not a vessel of the gods

Aemond would rather not deal with the Northerner now. He has just spent the whole morrow listening to petitions, a duty he cannot and will not neglect, but still a duty he detests.

Every time he sits on the Iron Throne he finds himself thinking of Maegor the Cruel. He was found dead on this chair, wrists slit and a one of the shards of the throne pushed through his throat. Whether it was murder or suicide or perhaps something even more sinister is lost to history. Pondering over it comes easy to Aemond when listening to shepherds complain about Vhagar devouring their flocks. Pondering over it tempts him to cut his hands open on the melted blades, if only to know whether being cut by the Throne feels any different than being cut by any other blade.

He knows each little decision he makes when sitting on the Iron Throne matters in the way that each little snowflake matters in a blizzard, but nevertheless he finds the whole ordeal tiresome. He would rather have a sword in his hand. He would rather fly Vhagar over the Narrow Sea. He would rather have M’rone Vilendrys in his bed.

He went to her at the old queen’s chambers early in the morrow, in the hopes of at least stealing a taste of her lips before the day begun, but her sister refused to let her eyes off of them for even a moment. Drenace Vilendrys has taken to leering at him in the way a feral swan glowers at any who comes too close to her chicks. It is no true threat, not to a dragon, but for M’rone at least he does not press the matter. He settled for watching her from a distance and cut his visit short. There is no use in calling on her now, he is expected elsewhere soon. But before that he at least would take to the training ground and beat someone bloody. Still Halys Reed is not someone he can afford to dismiss.

Halys Reed can wield a sword.

‘I will allow you a word. And you will lend me your sword,’ Aemond decides, continuing on his way.

‘Your grace,’ Halys confirms, falling in line to follow him. ‘It is quite a delicate matter, your majesty.’

‘Best keep your voice down then,’ he replies.

They pass his betrothed and her ladies, who are most likely on their way to the gardens. It is a bright day, the air crisp yet not too cold. Summer is coming. It is a relief. He has had his taste of winter cold and spring rains as is. Rhaena, ever dutiful, pauses to courtesy. While he would rather go on as he pleases, he slows down and gives her a nod. He may hold little love for her, but she is to be his wife nonetheless. He would not show such a lack of manners as to ignore her completely.

Halys Reed only speaks again when they are crossing an empty hallway.

‘Baela Targaryen is with child.’

Aemond almost falters, but not quite. Clenching his jaw, he forces himself to keep his tongue. In the courtyard, he orders all present to leave. He would not train surrounded by green squires and old knights. His thoughts are raging as he prepares himself, braiding his hair back, picking out a training shield.

Finally he snaps, ‘This better not be mere rumor, Reed.’

Reed, not allowed to carry his own weapons in the Keep, has selected a training sword. He weighs it in both his hands. Halys is the only man Aemond ever met able to wield his sword as well with his right as with his left hand. As he considers which would suit this petty sword best, he replies, ‘I would not bother you with mere rumor, your majesty.’

Aemond hums, gaze turning toward Cole. He bows his head in admittance. Even his Hand, who distrusts Reed as much as any sane man would, would believe him on this. Halys knows better than to feed his king kitchen gossip.

‘You should pick a shield,’ Aemond says, unsheathing Blackfyre.

‘If it pleases your grace, I prefer to train without.’

‘Showing off, hm?’

‘I never quite mastered the shield,’ Halys dismisses.

Aemond goes in for the attack. Halys may not have mastered the shield, but he has mastered the sword to an art. He easily parries Aemond’s attack, following up with a swift advance forward. Steel clashes on steel. Aemond grins. Halys is a thrilling foe. What he lacks in strength, he compensates in speed and creativity.

‘Let the bastard procreate as he pleases,’ Aemond groans as he pushes for the attack again. ‘His diluted blood will be washed out before long. Tomorrow, I will take Jaehaera to Dragonstone. She will reclaim her brother’s dragon.’

Halys attempts to land a blow which Aemond breaks with his shield. Having noted an opening in Halys’s defense, he parries the next attacks without an effort to retaliate. Catching his breath, the master of whisperers says, ‘I must warn you, your grace, her health—’

There.

‘Is just fine.’

Aemond shoots forward, swinging his sword low. And he would have disarmed Halys if it were not for him shifting his blade to his other hand—thus blocking what would otherwise have been an undoing attack. Halys makes good use of the momentum he gained, forcing Aemond back and back. This scrawny man may have been born from mud and muck but he has been knead into a formidable warrior. How uncanny his green eyes are when they shine so.

Heart beating like a mad drum in his chest, his body hot and sweaty, his breath burning in his throat—Aemond almost does not mind being cornered so. Now this is a fight. But then he catches sight of the strangest company on the balcony. Jaehaera, clad in a black and red dress, strikes the very image of a Targaryen princess. He almost does not mind her having discarded her soft pink and green dresses for the authentic colors of his house—the same colors Rhaena wears. Beside her, little Lanna Vilendrys looks as if she is about to faint if it were not for the woman keeping hold of her shoulder. M’rone. Next to her, Sara Snow is nervously biting on her finger nails. But all he sees is her, his moondrop. How grim she looks.

Most likely, she is praying Reed will land a blow, perhaps a fatal one.

And that is enough for Aemond to put an end to this madness. It is as much hard-learned skill as pure instinct which guides his body. He puts an end to Halys’s attack with his shield, which he then proceeds to use not as a tool of defense but offense. He strikes Halys three times with the steel plate before discarding it. He always felt he fought better without. It is no easy thing to bring Halys down, but set aflame with the taste of violence, Aemond strikes again and again. This time, he catches the precise moment Halys means to switch his sword from his left to right hand. And it is then he deals the final blow—disarming him. The training sword drops with a mute thump on the sand and Aemond places the tip of his sword against Halys’s throat. The master of whisperers raises his hands in defeat.

‘Victory is yours, your majesty.’

‘You have my gratitude, Halys,’ Aemond says. ‘You make for an interesting foe.’

He sheathes Blackfyre, turning to their audience.

‘Jaehaera, lady Vilendrys.’

But M’rone’s eyes are not on him, they are on Halys. He bites down his annoyance. He is no boy, prone to fits of jealousy. And Halys is no knight in shining armor either way. Her straying gaze means nothing to him.

‘Uncle, I saw Tessarion!’ Jaehaera calls back. ‘He is flying over the city, come see!’

Aemond arches an eyebrow at Halys, but his gaze too has wandered to meet M’rone’s. ‘Anything else, Reed?’

The master of whisperers folds his hands behind his back and says, ‘Lady Jeyne Arryn has fallen ill on her journey back to the Eyrie.’

‘I heard this already.’

‘She still has to recover,’ Halys presses. ‘She is unlikely to recover.’

And with her death the Vale will fall into disarray over lines of succession. It would be a welcome opportunity for the Crown.

‘Good,’ Aemond says as he makes for the stairs to the balcony. ‘One bitch less to worry about.’

Jaehaera, if she heard his crude language, does not let it see. M’rone meanwhile says something in Braavosi to Lanna and then courtesies, ‘Your grace.’

‘I want to see her again,’ Lanna decides with the stubbornness typical for a nine year old.

Jaehaera takes hold of Lanna’s hand and chirps, far more excited than he has seen her in ages, ‘We must hurry, maybe she has flown off already!’

The girls run ahead, Sara Snow, ever incited to keep a distance from him, follows behind the children quickly.

‘Do come, lady Vilendrys,’ he says, offering her his arm. ‘As an artist, I am certain you will appreciate Tessarion.’

She does not take his arm, but does follow the children. From the corner of his eye, Aemond catches Cole trying to bite down a smirk. Something will have to be done about this eventually. It is one thing for Cole to witness this, but it would be another matter entirely for others to see something similar. Clacking his tongue, Aemond joins M’rone.

‘That was Halys Reed,’ she says, avoiding Aemond’s gaze.

‘You have met him.’

‘In the godswood, your grace.’

‘You took an interest in the old gods?’

Ahead of them the children are running up some winding stairs, into one of the towers of the Holdfast.

‘Drenace and I took an interest in peace and quiet.’ Then she adds, ‘Beside Sara Snow he is the only Northerner I have met at your court.’

‘Most of them prefer caves and snow,’ he says.

‘And yet he is here.’

‘What is it that you wish to know, M’rone?’

‘Who is he to you, your grace?’

‘Someone whose whispers I care to hear,’ he replies. ‘But you seem to prefer Sara Snow’s, I gather.’

He allows her to go before him to ascend the stairs. Looking at the skirts of her gray dress sway, he follows behind her.

‘Lanna has been unruly as of late, your grace,’ she replies. ‘My sister is at a loss. I tried to discuss the matter with Sara Snow, but…’ She pauses and looks at him over her shoulder. ‘I fear she hardly holds any sway over the children.’

He chuckles. ‘I think you would do better in disciplining little Lanna yourself.’

‘You underestimate my niece, your majesty, if she so wishes, she can be more unruly than even… well.’

They join the children by a large window in the tower, looking out over the city. Aemond’s heart stutters when he catches sight of her: Tessarion, the Blue Queen. She is a marvelous sight, even grander than last he saw her. Last he saw her, she had been too small to ride. That had not kept Daeron from doting on her.

Gods be damned, Daeron. He just had to get himself killed. Three siblings he used to have. And now he is left with one who barely counts for half a man. At least Aegon is at Dragonstone now, where he can sulk and rage and cry without disturbing anyone.

No matter. Tessarion showing up at King’s Landing is a welcome event. The smallfolk will take it as yet another good omen, further securing his reign. Jaehaera, meanwhile, is bewitched by Tessarion’s beauty, hopefully inciting in her a desire to claim a dragon of her own. If Tessarion is truly on her way to Dragonstone as Aemond expects, then Jaehaera may yet be more easily convinced to come with to their ancestral seat.

It is no given that she will succeed in claiming another dragon. There have been no records of a rider claiming a new dragon after their first died. Then again, no sources mention it being impossible. So Jaehaera must make the effort. As Shrykos and Morghul hatched together, as Shrykos was Jaehaerys’s before and is still so young, it may yet be easy for her to claim the young she-dragon. But truth be told, whether she picks Shrykos or Tessarion or even Dreamfyre he cares little. As long as she succeeds in claiming one.

As Jaehaera and Lanna gawk and chatter and laugh, Aemond whispers in M’rone’s ear, ‘Beautiful, is she not, the Blue Queen?’

‘Vhagar has nothing on Tessarion in terms of elegance, your grace.’

He quite likes the shine in her brown eyes; marvel and wonder. If only she would look at him like that.

‘I am inclined to agree, my lady.’

Aemond catches sight of Sara Snow looking aghast at the two of them; as if realizing something horrid.

‘Uncle, is she returning to her mother?’ Jaehaera asks, purple eyes wide with excitement. ‘Dreamfyre is her mother, is she not?’

‘Likely,’ he agrees. ‘But do not be too hasty in trying to compare dragons with humans, dear niece.’

‘I told you so,’ Jaehaera grins at Lanna.

‘Your grace,’ Cole interrupts. ‘I must remind you, the queen dowager expects you for lunch.’

‘Of course you must,’ Aemond mutters. ‘Mind the children, Sara Snow, they must not get too excited or they may hurt themselves. M’rone Vilendrys, I will escort you back to your work.’

‘There is no need,’ she snaps.

He catches her gaze, and she gulps, realizing her mistake.

‘Your grace,’ she mutters as she courtesies.

Lanna tugs at her sleeve. It is rather endearing, how Lanna relies on her aunt. M’rone whispers something to the girl in quick Braavosi and then straightens her back. As he helps her down the winding stairs, he inquires, ‘I trust the restorations are still on schedule.’

‘Despite all, yes, we still expect to be done within four months,’ she replies listlessly.

‘I am pleased to hear it,’ he says. ‘There are some other projects I wish for you to take on.’

‘I fear that will not be possible, your grace.’ They step into the long hallway, but she continues on without meeting his gaze, ‘We have to return to Braavos, other contracts await us.’

He scoffs. Despite all, she still dares.

‘I am certain that I can change your mind.’

She remains silent, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Only when they have neared the old queen chambers, she decides simply, ‘With all due respect, your grace, you cannot.’

Without further ado she leaves her behind, not even bothering to courtesy again. Cole grumbles, ‘She should be reminded of her place.’

He looks inside the old queen’s chambers, watching M’rone tying her working apron back in place. He has seen her work this morning. He has seen the slight tremble in her hands, her gnawing on her lip and holding her breath—doing all she can to not slip and spill colors there where they should not be spilled. She still manages, without a doubt, but barely.

‘She knows her place,’ Aemond observes, folding his hands behind his back. ‘She is merely having difficulty settling in.’

Alicent Hightower prefers to have luncheon in the peace and quiet of her solar, so that is where he meets her. He was not keen on this meeting. Being around Alicent always tends to bring out a version of himself he would rather forget about. Since he returned from that fatal night in Storm’s End, memories of how things used to be—how she doted on him, cared for him, understood him—have become far too muddied with grief, resentment and disdain. She blames him for his excesses, he blames her for her feeble heart. She bent for Rhaenyra the moment she got frightened, and look where that got them. Daeron dead in battle. Helaena dead in suicide. Aegon burned.

While Cole is not an unwelcome guest at their table, he knows when he is not required and so he leaves them to it. Once the food has been served, he is for the first time in a while alone with his mother.

‘I hope you had a pleasant morning, dearest.’ Alicent lips curl up, but she does not quite smile.

It is an offering: they can try, once again, to feign normalcy, to test and see whether they can still be mother and son. It is not the first time this has happened. It has failed every single time.

‘The Iron Throne is no pleasant seat, mother.’

For a while they eat in silence. Alicent know better than to think him a fool, yet she has seen to recreate a menu he would have enjoyed fifteen years ago. Down to the lemoncakes he used to split with Helaena. Aemond drowns the sugar down with a sour Dornish red.

‘If you would tell me why you are cross with me, we may finally move past this,’ Alicent says.

‘What reason could I have to be displeased with you, mother, now that you retreated to fill your days with embroidery and, hm, doting on Jaehaera?’

Her expression settles like ink on a page. Her brown eyes look at him emptily. She has mastered the art of self-composure down to expertise. But Aemond took note of how her cheek twitched just now and so he knows the comment struck a nerve.

‘You on the other hand find a new reason to be discontented with me every other day.’

‘You cannot fault a mother for being concerned about her son. A grandmother for worrying over her granddaughter.’

‘Ah, I see, it is Jaehaera. What is it now? Did she kill another rabbit?’

‘She called her cousins vermin,’ Alicent says. ‘The precise word you often use when referring to them.’

You would not know how to foster a bird even if someone showed you.

M’rone was right to speak thus. Even if he wanted to, he cannot nurture. His talents lie elsewhere. Horror and dread. To pass this on to his niece is only suitable. She is a Targaryen princess, not some lady of flowers and birds. As much as he loved Helaena, she would have fared better if she would have had less love for ladybugs and centipedes, and more for fire and blood.

‘Her cousins are traitors to the crown,’ he says. ‘They were shown leniency, but it does not absolve them of their sins.’

‘They are children, Aemond.’

Alicent may disapprove of his affair with M’rone, but the two certainly agree on one thing.

‘Children who will grow up to become beasts hungry for the blood of those better than them. Jaehaera is right to shun them, they won’t remain pups for all eternity.’

‘The Realm has just come out from one war and you would plant the seeds for the next. Instead of planting discord between them, you should ensure peace by betrothing Jaehaera to Aegon and—‘

‘No,’ he says, voice low and unyielding.

Ice cold.

Alicent presses her lips together into a thin line. For a moment her composure falters and he can see beneath it the fear at realizing how she has overstepped. Even his own mother fears him. How bleak. She takes a sip of her cup of Arbor gold and lets out a sigh.

‘You sent ser Regis Groves to Harrenhall.’

He clenches his jaw. He postponed too long. Alys’s reign of terror in the Riverlands is but a ploy to draw his attention; something he is not prone to give her. She means of course to lure him out of King’s Landing, to make him return to Harrenhall on Vhagar’s back so that she can continue weaving her web. But the tales of her power have grown too tall, too dark to ignore. Ser Regis Groves once pledged for Rhaenyra. If he does not return, it will not be a loss that Aemond will mourn.

‘If the Riverlords so stumble to deliver the smallfolk from the dark magic of a witch queen, the Crown ought to do so.’

‘Is that then what has befallen you in Harrenhall? Is that what has happened to my son?’ she asks, her voice straining into a plea of near desperation. ‘Did a witch spin her spells of dark magic and rid you of every bit that made me proud of you as your mother?’

He clenches his hands into fists. It matters not how he tries to dismiss it, she still holds sway over him. Enough to make these words sting and scorch in his flesh. Aemond hums, leaning back in his chair. Not for the first time a marriage comes to mind; his mother and some lord who would take her far away to the Reach.

‘You misremember, mother. When I returned from Storm’s End, and earned myself the cognomen kinslayer, that was the day you began to look at me with shame.’

He rises, crossing the long table until he stands by her side. ‘Goodday, mother.’

He leans in, placing a kiss on her cheek. His mouth is still hovering to her lined skin, when she inquires, ‘Is her son truly yours, Aemond?’

‘How am I to know?’ He straightens his back. ‘I never laid my eye on the boy.’

He is already taking his leave when Alicent calls back, ‘Are you at least taking your precaution with her?’

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder.

‘Do not concern yourself, Alicent. M’rone Vilendrys is barren,’ he replies. In a lower tone he adds, ‘At least, so she claims.’

Only when he gets to his study, the door shut behind him, does he allow himself to let go of his self-restraint. Breathing hard he unbuckles his sword belt, letting Blackfyre clatter on the floor. He places his hands flat on his desk and lets his head hang.

She made him. Whether she will admit to it or not. As a child, all he did was to make her proud. And she was proud, of his skill with the sword, of his interest in the histories and mechanisms of power, of his discipline and sense of duty. All he ever did, he did to uphold the honor of their house. And then she sent him away to Harrenhall. And now here she is, speaking of Alys and that boy and M’rone—as if she has any right to that still. As if she has not sinned, as if she has not schemed and plotted and committed horror herself.

As if she did not betray him when he needed her most.

He lets out a deep breath and gathers himself. He slips into the chair behind his desk, looking at the pile of paperwork listlessly. Ruling is a never-ending bother. Of course, he could easily diminish the pile by delegating the documents among his Small Council. But tiresome chore it may be, he does prefer to do it himself. He may only have one eye, but he will use it to look at these matters himself. He reaches to pick up the first piece of parchment, but then something else catches his eye. A wooden box, left beside his paperwork.

Tilting his head he pulls it closer and opens it.

He scoffs. A bronze necklace, nothing more—at least, at first glance. He holds it up so it catches the light. Just as he had commissioned, the links of the necklace are engraved; then a swan, then a dragon. Ferocious monster and elegant creature caught in a never ending dance.

She is silent today. It is always a guess as to which woman he will be holding in his arms afterwards: one with an ill-temper so hungry for a fight that she would speak on that which no sane person would mention near him or one with a morose demeanor unwilling to even utter a single word. Today it is the latter. It matters little. Be it in search of a fight or of quietude, she remains just as warm, just as mellow as he likes her. More so, this time she has laid her head to rest on his chest. Maybe she merely wanted to verify whether he truly has a heart somewhere beneath—let her study him, he does not mind.

He really does not.

He ought to send her away, but he cannot. As of late, he has found a certain calm there where her naked body is enveloped by his that he simply cannot find elsewhere. He would prefer her to stay the night, he could command her to stay even, but he knows her departure is inevitable. Soon she will break her silence and leave his bed.

He combs his fingers through her ash brown hair as he stares up at the ceiling. Ever since she complained about the painting’s composition, he cannot unsee its flaws.

‘I should have you redo it,’ he whispers, when she does not reply he adds, ‘Or perhaps I should have you paint something new entirely.’ Still she keeps her thoughts to herself so he tries, ‘Maybe I could give you free reign.’ And then, ‘With how you frequent this bedchamber, you may almost have a right to see to its decorations.’

A long moment passes and finally she says, ‘On this ceiling, I would paint Chroyane.’

His fingers wander to her shoulder, to her greyscale scars. ‘The Palace of Love.’

‘The Palace of Sorrow.’

‘Morbid.’

‘Do you know me to be otherwise?’ She lays her arms over his chest, lifting herself up to meet his gaze. ‘I would paint… the very moment that place was perverted. The moment Garin cursed it, the moment the dragonlords succumbed to the Rhoynish prince’s dark magic.’

She is taunting him yet again. Let her talk about the defeats of Old Valyria all she wishes, let her allude to his downfall all she wishes. At least she is smiling as she speaks of it. Faintly but still.

‘Garin’s curse—’ He wraps his arms around her waist. ‘—is that the one you so often ascribe to yourself?’

‘Greyscale could have killed me, but I hardly suffered from it. I was a babe, I remember nothing.’

Her half-smile fades and he catches the very moment one sad memory or another rises in her mind. War may be a strange and distant tale to her, but she has suffered in her own way. With a scoff she turns to sit up. He follows her movements, prepping himself up on his hands. He presses a fleeting kiss to her shoulder, but it does little to soften her sharp edges. It never does.

‘Your sorrows—’

‘How often must I tell you to not speak of what you do not understand?’ she snaps, turning to meet his gaze.

‘Then you speak to me about them.’

‘You hardly wish to hear about it, Aemond,’ she mutters.

She means to rise from the bed, but he takes hold of her, fingers digging into the flesh of her hips.

‘M’rone.’

Her lips tremble and she blinks rapidly, putting in an effort to keep tears at bay. ‘My body is a wreck, unfit to bear any fruit. But I tried, I tried so hard. You could never understand, what it is like to lose a child over and over and over again.’

He swallows down hard, at a loss for words. She buried one child, a stillborn babe that he knows. An unnatural ordeal. Over the time he has spent with her that picture has painted itself with excruciating detail; a mother without her child, even he must admit it is a tragedy. But what she speaks of now is something else entirely. A repeated loss. His silence is met with her dismay.

‘I see that I must speak more plainly,’ she says in an awry tone. ‘Sometimes my body failed early. That is horrid in and of itself, but not so as miscarrying later. So yes, Garin’s curse afflicted me when I was a babe and left its mark for all to see, but it is this invisible curse that found me later in life that I consider my undoing.’

He takes hold of her chin, forcing her lips close to his, ‘You are not undone.’

‘Perhaps in a month’s time I will fail to bleed,’ she says. ‘And you will think you have healed me and you will pride yourself for it. But sooner or later I will bleed again and we will both be left to grief.’

But Alys once told him of the same horror, of losing a child in the womb, of birthing a child that does not breathe. And yet, he sired a son on her. One that lives and breathes and thrives in Harrenhall. If it is the same pain that aches in M’rone’s heart, he may yet soothe it.

‘Which oracle did you consult to know this, my lady?’

‘I tell my own misfortunes, Aemond.’ And to his utter surprise, she presses her lips against his cheek. ‘I believe we are done here.’

Like a boy, he is rendered weak by a mere kiss on the cheek. And so when she rises he does not move to hinder her. He lets out a sigh and watches her dress in the golden light of dusk. He almost enjoys the sight as much as when she undresses. She ties the laces on her back with practiced expertise, her paint-stained fingertips moving the threads about effortlessly. Only when she is fully clothed once more and sets to braid her hair does he rise. He redresses and slips on his boots before disappearing into his study. When he returns, he finds her in the sitting room. She sits on the windowsill as she pins her braids in place. He takes a seat next to her and she tenses, but does not speak. He raises the bronze chain, reaching to adorn it around her neck, but brusquely she takes it from him.

‘What is this?’ she demands.

‘A gift, M’rone. Must I explain the custom to you?’

She rolls her eyes and holds it up to the light, inspecting it. She studies it for but a short moment. She shakes her head and gets onto her feet. Before he can even guess her plans, she throws the chain out of the open window.

Insolent wench.

Grinding his teeth he lunges for her, taking hold of her throat. He presses her with her back against the wall, his grip around her slender neck tightening. But she just says, ‘I am not a dog.’

‘You are what I decide you are,’ he sneers.

She raises her hands to meet his. As she begins to pry his fingers from her throat, she tells him, ‘You may be king, Aemond Targaryen, but it takes a god to change a man’s nature. A woman’s as well for that matter.’

He lets go off her throat, instead opting to lift her from the floor. She yelps, but nevertheless wraps her arms around his neck to keep from falling. He hooks her legs around him, clearly to her dismay, but she does not otherwise resist. He inhales shakily, rubbing his nose against her. She is maddening. Even now, when roused to anger, he cannot help but find himself bend to her eerie magnetism.

‘Must I truly show you to your place, M’rone?’ he asks lowly.

‘I know my place perfectly well, your grace. I come when you call, do I not?’

‘You will wear my gift to—’

‘I come when you call, but not as a bitch ready to be chained in place,’ she says, her breath fanning against his lips. ‘I am a Master-Artisan of the Vilendrysi. I will not wear a chain that designates me as a king’s base whore.’

‘And you fault me for my pride,’ he grins.

And he simply cannot resist her allure. He never can. He kisses her and she, for all her complaints and grievances, parts her lips. He can still taste the sour Dornish red on her tongue. Just when he feels himself slipping down that treacherous slope of desire again, she turns away from him. She never indulges him for long.

‘I told you, no one can know. You agreed.’

‘Did I?’

‘Aemond.’

He sighs and sets a step back to help her back onto her feet. With crossed arms he leans against the windowsill and watches as she sits down on the settee, shaking her head slightly.

‘My father is already displeased with me. He feels that I am keeping something from him. He believes it to be a love affair.’

‘He has sharp instincts.’

‘Do not jest.’

He hums. Her attention shifts. She has taken note, finally, of the prize resting on the low table by the sofa. Dark Sister. Her brows furrow in a strange expression of distress and she shifts uncomfortably.

‘My uncle, Daemon, wielded that sword,’ Aemond says, drawing closer. ‘It is the very weapon he tried to kill me with.’

She smiles at that, but keeps her words to herself. It matters little, he can guess them.

A pity Daemon failed.

She presses her fingertips into the cushions. ‘It is Visenya Targaryen’s longsword, is it not?’

He hums, affirmatively.

‘A woman’s blade then.’ She shrugs and mutters, ‘I have never held a sword.’

It is the first time she has shown her interest in something so explicitly. And he latches onto it immediately. What that says about him is not something he wishes to dwell on.

‘Take it.’

She blinks at him, dumbfounded. He almost smiles. It is not often that he succeeds in surprising her.

‘Unless you mean to make an attempt on my life,’ he adds.

‘I would sooner cut myself I imagine.’

He picks up Dark Sister, once again intrigued by its light weight, and offers M’rone his hand. She hesitates for a mere moment before accepting it. He helps her onto his feet and then envelops her body with his, his chest pressed flush against her back. He holds Dark Sister in front of her, both hands wrapped around the sheath of the blade.

‘Go on,’ he encourages her, his nose brushing over the crown of her head.

Salt and mint.

She takes hold of the hilt, her slender fingers, smudged green and purple, wrapping around the black metal. A strange sound slips from her mouth; a moan of distress. It is enough to make him pause. But before he question her on what is amiss she draws the sword. The Valyrian steel catches in the golden sunlight, catches their reflection. A silence settles between them.

Silence puts an end to everything.

For a moment, when he sees the two of them joined in the polished steel, he is certain that he is caught in something he dreamed about a long, long while ago. A nightmare that woke him up only for him to find his heart racing with fear.

He should not have let her touch it.

‘Valar morghulis,’ she whispers before dropping the sword.

Startled, Aemond lets go off the sheath and pulls M’rone back. The blade falls onto the stone floors with a hard clang. At least she did not hurt herself. But the relief over her safety is far outweighed by his distress.

‘What did you say?’ he demands of her.

He knows the words, of course, the shape of them, the meaning of them. But uttered from her lips, they make no sense.

She slips away from his grip, stepping over Dark Sister. She has both her hands placed over her mouth. Her eyes are wide in horror. The shock has rendered her irises almost black. He has no time for her nonsense, not now. He strides towards her, ready to take a hold of her. She lets her arms fall by her side and, evading him, pleads, ‘I am sorry.’

‘What—’

Why did she say it? What happened? Something happened, he is certain of it, but then again, nothing is to show for it. Nothing, except for Dark Sister lying discarded on the floor.

‘I do not feel so well,’ she whispers. ‘I—I will take my leave now.’

‘M’rone!’ he calls but she hurries off.

He does not go after her. Let her go and gather herself. They can speak of this later. With a sigh he crouches, meaning to pick up Dark Sister. But to his annoyance he finds himself hesitant to do so. Cursing himself, he picks up the sword. He considers the blade, failing to see anything unusual in it, before returning it into its sheathe. He places it back on the table and sits down. He is at a loss here. He could just ascribe her outburst to her fickle moods. Then again, disruptive as she at times may be, this is out of character for her—to cause such a scene.

But it was no mere scene. He had felt it. And surely she felt it too. Something had happened, even if they had not seen anything. The moment she touched that blade, something in the air shifted. Something was disturbed. Awakened. He had felt something similar before. In Harrenhall, with Alys. Above the God’s Eye.

Magic.

It is nonsense of course. He is not as stupid as to dismiss the existence of dark arts. He is a dragonrider, he loved a witch once. He knows well enough that there is more to this world than laws of men, the will of gods and even the rules of science. But M’rone Vilendrys has no knowledge of such arts. No talent. No birthright.

A short knock on the door is immediately followed by Cole entering. No ceremony whatsoever. He meets Aemond’s gaze with grim dismay.

‘Your grace, you would wish to know that M’rone Vilendrys has taken ill.’

He is on his feet before he good and well knows it. ‘She just left.’

‘She fainted.’ Clearly loathe to add, he continues, ‘Unfortunately, she fell down the stairs. Rather badly.’

She fell down the stairs.

She fell out of the window.

‘Where is she?’ he asks, brushing past Cole.

She met her own demise.

She killed herself.

He is not thinking anymore—he faintly realizes that. He is all action, no thought. All feeling, no rationality. He needs to see her. He needs her to tell him what happened. What did she see in Dark Sister’s blade?

‘Your grace, it is not suited to—’

Aemond turns to Cole, ablaze with rage. Ablaze with a memory. A raven came, bearing death. His dear sister, dead by her own will, her body impaled by the spikes below her window.

‘Where is she?’

‘They have taken her to her family.’

‘Show me.’

‘Aemond, the court will think that she is dear to you.’

‘She is, Cole, she is!’ he calls back. ‘Show me!’

Cole, ever the dutiful servant he is, does as he is commanded. What Aemond finds in the shabby quarters in the belly of the keep is chaos. Yelling and cursing and crying. But the Vilendrysi fall silent when he enters the bedroom where they have gathered to squabble.

‘Y-your grace?’ Tumyro Vilendrys stammers.

Aemond does not reply. He does not owe this old man an explanation. His eye has already fallen on who he came for; M’rone lies listlessly abed, eyes closed, body limp. Drenace Vilendrys, who kneels by her sister’s side, watches him with eyes wide in exasperation as he draws closer. M’rone is deathly pale, her lips a strange purple. Blood is sullying her hair. As she is now one could mistake her for near dead; were it not for the slow pace at which her chest rises and falls.

‘You,’ Drenace whispers, ‘What have you done to her?’

Aemond meets her eyes, a lighter brown than those of her sister. For all the venom in her voice, she is not like her sister. When he looks at Drenace, she shrinks. Swallowing down hard she lowers her head.

‘Cole, send for Grand Maester Munkun,’ he says evenly. ‘I will not have some quacksalver work her into an early grave.’

‘Yes, your grace,’ his Hand replies.

‘And have him discern whether it was poisoning that caused her to take ill.’

‘Your grace.’

‘You have our gratitude, your grace,’ Tumyro Vilendrys says.

Aemond places his fingers on her throat, looking for a vein. Looking for a heartbeat. Only when he has found it, only when he feels life beat inside her even if faintly, does he reply, ‘Save your gratitude for someone in need of it. I act of my own accord.’

When he turns around, he catches sight of the Vilendrysi boy, looking as if he has just seen a ghost. Or some great terrible beast. He smiles at him, but the child turns to run.

On the way back to his quarters, when his rage and concern have died down enough to give way to concerns over consequence and image, Cole finds it fit to say, as usual, what he already knows, ‘This will change her position at court.’

‘Naturally.’

‘It will change your own.’

‘Yes, Cole, it will.’

‘Aemond.’

Criston Cole’s tone is of such displeasure that it stops Aemond in his tracks. With a hum he turns to his Hand.

‘Is this the king you wish to be? One who has a mistress before he has a wife?’

‘Since when is there a preferred order to such things?’ He tilts his head. ‘Cole, I will tell you this only once, because I am surprised I have to tell you this at all: I mean to be a great king, but I have little inclination to be a good man. You know those two do not combine well.’

‘And so you will lust for—’

‘A woman outside of wedlock, yes. Hardly a scandalous thing. If it is scandal that upsets you, hm… Do you know, Cole—’ He sets a step closer, lowering his voice. ‘—I once heard a fool speak of a knight of the Kingsguard fornicating with a queen. Now that is unseemly, no?’

Cole inhales sharply, but whatever retorts he still had in mind, they die in his throat.

Aemond smirks and adds, ‘As for the court, while I do not mind how their tongues wag on this subject, the lady Vilendrys prefers discretion. Have Halys Reed make certain that if whispers rise, they do not stray too far.’

‘Your grace.’

MAGIC???!?! I'm still not over the homesickness for the grave and there you are, writing magic into the story. Ahhhhhhhh.

Yesss, Drenace being protective 💛💛💛

Twirling my hair, kicking my feet, we do respect competent, scrawny men with green eyes and soft voices in this house!

I stupidly "aww"ed at the 'his moondrop' before my brain kicked back into gear. And then I laughed at the second part. At this point I enjoy him knowing that she dislikes him and he is still trying to romanticize it. 'M'rone wants me dead, awww, she so cute 🥰🥰🔪🥰' (a note in his diary, I looked it up)

Pahahahaaaa. Yeah, it means NOTHING to you, sure buddy.

Last warning, do not make me feel for him. He is bad™️.

But I felt for him either way, oops.

The necklace!! Ahhhhh. It doesn't sound as ugly as it did in the teaser chapter, but still. Bold move, Aemond. You should know by now that M'rone will not be swayed with something like a necklace. What's next, shakles with a dragon and swan on them?

🥺😭 oof. Yeah, this really hit me. One of the many curses of women, fictional or not, to not be able to do the one thing society wants them to do. Especially if the woman in question really would want to become a mother.

I AM STILL ON THE EDGE OF MY SEAT. The whole scene was written so well, the tension and urgency, the drama, the "uh oh" moment, it's all there, omg.

Also, I def am not saying we should bad for Aemond. Because really, we should not. But as a writer, I am kind of proud I made you so conflicted about him for a moment. While I do see him as a villain, I do not want him to be a flat caricature. There are things that happened to him and things that he did which have influenced how he is now. And some of those things are actually horrible for him. Like, I do think he never got over the loss of Helaena. I think he really idolized her, and he feels tremendous guilt over not having seized King's Landing in time to prevent her suicide. Even more, he does not even know why she did it... And in his mind the most horrible things happened to her while Rhaenyra held the city. But then again, while we can understand him, we must not sympathize with him overly hard. For he did things to other people that were absolutely horrid so!