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Chapter Text

A fortnight ago, a raven came bearing the mark of a crowned, three-headed dragon.

“The crown summons you, Lord Randyll of House Tyrell and Warden of the South, and your esteemed daughter, to King’s Landing. We humbly ask for the service of your daughter as a lady-in-waiting to the Princess Helaena Targaryen.”

It was no secret that the dragons Caraxes and Syrax have been frequenting the skies of the plains of the Reach. The crowned heir, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and her prince consort, have been going back and forth with your lord father. What their conversations were about, you didn’t know, but there was one thing you were sure of; someone was to be married.

The road to King’s Landing is one that bored you; the ripening fields of the west had passed by in a blur, endless heaps and fertile hills morphing into vast, simple plains. In the distance, you can make out the faint pinnacles of mountains.

King’s Landing is quick to come within sight. With towering red walls and a well-guarded fortress, it caused you and your father to share a look of dismay. The carriage continues through the road, endless arrays of beige and brown buildings taking up the space of the sky. Highgarden was a beautiful place, one that surely looked better than this.

The carriage is pulled into the castle walls, where Targaryen banners fly proudly in the sky. The roar of a dragon causes you to peek out the window; overhead, a massive shadow of a dragon covers the clouds above King’s Landing. Within seconds, the beast breaks through the gray-shield and lands somewhere in the distance.

“It’s alright, sweet flower. This’ll all be over soon.”

You want to tell your father that what he says isn’t true. It won’t be over soon. An invitation to king’s landing, one that was a demand rather than a request, did not mean that you would be able to go home so easily. No doubt that they knew your father was in correspondence with the Princess Rhaenyra.

The convenience and timing of their request was an invitation enough to ignore their letter, turn the parchment to ash and flock to the safety of Princess Rhaenyra’s wings. Though you did have to admit, even her word could not overpower the word of a Queens.

You want to pull your hair out, claw at your father, and beg him to return to the safety of Highgarden. Though an honorable man, you knew he would do no such thing. If the royal family wanted the presence of House Tyrell, you had no choice but to obey.

The carriage had pulled to a stop and the gentle hand squeeze of reassurance from your father did not do well to quell the feeling of distraught in your stomach. Sickness begins to crawl over your skin. Nonetheless, as a dutiful daughter, once the carriage doors part and your father exits, you swallow the lump in your throat and take his hand, allowing it to help guide you down.

Now standing in front of it, the sheer height and regality of the red keep does not fail to take your breath.

“Come, my daughter.” Into the dragons den, you thought.

You follow your lord father wordlessly up the steps and into the halls of the Red Keep. Targaryen household guards line almost every entrance, adorned in black and red armor and a shining dragon. You do well to keep directly behind your father, following his long strides with one’s that you tried to equal. Soon, his steps slow to a halt and he bows at the presence of another man. You can’t help but notice the pin on his lapel; Otto Hightower, hand of the King.

“My lord hand,” your father greets. He turns, a smile forming on his face when he makes eye contact with you. He extends his arm out to you, pulling you into view of the Hand. “May I introduce my daughter, Lady (Y/N), the joy of Highgarden.”

You allow yourself to curtsy under the watchful gaze of the Hand, giving him a small, polite smile despite the uneasiness in your stomach. He seems satisfied by this.

“A beautiful, splitting image of her late mother,” the Hand remarks before motioning for you and your father to follow. You both share a look before trailing after the Hand. “The King is not feeling very well at this moment, however, the Queen and her children have gathered to introduce themselves.”

That mere sentence could not have prepared you for the ginormous double doors that swing open with relative ease, the long hallway of the throne room in full view. What a power play, you thought. Four heads are gathered at the base of the iron throne; three bear the famous silver hair of Targaryen children and the other has brown, curly locks put into a neat bun. Two household guards part the way and one announces your entrance.

“The Lord Hand of the King and Lord Randyll Tyrell, Warden of the West and Lord of Highgarden. With him, his daughter, the Lady (Y/N) Tyrell.”

Still, you and your father follow Ser Otto and the Iron Throne becomes closer and closer. You’ve never seen it up close, but the mere light that reflects off it’s twisted and gnarled handles indicate it’s sharpness. What an ugly thing.

You and your father stop at an appropriate distance and are abandoned by the Hand. Instead, the Hand moves to stand by his daughter.

From the silence that settles in the air, you hear, “What a lovely chest she has.”

Quiet, but not quiet enough, your eyes shoot toward the speaker and it’s the closest one to the Queen Mother. You lock eyes and do your best to not make a disgusted face at the way he’s eyeing you - like a predator to its prey. You quickly become uncomfortable. Pulling at your dress, you attempt to make yourself small.

Then, a concealed sneer falls from the lips of the man farthest from the Queen and on the other side of who you assumed was Princess Helaena. Donning an eye patch, he doesn’t hide the small, sly smirk that quirks the corners of his mouth up.

“Thank you for traveling all this way, my Lord. We are grateful for both your dedication to the Crown and your trust with the safety of Lady (Y/N).” It is now Queen Alicent who speaks. Eloquent words fall from her mouth, one’s that your father happily drinks up. You give him a side eye, watching him converse with the Queen Mother.

As they talk, your eyes can’t help but gravitate towards the Targaryen prince that sneered. With long, silver hair tied back with a leather bound, and dressed in Hightower colors, his singular eye returned your stare. Unwavering and unblinking, he watches you carefully, almost as if inviting you to a stare down. You grow flustered under his gaze and break eye contact, your eyes drawing themselves to the floor.

Introductions had been made, but you didn’t pay attention - something you were sure would come around sooner or late.

“Aemond, my son. Why don’t you show Lady (Y/N) around the Keep?” The question from his Queen Mother breaks his trance and he turns his head. Aemond was the only one his mother had trusted; Aegon was a force too untrustworthy and his sister, well, the Queen didn’t want to scare away the lady-in-waiting so soon.

Aemond gives a defiant glare and scoffs when he realizes his mother was serious, he says in a low, but not low enough voice, “Is that not a job for a steward, or dear Helaena herself?” How offensive. You and your father share another look, his brow quirking slightly and begging you to stay silent. Who did the prince think he was?

It’s Otto Hightower who speaks next. It’s hushed, but still audible and commanding, “Do as your mother says, Aemond.”

Aemond grumbles something under his breath that is not audible to you, his head turning as he stares at you once more. You turn to your father and give him a quick hug, placing a delicate, chaste kiss on his cheek.

“Bye, my sweet, I’ll see you soon.” Another string of words that reaches deaf ears; this felt like another lie. Each step you take towards Aemond feels closer and closer to a trap waiting to be set off. Aemond joins you at the bottom of the steps and disregarding his station and duty as a gentleman, he walks past your extended arm and instead leads the way. Wordlessly, you follow without hesitation. Behind you, you can hear the squabble between Queen Alicent and who you assumed to be Aegon.

Your hands gather behind your back as you follow Aemond’s long strides throughout the Keep. His walk has a certain swagger to it, one that screamed arrogance. You decided that, even now, with so little evidence to backup your feelings, that you did not like this.. Prince. You quicken your steps to become side-by-side with him. You quietly curse to yourself when you realize you’re on the side that has his eyepatch.

“You are.. Aemond Targaryen, yes?” You ask, though it seems like your question doesn’t reach his ears. Perhaps his ear was damaged in his.. incident? You repeat your question, your words louder than before.

He moves his head obviously and so slowly that it unnerves you, and he blinks his good eye at you, annoyance veiling the once solemn expression he had, “The one and only.” How pretentious. Besides the sound of heels and boots clicking against the floor, silence befalls between you two again.

After a moment, “I’ve heard that you ride the ginormous beast.. Vhagar, is that true?”

“Queen of all the Dragons, yes.” If he didn’t make you feel inferior before, then by Seven Hells, he sure did now. You huff in annoyance and defeat, eyes surveying the castle walls. You two pass what seems to be a courtyard, one that has an open roof where sunlight beams down. A few more paces and you pass a corridor that has stairs leading up, you assume that’s the stairs to one of the royal apartment towers.

“And that’s how you lost–” assuming the subject is touchy, your sentence is quick to be interrupted by the abrupt turn of Aemond, who grabs your wrist and faces you with wild vexation in his one eye.

“Do not assume that we are to be friends,” he begins, looking down at where his hand met your clothed arm. He releases it as if he was burned by the mere touch. The words that flow freely from his mouth drip with poison. “I do not like you, and I will not like you.”

Once his words register in your mind, you’re quick to allow offense take over your mildly shocked expression, then your brows furrow in anger, “Have I done something to offend my prince?”

My prince. Aemond does little to not show that he despises the title you’ve called him.

“I don’t make friends of oath-breakers,” he sneers. Oath-breaker? Who, in Sevens Hells, was an oath-breaker? Surely, he didn’t mean you? Even if he did, what oath did you break?

“Oath-breaker?” You echo loudly, bewilderment replacing the angry scowl on your face. “Tell me exactly, my prince, what oath did I break? Why do you assume I’m trying to be your friend?”

These questions falter Aemond’s facade and he desperately looks for a way out. As a prince, no one dares to question his word. He hadn’t been clever enough to think ahead, less think that you would be defiant against his word, and now being sharply questioned by you, he didn’t know what to say back. Too many assumptions and too less of evidence, Aemond scowls at you.

“You’re asking me questions as if you want to be my friend.”

You scoff in disbelief, “I’m asking you questions to be cordial, not to be your friend. Cordiality seems to be something you lack.” Aemond’s eye widens with bafflement, but his face returns to an angry facade.

“Do not presume to tell me what I lack,” he spats. The one-eyed prince turns on his heel and walks a few paces away, though, he’s quick to return to you with long strides. “You are here by the graciousness of my Queen Mother and as a gift to my dear sister, Helaena. You will fulfill your duty and leave. Until then, we are not friends.”

You throw your hands up and scoff loudly, staring at the prince in anger. Perhaps unladylike and unbecoming of a handmaiden to the princess Helaena, you roll your eyes.
“fine.”

Aemond wants the last word, so he repeats it back with an equal ferocity, “fine.”

With that and an aggressive spin on his heel (the ends of his coat seem to dance in the wind with some sort of rare regality, though you wouldn’t admit that), Aemond Targaryen abandons you in the courtyard.

“What an imbecile,” you finally say to yourself under your breath.

Chapter Text

It’s not even the break of dawn when you are forced to awaken from your slumber.

Followed by a dream that’s quickly forgotten, pale beams of light backed by a soft gray-blue seeps in from your covered window. You allow yourself a moment to think about the past couple of days you have spent with the princess.

Princess Helaena has been nothing less than sweet. She asks you to read to her, dance with her, and help her decide what clothes she wants to wear for the day. Helaena would even go as far as to show you her royal insect collection, allowing you to see the centipedes and beetles she had in her room. Although scared and frightened by the little creatures, you had grown to become fond when you realize how domestic and cute they actually are. You suppose you’re envious of the freedom she flaunts in front of you, though you believed it wasn’t on purpose or of any ill intent. Unlike Aemond and the rest of her family, she seemed like your position as her lady-in-waiting was just that.

A servant girl knocks on your door, to which you call out and beckon her in. She comes in quietly, giving you a polite curtsy before moving towards your filled wardrobe. You recall her name being Elayne. Rows of dresses are hung up – arrays of blues and greens blurring into one big blob. The servant glances back at you as your rise from your bed. Having taken a bath last night, you simply approach her and hug yourself, growing nervous under her gaze. Though she was also a girl, being near nakedness made you shy.

“What shall you wear today, my lady?” She asks timidly. You shuffle forward and pick out a pale green dress, one that has a shawl attached to the neck. Elayne pulls it out and allows it to come into full view. The abdomen section has twists of vines and roses of darker accent and the dress has shorts sleeves.

You nod, “That one shall do.”

You move behind a divider, discarding your clothes and facing the other way whilst she helps you dress. You notice that she averts her gaze sometimes when near your nakedness and to that, you are grateful.

As the sun breaks the horizon and pale light becomes a stronger beacon, your front strands of hair is pinned into a makeshift crown over your head. Loose waves, from the pigtails you wore that night, fall upon your shoulders. You quietly thank her for your help and roll some of your perfume on – the aroma of raspberry, apricot, and jasmine filling the air. You sigh and open the door to your room, closing the door after you before making a beeline toward the royal apartments.

Up the tower and into the level where her bedroom resided, you come upon the Kingsguard sworn to her service. He turns his head to face you, though, you can’t put a name to the face and instead smile politely. Without another word (but you did notice the small quiver of his lip.. perhaps he was going to smile back?), the Kingsguard moves from the door and opens it for you. You enter, surprised to see princess Helaena already awake.

“Princess Helaena, good morrow,” you greet, curtsying once she makes eye contact with you. The look of pure bliss lightens your heart and you can’t help but return her dazzling smile.

“Lady (Y/N)!” She responds happily before returning her attention to her dresser. She pulls two dresses from the box; one purple with white detailing or a warm, yellow one with the same detailing. “Which of these shall i wear today?”

You hum in thought, approaching the princess and her two decisions. After a moment, you decided that you liked purple on her the most. After voicing your opinion, she seems to nod in approval, as if your choice was the right one. You help her discard her nightgown and help her pull on her chemise. You help her dress, pushing aside her hair when needed and tightening the laces on her back.

Once she’s dressed, she moves to sit at her vanity table, her hand moving to pull her hair back within your reach. Your hand extends towards her hair brush, removing the hair that was once on it before moving the comb through her silver locks. Once tamed, you peeked into the dirty window to eye Helaena.

“Did you have a particular hairstyle in mind, my princess?” You ask, your head tilting to the side as she thinks in silence. She tells you her wish and you fulfill it to the best of your ability. You put the pins in place and seems to marvel at your work.

Helaena stands and suddenly grabs your hands with hers, and with a certain kind of urgency, “Beware the beast beneath the boards.” The message is cryptic and sends a chilling shiver down your spine. Your brows furrow and you attempt to make sense of what she said, but the princess has abandoned you to walk towards the door. She’s as radiant as ever, the cryptic message she just spewed was almost as if it didn’t happen. “Come, lady (Y/N), I want you to read me some poetry.”

Wordlessly, you allow Helaena to loop her arm through yours, effectively entangling you to the princess and forcing you to follow her lead. you both pass by an array of doors and halls, then your matched steps slow as you entered what was a private library with the door slightly ajar. You take a moment to look around the room. Tall bookshelves stand menacingly and no doubt there are cobwebs and dust collecting at the top of each stand. Your eyes trail towards the unlit fireplace, where a chair is occupied by a long and silver-haired man. Aemond.

He turns his head fully, a soft smile forming on his lips at the sight of Helaena. However, the smile falters when he notices you’re standing next to her. You noticed that his leg is crossed over the other and there is a book nestled in his lap. He puts his arm over the parchment, as if to shield it from your eyes. You let out a puff of air in annoyance, removing yourself from Helaena to observe the books that lined the shelves.

“Helaena,” he greets with a warm voice, with which you can practically hear the smile. Then in almost a sneer, “Little ward.”

You can feel his singular eye glaring daggers into your back and you can feel yourself physically bristle at the notion. But, you promised yourself you wouldn’t let Aemond have another victory over you, so instead, you elect to ignore him altogether.

“Aemond,” she gushes and you hear movement behind you. You assume she had sat upon the empty chair that was adjacent to his. They begin to chat, about what, you didn’t know and you didn’t care to listen in. One exchange does get your attention: you hear him compliment her perfume, but she declines and says it isn’t her. From there, you can feel the lingering stare of Aemond’s eye from time to time.

It’s almost as if Queen Alicent knows when you three are in the same room, for she passes by, then doubles back to enter the room. She dismisses her guard and you turn around, curtsying at her arrival.

She’s quick to give you a smile, “Lady (Y/N), how lovely you look.” There’s a pause before it seems like she remembers her other children are in the room. She turns to them, greeting them both by name. When the Queen sits, she turns to you and pats the chair closest to her, “Come sit here, lady (Y/N).”

This interaction seems to irritate the Targaryen prince. You hadn’t been here for a fortnight yet and somehow, you’ve already gained interest from his mother. With kindness that he hadn’t seen since he received his eye-scar being so freely handed to you, he felt like this was a slap in the face. He scoffs audibly when you do as your told, not before shutting the book in his lap angrily and then tossing it carelessly by the table stand next to his chair. He gets up and moves in between the chairs, sauntering out of the room.

His dramatic exit seems to be ignored by the Queen Mother, who extends her hand out to rub Helaena’s shoulder. The princess, however, moves away from her touch. You make sure that you pretend to not notice this sequence by looking down at your hands folded neatly in your lap.

“Helaena, my dear, there’s something I need to discuss with you.” Instinctively, you perk up at the Queen’s words, but try your best to not seem too interested. You notice out of the corner of your eye that the princess can’t look her mother in the eye. She’s avoidant and shrugging away her hold. “Your grandfather and I have decided that,” she pauses as if she’s still deciding what words to use, “You shall marry Aegon within the fortnight.”

Disappointment begins to crawl through your skin, seeping into your blood veins and washing over your body like a sickness. You feel repulsed by the mere, expressed idea. Following the faith of the Seven, you were always taught that relations between family members were strictly forbidden. As a woman of the Faith, you had expected the Queen to forego the typical Targaryen customs, but alas, she did not. You feel your stomach turn and the blood rush into your ears.

You stand up abruptly, wincing at the screech of the chair against the stone floor, “Forgive me, my Queen, my princess. This is a delicate matter that I believe you two should be discussing alone.” The Queen Mother’s expression softens at you and she nods her head in agreement. Helaena looks at you, almost in pleading, but as you pass her, you give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. You note that she doesn’t shy away from your grasp.

Your body slides through the crack with ease and you pull the door shut. You inhale deeply, resting your head against the wooden door – it’s cool to the touch, no doubt trying to extinguish the heat that grows over your face. You fan yourself with your hand, trying your best to calm down. You remove yourself from the door and you begin to walk, not noticing that you feet are taking you towards the Godswood.

Without looking, you round the corner with speed and run into a solid chest. Disoriented, you take a few steps back and gather your bearings, immediately apologizing to whomever you had run into. You look up and it’s the smug face of Aemond staring back at you.

“Oh, it’s you.” You don’t mean the words to come out as harsh as they did, though it doesn’t seem to effect the prince.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, little ward?” He asks casually, his head tilting to the side as he observes your flustered features. His voice and his face do not fail to irritate you – enough so that you want to slap him and shove him out of your way. Without a doubt, he was slowly starting to get under your skin with every fiber of his being.

You brush past him, but keep your voice low, “I’m not a ward.” He’s quick to turn on his heel and follow you by your side – his good eye on the same half.

“Says the ward,” he taunts effortlessly.

Annoyance begins to bubble in your blood, “Must you be so cruel?”

Out of the corner of you eye, he shrugs mindlessly, “I’m merely stating a matter of fact.” God, the pretentious bastard. You carry on toward the Godswood, but you don’t fail to miss the fact that his presence is still by your side.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to be friends?” You ask callously, shooting him a pointed look.

He thinks for a moment, his eye unwavering from the path ahead, “I don’t. I'm just curious.” He hums as if he’s devising another sentence that will continue to infuriate you. nothing comes out of his mouth, but you’re too hopeful that he won’t say anything. “I like to stay one step ahead of everyone else.”

You scoff at his response and attempt to shake him from your walk. You pick up your pace, then his long strides equal yours and his pretentious face is still within view. You chew on your bottom lip to avoid saying something too out of line. Soon, you arrive at the open courtyard that houses the Godswood. What should’ve been a peaceful and quiet time for thought, would not be so with Aemond around. You walk towards the bench placed across from the Weirwood tree, sitting down on it with a defeated huff. Aemond, unfortunately, settles on the other side of the bench.

You’re only allowed to cherish the few mere moments that Aemond is silent. With a turn of your head, you’re quick to cut his sentence off before it even starts.

“You say you don’t want to be friends, but yet, you’re here,” you say, eyes narrowing as you cross your legs, “Like a moth to a flame.”

Aemond tuts, “You’re unusually uncontentious,” he states, also crossing his legs. The action causes you to roll your eyes. Would you ever be rid of him? “What’s got you in a foul mood?”

If he was anyone else, you would’ve mistaken these questions for kindness at friendship, but then you remember the conversation you had a few days ago and how callously he reminds you that he doesn’t like your presence. You think for a moment, fingers drumming along the armrest on the bench.

“Your brother is marrying your sister,” you finally say. You don’t miss the way shock washes over his face. He’s fast to cover it up though, his expression more hardened than before. It wasn’t a secret how Aemond felt about Aegon – a loose-end, a rock in the road. “It’s not right.”

Aemond had finally found something to agree with you on, but he knew it was for vastly different purposes and not because his brother was the farthest thing that would be worthy of a delight like Helaena. He too contemplates for a moment, turning his head to the side so he could allow his eye to fully take you in.

“Why do you think it’s not right?” He actually doesn’t care about your specific opinion on why it’s not a good match, but like he said, curiosity clawed at him.

You feel his intense gaze on your side profile. You turn and meet this gaze, almost defiant, “The Faith teaches us otherwise.”

Aemond doesn’t expect that answer, but despite his best to not to, he laughs anyway. It’s dry and humorless, though it’s expressing his discontent with your words.

His laughter dies down and is exalted with a scoff of disbelief, “I forget that others follow faith so blindly, like sheep.” It’s your turn to tut and shake your head disapprovingly. “You don’t agree?”

“No,” you response comes out as a matter-of-fact. With the anger and annoyance bubbling inside of you right now, you start picking at your fingernails as a way to release the energy. At this point, you believe he starts saying things just to piss you off. “Sheep have less free will than we do. To compare us to them is outrageous.”

Aemond’s hands raise to rub at his chin, “Yet, I still did it.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence that settles over the two of you. You begin to bounce you leg, to which the prince notices.

“Itching to go somewhere?”

You look down at your hands, “I am.”

“Well, stay.” If it wasn’t a command and he not an asshole, the sentence would’ve been sweet. Aemond felt like a hypocrite as he usually hated when he was commanded to do something by someone who outranked him, though, there was something he enjoyed about being around you and feeling your fury for him grow (he’d never admit that). Perhaps his destiny was to piss you off for your time in Kings Landing. “If my family asked you to repeat what you said here today, but in front of our dragons and our men, would you have easily confessed your thoughts?”

His question, without a doubt, sends you into a spiral of thought. To say what you said whilst you forgot yourself in the presence of Aemond, the prince, well, you’d assume it was the closest thing to treason that you’ve uttered. The rights or wrongs of the royal family wasn’t yours to voice and maybe you should’ve remembered yourself.

You turn your head, expression bordering uncertainty, “no, I wouldn’t, my prince.”

Although Aemond doesn’t like the fact that you’ve yet again called him 'my prince', he seems vaguely satisfied that he’s secured yet another victory over you. If the small, sly smirk that quirked up one corner of his mouth wasn’t enough, he decided to say, “That’s what I thought.”

And despite being a lady-in-waiting at the behest of the Queen, perhaps you shouldn’t have muttered what you did.

“You Targaryens and your weird customs,” you pause, anger dripping from your words, “these nefarious actions will be your downfall.”

Aemond, seemingly not even being affected by your choice of words against his family (one could’ve assumed he agreed, though that wasn’t yours or his to tell), simply quips back to your outburst, “I can’t wait to see it.”

With that, you can’t help but storm off in defeat away from the one–eyed prince. He was right, in some way, about what he was saying. But, it’s also not easy to forget what you’ve been taught over the past decade of learning at Highgarden.

Days that turn into weeks end up passing before the day of marriage between Helaena and Aegon had arrived. You were sure that Aegon had spent the last few weeks on the street of silk, for his lustrous eyes and the stink of woman was awkwardly obvious. He had even tried to advance on to you with Helaena in sight once, but was quickly scolded when his mother noticed. Helaena, ever the dear, hadn’t even noticed.

With a beautiful gown that dragged across the floor with each step on, Helaena looked like the most fair and true maiden across Westeros. She was the spitting image of the mother, or at least, what you thought would be a depiction of the mother. Still, Helaena‘a beautiful features were clouded by sadness and despair.

“Helaena,” you say carefully, helping the other handmaidens fix the last of her hair. The silver wisps were pinned up, with multiple coils of braids and a makeshift crown that folded over the top of her head. She gives you a look through the mirror, her bottom lip beginning to tremble. “I can finish her off, out, the rest of you.”

When the last servant clears the room, Helaena breaks off into small, quiet sobs. They seem practiced, for her body didn’t shudder and she didn’t gasp for air. You feel a twang of guilt hit you, perhaps being a princess wasn’t as dreamy as the child version of you had once thought. You frown and kneel beside her chair, taking her hands into yours.

“What’s wrong, princess?” You ask tenderly. You remove one hand from the fold, raising it to wipe away the tears that began to fall.

“I- I,” the princess starts through breaths. She’s unsure, you can tell, but the gentle squeeze you give her hands urges her to tell her truth. “I don’t want to marry Aegon.”

Your heart breaks for your princess, “I’m sorry, dear Helaena. Forgive me for speaking plainly, but you are so radiant and so kind, that sack of human flesh doesn’t deserve someone as warm as you.”

You pause, stroking the remnants of her hair that laid in waves against her dress. She seems to calm at your words and she’s thankful that someone else sees what she sees in Aegon. Perhaps it wasn’t such a secret like her mother made it out to be. You think for a moment before rubbing away the tears that will surely stain her cheeks.

“For going through this, you are so strong. If you can get through this, you can get through anything.” Helaena’s sobs have turned into sniffles and gasps of air. “You are extraordinary, princess.”

And with a soft, reassuring kiss to her hands, Helaena feels as if she’s ready. Not ready to face her doom, as she called it, but ready to keep the facade she’s had for so long. You gently toss her veil over her face, holding out your arm for her to hold. She follows your lead as she evens out her breaths. Her grandfather, Ser Otto, takes her from your grasp and continues to walk her down the aisle.

You stand alongside where some other court ladies had gathered, your hands wringing each other out. You watch as the maester conducts the ceremony, his words loud and clear. Besides the nature of the wedding, you would’ve remarked how this was a beautiful day. The shroud that follows the princess however, deems it otherwise.

You watch as Aegon hesitantly lifts her veil and at the prompt of the maester, Aegon gives her a kiss. The two then turn to the small crowd and they begin to applaud. You’re reluctant to join, but the look Helaena casts you persuaded you. You give her a smile and clap despite everything in your being telling you not to. You turn your head and notice Aemond, his solemn expression obvious and his hands un-clapping.

The look of unhappiness doesn’t leave Helaena and you feel your heart lurch for the princess.

Chapter Text

“Marriage agrees with you, Helaena.”

From the table below the high table, you turn your head ever so slightly. Your eyes fall upon the Queen Alicent and the princess Helaena, an exchange that looks almost forced. Helaena gives her a weak smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes and spark the usual happiness she bore.

There’s a scoff from the other side of the table.

The interaction is enough to instill sadness within you. Helaena, despite being the radiance she is, has been clouded ever since you had helped her dress for her wedding. She was like a shroud of dark rain clouds over a sweet summer field of flowers, and too much rain leads to dead flowers.

The festivities around you, the laughter and music that fills the air, does little to raise your spirits. You stare around with a grim look, lips pressed into a thin line as you play with your food in front of you. You exhale through your nose, reaching for the cup of wine next to your plate and taking a few, long sips. The content is smooth and velvety, enough to make the back of your throat tickle.

There’s some scuffling behind you from chairs being pulled from their position and soon, Helaena and Aegon descend the steps to the royal high table, hand in hand. The sea of dancing lords and ladies part, allowing them to enter safely and begin dancing with the crowd. Helaena follows the steps to the dance perfectly and when her partner switches to another lord, it’s like an incandescent candle that flickers to life. She bears a large smile with rosy cheeks, bashfully talking to the lord who’d begun to dance with her.

You can’t help but beam, perhaps her true personality hasn’t been lost.

“Why do you look so glum, little flower?”

Once you realize the question was directed to you, you turn your head and your eyebrows shoot up at the presence of Aemond. He’s standing there in fine clothes, black linen and leather clad against his body. From this stance, there’s some sort of regality that effortlessly flows about him, as if being a prince agreed with him.

Your eyes flutter and you immediately swallow the thought, “No reason at all, my prince.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as he eyes you carefully. He lets out a little hum as if he was unsatisfied by your answer. His hand suddenly appears from behind his back and extends out towards you.

“Dance with me.”

You look down at your plate, the food torn apart and obviously picked at. You fold your hands neatly in your lap before looking back up at Aemond.

You shake your head, “I’m sorry, prince Aemond, but I fear I have a sou–”

You don’t even finish your sentence before he interrupts you, “the Queen Mother insists.”

The lips of your mouth curl into an ‘o’ shape, a small noise of realization falling from them. You turn your head to glance at Queen Alicent, who smiles and raises her cup happily. You return your gaze to Aemond and take his hand. His hand is warm and calloused in yours, with slender fingers curling to grasp your hand.

You allow him to lead you to the dance floor, where once again, the lords and ladies part for you. You assumed that was one of the perks of being royalty; the crowds would part at your mere presence. Maybe that’s why Aemond walked around with a self-righteousness that seemed to choke everyone around him. You can’t help the laugh that seems to come out your nose rather than your mouth.

Aemond gives you a look but says nothing. You two part and stand in front of each other, the start of another song playing and cuing the beginning of the dance. Aemond moves with light steps, one that makes his dance moves almost mystic and fluid. You assumed you had to thank Ser Criston Cole for teaching Aemond a thing or two about how calculated the steps to his dancing was.

Dancing with Aemond had drawn out interactions you had thought you imagined. With his large, warm hand splayed on the small of your back that lingered a little too long, an intense gaze that never seemed to leave your face, and the sighs that seemed to spew from his lips–perhaps these were just fragments of a chimera you’d wish to be true. Maybe it was just annoyance and neglect.

“You look exquisite tonight, lady (Y/N).” Your name falls from his lips in a way it hasn’t before. Your eyes flutter up at him, but you tut and shake your head.

“Did your Queen Mother tell you to say that?” You ask, your brow quirking up as you stare questioningly at him.

Despite the accusation, Aemond smiles, “Hm, she did not.” Oh. Surely his compliment wouldn’t be so far accompanied by an insult. Perhaps he’d sneer ‘little ward’ at you or maybe reprimand you about Westerosi customs.

“Then is there some insult you’re going to spew at me?”

“Do you think I’m vile?” Aemond scoffs.

His question catches you off guard. Your mouth remains parted as you two continue to dance. You twirl in his grasp and begin to gnaw on your lip. Was he truly vile, or were you accustomed to this.. minute hatred he had for you? Maybe you’d mistaken his annoyance for loathing.

Your gaze returns to lock on to his, “I do, matter of fact.”

Whether this sentence had hurt him or not, Aemond had spun around as according to the dance the crowd was doing. Aemond’s brows furrow and he feels himself become displeased with that answer. Yes, he hadn’t been the most gracious of hosts, but it was hard to keep his emotions in check. He turns back around and returns to the front of you.

“Aren’t parties the one thing girls love? How come you’re sour tonight?” His voice is like velvet to your ears and it scratches an itch in the back of your brain.

You roll your eyes once again, shaking your head in disbelief, “If you believe that, dear prince, then I’m afraid you know nothing about girls.” The dance has come to the point where you’re supposed to switch partners, but Aemond’s hand never leaves yours. He sends a glare towards the lord that tries to take you.

“If you must know,” you say carefully after watching the interaction, “I fear for Helaena.”

His eye returns to gaze upon you as you say this and there’s a small, upward twitch of the corner of his lip, “As do I. You’re not the only one looking out for her.”

Almost as if on cue, both you and Aemond glance to where Helaena is. She’s off the dance floor and standing in between her grandsire and someone you’d assume was family on Alicent Hightower’s side. Your nose scrunches and you look back at Aemond. His arm settles on your back as he dips you, his muscles tensing at the newfound weight that you allow to settle onto him.

He picks you back up effortlessly and your arm snakes around his neck. The proximity is close–too close for comfort. You two are frozen in time, what seems like, eyes scanning over each others features as if it’s the last thing you’re going to see. With a small breath, you feel a small, warm breeze of air fan over your face. You notice that there’s tiny freckles dusted over his sun-kissed nose.

Aemond inhales through his nose and almost sighs at scent of berries that wafts to his scent glands–that was the scent he had mistaken for Helaena’s.

Your eyes flutter and you inhale sharply, pulling away, “I’m glad to see that you have some sort of humanity within you, my prince.”

“Aemond,” he corrects quickly, his hand dropping from yours then picking up your other hand as you two switch directions. “My name is Aemond.”

You clear your throat, bowing at the waist when the song ends, “Well, Aemond, you’re a very fine dancer.”

Aemond ignores the way his skin suddenly feels like it’s on fire when his name is spewed from your lips. It sounds like the start of a prayer, one that he unknowingly wants to finish. Instead, he allows a smirk to twist the ends of his lip up, his eye radiating confidence. If he hadn’t been so hellbent on being this know it all, you would’ve fallen victim to the look he gave you. However, the next words that leave his mouth are enough to make you huff loudly and remember how much he annoyed you.

“I know.”

“Do you ever say thank you?” You shoot back, slowly rising up from your bow. The prince blinks receptively, his eye never leaving you as he weighs the words in his mind before he decides to respond.

It’s only a few moments of shared silence before a soft, velvety answer dances out of his mouth, “Thank you.”

It seems that Aemond is not done pestering you for the night just yet, as his large hand slips into yours. He tugs you towards the edge of the crowd and it splits as quick as an axe to a chop of wood. You dip your head bashfully to the lords and lady’s who decide to stare. It’s only when Aemond looks back that their gazes return to their partners and any trance of disturbance is gone.

You notice he’s led you to a dessert buffet table. Before you, there’s an array of cakes–peach, lemon, apple, and many bits of chocolates and soft, chewy sugar rounded into small balls. Your mouth begins to water.

“Fancy a lemon cake?” He asks, a hand reaching out. His fingers curl around a small lemon cake and you watch him peel the caramelized lemon slice off the top, then placing it onto his tongue. He chews politely and doesn’t flinch at the sourness your sure has attacked his taste buds.

You make a face at him, “No thank you, Aemond. I prefer peach cakes.” Aemond notes that you call him by his name, again. It’s much better than ‘my prince’, he reckons. “Lemon cakes have a certain sourness to it.. which is why I’m sure you enjoy it.”

The quip that falls from your lips almost escapes Aemond. He turns his head, his brow furrowing and his lips pursing into a thin line. Soon, his face melts into amusement.
“Was that a joke, little flower?”

You stare back at him challengingly, sliding a piece of peach cake into your mouth. You chew on it thoughtfully and swallow before grinning ear to ear. He returns the smile, though his isn’t as grand or toothy as yours. You liked this Aemond–the Aemond who was lighthearted, quick to forgive, and most of all, kind. Though in the back of your mind, you can’t help but feel as if this is some ploy.

Soon the interaction passes and you carry the rest of the peach cake in a napkin on your hand. You break pieces off one by one, nibbling modestly onto the pleasantry while surveying the room. Soon, you hear Aemond hum in annoyance.

“Have I ever told you how much I don’t like Tyland Lannister?” It’s almost as on cue that the Lannister master of ships laughs, or rather giggles, very loudly. Aemond almost winces at the sound.

You tut, “Jason is far worse.”

Aemond turns his good eye to you, “There’s two of them?”

It’s your turn to chuckle and you motion with your head to where Jason Lannister is sitting. He’s surrounded by girls, annoyingly, and wearing a smug grin as he’s no doubt telling them about how delicious the wine that’s brought from Lannisport is. You crinkle your nose at the thought – they were both worse in their own ways.

“You’ve been at court all your life and you’ve never noticed?”

“Tt was a jest,” he responds, shifting on his feet so that his weight settled on one and his other stuck out. There’s another moment of silence between you two, yet this time it’s warm and inviting, less cold and awkward as the ones before. Maybe you had been to harsh on Aemond, perhaps he was just a boy who had grown up to fast and was catching up to the proclivities of life. You finish off your peach cake and hear, “I am glad that you are here, my lady.”

His body is angled more towards you now and is eye catches yours. It’s almost.. soft by the way the light sheens off the blue coloration. You suddenly shift your weight between your feet, taking a step back once you realize how hot it’s truly getting.

“Helaena seems profound of you,” he continues. Oh. You swallow and start to wring out your hands, fingers delicately toying with the jewelry that adorned your hands.

“Careful Aemond,” you hum, “You sound like you’re starting to enjoy my presence.”

His eye narrows and it’s like the softness you once saw has vanished, his usual, hardened stoic expression returning, “You’re alright, for a little ward.”

And just when he was dancing over the line of being on your good side, he had to pull that card.

You tut, roll your eyes, and abandoned him where he stood. You begin to walk aimlessly, eyes observing the gold plates, the armor the Targaryen soldiers wore, the intricate detailing on the lady's dresses that you passed by, and the heat that started to rapidly come on. It all started to become too much so you abandon the great hall and make haste for a balcony.

The wind cuts your face like a whip at how cool it is. Despite being summer, the days of winter were surely not too far ahead. You lean against the balcony, inhaling deeply and closing your eyes as you succumb to the intoxicating taste of distant rain and salt.

You notice the approach of footsteps and open your eyes. The serendipitous feeling of felicity you had felt quickly vanished like a violet waves of blackwater bay swallowing the rocks below the walls of King's Landing. You turn your head slightly and look to see who approaches out the corner of your eye. You hold back a groan.

“Aemond Targaryen, is it your destiny to annoy me to death?”

Aemond chuckles. It’s short and sweet, the soft bass in his voice evident. He didn’t have the willpower to tell you that he had felt alone after you abandoned him, and that he thought an enemy, or whatever you were to him, was better company than none. Though, he doesn’t want to see you gloat at his confession.

“I’m afraid it is,” he pauses to join you leaning against the balcony, “The seven visited me last night and pleaded me so.”

The sound of waves drowns your thoughts. You open your body to him, one arm dangling lazily on the shelf of the balcony wall while the other hugged your body. You watch him for a moment; the soft glow of the moon makes him seem more ghostly than in the great hall and yet it seems to compliment the sapphire colored iris in his eye. He turns his head to look at you and that’s when you realize you were staring.

You play it off by fluttering your eyes, inhaling deep, and tilting your head as if in contemplation. Just there, you two stand staring at each other. It’s unwavering and quaint, all former softness, amusement, or challenge gone. Just his blue eye watching your own, carefully.

It feels like you’re there for an eternity before you speak up, “I’m afraid the hour is late and I’m growing tired, Aemond. Good night.”

Aemond mumbles a ‘good night’ back to you as well, turning his head forward and staring out into the landscape before him. He hums in thought as the sound of your footsteps slowly recede.

He notices the warmth that blossomed in his chest has extinguished.

Chapter Text

A sudden spout of soft giggles compels you to return to the real world.

Thoughts that once contained the night festivities from days before had continued to plague your mind. There was a certain uncertainty about that night; was Aemond showing his true colors or was there something more deceptive at play? You’ve tried to recall the techniques that your father had taught you beforehand; what was Aemond’s reasoning for wanting to get on your good side?

“Sweet girl, has anyone ever told you how adorably witty you are?”

Your gaze raises from the cup of wine in your hand, a small smile forming on your lips at the compliment the Queen Mother had given you.

“Once or twice from my lord father, though I must admit, it is very nice to hear that from you, your Grace.”

Your reply seems to soften her resolve, for she sighs in content and fans her slightly flushed face. You assumed it was both the alcohol and her laughter than caused the rosiness of her face. She clears her throat, tucking a strand of dark curly hair behind her ear.

She takes another sip from her cup, “How have you been faring here, my dear? I hope my daughter isn’t giving you too much trouble?”

Now, you’re faced with a choice. You can either tell the truth and explain to her of her youngest sons inability to stay on your good or bad side, explain how he causes aggravation and irritation in his wake, and how Helaena has been nothing less than a sister. Or, you could lie; tell her that everything is peachy and fine, no disturbance whatsoever in your time being here.

You assume it’s appropriate to tell her a half-truth. It wasn’t necessarily lying.. was it?

“Just as I’d hoped,” You start, fingers lightly tapping against the gold goblet, “Helaena is good and kind, she treats me as if I were of her own.” You lick your lips as you weigh the next words in your mind before on your tongue, “But I must confess, I have a strange longing for home.”

Queen Alicent has gotten up from her cushion on the other side of the room and has crossed the median, sitting beside you and setting her cup down on the table. She coos gently before taking one of your hands into hers. Her hands are tender and warm, almost motherly.

Her smile only seems to become more genuine and happy, if that was possible, “I’m very glad to hear that.”

“I know it must’ve been strange to see brother wed sister, but I am glad that you are supportive of Helaena.” Supportive. That was one word for it. Alicent looks away, smacking her lips once she finds the words, “Sometimes duty is what we must sacrifice love for.”

Unsure if the Queen was alluding to herself or Helaena, you simply nod in understanding as if the piece of advice had given you some clarity. You slowly raise the cup of wine, taking a sip.

“How about Aemond?” The question causes you to sit up a little straighter.

“Forgive me, your Grace, but what exactly about Aemond?”

“Has he been kind?” She asks, one of her hands leaving yours and finding the stem of her cup. Her fingers curl around it before raising it to her lips so she can take a drink. Was this a trick question?

Another truth or lie situation. Aemond was.. an enigma, that was sure. He was hot and cold; one minute he could be giving you a genuine smile after he had chuckled (him chuckling was something very special to you), then the next he could be emotionless and devoid of any sign of human life. He could be kind, but then he could turn into a force you wouldn’t want to reckon with.

You could compare him to storms and lemons, two drastically different things but served the same purpose when dealt in the same sentence as Aemond. Storms come and go, pretty in the distance with the smell of petrichor, then an unrelenting force when the clouds break lightning and thunder over your castle. Each strike rattling the foundation and making you wonder if your home would survive the typhoon.

Lemons, well, lemons were a beautiful yellow, bright and promising. But when you take a bite, instant sourness attacks your tongue and leaves you bitter.

You swallow the sudden thickness in your throat, “He has kept me company.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Aemond has been someone who was very constant in your life since living here in grandeur of the Red Keep. He’s like a plague on your freedom, invading anything and everything he can; the Godswood, the library, insulting your family memory, or even ridiculing your occupation.

Queen Alicent seems content by this answer, but before she can reply, a Kingsguard opens the door. He has warm, sun-kissed skin and unruly black hair. You were sure this was Criston Cole, Aemond’s master-of-arms and ultimately, Queen Alicent’s personal shield.

“Prince Aemond, my Queen.”

Aemond struts in after the Kingsguard, his expression placid. He stops in the middle of the room, one hand enclosed around his wrist that’s settled at the front of him. He’s looking between the two of you, eye shooting back and forth. That’s only when he notices that his mothers hand is still enclosed around yours and how close you two were.

This only seems to anger him as his jaw becomes set, adding to the sculpture of his face. The hold on his wrist tightens to show the bone underneath the skin.

“I fear our time together has been cut short, my lady.” The queen says as she refocuses on you. She gets up and you follow, one of her hands finding your shoulder, which she rubs. She stays like that for a moment, eyes observing your features before she pulls you in to give you two chaste kisses on your cheeks. “Off you go, my dear.”

You curtsy at the Queens leave and set your cup on the table. You turn and make way towards the door, offering Aemond a smile that he doesn’t return. Safe to say, he doesn’t even look at you. Some newfound feeling starts to pluck at the strings of your heart as you exit the room.

Once you’re surely out of earshot and the wooden door closes behind you, Aemond blinks at his mother, “Do you plan to treat all wards of the Crown with such familiarity?” His voice borders the bitterness of ice.

Queen Alicent, already sensing where this conversation was going, simply sits back down and rubs at her temples, “Aemond, don’t start.” Her hands join together in a fold where she places her head on top of. “You’ve been sweet on her too.”

Aemond wants to tut and roll his eye at the comment. It’s as if his actions were enough to excuse hers. He chooses to hum with irritation instead, moving to sit on a chair nearby. Silence drapes over them and they stare challengingly at one another, as if the other was pleading to give them an excuse to start an argument. Aemond gladly takes the bait.

"She’s been here for little over a month and yet you’ve treated her with more kindness than Aegon or I combined have ever seen.”

Alicent, unsure as to what to say, stays silent–this only furthers Aemonds growing resentment.

“You can’t even be bothered to deny it.” Aemond’s voice was borderline hurt and his furrowed expression only backs that. He starts playing with his hand, cracking the knuckles where he can as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I don’t blame you,” he says, his stare unwavering on Alicent, “She’s everything you could have possibly want. Hair like yours, a certain wittiness, a fondness for duty–she’s not like Aegon, Helaena, or I.”

After a moment of silence and despite his best wishes, he swallows the lump that’s grown in his throat, “Do you despise us?”

Alicent weighs Aemond’s words in her mind before deciding to respond. Perhaps she should’ve stayed silent. Maybe he would have found more comfort in no response than the one she comes up with.

“If you truly think that, then you are not as clever as I thought you to be.” The statement doesn’t do much to quench the fury he felt bubbling in his stomach or warm his aching heart. He, however, has decidedly given up and clears his throat. The answer he wanted wasn’t one he was going to get. Disappointment is obvious as he stares down at the floor.

The only sound within the room is the fire that cackles loudly and the clang of a flagon against the table in the middle of the chairs. Alicent has reached for it and poured herself a fresh cup. She leans back in her chair, sipping on the contents slowly while she’s deep in thought.

Despite being unable to voice her affection for her children properly, Alicent was sure that Aemond was the child she favored over Helaena and Aegon. His brother was an incompetent drunk who often whored his way down the street of silk, scurrying away in the shadows like a rat to enjoy his nightly activities. What they were, Alicent couldn’t find out, but she was sure she didn’t want to know, or even, she didn’t care to know.

Helaena, ever the dear, was a force that Alicent simply couldn’t understand. What Alicent couldn’t understand, she was often irritable towards. Helaena was quite cryptic and involved in her own hobbies; little creatures of bugs and insects stored comfortably in her room, stitching these same bugs as blankets for the child she was currently carrying. It’s possible that Alicent couldn’t care to involve herself in her daughters odd passions.

What ever disconnection Alicent had, perhaps there was some truth to Aemonds words about you. You reminded Alicent of herself when she was younger: bound by duty.

“Aemond,” his name almost feels foreign and distasteful on her tongue after his outburst, “I fear I must ask something of you.”

Aemond, despite the annoyance and discouragement he felt welling within him, turns his head to face his mother, “Name it and it shall be done.”

His compelling need to win his mothers love and affection through devotion and loyalty was something that never went unnoticed, especially by her. He couldn’t help but sometimes feel like a dog being whistled up to do as its masters bidding.

Alicent takes another sip of her wine before rising from her seat. She begins to toy with the rings that adorned her fingers while she’s in thought.

“The Tyrells are the seatholders of Highgarden and therefore, Wardens of the West. Your grandsire often talked about how their endless fields produce bountiful crop–enough so that it makes up most of the realms food.” She begins to pace back and forth. Aemond watches her carefully, “The Tyrells have always been sympathetic towards matriarchy–his family was the first to bend the knee to princess Rhaenyra, I have no doubt he wants to pass Highgarden to his daughter.”

Aemond crinkles his nose at the mention of his half-sister. He was so sure he hasn’t been summoned to his mothers quarters on the pure need to share a lesson in history, what was her point?

“Do you recall me explaining to you that our spies were sighting Rhaenyra and Daemon flying to Highgarden?”

Aemond nods his head, “I do.”

“I believe Rhaenyra was planning on joining their houses–our dear, little flower to her son, Jacaerys.” Alicent turns around to look at Aemond. His leg is now crossed over the other and he is well in thought–obvious realization dawning on his face as he realizes what his mother is trying to tell him.

“Jacaerys is barely a man with any hair on his chest,” he responds.

Alicent smiles and sits on the cushion that’s closest to Aemond. She settles her elbows on her lap and leans forward. One of her hand goes up to tenderly stroke his cheek and Aemond almost feels the need to lean into her touch. He simply closes his eyes and enjoys the warmth of her single digit against his skin.

“You, Aemond, are a man grown.” Her hand drops from his face. A few moments of silence and Aemond reopens his eye to meet her look, “You will woo her and convince her to marry you.”

Aemond wants to laugh, but all that comes out is a half-assed chuckle that’s mixed with a breathless scoff. He looks at her as if her proposition was some kind of joke. Even if she was serious, Aemond couldn’t find it in his.. heart to even try to begin properly courting you.

He had so many grievances against you; your family was conspiring with princess Rhaenyra (which, in his mind was already traitorous enough even if she wasn’t technically a rebellion against the throne yet), You had won the affections of his mother (which should’ve been his by his own birth, but that’s a subject he doesn’t want to argue about anymore), and.. what ever this feeling was that he had swallow down the night of Helaena and Aegon’s wedding celebration.

It felt like bile was stuck in his chest, unmoving and forever keeping him in agony.

He turns his head away, the hardness returning into his jaw, “Anything but, mother.”

“Aemond, please,” she softly, “If not for me, then your brother– your sister. if Rhaenyra comes to power, there’s no telling what she will do to you three.”

Aemond, despite everything in his self interest, knows she’s right. Bound by his desperation to keep his family together and happy, Aemond casts an unhappy look towards his mother.

“I’ll do what I must.”

Alicent gives him a fond smile once his reply reaches her ears. Despite everything that was said, Alicent can’t help but feel a sense of pride swell in her chest. Even though he was vengeful and oftentimes full of an anger she couldn’t comprehend, she could admit that his loyalty to his family was one of his limited strengths.

“I know you will, sweet boy.” Sweet boy. That was the first affectionate name his mother had given him. Was it wrong to still feel resentful? Was it possibly too late to start letting her affinity towards himself be known? Was this merely the lemon on top of a lemon cake that will help ensure his success in wooing you? Aemond couldn’t tell, but he knew that he did not like being called sweet boy.

Aemond purses his lips and licks his teeth, “Can I go now?”

“You may.” The affirmation of his leave is enough to make him stand, give his mother a slight bow, and saunter out of the room without a second thought.

He paces the halls of the Red Keep, teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he thinks about his newfound mission. What was he to do about you? How in Seven Hells was he supposed to muster the strength to not only gain your friendship, but your love? What did he know about love?

Aemond was sure he didn’t know anything about it. His mother hated being a mother and never properly put her heart into caring for them. His father, well, his father was tiptoeing between the line of living and being dead. When he was younger, he had always watched his father favor his nephews over his actual sons. Maybe that was the reason Aemond was so spiteful against them and the world.

He rounds a sharp corner and nearly knocks into a body. His hands shoot out on instinct and grip the shoulders, his eye taking in the person before him. You. How convenient. The parchment you were holding drops to the ground and gets trampled over, much to your dismay which is vocalized with a groan.

“We have to stop meeting like this.” Aemond is unsure whether it was a tease or if he was being mean, but it looks like you’ve receipted it as a tease.

You bend at the knee and pick up the piece of paper, “Maybe you should look where you’re going.”

Aemond’s brows furrow and he’s ready to make a combative comment, but the grin on your face tells him that you weren’t being an ass. Maybe he needs to get out more.

“What’s that?” He motions with his chin towards the ruined paper in your hands.

Deciding to make fun of the situation, “This was a letter meant for the princess explaining all your whereabouts as I am her spy.”

If Aemond could physically bristle at your jest, he would now. His eye opens wide and he makes a grab for the paper. Your brows furrow in confusion and you swat his arm away, pulling the paper out of his reach.

“That was a joke, Aemond.” Your voice is scolding and Aemond doesn’t like that.

“If it was then let me read it.” Maybe Aemond was out of line for asking, or rather telling, but he just needed to be sure.

You scoff, “No, this is a letter for my father. It’s personal. Besides, I thought we weren’t friends?”

You don’t miss the way Aemond rolls his eye at your last comment. Touché. He huffs in defeat, his eye narrowing pointedly at you.

“I could command you,” he suggests, his hands joining behind his back as he leans against the wall. You stare at him challengingly and he can’t help but notice the fury that brought out a certain light in your eye. Maybe this wasn’t the best way to woo you, but he was never one to accept defeat.

“Then you’d be losing the closest thing to a friend that you have,” you retort back. Was he incapable of being decent? Incapable of returning to the man that you’ve laughed with those days ago? “If you want friends, my prince, then I suggest you don’t use your power over them.”

With that and an angry exhale through your nose, you turn sharply on your heel and leave him alone in the courtyard.

Aemond can’t help but feel discomforted at your use of ‘my prince.’ He was doing well, he reckoned, as you called him by his name earlier in your conversation. Maybe he egged you on a little too much.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

“Do you ever miss home?”

Helaena’s voice is sweet to your ear. The question is honest and sentimental, her gaze soft as she eyes you. Though, you can’t help but feel that the question is a taunt, but you know better than that. You wonder why she was suddenly curious about your home – perhaps it was the poem that made her question you about your feelings on yours. You think about it for a moment, tongue licking your teeth.

You play with the ends of your hair, looking up at her through your lashes, “I do, princess. But, my place is here with you now.”

Helaena’s fingers fiddle with the papers of the poetry book. She rolls the paper back and forth, deciding to crease the corner to serve as a temporary bookmark. You grimace at the action but say nothing.

“What’s Highgarden like? Is it different from Kings Landing?” She probes, her head tilting slightly as she shuts the book that was in her lap. Instead, she rests her elbows on the hard cover, leaning forward as if you were sharing interesting gossip.

“It’s beautiful,” your words are laced with a forlorn sentiment, one that softly tugs at your heart. Even though it’s barely been half a year serving as Helaena’s handmaiden, you’ve already forgotten what home was. It was easy to take every spectacle for granted since you once saw them every day. But now, without the constant reminder of flower walls, perfectly rounded shrubbery, and the marble statues – it was easy to forget. “It’s more flowers and art than anything, no dreary buildings to block out the sky.”

Helaena seems to sigh at the notion. Highgarden was truly magnificent and words couldn’t even begin to scratch the surface on how breathtaking it actually was. Your lips twitch downward as you continue to think about it – your friends, your family, how were they doing? Has any of the flowers changed since you last saw them? Any new sculptures or rooms? Your hands collapse into your lap and you begin to fiddle with your fingers.

“Highgarden often hosts party’s and festivities, don’t they?” You raise your head to acknowledge Helaena’s next question. You smile and nod your head, the words unable to come out and affirm what she was asking about. It was weird, no doubt, to be talking to someone who had no absolute idea on what kind of grand, social soirées took place at Highgarden – it was often the talk of the Reach. “I believe there’s a festivity tonight within the city.”

If your interest wasn’t piqued now, it sure was.

Your brows raise and your mouth parts slightly, though the words that were supposed to come out were interrupted by a man – “Festivity? It’s nothing more than a fuckfest.”

Your head turns and it’s Aegon with Aemond trailing after him. The latter gives his older brother a sour look, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed. You turn your head the other way and roll your eyes, not missing the double take Aegon seems to give you.

“Aegon.” His name seems to flow off the tongue of yours and Aemonds at the same time, a scold evident. The word is, eerily enough, the same pitch and volume. You both cast each other a glance before continuing to glare at Aegon. It’s Aemond who continues the conversation after a tut - his voiced is hushed, “Such use of language around your wife isn’t appropriate.”

Aegon waves his hand in the air as if he’s swatting away the scold. He rounds the furniture and stands behind Helaena, a grin parting his lips as he gently clasps her shoulders. She seems uncomfortable now, the smile she bore now replaced by a thin line. Though it’s been sometime since Helaena and Aegon’s wedding, you can’t help but still feel unnerved at the mention of the word wife.

“Come, my darling wife,” Aegon says, sucking in his bottom lip and teething it. “I want to show you something.”

The look he gives her makes you feel icky and you must admit, the look on Helaena’s face is enough for you to be disturbed. You’ve never asked Helaena about the relationship – she always seemed like a candle snuffed out in his presence.

Helaena gingerly takes his outstretched hand and rises from her seat. She casts you a look, slightly tipping her head in a silent goodbye. You give her a reassuring smile, but it doesn't do much. You cross your legs, fingers thrumming against the wooden table as their receding footsteps come to ear. Soon, silence befalls you and Aemond. You take a look at him; he's paying you no mind, except his jaw is set and his fingers are rubbing together in thought. No doubt, he was also bothered by their absence.

You clear your throat and he almost seems to glare at you out of the corner of his eye.

"Have you been there?" You offer. Aemond turns his head this time to full look at you, eye squinting.

"Where?" His voice is monotone and low, drastically different from the light airiness of your own. It sends a shiver down your spine and you don't like that.

You want to roll your eyes, "The," you begin, suddenly feeling shy underneath his watchful stare. You look down at your hands, fingers already starting to pick at the skin of the nail beds. The action was absentminded and hardly your own. "The festival."

"It's unfit for a lady."

"I wasn't asking if it was fit for a lady."

Both phrases are calloused and harsh, two sentences that shoot out like swords that clash in the air. He tilts his head, his stare hardening. You jut out your chin and raise your brows questioningly. Defiance meets defiance, but Aemond seems to give in a little too easily.

"I have," he finally says, "But I must confess, being your tribulation is much more amusing."

You roll your eyes, of course, "I'll decide that."

Aemond, intrigued by your response, turns his entire body and leans forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. He's facing you now, legs, chest, and face attuned to your direction. He gives you a sly grin, one that's almost challenging your statement.

"And how will you accomplish that, little flower?" He asks, his finger pointing at you almost accusingly, "You have no chaperone."

You snort, shaking your head. You hadn't thought this out too far – you hoped that he wouldn't be too keen on questioning you, but alas, your plan fell short. You chew on your bottom lip, trying to decide what to say without outright pleading him to take you. You wanted to be granted this one night of fun – a night that would remind you of home.

"Hm?" Aemond taunts when you don't reply. In response, you glare at him. He seems satisfied by this; the grin he had on his face only grows with each passing second.

You sigh in frustration, "I'll go on my own."

Despite the confidence in the way you say it, the idea outright terrifies you. To be a highborn lady, alone, on the streets of Kings Landing was unheard of and definitely avoided. Your father had always warned you of the beasts that men become after a cup or two of too much wine. You would be devoured by them, squabbled over like children to their toys. You're unnerved at this point of your own thoughts and Aemond can tell. Though, he likes this newfound fire. He wants to poke at it and feed air to it, to breathe a new flame of ferocity into it.

Undoubtedly and without confession, he wants to experience the raw and unfiltered version of you.

He continues to stare. There’s a mischievous gleam to his blue eye, one that seems to make the iris glow iridescently. You take this moment to observe his face – strong and sharply sculpted, as if he was carved by the Gods themself. His lips, despite being constantly curved into a sly sneer, are perfectly imperfect. His top lip casts a shadow over his bottom one and there’s a bow within the top that gives it more dimension. Your gaze moves down toward his chin, where it proudly protrudes slightly - and this is the first time you notice that there is a faint dimple in the middle. Your eyes trail back up; his brows are fluffy and unkempt, baby hairs flaring out from both the top and bottom. The softness they give contrast to the harsh lines of the rest of his face.

He’s pale in this light, yes, but he’s indubitably gorgeous when he’s not brooding, taunting, or snapping his jaws at those near him.

"I'll pray you don't return," he says, clearly with amusement. You scoff and roll your eyes once more, getting up with such force that the chair screeches with abuse. You turn abruptly and walk away, grumbling about his scorn. You exhale deeply, slipping between the door and the crack to get away from him. Despite his beauty, he was a nuisance – a head-splitting headache.

It's not long during your roam through the castle's hallways that you are summoned to Princess Helaena's room. The servant who brings you this summon, instructs that Helaena desired to be bathed. You oblige, stopping by the linen closet to grab cloths to wrap the princess with and smaller strips at well to scrub her skin with. Your feet carry you quickly to her private quarters and enter only after your knocks are met with an acknowledgement.

There's a bath filled with steaming hot water. You approach, setting the linens nearby before grabbing nearby bottles of soaps and oils. You open the oil bottle and shake a few droplets into the steaming water. Instantly, the room is filled with the pleasant aroma of fruits. You turn and Helaena is sitting quietly, staring down at the small piece of sown cloth. There's a spider on it, sown neatly with little to no errors.

"Helaena," you call, approaching her slowly as not to startle her. She's broken from her trance and suddenly remembers where she's at. The princess gets up and closes in on your location, slowly tugging at the strings of her loosened chemise. You help her undress and ball the clothing up, discarding it into a bin that you mentally note to take to the chambermaid. You help her into the water and she sinks in, sighing at the warmth that soothes her muscles. You roll up the sleeves of your dress before continuing.

You grab a strip of cloth, soaking it into the water. You wring it out and drag it across skin that's surfaced. You notice, out of the corner of your eye, that Helaena relaxes into your touch. You continue like this in silence, the sound of water dripping from the cloth as you repeated your actions. You move from her arm to her shoulders, over to the length of her back, and then to the other arm. You work meticulously, even going as far as to scrub at the undergrowth of her nails. You hand Helaena the rag, abandoning her side to grab some soap for her scalp. The princess dunks her head into the water, hands running through the strands of silver hair in order to soak it through.

This felt like a routine to you and you both worked in perfect synchrony. Once she's done wetting her hair, you move to the end of the tub and lather the soap into your hands. The substance becomes suds and in turn, you begin to massage it into her scalp.

"Have you thought about names?" Your voice is gentle and bordering a whisper. Helaena smiles and meets your eye – hers sparkle with what you could call motherly tenderness.

"I was thinking Jaehaerys.”

The name is undoubtedly Targaryen – no doubt a tribute to the former king. You muster a smile that matches hers and coo in response.

"A name fit for a prince." You both giggle and she continues to scrub at herself.

"I pray so," she says after a moment. She looks up at you through her lashes, "Have you thought about having children?"

The question causes a pang of hurt to radiate through your body. Though you're sure it wasn't meant to intentionally hurt you, you can't help but think about the romances that simply didn't work. First, it was the boy from Highgarden. What his name was, you couldn't remember, just that he was unmistakeningly handsome and had a smile that would put the Gods to shame. Then, there was Prince Jacaerys.. the kindling that never happened. You smile at the thought of the latter, though it's laced with disappointment.

"No, not really, my princess." Helaena frowns and notices that she's plucked at the strings of your heart. Her wet hand reaches out for you, gently holding you in place as she gives you a look. It's knowing and almost apologetic – most importantly, it's her showing that she understands.

"You can leave me, my friend. I can see myself to bed." You smile gratefully at her and lean forward, placing a chaste kiss on her temple.

"Good night, Helaena. I will see you on the morrow."

She bids you good night and you see yourself out, rolling down the sleeves of your dress. There's spots of wetness – spots that begin to irritate the skin underneath. You reach your room after walking through the corridors. Your feet ache and there's a dull pain in your knees that starts to crawl up the bone of your thigh.

You finally reach and enter your room, locking the door latch once you're safely inside. You slump on to a nearby sofa, rubbing at your legs with a soft moan. You, however, were fully intent on celebrating the night festivities. How, you didn't know, but you would figure it out and play it by ear. Once you're rested enough to not audibly complain about the feeling in your legs, you get up and change out your dress. This one is darker in tone and still long-sleeve. It's plain; less adorned with jewelries and designs. You change out your shoes and search your closet for a shawl, something you could wear to keep you warm.

Once you've figured out what you were wearing, you look at yourself in the mirror. Hopefully, your clothes wouldn't be such an exclaimer on your status. You grab a coin pouch and pull out a few coins. You figured if you kept your purse light, you wouldn't be an easy target. Hopefully.

You quickly braid the length of your hair, tying it off with a leather bound before tucking it into your hood. You tuck the pouch into your clothing and make your way to the door. Fingers expertly unlatch the lock and you swing open the door. Your eyes are met with an enclosed fist and the sight of silver hair.

"Aemond?" Brows furrowing, you look at him up and down. He's wearing almost the same exact thing you are. You tut and narrow your eyes at him.

He moves past you, as if his presence wasn't a surprise, "Good, you haven't left yet."

"Excuse me?" You make a face, watching him as he entered your room. You shut the door and walk towards him, arms crossing over your chest. "Why are you here?"

"We're going to the festival."

"When did me become we?"

He rolls his eyes at you, "Don't be childish, little flower. Did you believe I would have let you go, unaccompanied?"

"I did, yes," You shoot back. Aemond moves about your room, studying the walls with an interest that confused you even more. What was his deal? "I was hoping to be blessed with a night without you."

His search is broken by your words and he gives you a pointed look, his eye narrowing, "Now, now, I'm being charitable. You should be thankful."

Charitable? Thankful? Annoyance begins to bubble in your stomach and you're ready to curse him, yell at him for being so assumptive –

There's a loud creak that seems to shake the room. Aemond is pressing on the wall and despite it being carved out of stone, it moves.

"Come now, the festival won't wait all night."

You close your mouth. Maybe you shouldn't argue with him just yet. Besides, his way of escaping in the night was much more.. practical. And, he would also be a valuable chaperone. He had a sword, a dagger, and all the means to protect you. Without a second thought, you move forward and follow him wordlessly. You're moving through the passageway, steps light.

"I never knew these existed," You mutter after observing the walls. They're not at prettily crafted as the ones that decorate the main hallways of the castle. They're hastily built and forego any beauty. There's droplets of water coming from somewhere, though it seems more like an echo rather than a nearby source.

"Not many do. Aegon showed me the day he took me to the Street of Silk on my thirteenth nameday," Aemond responds. He stops at a fork in the road, looking left, looking right.

Your brows furrow at his words and reach his side, "Street of Silk?"

He seems to falter at his echoed words. He thinks for a moment, distracted by the notion. Aemond grimaces at his vivid remembrance. "Yes."

"But-"

Aemond picks the left passageway and interrupts you, "This way."

Dumbfounded, you watch him trail away. Street of Silk? What in Gods name, would he be doing in the Street of Silk at thirteen? You frown, assumptions beginning to cloud your once excited mood. You hurry after him and stay silent for the rest of the twists and turns. Soon, the exit is within sight.

You two leave the castle and you are amazed at what you see. The Kings Landing that existed during the day was nothing compared to the splendor of the night festivity that was going on. Lanterns littered the streets, spouts of fire causing shadows to dance in the distance, and from the looks of it, there's people dancing themselves.

Aemond leads the way down the steps and into the streets. Music becomes increasingly louder and you pull your coat tighter around you as a cool breeze flows within the air. You notice that Aemond has tucked his hair into his own cowl and has pulled up the hood to conceal his hair; a smart move.

You're open-mouthed and practically gawking at everything you see. The parties at Highgarden are nothing compared to the rawness of Kings Landing. People are laughing, drinking, fucking in alleyways, and are absolutely visceral – basking in their freedom. You see a vendor and tug at Aemond's lapel, though, he doesn't turn around. You huff and wander off, politely excusing yourself through the crowd.

Candied berries, mugs of a brown liquid, bread, and other items litter the shelves of the shop. You eye the candied berries and point, asking the vendor for a handful. Once you learn the total, you pull out your pouch and grab a few copper pennies and an extra silver dragon. You give it to the man, offering him a smile as you exchange currency for food. He's astounded by the coins you give him and he yells over the crowd his gratefulness. You wave and tuck both the pouch of your coins and your berries into your belt.

You wander off once more, eyeing the buildings rather than where you were walking. Your eyes trail to the streets, then in front of you where you encounter a man standing in your way. Worry begins to pickle at your skin and you utter an 'excuse me', but it seems as if it goes in one ear and out the other.

He begins saying some obscenities, not loud enough for you to hear, but enough to make you uncomfortable. You back away slightly and he advances, though, it's cut short. His once lewd face falls into a fearful one, and he instead, backs off. You turn around and sigh in relief at the sight of a hooded Aemond.

"You shouldn't wander off." You're unsure if it's a scold or not. Aemond's eyes move down, eyeing the two pouches that were tucked away. Before he turns to lead the way, you could swear that there was a smile twitching the corner of his mouth. Was it the berries or your purse that caught his attention?

You follow wordlessly, paying closer attention to where he was going. He's leading you somewhere less crowded and noisy, somewhere where it's a view due to the steps you both climb. Soon, he reaches a ledge where it oversees the lively streets. He moves his cape, settling down on to the grass with ease. His legs hang over the ledge and dangle lazily. You opt for more grace; bending at the knee and keeping modest as you sit cross-legged. You smooth out your dress before reaching for your candied berries.

Dipping two fingers into the pouch, you pull out a berry and toss it into your mouth. You munch on it politely, savoring the sweetness it brings. You take another one before offering the pouch to Aemond. He turns his head to fully look at it when he notices it out of the corner of his eye. His blue eye widens, enough so that the whites of his eyeballs show. He looks up at you through his lashes, offering a few, slow blinks. He waits for a moment, as if testing you, before he reaches in and snags a few berries for himself. He puts two in his mouth and chews on them. He's surprised at how juicy and sweet they are, dousing his tastebuds in pleasantry.

His hesitance is obvious to you, and you feel the need to voice it, "Are you so tainted with hatred that you've forgotten what kindness is?"

"Kindness is often masked as deception, it dissuades me," He divulges. His gaze shifts from the pouch to your eyes, and from behind the sapphire hue, you can see the umbra of hurt. You eat another berry, thinking carefully.

"The celebration here reminds me of home," you confess after a moment. Aemond looks back out at the scenery, but your sight remains fixed on the outline of his face. From this orange glow, it's soft and almost romantic. It's drastically different from the harsh lines he had in the sunlight. Feeling like you're staring a little too long, you clear your throat and look away – he seemed to notice.

"D’you miss it?"

His question nearly catches you off guard. You'd expected him to ignore your comment and pretend like you didn't say anything.

"I do."

Side by side, you and Aemond snack on the rest of the candied berries. You're both caught up thinking in your own minds, almost forgetting each others presence. You then think about Aemond, then his eye. Despite your best efforts, you can't help but feel curious about the tragedy of his left eye. Did a cat claw his eye out as a child? Were the whispers true and he had plucked his own eye out? You bite your lip.

"May I ask the truth of you eye?" The words are meek, clearly afraid of any possible out lash like from the first encounter you had with the prince. His jaw becomes set and you hear an audible breath be released from his nose. He turns his head to give you a look; perhaps Aemond should have known better. Had you lulled him into this peaceful tranquility just to dull your curiosity? Was your berries a deceptive tactic in order for him to confide in you?

Aemond thinks he's being a bit too harsh by being accusing. Then again, his words replay like a broken tune in his head. Kindness is often masked as deception.

"It happened years ago, when I was a child," he begins, looking down at the grass. His hands move to play with the green tufts and slender fingers deftly pluck separate strands. "My nephews did not like that I claimed Vhagar."

Your brows furrow and you scooch over just a bit. Aemond is confused by the proximity, but thinks nothing of it.

"She was riderless and I without a dragon. When I returned, we fought." Aemond doesn't miss the way your face contorts, was it horror or disturbance? He knows the face all too well – it's the same face every person he tells the tale to makes. At this point, Aemond starts to feel as if his words are moving you against him – as if you're not understanding his side of the story. Why did everyone assume he was the villain?

"Y'think that was the right thing to do?" Despite the softness and carefulness that lingers in your words, there's no doubt a beast stirring within Aemond – and he doesn't like the way your question doubts him. It's annoying and most of all, hurtful.

"You don't?" he responds back callously.

"Vhagar is a dragon and he took my eye," Aemond is growing increasingly irritable. He spits the words out like venom through clenched teeth. Whoever the ominous he was, you assumed that Aemond had a disclosed abhorrence for whoever it was. He was robbed of his eye, half of his vision. His fists closes in balls on the grass and the hands shake, "I was a child and they berated me, and they beat me for claiming a dragon."

His speech is now uneven, laced with the hardness of anger. The once calculated, even-tongued Aemond Targaryen, had now descended into a brazen mess of incoherent feelings. Pent up feelings from long ago were beginning to bubble over.

Aemond feels his lip twitch and you feel sympathy coil in your stomach. You gingerly reach out, hand enclosing over his bicep in an attempt comfort him. He's ready to swat it away, but soon enjoys the warmth that seeps through his clothes. It's benevolent and sweet, almost bearing the same consolation as his mothers hold. He thinks he likes it.

"It's all right, Aemond. It's the past, we cannot rewrite what's already written in the stars."

He stays like this for a moment, evening his breaths and settling himself down. He doesn't like the fact that he became berserk, unwound by a single topic from his childhood – a scar that felt like had reopened. He swallows the rest of the pain away and rises with ease to his feet. He outstretches his hand in offering to help you up. You take it.

"We must return, I'm sure someone is bound to be curious about our whereabouts." Without another glance or word, Aemond pretends like the ordeal didn't happen and instead leads the way back to the secret passageway. The journey is silent and full of reverence for it.

Aemond turns back to glance for your whereabouts, probably reassuring himself that you hadn't wandered off. You two climb the steps back to the passageway then enter through the hidden door. He leads you through the hallways with expert precision, retracing the steps you took to exit. You wouldn't have remembered where to go and were thankful for his memory.

A yawn parts your jaws and tug once more at Aemond's clothes. He notices it this time and turns around, his brow raising questioningly. You lick your lips, looking into his eye with sincerity.

"Beneath the brooding, pompous facade you throw on for others," you take a breath, "There is some good in you, Aemond. I just wish you made it known."

"Hm."

The ridges of Aemond's mouth purse into a thin line. He blinks, casting a glance down before turning around and continuing to lead the way. You're suddenly afraid that you've upset him, though you did want to tell him your truth. Sincerely, Aemond is someone who wasn't all vile, nasty remarks. He's clever, dangerously so, and often is nice to talk to when he's not teasing you. You follow after him and reach the door that leads to your room.

You're hesitant to enter and call out in a hushed yell when you notice Aemond has already started walking away, "Aemond!"

His steps slow to a halt and he turns halfway, only his side profile obvious in the shadows. You're about disappointed when you realize he was leaving without a goodbye. You swallow the feeling.

"Thank you."

Chapter Text

After the heartfelt experience you shared with Aemond, you two seemed to be avoiding each other like the plague. Whether it was intentional or not, one thing was for certain; you were starting to miss the One-Eyed Prince and his occasional, discontent hum of vocality.

It was weird, without a doubt, to be wanting the company of someone who had oftentimes made you the recipient end of a jest. The memory still replays in your mind, vibrant and fresh like it was just yesterday you experienced it. This Aemond was gentle and kind, drastically different from the stoic nature he bore and sneers that often left his lips.

It was nice though, nice to see the weight of being the second son of the King be lifted off his shoulders – like it was a burden too heavy to carry by himself.

You're running a brush through your hair, detangling the clumps that stuck together, when a knock pushes away your empty thoughts. You noted that you wouldn't try sleeping with a bun and wet hair again.

You grumble quietly to yourself, rising from your seat with your comb in hand, sauntering to the door. You slug it open and your eyes are met with a blue one.

Your mouth is slightly slack; how convenient, "Aemond."

"Little Flower," he greets, as if he hasn't spent the past days ignoring your existence. You look down; he's carrying something in his hand, wrapped with cloth that you assume is keeping its moisture. He moves past you, the breeze that follows carrying a scent that almost makes you sigh at its smell; faint pepper and wood – it's pleasant and undeniably Aemond. You almost object to him coming in, but it's already too late.

Once he's in the safety of your room and you had closed the door behind him, he turns around, holding the wrapped item up to you as if it were a prize.

"What's this?" you ask, moving closer. Aemond's fingers deftly uncover the item and reveals it with a little flourish that's almost boyish; a peach cake. Your lips curve into a smile and you look at him through your lashes, a short laugh of disbelief escaping you, "It's too early for cakes, Aemond. What's it for?"

The outline of his shoulders move into a slight shrug, almost dejected, and he rewraps the cake, "A peace offering."

"For?" you inquire deeper, watching him place the now covered peach cake on to a nearby table. You watch as he takes a gander about the room, eyeing each and every valuable that adorns the walls and shelves. He hums in content, almost happy that it's decorated this way.

"No reason." His hand reaches for a stone figurine, pulling it closer to his vision. A small smile creeps upon his mouth as he realizes what it is; a dragon with wings outstretched. He turns it, admiring the craftsmanship. Then, he puts it back.

You assume the gift was some sort of wordless apology for his extended absence.

You eye the abandoned cake, silently cursing yourself when you move forward and grab it. Your father would be far from happy if he found out this is how you broke your fast. You tear small, bite sized pieces off, wiping your index and thumb on the cloth to rid of the crumbs.

"What brings the pleasure of your presence, Aemond?" You ask once your mouth is cleared. He turns to you as if his trance was broken, eyeing you carefully.

He licks his teeth, unsure and uncertain, "I don't know."

The response brings astonishment and confusion; he came here for.. nothing? How quaint.

He knows deep down why he came to your room. Ever since he took you on your adventure through the streets of King's Landing, there was confusion burrowing it's way deep underneath his skin. He didn't enjoy the way he was bare before you, confessing the fate of his eye, but he did enjoy the opulence you brought. The absence of disgust was something he enjoyed; he didn't feel like a mangled, pitiful boy anymore, but a man who could bear his misfortune without fear or repercussion. He assumed that this was some cruel longing designed by the Gods, the desire to be around you and feel your comfort wrap around him like the tentacles of a squid to its prey.

His feet carry him closer to you, the gap quickly dissipating with each long stride of his. He's close now, dangerously so, his breath fanning your face and mixing with yours. The same feeling from the nightly adventure came, strong and burning with a fire that wasn't going to be put out.

This Aemond was definitely not the same as the first time you met him.

"Did you truly mean it?" he asks, voice low and reverberating. It's enough to take your breath and send a dangerous tickle to your stomach. "Did you mean it, when you said you thought I could be good?"

Ah, that is why he came.

You nod your head, hands finding his arms to gently hold them, "I know you can be. I meant every word."

His eye is searching yours, searching for any signs of malice or pretend – he so desperately wants this to be real, to be set in stone that he isn't a man set on the brutalizing path of vengeance; that he can be something other than the boy who lost his eye.

He licks his lips, eye slowly trailing down to your own. He sucks on his bottom lip and gnaws at it with uncertainty. He doesn't like this; the way his stomach bubbles with nervousness. He's usually strong-willed and knowing of his next move, but this, this is something he's unsure about. He's only ever read it in books – poetry books, matter of fact.

But this was real and not some short tale depicted in a rhythmic sequence.

Feeling his conflict, you slowly creep forward to make his decision for him. It's one that comes easily to your mind; it wouldn't hurt, would it? Your eyes flutter shut as you place a soft kiss on his lips. It's less than a kiss actually, just your lips touching his own, unmoving ones. You're almost self conscious at this point, but then, it's as if something within him awakens and nudges him into action.

He releases an exhale through his nose and relaxes into your touch, one of his hands moving to fit the shape of your body. The other finds your face and cups your jaw, his long fingers cradling your head. His thumb gently strokes your cheekbone and that's when his mouth moves against yours.

He's less stiff now, his lips moving against your own in a slow, easy to follow rhythm; his top lip is more dominate, his bottom one supporting. It's slow at first, lips testing the waters. It slowly morphs into something more, more passionate and wanting. His lips are increasingly rough, driven by the passion that slowly starts to build. He's pulling you closer, hands starting to become greedy and unbecoming of a Prince.

He reckons he likes this; the innocent desire to be wanted. To be wanted as he wanted, and to kiss the way he wanted. This was drastically different than the night he spent in a brothel with his brother, there, they didn't kiss, they just —

You're the first to pull apart, inhaling sharply to quell the dull ache that's beginning to stir in your lungs. Aemond mindlessly follows you, eye closed and lips still puckered, waiting for contact. His eye flits open and he draws in a breath. You're both staring at each other, faces flushed and lips swollen.

"I– " he breathes, hands dropping to his sides at realization of what had just happened. He pulls at his clothes and feels himself grow hot with every second.

You smile, a soft laugh of disbelief spewing from your lips. There's a softness to Aemond's face; one that is unusual and gives him a boyish glow.

There's a knock at the door that forces you two apart; Aemond is practically leaping to the other side of the room whilst you take a few steps away. You watch as the former expression melts away, his stoic nature once again appearing.

You clear your throat, "Come in!"

The door swings open and the appearance of a Kingsguard takes up the frame. He enters and behind him, the Queen Alicent walks into the room. Her brows shoot in at the sight of you and Aemond in the room, though she makes no audible comment.

"Lady Tyrell," she sings within a breath, eyes observing the distance between you and Aemond, "Would you be willing to accompany me on a walk?"

Your head turns to Aemond. he gives you a look, but turns away towards the door. He mutters a quiet 'mother' and abandons you with the Queen. Great.

"Of course, Your Grace."

Without another word, you and the Queen exit your room, accompanied by the silent Kingsguard. You two begin to walk, without exchanged words, and seemingly, without a destination. Your hands are joined behind your back and Queen Alicent's are in front of her, neatly folded.

Your mind is whirling with thoughts, thoughts about Aemond and the kiss that was shared. Your lips are still tingling, almost puckering at the thought of him. What did this mean? Was it just a kiss because of the moment? Did he like it – did he want more?

Questions are flooding your mind, clouding your vision on where Queen Alicent is taking you. You two pass the apartments, the open roofed courtyard, then the Godswood until words are spoken by Queen Alicent.

"Princess Rhaenyra is in kings landing." Her words are matter of fact. You blink away the troubles of your mind, turning your head to glance at her.

"Is that so?"

"Along with her family and her consort, Prince Daemon."

Your brows shoot up in mock interest, humming along as if it was condescending to the notion of Princess Rhaenyra and her family. With the time you were spending so close to Queen Alicent, you were noting of her interests and dislikes, and one of them, was a keen disinterest in Princess Rhaenyra. You've learned to play it by ear, often agreeing her with things you normally wouldn't agree about.

The way she spoke her was as if she was a spurned lover, mourning over the lost of her dear beloved, then unburdening herself with pain at each and every jab spoken about the Princess. It was somewhat poetic, you thought.

"She's coming on the notion that her son, Lucerys, must inherit Driftmark. Vaemond Velaryon, wants to see an end to the inheritance," she continues. Why was she telling you this? Was this her way of parading the Princess Rhaenyra's family in your face – as a way to tell you that they weren't coming for your rescue? "The Crown is going to back Vaemond Velaryon's claim."

It's almost as if the sentence was supposed to be a test, for she gives you a side eye look that you could see from your peripheral.

Maintaining your composure, you turn to her, "A wise decision."

You two continue to walk. Her arm slips into yours, linking your arms together. You look down at the conjunction, raising your head to smile at the Queen.

"There's also another matter, my dear." She says, her other hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. To her dismay, it doesn't stay. "You're going to join our feast, as a guest of honor."

Your brows shoot up and your eyes widen. You open your mouth to protest, but the Queen shushes you gently.

She shakes her head, waving her other hand in dismissal, "Don't fret, little one. You will be perfect, I assure you."

"You honor me, Your Grace." Words finally come out of your gaping mouth and she smiles. She unlinks her arm from yours, moving to stand in front of you rather than beside you. You both stop walking.

"Run along and get dressed – don't forget Helaena!"

You curtsy at the leave and nod your head in response to her words. You excuse yourself, moving past the Kingsguard. Your feet carry you back to your room, steps quick and light. You smile at the lords and ladies you pass, hands bunching up the ends of your dress to allow more room to move.

You soon reach your room and stop in your tracks once you enter. Steps away is the same spot you and Aemond had just kissed. It feels like it happened forever ago and it's faint within your memory. You sigh, smiling at the abandoned wrapper of the peach cake you were eating – the peach cake he brought.

You move towards your wardrobe, rummaging through the dresses that were hung. Your thoughts wander to Rhaenyra and her family. If what Queen Alicent had said was true, then that means Jacaerys would be among the members of her family that would be at court during the hearing.

You smile to yourself once more, sucking on your bottom lip.

Once the dress you picked out is chosen, your hands fly to the strings of your dress. You pick at them, doing your best to loosen each strand so you could shed the layer. You shrug the fabric off, chemise slightly loose against your skin. You pull your chosen dress out, pulling it on. You tie the strings as best as you can, adjusting yourself so the dress fits just a bit better.

Looking in the mirror, you fix the flyaways and try to tame the wildness that appears after your dress change.

When you're finished with that, you smooth out the fabric and pick out new shoes and jewelry.

You walk out of your room and make the journey to Princess Helaena's room. Once you reach it, you are met with a Kingsguard who eyes you curiously. You tip your head, giving him a small smile in which he returns. He turns, knocking on the door then announcing your arrival.

He opens the door once Helaena wishes it and allows you to walk past him. You enter the room, your smile widening at the sight of Princess Helaena. She's lovely in her golden gown, with hair strung up and out of her face in an intricate manner that you're sure you want to copy sometime later. You curtsy then approach, kissing her on the cheek.

"Helaena, you look lovely."

She blushes, shaking her head, "Thank you, my friend. You look as beautiful yourself."

You wave away her compliment, reaching for her hand. You exchange pleasantries, talking about your mornings and the events you were up to. You lead her out of her room, escorted by the Kingsguard to the throne room.

In the throne room, there's rows of lords and ladies chatting with one another. Some members of the royal family, Queen Alicent, Ser Otto, and Aemond are standing the nearest to the throne. You lead Helaena towards her family, smiling at her and staying silent while her grandsire acknowledges her. You settle between them and Aemond, casting him a side eye glance which he returns.

The doors open once more and the crowd stands at attention to the arrival of Princess Rhaenyra and her family. Prince Daemon is by her side, with Jacaerys and Lucerys trailing after them, the former with his head held high and chin jutted out. The other looks unsure, as if he wants to sink into the floor and never come out. You watch as Jacaerys surveys the room, his eyes locking with yours.

He dips his head at you, a smile parting his lips. You do the same in return, maintaining eye contact while his family settles on the other side. It's broken when you hear the whisper of Alicent beside you.

"Where is your brother?"

You look in your peripheral, brow raising slightly as Aemond shrugs carelessly.

"I don't have the faintest clue."

Queen Alicent huffs and it's as if the Gods willed it, for Aegon struts in from one of the side doors. He settles on the other side of Aemond and there's a distinct, perfumed smell that follows him. You wrinkle your nose at the scent that wafts over.

The crowd quiets down as Ser Otto moves toward the throne. He greets them and announces the reasoning for their gathering: to settle the line of succession for Driftmark. Your mind wanders as they begin to converse.

You didn't particularly care to listen in; by lawful rights, Driftmark was to pass to Lucerys Velaryon.

It's Vaemond's turn to speak, his voice demanding reason and clarity. He makes jabs at the parentage of Princess Rhaenyra's children by Ser Laenor, his words laced with discontent. They battle with words, and soon, it's Rhaenyra's turn to defend her son.

Her words are short lived, for the arrival of the King interrupts the hearing.

"King Viserys of house Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

His name is announced by the voice of Ser Erryk and all turn their heads to face their King. One by one, each row bows their head as their King passes, his steps slow and heavy. Ser Otto arises from the throne, taking steps down so that King Viserys may sit.

The room is hushed as King Viserys is aided by his brother, Prince Daemon, and the hearing proceeds as normal. King Viserys notes that he thought the succession was settled years ago.

Vaemond and Rhaenyra continue to battle, word for word. Worse comes to worse, and Rhaenyra is renounced as a whore.

Gasps fill the room and one leaves you as well. Vaemond is continuing to levy insults to the Princess, then his words are cut short by the pronounced slice of his head. The cut is true and Vaemond's head leaves his body with a sickening squelch.

Your eyes widen in horror and you turn, screwing your eyes shut as Aemond's body next to you, moves in front. He's holding his arm out in front of you and Helaena, observing the body with his mouth hung open in almost astonishment.

"He can keep his tongue."

"Disarm him!"

"No need."

Your eyes peek open as Lucerys is reaffirmed as the successor of Driftmark. Queen Alicent, beside you, scoffs. Aemond turns around, his arms corralling you and Helaena away from the body. Blood is pooling around Vaemond and you can't help but feel sick to the stomach.

"Don't look," he whispers, gently pushing you away from the scene. A plethora of feelings mingle in your stomach, pushing you towards queasiness and nausea.

Together, you, Helaena, and Aemond leave the throne room, the beheading of Vaemond Velaryon left behind. Aemond escorts you and Helaena to a nearby, private room to catch your bearings. Helaena is obviously distraught and Aemond is doing his best to quell her anxiety. You exhale slowly, raising a hand to rub at your temple; the events of today were starting to blur together.

"And yet, we still have to stomach a feast," you grumble, shooting a look to the Prince and Princess. Aemond scoffs, shaking his head and rubbing Helaena's shoulder.

"Do they all sound like that?" Helaena's voice is weak, rattled by the events that just taken place. Aemond frowns, nodding his head.

"'Fraid so, sweet sister," he soothes. "Best not to think of it."

Helaena nods her head at her brothers words, her hand coming to rest upon her forehead. She sighs and moves to sit down on a sofa nearby. You join her, your hand finding her free one and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"At least we can celebrate that your nephew hasn't been undermined, right, Aemond?" you say, your words directed towards Helaena. You shoot Aemond a look. You don't like the way his face has twisted into a grimace at your words, but when Helaena peeks up at him, he nods his head and the expression melts away.

There's some time that passes before the three of you are collected by a Kingsguard. He escorts you to a dining hall, where there's a great table surrounded by chairs on even sides. There's silverware and platters parallel to each chair.

It seems as if it's on cue when everyone enters, slowly picking their place amongst the chairs. You're unsure, but soon, there's a chair in between Helaena and Semond that's empty. You move forward to take it and a servant helps you scoot in your chair when you take a seat.

You all settle, then arise at the presence of the King. He's carried in by Targaryen men on a portable chair. You grimace at his appearance; disheveled and clearly taken with sickness.

Queen Alicent leads the prayer and you bow your head in respect. King Viserys begins his tribute to his family, imploring them to return affections and quell the hatred that was growing.

You take a look around the room once he starts talking, suddenly feeling out of place when the topic of family is brought up. Beside you, Aemond surprises you by settling his hand near yours. His pinky twitches closer to touch you and you swear it's almost his way of including you into the fold. Your heart flips and you bite back the smile that's surely making itself known.

Princess Rhaenyra toasts Queen Alicent, and the latter remarks the Princess that she would make a fine Queen.

Aegon, seated a chair away beside helaena, gets up and pours himself another cup of wine. He's near Baela, remarking how if she ever needed to know what satisfaction was, to ask him. Together, you and Baela make a face. Jacaerys slams his hands on the table and stands right up, his jaw set.

Beside you, Aemond silently rises to his feet to meet his nephew. You turn your head to look, gaze flickering between the two. Jacaerys and Aemond stare at each other, unwavering and challenging. Jace raises his cup instead and makes a toast towards his uncles, landing a delicate punch on Aegons shoulder.

"To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond, we have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family's health, dear uncles."

"To you as well."

Everyone raises their cup to sip at the contents and both Princes settle back in their seats. Aemond is more hesitant and slow to the action, his stare hard on the eldest Velaryon. Aemond licks his teeth and sucks his cheeks in before he sits down, casting a side eye towards you.

Helaena's cryptic words follow, but it's hushed and too quiet to hear over the ruckus of silverware clattering. The Princess then toasts to Baela and Rhaena, remarking that they will be married soon. Scattered laughs arise at the end of her toast, causing the Princess to bashfully sit back down. You frown at the end, gently toying your silverware.

"Let us have some music."

The feast begins and the table is ignited by family members speaking to each other, a song playing to even out the sound in the room. You and Aemond, side by side, are silent and onlooking to the other members of the table. Your eyes find Jacaerys, who is already looking at you. You smile and raise the cup of wine in front of you, and he does the same.

He moves to get up, excusing himself from his side of the family before making his way to you and Helaena. He reaches for both your hands and you laugh.

"Are you sure you can handle both of us, my Prince?" you ask, taking his hand and rising from your seat. He gives you a toothy grin before pulling you and Helaena towards the empty space that he would use as a dance floor.

"I've never been one to back down from a challenge, my Lady."

Aemond and Aegon give each other a look, the hardness settling in both their jaws. Aemond watches as you, Helaena, and Jace dance, somehow making the triage look more graceful than it should've been. The three of you are laughing and exchanging words that he can't hear. Aemond picks up his knife, twirling it in his grasp before using his other hand to sip at his wine.

"You drink like a Braavosi seahorse, Aegon." Aemond comments quietly, eyeing his brother as he had finished his fourth cup since the dinner started.

Aegon rolls his eyes, waving off Aemond's comment, "You drink too little, brother."

"I drink enough," Aemond retorts. He licks his lips, leaning in closer to Aegon with a scowl on his face, "Even with the noose tied so tight, they expect us to break bread."

Aegon murmurs in agreement.

The King is riddled with sickness and then escorted out of the room by the guards. Everyone arises and the three of you stop dancing out of respect. Your laughter dies down, soft gasps of air heaving in your chest. There's a platter of smoked pig that enters the room and you follow mindlessly, your appetite beginning to growl with life at the mere smell. If it tastes as it smells, then it would be delicious.

Jace reaches out for your hand, stopping you in your tracks. You turn around and look at him.

"My Lady, hopefully our family's come to an agreement and we are betrothed. It's something I would like, very much, if you would." His tone is sincere, his hand warm despite the clothing that served as a barrier. You smile at him and nod your head; he then releases you from his hold.

You return to the table, smoothing out your dress and moving it so you could sit.

Stifled laughter comes from across the table draws your attention and you locate the source: Lucerys Velaryon. you watch Aemond give him a look, the edges of his mouth turning downward and his brow furrowing into anger.

"Aemond," you whisper, already sensing the incoming retaliation that was surely beginning to arise. The snicker, the sly comment from Jacaerys about betrothal paired with his toast – it was all becoming too much for Aemond. It was disrespectful and tasteless.

Despite the quiet plea that danced off your tongue, Aemond's fist plummets into the table. The music cuts off and the sound of silverware rattling fills the silence. Aemond rises to his feet and grabs his cup in one fluid motion.

"Final tribute," Aemond says, shrugging off the touch that you placed on his arm. "To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise.."

His words trail off, as if he's envisioning the chaos that would no doubt follow, "Strong."

"Aemond–"

"Come," Aemond interrupts; everyone at the table casts each other uneasy stares. Jace is squared, facing Aemond with a twisted expression, and Luke is watching with his brows knitted together. "Let us drain our cups to these three, Strong boys."

"I dare you to say that again." You turn your head to see Jace, defiantly raising his head to Aemond.

Aemond puts his arm around you to move you out of his way, "Why? 'Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?"

The gap between them rapidly closes as they approach each other and Jace's enclosed hand flies to Aemond's jaw. Aemond's face sharply turns at the contact and Luke rises from his seat to try and take Aegon, who was going to Aemond's rescue. Aegon, instead, slams little Luke's head into the table. The younger, smaller boy struggles against Aegon's hold.

"Jace!"

You take a step back as Aemond faces jace, using one arm to push his nephew. Whether it's from Aemond's strength or Jace's poor footing, the latter falls to the ground. With an angry growl, Jace gets up but is intervened by a Targaryen guard.

Despite the severity of what he caused, Aemond laughs and turns back toward the table – it's devoid of true happiness, like he's laughing just to laugh. He locks eyes with you, but he's intercepted by Alicent, who tries to pull him aside. You can still hear her question him.

"I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family mother, hm," He turns his attention back to his nephews and pulls his arm sharply out of his mothers grasp, "Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs."

Prince Daemon stops the assault Jacaerys was about to put on Aemond and instead, stands in front of his family. You scoff audibly, pushing your chair in with disappointment before escaping the escalated tension of the room. Before Aemond can react to Daemon, he hums in disapproval then saunters after you with slow steps.

You're only able to get down the hallway and round one corner before you hear your name being shouted by Aemond. You shake your head and ignore his cries. His steps turn into a jog and he grabs your hand, turning you to face him.

"Are you so hellbent on depriving the happiness of everyone around you?" You question, brows furrowing as you snatch your arm out of his hold. There's a fire in your eye, one that he had not seen in some time – not since the day he told you that he wouldn't be friends with you. Look at you two now; quarreling like lovers.

His own brows knit together and he shifts his weight on his feet. He was unapologetic; they needed to be reminded of their place, just as Luke callously reminded himself of his former treatment.

Aemond scoffs, "You expect me to silently break bread while they parade my darkest memories in front of me? While they laugh at the ruin they caused?"

"They are your family."

"They're bastards," he snarls with a newfound hatred. His eye is a dark blue; wide, wild, and clouded with vexation, "The bastards who stole my eye and made me who I am."

Some part of you wants to understand, to reach out and soothe the burden of desolation he carried, but the cruel callousness was something too much for you. It was too hateful and spiteful; it almost scared you to see it on Aemond.

You shake your head in denial, taking a step back, "This isn't who you are, Aemond. This isn't the same Aemond that took me to a festival, simply because it made me happy, or the same Aemond that was in my room, hours ago."

His jaw becomes hard, his fists clenching at his sides; the knuckles burn white hot on the skin. He feels like he's at war with himself; at war between two Aemond's that are fighting for control. One is forever bitter and grows with resentment, and the other is the same boy he was before his eye was taken out – the boy who wants to find clarity and peace. He wants desperately to be rid of this pain, but he felt like one couldn't exist without the other.

"This is who I am."

His words are spat like poison, dripping from his fangs as if he were a snake levying it's primal defense against you. You're upset; bordering heartbreak as the feelings, the memories you've created with him are turned to ash, turning the buds of your mouth sour.

Was it all a lie? Some little game he fabricated to pass the time?

You are staring at him, defiant yet saddened by his choice of words. His beady eye finally blinks at you, his stare still cold to the feeling.

You scoff and turn on your heel to leave him in the hallway.

Despite your best thoughts, what were you really expecting? Some happy ending, spurned friends turned romantic lovers? Did you think he would easily forget the torment he suffered?

Whatever it was, it was disappointing to see and hear the truth.

Aemond targaryen would not change his hatefulness, not even for the pretty words you sang to him earlier. He liked them – without a doubt, but there was something that clung on to him, a wickedness he felt the need to feed.

He would not change, not now; not while the memory lives fresh in his mind.

Chapter Text

Under the hardened cloak of melancholy and lamentation, Aemond has not been granted the privilege of seeing your face or hearing your voice. Truth be told, that was a lie. He had seen you, once or twice, but your face was screwed in an ugly grimace, paired with vile words that spewed out like venom.

It’s been weeks since he had squandered the goodwill and peace that was beginning to ignite between the Hightowers and Velaryons. Weeks since he had denounced Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon as nothing more than bastards – all because of a sly sneer and the haunting words of betrothal.

Yet all the same, you treated it as if it happened yesterday.

And since then, Aemond had been at constant ends with himself. So sure, he was once. But the dragon Aemond formerly was, was a dragon no longer. Instead, smiting itself and within the ashes that rained, a plump, pink pig oinks with discontent.

Aegon's annoying laughter, paired with the pubescent giggles of Jacaerys and Lucerys play in his mind like a haunting melody branded into his brain. He grimaces at the faint memory of his childhood.

Fire crackles and burns loudly within the hearth hall. Despite the layers woven of emerald green fabric that made his doublet, Aemond found succor within the dancing heat of orange flames. A book lays idle in his lap, open to a page he hasn’t bothered reading. Most likely, it was old proverbs and poetry, tales depicting the lessons and values of greater men.

Aemond found himself growing with unease at your prolonged absence. What was this feeling? The same burning desire that would only be extinguished by your presence – how else could he quell that feeling?

There is some good in you, Aemond.

His lip twitches.

We cannot rewrite what's already written in the stars.

Aemond feels a strange chagrin claw at his chest and burrow into the depths of his heart cavity. What was once warm, grew cold as he thought. How could the Gods be so cruel to a boy barely of ten? Was it because of his intense avidity to be a great dragonrider, like Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, that made the Gods want to punish him? Was it his ambitious greed for power and control – the ability to change course of what once was?

Aemond wanted to summon the Gods themselves and demand an answer. Despite that, he didn’t think it would help with the foreign, intrusive thoughts that have kindled themself within him.

His mind soon churns as his thoughts turn to Jacaerys and Lucerys. The frigidity further festered and almost bordered on cruelty. There’s spite and anger towards the bastard boys who took his eye – the same bastard boys who would be the future line of succession. There was nothing royal about them; they were merely common, middleborns who happened to drop from the maidenhead of Princess Rhaenyra.

He remembered how he felt the days after his outburst at the family feast. When the Velaryon family had stayed despite the coming storm, and when Jacaerys breathed fire into the growing discontempt. When he took your hand into his and paraded you around the Red Keep. Exchanging glares and sly sniggers.

I know you can be good.

It’s almost as if your words echo in the cavity of his mind, bleaching his anger and burning the hatred from the inside out. He inhales sharply, letting the same breath push from his nostrils. His chest rises and falls with a steady motion.

Was he entirely wrong? Should he have not burdened a festival night by calling his nephews bastards? He remembers very vividly the way your face fell when the word ‘Strong’ was uttered from his lips. The same face that contorted into anger when he confronted you.

They deserved it, he finally reconciles. Though, he assumed it’s more to quell the ache in his heart rather than be actual fact. The same humiliation they received was the same his mother and himself faced the very night he lost his eye, all those years ago. Humiliated, disgraced, and full of contempt.

A belch resonates within the air. It’s deep and guttural, no doubt the byproduct of Dornish wine. The peaceful silence that Aemond had secluded himself to was sullied by one sound.

Aemond raises his head, the ache in his neck becoming more prominent as he cranes his muscles to confirm his thoughts on the identity of the person who wanted to irk him – Aegon.

“Oftentimes, I believe there is wine rather than blood in your veins,” Aemond speaks, his tone even and almost cold.

“Would that not be impressive?”

Aemond deadpans, “It would not.”

His eye narrows at the sight of his brother's disappointed face, but Aemond returns his attention to the forgotten book decorated on his lap. There’s times when Aemond himself wished he was named Aegon. He was much more successful than his elder brother; he knew the arts of literature, he was a formidable warrior that grew successful by every evenfall, and he rode Vhagar, the largest dragon in the world. He’d be doing Aegon the Conqueror a service, not dragging his name through –

“What was the name of that Tyrell girl?” Aegon’s voice is like iron on dried whetstone – unpleasant and almost whiny.

Aemond looks up once more, his head turning much slower than before to give Aegon a pointed look. His brother looked unnerved by the action.

“(Y/N).” Your name is foreign on his lips. He hadn’t spoken it since the argument that happened between you both. He became reminiscent – an action that felt akin to second nature. He purses his lips, nose digging back into the book he wasn’t reading. A long, pointed index moves to trail the bottom of words – something he did to help solidify that he was reading and not thinking. Though, he felt that his brother probably wasn’t observant enough to notice the difference.

Aegon settles into a chair, the pegs of the furniture shrilling loud enough to make Aemond grimace, “She’s pretty, ain’t she?”

“She’s.. fair.” Aemond felt as if this was a trap.

Silence.

“‘Joy of Highgarden’,” he sing-songs, his words carrying an unmelodic ring, “hm?”

Aemond shuts the book in his lap with such ferocity that there’s a deep, thunderous boom when the leather bound cover kisses the aged parchment paper, “Why are you here?” The words were more harsh than he had intended, he’s unsure as to why.

“I cannot enjoy the company of my dearest brother?”

Aemond stares at Aegon. His elder brother never wanted to see him or spend time with him, not unless he desired something that only with Aemond’s help he would get. Years prior when they were nothing but children, Aegon would’ve only seen Aemond to ridicule his little brother in front of his nephews. Now that Aemond was a dog with a rabid bite, Aegon knew better than to stick his nose where it didn’t belong and instead, left his scourge behind and opted his brother for usage.

“Ser Criston expects you for your midday training.”

Ah, yes, the infamous extended hand of his mother's wrath. When Aemond had ridiculed his nephews, he noted that Ser Criston didn’t hold back and often used movements unseemly of a Kingsguard. Aemond wasn’t one to care for honor like his mothers sworn shield had, but it did irk him when Ser Criston swept his legs from under him, his back colliding with the dirt floor. He didn’t enjoy the gasps that followed from the crowd that had gathered to watch.

Ser Criston had effectively dismantled the one-eyed dragon, and he didn’t think he’d let that go.

Aemond rises from his chair, sweeping the book in his grasp to tuck underneath his arm. He and Aegon share a wordless exchange, a message that hopefully Aegon would understand. Aemond saunters out of the room, the notable sound of armor clanking as he passes the threshold of the door. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know that it’s Ser Erryk falling in to step behind him.

Aemond passes the long stretch of hallway that meets the corridor of Maegor’s Holdfast. He had grown so used to the map of the Red Keep that he thought if he was blind, he could navigate it easily without the aid of someone else. He continues forward, steps light and almost deafened by the clanking of Ser Erryk’s boots behind him. Aemond reaches the courtyard of the holdfast, turning on his heel to the spiraled steps of the royal apartments. He climbs them easily, legs long and allowing him to skip a step at a time.

He reaches the level his quarters are located and moves towards it. He opens his door, leaving it ajar as he navigates his way through the dimly lit aura of his quarters to place the book in a safe space. He leaves, shutting the door behind him before allowing his feet to carry himself back to the bailey of the keep.

He reaches a corner and notices a body making a beeline for him. He sidesteps and watches the mess of blues flail about into the chest of Ser Erryk. Aemond has to stifle the whicker that threatens to spill. Ser Erryk helps you gather your bearings, your head shooting to the side to cast Aemond a glare that parallels the combined wrath of the Seven Hells. Ser Erryk’s profuse apologies are quickly casted aside.

“Are you laughing at my misfortune?”

Aemond is surprised that this is the string of words that dances its way through the air and into his ears. They’re light and free of anger, drastically different from the story your eyes told.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aemond quips back, his voice like honeyed silk; threading itself into a weave of fabric that softens your resolve. Despite the charades, the game of faces, and the deceit you’ve conjured the past fortnight, you've missed the sly remarks of Aemond Targaryen. It’s almost evident in the way your gaze softens, the blazing wrath kindling down to nothing more than forlorn. “No bastard trailing after you, my lady?”

The fire reignites and your gaze darkens at his words. You didn’t miss that.

Scoffing audibly, “You are truly intolerable, Aemond.”

Despite the insult, Aemond’s lips twitch upwards into a small smile, “I should have your tongue for such slander.”

“Yet here I stand, tongue intact.” You raise your head, jutting your chin out. You both stare at each other; Aemond’s is lustrous and goading, clearly enjoying the scene that was unfolding, while yours is defiant and testing, obviously unhappy with his previous statement.

“My prince, I don’t mean to interrupt–”

“Then don’t.” Aemond is quick to respond. He casts Ser Erryk a look, the softness he once bore now melting away like ice near a flame – the coldness returning. Ser Erryk blinks quietly back at him and Aemond suddenly remembers he’s needed elsewhere. He clears his throat. “I am seeing Cole in the courtyard, if you want to accompany me.”

“So I can watch him knock you to the ground?” He should probably be offended, but the fire you’ve shown him here and there is doing everything to make him rapt. He loves it.

“You can only hope.” He dips his head in farewell, his blue eye maintaining its gaze on you. He turns and with a whip of his hair (it seems to have a mind of its own), Aemond returns to his journey towards the outdoor courtyard nestled by the exterior postern of the castle.

He reaches it slower than he intended. The luscious, raven curls of Criston Cole were easy to spot within the small throng that littered the courtyard. He moves toward him, Ser Erryk abandoning him. Ser Criston’s head raises when Aemond nears, allowing a polite greeting of Aemond’s title to leave his mouth.

The next actions that transpire are a silent ritual. Each man allows padded leather to fall over their torsos, serving as a shield from the iron that would attack the protected cavity of their organs.

He casts a glance over the steppe, his eyes observing the faces of each person that’s starting to form a crowd. He’s almost disappointed until his eyes trail to the scaffolding where two figures, one adorned in blue and the other yellow, stood side by side, arms interlocked. Behind, there is a Kingsguard he can’t recognize. He sucks in his bottom lip, sinking his teeth into the flesh before turning his attention back to Cole.

A steward brings Aemond a wooden shield.

Ser Criston enters the small ring dotted with rock markers and Aemond follows. It’s Ser Criston who moves first, swinging his morningstar above his head just enough to create momentum and send the weapon into a steady circle. Aemond steadies himself, eye darting to observe the way Ser Criston stood.

Ser Criston is the first to swing, but his attack misses its mark and Aemond jumps away. They continue like this, playing their game of cat and mouse as you observe their behavior.

Aemond is smooth and calculating, like a watersnake dancing around its opponent. Ser Criston is more or less the same, his steps teetering as he tries to maneuver a mistake out of Aemond. Despite the shrewdness of Ser Criston’s movements, every time he swings the morningstar, it’s brash and brazen – a fury of attacks that attempt to hit their mark.

Iron meets iron and there’s the ringing of metal that sings its way through the air as Aemond deflects each blow. He’s stepping to the side and ducking underneath each swing. He’s graceful the way he moves and it’s mesmerizing, leading you to become almost in awe of his movements. Aemond would surely grow to become a renowned warrior.

Some of the attacks made by Ser Criston land, eliciting sharp gasps and groans to leave the prince. Aemond hisses at the pain, his mouth thinning into a tight line as his attacks become flurried – anger evident in each swing that Aemond does. Ser Criston swings his morningstar once more and it collides with the wooden barrier of Aemond’s shield. It splinters and sends a rippling tingle up his arm.

“You shan’t succumb to your emotions.”

Aemond seems to mind himself when the words force themselves in short syllables from Ser Criston’s mouth. His anger subsides as quickly as it comes.

Soon, the attacks slow and become sluggish. With a final swing from Ser Criston, Aemond parries the blunt of the morningstar, his sword sliding against the iron with a shrilling screech. Aemond follows his sword through and abruptly turns on his heel, driving behind Ser Criston to hold the edge of the blade to his throat. There’s a small smile that creeps upon your lips and you see Helaena clap her hands in delight at the scene that unfolded.

“You’re learning quickly.” Ser Criston remarks after a moment. He moves a tuft of black hair out of his face, “You’ll be a warrior in no time.”

“Save your flatteries for someone else.” Aemonds words are harsh, bearing the fire of a dragon. He twirls the hilt of the shortsword in his grasp, the blade spinning with momentum as Aemond lowers it to his side. He turns, walking away from his master-at-arms. With the adrenaline dwindling down to nothingness, Aemond begins to feel his skin become tender. There’s a dull ache, one that causes him to grimace as he lifts the sword to place back into its socket on the armory rack.

You and Helaena move down from the scaffolding, steps slow so as to not tumble down the flight. The princess is waddling at this point, belly plump and round underneath the luxurious fabrics of her samite gown. Helaena suddenly moans softly, her hand moving to rub at the protrusion of her stomach. She sighs, shaking her head and gently declining the help of her Kingsguard.

“As much as I enjoy the fresh air, the babe doesn’t agree.” She says, her eyes fluttering from the floor to your face. You give her a smile and move forward to hold her hand. Her dark brows furrow slightly as she chews on her bottom lip, “It has eyes, though I believe it cannot see.”

Confusion sprawls across your face at her words, her once enlightened expression had now turned sour, “Helaena?”

“It has eyes, but it cannot see,” Helaena continues, her voice almost pleading for a fragment of understanding. She raises a hand to her head, a tired sigh falling from her lips. “Excuse me.”

Without another word, Helaena takes her leave with the Kingsguard following close behind. You open your mouth to object, but Helaena is already too many paces ahead to call out for. You sigh and take a look around the yard, your posture straightening at the sight of Aemond. He turns his head and locks eyes with you, his stare unwavering. Taking that as your cue to join him, your legs carry you to where he stood.

“You’re here.” You almost confuse the statement for pleasantry and surprise on his part.

“Unfortunately,” You respond, your arms clasping behind your back as you circle Aemond. He’s fiddling with the hilts of the training swords that adorned the armory rack. “You’re bleeding.”

Aemond’s finger gingerly touches his cheek. When he pulls it away, there’s a smear of crimson on the pad of his forefinger. He smacks his lips and rubs it against the darkness of his clothes. “Just a scratch.”

“It’ll be much more if you leave it.” You sounded like his mother; fretting over small things that shouldn’t warrant worry. He hums in response, his hands rubbing at the tenderness that started to scream. He grimaces, but bites back the sharp inhale. Aemond feels as though the soreness is comforting – a reminder that he is indeed human. “There’s ointments for such things.”

He looks up to shoot you a look, but says nothing. His gaze travels down to give you a proper once over. He didn’t notice earlier that your dress had Myrish silver lace decorating the hems. He blinks and decides to lead the way back into the safety of the Red Keep. You assume he wants to keep your company – when you fall into step beside him, he only casts you a glance without a word of refusal.

A whirlwind of thoughts takes your mind. This was going to be the first time you and Aemond were going to be together, alone, after the incident. Undoubtedly, you were hurt. You thought the time spent together, you could help quell the distraught that lingered in his mind. You wanted him so desperately to be something other than a brooding mess of intangible feelings – constantly haunted by the premonitions of the past.

Helaena had told you once or twice about how.. content Aemond was during his childhood. He had both eyes and an affinity for dragons, reading, and sword fighting. She told you about how he used to do anything to make her laugh and how he pretended to be intrigued at her collection of insects. He was sweet once upon a time, she said.

Seeing that kindness he had – the one he had shown to you freely at the night of the festival – made you want to see more.

You reach his room and he opens the door. There’s a fire stoked now, a fresh blaze swelling within the hearth.

You take a look around. His room is quaint, but larger than yours. It’s ridiculously tidy, almost as if no one lived in the room. There’s a painting above the hearth, one of Aegon the Conqueror and his dragon, Balerion. Aegon is waving his sword in the air and Balerion is shooting flames from his mouth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as Aemond fiddles with the contents of his bookshelf. When he pulls away, there’s a small box that he holds in his grasp. When he sits at his table and opens it, you notice that there’s ointments and herbs filling the space.

“Are you a maester now?”

He looks up through the lashes of his one eye and narrows it. You click your tongue and suck in a breath, exhaling out a small, unsure ‘okay’. You walk around the room, noticing that his blankets are black and the Tyroshi carpet is a forest green. You raise your brow and settle on a nearby chair close to the fire.

You’re watching him curiously as he fiddles with the things within the box. Why did he have this in his room? Was he uncomfortable being around a maester?

It seems as if he hears your thoughts.

“The last time I saw a maester, I was told I’d lost my eye.” Aemond unclasps the dragon buckles of his coat, shedding the layer before rolling up the sleeves of his dark tunic. There’s welts littering the pale skin – welts that are slowly forming giant purple contusions. You frown at the sight of aged, yellowed blotches.

He doesn’t say anything more to elaborate, but you assume he’s cynical about the ordeal.

He pulls out a container of ointment, spreading a thin layer on top of the bruises that were starting to form. It was something to help cease the swell, you reckon. You continue to watch silently as deft fingers rummage through the box. He pulls out something, popping it into his mouth and chewing it carefully.

Aemond moves his attention to his palm, examining it as if something bothered the skin. He then starts to pick at the soft flesh, his mouth forming into a tight line. He grunts in frustration and hollows his cheeks, chewing on the tissue that meets his teeth. His eye flicks to you and you raise a brow.

“I need–” The words fail to leave him. He looks down at the table, uncertainty pooling in his stomach and causing heat to redden the tips of his ears. He’s glad his hair is down and in the way, he didn’t need to hear any sly quips about it. “Can you–”

Deciding it’s enough torture for him, you get up from your seat and grab the piece of cloth that he holds up. You dab at the blood that’s trickled from the cut on his cheek.

“I wonder, who would have helped you if I wasn’t here?” You say, not missing the way his eyelashes of his eye flutters closed. Your fingers are leaving ghostly kisses on his skin, sending waves of comfort. He finds himself desiring to lean into the touch.

He wants to retort and claim he didn’t need any help, rather, he wanted your help. Then again, he didn’t want to stroke the flame of something bigger. He opts to stay silent.

“No other companion.. or, friend.”

Aemond knows what you’re trying to get at. As much as he would like to say it, he doesn’t think the words would be allowed to come out of his mouth. To express gratitude was hard enough, but to allow this.. aching to become real by muttering words of its presence? He sucks in his bottom lip and chews on it. He decided he wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.

Once the blood is wiped away, you rummage through the ointments. Your nose wrinkles at the sight of some, but when Aemond’s hand moves to swat yours, you scoff. He, however, meant no ill-will, and instead, plucks the right container out of the box and hands it to you.

“Perhaps I’ll forsake you once more.”

Aemond turns his head slightly to give you a pointed look. The look could’ve been mistaken for daring, or even a simple plea. He doesn’t like the way those words sing freely from your mouth – a threat. The last few weeks without you, in his opinion, was intolerable. Dull affairs had only soured his days and he found himself wanting the fiery companion he had taken for granted.

“Don’t.” The simple word is enough to elicit a smile from you.

You hum in almost agreement, a noise that is squandering his thoughts about you abandoning him, “I thought you’d lost your voice, Aemond.”

Seven Gods, he loved the way his name rolled off your tongue. He had missed it – missed everything.

“Little flower.” The nickname that he’s conjured for you sends a flutter to your heart. His voice is deep and almost wanting. “I.. I..”

His words trail off again and his mouth runs dry. After a moment, you nod your help and gently dab the ointment onto the cut. He didn’t have to say it, but the way his gaze softens and the way he chokes out the beginning of it, is enough for you. It’s a step toward something better.

“I know.” I can see it, you thought.

When you move away, his hand reaches out for your wrist. You look back at him and he’s beautiful under the warm glow.

“Thank you,” he swallows, “for helping me.”

You give him another smile and nod, mumbling out a small ‘you’re welcome’. You place the ointment jar back in the box, leaving his side to return to the kindling fire. You stare at the flames whilst you hear the commotion of glass bottles clinking together. The box shuts and his feet thud against the floor.

“I missed you.”

You turn out of surprise and notice his back is to you. He’s facing the bookshelf, arms against the shelves to steady himself as he stands. With the way he doesn’t move, you’re almost sure you imagined the soft-spoken words.

“You’re a radiance within the dull tenebrosity of this Keep.”

The words warm your heart.

“You’re a maester and a poet,” you tease, biting back the grin that was surly peeking behind the veil of your lips. Aemond turns his head just slightly, his lips puckering. Though, he can’t help the short exhale that shoots from his nose. He’s heard that one too many times, but hearing it from you is something else entirely.

He allows a small smile to curl the corners of his lips. It’s not a sly smirk that he’s shown Jacaerys, or a goading grin that Aegon sometimes saw, but it was a real smile. Gentle and soft. A smile that he once only smiled when he was a child.

You nibble on your lip, hands moving to fiddle with one another in front of your body, “If you must know, I missed you too.” The words of confession are scary, no doubt, and it's evident in the way your voice wavers. Aemond fully turns now, his eye drinking in your appearance. You’re ethereal against the backlash of the orange glow of the fire. There’s something in him that wants to engrave it in his memory and keep it for all eternity.

Aemond feels as if he needs to swallow the bile that will fester in his throat if he voices his thoughts. The first time he did that, you two formed an unspoken bond. He liked the comfort he found within you and he decided that if he wanted to keep you around, he needed to be sensitive and in tune with his emotions – no matter how uncomfortable it seemed for him. It worked the first time, there wasn’t a doubt it wouldn’t do so now.

“I was wrong.” He says, moving slowly towards you. His steps are heavy and thudding against the wooden floorboards. “I shouldn’t have agitated my nephews.”

Your brows raise and your mouth barely parts as you sharply inhale. He’s close now, his next words dropping an octave and lowering to a whisper. It’s enough to send a tingling sensation down your spine.

“I see that now.”

With his proximity, his words go in one ear and out the other. You’re blinded by the intoxicating scent he carries. It’s a mixture of sandalwood, some peppers, and his own musk. It’s heavenly and it forces your eyes to shut with a flutter, an involuntary, deep inhale following.

You should be upset, pushing him and demanding why he was so difficult. You wanted to ask him what weighed so heavily on consciousness that he felt the need to ruin moments of happiness. But then, he looked so pretty and he smelled heavenly. It was enough to lull you into a peaceful serenity, a willingness to do whatever he wanted.

Perhaps it was the effect of the pretty words he sang, or the sandalwood that wafted into your nostrils.

He raises a hand, his blue eye scanning your face. His touch is ghostly over your skin, the calloused skin of his finger pads barely touching the velvet of your face. He cups your cheek with his hand and you lean into his touch, your own hand enclosing over his wrist.

“Aemond.”

He hums, head moving closer to yours. This is the same feeling he had felt rupturing within him when you gave him a kiss. It’s lingering, this time, and it’s more softer than before. The tip of his nose then nudges against your face. You find yourself leaning forward, but Aemond pulls away enough to see your face.

Remembrance of his nephew and yourself cozying up together floats to the front of his brain. He almost frowns at the thought, the corners of his lips twitching downward. He recalls how elated you looked when Jace took your hand into his and invited you for a dance.

“What about Jacaerys?” His tone is partially flat when the name is spoken. He doesn’t like the coil of dithering and resentment that winds itself around his organs, crushing them with a white-hot intensity. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, a habit.

“Forget about Jacaerys,” you plead. when his hands leave your face, you’re quick to grab him by the shoulders and pull him back to the close proximity. you were exchanging breaths at this point, each air fanning over the others face. Your heart feels as if it’s going to burst out of your chest as his eye searches yours, uncertain.

He’s the first to move. It’s slow, near a snail-pace, until his lips gently brush against yours. They’re soft and warm when he finally connects his with yours. Drastically different from the first kiss, this one is easy and free from any hesitancy or mistake. It’s blinding, becoming more facile when his tongue swipes across your bottom lip. You part your lips and Aemond moves forward, pushing you to look up at him as he kisses you from atop. His grip on your jaw becomes a tad tighter as his kiss turns more passionate, an obvious sign of a voiceless confession for his feelings.

It’s as easy as breathing to kiss him now.

He pulls away and sharply inhales, his eye slowly opening as it searches your face. You’re slow to copy his action – deciding instead to savor the taste of him on your lips. You hum in content, eyes drawing open after a moment.

“That’s much better.”

A ghostly smile raises the corner of his lips up and he moves forward to give you another kiss.