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zeciex · 11 days

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A Vow of Blood - 94

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 94: Once in grief, heart of black but forced in green II

AO3 - Masterlist

25k words.

The Great Sept was awash in shadows, despite the shutters of most windows being thrust open to let in the light from outside. Yet, the shadows seemed to reign within the sacred space. From each point of the sept’s seven-pointed star structure, a sliver of golden light spilled in, illuminating each statue of the gods stationed at the center of each point. These statues faced inward toward the sept’s heart, where a large, round altar stood surrounded by hundreds of flickering candles. While each idol had its own altar at its feet, the central altar was dedicated to all of the gods, signifying their unified presence.

Above, from the expansive, domed ceiling, light cascaded through the windows, its intensity waning as it delved deeper into the sanctum. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax from the large candlesticks scattered strategically throughout, their flames battling the ever-encroaching gloom with bursts of warm, golden radiance. The flickering light cast moving shadows that played across the stone floors and walls, adding a living element to the stillness of the sacred space.

Aemond stood at the heart of the Great Sept, with only the High Septon beside him, facing an altar ablaze with candlelight.

The gods had never granted Aemond anything; as the second son, he was merely the spare. And everything he possessed, he had fought to claim for himself.

As a child, Aemond had attended the dragon-riding lessons at the Dragonpit, despite not having a dragon of his own. He often lingered in the shadows, a fierce envy igniting within him as he watched his brother and nephew-cousins bond with their dragons. His only companion during those times was Daenera, who, like him, was also without a dragon. Aemond had never understood why Daenera did not share the same bitterness and envy–he couldn’t grasp how she could accept her status as a Targaryen without a dragon so readily. He had surmised that perhaps it was because she was a bastard, fearful that her Targaryen blood was not as pure as his own–or so his mother had told him.

The air had been thick and warm, as it was now, though it had been heavy with the scent of dragons–smoke, and charred flesh, and ash mingling together–and not the sweet, cloying scent of incense and beeswax from the many candles littering the Sept. It was there that his brother and nephew-cousins had played their cruel jest, strapping wings to a pig and presenting it to him in mockery. The Ping Dread, they had called it. Their laughter had surrounded him, ringing in his ears as he had descended into the cavernous depths beneath the Dragonpit.

Insult after insult had marked his childhood, a relentless stream of disrespect and indignity that wove itself into the fabric of his early years. His brother and nephew-cousins had never hesitated to remind him of what he laced, never missed an opportunity to make him feel lesser–to make him feel less Targaryen than even the bastard children who had dragons hatch to them.

The seed of resentment had taken root all those years ago in the depths of the Dragonpit, where Aemond’s desperate effort to claim a dragon of his own began–a fierce attempt to prove he was no less Targaryen than any of them.

Each time he had ventured into the bowels of the Dragonpit, he faced failure. The dragons housed there had already been claimed, and once a dragon accepted a rider, it recognized no other. Despite this, Aemond had persisted tirelessly. He tried again and again, driven by a relentless determination to demonstrate his worth and secure his place within the Targaryen legacy.

Night after night, Aemond had bowed his head in fervent prayer to the gods–prayer for a dragon of his own. He prayed for his father’s acknowledgement, yearning for a moment when his father might see him, recognize him, and care for him. He prayed for relief from the constant mockery of his brother and nephew-cousins, wishing for their respect rather than their scorn. Most desperately, he had prayed to be freed from the crushing loneliness that gnawed at his soul.

Faithfully, he had performed the rituals: lighting candles during his visits to the sept, attending masses alongside his mother. Yet, no divine answers came. There was no dragon for him to claim. His father continued to overlook him, turning a blind, guilt-ridden eye away. His brother and nephew-cousins never ceased their jeers, offering him no respect, only a deep scar that split his face–a permanent mark of disdain. And through it all, he remained isolated, perpetually alone.

When the chance had finally arisen, presenting a dragon without a rider, Aemond seized with an desperation that eclipsed all other concerns–he had long since ceased praying to the gods. He had set himself before Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragon in the realm, and demandes she accept him as her rider. This was the opportunity he had yearned for–a dragon of his own, and with it, he thought he would gain the respect and acceptance he so desperately sought.

And in that moment, as he stood before the beast and bellowed his command, the dragon’s massive jaws gaped open, the heat from her breath searing the air as flames began to gather at the back of her throat, Aemond questioned if he had prayed to the wrong gods. The primal power of Vhagar, so close and overwhelming, made him wonder if the divine had ever truly listened, or if his fervent pleas had been in vain.

His grip on the reins had been so fierce his knuckles had turned bone-white, and he had felt his bones groan under the strain of his hold. As Vhagar’s powerful wings beat through the air, his heart had pounded so forcefully it felt as though it might burst from his chest. In that moment, with Vhagar beneath him, Aemond had felt an exhilarating sense of invincibility–a god himself, or as close to one as he would ever be. He had claimed the most formidable dragon in existence, and with that claim, he believed he had finally attained his greatest desires.

The price Aemond had paid for claiming Vhagar had been steep–an eye, cruelly carved from its socket by one of the bastards who had mocked, humiliated, and tormented him throughout his life.

Claiming the dragon had changed nothing. There was no justice for the blood he had spilled, no reparation for the grievous injury he had suffered. Instead, the seed of injustice had taken root in the soil of resentment, and from that, his rage had flourished.

His father had never truly acknowledged him, even when Aemond had gone to great lengths to be the ideal, dutiful son. The respect he had longed for remained elusive; instead, he was the subject of whispered conversations in shadowed corners, his scarred face drawing looks of revulsion.

Even the love from his mother, while genuine, was marred by shame and guilt—it was a conditional affection, a painful truth that Aemond had come to realize now that he had sought justice for himself.

Claiming a dragon had changed nothing–except for him. In his loss, he had forged himself into a weapon, burying any notion of love deep within his heart where it could neither grow nor see the light, left instead to rot and fester in darkness. To the world, he presented a mask as hard and cold as steel, as sharp and merciless as the blade he wielded with ease.

Duty had demanded sacrifices from him, and sacrifice he did.

For so long, all Aemond had desired was to be respected, to be revered, to be seen as someone of greatness. He had admired The Rogue Prince for the respect he commanded, a respect born of both fear and honor. As a second son and a dragonrider, Aemond too yearned to carve his name into the annals of history as a war hero, to be remembered not just in fear but in awe. And beneath all the layers of ambition, the desire to be loved still lingered, buried yet persistent.

In pursuit of this, he had made his sacrifices. He spilled blood. He let go of his hopes and wishes for genuine respect and reverence. He sacrificed his honor and, ultimately, his very name.

If respect would not come through admiration, then he would claim it through fear. His honor was irrevocably stained, yet in its own twisted way, this realization liberated him. Aemond accepted the grim truth of his legacy: his name would be carved into the annals of history, not alongside the Rogue Prince’s for his daring feats, but as the Kinslayer. He was destined to be remembered in infamy, condemned by gods and men alike, forever marked by their curses.

The gods had never bestowed upon him any gifts, nor had anything else come to him freely. Everything he had, he had fought for and seized with his own hands, claiming each fragment of his existence through struggle and strife.

Standing in the sanctity of the gods, he felt no divine presence; he believed they had abandoned him long before he became a kinslayer. Had the gods shown him mercy or ensured justice when he most needed it, perhaps they would have been with him as he rode into the storm, perhaps they wouldn't have placed the boy who stole his eye in his path. Maybe then, things would have been different. But the gods had not been with him, and he suspected they never truly had been.

If the gods now thought of him, they did not think of him kindly–not with the blood he had on his hands.

As Aemond shifted his gaze, a gold dread settled in his chest, his heart seeming to freeze as his eye locked onto something–or rather, someone–on the far side of the altar. His breath caught, as he stood in silence, watching the figure that lurked just beyond the flickering flames of the altar. The light cast eerie shadows across the figure's face, lending a deceptive warmth to skin that was otherwise as pale as death itself.

Death had its grip firmly on him–his skin devoid of life, his eyes clouded with a milky blue haze that spoke of the grave. The figure stood there, drenched to the bone, dark curls clinging to his scalp. Water dripped steadily from his soaked clothing, forming small pools on the cold stone floor of the sept.

There he was, the boy he had killed.

The boy who had made him a kinslayer.

The boy whose blood had cost him what he loved…

Yet, not everything was lost. Though her love might forever elude him, she remained his–his bride, his wife. The boy may haunt him all he wanted, it would not change a thing. Whether it was vengeance or justice, it no longer mattered. He was dead. Aemond would carry the weight of that haunting gaze–those lifeless, milky eyes judging him silently.

Aemond’s gaze fell to the cloak draped over his arm. His fingers brushed lightly across the plush, velvet fabric–rich green in color, adorned with a golden, three-headed dragon embroidered elegantly on the back.

He was under no illusions about the gods playing any part in this union. There were no divine blessings gracing this marriage; it was a product of his own ambition, a result of his personal decree. Underneath the soft glow of the candles and the veil of decorum that draped the ceremony, Aemond knew a hidden, festering truth lingered–a wound concealed, yet far from healed.

The heavy doors behind him swung open with a resounding throng, the sound slicing through the low murmur of conversation and resonating through the vast, domed ceiling. The sound reverberated within Aemond’s chest, his heart thrumming with its echo. All eyes turned towards the source of the light that split the darkness, streaming through the widening gap–a sliver that expanded until the light became almost blinding in the shadowy room.

Aemond took a moment to steady his heartbeat and ensure that his composure remained intact–his features set into a mask of smooth, cutting steel, an expression of indifference crafted to rival those of the gods that seemed to gaze down in silent judgment. As he turned to face the blinding light, he had to squint against its glare, momentarily disoriented by the dazzling brilliance that seemed to cleave the sept in two.

At first, she was little more than a dark silhouette, swallowed up by the blinding light that streamed through the sept’s entrance. She was light refracted, a splintered, ruinous divinity–an image of a goddess, both unlovely and lovely, like a half-forgotten memory of something divine.

Was this what the moth saw just before its wings succumbed to the searing embrace of the flame? Aemond believed so, for in that moment, he felt a similar pull, as if he were the moth drawn into the fire. A fierce heat ignited beneath his skin, engulfing him, consuming him, as he stood transfixed by the sight of her.

Aemond gritted his teeth, swallowing hard as he beheld her. His heart thundered violently within his chest, each beat threatening to shatter his ribs and burst forth, falling to the sept’s floor for all to see–exposing how pathetic and vulnerable and weak it truly was, corrupted by love, poisoned by love that had rotted him from within. He clung to his mask, steeling himself, gripping it so tightly in fear that those gathered would see what lay beneath it.

Desperately, he clung to his mask of indifference, gripping it with the facade tightly for fear that those gathered might glimpse what lay beneath. Beneath the cloak, his hand tightened into a fist, the ring on his finger pressing uncomfortably into his skin.

As they began their procession into the sept, following the stream of light pouring through the open doors, she seemed to absorb the light around her, drinking in the radiance. The beads on her gown shimmered like morning dew catching the first rays of the sun–she seemed like a star descended from the heavens to walk among them. Each step she took was accompanied by the soft whisper of her gown brushing against the floor, the sound resonating in the deep silence of the sept.

With each step, she drew nearer to the altar–nearer to him. The brilliance of the light dimmed as she approached, swallowed by the encroaching shadows that clung stubbornly to the space, despite the hundreds of candles flickering in defiance of the darkness.

As she was led down the aisle towards the altar, there was a delicate, almost fragile quality to her demeanor. She resembled a wounded bird, her smile a blend of ineffable melancholy and sweetness. Beneath the crafted facade of porcelain and ivory, there was hidden steel–an armor not unlike his own.

Her gaze, fixed on the flickering flames at the altar, refused to meet his. This act of defiance, while deeply endearing, also cut him sharply. He longed for her eyes to turn towards him, but her refusal only heightened the sting of rejection, a familiar restlessness that prickled beneath his skin. It was a sensation akin to needles against his nerves, a reminder of the bitter sweetness of her presence–an affliction he craved, even if it came with a burning resentment.

They came to halt just before the altar, with Aegon allowing Daenera to withdraw her hand from the crook of his arm as he faced her. Aemond’s gaze narrowed slightly, his lips pursing as he glared at his brother who had moved to cradle the sides of Daenera’s face. His brother’s touch was almost tender, as if it were familial affection, and Aegon brought Daenera’s forehead down to his lips, bestowing a kiss that seemed both intimate and patronizing. Daenera’s expression shifted to one of bewilderment, a slight frown creasing her brow as her lips pressed together in confusion and discomfort. Her gaze flitted nervously down the aisle, her brows knitting together in uncertainty as he held her face a moment longer–too long. Before he withdrew, he let his knuckle gently trace over her cheek–a gesture that might seem tender and affectionate if Aemond didn’t know how his brother.

Finally, Aegon turned away from Daenera and faced Aemond, a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. The smirk was charged with amusement and seemed to mock Aemond’s pointed glare.

Fury simmered within Aemond, his fingers itching to unsheathe his sword and cleave Aegon’s hand from his body, but he was all too aware of the absence of his weapon and the presence of witnesses. And he knew better than to let his rage explode in such a public setting. Aegon smugly retreated to stand with their mother and grandfather, the latter offering him a reproachful glance. He reached out to briefly ruffle his son’s hair as the boy stood before his mother.

The bewilderment lingered on Daenera’s face as she watched Aegon retreat, her eyes blinking slowly before she composed herself. As she turned towards the altar, her blue eyes lifted to meet the High Septon’s gaze–pointedly avoiding Aemond’s. She took a tentative step forward, then paused.

At that moment, a tightness gripped Aemond’s chest, as if his ribs were constricting around his lungs–tightening around his heart. He suddenly felt like that young boy again, alone in his suffering, refused the one thing he ever truly wanted.

Daenera’s gaze drifted over the crowd before she slowly turned away from Aemond entirely, making her way towards Helaena and Jaehaera. With a soft smile, she extended the bouquet of flowers to the young girl, her voice a gentle hum, “Will you hold this for me?”

A radiant smile lit up Jaehaera’s face as she let go of her mother’s hand to take the bouquet, which was nearly as large as she was. Although Helaena would likely end up holding it eventually, for the moment, Jaehaera glowed with pride at being entrusted with such an important role.

Once the bouquet was settled in Jaehaera’s arms, Daenera straightened to her full height and turned back towards Aemond. She walked deliberately back to his side, her gaze remaining steadfastly away from him. As she took her place next to him, her expression was once again a mask of porcelain–an impenetrable facade of serene grace, betraying no hint of vulnerability.

The High Septon’s voice rang out, commanding and resonant, cutting through the silence of the sept like a clap of thunder. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Turning away from Aemond, Daenera adjusted the veil, carefully lifting it from her shoulders along with the cascade of her hair that tumbled down her back. The removal of the sweeping of the veil unveiled the gentle curve of her neck, where her earrings swayed with the motion, catching Aemond’s eye. His gaze was inevitably drawn to the faint line of soft pink drawn on her skin from where the blade had kissed her. Though it had healed, a subtle scar remained, a mark on the tender flesh that, while not deep enough to be permanent, would take its time to fade.

As Aemond unfolded the cloak, its deep green hue appeared almost black in the subdued light, though its true color shone through when it caught the light just right. When he draped the cloak over her shoulders, he noted the subtle tension in her neck, the fine hairs at the base of her skull stirring as a shiver seemed to travel down her spine.

The lingering scent of roses clung to her skin–sweet and flowery with undertones of saffron and raspberry, and a hint of something he couldn’t quite place. The fragrance filled his senses, warming his blood and settling in his stomach, sending a shiver through him. A tingling sensation prickled beneath his skin, the desire to reach out for her itching at his fingertips. Yet he exercised restraint, allowing his hands to fall and settle behind him as he straightened his spine.

As Daenera turned back toward the High Septon, her hair cascaded elegantly over the cloak, with the veil gracefully following suit, settling softly over both her hair and the cloak. Aemond’s gaze, too, shifted forward, focusing intently on the High Septon as the ceremony continued.

The boy’s silent figure lingered by the altar, shadows seemingly coiling around him as rivulets of water trailed down his face and soaked clothing. Motionless, he made no move to acknowledge his sister or intrude upon the scene; he merely stood there, an eerie specter that continued to haunt Aemond with his presence.

The High Septon directed his gaze toward the King and Queen, his tone respectful as he addressed them, “Your Grace,” and “Your Grace.” He then turned to acknowledge the Dowager Queenwith a respectful nod before addressing the assembly as a whole.

“My lords and ladies,” he began, his voice resonant and commanding, “we stand here in the sight of the gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

The High Septon extended his weathered hand, silently inviting Daenera to place her own within his. As she complied, the heavy sleeve of her gown rustled softly against the fabric of her skirts, her hand coming to rest gently in the Septon’s grip.

Then, he extended his other hand toward Aemond. He lifted his palm, the deep scar running across it visible, glowing in the candlelight–a lingering mark of the love they once shared; the testament of it.

As the Septon brough their hands together, he placed Daenera’s delicate, soft hand into Aemond’s calloused one. The contact sent a shudder down his spine, which he struggled to suppress, his heart pounding violently against his ribs–beating much the same as it had when he had claimed Vhagar. Her skin felt unnervingly cold against the warmth of his own.

A ribbon, symbolizing unity and connection, was then delicately wound around their clasped hands. This act served as a tangible representation of the vows they were about to make, physically binding them together in a gesture of their newly forged bond.

Once, her hand had not trembled as it did now. It had been warm and steady, her palm gently meeting his, their blood mingling in a bond that neither of them fully acknowledged at the time. For a long time, it had been a creeping vine, slowly touching upon everything. This creeping love had flourished in the darkness, thriving in the night and the spaces between the shadows and the heart.

His gaze drifted to the altar behind the High Septon, where flames burned brightly, and the candle wax dripped slowly down the stone slab. At the center of the altar, the seven-pointed star was etched deeply into the stone.

Aemond found it strange that he had felt a deeper sense of divinity back when they had sat alone before the hearth’s flames, enveloped in darkness with only the flames as their witness. There had been something sacred in that moment when they had cut their palms–when they had shared their blood.

Now, as he turned his attention back to Daenera, he observed her intently. The flames cast a warm glow over her delicate features, flickering in the blue of her eyes–eyes that stubbornly continued to elude him. He found her denial cruel, even now, as they stood so close, hands tied together. She ignited in him a feverish desire, a longing not just to possess but to be wholly possessed by her.

The love Aemond felt for Daenera was of a nature separate from the divine sanctity preached by the Faith or the sentimental ideals told to children. He understood that it was marred by darkness, corrupt and corrupting, a love that was as vicious and obscene as it was consuming. It was born from the shadows, a dark flower growing from tainted soil–an inherent reflection of its twisted, obscene and flawed essence.

Yet, amidst its darkness, there was an element of purity–a facet of this love that was beyond the sanctity preached by the Faith, deeper than any tale told to children. Even a flower that grows twisted, possessed its own haunting beauty.

As a boy, he had yearned for love, a longing that had been ruthlessly bullied out of him, carved away until he rejected any hint of weakness. And love was weakness in the purest form, wasn’t it? He had sworn never to seek such vulnerability again–determined never to be perceived as weak. That desire had been buried deep within him, denied and discarded. Yet here he was, a scar burning across his palm, having sought that very weakness he abhorred.

He found himself ensnared, tormented, and utterly consumed by the intoxicating sweetness of her poison–even in its cruelty. The yearning he harbored for her suffocated him; he choked on it, drowned in its dark allure. He loathed this weakness, the restless unease it brought, for it exposed the soft, pathetic core of his rotten heart.

When does love truly begin? At what moment does the knife sink so deep that the flesh weeps with love? Aemond had cut himself open on this love for her, bleeding and wounded, yet still willing to endure another wound, just for a single kiss–just for a fleeting glance.

If the gods were ever inclined to heed a prayer of his, he hoped it would be this one: either to liberate him from this torturous love so that he can fulfill his duties to his family, or grant him the strength to withstand the weight of her hatred.

It seemed the gods had born Aemond with an insatiable hunger–the longing of it, a hungry desire, a craving to possess and be possessed.

He had long starved himself of his desires, had swallowed his longings, denying his ambition and wants for years, claiming only what little he could. For so long, Vhagar had been his sole solace, the only refuge from his hunger. But now, he would not deny himself his single true desire. He would claim Daenera as his wife, even if it cut him open. He would harden his heart around the vulnerability she inspired, protecting her there even if she clawed and tore at it.

The High Septon spread his hands wide, holding them aloft as he called upon the gods, his voice resonating through the heavy silence of the sept. “We invoke the Father, to protect these two souls from their enemies and ensure that any wrongs against them are met with justice; the Mother, to bless this union and keep it safe and fruitful–”

Aemond felt something stir within him at the invocation, a feeling clawing its way from the darkness into the light, neither entirely pure nor wholly corrupt, but imbued with a deep reverence. His heart pounded against his ribs, threatening to burst forth as a deep hum emerged from his chest. It flowed from his lips in an ancient vow, long buried and mostly forgotten.

“Isse aōha perzys nyke rijībagon.”

In your fire I worship.

He had spoken those words to her that night–the night when they had cut their palms and mingled their blood, binding their veins together in a shared vow. Though it felt like a distant dream, Aemond recalled it with startling clarity. In that moment, the world had seemed to dissolve into insignificance. All ties of duty and responsibility vanished, leaving only his hunger for her and the two of them alone in existence.

Back then, they too had been enveloped in shadows, the warmth and light from the hearth licking at their skin, much like how the hundreds of candles now tempered the chill lingering in the air of the sept. That moment had been far more intimate, a baring of hearts as profound as it was unspoken.

Aemond had known it even then; deep within him, the realization had gnawed at his consciousness and echoed through his bones. He had desired her as his wife, shrouded though his feelings were in denial and pretense. His longing had been so intense that it had even driven him to seek out his father once he felt her slipping from his grasp.

He yearned for the days when she had gazed upon him with affection–with love. He ached for the moments when her eyes had met his with understanding, prying beneath his mask, erasing the deep, persistent ache that followed him like a shadow, soothing the deep-seated loneliness that had settled within his bones.

But he would accept her scorn as long as she was his.

As Aemond spoke, her gaze rose to meet his, her blue eyes flickering with a tremor of uncertainty. She looked at him in bewilderment, confusion, and disbelief–she looked upon him as a girl would behold a thing once cherished, that had come to destroy her in the end.

The High Septon’s voice rose solemnly in the hushed silence in the sept, “We call upon the Warrior, to grant these souls with the courage needed to stand firm against adversity, and to protect their sacred union from the evils seeking to pull them apart; the Maiden’s grace, to fill their hearts with love and tender joy!”

A low, reverent murmur fell softly from his lips as Aemond watched her closely, “Isse se vāedar hen aōha prūmia mazeman lyks. Isse aōha ondos, iā egros lēda skore kostā gaomagon naejot nekēbagon hen skoros iksis aōhon.”

In your breath I find life, in the beating of your heart I find peace.

In your palm, a blade, with which you may use to carve out what is yours.

In the utterance of those words, Aemond found both rot and reverence. They evoked a memory–one where Daenera had pressed a blade to his throat, its edge a dangerous whisper against his skin. She had wielded the power to press the blade deeper, to end his life with a single, ruthless stroke, and drain him of life–she could have cracked his ribs and torn his heart from his chest.

Yet, she had refrained. Despite her resistance, her refusal to voice it–despite the silence that followed–there was an unmistakable thread of love in her restraint, reluctant though she might be to recognize it.

In that fleeting moment of hesitation, Aemond found a sliver of hope–imperfect and twisted though it was. This love, betrayed and broken, was nonetheless a form of love, shaped by the sharp edges of their intertwined fates. And even in its twisted, deteriorated form, it was something he clung to desperately.

“We ask the Smith, to fortify their bond, crafting from their spirits a connection as resilient as the finest steel, capable of withstanding the trials of time; the Crone, bestow your wisdom upon them, lighting their path with the lantern of foresight and understanding, guiding their steps through life together.”

Her gaze remained on him, the fire from the altar reflecting in the deep blue of her eyes–reminiscent of a sun blazing against the night sky, tears barely held at bay. Her lips parted, releasing a trembling breath.

In that moment, Aemond felt the urgent press of her nails against his skin, a sweet stinging marking his flesh as she dug her claws into him. “Ondoso aōha prūmia rests ñuhon.Nyke tepagon ao ñuha jorepnon.”

By your heart mine rests.

I give you my prayer.

“And from the Stranger,” the High Septon’s voice rose with solemn authority, “we ask that he not claim them before their time, but instead grant them a long and loving life together.”

The High Septon’s invocation reached out to the gods who had long been indifferent to him, who had never answered his own pleas. Aemond did not seek the divine favor of the gods who had abandoned him–would they even hear him if he did? Instead, he sought a divinity shaped by something far more visceral–one forged in fire and blood, far removed from the distant indifference of the gods he knew.

Aemond concluded this vow with a voice that held both resolve and raw intensity, “Isse aōha nesh, morghon kesan gīmigon, se isse aōha perzys kesan zālagon…Ñuha jorrāelagon, bisa nyke vow naejot ao ondoso Perzys Ānogār.”

In your embrace, I will welcome Death; in your fire, I shall be consumed. My love, this vow I make to you with fire and blood.

Daenera’s eyes, a stormy sea of blue, held a tempest of emotions–the cornflower blue of willowing fields mingling with the deep blues of dusk and dawn, relentless waves crashing upon the shore mingling with the blue of fleeting dreams. In that sea of blue, a fierce resentment burned with such intensity that Aemond could almost feel its searing heat against his flesh–a consuming fire that promised only to reduce him to ashes in the wake of its wrath. Within this blaze, there was a strange sense of intimacy–only hatred born of love could bring such intimacy.

Her voice slipped through the space between them with the subtlety of a hidden blade pressing between his ribs, each word furthering the blade, letting it sink into his flesh. “Aōha kivio, pōnta vāedagon lēda se echo hen pirtir.”

Even your vows sound like a betrayal.

The accusation stung, and perhaps it was a betrayal, both to the gods who had long ignored his pleas–who remained still his gods–and a deeper treachery–a betrayal of his own heart, laid bare and vulnerable. He betrayed himself, and in this, he revealed a weakness he had long sought to conceal–a weakness he had long sought to rid himself of.

In the bite of her nails, Aemond felt her silent demand for him to hold his tongue, for him to keep his words burning in his throat to choke on. The sting of her touch held a dark reverence–a perverse sort of devotion only hatred born of love held. And like a sinner seeking absolution through the infliction of pain, Aemond welcomed the sting, knowing well that there was no true absolution for him, but accepting the pain with a twisted sort of gratitude.

His love for her was a brutal thing, verging on viciousness–an intensity that he understood as the only true way to love. For him, love was akin to a blade working a wound, a relentless assault of teeth, claws, and shredded flesh. It was a raw, bloody vulnerability, given and received in equal measure, an all-consuming force that left both of them exposed and scarred.

The High Septon’s gaze flickered between them, his voice rich with gravitas of tradition and divine solemnity. “Look upon one another and speak these sacred words,” he instructed. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am theirs and they are mine from this day until the end of my days…”

Aemond’s voice was steady as he began, “Father, Smith, Warrior–” as Daenera spoke the same words. They continued in discorded unison, their voices intertwining in the sacred vows, “Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…”

Their gazes remained locked on one another, the faint whisper of flames fluttering in the silence that enveloped their words. A tremor threaded through her voice, eyes wide and wet as she stared back at him, the corners of her lips quivering.

“I am hers…” Aemond declared as Daenera answered, “I am his…”

“And she is mine…” He continued, voice steady.

“And he is mine…” Daenera echoed, her voice soft but firm. Her grip on Aemond's hand tightened, her fingers curling and pressing into his flesh with a vindictive intensity. The tips of her fingers dug into the spaces between his bones, twisting his flesh, promising to leave the sting of red crescents on his skin.

Together, they intoned, “And with this kiss, I pledge my love from this day until the end of my days…”

Gently, Aemond raised his free hand to her face, tenderly brushing away the tears trail. Daenera neither moved closer to welcome his touch nor recoiled from it; she merely endured it with a quiet resignation. His hand lingered on her cheek for a moment longer before he leaned in, capturing her lips in a quick, aching kiss. It was fleeting, yet devastating in its intensity. Her lips were soft, but there was a coldness to them, a distance that stung him more than any blade ever could. As their mouths met, he tasted the bitterness there–bitter like the dark wine he liked, bitter like the poison that he had come to crave.

Aemond’s heart ached with the need to linger, to lose himself in her, to drink deeply from her as if she were the sweetest nectar–desperately pathetic for it. He knew well the taste of her lips, the pull they had on him, and how he was drawn to them despite knowing it could destroy him. Her lips, though soft, were distant, and even in this intimate moment, she felt like something just out of reach.

It was a kiss that seemed to solidify their vows, a silent pledge made before the watchful eyes of the gods.

The High Septon’s voice cut through the silence, rising with a solemn authority as he declared, “Let the gods and all present bear witness to this union!”

He raised his hands towards the heavens, as if drawing down divine favor to imbue his words with sacred power. “Let it be known, from this day until the end of days, Daenera and Aemond are united as one, bound together in the sight of the gods. Cursed be he who seeks to tear them from each other, for their bond is holy!”

As the High Septon concluded his oration, the solemnity of his words hung in the air, a profound declaration of unity and commitment steeped in the traditions and beliefs of the Faith of the Seven. “They are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever!”

The High Septon carefully untied the ribbon that had bound their hands, his movements deliberate and measured. The soft fabric brushed against Aemond’s skin as it slipped away, signaling the end of the ritual. Though their hands were now free, the vows they had exchanged had irrevocably bound them together in a more profound way.

Lucerys presence lingered just beyond the altar. He hovered there, a silent witness to the proceedings, his unseeing eyes fixed on them, judging, watching–a cold reminder of the past that refused to stay buried, refusing to be forgotten.

As they turned to face the court, the air within the sept seemed to shift. They stood side by side, a unified front, their hands still clasped together as though the ribbon hadn’t been removed. The quiet solemnity that had enveloped the sept was slowly replaced by a growing murmur of approval, building into a robust applause that reverberated through the grand space. The resonant sound filled the ornate, arched ceilings of the sept, reverberating off the gilded stone.

Aemond felt the weight of the court’s gaze settle upon him, a familiar burden he bore with practiced ease–steel concealed beneath a veneer of calm. His lips curved into a self-assured smirk as he bore their judgment.

Together, as the applause washed over them, Aemond began to lead Daenera, and their procession, down the aisle when a youthful voice pierced the air, halting them.

“Aunty Dae!” Princess Jaehaera shouted, much to the dismay of her nursemaid, her voice followed by the patter of small feet over the smooth stone of the floor. The young princess darted towards Daenera, her arms filled with the bouquet of flowers she had been given to hold earlier. “Your flowers!”

Daenera’s lips curved into a warm, genuine smile as she accepted the flowers with a gracious ‘Thank you.’

“Can we have lemon cakes when we get back?” Jaehaera asked with hopeful eyes, moving out of the reach as her grandmother came to quiet her from interrupting the procession.

“Of course, you can have as many cakes as you’d like,” Daenera replied, her tone soft and indulgent. Jaehaera’s face lit up with a radiant beam, her joy palpable as she was swept into the embrace of her nursemaid.

With a decisive, yet graceful stride, he guided his wife forward, each step marked by the soft rustle of her skirts. The sound of their footsteps, muted beneath the applause, echoed against the stone floors of the sept. The court began to follow after them as they led the way.

They moved into the column of light streaming through the open doors, the golden rays catching on Daenera’s gown once more, the beads shimmering with a delicate brilliance. In the recesses of Aemond’s mind, a poetic notion flickered through his consciousness: he was the night itself, cradling the radiance of a star, guiding her across the sky in a loving dance.

Ascending the steps into the daylight, they emerged onto the landing that overlooked the plaza below. The sky above was a brilliant blue, the sun beginning its slow descent towards the horizon. Aemond guided Daenera to the edge of the landing, their presence announced by Ser Rickard Thorne’s resonant voice:

“Prince Aemond Targaryen and his wife, Princess Daenera Targaryen!”

As Ser Rickard Thorne’s announcement echoed across the plaza, the crowd erupted into cheers and adulations. Aemond gazed down upon them, observing the shifting masses of people as their hands reached towards them. It was as if they sought to touch upon them. Despite their enthusiasm, Aemond felt detached, viewing them with disdain; to him, they were mere mud beneath his heel–a sea of commonality, their attire practical and drab, tinted in various hues of brown that matched the earth.

The hands that surged towards them were as telling as the faces: weathered and worn by hard labor, stained and rough, clawing at the air in a desperation that bordered on primal. Pathetic.

The cheers that rose from the crowd were not for him; Aemond knew that if they reached for him, it was not in reverence but in violence–they sought to tear him limb from limb and wrench the sapphire from his eye socket as they tore the ribbons of his bowls out of him. It was a cruel death, and in their eyes, he was all too deserving of such a fate.

At his side, Daenera waved to the people, her expression softened by a gentle smile. He wondered, with a tightening in his chest, whether the crowd would turn on her if given the chance now that she was his wife. Would they rip at her dress, snatch the silver and gold from her hair, claw into her flesh in their wild fervor?

The thought of their hands, stained and rough, ravaging her was anathema to him. He resolved silently that he would not allow it. Any attempt to harm her would be met with swift retribution. He would see to it that anyone who dared lay a finger on her would lose that hand.

Aemond’s watchful eye scanned the crowd when he felt Daenera’s hand slip from his grasp. The loss of her touch struck him like the snuffing out of a warm flame, leaving his skin tingling with its absence. He let his hand drop to his side, restlessly twitching.

His attention followed her as she took a tentative step forward, passing her bouquet of flowers into Lady Edelins hands as she did so. Her posture was poised, her spine straight and head held high, though there was a carefulness to it. Moving with deliberate grace, she approached the edge of the landing, her gaze sweeping across the now hushing crowd.

The plaza descended into silence as Daenera reached out to grasp the wrought iron railing of the landing. Her hands traced the contours of the weathered metal, sweeping along its length as she gracefully bent her knees and leaned forward. Her arms extended fully, her body nearly parallel to the railing as she tilted her head forward in a deep, respectful bow to the assembled masses.

“The Mother bless you, Princess!” A voice pierced through the silence. “May the Mother protect you!”

The crowd, seemingly moved by her gesture, erupted into a cacophony of shouts and cheers, surging forward with renewed fervor.

The gold cloaks sprang into action, their voices raised in a command as they pushed the crowd back, striving to prevent them from breaking through the line and storming the steps. The tension between the disciplined restraint of the guards and the swell of the crowd grew.

Suddenly, a shout cut through the clamor, piercing and clear: “All Hail Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen! The Rightful Queen!” It was quickly followed by another, the crowd’s voices swelling, “Seven blessings to Lucerys Velaryon!”

Just as the clamor swelled, Ser Criston Cole intervened from behind them with a decisive tone, “We should get back to the Keep. The crowd is getting restless.”

Heeding his advice, Aegon and Helaena descended the steps, the nursemaids trailing closely behind, each holding one of the twins. Jaejaerys clutched his toy dragon tightly, a frown on his face at the noise, while Jaehaera’s head bobbed slightly, her eyes wide and uncertain. The Dowager Queen followed in their wake, accompanied by the Hand of the King.

The Kingsguard flanked their procession, their white cloaks fluttering dramatically in the breeze. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, ever vigilant and poised for action, ready to draw steel should a threat arise.

Aemond approached Daenera, his hand finding its way to the small of her back as he spoke softly but firmly, “Come.”

Their gazes met, and she responded with a small, solemn nod, a slight frown on her face. Aemond's touch remained firm yet gentle as he led her towards the staircase. Daenera carefully gathered her long skirts in her hands, lifting them just enough to ensure she wouldn’t trip, her movement graceful and deliberate under his watchful gaze.

They descended together to second landing, their pace deliberate as they approached the next flight of stairs leading down to the bustling plaza below. As they drew closer, the roar of the crowd grew louder, and hands reached out from between the guards who struggled to maintain control. The guards formed a human barricade, their voices sharp and commanding as they ordered the crowd to step back and make way. Despite their efforts, the narrow path through the plaza seemed to shrink under the pressure from the surging throng, which grew increasingly restless and agitated.

A piercing shout cut through the din, “Cursed be the Kinslayer!”

The word ‘kinslayer’ echoed ominously through the air, its resonance carrying the weight of venomous hostility as it reverberated among the crowd.

Aemond drew Daenera close, his hand steady against the small of her back as he cast a wary glance down the narrow path. The crowd pressed against the line of gold cloaks, their faces contorted with hostility and their hands reaching out in a desperate, grasping motion.

They shouted at him as though he were some cruel man who had lured away the princess of flowers–drawing her from her mother’s protection, binding her in marriage to keep her forever by his side. They painted him a monster. And, perhaps, the accusation rang true. After all, the monster they thought him to be was not so far from the man he was.

“Monster!” Someone hurled at them–at him–the word slicing through the air. In stark opposition to the insults hurled his way, flower petals began to rain down upon them, fluttering through the air like pink snow before settling on the ground where they were trampled underfoot. The sweet scent mingled with the dirt and grime of the city.

“The Mother protect the princess from the kinslayer!” A voice rang out, its fervent swallowed by the tumult. Almost immediately, another shout echoed through the throng, “The gods protect you from the monster!”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he suppressed the impulse to react. He remained impassive, his gaze unwavering despite the barrage of vitriol directed at him. To him, their disdain was inconsequential–a mere squeak from rats that would not distract a cat from its path. He cared little for their outcries; his focus was solely on the path ahead and on Daenera by his side.

Amidst the cacophony of insults and outcry directed at Aemond, there was also currents of prayers and adulations aimed at Daenera. Shouts of well-wishes and expressions of admiration were directed towards her, while flowers and petals continued to rain down upon them as they made their way through the narrow passage between the buildings towards the awaiting litter.

Aemond extended his hand, offering support as Daenera climbed the steps. Her veil fluttered in the wind as she prepared to step into the litter, momentarily revealing the green cloak draped over her shoulders. With a graceful motion, she settled into the plush seat, the fabric of her gown spreading around her. Aemond followed, ascending the steps and ducking into the litter. He positioned himself directly across from her, his gaze lingering on her as the door closed, shutting out the bustling city beyond.

She had been radiant, smiling and waving at the crowd outside, but as soon as the door closed, her smile vanished. It fell away like a fading illusion, her hand drifting to rest in her lap, her demeanor shifting to one of quiet resignation. Her gaze remained on the narrow slit in the window shutters, through which she could watch as they city slipped by as the litter began its journey.

Outside, the clamor of the crowd was reduced to a distant murmur, muted by the walls of the litter. The noisy throng was mostly swallowed by the relentless sound of wooden wheels rumbling over the cobblestones, the litter jolting and shaking with every bump. Aemond detested riding in a litter.

The fleeting rays of sunlight played across her face as the silence stretched, heavy and unyielding. Aemond’s gaze remained on her, watching her closely, attempting to decipher her expression–her face was a mask of neutrality, eyes resolutely averted, her demeanor devoid of any pretense or desire for interaction.

Aemond broke the silence with a tone that seemed almost too forceful. “You look beautiful.”

Daenera’s eyes stayed locked on the narrow gap in the shutters, her refusing to meet his gaze. She answered coolly, her voice devoid of warmth or emotion. “So I’ve been told.”

Lively music echoed through the throne room, the musicians playing with a cheerful energy, their instruments weaving a tapestry of festive melodies that filled the grand space. The low hum of conversation mingled with the music, creating a backdrop of lively chatter and the soft clinking of glasses.

At the center of the festivities, Aemond and Daenera were prominently seated on a raised dias, positioned before the imposing Iron Throne. Behind them, the twisted wrought steel of the throne loomed like a dark, intricate wreath, its sharp, jagged edges framing their elevated position. Their table, draped in lush green velvet, stood out against the grandeur of the room, adorned with two opulent floral arrangements that flanked them in a rainbow of colors; red, yellow, orange, purple, blue, white.

The table, set between columns bearing the stern, stone effigies of Aegon the Conqueror and his son Aenys, seemed almost dwarfed by the weight of their gaze. The stony visages of the king's past seemed to watch over the proceedings, their silent presence a reminder of the legacy that had led them to this point.

The table itself was a canvas of decadence, laden with an array of sumptuous dishes and fine wines, reflecting the opulence of the occasion. Gold and silver platters gleamed under the flickering light from the wrought iron light fixtures above, their surfaces showcasing a feast fit for royalty. Each dish was meticulously arranged, a testament to the culinary mastery that had gone into preparing the evening’s repast.

Aemond had filled his plate with meats and steamed vegetables. And yet, he felt no desire to eat.

From his elevated position, Aemond cast a detached gaze over the lively celebration below. Although he was positioned at the head of the festivities, an unmistakable sense of separation lingered within him. It had been barely a week since he had last sat here, celebrated for his perceived victory over the bastard boy and his dragon at Storm’s End–just a week since Daenera had entered the throne room draped in bloody red, mourning her brother's death.

Now, she sat beside him once more, adorned in gleaming ivory rather than somber red–a cloak of green draping over her shoulders. This time, she was not just his betrothed but his wife, bound to him in the sight of the gods and the realm.

This was what he had longed for–her by his side as his wife. This was what he had fought for, what he had meticulously plotted and schemed to achieve, even going against his mother’s wishes.

Although the satisfaction of finally claiming her as his wife was immense, the sense of victory was diminished by the persistent coldness that lingered between them. Her polite smiles to guests were a veneer over the underlying chill, while Aemond himself offered no more than a sharp, satisfied smirk. Beneath that smirk, though, lay a constant ache, an unspoken yearning that prickled at his fingertips, urging him to bridge the distance between them.

Daenera offered no pretense, her demeanor cold and unyielding beneath the mask of formality she wore. She made no effort to engage in conversation with him, nor did she show any desire to. Aemond had expected this, and he refrained from forcing the issue–though it did little to ease the sting of her indifference. Instead, he resigned himself to the chill of her silence, finding some solace in the knowledge that she was now his wife–an unalterable fact that remained, despite the emotional distance between them.

Around them, guests in their finest attire mingled and laughed, reveling in the opulence of the feast. The room buzzed with animated conversation and the clinking of cutlery as the evening’s festivities unfolded. The servants moved deftly among the tables, replenishing goblets with rich wine and ensuring no cup remained empty for long.

Rows of elegantly set tables stretched between the imposing columns, their surfaces adorned with gleaming silverware that shimmered with every flicker of light. The tables were meticulously arranged to leave the broad central aisle open, creating a clear and inviting path for the evening’s dancing and festivities. Around the bases of the columns, elaborate floral arrangements were wound, while grand vases brimming with blooms stood proudly at the center of each table. The air was infused with the sweet fragrance of fresh flowers, mingling with the rich aroma of beeswax candles and the scent of the lavish feast.

To the right, set apart by a respectful distance, the King and Queen’s table partook in the celebration. The table exuded a grandeur that was both understated and unmistakable. Adorned with regal silver and rich velvet, it commanded a view of the entire room. Strategically positioned, it provided a vantage point over the celebrations while maintaining a dignified separation from the bridal table. The elegance of the table mirrored the room’s overall splendor, ensuring that even in their distinct placement, they remained central to the evening’s events.

A sudden, resounding clank pierced through the hum of music and conversation, drawing every eye in the room. The Hand of the King had risen from his seat at the King’s table, a cup of wine in hand. He discarded the knife he had drummed against the cup before stepping away from the table. The music came to an abrupt halt, the lively chatter of the crowd faded into a hushed silence as Otto Hightower commanded the room’s full attention.

Clearing his throat, Otto began, his voice carrying the weight of formality and authority. “Upon his deathbed, King Viserys had two final wishes…” His gaze swept over the assembled guests before settling on Aegon, who lounged comfortably in his chair, offering a nod and a faint, satisfied smile. Otto continued, “The foremost being that his firstborn son to succeed him on the Iron Throne.” He paused briefly, allowing the significance of the statement to resonate. “And secondly, that his beloved granddaughter, the princess, should marry the man she loves.”

The room remained silent, the solemnity of the Hand’s words hanging in the air as the crowd awaited the continuation of the speech.

Aemond caught a soft exhalation from his blind side–a delicate, faint sound that seemed to drift across the space between them, sending a chill down his spine. He turned his head just enough to observe her, noting that the porcelain mask of her composure was still perfectly in place, concealing the steel beneath. Her eyes were fixed intently on Otto, her back straight as a sword, and though her lips curved into a gentle smile, Aemond saw the strain behind it.

Otto’s voice cut through the silence once more, commanding attention with its authoritative tone. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union between the second-born son of King Viserys, Aemond, and his firstborn granddaughter, Daenera.” He turned slightly towards the bridal table, his voice rising to emphasize the narrative he was crafting. “Much has been said about this union, but allow me to clarify the truth of it.”

With a deliberate sweep of his gaze across the crowd, Otto continued, “Upon the princess’s return to King’s Landing, she and Aemond grew close–as they once were in their childhood. When her mother learned of their friendship, she forbade it…” He paused, allowing the words to echo in the silence. “The princess was commanded to wed Lord Boris Baratheon, and being the dutiful daughter she is, she married her first betrothed.”

Aemond’s thoughts drifted as he idly traced the rim of his cup of wine, a smirk playing on his lips despite the falsehoods unfolding before him. The tale being spun held morsels of truth to it, but it was far from the whole truth. When Daenera had returned to King’s Landing, he had harbored no intentions of welcoming her back. Instead, he had aimed to send her fleeing back to Dragonstone once more.

He recalled vividly the day she had arrived–recalled it as clearly as the curses he uttered at her return. His focus had solely been on the blade coming at him, which he had parried with skilled precision. It was only when he had caught a glimpse of her entering the Red Keep that his concentration had wavered. Her gaze had been fixed on the towering walls before her, a subtle frown marring her features as she had taken in the sight of what had once been home.

A sudden jolt of recognition and something far more unsettling had rippled down his spine and settled somewhere low in his stomach. As he had glared at her, the familiar pang of irritation had flared within his chest. His attention had then snapped back to his opponent as he had swung his word at him. It was only after he had made away with his opponent's sword that he had returned his gaze to her.

Their eyes had met then, and he had felt that uncomfortable twist in his gut–a sensation that festered within him. It had felt as though she had been intruding where she was neither welcome nor wanted.

The last time Aemond had seen her before her return was at Driftmark; she had been standing on a balcony as he soared overhead on Vhagar. She had looked different back then–her face round and childish, marked by a bruise on her apple cheek from when he had defended himself. Her return to King’s Landing had only intensified the resentment he had harbored towards her.

Now, seeing her grown and almost strikingly beautiful, his old grudges were stoked anew. He resented her presence more than ever–resented the feeling of something molten and heavy in the pit of his stomach whenever he had looked upon her.

Aemond clenched his wine cup tightly, lifting it to his lips and taking a long draught of the overly sweet wine. As he set the cup back on the table, his fingers lingered on the rim, twisting it restlessly between his fingers. He brooded over the thought: had Daenera never returned to King’s Landing, her poison wouldn’t have seeped into him so deeply. She would not have ensnared him, worming her way into his bloodstream and, more troublingly, into his heart. Yet, despite his attempts to remain detached, impenetrable, she had managed to do just that.

Somehow, in their game of cat and mouse, they had managed to pierce through each other’s defenses–prying beneath the armor they each carried to bury a blade into the other, planting a seed that had since blossomed into the twisted flower of their love.

Despite setting out to destroy her, to dismantle her very being and ruin her so completely that there was no coming back from it, he had never succeeded in doing so. He had been armed with every advantage, every opportunity, yet he had refrained. The only explanation, he mused, was the insidious nature of his own desires–the poison on her lips, a poison he had grown dependent on.

He admitted, with a pang of bitterness, that jealousy had stirred within him upon hearing of her betrothal to Lord Boris Baratheon, the man he considered a fat-headed fool. At the time, he had been unaware of the true nature of his emotions; all he had known was an overwhelming urge for her return, a yearning for more of the bitter-sweet poison on her lips.

“After the tragic passing of her first husband, she was bereft with grief. Aemond was a source of comfort to her, soothing her aching heart,” Otto’s voice rang out, furthering the narrative that was far from the truth. “In the solace he provided, an affection blossomed–growing into love…”

In his own mind, Aemond reflected on the nature of their relationship. It had begun as lust, raw and unfiltered. Yet, he mused, love had subtly entwined itself within their connection–emerging long before either of them fully acknowledged it, even before the murder of her husband.

How could it have been anything else? Only love could compel him to forsake all reason and rationality–forsake his honor and decency.

“They married in a small, private ceremony, witnessed only by a handful of her servants,” He stated, skillfully intertwining falsehood with truth. They framed these imaginary witnesses as her deceased servants, ensuring they could not challenge the truth of the tale. The dead, after all, held no voice, and their secrets were buried with them. “They hid their union from her mother, fearing her wrath. And no more than a day before his death, they sought the blessing of King Viserys for their marriage…”

Aemond’s gaze was fixed on the table before him, his eye unfocused as he clenched his jaw. Memories of that night needled at him–standing in the shadows at his father’s bedside, a small figure permission to marry the woman he loved. He had felt like a boy then, cloaked in desperation, finally understanding what he felt was love now that he stood to lose it. He had only ever asked his father for two things: for justice, and for Daenera.

Yet, his father’s response had been one of sheer disappointment, a refusal that stung with its finality. He had approached him, heart laid bare, only to be met with scorn and disdain.

‘You have ruined her,’ his father had said, ‘Your heart is even blacker than I thought. You are a plague sent to destroy me.’

Aemond pursed his lips, a wave of bitterness flooding his senses. He felt as though he were drowning in it, consumed by the realization of his own actions. He had indeed ruined her–ruined her honor, laid waste to her heart, and betrayed her trust. His own heart, he acknowledged with grim acceptance, was as blackened and corrupted as his father had claimed.

Otto’s voice rang out, cutting through the low murmur. “And so, here we stand to witness a forbidden love brought into the light of day, as King Viserys wished–blessed by the gods and the realm alike.”

He raised his cup of wine high, his gesture mirrored by the assembled court. The guests rose from their seats, eyes turned to the newlyweds. “To the happy couple, may your marriage be long and fruitful!”

“To the happy couple!” The crowd echoed, their voices a chorus of cheer as they raised their own cups in celebration.

Aemond and Daenera, seated at the head of the room, raised their own cups in a gesture of acknowledgement. Aemond’s gaze swept over the room with practiced composure, the sweetness of the wine doing little to remove the bitterness that lingered on his tongue. He took a long drink, finishing the wine in one go before settling the empty cup down on the table with a muted thud.

As the music resumed, its lively strains wove through the lull of the room, soon to be filled with the hum of conversation as guests returned to their seats and resumed their meals. Otto’s eyes briefly met Aemond’s before he turned and settled back into his place at the King’s table. Aegon, lounging comfortably in his seat, playfully tossed something at his son, a broad grin reaping across his face despite their mother’s disapproving reproach. Alicent chided at him as Helaena, having turned away from her husband, was fully absorbed in watching the children. Her attention was focused on their lively chatter and animated eating, while Jaehaerys, in response to his father’s teasing, cheekily stuck out his tongue.

Daenera’s voice, sweet and lilting, cut through the din of celebration, pulling Aemond’s attention back to her. Her words carried a deliberate sting–like that of the dragonglass biting into his palm. “Would you care for some wine, husband?”

The question cut through him like a blade, its edge sharp and unrelenting. It was a reminder cloaked in seeming innocence, twisting into his heart with the precision of a lover's strike—deceptively tender yet cruelly calculated. The way she inflicted this pain was intimately cruel, as if she knew exactly where to wound him to inflict the deepest hurt. Husband. Husband. Husband…

Aemond’s gaze followed her with wary–curious–intensity as she extended her slender fingers to grasp his empty cup. His eyes traveled up her arm, lingering on her face, which was poised with an unnervingly calm grace. Her lips, a soft shade of red, curved into a gentle smile that barely masked the sharpness in her eyes.

“You would do well to consider,” she said, her voice smooth and measured, as her other hand reached for the pitcher of wine. The rich red liquid sloshed around as she lifted it, “that it was during the feast of my first wedding that I began to poison my husband…”

Aemond’s gaze narrowed slightly as he leaned back in his seat, the back of his head resting against the high cushion. He watched her with curiosity, finding amusement in the contrast between the clear, sweet tone of her voice and the subtle threat lurking beneath it. Were he a different man, he might have felt a shiver of fear at her casual confession, but he was not a different man–he knew her darkness.

Her gaze remained focused on the task at hand as she carefully set the heavy glass pitcher before her. She continued, her voice a musing drawl, “I simply added it to his wine.” Shifting her hold on the pitcher, she lifted it again. “It was surprisingly easy–he was already deep in his cups, and his attention was elsewhere.”

She lifted the pitcher once more, tilting it gently as the rich wine inched towards the glass’s rum, beginning to pour with a slow, deliberate stream “The poison rendered him more vulnerable to the effects of the wine,” she explained, her voice smooth and matter-of-fact. The soft splash of liquid hitting the bottom of the glass chimed between them, a fleeting sound lost amidst the swirling music and lively chatter that filled the room.

Aemond’s gaze drifted from her face to her hands. He watched as one hand deftly steadied the glass, her middle finger and thumb cradling it, while the other hand gripped the handle of the pitcher. The golden rings on her fingers were delicate, each set with pearls and small jewels. None appeared large enough to contain a chamber of poison, or so he thought. His thumb absently traced the underside of his own band, feeling the subtle ridge of the hidden lever that concealed the needle.

Her gaze remained focused on the task at hand as she spoke, a soft smile playing on her lips. “He drank so much that night,” she continued, her tone conversational, almost reflective. The dark liquid swirled inside, catching the candlelight with each subtle movement. “I properly didn’t even need the poison at all–he was so deep in his cups. But… I used it to make sure he wouldn’t be…” Her voice faltered slightly, as if searching for the right words. Her lips curled further in amusement, head tilting slightly as she finished, “able to perform that night. And then a little more to ensure he slept soundly and would not bother me.”

A low chuckle bubbled up from Aemond’s chest, a dark mirth that spilled out into the air around him. The amused smirk he had worn widened into something more–a genuine smile of merriment. The memory of that wretched day, watching Daenera marry the pompous, routed stag, brought him a grim sense of pleasure. His satisfaction was not merely in the act of poisoning her husband, but the knowledge that Daenera had decided upon it long before.

Even then, she had shown herself to be a master of deception–poisoning her husband to evade the marriage bed, and inflicting a cut on her inner thigh to feign the loss of her maidenhead. The irony was not lost on him; it was a deception that concealed the truth of the bedchamber, where Aemond himself had taken her maidenhead.

As the cup filled, she righted the pitcher with practiced ease. “I became quite skilled at slipping poison into his drinks without detection during my marriage.”

For the first time since the sept, she turned her gaze fully upon him. Her eyes held a challenge–a dark amusement that played within the deep, unyielding blue. Her head tilted slightly as she watched him. “The poison I used on my first husband intended to be lethal,” she said, her tone laced with a hint of satisfaction that made the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. “Not at that moment, at least. If I had wanted to end his life, I would have chosen something more potent, like wolfsbane.”

Her fingers traced the delicate pattern etched into the glass–a dragon winding its way up the stem, its wings nearly encircling the base, and though he should keep his attention on her hands, he couldn’t help but be drawn to her face–to that wry amusement in her expression. “Wolfsbane, you see, has a profound effect on the body. It depresses the blood flow and hampers bodily functions, and finally it halts the heart–but not without inflicting considerable agony first,” she continued, her voice steady and measured. “In smaller quantities, it’s less fatal but still intense, causing paralysis while making it feel as though one’s veins are filled with fire.”

Their eyes remained locked, neither of them relenting. Anticipation prickled beneath his skin, his heartbeat a discordant rhythm that was both jarring and oddly familiar. He relished the way she regarded him–amused, knowing, and dangerously alluring, no longer were her gaze filled with cold resentment, for now at least. The fire in her gaze was one he recognized all too well, and one he was willing to let consume him. Tilting his head slightly, he watched her with a blend of curiosity and wariness.

“Then there’s nightshade,” she said, “which acts quite swiftly. It begins with an irregular heartbeat and a headache, accompanied by an aversion to light. Vision soon blurs, sweat breaks out, and speech becomes incoherent. This is followed by confusion, delirium, hallucinations, convulsions, and, in the end, death of course.”

The casual manner in which she discussed her poisons, the nonchalance with which she threatened him, seemed to seep under Aemond’s skin, sending a thrill coursing down his pine and settling in the pit of his stomach. There was a strangely arousing quality to her words–the lilt of her voice deadly yet captivating. Perhaps it was the sheer rarity of her speaking to him these days that made her words resonate so profoundly with him. He was indifferent to the threat itself; it was the connection, the way she held his gaze that captivated him most.

His eyes dropped to the soft curve of her mouth, and he felt the familiar urge stir within him–an itch at his fingertips to teach out and touch her, to trace her lips with his thumb, to taste their sweetness.

“Hemlock,” she continued, with a slow, deliberate murmur, “begins with stomach pains and vomiting. It progresses to tremors, muscle weakness, and a gradual loss of coordination. Paralysis then creeps through the body, eventually reaching the lungs. The victim remains conscious for much of this torment, helpless as their ability to breathe is choked off.”

Her fingers traced the rim of the cup, following its delicate curve with a languid grace. Her gaze remained locked with his. “Equally deadly but less known is white baneberry. The berries are highly toxic–just a handful can be fatal to a child, and a few more will do for an adult. It’s one of the gentler deaths; it acts by slowing the heart until it ceases entirely.”

The lively strains of music filled the air, mingling with the animated chatter of guests and the rhythmic steps of dancers on the floor. Despite the exuberance that surrounded them, Aemond’s gaze remained fixed solely on Daenera, his fingers absently tapping a quiet rhythm against the surface of the table.

“Crab’s eye is another poisonous berry. Its effects are more gradual. It induces nausea, vomiting, and convulsions, eventually leading to the failure of the liver. Death comes only after several agonizing days…” She trailed off and drew in a deep breath, her hand caressing down the sides of the glass as it came to rest at its base. The motion briefly caught Aemond’s attention, a subtle shit in her posture that drew him in closer.

“Then there’s moonflower,” she said, her tone taking on a darker edge. “It’s perhaps the most torturous. It begins with intense thirst and an unrelenting chill, leaving you unable to stay warm. Severe delirium soon follows; vision blurs, you grow incoherent, and often, you’ll experience violent outbursts. Death can linger, from a few hours to days, marked by a slow, excruciating decline.”

At last, Daenera broke their gazes, her eyes drawing to the cup of wine she had poured for him. With deliberate slowness, she slid the glass across the table, her lashes fluttering briefly before she met his gaze once more.

Aemond pursed his lips in measured curiosity. His eye followed the movement of the cup, the dark liquid within swirling gently against the glass. Though he knew she had every reason to want him dead and could very well have poisoned the wine, he found it hard to believe she would actually do such a thing–let alone risk such an act in plain view, where suspicion would be immediately cast upon her alone.

A groom poisoned by his bride at their wedding feast was the kind of tale that would undoubtedly etch itself into history. Yet, as much as she might harbor resentment, Aemond knew she was not foolish enough to commit such an act. The consequences would be immediate and severe–she would be detained and swiftly executed for murder. Moreover, she would become a kinslayer, just like him, a fate he knew she was determined to avoid–if only to spite him.

If she truly desired his end, it would not be at her own hand, not directly. Aemond still remembered the cold press of the blade against his throat, its ghostly touch still lingering. He fought to suppress a shudder. She had hesitated then, unable to deliver the final blow–a hesitation that told him she could not do it now either.

What was a little more of her poison, Aemond mused, reaching for the cup. His fingers curled around the cool glass, lifting it from the table. His gaze met Daenera’s as he brought the cup to his lips, silently accepting her unspoken challenge–trusting, perhaps foolheartedly, that she had not poisoned it, at least with something deadly.

After the first gulp of the sweet wine, he almost choked on it–the taste was wrong, strangely salty. Overpoweringly so. Yet, he had already taken the second mouthful before he realized it, and he refused to show any sign of weakness. The wine's sickening saltiness clawed at his tongue and slid down his throat with a nauseating cloying quality. He nearly choked on the vile concoction, but he forced himself to swallow, his resolve unwavering even as the repulsive taste clung to his palate.

With a sense of grim satisfaction–and nausea–he finished the wine, his mouth prickled with the persistent taste of salt and his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Aemond forced his expression into a mask of composure, suppressing any sign of revolution as he set the empty cup back on the table. His tongue flicked out, sweeping the salty residue from his lips, before his eye found Daenera once more. Her eyes were alight with amusement, her lips curved into an almost mocking smile–wholly self-satisfied with what she had done.

Without further comment, she turned her attention back to the feast, leaving Aemond with a burning throat and roiling stomach. Amidst the unsettling awareness of how effortlessly she had introduced the salt into his wine–how easily it might have been poison, or perhaps there was poison and the salt merely serving to mask it–Aemond couldn’t shake the strange thrill. While he didn’t truly think she had poisoned him, the possibility added a dangerous edge to their interaction, sparking a peculiar excitement within him at the thought of her sheer audacity.

Daenera returned to her plate, deftly splitting open a pomegranate and carefully selecting the seeds. As she brought each seed to her lips, savoring the burst of juice with slowness, Aemond felt a shift in the uneasy churn of his stomach. The sight of her delicate fingers and the soft, almost intimate act of tasting the fruit stirred something within him, shifting his discomfort from the wine into a keen sense of longing.

A warm sensation began to unfurl within him, spreading through his veins like a wildfire and igniting a smolder of desire that he found increasingly difficult to ignore. The deliberate act of her eating, her lips parting for another seed, seemed almost intimate. He couldn’t help but think how sweet those lips looked–red like the fruit itself, as sweet and sinful as temptation incarnate. He wanted nothing more than to taste that sweetness, to claim it for himself, to feel it linger on his tongue like forbidden nectar.

Her tongue darted out to like the curve of her thumb before slipping it between her lips, sucking away the pomegranate juice that had trickled down. The gesture was simple yet maddening. His stomach fluttered, the heat intensifying, and he swallowed thickly. She continued, seemingly oblivious to the weight of his gaze, to how the sight of her consuming the fruit seeped beneath his skin and made home there, unsettling and irresistible all at once.

After the sixth seed disappeared between her lips, Aemond forced himself to look away, though it felt like wrenching a blade from the flesh–leaving behind a sharp, lingering sting. Every movement she made seemed to pull at him, his gaze clinging to her like a shadow, reluctant to part from the delicate, sensual way she enjoyed the fruit.

With a slow, deliberate breath, he reached for a nearby cup–not the one from which he had tasted the sickening salt earlier–and poured himself a glass of water. The coolness of the liquid promised a momentary relief, an escape from the taste that still clung stubbornly to his tongue, though he knew it was far more than the salt he sought to wash away. As the water hit his throat, he felt his heartbeat gradually steady, but the heat she had stirred within him still simmered, refusing to be so easily quenched.

The silence that lingered between them, though less hostile than before, still pricked at him with its relentless presence. As the moments passed, it felt as though the chasm between them widened, deepening with the persistent quiet. Yet, the conversation had given him a semblance of hope–even if threads had been weaved into the very fabric of it. He would endure a thousand more salty cups of wine just for her to look at him again.

Driven by a desperate need to keep the conversation alive and stave off the creeping chill of her disregard, Aemond reached for a topic that might engage her–a rare venture into the nuances of poisons, a subject he seldom favored compared to the directness of steel and combat. How wretchedly pathetic he had become in his yearning for her attention.

“What of Widow’s Blood?” He asked, recalling the name he had come across once in his studies.

Daenera’s gaze shifted from the pomegranate to him, her eyes narrowing with guarded wariness as if weighing whether to indulge his curiosity. Aemond felt a familiar flutter in his chest whenever she looked upon him. He felt her gaze prickle over his face, searching his expression–seeking to pry beneath the mask he wore. He tilted his head slightly, meeting her gaze with his own steady scrutiny, his eyes tracing the motion of her thumb as she brought it to her lips to lick away the pomegranate juice.

“Widow’s Blood,” she began, her voice smooth and measured, “is a thick, cloying substance that resembles blood–hence the name.” She punctuated her explanation by dragging her pointed finger to her lips, savoring the last traces of juice. “It causes the bladder and bowls to cease functioning, leading to death by the body’s own poison. It’s a particularly ugly way to die.”

Her description, delivered with a casualness that belied its morbid content, revealed not only her knowledge of poisons but also a detachment that intrigued and unnerved Aemond in equal measure.

“The Strangler?”

Daenera’s brow arched slightly, her gaze unwavering as she assessed him. “The Strangler is a rarer poison, appearing as dark purple crystals, similar to black amethysts. It must be dissolved in wine or water to become effective. Once ingested, it closes the throat tighter than a fist,” she explained, pausing to lick her middle finger thoughtfully. “The victim's face turns a deep purple, and their eyes swell with blood as they struggle for air–or so it is said.”

She casually returned to cleansing her thumb, ensuring no trace of pomegranate remained. “Procuring Strangler is slow and costly, but considering the results, it seems a small price to pay for liberation from one's husband.”

The ease with which she spoke of poison and death intrigued Aemond, a flicker of something dark and thrilling igniting within him. Her nonchalant threats seemed to send a strange flutter through his stomach, a reaction he couldn’t quite ignore. The corners of his lips almost widened into a full-blown smile, but he managed to suppress it, maintaining only a wry, amused curl to his lips.

He watched as she discarded the remnants of the pomegranate onto her plate, reaching instead for her cup. She took a deliberate gulp of water, then placed the cup back down on the table with composed grace.

“And you can make this poison?”

Daenera’s brows arched slightly, a fleeting hint of a smile tugging at her lips before she quickly masked it. Her expression shifted, the corners of her mouth falling into a more serious line as her brow furrowed. Within the depths of her blue eyes, a spark of something dark and unsettling flickered–something tinged with sadness and deep melancholy. Nevertheless, she answered, “I can.”

Her tone was measured and even as she continued, “Though the ingredients are rare and difficult to acquire, and the process is both lengthy and costly.” She paused, her gaze becoming steely. “If I were to invest the time and resources, I would acquire Tears of Lys instead. It is more subtle–clear, tasteless, and odorless, leaving no trace to be found. It eats away at the stomach and bowls, and appears to be a disease of the organs once the body is opened up… unfortunately it is not within the realm of my abilities to make–only the alchemists in Lys possess the knowledge to create it.”

Aemond considered the implications of such a rare and potent poison. Its elusive nature and the cost associated with it led him to a grim sort of gratitude. He looked at Daenera, a wry twist to his lips as he said, “I suppose I should count myself fortunate that you cannot make it.”

Daenera’s eyes held a sharp, unyielding glint as she responded coolly. “I had no need for costly poisons to deal with my first husband. I needn’t the Tears of Lys to rid myself of my second.”

Aemond’s gaze remained with Daenera’s as the celebration swirled around them, their intense exchange echoing darkly amidst the jubilant festivities.

Around them, the dance floor had come alive with more guests joining in. Their movements created a lively tapestry of colors and fabrics, twirling and swaying to the cheerful strains of music. The dancers wove around each other, their steps following the music in a vibrant display of joy and celebration.

Ser Tyland Lannister approached the dias, his burgundy doublet contrasting sharply with the heavy golden chain of office that swung from his shoulders. As he bowed respectfully, the chain swayed before him, the head of a lion gleaming in the candlelight. His demeanor was warm but formal as he rose again. “My prince, congratulations on your wedding.”

Ser Tyland continued to speak, attempting to weave a tapestry of congeniality that hung uneasily in the air. “Princess, you look truly radiant–just as your mother did when she graced this hall. My brother was one of your mother’s suitors, to think he could have been your father, and I, your uncle…” Ser Tyland’s voice held a nervous chuckle, his eyes darting as he clumsily shifted his cup between his hands–if he was this anxious he shouldn’t have approached them. “He-he had hoped to unite our houses, and become…”

Aemond’s gaze narrowed sharply, unamused by the implication.

His voice faltered as he nearly slipped into dangerous territory–almost lending credence to Rhaenyra’s claim by suggesting that his brother would have become King Consort. He paused, coughing slightly as if to expel the inadvertent implication.

“Please,” he continued, adopting a more somber tone, “you have my condolences for your recent loss…”

Irritation flickered within his chest as Aemond glared pointedly at the Master of Coin. This was no place or time for condolences. He was about to voice as much when Daenera, her voice soft and controlled, interjected, “Thank you, Ser Tyland. That is very kind of you. However, let us not ruin this joyous occasion with talk of war and loss.”

The smile on Daenera’s face was tight and unconvincing, though it maintained the veneer of courtly grace, her eyes betraying a cold detachment. Aemond’s irritation at this simmered just beneath the surface, twisting within him as he gritted his teeth. He desperately wanted this event to be a joyful celebration for her, to be something she wished for as well–but he knew that wasn't the case. The pretense that it was hung heavily inside him, a weight like lead settling in his stomach.

Ser Tyland, seemingly oblivious to the tension around them, continued with an unwitting bluster. “Ah, of course, Princess,” he said, his tone slightly pompous. “As my brother would have said, had he been here, we shouldn’t burden the delicate sensibilities of the fairer sex with such grim topics. After all, war is a grim affair, best kept away from the gentle hearts of women.”

“Yes, my lord,” Daenera answered pointedly. “However, the ravages of war do not spare women on the basis of their sex. They are often grieving mothers, the wives of soldiers, and women who must confront those soldiers as their fields are trampled and their homes invaded…”

Ser Tyland shifted on his feet, his smile faltering as he attempted to ease the palpable tension with a hesitant chuckle. “Indeed, it’s a regrettable aspect of war, and it speaks to your kind heart, Princess, that you show such concern for these matters. But perhaps your energies would be better spent on more suitable pursuits–needlework, or the noble duty of birthing sons. I am sure you will find yourself quite occupied soon enough…”

Tyland fidgeted with his cup, his eyes darting towards Aemond. He seemed to seek approval or reassurance from Aemond, but finding none, his confidence visibly waned. Aemond remained unmoved, his lips curved in the familiar, sharp expression that always seemed to unsettle the Master of Coin.

Daenera’s head tilted as she scrutinized him. “Have you ever seen war?”

Ser Tyland’s smile waned, his brow knitting into a frown as he blinked, shifting his gaze nervously between Aemond and Daenera. His discomfort only seemed to grow as Aemond returned his gaze, staring at him expectantly, relishing in his unease. He leaned back in his seat, finding quiet satisfaction in the unfolding interaction, content to observe how it would play out.

“The reign of our late King Viserys was a peaceful one–”

“And what of any battle experience?” Daenera pressed further, brows lifting in scrutiny. “Have you won any tournaments perhaps? Or dealt with raiders and poachers?”

Tyland shifted uneasily, his expression revealing more than his words might. “We have people who handle such matters…”

The smile Daenera offered was not gentle; it was scythe’s edge, calculated and sharp, ready to cut down the weed that grew before them. She let out a soft, dismissive hum. “Then perhaps you would be more suited to join my needlepoint circle, since it seems our experience in matters of war is quite comparable.” Her head tilted to the side, her gaze fixed intently on him, offering him a leg up after having cut him down. “Or should I be making room for your brother instead, if these opinions are his and not yours?”

Though Aemond considered Tyland Lannister somewhat bearable compared to his arrogant brother–a man inflated with an unwarranted sense of self-importance in his opinion–he still found him a blustering fool. Appointed to the position of Master of Coin largely due to his house’s influence and wealth, he seemed intelligent enough to keep the position on his own.

At this moment, Tyland displayed a surprising degree of this lesser-seen acumen as he nodded respectfully towards Daenera, a flicker of respect and amusement in his gaze.

“I fear my brother would fail with the needle,” Tyland remarked with a wry smile. And given the match to Golden Tooth, he is like to see battle soon enough.”

Daenera’s smile was gentle, yet beneath its softness lay a steel edge. “Nevertheless, I shall reserve a seat for either of you in my circle.”

Aemond’s gaze tracked Tyland Lannister as he nodded with a begrudging air of deference, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth in response to Daenera’s barbed remark. With a final, somewhat resigned glance at the newlyweds, the Master of Coin retreated from the table and made his way down from the dais.

Just as Tyland’s foot touched the ground, a loud clank pierced through the throng of celebration. The sudden noise cut through the crowd, halting the dancers in their steps. Women’s skirts, which had been in motion, fluttered momentarily before coming to a rest, and the lively music tapered off into silence, drawing the attention of all present towards the source of the disturbance.

Aegon, rising from his seat with his wine goblet in hand, discarded the fork he had been using to rhythmically beat against the metal cup on the table. With an air of grandeur befitting the occasion, he turned to address the court.

“My lords and ladies,” he proclaimed, his voice echoing through the now-quiet hall, “let us raise our cups in honor of the newlyweds–my brother Aemond and my cherished niece, now his wife, Daenera!”

The court obediently rose to their feet, their cups lifted in a collective gesture of salute. The air was briefly filled with the scraping of chairs and the murmur of movement as the nobles shifted positions.

A broad grin stretched across Aegon’s face, his expression radiating a dark delight. With an exaggerated flourish, he continued, “The two of them are upholding the grand traditions of our house–nieces marrying uncles…” His eyes sparkled with a familiar, mischievous amusement that Aemond had learned to dread. “How strange to think that if Mother had accepted my dear half-sister’s offer years ago, the bride would have been by my side today–”

He pushed his chair back with a bit too much force, stumbling slightly as his foot caught on an unseen obstruction. Regaining his balance with a swift adjustment, he moved around the King’s table, narrowing avoiding their mother’s outstretched hand as she tried to halt his antics. Ignoring her silent plea for decorum, Aegon continued, his voice rising over the room’s growing tension. “Daenera would have worn a queen's crown, and perhaps we might have avoided the ravages of war. But alas, she graces my brother's side as his wife…”

As Aegon ascended the dias with bounding steps with an almost reckless exuberance, Aemond’s hand tightened into a fist as it rested atop the table, his solitary eye burning with a sharp intensity that tracked his brother’s every move. Though irritation seethed within him like a fire, he maintained his composure, his expression carved into an impenetrable mask, only his gaze betraying his anger.

His brother’s voice dripped with a saccharine veneer of politeness as he spoke, the corners of his lips curling into a mocking smile. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Aemond with a glint of malice in his eyes. “I wish them both the utmost happiness in this war–marriage,” he corrected with a deliberate pause, the misstep in his words presented as if it were a mere trifling matter. The truth of his sincerity was as thin as a razor’s edge, his words balancing precariously between genuine and feigned–falling to neither side.

“It’s not often one witnesses a love so resilient that it endures the death of a brother,” Aegon continued, his voice laced with mocking reverence. “Truly, it is moving. A love so rare and profound that it deserves its own place in the annals of history, wouldn’t you agree?” His eyes narrowed with a glimmer of cruel satisfaction, the biting commentary wrapped in a guise of false admiration, as if he were bestowing a grand compliment rather than delivering a stinging rebuke.

Aegon held himself as though on a stage, seemingly reveling in being the center of the court's attention. He performed for the guests with a theatrical flair, drawing out each word for dramatic effect. The court, however, appeared unsure–divided with some courtiers watching with veiled amusement, their lips curling into knowing smirks, while others exchanged uneasy glances, their discomfort evident as the King mocked and belittled his own brother. The air thickened with a tangible tension, unsure whether to cheer on Aegon’s audacious display or remain quiet.

Aegon’s voice carried an almost mocking cheerfulness as he continued, “Daenera Velaryon–though perhaps I should say Baratheon? No, that doesn’t quite suit her,” His voice rose, dismissive of their mother’s low warning to temper his speech. “Daenera Strong might be a better choice,” he paused, seemingly savoring the way the name sounded, his eyes moving past Aemond to Daenera, his head tilting slightly. “Yet even that name seems inadequate now that you have, at last, become a true Targaryen.”

Aemond tore his gaze away from his brother, momentarily focusing on the green velvet of the table in front of him. As he shifted his attention to the side, he noted the stillness on Daenera’s face. She resembled a porcelain doll, her expression eerily serene, but her eyes were a different story–they smoldered with a fierce intensity, set firmly on Aegon as though they could incinerate him with their gaze alone.

His hand clenched tighter into a white-knuckled fist, his bones protesting under the pressure. The skin stretched tight across his knuckles, and he could feel the intense heat of his fury searing through his chest. The impulse to seize his brother by the collar, drag him through the throne room, and hurl him into the dirt outside was a sharp, almost tangible sensation at his fingertips. He bit down hard on his tongue, the bitter taste of suppressed anger filling his mouth as he fought to keep the scathing words trapped behind his teeth. He remained mute, enduring the sting of his brother’s derision with a tense, painful silence.

Across the table, Aegon leaned in with a smirk, his hand planted on its surface. “The only thing you’re missing to become a true Targaryen,” he taunted, his gaze filled with a condescending satisfaction, “is a dragon to ride. But then again, it seems you’ve already claimed my brother for that role, haven’t you?”

A ripple of polite and uneasy laughter swept through the crowd, the tension growing, becoming thick and suffocating. Aemond’s gaze swept across the assembly, sharp and penetrating, locking eyes with those who dared meet his stare. He could feel the weight of their judgment pressing against his skin, a prickling sensation that made his blood simmer beneath the surface. Their expressions betrayed what words would not–disdain, pity, and a loathing barely masked by the forced decorum of the occasion.

He knew, without a doubt, that there was no love for him here. Not truly. Not now. Not with the blood that stained his hands. Not with the title of ‘Kinslayer’ following his name like a curse, turning even the faintest flickers of respect into something twisted and bitter. What they felt for him was not respect, but fear and disgust. He saw it clearly in their eyes, the way they recoiled slightly when his gaze met theirs, the scorn etched into their faces despite their attempts to hide it. The whispers, the glances–everything confirmed what he already knew: he was an outsider in his own home, a monster in their midst.

Yet, amidst the disdain, Aemond detected a flicker of pity in their eyes–not for him, but for Daenera, who endured the same public humiliation. Aemond dismissed their scorn with cold indifference, but the sharp sting of humiliation was harder to ignore. It burrowed beneath his skin, a familiar ache that gnawed at his composure. The sensation itched along his nerves, a persistent irritation that threatened to unravel the fragile threads of his restraint, pushing his patience to its limit.

“Moonflower,” Daenera murmured, her voice so soft it barely reached Aemond’s ears. Yet, in that single whispered word, he found an unexpected comfort, a dark solace that cut through the tension–even as it carried a threat towards his own brother.

“Widow’s Blood,” Aemond replied, his tone equally hushed, matching her grim indulgence in this shared fantasy. The words hung between them, tying them together in animosity. In his mind, he could almost see it–Aegon’s body swelling grotesquely, the poison turning his own flesh against him, letting his bowels fill with shit until they ruptured, his blood slowly turning black as his insides festered. The thought brought a twisted satisfaction, a brief respite from the humiliation his brother aimed at him.

“Quite a climb, wouldn’t you say?” Aegon tilted his head slightly, his eyes meeting Daenera’s with a malevolent gleam. “From Strong to Targaryen–just a small leap across a sea of blood. Ah, the things we do for love…”

He straightened to his full height, a mischievous grin spreading wider as he lifted a finger to scratch thoughtfully at the corner of his mouth, as if debating whether to push his jest further. The gleam in his eyes suggested he had already decided.

“This isn’t the princess’s first marriage, as most of you are well aware,” he continued. “You were all here for her first wedding, after all. Let’s hope this one lasts longer.”

As Aegon moved around the table, Aemond leaned back in his seat, his gaze never wavering from his brother’s every step. His jaw clenched so tightly he feared his teeth might shatter under the pressure. When his brother reached him, he patted him on the shoulder in mockery of brotherly affection, humming softly. “I hope you won’t be disappointed with your wedding night, brother…Though, you shouldn’t be too disappointed about not claiming her maidenhead this evening–you only have yourself to blame for that. And her late husband, well, he didn't seem to mind just how well she has taken to dragon-riding.” He offered a half-hearted shrug, his face twisting in a grimace of amusement. “As the Lord Hand mentioned, the two of them grew rather close after her return to King’s Landing… And following the unfortunate passing of her husband, he became a great comfort to her. He often took her riding on his dragon, and she took to it like a true Targaryen–just like her mother before her!”

The insinuation hung heavy in the air between them, thick and suffocating like the charged silence before a thunderstorm. Aemond’s glare sharpened as he looked up at his brother, his thumb idly grazing the band on his ring, fingers tracing the hidden lever that concealed the needle within–prickly but not poisoned. The tension between them crackled, a silent threat simmering just beneath the surface.

Aegon never knew when to stop.

As the Lord Hand rose from his seat, the scraping of the chair legs against the floor seemed to thunder through the room, the sound echoing off the stone walls. He strode toward Aegon and the bridal table, his face marked by a deep furrow–a clear expression of exasperation mixed with his growing caution. Each deliberate step he took seemed to carry the weight of his reproach.

“One might’ve mistake her for the Maiden herself on her first wedding day, but looks can be deceiving, and my brother finds himself at a disadvantage…” He leaned in closer, his breath carrying the cloying scent of wine as he murmured, “Perhaps there are other ways for your bride to bleed for you, brother. Other places your cock has not yet breached.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as agitation simmered just beneath his skin. He uncurled his fist, irritably tapping two fingers against the table in a vain attempt to restrain the impulse to throttle his own brother.

Meanwhile, Otto Hightower ascended the dias with a grave purpose, a weary and exasperated expression on his face. It was clear he intended to prevent one grandson from ending his reign prematurely and the other from becoming a kinslayer twice over. His hand settled firmly on Aegon’s shoulders, steering him away from the seething Aemond–just far enough that their exchange was out of earshot.

Aemond heard his brother inhale deeply, the sound heavy with annoyed resignation, before he reluctantly returned to the front of the dias. Otto descended the steps and quietly returned to the King’s table, his presence a cautioning influence that sought to avoid further conflict.

Now back in his place, Aegon pulled a face at the crowd, lifting his goblet of wine high to brush off the tension with a forced display of merriment. “My lords and ladies, let us raise our cups to the newlyweds and wish them a long and joyful life together! May their love flourish in the light and may they fulfill their heart’s every desire!” He raised the cup higher still, declaring, “To the bride and groom!”

“To the bride and groom!” Echoed the court, as everyone raised their cups in unison before indulging in a hearty drink–a gesture that Aemond found bitterly fitting after such a speech. He poured himself a cup of wine, seeking to soothe the seething anger and humiliation that churned within him. Beside him, Daenera did the same, albeit with a cup of water.

Just as Aemond hoped the spectacle might be drawing to a close, Aegon slammed his now-empty cup onto the table with a definitive thud, a wide, mischievous grin spreading across his face as he declared for all to hear, “Let the presentation of gifts commence!”

As the crowd stirred with anticipation, Aegon leaned over the table again, a wide grin spreading across his face as he murmured in a tone brimming with mischief, “You are going to love this, brother.”

Aemond felt no comfort at his brother’s words; instead, a heavy sense of apprehension settled in his gut. He knew all too well the nature of Aegon’s so-called gifts, having been the recipient of a venture to a brothel for his thirteenth name day, as well as a few unsavory gifts he had no taste for. The memories did nothing to ease his growing unease.

His suspicions were quickly confirmed when servants entered, carrying a large, ornate book. It was wider than most, its cover crafted from creamy silk, embossed with gold, and adorned with rich blue and purple paints. The book was carefully placed before Aemond and Daenera, with the servants swiftly removing the plates of food to make room for it.

As the book was turned towards them, its golden clasps–set with pearls and sapphires–were unfastened, and the cover was gently opened to reveal the first page. The page was decorated with a gilded frame and intricately painted leaves and vines curling around the frame, the text within written in common tongue; A Flowers Bloom.

Aegon leaned casually on the table, his amusement evident in the gleam of his eyes as he watched them closely. “This one, brother, I think you’ll find quite enjoyable–”

With practiced ease, Aegon flipped through the pages of the book, as if intimately familiar with its contents–an assumption Aemond had no trouble believing. The page settled on a particularly lewd illustration: a man, his face buried in the bosom of a woman, suckling at her teat, while her hand gripped his erect cock. His legs were spread wide, revealing an object inserted into another orifice. The image was as explicit as it was vulgar, a grotesque display meant to provoke.

“Given the stick so firmly lodged in your…” Aegon finished, letting his voice trail off as Aemond glared at him with such intensity that it seemed to stifle what words remained. His jaw tightened as he stared angrily at his brother, the weight of humiliation once again bearing down on him, but he refused to give Aegon any other reaction.

Aegon merely half-shrugged, his smirk never faltering as he continued, “Though, my favorite is this one.” He gave them no time to dwell on the previous obscene illustration before casually flipping to another page. “A bit of stretching might serve you well before attempting this one–it's demanding on the thighs…”

The illustration Aegon revealed next was more shocking still. It depicted a woman completely upside down, her weight resting on her neck and shoulders, arms bracing as she held her lower half vertically in the air. Her ankles were positioned by her ears, her toes making a precarious effort to prevent her from tipping over. Directly above her, a man loomed, his knees slightly bent as he engaged with her from above, his gaze intent and downward.

Aemond’s gaze narrowed as he took in the image, the absurdity of the position only deepening his disdain. Outrage and humiliation surged through him, burning up his throat like a wildfire rapidly spreading. The intense emotions threatened to overwhelm him as he struggled to maintain his composure in the face of such blatant provocation.

As Aegon circled the table, he came to a stop beside Daenera, one hand resting casually on the back of her chair while the other pressed firmly against the table’s edge. Leaning down toward her, his posture exuding a predatory ease, His gaze, however, traveled beyond her, locking with Aemond's, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His voice dropped to a low murmur, just loud enough for her–and Aemond–to hear, the intimacy of the gesture adding a layer of provocation that bristled in the air. “You know, brother, I can’t help but wonder… With all these positions, I do hope you’re up to the challenge. A woman like our sweet niece–well, she’ll need more than just your brooding one-eyed stares to be satisfied.”

He let his gaze drift over Daenera, who shifted uncomfortably away from him, then back to Aemond, amusement flickering in his eyes as he continued, “Of course, if you find any of it too… uncomfortable or lacking in taste, I’d be more than happy to step in and show her the finer points. I’ve got plenty of experience in these matters, after all.” Aegon’s smirk widened as he casually flipped through the book, landing on another obscene image. “Our poor niece has already endured one unsatisfying marriage, brother. It would truly be a tragedy for her to suffer through another.” His voice remained low and steady, his eyes never wavering from Aemond’s. “We both know she deserves more than to be left wanting–”

Aemond’s fist slammed onto the table with such force the cutlery rattled, the sharp clatter echoing throughout the hall. The lingering tremor seemed to heighten the tension as he rose from his seat, venomous words already forming on his tongue, fueled by the blaze of rage searing through his chest. His knuckles flushed red and bore the fresh sting of skin split open from the blow. He flexed his hand, ignoring the throbbing pain that now pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

Without a second thought, he seized his goblet, the grip so tight it was a wonder the cup didn’t crack under the strain. His gaze, cold and unyielding, turned upon his brother. The smug smile that had danced on Aegon’s lips wavered at last, though his posture remained almost mocking, one hand still resting lazily on Daenera’s chair while the other hovered near the table.

“A toast,” Aemond announced, his voice as sharp as steel drawn from its sheath, slicing through the air with brutal clarity. The soft hum of conversation and the delicate strains of music faltered into silence, all eyes turning towards the bridal table. “To my brother, the King.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension, the weight of his words hanging ominously between them. Even the musicians, hesitant to resume, left their instruments in uneasy pause as the scene played out.

Aemond turned slowly towards his brother, his single eye gleaming with a dangerous light. “Though you bear the name of the Conqueror himself and wear his crown,” he began, his tone deceptively calm, each word veiled with simmering contempt, “you remain ever our father’s son.”

He let the sentence linger in the air for a moment, a soft hum escaping his lips as his head tilted slightly.

“Our father,” Aemond continued, taking on a faint edge of mockery, “ruled with a gentle hand, beloved by the realm for his kindness and patience. His was a reign of peace.” The faintest smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, his expression coldly calculated–mocking. “He knew his limitations well and deferred to the judgment of his council…”Viserys had been weak and pliable, a puppet in the hands of anyone seeking to pluck his strings–and Aegon stood to be no different, Aemond thought. “It was through his… amiable nature that he upheld his peaceful reign.”

The hall seemed to hold its breath, every ear straining to catch the edges of his words, the tension rippling through the guests like a silent current. Aemond’s gaze hardened as he contemplated the consequences of their father’s indecision–his weakness. If he had not been so hesitant to displace Rhaenyra once he had finally secured the son he desired, perhaps the realm would not have to descend into the chaos and war that it now teetered on.

“But the times have changed,” Aemond declared, his lips pursing into a smug expression. “War descends upon us, as our half-sister seeks to claim your throne, and war demands more than mere amiability.”

He emitted a low, contemplative hum, the sound tinged with anticipation as he savored the words he left unspoken. They lingered in the air between them, silent but present; It requires strength, brother, and I am that strength.

“While you sit the throne as our father once did,” Aemond continued, each word carefully chosen. “With Vhagar, the largest and fiercest dragon in the world, I will secure our victory and ensure your rule remains unchallenged…”

Aemond subtly flicked his finger across the hidden lever in the band of his ring, engaging the concealed needle as he circled around his wife's chair toward his brother. Aegon's eyes narrowed, watching his approach with growing suspicion. With a feigned casualness, Aemond bumped against Aegon's arm in a gesture of brotherly warmth, then clapped his hand firmly on his brother's arm, ensuring the needle made its mark.

“So, let us drink to your rule,” Aemond said, raising his cup higher with his other hand, giving his brother’s arm a squeeze, “and may you reign as our father did–while I see to it that our enemies are crushed and your throne remains intact.”

He turned his gaze to the crowd, his voice ringing clear, “To Aegon the Magnanimous!”

“To the King!” The crowd responded, their voices merging into a chorus that filled the hall. They lifted their cups high, the light glinting off the raised goblets before they drank deeply. Yet, despite the enthusiasm of the moment, the cheering carried a tense, uneasy undertone. Many in the crowd exchanged uneasy glances, their laughter forced, betraying their uncertainty about the implications of the toast.

Aemond’s lips remained in a sharp smirk as he watched his brother’s gaze narrow slightly. He then plastered a strained smile across his face, nodding to the crowd as they cheered for him. Through gritted teeth and a forced grin, he muttered, “Well done, you little twat.”

As the servants removed the obscene book from the table, making space for any future gifts, Aegon turned back to his brother, his expression shifting into something resembling a begrudging amusement. The familiar upside-down smile appeared on his face, head tilting slightly–a sign that he was impressed, albeit unwillingly.

Without warning, Aegon’s hand shot out to grip Aemond’s shoulder, both brother’s locking eyes as they held onto one another, a brief and tense connection. “Come now, brother, lighten up. It was only a jest…”

He gave a half-shrug under Aemond’s steady hole, his head tilting further as his gaze flickered briefly to Daenera, a sly glint in his eye as he seemingly couldn’t help himself, adding, “Unless, of course, she takes me up on the offer.”

Daenera rolled her eyes, the faintest flush coloring her cheeks from the ordeal unfolding around her. She remained silent, her expression a blend of quiet exasperation and discomfort, letting the brothers’ exchange continue without interruption as she dismissed them by turning back to the feast.

Music had begun to play again, the murmur of voices rising as people returned to their conversations. The dancers began again, the steps adding a low shuffle to the air as they followed the tune of the music.

The sting of humiliations still burned in his chest, a familiar ache that carved itself into him over the years. Aemond’s expression remained stony, his eye cold and sharp. “There's a fine line between teasing and mockery, one you cross all too often–”

Aegon waved off Aemond’s retort with an exaggerated flick of his hand, dismissing his brother’s irritation. “Oh, please,” he scoffed, brushing Aemond’s hand from his shoulder with casual indifference, his fingers gingerly touching upon the spot on his arm where the needle had pricked him, his brows knitting further together as he continued, “You’ve always been so easily offended–one would think you’d learn to grow thicker skin over the years.” His tone took on a mocking lightness, as if Aemond’s frustration was something trivial to be laughed away.

“Be happy, brother,” Aegon continued, gesturing towards Daenera, who seemed to catch the movement out of the corner of her eye as a scowl grew on her face. “You’ve got a beautiful and loyal wife at your side–one you choose for yourself, mind you. That’s more than some of us ever got. And,” he added with grimace, “yours has all her senses. I think it’s time you loosen up a little.”

He gave Aemond another playful shake, a gesture that only deepened the simmering tension between them. Aegon’s words, meant to placate, only served to underscore the insult buried beneath his brotherly act, the mocking jabs hidden in plain sight. Aemond stood rigid, his composure fraying, but held in place by years of restraint and the weight of duty.

Aemond sharply brushed Aegon’s hand away, his glare cutting through his brother’s amused smile. “You should be more careful with your words, brother,” he said, his voice low and cold. “Vhagar is the greatest asset we have in this war. Without me–and my dragon–Rhaenyra would already be sitting on your throne. I think that alone should earn me your respect–”

Aegon’s smile faded slightly, his brows rising in sharp retort. “If it weren’t for you, there might not have been a war.”

“You know as well as I do that war was inevitable,” Aemond replied, his tone hardening. “You should be grateful I brought you back. Without me, you’d either be rotting in a gutter outside some brothel or with your head mounted on a spike outside Dragonstone. You’re king now, Aegon, by sheer luck of being born first–try and make yourself worthy of it.”

Aegon’s expression shifted, his earlier amusement draining away as a nerve was struck. “I am trying. And I will not be weak like our father.”

The crack in his confidence was clear, and Aemond knew he had hit a sore spot.

“Good,” Aemond answered coolly, “because he would have lost this war.” His words hung in the air as he looked at Aegon with a mixture of challenge and cold expectation.

Aegon grimaced with a half-shrug, turning on his heels. With a mischievous grin, he snatched a grape from a nearby plate and propped it into his mouth with exaggerated delight as he gave Daenera a teasing glance, quickly winking at her. He stepped down from the dias and was welcomed into the midst of revelry by his friends. Aemond watched him for a moment, his annoyance simmering just beneath the surface.

Daenera caught his eye briefly, her expression meticulously neutral but her eyes sharp with unspoken words. Her gaze flicked away swiftly, refocusing on the reviving festivities as the tension in the air slowly began to dissipate.

Returning to his seat, Aemond murmured under his breath, “Hemlock.”

The silence stretched between them for a long moment before she responded, “Slowed manticore venom.”

“What does that do?”

“It kills you slowly.”

Aemond sank into his seat with a weary sigh, his gaze flickering toward his mother as she approached, her lady-in-waiting, Talya, trailing closely behind. He rested his hand on the table, fingers drumming lightly against the surface as he leaned back. Though outwardly composed, the simmering irritation still lingered beneath his skin, slow to fade. His jaw remained tense, and his eyes, though calm, held a flicker of the frustration that had not yet fully dissipated.

Ascending the steps to the dias with her hands clasped together in front of her, Alicent came to stand before the table. Behind her, Lady Talya carefully placed three ornate totems on the table before them, each one thicker than the others. One of the books had a leather cover, with the seven-pointed star delicately embossed in gold leaf, gleaming under the dim light. The other two were bound in rich green cloth, their covers adorned with pearls carefully stitched into the fabric, adding a touch of elegance to the simple design.

“It is my hope,” Alicent began, her voice soft but firm, as she unclasped her hands to rest one gently atop the stack of books before her, “that the two of you will find guidance in these.” Her eyes shifted between them, the weight of her words carrying a deeper meaning. “They were given to me on the occasion of my own wedding and helped me find my place in the new role as a wife. It is my prayer that they will guide you as well–and offer a path of atonement for the sins we each carry.”

“Thank you, mother,” Aemond said, his tone polite but distant, his eye briefly flickering over the books before shifting away. He had little interest in whatever atonement they promised–neither the books nor the gods could grant him the absolution he sought. It was a different kind of atonement that weighed on his soul, one far beyond what the seven-pointed star and its gods could offer.

Alicent regarded Daenera with dark, scrutinizing eyes, her expression carefully measured as she seemed to note something amiss. “Your necklace…” she remarked, her tone laced with a subtle undertone, as though the absence of jewelry meant more than it seemed.

Shifting his gaze to Daenera, Aemond caught the slight flicker in her demeanor as her hand rose instinctively to her chest. Her fingers brushed the exposed skin just below her collarboes, as if searching for the absent necklace. Her smile, though poised, was stiff and brittle, like a finely honed blade.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” she responded lightly, her voice carrying an edge of feigned innocence. “I must have lost it–what a shame…”

The statement hung in the air for a moment, and Aemond could feel the tension simmering just beneath the surface. His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion brewing between them, but she said nothing further. Instead, she smoothed her hands over her skirts with practiced grace, the movement calm yet telling of her thoughts left unspoken.

His mother turned and descended from the dias.

Daenera smiled faintly, her face betraying none of the disdain he knew she held for the seven-pointed star. As his mother retreated and the books were whisked away, Daenera spoke lowly, an edge to her voice, “If those books cross the threshold of our chambers, I will shave off your hair while you sleep. You will be the bald, one-eyed kinslayer.”

Aemond’s lips twisted into a brief, amused smirk at her remark. He had no reason to doubt her threat. The memory of her petty nature was still fresh–he recalled the time she had slipped dye into his bath oils after a long day of training. He had sat in the bath, unaware, until the bottom of his hair had turned an unfortunate shade, costing him a few precious inches. Thankfully, he hadn’t sunk fully beneath the water, sparing the rest of his hair, though the stray hairs on his body had turned a vivid pink. He had swiftly dealt with the issue, removing any trace to avoid the embarrassment of discovery.

Aemond also knew Daenera was entirely capable of making good on her current threat–cutting his hair as he slept. With that in mind, he subtly waved over a servant, leaning in to quietly instruct them. “See that the books are brought to my chambers.”

The Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, was next to present his gifts. For Aemond, a warhorse–a black stallion bred and trained specifically for battle–was promised, currently on the way from Oldtown. It was said that it was a magnificent beast, fit for a prince. Daenera, on the other hand, received two large chests filled with brocade and rich fabrics, most in shades of green.

Both gifts were accepted courteously, though Aemond thought he had little need for another horse. He only needed the one to get to Vhagar. The stallion was impressive, but when it came to war, he had Vhagar–no other mount could compare to a dragon.

Next, Ser Tyland Lannister stepped forward, offering an ornate golden dagger set with gleaming emeralds for Aemond, as well as a chest brimming with gold bars from House Lannisters vast coffers. Daenera was given an array of fine jewelry and precious gems, each piece more extravagant than the last. Lord Jasper Wylde followed, offering them more fabrics–rich and finely woven–while Lord Larys Strong presented a book chronicling the history and legends of Harrenhal, paired with a tapestry depicting a serene forest teeming with woodland creatures.

Aemond watched silently as his sister approached with her children. Jaehaera was perched on her hip, while Jaehaerys clutched her hand, his small legs working hard to keep up. They ascended the dias together, a nursemaid following close behind, carefully placing a neatly tied bundle of fabric on the table. Helaena’s smile was soft and gentle as she spoke, her gaze meeting Daenera’s “To bring you comfort… it is a blanket.”

Jaehaera, with her wide, beaming smile, caught sight of Daenera and waved excitedly with childish pride, declaring, “I had three lemoncakes!”

“Three!” Daenera chuckled, leaning in slightly as her tone brightened. “That is a lot of lemoncakes.”

“I would have had more if I had been allowed,” Jaehaera pouted, burying her face against her mother’s neck, her earlier excitement fading into disappointment.

Helaena gently chided her daughter, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Had you been allowed more, you would have gotten sick, sweet one.”

“No, I wouldn’t!” Jaehaera shot back, her small face scrunched into a determined scowl, pulling away from her mother to make her protest. “I wouldn’t!”

Aemond felt a feeling of softness pass over him as he watched his niece and nephew interact with his wife, though his face remained impassive. The warmth of moments like this was a rarity to him, and he struggled to engage, even as the lightheartedness of the exchange echoed faintly within him–he didn’t want to spoil it and instead sat back.

“Aunty Dae!” Jaehaerys interjected, his small fingers gripping the edge of the table as he stood on his tiptoes, attempting to peer over the tall surface–his nose just about reached over the edge, eyes blinking at them from across the table. “I have a gift for you too!”

His balance wavered, a slight frown crossing his face as he teetered. Without warning, he bent his knees and peeked under the curtain of the tablecloth, his expression suddenly mischievous–the same gleam in his eyes as his father often got. Much to the nursemaid’s dismay, she called out sharply, trying to draw him back as he disappeared beneath the table, crawling along the floor of the dias.

A dull thud followed from under the table, accompanied by a displeased, “Ow!”

The tablecloth shifted again as Jaehaerys reemerged on the other side, now beside Daenera. Quickly standing, he brushed his long hair out of his flushed face, doing his best to regain his composure despite the obvious embarrassment painting his cheeks.

Daenera laughed, her laughter soft and genuine, the sound lifting the atmosphere around her. It slipped beneath Aemond’s skin, twisting around his heart and making it ache in a way he hadn’t expected. It had been so long since he had heard her laugh like that, and he found himself watching her quietly, captivated by the rare moment of joy.

Daenera twisted in her seat, her gaze warm as she reached out, brushing her hand gently over Jaehaerys’ head. “Are you hurt?”

“No…” Jaehaerys replied, standing up straighter, his small chest puffed out with determination as he held up the gift in his hand. “Here.” His face scrunched into a slight frown as he hesitated, the earlier embarrassment still burning brightly on his cheeks. “I… it’s–did you really claim a dragon?”

Daenera blinked in confusion, head tilting. “No?”

Jaehaerys’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he looked between her and his mother. “But father said you had… he said you had claimed one to ride!”

“Oh… I…” Daenera stammered, her eyes widening slightly as a laugh bubbled up, soft and warm. She shook her head in disbelief, amusement dancing across her features, even as she attempted to compose herself for the boy whose frown only grew. “No, Jaehaerys. I have not claimed a dragon. Your father meant that your uncle has taken me flying on Vhagar.”

“Oh,” Jaehaerys murmured, a hint of disappointment creeping into his voice. He furrowed his brow, clearly unsatisfied with Daenera’s answer. “Will you claim one?”

Before Daenera could respond, Helaena gently interjected, her soft voice carrying a quiet authority as she called her son back to her side. “Jaehaerys,” she said, her tone calm but firm, reminding him to mind his manners.

The boy hesitated for a moment, his curiosity still evident in his eyes, remaining at her side.

“Maybe one day,” Daenera answered. She accepted the small wooden dragon, her delicate fingers tracing the grooves carved into its surface. A soft smile played on her lips as she carefully placed it on the table before her. The toy, worn with age and clearly cherished, had once been one of Jaehaerys’ prized possessions, something he had clung to when he was younger. Now, it seemed, he was ready to part with it–though he undoubtedly had many others to take its place.

“Jaehaerys, it is time for bed. Come,” Helaena called softly from the other side of the table, her voice gentle but firm. Jaehaera rested sleepily against her mother’s collarbone, her small hand inching towards her mouth until her thumb found its way between her lips. She began to suck on it absentmindedly, her eyelids drooping.

Jaehaerys, full of energy despite the late hour, held up his hand expectantly towards Daenera. When she placed hers in his small grasp, he brought it gallantly to his lips, pressing a knightly kiss to her knuckles with all the seriousness of a boy his age could muster. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he stepped back and gave her a deep bow, mimicking the courtly gestures he had seen countless times.

Before anyone could stop him, he glanced towards the table again, clearly intent on repeating his earlier adventure by crawling beneath it. Both Helaena and Daenera quickly chided him, their soft voices stopping him in his tracks.

Reluctantly, the boy abandoned his plan and instead walked around the table as instructed, his head held high.

When he reached the other side, Helaena took his hand and led him down the steps, her movements calm and measured as they made their way towards the quieter edges of the hall, where the revelry was less overwhelming.

Aemond’s gaze drifted across the grand hall, taking in the whirl of festivities around him. The room was alive with motion and color–nobles and courtiers mingled, their laughter blending with the clingking of goblets and the soft rustle of silk gowns. The lively tunes of minstrels filled the air as more gifts were presented–small chests brimming with silver, gold, glittering jewels, and delicate ornaments. Some contained sheer fabrics from distant lands, their origins puzzling giving the ongoing blockade. He couldn’t help but wonder how such rare items had slipped through. Each offering was either sent to the vault for safekeeping or delivered to their chambers.

His gaze eventually settled on Aegon, who stood leaning against a table, a goblet lazily balanced in his hand. Surrounding him were his usual friends, the ever-present lickspittles who laughed heartily at his every jest–though their attention seemed more focused on Ser Martyn Reyne at the moment, who had seemingly become the latest target of their mockery. Eddard Waters, the bastard, had his arm draped casually around Ser Martyn’s neck, whispering something that looked like advice, judging by the exaggerated gestures. Aegon’s eyes flicked briefly towards Aemond and Daenera, where there was a moment of unspoken mischief between him and his group.

A rose was shoved into Ser Martyn’s hands, and with a rough push from his companions, he stumbled forward, clearly meant to approach the dias. Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly as he watched the awkward display unfold, but before Ser Martyn could reach them, another knight stepped forward, cutting off his advance.

Tension simmered beneath Aemond’s skin as he observed the antics unfolding across the hall, a suspicion growing that it was yet another deliberate attempt to provoke him–if not outright mock him. Though he had long grown accustomed to being the target of Aegon's jests, the old irritation still sparked within him, tightening his chest with the familiar pang of annoyance.

His attention was soon drawn to Ser Gwayne Hightower as the knight approached with a casual grace, a subtle smile tugging at his uncle’s thin lips. His pale blue eyes flicked from Daenera to Aemond, a glint of amusement dancing in them. He stopped before them, offering a courteous nod.

“Congratulations, nephew,” he said, his tone smooth and measured. His gaze then shifted to Daenera. “Princess…”

“Ser Gwayne,” Daenera greeted politely, her tone measured but pleasant.

“You make a beautiful bride,” Gwayne continued, his voice soft and almost too smooth, the curve of his lips teetering on the edge of a smirk–one that only seemed to sharpen the gleam in his eyes. Aemond always thought there was something fox-like about his uncle, sly and clever, never fully revealing his intentions.

“And as such,” he went on, producing a golden flower from behind his back, “I thought you deserved something just as remarkable in beauty–a flower for a flower.”

He extended the shimmering blossom towards Daenera with a flourish, his words drenched in flattery as his gaze lingered on her, perhaps longer than Aemond would have liked. Daenera reached across the table, the beads of her long sleeve scratching against the table’s edge as she took the delicate gift with a soft smile. Her eyes lingered appreciatively on the finely crafted petals, her fingers delicately tracing their intricate edges–each petal shimmered as though touched by the sun itself.

Something bitter twisted in Aemond’s gut, a surge of possessiveness and irritation rising within him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain impassive, though every instinct urged him to show his displeasure.

“And I thought you might be tired of receiving roses,” Gwayne said with a soft smile on his lips. “You deserve something more enduring, something that will not wither in time.”

Behind Gwayne, unbeknownst to him, Ser Martyn reyne floundered awkwardly, clutching a simple rose in his grasp–a flower stolen from one of the many arrangements scattered throughout the hall. His gaze dropped to the common flower and without a word, shuffled back from the dias, his intentions seemingly crumbling under the weight of Gwayne’s more lavish offering. His retreat was met with loud jeering from Aegon’s circle, but Martyn took it in stride, smiling sheepishly as he rejoined the group.

Aemond felt a brief flicker of amusement at the scene, watching Ser Martyn’s failed attempt. Yet that amusement quickly faded, withering away as Gwayne placed two books upon the table, his hand resting atop the leather bound parchment.

“How fares my brother?” Aemond inquired, diverting Gwayne’s attention from Daenera with a deliberately casual demeanor. His smile was restrained as he leaned forward slightly, interest flickering in his gaze–even as Daenera’s eyes remained on the book before her.

“He is thriving,” Gwayne responded, his tone softening and carrying a hint of pride. “He’s becoming quite the swordsman, as his older brother is.” His eyes gleamed with amusement as he continued, “And he’s equally dedicated to his studies and music–he plays well, better than I ever could. Though, as he’s grown older, he has begun to draw quite a bit of attention from the ladies. I suspect he’ll leave quite a few hearts in disarray when he marries the Baratheon girl.”

Aemond nodded as he considered his younger brother, whom he hadn’t seen since childhood. He had been ten and his brother just six when he had been sent to Oldtown, and the distance had only grown with the years. He had missed him deeply, the only brother with whom he shared any sense of kinship, the one he had wanted to be a better brother for–to protect him as his own older brother hadn’t.

A memory flickered in his mind, a moment when he had been confined to his bed, his body wracked with fever. His eye had been cut open again, maggots feeding on the festering edges of the wound after the maesters had removed additional tissue. In the delirium of fever and pain, he had wondered how different things might have been if he had been sent to Oldtown in his brother’s place–if he could have escaped the scorn and suffering that had shaped him into the weapon he had become.

“I brought these with me from Oldtown,” Gwayne began, shifting his attention back to Daenera, his voice steady and confident, “they might serve as fitting wedding gifts.” His hand brushed off the book, laying them side by side. “They’re translated copies of The Nature of the Body by Maridos Irroran of Qarth, and The secrets of the Earth by Taenolla Vynaar of Qohor–”

Before he could continue, Daenera stood abruptly from her seat, her excitement palpable. She left the gilded sunflower behind, resting it next to the small wooden dragon Jaehaerys had gifted her earlier. Her fingers momentarily clenched the fabric of her skirts as she pushed herself from the chair, the pearls and beads adorning her gown rustling softly, brushing against the floor of the dais with a faint scratching.

With more enthusiasm that she had shown for any of the other gifts, Daenera quickly made her way around the table to stand beside Gwayne, her eyes bright with anticipation as she approached.

Aemond watched with a tightening within his chest as a wide, genuine smile spread across Daenera’s face, her eyes alight with excitement. Her delicate fingers traced the cover of the book with reverence, her love for its contents unmistakable. She looked up at Gwayne, her expression full of curiosity and gratitude.

“Do you know what these are?” She asked, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. “These books hold wisdom on assorted medicinal practices prevalent across the Free Cities, alongside practical uses of herbs upon the flesh.”

“I would scarcely believe the Free Cities might hold any wisdom not already known to us,” Gwayne remarked, a brow lifting in skepticism.

“Though the customs of the Free Cities differ from ours, Ser Gwayne, their wisdom is not to be overlooked,” Daenera answered, “For instance, they describe a procedure where they drill open the skull to relieve pressure, or use fine needles to ease pain, reduce tension, and improve general health. I do not wish to limit myself.” Her fingers caressed a page, eyes flicking over the parchment before rising to meet Gwayne’s. “How did you find these? How–how did you know?”

Gwayne shifted slightly, his smile deepening, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes as he glanced towards Aemond. “In truth, the idea wasn’t mine. A few months ago, my nephew wrote to his brother, requesting that he visit the Citadel and have these works translated and compiled. I never imagined they would become wedding gifts, but… here we are.”

Aemond had seldom taken to the pen in recent years to write to his brother–let alone his uncle. But when he had learned that Daenera had been searching for certain rare books at the library, pestering every maester in King’s Landing to no avail, he had taken to the pen to send a letter to Daeron, asking if he could procure the copies she sought. It appeared his brother had succeeded in finding them and had sent them along with their uncle.

As Daenera’s fingers traced the spine of the book and flipped through the pages, her smile faltered.. Her gaze, usually sharp and intent, softened as she glanced at the scribbled pages, her brow furrowing slightly with a note of sadness.

“I will have to write to him and thank him for this,” she murmured softly, her voice measured, restrained. Shen then glanced up at Gwayne, offering a polite nod of acknowledgement. “And you as well, thank you, Ser.”

“You’re very welcome, princess,” Gwayne replied smoothly, turning his attention towards Aemond. There was a slight bow of his head, a gesture of respect that felt rehearsed, as if to appease both Aemond’s title and temperament–and only served to agitate him further. “May I have the honor of a dance with your wife?”

Aemond’s gaze flickered to Daenera, her expression unreadable as she closed the book gently, the tension in her fingers almost imperceptible. A slight scowl tugged at her brows at the request, undoubtedly because it was directed to him rather than her. His eye narrowed in response, the request hanging in the air between them like a blade. The thought of his wife–his wife–dancing with another man, his uncle no less, gnawed at him. His lips curved into a smirk, masking the simmering annoyance that threatened to rise to the surface.

Before he could respond, Daenera’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.

“You needn’t ask my husband, I would be honored to dance with you,” she said sharply, her tone holding a quiet edge as her gaze met his in defiance. There was a flicker of challenge in her eyes, one that Aemond recognized all too well. “A bride should dance at her own wedding, should she not? I've grown weary of sitting.”

The smirk on Aemond’s lips tightened ever so slightly as he felt Daenera’s words push between his ribs like a subtle, finely honed blade. Restless agitation stirred beneath his skin, itching at his fingertips and needling at his bones. Yet, he remained as still as a stone, gripping his composure with such force that it alone threatened to crack beneath the composure.

He clenched his jaw, the sharpness of his thoughts twisting deeper as he watched her closely. She was playing her part, as expected–but the way she held his gaze, the way she took control of the moment, stirred something deeper within him. It tightened in his gut, made his blood simmer, but he said nothing. Instead, he remained still, his smirk slipping back into place.

Aemond’s eye slid from Daenera to Gwayne, lingering on his uncle with a simmering edge–remembering his mother’s words–before he forced out a deceptively soft, “But of course…”

Gwayne, seemingly ever the gallant, extended his hand, and with her gaze still fixed on Aemond, Daenera took it. Her gown whispered against the steps as she descended with Gwayne, the fabric trailing behind her like a pale shadow as they approached the dance floor. The delicate train of her sleeves barely skimmed the stone, while the green of her cloak, abandoned on the chair beside Aemond, was left behind like he was.

Aemond’s eye followed them, sharp and unyielding, the agitation deeping in his chest. She moved with grace, and the crowd’s murmurs faded into the background as she took her place on the floor with Gwayne. His fingers curled tightly around the armrests of his chair, and though he kept his expression neutral–indifferent–there was no mistaking the possessiveness that burned within him.

Aemond’s eye remained locked on her, the space between them feeling like a chasm, immeasurable and vast. The wood creaked faintly under his hold as he watched her take her place before Gwayne. Her hand rested in his uncle’s, the other poised on his shoulder, while Gwayne’s hand settled at her waist.

A fierce spark ignited beneath Aemond’s skin, a heat that was both possessive and volatile, threatening to spill over.

A new tune bega, so did the dance. Aemond sat back, dragging his blunt nails over the edge of the chair, his movements slow and measured, though the tension coiled within him like a tight spring. The sight of his wife in the arms of another man, gracefully moving across the floor, sent an ugly twist through his chest. He watched, silently seething, as the fabric of her gown flowed behind her, and her hair caught the light as they spun–a star burning through the colors of dusk.

He wished it was him–wished to feel her under his hand, to lead her across the floor. But he knew that if he asked, she would refuse. And even if she didn’t, it would be out of obligation, not desire. That was a truth he could not bear to confront tonight. So he remained in his seat, the air around him sharp and brittle, the desire to claim what was his warring with the restraint that held him back.

His gaze flickered down to the cloak left behind on her chair, the symbol of their union cast aside so easily. It pricked at him like a thorn, digging into his pride and fueling the possessive fire that burned in his veins. She might dance with Gwayne now, might let another man place his hand on her waist, but in the end, it was him to whom she was bound.

The gods had never granted Aemond anything–everything he possessed was something he had seized with his own hands. He had claimed Daenera as his wife, as he had claimed Vhagar, yet now, as he watched her dance, a genuine smile lighting her face, a thought gnawed at him. He had her, she bore his name, wore his cloak, but still, she was not truly his. She may be his wife, bound to him in the eyes of the realm, but her smiles, her laughter, her heart–they eluded him, slipping through his fingers like sand.

She was his. The thought echoed in his mind, but did little to soothe the ache deep within his chest. He had her, yes, but he wanted her in ways that went beyond mere possession. He craved her tough, her affection, her love–things he could not take by force, no matter how skilled he was at wielding a blade, things he had lost when he had chased her brother through the storm. The thought left him restless, the sharp edges of longing cutting through him.

The boy stood there–Lucerys.

Still and unnatural, he stood a ghost amidst the living. The colors of the dancers–rich greens, shimmering golds, soft purples, and vibrant reds–whirled around him. The dancers, absorbed in the merriment and music, were oblivious to the pale figure in their midst. His presence was like a chill shadow cutting through the warm hues of the throne room–water dripping from his dark curls as if freshly pulled from the depths of the storm. His skin was ashen, lips blue and silent as death itself–and his eyes, blue hidden beneath a veil of white, staring right at him.

His blood had felt no different from the rain when it had splattered against his face.

Daenera spun past Lucerys, her gown flowing as she twirled to the tune of the music. She danced past the ghost of her brother without a second glance, unaware of the haunting presence that clung to the air around them. She danced on, moving past the dead boy, past the lingering chill and blood-soaked memories that pricked at the back of Aemond’s mind.

Aemond’s eye followed Daenera’s every movement, his heart thudding heavily within his chest. The weight of his sins pressed against him like an iron vice. His love for her, his desperation to keep her, were tangled with the horrors of his deeds. And though she danced, beautiful and serene, he could not escape the creeping terror that her smile, like the ghost in their midst, would one day vanish into the cold silence that followed Lucery’s death.

Aemond’s desire for Daenera was both pathetic and desperate. She belonged to him, yet the intensity of his yearning felt like a hollow victory. As he watched her, the realization that she was truly his wife, and yet he was left longing for her.

Yet, perhaps more dreadfully, he was hers.

That truth, though unspoken, pressed upon him with a weight he could not shake. It was as if she had claimed him just as surely as he had claimed her, though not with the same brutal finality. She had burrowed into his heart, the poison of her presence spreading through his veins, making him weak, vulnerable. He resented it as much as he craved it. Even now, watching her glide across the dance floor, he could feel the twisted seed of his desire for her growing, tangling around his soul.

Aemond clenched his jaw, his gaze burning with intensity as he followed her movements. She was his, and yet, not entirely. He had taken her as his wife, but what he wanted–the parts of her that were not just bound by duty–remained distant. And that truth, bitter and maddening, settled deep within him.

It was a fitting punishment for a monster, wasn’t it?

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