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    Summary

    Aemond stood in the hallway behind him, motionless as a cadaver come back to life, his skin as wan as the pillars of moonlight cast on the floorboards.
    “Where are you going, nephew?” Aemond asked idly.
    “To my room“, Lucerys said, knowing whichever answer he gave, it would be the wrong one.
    “You will not. That is your room no longer. We were given our own”
    Aemond had such a manner to him— he spoke as if Lucerys were dim, as if he could only understand sentences short and prim.

    They have a custom, the Targaryens. Male children not intended for parenthood must be wedded to each other, thus preventing their seed from sprouting in unholy soils. They must keep the blood pure, for centuries to come.

    Lucerys and Aemond don’t find this custom very riveting.

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