ALL THINGS DEVOUR | CHAPTER 3
Samsa is a bastard. A noble bastard, but a bastard nonetheless. To make matters worse, her fool of a father got himself killedâburned to nothing but black bone by a dragon he attempted to stealâjust a year past. Seething under the weight of her humiliations, Samsa knowsâand as her aunt so often reminds her â the only way she'll get what she desiresârespect, power, fearâis to fight for it. Tooth and claw.
Luckily, as a child of House Vesgarâan ancient family of Valyrian bloodmagesâneither are in short supply.
Trystane is a ghost. Stained by an unsettling presence, a wandering mind, and strange dreams, he finds companionship only in Princess Helaena, who will soon be wed to her brother, and his father, Larys Strong, in the quiet of the library during lessons. The truths of his visions elude him, until he meets Samsaâa face he has seen in the harrowing depths of his dreams more times than he can count.
Tags: Canon Divergence, Original Character(s), Aemond Targaryen/Original Character(s).
Chapter Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 2.4k
Read on AO3 or check out the All Things Devour masterpost!
I was actually quite surprised by how inspired I was by the new season. While I had bits of this chapter done, I was really dragging my feet pulling it into something cohesive. So, thanks season three!
They crept through the halls, unseen, until their flame-licked shadows spilled out into a moonlit courtyard, far from prying eyes. Samsa was not the only one who knew her haunts like the back of her hand, it seemed.
Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness as Aemond halted in front of her, his back turned. There was smooth gravel underfoot, open sky above; smooth, reddish columns stood sentinel at each edge. A cushioned alcove sat carved into one wall; a weapon-bare table at another. When Samsa parted her lips to scent the air, she tasted iron and oilâthat of the knight from earlierâand cursed Ser Leon once more for having stopped her from finding this place of her own accord.
"What are you gaping at?"
Aemond stared at her with his lip curled, his knuckles white around the handle of his wooden sword.
Samsa snapped her jaw shut. "I'm not gaping."
"Standing there with your mouth open. That's gaping."
"I'm smelling," she said.
"King's Landing," Aemond said, nodding in apparent agreement. "You'll get used to the smell of shit."
"Not that," Samsa replied, though the musty tang of uncountable lives packed on countable streets did cling to the back of her throat. She could not explain exactly what she was doing without admitting prior guilt, so she instead raised the sword Aemond had given to her and pointed it at him. "Nevermind it. Did you only invite me here to talk, or do you really have the strength to swing that sword?"
That struck something. Aemond's pale cheeks flared pink. He mirrored her, hand wobbling under the unwieldy weight of the wooden sword he had wrapped in a thick layer of linen and leather, so as to not make any sound. He swung at her.
Samsa ducked away in time to feel the air whip against her face. She cursed and went at himâtheir wooden blades came together with a muffled thunk that sent tremors up Samsa's arm. Quick little bastard.
He thrust his weight through the sword to throw her off balance, but Samsa wobbled only slightly. She shoved him back in turn and Aemond tumbled onto the ground.
They may as well been shadowcat cubs tussling in the dirt. Only, if Samsa's claws landed wrongâŠ
"Cheat," he hissed quietly. Aemond scrambled to his feet.
"If you wanted a fair fight," Samsa said, "perhaps you should have cut out one of my eyes before we began, Your Grace."
Something furious rippled across Aemond's face, down to his white-knuckle grip and shaking legs. Samsa raised her sword and braced herself.
Aemond went for Samsa's head.
Her ass hit the ground before the pain shot through her jaw like a dragonglass arrow. Fuzz stole away her vision; blood flooded her mouth. A night-black sea of stars swam behind her eyesâand Aemond above her, gloating, when she opened them in a squint. Pain flared into rage, and rage coursed through her limbs, and she shoved her foot into Aemond's ankle.
He fell hard, yelping like a pup.
Rocks dug into Samsa's palms as she glared at Aemond. He glared back, ferocious, as blood and spit pooled in the cradle of Samsa's tongue, before Aemond's surprise condensed into fury.
"Vile bastard," Aemond spat.
It hurt to speak, but nothing felt to be broken. She'd have to walk into a doorway, let Leon hit her in the yard, or otherwise make herself a fool to explain the bruise. She spat a glob of defeat onto the rocks beside her, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. It streaked her skin with crimson.
Samsa smiled again, her aching mouth twitching. "Again?"
Aemond grunted, muttered, clambered to his feet, and stormed back into the castle.
The thought came as Samsa slipped back into bed and rest her throbbing jaw against her pillow: perhaps she need not make herself such a fool.
A candle for light and heat. A blade from the healing rÄeliot. A finger. Little more was needed to employ the old spells of her house. Alyx's dribbling beeswax candles and incense and soft words served for comfort, but little else; blood was blood, and the pain was ceremony enough.
Dizzy with sleep, she began.
When the sun rose, so too did Samsa, bone-weary from the night before. The ache was familiarâthat delicious pain after a day's work of trainingâalthough she had been swinging a sword for half her childhood. A little bout with Prince Aemond should have been nothing. Her jaw no longer hurt, though, and when Samsa washed her face in the basin and squinted at herself through the looking glass, she saw no bruising.
She peered down at her thumb, the tip gnarled by candleflame. It stung like a shadowcat bite, but 'twas a small price to pay, and nearly invisible at thatâwell, not invisible, but Samsa was confident that no one would be looking that closely at her hands. If Alyx said nothing of it when they sat down to break their fast together, none else would.
They were served smoked fish, soft cheese, crisp bread, and soft-boiled eggs, with a pot of dark tea Samsa could hardly stand the taste of. She ate as quickly as she could without Alyx making a remarkâdon't speak with your mouth full, chew before you swallow, and, Flames above, use a fork, not your handsâyet still found herself wanting. There were many pains Samsa knew well, yet hunger was always one of the worst.
"You were up early," Alyx said over the edge of her teacup. Samsa picked up her own.
"I slept poorly." It wasn't a lie. The bout had left Samsa restless. Those were the best kinds of lies: half-truths.
"It's different here," Alyx said. "I was eleven when I came to court. There is much to get used to. But you do get used to it."
If Aemond came again that night, Samsa had a feeling she would not. Black tea aided a tired spirit, and if she was to spend half the night awake again she knew she needed all the help she could get. She took a long sip and tried not to grimace.
"Better at home, hm?" Alyx drank from her own cup, sighing. "The maids here steep it for too long. Still."
Something had Alyx in a soft mood this morning. Auspicious. If there was any time to admit the prince had come to her door that nightâthat she had hit himâit was now. Hadn't Alyx done the same, when she had been in the Red Keep, only with Prince Daemon? Her secret would only become more sour the longer she kept it. Or, perhaps, if the gods favored Samsa, it might flower and bear fruit, and telling Alyx would only have it plucked too soon. A budding friendship with the king's son; wasn't that what she wanted? More than what she could have ever hoped for?
Samsa swiped her tongue over a bead of grease clinging to her bad thumb. It was for Alyx's own good that she didn't know, she decided. Should anyone discover she and Aemond together in the night, Alyx would not have to lie. Alyx would not be pleased with her, either, but her aunt never seemed to be pleased with her.
Chimera's Nest belonged to Alyx; the king's health belonged to them both; but Prince Aemond could be all Samsa's own.
If only he'd come to her door again.
That afternoon, as their retinue went to King Viserys, they chanced upon Aemond in the halls of Maegor's Holdfast. Samsa flashed the prince an unbruised, unbroken smile as she passed him, and relished in the befuddled look on his face for the remainder of the day.
Then she slept through one night, and two, and then a sennight without an inkling of Aemond's presence. The days dawdled on, a blur of bedside visits to King Viserys; humming and hawing to tangles of stories and poor jokes, reciting suggestions to Alyx, taking notes when the work outgrew her knowledge. It tired the mind more than the body, yet Samsa still found herself dizzy with hunger by day's end no matter how she broke her fast.
When they were not tending to His Grace, Alyx disappeared to make nice with the lords and ladiesâshe had a cousin or other on the Small Council, a Lannister, who she seemed to accompany oftenâand Samsa was left with Ser Leon, who lurked at her back like a second shadow stitched to her soles. It made her hunt for the prince, or her mother, whose name Samsa had yet to even hear as a whisper, all the more annoying. Had he always been so attentive? Even in the yard, as she sparred, Aemond did not show his face. Certainly it was her bastard knight who was scaring him off.
Leon couldn't follow Samsa into her chambers lest she bid him to, so she found stifling respite there most often, seated on the balcony watching the gardens and waiting for a moon-haired dragon to appear.
More often the scaled kind flew overhead.
The sight of dragons was not new. On clear days, Samsa could spot the Dragonmont from her bedroom in Arlior Änogrion, salt and sulfur on the wind. The beasts swarmed its smouldering peak, diving in the air as if dancing. From so far away they seemed naught more than birds at play. These beasts were not birds.
The one named Sunfyre had scales that glittered in the midday sun like beaten gold; Dreamfyre twisted through the sky with the ease of a fish in the sea; Vhagar's shadow swallowed the Red Keep whole. After spending half a day in the dank dark of Viserys' sickroom, the graceful creatures were a reminder of the true might of House Targaryen, of the future held in its talons.
If only Samsa could be such a shining light.
"Have you ever flown?" Samsa asked Alyx one evening after a quiet supper. A hearty red meat, finallyâherb-roasted goat. For the first time in a long while, her belly felt full. "On a dragon, I mean."
"How else might I fly?" Alyx mused, leaning back in her chair, idly twisting her only ring, fashioned from polished Valyrian steel with more dark waves than light. "Once."
It was one more time than Samsa had expected. Her face must have betrayed her surprise, for Alyx began to smile.
"Caraxes," Alyx said. "That blasted beast. I should rather like flying from the Eyrie's moon door than climb upon its back again."
Samsa knew its shape from afar, a serpent who slinked through the sky. The Blood Wyrm.
"Father said he'd take me flying after he claimed one of his own," said Samsa, sinking into her seat. "I'm not sure I would have wanted to." She ignored Alyx's pained look. "I'd much rather hold the reigns myself."
"No point in dwelling on the impossible nor the dead, kÄlÄ«tsos."
No, Samsa thought, but there was much to gain from the living. The dragons were real, distant and untouchable, yes, but flesh all the same, and all that remained of Father was ash and blackened bone. Nor were all dragons winged.
A fortnight crept past without so much as a sneer from Prince Aemond. She thought, perhaps, that someone had found them out and forbade Aemond from even looking at her, though she still had a hand and a tongue, so that could not be true. Then, it must have been him who was ignoring herâwary of her, frightened of her, embarrassed.
One late afternoon, while the baking sun still shone hard and hot, Samsa coaxed Ser Leon to the training yard. In the heat, they were not found wanting for privacy; she knew in the hours that followed, when the air was cool and clouds turned amber, Prince Aemond might show his face. After, as Leon turned away, Samsa dropped her gloves, side-swept them beneath the weapons table, and called out to Leon.
When they had grown a respectable distance from the yard, Samsa stopped. "Leon," she said, trying her best to sound concerned. "I've forgotten my gloves." She made a point of patting the vacant space at her belt where she usually stuffed them.
"I'll get them for you, my lady, after I deliver you to your aunt," Ser Leon said. He tilted his head down the hall. "Lady Alyx is expecting you sooner rather than late."
"It's easier to go back now," Samsa argued. "That's good leather. I don't want some stableboy thieving them."
"Mayhaps you should have remembered them, then."
Samsa chuffed. "Ser," she said, "you know Alyx will have my head."
"I know she will have mine if I return without you." The tone of Ser Leon's voice did not match his softened eyes.
"Then remain here. I'll be quick," she promised.
And quick she was. No sooner than Leon gave way was Samsa striding back down the hall. She needed to catch Aemond before he and Ser Criston began. It was just beginning to chill from the midday heat; choice hours for tussling in the training yard, but not long ones.
She spotted him at the weapons table as she stepped outside, hurrying overâat a discreet paceâwhile the gloves still laid by his feet. Aemond didn't notice her until she was at his side.
"Your Grace." Samsa spoke in a low voice.
Aemond looked at her, looked away, then glared hard.
"I thought you might have knocked a tooth out," he said, "but you've still got that stupid look on your face."
"Vesgars do not break so easily." Samsa glanced away, pricking her ears for anyone approaching.
"A Waters, then," Samsa retorted, sharper than she would have liked. Aemond smirked at her like he'd found a tender scab to pick.
"What do you want, Waters?"
Samsa stared at him, hard, digging her nails hard into her palm. "I'm only wondering when you'd like to try knocking my teeth out again."
All of the abhorrence drained from Aemond's face; even the fierce look he'd managed to frame so elegantly in his one good eye. Then came footsteps behind; Samsa dropped down, snatched her gloves, and hastened back inside the castle. When night fell, Samsa lay awake in her bed for a long while, counting the hours by the fading moonlight, until, finally, came a knock.
If you got this far, thanks so much for reading! I've got a Trystane chapter next. :D
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