Chapter Text
Aemond first noticed it after Driftmark.
Mother took solace in prayer—it was one of the only places Aemond could expect to see her face smooth of stress, hands at peace and not at battle, and body at ease. Standing before the Seven gave her serenity nothing, and no one, could ever give her. Not even him.
He had attended the sept with Mother since before he could remember, that much was true, but he hadn’t started visiting in earnest until his eye was struck out. Mother didn’t like to be parted from him in those early days, when even a cold wind could have the maester sequestering him in fear of potential illness. And at the beginning, when the whispers and stares felt sharper than morning stars, Aemond found that he didn’t like being parted from his mother either. She made the courtiers quieten their whispers about him.
Mother attended the sept daily, more if her schedule allowed. She was as strict with her custom surrounding prayer as Aemond was with retaking up the sword and beginning his dragonriding. He knew she preferred the Starry Sept in Oldtown, she had long regaled him and his siblings of its grandness, but she liked the Royal Sept well enough. Her expression was clear whenever she found herself in the seven-pointed building—she was at peace.
So Aemond noticed, back when the skin around his empty eye socket constantly burned much like the Hightower at Oldtown, that his mother only seemed like she wasn’t on guard when she was inside the sept. Which, at first, confused him. Her being in the sept was the only occasion she wasn’t guarded by Ser Criston or whichever Kingsguard (usually Ser Rickard) was assigned to her protective detail. Her shoulders would tighten as soon as they walked through the doors leading to the streets. Her face would pinch when they passed through the Red Keep. Her eyes would shutter closed once they found Grandfather, or the King, or any stray lord, lady, or the like.
Was it the Seven who brought her peace? Aemond thought so, for a long time. His scar healed more, graduating from a fiery blaze to only twinging when he smiled or spoke too passionately. With it came more intel.
Mother’s custom was strict. She became intently focused on the candles as soon as they entered the sept, regardless of the time or day. She, and Aemond, would first give their offerings to the gods if they had any. Mother rarely went without an offering of some kind, flowers for the Mother or incense for the Crone. Aemond himself liked to offer broken training swords to the Warrior as a symbol of his devotion to courage, as many high-born boys were wont to do. Helaena did not come as often as Aemond did, but she liked to bring the Smith embroidered cloth. Aegon did not bring anything to anyone, and had not attended the sept since he was ten name-days old. Aemond didn’t know what Daeron would bring, or who he prayed to.
Then, they would gravitate towards the middle of the sept. They would light their candles, whisper the names of those they prayed for, and sit—sometimes for mere moments, other times hours. Aemond had developed a plan before Driftmark in assessing how long his mother planned to pray before they departed the Red Keep, but even then he sometimes was wrong in skipping out on a day he knew would be longer only for her to return to her apartments after less than an hour.
After they finished lighting their candles, they would leave. Septs were no places to gossip with anyone, they were places to beseech the gods and pray for those in need, but crowds often gathered outside the holy building, especially on the seventh day of the week, to socialize. Mother rarely stuck around, Aemond hated sticking around, but sometimes her queenly duties would require her to make polite smalltalk with visiting nobles until an appropriate time to exit appeared.
Around a sennight ago, Aemond made a new discovery. It was after prayer, the Sept fuller than usual due to Lord Beesbury’s extended family’s visit to the capital to celebrate the lord’s birthday. Aemond couldn’t remember how old he was now, but his aged-white hair, knobby knuckles, and the sheer vastness of his family spoke to some ancient number.
Aemond wanted nothing more than to return to his chambers following prayer. Helaena declined to attend with them, so it was just him and Mother. He was sure the maester of the royal library had found the book he requested of them just that past morning, and he knew he and Ser Criston had plans to train a second time right before supper. Besides, he had prayed for far longer than he had expected. His imperfect system had him believing they would be here for a scarce minute, but once Mother lit her fourteenth candle he knew he was in for a day of repentance. He devoted his time equally in prayer before the Warrior for strength in his training, the Crone for guidance in his education, and the Father for justice while his mother prayed for seemingly everyone in Westeros. If they had stayed any longer, she'd be making prayers to the Stranger.
When they finally concluded their worship, Aemond thought that was it. The sun wasn’t too low on the horizon, he could still meet Ser Criston in the training yard and have time to skim the book before supper.
Then they ran into the black and yellow crowds outside. Practically buzzing like an apiary, the steps were swarming with more Beesbury’s than Aemond had ever wanted to meet in his life. Fathers and daughters and cousins, he stood close to his mother as they tried to forge a path through the clusters of people. Maybe they’d go unnoticed this time.
“My queen!”
Of course. Cursed was the monarch.
They crowded around their queen shortly after the first Beesbury called out her name. Everyone wanted her to know their name, their children’s names, their parent’s names. Few of them dared to look upon Aemond’s face, and even fewer offered him their greetings, but none attempted small talk with him.
So, Aemond let his eye wander as his mother performed her queenly duties. They were all richly dressed in golden chains and crushed black velvet, little bee motifs dotting their tunics and gowns much like how stars dot the night sky. Some had red hair like the Hightowers, others were brunette. All were joyous. But they also all carried the same thing, either tied around their neck or wrist. A shining crystal, catching the light prettily and scattering it forth to envelop them all in
Aemond turned his attention to the man nearest to him and his mother. Perhaps five-and-twenty, the man—Alan—bore more resemblance to Lord Beesbury than any of the other family members present. He stammered the same way, too. His crystal was larger than the others, the triangular prism sparkling incandescently. It was set in gold on the top and bottom, and a hook on the top allowed for the chain to connect to it.
Odd, that they all carry these artifacts with them. Aemond would fear destruction if he ever took such a fragile object outside of his chambers.
He did pray to the Warrior for courage that day, so he let his god instill bravery in him and asked: “What are those?”
Alan reared back, obviously surprised. Why was he shocked to hear Aemond speak? Thankfully his voice had stopped crackling (Aegon was relentless in teasing him about that), so he knew it was not the sound of his voice that was startling. Did his reputation as a quiet prince spread beyond the Red Keep?
“These are prayer crystals, my prince!” Alan answered after a beat, holding up the crystal for Aemond to get a better look at it. The gold had little filigrees etched into it. Truly a gorgeous treasure.
“I would have thought you’d have seen your mother’s,” Alan continued, not noticing how Aemond’s brow furrowed at his mother turning away. Her eyes were looking above everyone’s heads in an attempt not to tear up, “Every family in the Honeywine has these crystals, my prince, not just the Florent’s. We use them to guide us in prayer and shine light upon all worshippers."
Now, Aemond had never used his disfigurement to get out of doing anything. In fact, he spent most of his time trying to convince people to let him do things despite his stolen eye. It was a handicap, that much was true, but he was nothing if not a sword to be honed and daily he spent time bettering himself. He had surpassed where he was in arms before Driftmark, and he could read for nearly hours on end again.
But desperate times called for desperate measures. Mother rarely showed emotion in public beyond what was discussed in her chambers with Grandfather, and even then she planned them accordingly to be appropriate to the occasion. The only time Aemond had ever seen her this upset publicly was, well, Driftmark. He could not remember any talk from Grandfather on the Beesbury visit beyond be polite, but keep small talk to a minimum.
He chose that moment to wince slightly—barely, really, but enough for his mother to notice. Her eyes cleared then narrowed as Aemond’s hand rose to meet where his patch covered his temple. His posture sank from ramrod straight to slightly slouched.
“And I wish you good day and good worship,” Mother told them, a clear but polite dismissal. Taking him by the elbow, they made for the steps and the awaiting Ser Criston.
“Aemond,” She said lowly. Ser Criston still heard though, ears perked but eyes focused on the masses surrounding them, “What is troubling you?”
He hummed, but didn't answer. She asked him again once they reached the shade of the Red Keep’s walls, but he only chose to wince again and hold his hand to rest right where the skin of his face became numb. They reached her chambers in record time.
Helaena was not there, nor Aegon. They were likely at needlepoint, in Helaena’s case, and skiving lessons, in Aegon’s case.
His mother rested her hand on his face then, right where he had been hinting it had been hurting. She said his name sternly when he did not match her gaze. He planned to speak half-heartedly, just as he did when he was in pain. Make her believe it just enough, but not enough to be truly concerned.
“Do we need to get the maester?”
Too far, too far, Aemond did not want to spend the rest of his day with the maester. He might have to opt out of training with Ser Criston, the man was insistent on not training him when he thought it would be counterintuitive. Apparently, him being in pain was something that could prevent him from learning. If anything, he should be given more to learn when in pain. Only success despite suffering could prove true mastery of a skill, after all. Aemond would likely spend the rest of his life with discomfort and pain from his stolen eye. If he found himself on a battlefield, the battlefield would not care whether or not his head was hurting.
“No,” He spoke just a bit too fast. Purposeful.
Mother was not convinced. Her face became even more strained, “Is it your eye?”
He also didn’t want to upset her any more than she had already been.
“A bit,” Yes, was the implication.
“No lessons for the rest of the day,” She declared. Aemond suppressed the urge to internally swear. He should have expected it.
He was too old to be put to bed, but Mother still confined him to his chamber until supper that night. Aemond looked longingly as Ser Criston, but to no avail. Then, he discovered that the maester had not found the book he requested, and since he returned all his other books to the library when he went down to make the request, he had nothing to read beyond gifted books. Better than nothing, but also he had read these cover-to-cover during his recovery. He could recite them in his sleep if he so desired.
Mother came to visit him with supper once the sun had begun to set. Spiced stew, his favourite, and fresh bread with butter and salt. They sat on the balcony as he ate. Helaena was markedly absent. Aegon was expectantly absent. If he squinted, he could see Dreamfyre and Sunfyre dancing with one another above the Blackwater—they did always fly well together, even if they could not share more than five words with one another at any given interaction.
Even though Ser Criston ought to be guarding them at Aemond’s door, he stood over them at the balcony. There was likely another Kingsguard at his door—since his older half-sister and her brood had moved to Dragonstone years prior, the Kingsguard could afford to double up to protect the royal blood. While Ser Criston was attentive to their safety, he too watched Aemond’s sister and brother fly. It was mesmerizing.
“What did he mean?” Aemond finally spoke. Sunfyre swooped down to meet the Blackwater and rose triumphantly with a wriggling something in his maw, likely a shark. Aegon found an indescribable joy in catching odd sea creatures.
“Mean by what, my sweet? And who?”
“Alan Beesbury,” Aemond asked, “He mentioned you would have a prayer crystal like him.”
Aemond had been to the sept more times than he could count with his mother, and never before today had he seen her with a shining prism with a golden chain. She wore her seven-pointed-stars religiously, and he even knew that the most modest of her necklaces was passed down from his maternal grandmother, but that was the only thing his mother had to remember her mother by. Well, the necklace and some dresses that collected dust in her wardrobe. But she had nothing else. He never thought it strange until then.
Mother closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t answer him. In the distance, Dreamfyre blew a small plume of dragonfire.
“He also said all houses of the Honeywine use them?” He phrased this observation as a question. It tended to get him information faster. It worked.
“Yes, that much is true,” She sighed. She tore her attention away from the dancing dragons, “The Beesbury’s knew my mother well, she lived very close to Honeyholt in her youth.”
Ser Criston shifted. His armour sung lightly as it was jostled.
“I remember when—I was younger than you are—I would go to the sept with my mother,” A small smile tugged at her face, brightened her eyes, “And her prism was beautiful. She would catch the light on a sunny day and send it scattering throughout the sept. Sometimes, she even let me use it.”
Aemond knew of his grandmother only through snippets of stories. Grandfather was more likely to speak of her than Mother, but even then he rarely divulged beyond a passing comment about whether she would’ve liked what was served at supper or the new gown commissioned for Helaena. Even then, both of those instances served to convince Helaena to try a new food or wear her new gown. It rarely worked—Helaena liked her particulars—but he did succeed in introducing her to her new favourite food, honey almond cakes. And there was the one nice gown she wore when there was no other option but for her to attend court.
But sometimes Mother grew melancholy, and even more rarely she would tell them stories of her mother. How she always had a listening ear, how she taught Mother her letters and numbers in the shade of the Hightower, and how she was kind. Mother always emphasized how kind she was.
“It’s a way of shining light upon others,” She used the same wording Alan Beesbury did, “To send them your graciousness and good fortune of the Seven.”
“Where is it?” He asked bluntly. He knew it wasn’t with her—she would use it if she had it, he could see how much she wanted one. He remembered how her eyes clung to each prism hungrily, as if they would disappear if she took her attention from them.
His mother shut down. Her shoulders slumped, smile faded. Aemond couldn’t see Sunfyre or Dreamfyre anymore, they were likely heading back to the Dragonpit. Mother didn't like them out this late from the Red Keep.
“In Oldtown, most likely,” she said. She didn’t seem happy about it.
“You don’t know?”
“My brother, your uncle, has it.”
Which one? He had three, on his mother’s side, “Uncle Gwayne?”
“No, Uncle Arthur.”
Aemond hummed.
The eldest of Grandfather’s children, he knew Uncle Arthur was in Oldtown with Daeron. As he and Aemond’s other uncle, Uncle Triston, stayed in the Hightower when Grandfather came to court all those years ago to serve as Hand to King Jaehaerys, Aemond knew less of them than he did Grandmother.
Aemond felt like a maester as his mind tried to decipher how these prayer crystals were passed down. Was it from mother-to-daughter and father-to-son? Did the firstborn receive the title, the second the prism? He wanted nothing more than to be let loose in the library to investigate, but his earlier ploy likely got him barred from anything interesting for a day or two. He would have to gather information at this very moment.
“Why does he have it? Is it meant to go to the eldest child?”
His mother tried to pick at her hands. He reached out, fast as a viper, to grab one of her hands in his—her and Aegon always had that habit of destroying themselves. It was up to him to protect them. He prayed to the Warrior for courage, that much was true, but he devoted time to the Father as well. He wouldn’t be like his own father, that much he swore to himself. He would protect his family.
Ser Criston shifted again. How long had they been sitting out here?
“Not always,” She said. To his horror, her voice cracked, “She wanted me to have it, though.”
Before he could say goodbye, she excused herself—citing Helaena’s impending return from the Dragonpit. Ser Criston lingered a moment. She is hurting, they both thought, talking of this pains her.
It didn’t seem right, to deprive his mother of a gift to remember her own mother by. Clearly, that was what happened, if Mother was telling him that her mother wished for her only daughter to have her prayer crystal only for her brother to have possession of it. He did not want his mother to be in pain, and this pained her ever so clearly. Aemond ought to do something about it.
That night, he fell asleep at his desk, cheek stained with ink not quite dried on the parchment he wrote ideas on how to rectify this issue. He woke up that morning with his scar actually hurting due to the odd angle his neck was at all night. Consequently, he spent the next several days in his chambers, curtains blocking out the piercing light and the maester visiting him periodically in attempts to feed him the milk of the poppy. But Aemond refused. He could not have his mind clouded.
By the time the worst of the pain had faded, and he returned to his custom a sennight later, Aemond knew exactly what he needed to do. His mother took solace in prayer, but perhaps he could bring her even more?
He needed to steal back his grandmother’s prayer crystal.