aegon. “He let us read without disturbing us.”

“And he delivered a gift from his sister to me. A warm dress, for winter is coming, he said.”

She managed to speak innocently, to keep her breath even, and yet, the Queen Dowager’s posture went rigid, and her husband’s fingers curled into a tight fist, his knuckles turning white. Then he relaxed his fingers, making them move in an elegant way, before resting them on the table again.

“What did he want?”

She took a sip of water, to keep a composure. To make him understand this didn’t matter at all. His voice was smooth, velvety, and full of darkness. She hadn’t heard that voice since Lucerys’ petition. Or maybe she did, the day of the tourney, when he came to the royal stand in his black armour stained with Hugh Hammer’s blood, to claim her hand from his brother’s.

“Only that. To give me a dress on his sister’s behalf.”

She lifted her fork to her mouth. The meat was tender and savoury, spiced with nutmeg, cinnamon and galangal. And yet it tasted like ashes in her mouth.

“Stark is an only child.”

“He called her Snow.”

“A bastard, then.”

She nodded.

He hummed under his breath, watching her carefully, his periwinkle eye unblinking. Gauging her. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t have anything to feel ashamed for. Had she sought Lord Stark? Had she encouraged him? Had she tried to remind him of his vows to her side of the House of the Dragon?

She hadn’t to – he did it himself. The North remembers.

The words seemed ironically useless, here in the Greens’ den. She and Aegon weren’t treated as prisoners anymore, but they didn’t held any power either. They were little more than hostages, she had to keep that in mind.

Aemond turned his attention to his plate again, and endeavoured to empty it methodically. She did her best to eat a reasonable amount of food – to gain forces she might need – and regularly shoved her mouthfulls down her throat with gulps of water.

As soon as her husband’s plate was empty, he rose, stiffly, abruptly, startling her, and extended his right hand to her.

“Walk with me.”

The words were deceivingly soft, and she could hear the sharp steel behind. Her brother’s eyes were on her, suddenly alarmed. He had heard it, too.

She smiled, and delicately wiped the corners of her lips with her napkin before she stood and placed her hand in Aemond’s. He didn’t grip her fingers, only curling his slightly and guiding her towards the door. That must be a relief. He kept silent, though, and led her through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, his back rigid and his stare fixed forward. So different of the man she had shared the week with.

A week, you fool. Can you know him in a week? Can you ever get to know him at all?

They walked through the Godswood, lingering under the trees. She didn’t wish to return to the Weirwood, to have it watch her closely and read her discomfort.

“What is it that you are keeping from me?” he finally drawled, his voice low and husky.

She swallowed.

“Jace broke his betrothal to Baela and wed Sara Snow.”

He turned his face to her, his lone eye wide and burning. She could almost hear his thought, even though he pressed his lips together. A bastard marrying a bastard.

“Any child?”

“No.”

“Good.”

She felt split between relief that no child of Jace’s could ever challenge anyone for the throne, and sorrow for his life to have ended without any descendent. He was gone, irremediably gone. As were Luke and Joffrey, and little Viserys.

“What else did Stark say?”

“I didn’t grant him time to speak. I left.”

“Mmmh.”

Was it approval? A quiet rebuff?

They turned north, to the stairs that led to the middle bailey, and the Tower of the Hand.

“I trust you”, he finally whispered.

Did she sigh with relief? She certainly tried not to. He was so cold, so rigid. The man beside her had nothing to do with the caring husband she shared her nights with.

As they climbed the final steps and entered the middle bailey, she could see the two lords, Tully and Stark, walking to the Tower. Aemond stopped in his tracks and rotated her to face him. He brought her hand to his lips.

“You would tell me, would you, if the Wolf spoke of treason? If he spoke of old oaths remembered?”

“He didn’t tell anything about that. Didn’t spoke of my Mother, or of the war.”

“Mmmh.”

He kissed her knuckles, his lips scorching on her skin, and turned to march to the Tower, motioning Ser Marston Waters to escort her back to the Keep.

Chapter Text

IX.

False niceties.

It was only about that.

Alicent Hightower had selected a few young ladies, and why should she care?

Margret Stokeworth, Willa Cressey, Jennis Reyne, Alysanne Roxton. All from the Crownlands or from the Reach, all from houses sworn to the Greens.

All spies of Alicent.

She had forced a smile on her lips as she met the four girls, when she wanted to go for their eyes, like a furious shadowcat, and blind them with her own nails.

Which she would only do in imagination, of course, for it would have been utterly undignified for her to claw at their faces and tear their hair like a fishwife on a market day. She imagined the scene, but in her mind, they were on a dock of Dragonstone, wearing plain skirts, all wailing and hissing and spitting like old shrews. The thought almost made her giggle, but also stung with nostalgia.

She missed Dragonstone.

She missed the sea. The spindrift in the air, the scent of seaweed and salt, the cries of seagulls. Here in King’s Landing it smelled different, according to the places she was. The town’s smell of shit had incommoded her in the lower bailey. In Aemond’s rooms, it smelled of ink and parchment. Here, in the Queen’s parlour, it smelled of roses and perfume.

The four young ladies                were busy with needlework, and chattered merrily, as if they were at ease with the Queen Dowager.

Alicent Hightower watched her, her eyes cold and hard. Gauging her.

She hated needlework. Hated it for being the embodiment of womanly submission. She was the blood of the dragon, and hadn’t been tamed by a septa like the other mainland lords’ daughters. She and Daemon’s daughters had been spared this womanly education. Baela was fierce – her father’s daughter – and Rhaena had been given right to keep herself busy with other occupations. But she – she wanted nothing more than hiding in a library, or sailing, and she had been free to do as she liked, as long as her class attendance, whether be it with Maester Gerardys or with Daemon himself, wasn’t questioned.

And so she sat, her hands empty, while the ladies were comparing fabrics and their qualities, depending on their origins.

“Myrish lace is the most beautiful, I think.”

“You’re labouring the point, Margret, everyone knows it’s the finest”, scoffed Jennis Reyne.

The blonde, plump Stokeworth girl didn’t look like she understood the reproach. “The one made in Lys is nice, too, but less refined, though”, she added. “I like it well enough to ornate a bodice.”

Empty, idle talk of woman kept behind walls, kept away from knowledge and thought. They may not be dimwits, but their lack of scholar education made them perpetual minors. This was something she ought to speak of with Aemond. The Seven Realms needed an ambitious educational policy, for girls and boys equally.

Because, how could they be content with spending their days like this? She had endured idleness while in custody, but now that she had regained a semblance of freedom, she felt the weight of inactivity and aimlessness.

She had to do something.

Anything.

Something useful would be better.

Her gaze turned to the windows and the cloudy skies. And underneath them, her thoughts went to the city that she couldn’t see from Maegor’s Holdfast. She abstracted herself from the room she sat in and the company of the other women to delve into her thoughts.

Maybe she could start with visiting King’s Landing – truly investigating the streets, protected by swornswords that her husband wouldn’t refuse to give her – and make out a report about what lacked to the people. To the children, first and foremost. For the war had made so many orphans who had to rely on themselves, who were so vulnerable to pimps and mob bosses who forced them into prostitutes out cutpurses.

The city needed orphanages, and schools for both boys and girls, and those institutions needed trusted supervisors who would report directly to –

“How are you faring with married life?” asked the Queen.

She blinked and turned her face to the Queen Dowager as her train of thoughts was interrupted.

“Quite well, actually”, she said with a smile, composing herself. “My husband’s duties keep him very busy, but he always makes sure he spends time with me in the day.”

And he catches up at night. But this, she couldn’t tell to her good-mother.

“He works a lot, indeed.”

Alicent turned her eyes to the four ladies in waiting.

“A collation is awaiting you in the parlour. The Princess and I will join you in a few moments.”

Her voice was cordial and warm, the dismissal spoken with such politeness that it easily passed for the invitation it was disguised into.

The little group rose with a ruffle of silks and curtsied gracefully before leaving. Quiet and obedient. Well-trained. She loathed them for it. But she behaved like them sometimes, didn’t she? Especially here, in the Red Keep, where she needed the most to look poised and well-bred, where she needed to survive.

She straightened her spine and faced the Queen Dowager, determined to be brave and not to give ground. The woman was a viper, a master liar who had ignited, then fanned the flames of hatred between the two sides of their family, and she hated her for that. She remembered well how that night, she demanded, then tried herself, to have Lucerys’ eye in payment for Aemond’s, and cut Muña’s arm instead with her grandsire’s Valyrian dagger. The very same that adorned Aemond’s belt now, after his brother gave it to him when he killed Rhaenys.

Rhaenys.

But the Queen interrupted once again the memories that were blossoming before her eyes.

“My son’s mood seems… lighter, these days.”

She felt confused. She was waiting for a direct blow. She should have known better, should have expected slyness. She kept silent, uncertain.

“I couldn’t help but notice how he smiled to you yesterday evening. A smile I hadn’t seen in years.”

Yes, he had smiled to her. Genuinely expressing unguarded joy. Exposing himself in a manner she wouldn’t have expected. He had committed an error, had shown his vulnerability. But wasn’t she at fault for that? Wasn’t she the origin of such vulnerability? If we try our best to build something from this misfortune, then he loses. That had been her exact words. Words driven by hope and expectation. And now, she could see how Aemond’s own mother was trying to turn their – what? amity? – against them. And she hated her for that, too.

“Aemond hadn’t danced in years.”

“That I heard.”

What could she say? She didn’t want to give away anything that Alicent Hightower could have a grasp upon.

“He seemed… carefree. Almost relaxed.”

Relaxed? Certainly not. He never was. Even when they were in bed together, he was in full control of himself. He never totally relaxed but in sleep, and only when he wasn’t woken by horrid dreams.

She only nodded. Now wasn’t the time to interrupt the Queen Dowager. Let her speak.

“You two seem to get along together. For this, you have my thanks.”

Her eyes widened. And blinked.

How unexpected.

She remembered to smile and nod in a graceful manner, like a shy, well-bred young lady.

“I’m grateful for it, too.”

“Given the circumstances, it is a welcome, if unforeseen, surprise.”

Ah. Here it was, the poison laced with honeyed words.

She plastered her most charming smile on her lips.

“Your Grace seems almost… disappointed.”

“Disappointed? No. Let’s say…” Alicent held her breath for a moment, her gaze sharpening before she finished her sentence. “Suspicious.”

She felt all colour drain from her cheeks.

“I fail to understand.”

“Come on, girl, you’re no simpleton. Aemond killed your twin brother first, then your stepfather. I still wonder why he entered the lists that day, even though I suspected at first that he wanted to make you suffer. But in the end, you might be the one to make him miserable.“

“Why would I do such a thing?”

“You’re your mother’s daughter, aren’t you? A mere week had passed since you wed my son, and yet this very morning your entertained a long conversation with Lord Stark, alone in the Godswood.”

That was enough. She rose, her fists clenched at her sides, trembling like a leaf under the effect of her sudden rage.

“Are you bluntly accusing me of being unfaithful to my husband? Am I to wear the faults of my mother?”

“I’m merely exposing a subject of motherly concern.”

“Because there once were negotiations for a betrothal between me and Lord Stark? Do you think this would make us close? I had never met the man before he came here.”

“To claim your hand.”

“There was nothing for him to claim.”

She glared at the Queen, defiant, trying to master herself. Not to strike her still beautiful face.

“My husband is actually quite skilled, and passionate. He keeps me well satisfied. Not that I have any experience in the matter but – thank you for your concern.”

Oh, the face of the Queen. If she hadn’t looked ashamed before, how rewarding it felt to see her eyes widened and her opened lips as she lifted her hand to her seven-pointed pendant and grasped it between her fingers. She had struck where she wasn’t expected to, and had shocked the bigoted shrew.

“You spoke of a collation, Your Grace. Would you care for some lemon cakes?”

*

A migraine already pounded behind his sapphire.

Kermit Tully – the bloody, stinking Trout of Riverrun – was making demands for the Riverlands. Demands. To him. As if the dragon could possibly bend to the fish.

 “Autumn is already here. The seed is going to rot in the damp fields of the Riverlands. Fields that, and I’m sure that I do not need to remind the Lord Hand that to this day, are equally mud and ashes. The seed won’t take root, and the smallfolk will starve.”

Aemond drew a deep exhale through his nose, in a desperate attempt to keep his temper, if not his composure. Yes, Kermit Tully had studied with a well-learned maester. He had good notions of rhetorics. But so did he.

“I pride myself in having a good memory, my Lord. His Grace cares about the smallfolk.” Lies. Aegon cared about the opinion of the people of King’s Landing, since the riots against Rhaenyra and the killing of the dragons. And he cared about his goblet being kept full of wine. “And so do I. The council is currently negotiating trade treaties to provide supplies for the most affected areas of the realm.”

But the Reach wanted to manage stocks before winter, too. And Dorne proved reluctant to sell goods at a fair price. They tried to take advantage and fleece the treasury. Prince Qoren had sent word that he wouldn’t force any of his vassals to lower prices, for times were hard for everyone. The bastard. His Kingdom hadn’t taken part in the war, had been spared, and he tried to pressure the Crown nevertheless. Dorne could decidedly never be trusted but to create mayhem.

“Affected? Affected?” Contempt dripped from Tully’s voice as he stressed the word. “Destroyed, you mean!”

Of course, Aemond was responsible of the burnt fields. But had the Lords not supported Rhaenyra’s false claim to the throne, they wouldn’t be here, reduced to beg him. Except that they didn’t beg. They demanded. As a counterpart for his deeds.

“Call it what you want, my Lord. The Crown’s words are law. We are rebuilding the roads, reinforcing the ports and restoring trade with Essos. So yes, the effects may not be immediate, but the Crown is working to build durable peace and prosperity.”

Tully scoffed. Stark waved his hand to appease him.

“We in the Riverlands pride ourselves with talking true, Prince Aemond. Let me tell you what people really think. The realm doesn’t acknowledge your brother as King after all the blood that was shed. After the way he fed your sister Rhaenyra to his dragon. You know it. Had he seized her, imprisoned her, even cleanly beheaded her, that would be another story. But this –“

The young lord seemed to choke in his own indignation.

Yes, he knew it.

Rhaenyra’s death had been a messy, grusesome affair. Not that he grieved her. The years of war had left the Seven Kingdoms worn out, the fights having multiplicated even in the very streets of King’s Landing. False Kings with pale hair had tried risen and tried to usurp Aegon, only to be punished with death. The memory of Trystan Truefyre and of the child, Gaemon Palehair, made his stomach churn unpleasantly. Trystan Truefyre had been granted the honour of being knighted before he was beheaded, but Gaemon Palehair, a whore’s son, had been hanged along with his whore mother as soon as she had confessed the boy wasn’t Aegon’s, but a Lysene sailor’s offspring. And the small body added to the number of those who haunted him during the Hour of Ghosts.

“You speak of treason, Lord Tully.”

“Not treason, my Lord Hand. Only a warning of the Lords mood.”

“A warning, or a threat?”

Stark’s deep voice rumbled on his left.

“Lord Kermit knows better than to threat the House of the Dragon in its own den.”

Stark was smarter, more moderate, but still waters ran deep and Aemond distrusted him. He well knew one of the Northeners’ old adage. The North remembers. The farthest Kingdom was renowned for keeping the oaths spoken, as well as for holding old grudges.

“I’m afraid the realm will have to endure my brother’s reign until its end, though. I have already slain my nephew and my uncle, I can’t murder my own brother now, can I? Do you want me to be a kinslayer, thrice over?”

His cynicism had the intended effect. Stark and Tully turned wide eyes on him, obviously shocked by his words. Tully’s ears and cheeks turned a nice shade of pinkish red, and Aemond couldn’t help his lips from curling.

“My Lord Hand, I apologize if I made myself unclear. We don’t wish ill to the King, of course. I just meant that –“

Aemond rose, interrupting him, dismissing him with a gesture that could also be understood as benevolent indulgence, and the mere thought made him want to laugh cruelly.

“I am sure of it, Lord Tully. Don’t mind my words. Call it dark Targaryen humour, that’s all.”

Pretend to be jesting when he was not differed from his usual strategy. He used to be direct, and blunt, and cruel, during the war. And what use could it be with them? They already hated him, hated his brother, hating all that the Greens represented. Suspected him of mistreating Rhaenyra’s remaining children, of secluding her last son. Of raping her daughter, mayhaps. So what? Could he have them arrested like they deserved and have half of the realm turn against them again? Could he risk being called a tyrant, when he was already the One-Eyed Kinslayer?

He felt the weight of his mistakes. Knew them intimately.

He glared at the two lords’ backs as they passed the door of his office.

And sighed.

*

Her newly assigned ladies were surrounding her, a flurry of bright-coloured silks and velvets and of high-pitched laughs and cries. The women evidently thought that acting silly was a token of femininity, their giggles blown away by the autumn wind.

Ah. She was being uselessly cruel. She didn’t know them, and already judged them after a few minutes.

Because, maybe they acted silly to look, innocent enough and avoid rising her suspicions. She had to play silly too. Or at least, to play the ingénue. The Queen would want to know who she spoke with. Would think she plotted against her sons if Stark tried to speak to her again.

She had chosen to go to the gardens with her new ladies-in-waiting rather than to be forced to endure their company in a room that would feel crowded and boisterous. Here in the open, the stiff breeze reduced the chances of having a conversation.

The Cressey girl – Velma? – sheltered herself in her cloak and jested about a strong gust of wind that threatened to dishevel her, tucking her flying chestnut strands behind her ears. A veiled wish to get back inside the walls of the Keep.

She smiled to her.

“I like the wind”, she said. “It reminds me of Dragonstone.”

The ladies exchanged uneased looks. Dragonstone wasn’t to be spoken of. Because of what had happened to her Muña. Because there currently was no Prince of Dragonstone, King Aegon having refused to name either his brother or his nephew.

“But please, Lady Wilma, feel free to go back to the Keep. I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

“Willa, Princess.”

“Of course.”

“With your permission, Princess, I’ll stay. I wouldn’t want to displease you.”

“Of course”, she simply said with her best courteous smile, and turned away, continuing to walk to the belvedere. The platform was built over the cliff, and offered a large view.  If she turned to her right, she could see King’s Landing port in the estuary. Essosi argosies heaved to the docks. The scarce war boats of the King’s fleet. Further right were the shipyards, bustling with activity. Aemond, reluctant to have to rely on the Velaryon and Lannister boats only, had commissioned a new fleet to be built for the Crown. If she turned left, Blackwater Bay. And beyond, the open sea. Driftmark. Dragonstone. Home.

She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the salty air coming from the East. Healthy air that wasn’t corrupted with the city’s foul stench of forced proximity. If she closed her eyes, she could almost shield herself from Margret Stokeworth’s high-pitched titter, could almost pretend she was there, on Dragonstone, on top of Sea-Dragon Tower, and that her brothers would fly just over her.

Nostalgia clawed at her heart. If she didn’t think of the dead, life was bearable. But when their memories came to her, the pain made her lungs shrink under the force of it. Sometimes, like today, she delved in it. Purposely inflicted it to herself.

She imagined the dragons in the skies. Their shapes and colours, the graceful trajectories of their bodies as they slowly flapped their leather wings. The screeches of the powerful beasts.

The only screech she could hear was that of leather soles on gravel.

She opened her eyes and turned to the newcomer.

Oh.

Lord Tully. That would make a fine subject for her ladies to report to the Queen.

He greeted her and her ladies-in-waiting with courteous politeness, and all the women answered in kind.

“A word, Princess?”

She wanted to roll her eyes, but smiled instead.

“Of course.”

He turned his gaze to the four young women surrounding her.

“In private?”

“Sounds like conspiring, my Lord”, she said with forced mirth, and the women giggled in turn. When he kept silent, she gave a silent nod to her companions, asking them to walk a few paces away. They nodded and obeyed, not leaving as far as to not see her and the river lord anymore. The Cressey girl, especially, placed herself to face them.

“I hope you realize that you’re putting me in a difficult position, my Lord. They are the Queen Dowager’s creatures.”

“That is precisely what concerns me, Princess. You may not be a prisoner in name anymore, but –“

She cut him, sharp and cold as Valyrian steel.

“I don’t know you, my Lord. Don’t expect me to venture on treason words. You surely are smarter than that.”

He bowed his head in submission.

“I assure you, Princess, that I’m just concerned with your well-being. With your health. Does Aemond One-Eye treat you well?”

His tone was softer, gentler. Truly concerned, as it appeared.

“Yes, my Lord, he does. As unexpected as it can be, Prince Aemond – “ and she emphasised the title to courteously scold his for his disrespect – “is gentle and considerate to me. And believe me, Lord Tully, when I say that I was prepared to share the fate of Maegor’s wives, which is not the case.”

He studied her face, searching for any trace of lie, then nodded slowly.

“But if you could get rid of him and be returned to your true home –“

Her heart jumped in her ribcage.

From fear. What if Alicent’s pretty spies heard him? Would her head ornate Traitor’s Gate along with Lord Tully’s one by the end of the day?

And from hope. Oh, to be on Dragonstone again. To live there, free from the Red Keep and its dark, ominous corners and in the immediate vicinity of the sea.

“Treasonous words that I won’t hear.”

“I don’t mean to offend you, Princess. Nor to make you scared.”

She bit her lips. Tully spoke again.

“I concede that the Prince is comely, if one forgets his scar. And he can have charming manners. But he is cruel, beastly so. My land knows it first-hand.”

“I know it too.”

But she didn’t. Lucerys did.

“Do you? Do you know what’s left after a dragon came and breathed fire? Charred bodies, the flesh melted to the bones, unidentifiable. Their mouths opened in their last screams of agony. The stench of it – heavy and greasy – and ashes flying in the air like grey snowflakes. Instead it’s not snow. Just ashes of people who had the misfortune to find their way under the Prince’s path. People who weren’t even fighting in this war. Farmers, shepherds, ploughmen, fishermen, boatmen, along with their wives, sons and daughters. Actual people who had names, who had a life. And Vhagar fed on their cattle.”

“I know what dragonfire does to a body, my Lord.”

All that he described, the burning flesh, the stench of sizzling body fat and burnt hair, and the sound of bones under dragon’s teeth, all of it was engraved in her memory. She had witnessed it all. Couldn’t he remember what death the Queen he supported had to suffer?

“But the dragons are dead, and his war crimes weigh heavily on my husband’s shoulders. He carries them like a leaded cloak, each and every day.”

She had seen his guilt and self-loathing, because he trusted her enough to be vulnerable in her presence. Or because he accepted her being witness of it as his penance. The result was the same. She had seen her husband as no one had seen him. Unsure, crying, trembling with shame and culpability.

Tully nodded once more.

“I am concerned. I truly am. It’s quite unsettling that you’ve been coerced to wed your brother’s murderer, and that you now find words to defend him.”

She took a sharp inhale and turned her face away from him. She knew this. Aemond had burned half of the realm, had murdered people by dozens, had rid her father’s – genitor’s? – family from the surface of the earth. And yet, he was the only member of the family, save young Aegon, to behave decently with her.

“A young lady like you, surely he has found means of taking advantage of. He may have tied you to him with – a certain courtliness, or decency – or whatever talents he used. Mayhaps he’s just been gentle and attentive when his brother and mother weren’t, and thus brought you to trust him.”

She frowned. Aemond had certainly been far more decent than his brother. She knew what Lord Tully was trying to do. To convince her that Aemond had wed her because it served his brother’s claim to the throne. Because she was just a pawn in Viserys’ sons’ schemes. Because uniting the Greens and the Blacks through marriage would both legitimize Aegon II as King and mend the wounds of the realm.

“You weren’t there, Lord Tully. You didn’t witness the tourney. I can assure you that Prince Aemond’s victory wasn’t planned. He protected me from whatever misery the King had planned for me.”

Her other uncle had intended Hugh Hammer to win. Aemond wasn’t even to joust in the first place. She remembered very clearly the look of angry confusion on Aegon’s toad-like face

“You would have been defeated, my Lord. Killed, perhaps.”

“By Prince Aemond?”

“Or by another contestant. They didn’t fight honourably, that day. The Tyrell knight aimed at the neck of my uncle’s horse, to kill it. Hugh Hammer killed Ser Emmeryk Lannister, who was laying in the sand, disarmed.”

“Your uncle beheaded Hugh.”

“He killed him, yes. But you don’t know what the dragonseed had in mind. What proposition he spoke as he saw he had lost the tourney.”

The words still made her sick.

“I’ve heard of it, Princess. An atrocious offer, indeed.”

Of course he had. The tale of her misery, of the vile silver-haired bastard, and of the second son deceiving his King’s intentions was largely discussed amongst courtiers. Priceless gossip subject for idle people.

“Then, believe me when I say that this marriage isn’t the worst thing that could have happened.”

To have what she had – shared intimacy, pleasure given and not taken by force, the feeling of being sheltered from the worst – it felt like unexpected luxury.

Lord Tully gave her a sad smile.

“He must have bewitched you.”

She frowned, failing to understand what he was saying.

“Your husband. He must have bewitched you. Given you a draught, written magical runes. His wife was a witch, you know? She helped him greatly during the war. Mayhaps he’s learnt from her.”

What was he saying?

Amongst all the words that he had just pronounced, amongst the murmured calumniation, one thing burned her more than the accusation of sorcery.

His wife.

His wife.

Alys Rivers.

Not only the dead mother of his stillborn bastard, but his bloody wife, too.

“Where did you learn of this?”

He shook his head lightly, a woeful smile stretching his lips.

“It is well-known in the Riverlands. Your uncle slain all of House Strong, from the eighty-year-old Ser Simon to the two-year-old babies. All of them, save Alys Rivers. At first, she was his bedmate. And one day, before the Battle above the Gods Eye, he brought her to the sept and they spoke their vows.

That was why Aemond had looked so sorrowful the morning he had talked about her. She had thought that he looked like a widower. He was.

She sighed, and glanced at her ladies, who were observing them, quietly waiting.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

Her tone was hard, dismissive, and Lord Tully bowed with deference.

“It is my pleasure to serve my suzerain.” He leaned to her. “When you need help, Princess, be sure you can count on us”, he whispered with such urgency that she shivered.

“If”, she corrected.

“When”, he repeated with a slight shake of his head. Then he bowed his head to her and turned, abruptly taking his leave, graciously nodding to her ladies-in-waiting as he passed before them.

*

The door of his office opened, and Ser Willis Fell stepped in.

“Pardon me, my Lord Hand. The Princess, your wife, is asking to see you.”

He interrupted the letter he was writing, and made a gesture to the white cloak as he put his quill down and rolled the parchment. The knight moved aside to let her in, then exited before closing the door behind him.

She was standing, waiting for him to speak, not having dared to walk further in. Still by the door, like she was an intruder. Wringing her hands in her lap.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

She nodded faintly.

“Is something the matter?”

She worried her bottom lip, hesitant to speak.

“I – I would –“

He was still sitting behind the Hand’s large desk. Embodying his duty. She evidently hadn’t come to the Hand, but to her husband, and he was intimidating her. She turned to the door.

“I’m sorry, Valzȳrȳs. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

“Wait”, he called, raising as she was extending her hand to the doorknob, and came near her with a few strides.

“A foolish impulse. Don’t bother yourself.”

Her voice was unsure, her eyes wet.

He took her hand.

“What’s troubling you so much?”

She lowered her eyes.

“Can you – could you – show me a passageway to go to the sea? I know there are rocky inlets at the foot of the Keep. I need to be by the water. I need it, Aemond.”

She looked agitated, upset. Obviously, it wasn’t only the sudden impulse to have a walk on a beach that caused that state.

“What happened?”

“I just need to be alone, and to breathe. I wouldn’t know – I need you to show me where to go.”

He narrowed his eye, studying her face. Flushed cheeks. Wet eyelashes. Reddened lips that she just bit. He wanted to kiss those lips, to make them redder. To make them swollen.

His hands went to her elbows, squeezing lightly.

“What happened?” he repeated, more intently.

She just shook her head, closing her eyes and lowering her head to avoid his gaze.

“Tell me. Who did you meet?”

Because she never panicked like this. She must have encountered someone who told her something disturbing. Stark? The Tully boy? That reddish trout asked for trouble. He already felt the urge to burn him and clenched his jaw. There would be no benefit in that, except to quench his own blood thirst. Vhagar was dead, which left him with frustration dangerously bordering on anger.

“I’m spied on. I need to be alone.”

Ah. He hadn’t expected that right now, but it was due to happen. The Keep had eyes and ears. He had grown with the idea. Used it, also. Larys Strong, as vile as he could be, could prove to be useful. But she – on Dragonstone, his bitch-sister had managed to shelter her children from the intrigues of the Court. It was a fault. Now her daughter didn’t know how to navigate these waters. The thought didn’t alleviate his churning irritation, but diverted the object of it.

“Spied on? By whom?”

“My ladies.”

Her voice was barely a breath.

He hummed.

The women had been chosen by his mother, who wouldn’t trust her new good-daughter since she was Rhaenyra’s daughter. He would have to speak with her. Would have to make his little wife accept ladies-in-waiting, too. It wasn’t befitting for a Princess of the Realm not to have a hive of ladies surrounding her.

“I see. Where are they now?”

“Dismissed.”

He tilted his head on one side, pursing his lips.

“They didn’t complain when I told them I was coming to see you. I think they’re scared.”

Scared.

Of him.

As so many others.

He sighed.

“Let us go”, he said, opening the door and presenting the staircase with his open palm. “Their names?” he asked as they walked down the spiral staircase.

“Stokeworth, Roxton, Cressey, Reyne.”

He chuckled.

“The Stokeworth girl is dumb. She won’t be able to spy anything. Keep an eye on her, though. Roxton, mmh. Probably the sister of the Caltrop, fostered in gratitude for her brother’s deeds during the Dance. Same for the Reyne girl, her father died in the Battle by the Lakeshore. Lord Cressey is an ambitious man. He is pushing his daughter.”

As they walked the Serpentine stairs, he couldn’t help watching how her dark curls unfurled in the wind. Like a banner. His personal banner of dark silk. He wanted to plunge his hands in this mane of hers, to feel its weight and its warmth, wanted to bury his nose in it and inhale the scent of it.

“Willa Cressey watched me more than the others.”

“Don’t underestimate the others, anyway.”

She nodded. Obedient. But something was amiss, he could smell it.

He didn’t ask as they entered Maegor’s holdfast, and he led her to a corridor, and then slipped behind a column, holding her left hand to secure her in the worn stone steps. The passageway led to the high-ceilinged, dark room where rested Balerion’s skull.

He heard her gasp.

“I haven’t come here since we left to Dragonstone. Since I was a child.”

He remembered. She used to follow the boys wherever they went. She had followed him there, on a few occasions, and he had read stories to her. That was before Lucerys sliced his face open and blinded him in one eye.

The gigantic, empty sockets seemed to watch. To judge them. Him. Did you serve your family, Aemond, when marrying her? Or did you selfishly think of yourself? it seemed that the ancient, dead dragon was hissing to him.

Both, he answered in his mind, his stare unwavering as he lit a candle and placed it between the slowly sliding wax that was melting under the tiny, flickering flames.

“Are you praying to him?” she asked softly.

He hummed. He didn’t pray anymore since the war. Since Helaena’s death.

“A tribute, rather.”

She nodded.

“Don’t you ever pray for them?”

He turned his right eye to her. The candles casted a warm glow on her face, and the dim light made her eyes look as deep as the night sky, and the flames reflecting in them were like stars.

“For whom?”

He thought she meant Helaena and the children. All war casualties.

“Your wife. Your son.”

Fury mixed with shame rose in his chest and throat. He had told her about Alys. Hadn’t told he had wed her. There could only be one way she had learnt of this.

“Tully murmured things in your ear, mmh? Tried to turn you against me?” he whispered with hostility, making her jolt, and he hated himself for being like this. For ruining everything. He had no right to talk to her like this, and he took her fingers, squeezing softly in silent apology.

She opened her mouth to speak, swallowed difficultly.

Mmh.

That might be the cause – one of the causes – of her distress.

“I’d rather have heard it from you”, she uttered, short of breath.

He hummed again, not in contempt, this time. Contempt he felt, but not for her. He could explain it in a few words.

“I swore not to sire bastards. She didn’t tell me she was pregnant until it was too late for moon tea. I wed her not to break my oath. Endured the dalliance for the sake of it.”

Old memories that he didn’t want to think of triggered to come back. His affair with Alys, it had been an error. He had been impulsive. She had served him, though. Served herself, avoiding to be slaughtered like the rest of her brood, only to die anyway.

“Oh”, she simply said, hurt flashing in her eyes. Because she was a bastard. Because she knew that she and her brown-haired brothers were the cause of that oath.

“Did you love her?”

He kept silent, and something painful flickered on her face again.

“I thought I did, first. She thrived on power. I was severely wounded when I fought Daemon.” He remembered the gruesome sight of his leg bone jutting out of his flesh, and had to make a supreme effort not to limp in pain when the weather changed. “I was confined to bed for weeks. Vhagar was dead, and most of my power lost with her. I became a burden, and she turned sour.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, pressed his lips before whispering a truth never spoken out loud. His stillborn son who never got to breathe, with his white, featherlike hair and white eyelashes that brushed his chubby cheeks. His tiny fingers, even tinier toes.

“I mourned the boy, though.”

He intertwined the fingers of her left hand and picked a candle to light the gloomy passageway.

“Oh, Aemond, I –“

“This way”, he muttered, interrupting her, and led her in the tunnel he knew led to the shore.

They walked in silence, except for the echoes of their steps and breaths as they went down more stairs. He, brooding. She, likely upset. Pitying him, mayhaps. The flame was snuffed out by the sea breeze, the salty air and a bleak light revealing that they were reaching the shore. The stairs ended in pebbles that scraped under their weight, and she let go of his hand to rush outside. They were at the very mouth of Blackwater Bay, facing the open sea. He watched her as she walked to the small waves licking the shore and bent to plunge her hands in it before bringing them to her face and pressing them onto her nose to inhale the scent of seawater. And when she turned to him she was smiling.

How unexpected, after the last few words they spoke to each other. After what they left unspoken.

He could understand what she felt. Nostalgia. The dull, never-ending longing left by what – who – they had lost.

She sat hastily and hiked her skirts up, already pulling her boots off.

“What are you doing?”

“Just dipping my feet.”

He frowned. Why? It was cold, and wet.

“What’s the point?”

She gave him an incredulous glance before she rose abruptly and unlaced her bodice.

“You’re right. There’s no point in limiting it to the feet.”

What was she doing now? Was she undressing here, on the beach, like a common pearl diver? Before he could add a word, she had grabbed the hem of her dress, pulled it all the way over her head, and tossed it on the pebbles, and was now walking to the sea, naked as on her nameday.

He called her, and she answered something that was swept away by the wind as she entered the water.

She walked a few steps more, and crouched with a high-pitched cry that spoke of delight mixed with surprise.

“T’s cold!” she laughed. A sad, forced laughter that badly masked her despair.

“Come back!”

She laughed again, and walked farther away. Away from him. Deeper in the water.

What if she was taken away by the currents? What if she tired herself, and drowned? He was stuck here, unable to swim, never having needed to learn. Hating water since the Gods Eye. And as her head disappeared under the surface, blind, cold panic rushed in his veins. She would die here, under his eye, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything to save her. He ran desperately to the water, stopping at knee-depth, as she came to the surface again.

“Aemond? What’s the matter?”

“Come back”, he urged again, and this time she didn’t laugh. She blinked the salt water away and rose, walking to him.

He felt foolish. Stupid. The water barely reached her bare breast. She was safe. She knew how to be, obviously, having been raised amongst island people.

She came to him, water splashing around her thighs. She was thin. Too thin. In the candlelight of his bedroom, she didn’t look so skinny, but there, in daylight, he could see her hipbones protruding. Months of concern and of custody had taken a toll on her young body. He wanted to sigh in defeat and roar in anger. Anger against their families, against his father who weakly never took a decision. Against his brother and her mother for destroying the realm. Against himself, for having kept her like a relic in the Tower of the Hand.

He engulfed her in his arms as soon as she was close enough, hating how her skin was cold and covered in goose bumps. Hating the way her hair dripped with cold water. Hating the salty scent that came from her skin.

“I thought – I thought –“

“That I would drown?”

He nodded against her head.

“That you would want to –“ he croaked.

“T’s alright”, she whispered. “I wouldn’t have undressed if I wanted to.”

He was making a fool of himself.

“Let’s get you dry”, he rasped, throat tight, letting go of her and leading her to her discarded clothes, picking the undershirt and wrapping it around her like a makeshift towel.

“You can’t swim, can you?”

“No.”

His tone was too harsh, and he quietly brushed her arms in apology, keeping his eye on the hollow at the base of her neck, where drops of water had gathered. Like a tiny pool on her flesh. She was a child of the sea.

“I always was within my depth, you know. Here in the mouth of the river, the current is too strong. I wouldn’t take a risk and swim in deeper water.”

He lifted his gaze to hers. Clenched his teeth.

“I almost drowned in the Gods Eye. Looks like an awful death.”

She nodded.

“It is.”

His shoulder, stabbed through by Dark Sister, hadn’t hurt as much as his lungs as they filled with the water of the lake. He had learned, that day, that water could burn. It felt like that. A burn in his chest, and not caused by fire. Caused by water fighting his own dragonfire, extinguishing the last flames of his life. Until Alys plunged and grabbed him by the hair.

“Don’t want to talk about it”, he grunted.

She kept quiet and finished wiping herself dry, then slipped her dress on her bare skin, and he helped her with the laces.

“Can we stay for a moment?”

Her voice was timid.

He nodded, and she sat on the ground. He hesitated a few seconds. They were alone. Maybe, maybe, he could allow himself a moment of break, far from the exercise of his duty. He sat next to her.

“It makes me think of home. I miss the sea. I miss sailing.”

“Sailing?”

This was something he didn’t know.

She nodded, and smiled.

“My grandsire the Seasnake offered me a sport dinghy years ago. I almost grew up in it.”

He only raised his eyebrows, letting her talk. That was something he couldn’t fathom, though. She, a sailor? He could only imagine her in her black brocade dresses, or in flowing blue silks, cut in the Tyroshi fashion, like the dress she wore when they all came to petition for Lucerys.

“My brother – Lucerys –“ and she pronounced his name with caution, “he was sea-sick, you know. The future Lord of the Tides. But he had a dragon. I’m dragonless, but I can sail.”

“It should have been you.”

She turned her face to him.

“The Lady of the Tides. Sounds pretty.”

“You’re mocking me!” she cried with feigned indignation.

“Absolutely not. Don’t forget: I’m Aemond the Boring, who completely ignores the idea of humour.”

The words stung as he pronounced them. Long-forgotten words, that had sprung to her mind like a monster coming from under the clouds, feral and unseen until it was too late.

They hurt her, too. She remembered.

Words uttered by Jacaerys during a moment when he tormented him along with Aegon. And she had been here. She had heard it all.

“I’m sorry for that”, she whispered.

“Don’t be. It wasn’t you.”

He didn’t want her pity.

“About Kermit Tully –“

What with him?

“You were right. He tried to turn me against you.”

He muttered a curse, and Vhagar’s absence felt heavily under his ribs.

“I beg of you, Aemond. Act like I didn’t tell anything to you. Let him think he can manipulate me.”

His nostrils flared under his once-again raising irritation. So the Stinking Fish was actually trying to prejudice her against her own husband.

“Can he now?”

His voice, slicing like dragonglass. He shook his head in self-loathing.

“No, he can’t. Enough with this family ripping itself to shreds.”

He watched her. Her open face, her honest eyes. Her rosy lips that he wanted to kiss. He didn’t deserve her. Didn’t deserve her trust, her companionship. He knew it was only a matter of time before the Gods came like debt collectors, before he felt dearly the price of what little happiness was granted to him.

Chapter Text

X.

She hated riding.

She positively hated it.

Hated the stupid horse she had been assigned, however docile it was. Hated how the beast seemed constantly vigilant, its ears turning to track the sounds around them, which didn’t help her to relax in the saddle.

Aemond rode at her left side, to keep her in his sight, and made sure she stayed close, made sure she was relatively comfortable.

“Lower your hands”, he said gently. “You may as well rest them on the pommel.”

She gave him a side glance, and did as he told, resisting the urge to hold onto the horse’s mane rather than relaxing her hands before her.

“If you’re tense, the horse feels it.”

“I hate it”, she groaned, immediately regretting the complaint that had escaped her lips.

“He knows it, and will hate you in turn if you keep doing it.”

She turned her head to him, helpless, only to meet a mischievous glint in his periwinkle eye. She sighed in frustration.

“My Lord Hand, making fun of your wife is indeed very cruel.”

“My wife is fierce and stubborn enough not to travel in a wheelhouse”, he said in a low voice, a half-smile stretching the corner of his lips.

She sighed again.

Frustrating, he was.

“You insisted, sweetling. Remember?”

She did, and she sorely regretted being on the King’s Road now, even though she was too proud to admit it aloud.

Since the discussions about the pacification and support of the Crown for the upcoming winter had proved fruitful, since the two Lords had no proof of Aegon and her being ill-treated at their uncles’ hands, they had taken their leave. Aegon the Younger had suggested they accompany Lord Tully and Lord Stark on their way back, as a gesture of good-will from the Lord Hand surveying the rebuilding of the Riverlands by himself. She had approved. Aemond had promised funds to help Lady Darry, why not deliver the gold dragons himself? Aegon the Elder had jumped at the chance, of course, and had made a public announcement even before his brother-Hand could discuss it with the two lords.

And they had been riding for three days already, sleeping under a tent, on narrow cots that they had brought closer. She didn’t mind the tent at night. She didn’t mind being in the open all day long. But she hated the slow gait of the horse and found herself unable to trust the beast. And she hated how sore her backside was, how stiff she felt in the morning. This wasn’t like nicely sore muscles after a sailing session, not at all. She felt passively carried by an unpredictable animal prone to incontrollable fear.

And she worried for Aegon, who had stayed in King’s Landing. Their uncle the so-called King wouldn’t let him go, of course. He said he wouldn’t risk the lives of the three of them on the road – what risk was there, with so many men at arms surrounding them? – her little brother was kept as a hostage, once more. A guarantee to ensure she wouldn’t do  anything foolish, such as rallying her mother’s supporters, since they were heading directly into traitors’ territory, accompanied by Lords once faithful to the Blacks.

Aemond’s mood was sour since they left the capital, with anyone but her. She knew how reluctant he was to travel to the Riverlands again. It had been agreed that they would go to Darry, where Lord Tully and Lord Stark would part, each to regain their fiefdom after their unlucky visit to the capital. Aemond and she would stay a fortnight, see to the restoration of the keep he himself had burnt to the ground, and then would return to King’s Landing – with or without a Darry son to be fostered by the Crown, it was still up to the Lady Darry.

And now, Aemond fought his boredom by assigning himself the mission to improve her horse riding talents.

Good luck.

She hated it.

She was a daughter of the sea. She rode waves, not horses.

He had required that she wore leather breeches and rode astride, like a man. She had to admit she was grateful for the thought. Having the horse between her legs was already bad enough. She would have felt helpless had she ridden side-saddled. A split skirt, not unlike the one Baela wore on dragonback, completed her attire to keep a semblance of modesty when she was afoot. Not that she really cared when she dismounted at night, for her legs were so sore she ungracefully wobbled to the tent she shared with Aemond.

The young Lord Tully had politely insisted that she use a wheelhouse, which she equally politely refused, arguing that she might slow down their progress. She didn’t want to be treated as a delicate, weak being. She was her mother’s daughter, and her mother had waged war.

She watched the landscape, grateful to be out of the capital. She never had had the chance to see much of the realm. They were still travelling across the Crownlands, going past well-tended orchards – some having just been planted with young fruit trees, at the end of the war – and young peasants, girls and boys alike, went to see the convoy of horsemen and footmen. Girls had gracefully offered her some pears, to quench the Princess’ thirst, they humbly said. Aemond had accepted an apple offered by a frightful lad, and had even given the boy a courteous nod. Had acknowledged him, looked at him – or rather at the crown of his head, since the boy was too scared to look at the One-Eyed Prince in the face. Little Aegon had said many times, during their time in custody, that he made efforts to improve, to behave, to be a good Hand. She could see by the day that her brother was right. Aemond indeed wanted to change. He endeavoured not to behave like the spoilt, ill-tempered brat that he had always been since Lucerys deprived him of his eye. He had matured, but like a responsible man. A grown man, of good sense and of fine education. If he met her twin now, would he chase him down? Probably not. She shook her head to herself. Ridiculous thought. Aemond changed because he had suffered much, and because he had come to see how much people suffered at his hand. Without the war he started, without his crimes, without what he had lost – Helaena, Alys, his child –, he would still be the beautiful prick who had kissed her before calling her and her brothers bastards in the pretence of toasting.

The weather had been merciful today, with a cloudy sky that let patches of sunlight warm them from time to time. Not too warm, but not damp either. As the end of the afternoon stretched, the sun reddened, dyeing the sky in a blazing light.

“This light is beautiful”, she whispered.

She wished to die, once. Felt irritated by the injustice that the world could carry on, that beauty still surrounded her when her own world had stopped, when she wished for nothing by her own life to be taken to – because what was the point without him, her other half? And in the end, absorbing herself in the quiet contemplation of this beauty – the sea, the clouds, the meadows dancing in the wind – it had saved her sanity after Luke never retruned from Storm’s End. After Muña came back from her incessant scoutings above Shipbreaker’s Bay with a torn wing of poor Arrax. It had been a bright, sunny day, just as if the world was mocking their sorrow and despair. She had visited the Dragonmont after that, to no avail. Had been lucky to feel the cool sea breeze on her face again.

Aemond grunted at her side.

“Don’t you agree?”

His lips made a pout.

“Makes me think of the day I faced Daemon. Not a pleasant memory.”

Ah. That day.

She had heard tales of the Battle above the God’s Eye. Of the blazing sunset of that day. Aemond seldom spoke of it, and always in few words. He had lost Vhagar, had nearly died. Her mother had lost her husband and fiercest warrior. Baela, Rhaena, Aegon and Viserys had lost their father.

She nodded, knowing better than to press him on the subject.

Ser Jorey, Lord Stark’s man, trotted to them from the vanguard, offering a nice distraction from the gloomy thoughts. The man, despite his rough Northern features, was always pleasant and cordial.

“Just three more miles, Your Highnesses. There is a grove of birch trees behind that hill over there, where the grass is thin and pleasant. It’s a perfect place to spend the night. The Princess must be tired.”

“Thank you, Ser”, said her husband.

“Think of your men first, Ser”, she answered. “They’re the ones walking, while my horse does it for me.”

The man bowed his dark-haired head.

“The Princess is too kind. The men need rest, of course. We’ve walked almost eight leagues today.”

Eight. No wonder her backside hurt, and her legs seemed like they were ready to fall from her hips.

She let a light laugh that she hoped didn’t betray her soreness.

“We’ll stop at your ready.”

“There is a spring, too. To wash.”

She smiled, all her behaviour well-bred and ladylike in spite of her tiredness and aching limbs.

“A bath is a joyful prospect indeed. Thank you for lifting my spirits, good Ser.”

He bowed again, and trotted back to his master.

“Cold water in the woods, that’s what he meant”, Aemond groaned.

“I don’t mind cold water, you know it.”

“Maybe I do.”

She laughed, and he smiled to her. The impish glint was back in his sole eye. She wanted to kiss him. Wanted to feel his arms around her. She extended her hand to him, and he seemed started by her boldness. Here, in the open, with two White cloaks and her lady-in-waiting riding behind them? She raised her eyebrows, insisting, and her smile widened as he wrapped his warm palm around hers. She wanted him to publicly old her hand. Maybe it was for show. Maybe it was for real. She didn’t know in the moment, and it didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he did try. And she was grateful for it.

*

He had expected the days to be dull and to blur in boredom.

He was sorely mistaken.

True, they rode, and rode, and rode. And in fact, he found that even if he missed Vhagar and the quickness of her flight, travelling through the realm at a slower pace was quite instructive. He learnt much and more, confirmed or confronted theoretical knowledge with direct observation, caught a glimpse of the effects of the economic measures discussed during session of the Small Council. With the trade starting again, inns had reopened along the King’s road. Not all, of course, and they had had to sleep under the tent four nights in a row. He didn’t mind it, though – it was more comfortable than sleeping under Vhagar’s wings in the time when he raided and burned the Riverlands – and neither did she, as it seemed, as long as they were together. She didn’t complain. A word had escaped her lips, once, about the horse, and that was it. She was sore and aching, though, he knew it. Saw her wince and walk funnily as she rose in the morning. Had accompanied her to bathe in the cold pool of a spring, and except for a gasp, she had tried to make the best of it. He felt spoilt, for he had complained of the cold water that day, even though the feeling of scrubbing away the sweat was relieving.

So tonight, the little inn was more than welcome. It had rained all day, and he was now comfortably sitting in a rustic but cosy straw armchair, his clothes drying before a good fire, his legs extended to the fireplace, ankles crossed.

Behind him, she was enjoying a hot bath. The innkeeper had had a wooden tub – more like a half-barrel indeed – brought along with buckets of hot water. Her lady, the Cressey girl, the only one who had dared travelling, had hung a sheet on a rope as a makeshift screen. His little wife had emitted a certain number of objections when he’d said Willa Cressey would come too, but the girl had proven useful, and had nothing valuable to spy. So much for his Lady-Mother.

“Is the water hot enough?” he asked.

“It’s wonderful. I’ll be quick, so you can enjoy it too.”

“Take your time, sweetling.”

He’d order more water. He liked his bathes scorching hot.

The room was getting too dark to read. They were well on their way towards winter. Why travel now? His brother had once more been vexing. What’s a little discomfort to you, Aemond the Daunting? Take our niece along, if you fear the cold at night. Leave two, and make sure to come back three! He didn’t like the idea of her brother being left alone in the Keep, but Aegon had been inflexible about it. He wouldn’t risk all of his male relatives on the King’s Road.

Aemond closed the book he had brought – a smaller copy of a treaty about fortifications, its size made easier to travel, which meant the copied text was slightly smaller too, and difficult to read in the dim light. His eye burned and throbbed with effort. He kept silent and immobile, but his gaze was drawn to the fire, although he would have preferred to avoid it.

Alys always watched in the fire. She saw things, she used to say.

He was now certain she only said whatever he wanted to hear.

Helaena is safe in King’s Landing. (No, she wasn’t)

Daemon will come to you soon. (No, he hadn’t, not until Vhagar and he had burnt down half of the Riverlands)

You will be the greatest King the Seven Kingdoms will ever know. (He would never be. He’d never wear the crown. He didn’t want it anymore. His luck had turned, if he ever had any.)

Drown in his sinister thoughts and memories, he didn’t hear her – not Alys, no, his second wife, his young wife who wasn’t lenient to him, who didn’t comply when she didn’t want to, who had strong spirits (that word, again) and searched comfort and solace with him, against all odds – he was unaware of her getting out of her bath, until her fingers pressed softly around his shoulder – his good shoulder, and he knew she was purposely careful, because she was careful and gentle, and never mean to him, even though he should have deserved it so much. He tilted his face to her and gave her a smile. She was shrouded in a thick black robe, her wet hair in a linen towel, her face tired. And he wrapped his hand above hers.

“You may leave”, he said, his tone falsely smooth. “Have more water brought. Boiling hot.”

A ruffle of fabric was heard, and the Cressey girl muttered a salutation before she hastily left. He only rose when he heard the click of the door closing.

“Thank you”, she breathed.

“You don’t like her. No need to inflict her presence furthermore.”

She pressed her lips, half-pout, half-smile. And he wanted to kiss her. Wanted to open the folds of the gown that hid her body and wrap her in his arms rather than in this heavy clothe of silk and wool.

Instead, he just gave her a peck and went behind the sheet, neatly folded his shirt on a chair before dipping his hand into the wooden tub. The water was still warm, but not enough to his liking, as he had suspected. He grunted. He would have to wait for a maid, would have to be patient. How could he be, when she was so close to him?

“Are you comfortable?” she asked.

“Almost.”

“Do you mind if I lay down a bit to rest before dinner?”

Dinner was to be brought in their room. She had politely declined Stark’s invitation, and he was more grateful than he could tell. He much needed solitude, as did she.

“Not at all. I’ll join you in a moment.”

He picked his comb and carefully untangled the long strands of his hair, coating the comb in precious oils. Hygiene and care were as much part of his discipline as studying and training. Before he was done, a soft knock echoed, and he strode to the door, picking his dagger on the way. Three maids opened wide, frightened eyes at the spectacle of his face and of his blade before averting their gazes to the floor and curtsying.

“Hot water for your bath, your Highness, and dinner on a tray, as your Highness requested.”

He stepped aside and let them in.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, wincing, and in two steps he was at her side, crouching, her pale hand in his. Her fingers were warm, now, and soft from the bath.

“Are you in pain?”

She sighed.

“Just sore from the ride. Nothing I can’t endure. Worry not, dear husband.”

He hummed. Four splashes of water buckets emptied in the tub. The third maid put the tray she was carrying on a small table by the window, and all three of them escaped like scared mice. Two bowls of steaming stew, bread, hard cheese, and baked apples. Simple, yet his mouth watered on its own.

“Don’t wait for me, my sweet”, he murmured. “Eat while the food is hot. I’ll join you shortly”, and he kissed her brow.

She nodded and did as he said. And he heard her spoon clinging against the stoneware bowl as he lowered himself in the hot water.

Aemond didn’t mean to stay in his bath for long, lost track of time.

When he went past the makeshift curtain to sit at the table, she was already abed, sound asleep, and he adjusted her gown over the covers to add an extra layer. The stew was tepid, the grease solid on the surface, as was the melted butter that coated the baked apples.

He ate anyway.

*

As they entered the Riverlands, rain never seemed to stop. Aemond had commissioned the King’s Road to be paved again, and where the work was well on its way, their travel progressed easier by far. But work sites seemed to be outnumbered by areas still to be mended. Horses and men alike walked difficultly, sometimes in a foot depth of thick, heavy mud.

“That’s why I didn’t want a wheelhouse”, she said once, as pack horses had to be pulled by the bridle as they passed a ford near a crumbled bridge. He mentally noted that a wooden bridge must be built there, even if temporarily. He had read about a Braavosi technique that allowed a very resistant bridge to be built in only one day.

And she was right about her means of travel. A wheelhouse would have considerably slowed them. The wheels would have broken several times in the ruts of the road. He was secretly grateful that she was so strong-headed. That she was brave enough to face the road on horseback, like a man. Not like the delicate ladies of the court.

The Cressey girl rode behind them, her face showing her discomfort enough. But the girl never complained either, following the example of her Princess. They had donned large capes of felted wool, warm and watertight. Black, lined with blood-red for her, azure, lined with silver grey for the Cressey girl. His was dark green, of course, even though the rain made it appear almost black. He liked the colour. It was a mix of his father’s black and mother’s emerald green. And green had matched with Vhagar’s bronze-green scales. They had been perfectly suited of each other, he and his old lady-dragon. Her death was an irreparable damage. Vhagar had been the last dragon of conquest, the last remnant of his glorious ancestors. The dragons hadn’t been as large since the conquest. Something had been lost since his lineage departed from Dragonstone to conquer Westeros. Vhagar was the only dragon he could have dreamt of, the only one to match his ambition. And in the end, to what result had led their bond?

To ashes.

Nostalgia and grief clawed at his heart, and the rain made him feel even more low-spirited. He was a southerner, made for warmth and sun, made for clear skies and sharp winds.

The more they walked through the Riverlands, the lower his mood dropped. New feelings, unwanted feelings, showed up as they walked through scorched orchards, the charred branches aiming at the sky as if calling for help. Granges and farm burnt down, footings hidden under charcoaled beams. Woods burnt to a cinder. His work, unfurling on and on and on as they walked, drawn in a limited colour palette of black, grey, brown and the occasional green.

And silence everywhere.

In the countryside, but in their party, too.

Heavy and thick with accusation and resent.

He could tell Tully and his men glared at him in turns, as if they had decided that he be kept a scowl on him throughout the land he had destroyed.

At first, he pretended that their eyes didn’t matter. The Dragon was well above the Fish, wasn’t he? So on the first day in the Riverlands, he carried himself straight and proud, his head protected by the hood but his face bare to the rain, a frown protecting his good eye from the droplets, his mouth wearing his ever-arrogant pout, if onlyfor the satisfaction of provoking them with his demeanour.

The next day, he felt less sure of himself as they progressed farther through the remnants of his fury. For fury it had been, indeed. At first, he had done it to bait Daemon. Then he had burnt everything as he heard news that Rhaenyra had seized King’s Landing and that his mother and sister were the whore’s prisoners.

As he saw the results of his wrath at eye level, he was forced to acknowledge it for what it was.

This ravaged landscape was not the result of war. It was not even the result of vengeance, or even of pain. It was an entire other level.

War crimes led by Targaryen madness.

He was mad.

He was a plague to the realm.

Shame and guilt descended on him, making his shoulders sag and his head drop. He felt like he wouldn’t – couldn’t – look anyone in the eye for the remainder of his life.

And her, oh, her.

Sitting in her saddle, by his side, her calf occasionally brushing his – how could she endure his mere presence?

He wanted to die.

Certainly deserved to.

He opened his lips only to drink and gulp his thick soup when they stopped to rest.

The following day, as they came to a fork in the road, he lifted his face to look left, where he knew another torture sat.

And there they were, raising on the horizon like skeletal fingers pointing to the Gods, the towers of Harrenhal. And his heart clenched at the memories of the castle. The stench of blood as he had slaughtered the Strongs – all of them, from the old Ser Simon to his still nursed great-grandsons along with their mothers and aunts and sisters, their blood mixed with the puddles of the courtyard – all of them save one, who had died anyway.

A soft hand touched his wrist, and he jolted.

She was watching him, her brown eyes dark with worry. Why should she worry about him? Wasn’t he a murderer? Hadn’t she suffered enough by his fault?

“Would you wish to visit their graves?” she asked softly.

“No.”

“It could be quick –“

“I said no.”

His tone too harsh. Too sharp.

He closed his eye in self-loating.

“My apologies”, he whispered, not daring to look at her. He wasn’t good at anything except ruining the life of others. Especially the lives of those he loved.

She kept silent for a moment, before she said lowly, “I’m not the one you should apologize to.”

Oh, how wrong she was. He had started this war when killing her brother, had continued it with the destruction of the Riverlands, then had killed Daemon. And having almost been killed himself, he had spent the end of the war abed, slowly recovering, and then learning to walk again, to use his leg and built muscle again. Likely a cripple, barely useful. So she was the one he owed his apologies to, more than anyone else.

As they stopped to rest at midday, he withdrew from the group and sat apart, alone. Unworthy of another’s company. Had one of Tully’s men tried to assault him, he wouldn’t have opposed any resistance. But the men stepped aside as he walk through them, careful not to touch him, not to even let his cape brush them. Just as if his pestilence could infect them. And they may be right. What festered inside him may well propagate and destroy this realm furthermore.

He sat on a large stump, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head low, and waited for the signal to mount again.

Wet steps made their way to him, letting a squelching sound in the mud. Not her steps. Heavy boots stopped before him. Grey trousers, a grey tunic, a grey cape, a grey wolf pelt around already broad shoulders. And sharp grey eyes on him. Sharp like freshly honed steel.

“My Lord Stark.”

The man handed him a steaming bowl of thick soup. Barley, turnips, carrots, mushrooms, and a slice of smoked bacon.

“Thank you, my Lord”, he said, all arrogance vanished from his voice.

“You’re even more taciturn, these days, my Prince. One might say you’ll speak as much as Northeners the more you travel north.”

A deep, gravelling voice.

The jest was harmless, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to so much as smile. Why smile at a man who was more generous than himself?

He inhaled deeply through his nose.

“Speech eludes me, these days.” He exhaled. Steeled himself to speak. To say what he had to say. “When on dragonback”, he started, his voice hoarse from lack of use – and from shame, too – men and cattle look as tiny as ants. Did you ever kick an anthill, my Lord, and watch the insects run haphazardly for their lives?” Stark kept silent, waiting for him to pursue, his keen eyes glowing under his brows. “‘Tis the same seen from dragonback. Now that I’m on the same ground, I must confess –“ he swallowed thickly, a painful lump obstructing his throat. “Today, I doubt the decision.”

Stark didn’t answer, only inhaled and sighed, and a bitter twitch creased the side of his mouth. Stark. The man his half-sister wanted to wed her only daughter to. Would she have been happy with him? The man was stern – no more than himself, though. Maybe more honourable than himself, if he was entirely honest. Could have it been that she’d known true love with this bear of a man? Well, he always believed he would die young, and she was even younger. Certainly she could be rid of him and would remarry, so –

“It’s Kermit Tully you should tell this, my Prince.”

“Why would he even listen?”

Tully hated him, and made little effort to hide it. Quite rightly.

Stark groaned, and bowed his head to take his leave before he turned and walked away.

The soup tasted good, and yet all appetite felt gone, and his constricted throat refused to let the food down. As he was about the set the bowl on the ground, he saw her making her way to him, making a detour to step on the last patches of grass and avoid the largest puddles. She walked cautiously, her large cape folded on one arm to prevent it from the mud, and she never looked prettier to him, with her dark braid falling on one shoulder, loose curls, made frizzy by the rain, framing her face, her rosy lips pressed in concentration as she focused on her path and on her balance on the slippery ground. Her cheeks had a healthier glow. Fresh air did her good.

“Aemond, your soup is intact.”

He made place for her to sit next to him on the slump, and she obliged. No decorum. Just two travellers sharing a moment of rest.

“Not hungry”, he breathed.

“Speak to me.”

What was to be said? Could she not see by herself?

He jerked his head at the landscape. The burnt down woods, blackened fields. Wherever they set their eyes, evidences of dragonfire were visible. This part of the Riverlands hadn’t started healing.

“Ah”, she sighed. “You know, I tried to claim a dragon. Just once. Nearly got killed.”

This piqued his interest. His dragonless niece. The only child of Rhaenyra’s not to take to the skies.

“Which one?”

“Vermithor.”

She and Vermithor? His gentle, harmless niece and the bronze Fury? They were so unmatched it could have make him laugh. Almost, if her eyes hadn’t been so full of sorrow.

“I would have thought of sweet Silverwing for you”, he just said, and she nodded, worrying her bottom lip.

“It was after you – after Lucerys.” She paused, and he wished he died on the spot. Lucerys. A boy of five and ten. A bastard, certainly, a bastard who had maimed him. But really, was the retaliation proportionate to his own wound? Of course, he had terribly suffered. Had struggled – still struggled – with his balance and mastery of his body. But he was alive, and Lucerys wasn’t. If he considered it in the distance, he wouldn’t have become who he was, had he kept both his eyes. The price had been fair, to him. Not to Lucerys. “I believed Vermithor was the only one that could face Vhagar. Because I wanted you dead, Aemond.”

Ah. Even she wanted it. Wasn’t it proof enough of his guilt, of his madness and monstrosity? He didn’t deserve to live. Didn’t deserve any more mercy than King Maegor the Cruel.

“I earned it.”

His voice was toneless, resigned. She didn’t refute his words, and her silence suffocated him. Strangled him. His eye burned, and his throat felt tight, tighter than it had ever been, and his chest ached under the pressure of her resentment. Of her hatred. He had wondered so many times why she didn’t abhor him. That was it, at long last, this confession that he almost wished to hear and that confirmed his self-loathing.

“Vermithor rejected me. Caraxes and Daemon couldn’t kill you either. If Daemon failed, how would I have succeeded?” she scoffed bitterly. “And now, in spite of all my grievances, I find myself grateful that you didn’t die. I’m grateful that you married me, for I could have endured far worse.”

He frowned, at a loss.

“So embrace your guilt. Drink it to the dregs. And make something worthy out of it. Redeem yourself, not only in my eyes, but in the eyes of all the realm.”

How could she be sincere? And yet, her eyes were clear, determination reflecting in the golden freckles that swam in her irises. An oppressive feeling, one he couldn’t name, expanded in his chest, threatening to make his ribs burst under the force of it. He made a move to grasp her, to embrace her and hang on tight, for she was so sturdier than him! But she stopped him with a hand and got up, rejecting his attempt, only giving him a hard stare.

“Not here, the soldiers are watching us. You are their Prince, and their Lord Hand.”

I’m unworthy of you, he wanted to say, the words heavy on his tongue. I love you, he wanted to say. But he kept silent. She wouldn’t hear it. Not now, when they were surrounded with foes – former foes, he corrected himself, but still full of resent and loathing.

She extended her hand, and as he graciously rose to take her fingers in his, she gave him a perfect smile. She was a Princess indeed, raised to show a persona and rule over lower masses. Something that was second nature to him, even though he felt totally incapacitated in this present moment.

“To Darry”, she announced firmly, and he inhaled deeply, rooting himself in the contact of her hand before acknowledging her words with a courteous nod.

Alright.

To the filthy dregs.

To Darry.