not a vessel of the gods

Anxiety has M’rone gnawing so fervently on her lower lip that the tender skin has split and is bleeding. Lapping at the iron droplets, she tries to focus on the task in front of her. It is simple enough. She just needs to brush off the layer of dust and inspect what she is dealing with. But she fails to focus. It is not the strange dreams she had last night—she refuses to blame her disorientation on some hallucinated spiders and, again, a dream of her teeth falling out. No, her distraction is merely caused by the here and now.

Around her the Queen’s Ballroom is submerged in organized chaos: carpenters are barely done covering the floor with wooden plates, or local builders are already setting up the scaffolding. Meanwhile her sister, Drenace, and her brother-in-law, Narvo, are discussing the old records they were provided with, leaving their twin children free to run about unsupervised.

The turmoil was to be expected. It is their first day on the project, much is to be done. At least the furniture was removed before they arrived, and someone took down the obnoxiously large mirrors that were meant to obscure the pathetic state the murals were in. Eight moons above. The artisans who painted these had little skill let alone artistry in them. In principle she is not opposed to the fresco-secco technique. It fades quicker, but because one does not have to be worried about the plaster drying they have more time to work their craft. And a quicker fading is not necessarily bad: it gives the opportunity to retouch and redesign after a few years. She finds that the rich and noble are bored quickly, no matter how intricate the art delivered to them, so it can be favorable.

However, the design on these walls makes no sense, proportions are strange and there is an inner-contradiction in the lay-out. What is she to make of knights dueling next to a nymph bathing? She would have thought that the Targaryens, old and illustrious as their house is, would have had some vision for the murals displayed in their home. Apparently not. Then again, Maegor the Cruel was likely too busy terrorizing his wives to realize his poor interior design choices.

‘M’rone!’

Startled she almost lets the brush fall. She turns around swiftly, bumping against a man carrying in a large plate of wood.

‘I frightened you,’ her father observes as he nears her.

It is a relief to hear some Braavosi between all the talk in common tongue. She speaks both fluently, but Braavosi sounds like homecoming. And she has a bit of an accent whenever she speaks the other.

Noticing his daughter’s frown, Tumyro Vilendrys adds in a softer tone, ‘Do you have a bad conscience, my dear?’

She does not blame him his lightheartedness. If anything she envies him for it. It is somewhat unfair that she has not inherited his good spirits from him. Even before the tragedy which befell her months past, even before the loss which still covers her in gray and black dresses, she had it found difficult to laugh. Then again, maybe that talent was stolen away from her during infancy. Perhaps the greyscale left more scars than just the ones covering her shoulder, throat and lower jaw.

‘I am in no mood for your nonsense, father. What is it?’

He laughs. Like usual her gloom only amuses him. ‘The Targaryens have given us another assignment.’

‘We did not even start this one. We cannot—’

‘We will hire more artisans from the city.’

‘I do not mean to speak bad about the locals, but I do hope their craft is better than whatever this is—’ She gestures at the mural she was just inspecting. ‘—because otherwise we will be in here whole spring and summer.’

‘I can understand you dislike the design, it is not pleasing to the eye. But you will not have to bother with that. It is a restoration job.’

‘This whole palace needs a redesign,’ she grumbles.

‘Then we will be here spring, summer and next winter.’

She rolls her eyes.

‘The task requires skill, not artistry. The local artisans may lack the latter, they are tolerable enough in the former department. We will have to explain them how to mix the paints—’

‘You would just share that knowledge with them?’

‘Not in detail…’

‘Narvo will mix the paints,’ she says. ‘We are not sharing something our family has labored on for decades with strangers.’

As brilliant of an artist as Tumyro Vilendrys is, he is a terrible businessman. For him it is all about passion and the love for the craft. And he loves sharing what he knows and loves. In Braavos his unbridled creativity and warm heart helped him rise to renown quickly, but only under the guiding hand of his late wife and, despise them she might but admit this she could, her aunts and uncles. It is just one of the many reasons why she laments that he accepted this contract abroad. Now she is left alone to keep him in reign.

‘Narvo will be needed elsewhere. How about the twins?’

‘They have barely begun learning!’ she starts, but then she relents. ‘Yes, the twins. Drenace and I will speed up their lessons. We will not be needing paint for the next couple of days at least, so by the time we actually need some, they should at least be able to prepare the primary colors.’

‘Wonderful! See, all will be fine. Now, on this new assignment. I want you to oversee it. It is quite a large undertaking, but of a more intimate, feminine nature, so it would suit you.’

Feminine nature. It remains disappointing whenever he father speaks in this way.

‘Father!’ Drenace calls out.

Her sweet little sister—not so little anymore, but still—looks positively frustrated. Her reddish brown curls stick to her sweaty brow and her amber eyes sparkle with clear annoyance.

‘M’rone and I will be quick.’

‘I do not care what the two of you are up to,’ she yells, trying to be heard above the general commotion in the room. ‘These plans make no sense. Come look. And also, the scaffolding, father. I am not climbing up on that.’

She points at a construction being placed around one of the large windows. The builders are doing a bad job on that one to say the least.

‘Well, it will be your project, so you may as well discuss it with the queen dowager alone,’ Tumyro mutters as he guides M’rone to the doors.

‘Queen dowager?’

But Tumyro, unbothered, goes on to address a page boy in the common tongue, ‘Lad, it will just be my daughter.’

The boy gives an uncertain nod. Tumyro heeds his youngest daughter’s call, leaving M’rone to follow the servant to wherever it is she is going. As soon as she is away from the clamor and chaos of the Queen’s ballroom, she lets out a deep sigh. She dislikes first days on a new project precisely because of the noise and the crowd, so she is not loathe to have been stowed off.

‘We will have to take a detour,’ the page boy mutters, ‘the readying of the ballroom is causing quite a logistical disarray at the moment.’

As she closely follows the servant, she cannot help but notice just how bland and lifeless the Red Keep is. Magnificent and grand of course, but there is no soul to this place. Decorative paintings and murals alike are faded and fading. Is this the residue of years of winter and war?

The Seven Kingdoms are only just recovering from the carnage. She did not pay much heed to news from the west prior years, too busy with her own concerns, but now that she is here, walking through the uttermost innards of this strange realm, she finds herself recollecting some bits of the tragedy. A succession war between dragons is bound to be a bloody ordeal. And it has been. A little prince murdered in front of his mother, a king burned and disfigured, a queen eaten by a dragon. But all M’rone can think about is the fire devouring the smallfolk, those the most like her and her kin: as the dragons bickered about who was to sit on the throne, the Westerosi lords summoned their armies, depending not in the least on the ordinary man and boy. And then the Targaryens; they reduced lands to ash, laid whole towns and villages to waste, burned smallfolk as if they were kindle.

And now it is Aemond Targaryen who rules those left behind to live in the ashes and the waste. With his older brother deemed too incapacitated, too weak and most of all, unable to sire an heir, the Iron Throne was relented to the cruel, one-eyed prince instead. Jacaerys Velaryon and his bride Baela Targaryen may still live in Pentos, but with the dead Rhaenyra Targaryen’s youngest boys locked away in the Red Keep the succession war has come to a stalemate. And for all of Aemond’s savagery in the Riverlands, it appears this realm is more eager for peace under a wicked tyrant than for more years of war in trying to depose of him. It would matter little to M’rone, these jarring facts, if only she were not here.

She begged her father to decline the offer. Admittedly, the whole restoration was supervised by the queen dowager, Alicent Hightower, and so it is unlikely they will ever have to deal with the king himself. But Braavosi common sense made her certain on the matter from the very beginning: they had to refuse the offer. Leave the restoration to the Westerosi, leave dealing with those wicked dragons to others.

But Tumyro Vilendrys is becoming older. And there is nothing old men are so easily tempted by as the promise of glory.

As they pass a courtyard, M’rone’s gaze finally shifts away from the displeasing interior of the castle. Instead her eye has fallen on a young girl, ten or eleven, playing with a white bunny. It is not her pretty dress of green and gold which makes M’rone almost fall over her own feet: it is the girl’s silver hair and the uncanny purple eyes. She remembers that the queen Helaena, when she fell to her death, left behind a daughter, but she cannot remember her name. The young girl is supervised by a dark haired woman, maybe twenty years of age, who speaks to her with a strained smile. Her attire is simple and nice, but does not speak of nobility. Yet, she is not dressed like a simple servant either.

‘Miss?’ the page boy calls when he realizes she has fallen behind.

M’rone lifts her skirts just a bits and hurries to follow him. Once they have left the courtyard behind, she dares ask, ‘Would you please… This place is strange to me. Who is the young princess and the woman who was with her?’

‘There is no need for you to think on them.’

She bites on the inside of her cheek. The servants in this place are beyond frustrating. They clearly look down on her and her family. While if one were to truly consider class and rank, artisans do take precedence over castle staff. But she will not press the issue. Not now.

‘I mean no disrespect.’

The page sighs and relents, ‘The princess Jaehaera, daughter of the late queen Helaena and resigned king Aegon the Second. With her is her governess, Sara Snow.’

‘Snow?’ M’rone echoes, remembering that foreign naming custom. ‘Are there many northerners at the court?’

The page eyes her suspiciously but ultimately relents, ‘No. But…Sara Snow, she is a Stark bastard.’

‘Oh.’

It is all she says, because she has no idea what weight that holds. Who did the Starks side with again? She has an inkling they did not readily support Aemond Targaryen’s claim to the throne. Perhaps that is why she is here then. Still, it is strange. A bastard left to look over a princess. He says no more and neither does she. He takes her up a staircase and stops at a pair of impressively carved wooden doors.

‘The good queen Alysanne’s quarters,’ the page boy says as he opens the door.

She steps inside hesitantly.

‘The queen dowager will be with you shortly.’

Door left open, M’rone finds herself alone in what are clearly forgotten, unused personal quarters. She is immediately drawn into the splendor. Admittedly, it is a faded glory, but on these murals she can clearly detect what was once a clear creative vision. The paintings were carefully composed to resemble a garden. Or perhaps even a priory; yes, an orange priory, in full bloom. Still the artist did not resolve to simplicity. They hid little details: a hedgehog in the bushes, a falcon in far skies and a forgotten shoe—a child’s lost sandal? It must have looked marvelous back when they were just painted.

Taking in the sight, she moves from the entrance room to the sitting room, the bathing room and then, the bedroom. In each of them the murals keep true to the theme, but they provide a different perspective. In the bathroom, one has a view on a distant sea, whereas in the bedroom the ceiling is adorned with a motive of the heavens. Mouth fallen agape she cannot help but admire the tension between the moon and the sun, kept in each other’s magnetism, but unable to ever touch.

‘The queen dowager,’ a voice suddenly calls, ‘Alicent Hightower.’

Caught unprepared, M’rone does not even look at the queen dowager before quickly sinking into a deep courtesy. It is not her first time in the presence of someone of renown. She has worked in the fine houses of many noble and rich Braavosi. But this is her first time in the presence of a queen. So it is only natural that her heart has taken to a loud, rapid pounding. Heels click against the stone floors and she dares to look up.

The queen dowager has an obsolete rigidity to herself. Her dark brown curls, lined only slightly with gray, are braided into a stern hairdo, and covered in a black net, embedded with green jewels. Her green dress is finished up with black details. But it is the look in her brown eyes which betray it: she is grieving.

Of course she is. Not so long ago she lost a daughter, not long before a grandson, then another. It must have been horrid. It must still be horrid. M’rone knows all too well. Her own grief is still as nightmarish as six months past, even if everyone says that time will heal the wounds. Time heals nothing. Time only allows her the opportunity to sew together a carefully crafted mask to conceal herself with.

The queen’s mask is imperfect at least.

‘You are one of the Vilendrysi daughters,’ the queen says finally.

‘My name is M’rone, your grace.’ She rises. ‘My apologies for my father’s absence. Matters in the Queen’s Ballroom required his immediate attention.’

The queen’s gaze lingers on M’rone’s childhood scars, but only for a moment. They are partly hidden away, but are still evident enough to catch attention. Given the lack of hesitation and comment, her father must have informed the queen on them. Or someone else did. Without a doubt this castle is alive with web upon web of whisper and rumor.

‘You are the eldest I presume.’

Only now does M’rone have enough attention to spare to notice the queen’s entourage: two White Cloaks by the door, as well as the handmaiden.

‘I am, your grace. I will take responsibility for the restoration of these murals, if it pleases you.’

‘I know little of your skill,’ she says. ‘But the again, if your father entrusted you this assignment, I believe you will suffice.’

‘I am a Master-Artisan in my own right, your grace, and this is not the first assignment of this scale that I have taken onto myself.’

Alicent Hightower arches a brow. ‘But the first of this prestige.’

Alright, the queen has a stick up her arse. It was to be expected, but it is still annoying nonetheless. Diplomatically M’rone replies, ‘That goes without saying.’

‘You speak the common tongue well.’

‘My father has looked into my and my sister’s education.’ Not eager to dwell on the matter longer than needed, she says, ‘If you wish for these murals to be restored to their original state, I estimate about six months of work, your grace, depending on how many extra hands we may hire.’

‘You have three months.’

The reply is not uttered by the queen. The male voice comes from behind Alicent Hightower. The dowager queen appears startled herself to hear it, for with a jerk she sets a step aside and turns.

M’rone does not much like the sensation of Aemond Targaryen’s one amethyst eye resting on her body. There is something awfully intimidating about the young king and it has little to do with the eye patch covering the hole where once his other purple eye was. Perchance it is how he moves, like a predator on the prowl, or the scowl on his face, as if displeased with the very material this world is made from. Whatever it is, the dread he brings with makes even the White Cloaks visibly uncomfortable, makes the queen’s servant tremble ever slightly. Even his mother appears less than eager to have him join the conversation.

Swallowing down even though her mouth is dry as sanding paper, M’rone sinks into yet another courtesy.

‘We need these quarters prepared for the new queen,’ the king goes on, roaming around the room with lazy steps. ‘And I will not delay a wedding for something as trivial as this.’

She clenches her jaw. She has little patience for this. If it were trivial than the crown would not have gone out the way to hire foreigners to do the job, no? She has enough on her plate as is, and that while she did not want to come to this place to begin with. She takes a deep breath and straightens her back.

‘In that case you should decide on which color to cover up the murals on the walls with, your majesty, and we will focus on restoring merely the paintings on the ceiling.’

He pauses amidst his stride and slowly turns to look at her. She does not meet his gaze, instead she looks stubbornly on ahead, through the window. She can hear her blood rushing through her ears as he nears.

‘Three months, woman, for the whole ordeal,’ he says, now standing close by. ‘I will not repeat myself another time.’

It comes back to her now. He has laid waste to the Riverlands. He killed his nephew, killed his uncle, and by some accounts laughed when he watched his half-sister being eaten alive by the dragon Sunfyre. It is reason enough the bow to his will. But M’rone has seen her fair share of misery. And Aemond Targaryen’s atrocities do not hold sway over her.

‘In that case, I must resign, your majesty.’

He arches a brow and she goes on, ‘I cannot commit to a task that is impossible to see through to an adequate result. It would ruin the reputation of the Vilendrys name. So, your grace, I offer you my resignation.’

She bows and takes a few steps back, but he takes hold of her arm. Startled she stands straight, leaning back, but he does not ease her grip on her.

‘You insolent—’

‘M’rone Vilendrys is a Master-Artisan, Aemond,’ Alicent Hightower intervenes. ‘Not merely an artisan, but an artist of renown. That is why we hired the Vilendrysi. We agreed, the Red Keep needs to be ushered into a new era.’

‘We hired Tumyro Vilendrys,’ Aemond spits, ‘not his greyscale defiled daughter.’

Does he think he can insult her thus? She is not even trying to free herself from his iron grip anymore. Instead she stands perfectly still and looks him straight in the eye when she speaks, ‘You wish for your queen to live in splendor, your grace, I understand well enough. But splendor requires time. In this case it requires six months. At least.’

She holds his gaze, having made her peace with the possible violent retaliation she may meet for it. But then Aemond’s gaze drifts to her fingers. Her fingertips are smudged still from this morning, in purple. She mixed some paints, one of which a lavender on the basis of the dark purple her people yield from the sea snails found in the Braavosi waters.

He lets go of her. Finally.

‘You are right to protect the name of your craft, milady.’

She goes ice cold at the title. She is no lady, he knows well enough. Yet, it does not sound like an ironic insult. What has changed for him to turn thus?

‘Six months, but no more,’ he decides, already walking away from her. ‘You may want to begin right away.’

Alicent Hightower’s gaze lingers on M’rone for just a moment too long. The dowager queen has noticed as well—the shift in his approach to her—and she does appear pleased with it. Feeling hollow and overwhelmed at the same time, she watches the queen and her entourage leave. Only then does she hurry to return to the Queen’s Ballroom. The king’s words ring true: she should begin this very moment. She cannot waste any time.

Only by dusk does she retreat from the old queen’s quarters. She has spent the remainder of the day making notes on the murals as they are now, penning down the properties of the plaster—at the verge of crumbling—and making an index of which shades of paint will be needed. Even with the six months she has been given, she fears she will not be able to deliver in time. It is a massive task, made all the more challenging due to the artistry of the original artisan’s. Compared to these private chambers, the restoration of the Queen’s Ballroom is a breeze.

She is worn out by the day’s hectics. She is still to introduce her niece and nephew to the craft of paint mixing, something she does not look forward to, but cannot postpone either. Her days at the Red Keep are already proving to be longer and more tiresome than those spent at home. But in part she is grateful for it. It keeps the memories at bay, it allows her no space to overthink.

Only too late does she realize that she has gotten lost. She does not recognize the hallway, but its lush carpet indicates she is nearing the heart of the castle, not getting away from it. At the crossing of two corridors, she turns and looks around, then pauses. It takes a moment before she understands what she is seeing. It the deepening dark, only somewhat illuminated by oil lamps, it is difficult to make out at first. But then it dawns on her—someone is standing in the window. Without a further thought she is rushing forward, her feet carrying her towards the window much faster than she remembered she could run.

She is only in time. Her arms wrap around the person’s waist and she leans back with all her weight. An angry scream echoes through the empty halls, its pitch high and shrill. Childishly, girlishly shrill. They tumble down on the floor in a swirl of skirts and hair—M’rone’s ash brown, the girl’s silver. M’rone groans at the impact of the stone floor against her head.

‘Let go of me!’ the princess Jaehaera screams as she tries to free herself from M’rone’s grip. ‘Let go of me and let me be and let me—let me—’

Her screaming and yelling dies down into panicked sobbing. Soothing the little girl comes like a slumbering instinct to M’rone. Combing her fingers through the princess’s starlight adorned hair, she hushes her and whispers, ‘I will not let go, little princess, I will not.’

She is but a child. The realization comes crashing on M’rone like a tidal wave. Just a child. And yet she feels so much pain, she is weighed down by such grief that she would contemplate and try to follow in her mother’s grim and fatal footsteps; out of the window, down below. M’rone understands such pain all too well, the kind which comes from misery ordained by fate and evaded in no way. But at least hers accumulated over a span of twenty seven years. This princess, how old is she? Eleven?

By the time a knight of the Kingsguard finally comes upon them and brutishly drags M’rone by the neck away from the princess, her own cheeks are sticky with tears. As soon as Jaehaera is separated from M’rone, she is screaming again as if she were possessed by all the spirits of this godsforsaken palace. M’rone watches on with empty eyes as the princess is carried off in the arms of a White Cloak. Another barks something at her, but she does not hear him. She can only see—the vivid image of their corpses: her little one, stillborn, in her arms; and her husband dead in their bed mere weeks later. It has been barely over half a year. How uncanny. Just half a year. It feels ages ago. It feels like just yesterday.

The White Cloak drags her through the hallways. As this happens, she half catches sight of a figure behind her, leaning heavily on a cane, his face hidden behind a golden mask. It is such an odd sight, she almost believes that she is hallucinating. Eventually she is sat down on a chair in some luxuriously furnished sitting room. Only then does she understand that she now finds herself even deeper inside Maegor’s Holdfast.

‘Ser,’ she speaks, ‘My apologies for my behavior. I was in shock.’

The man gives a small nod, but does not say a word. It is something at least. She only said it because she does not want to be thought of as a fool. He stand straight by the door, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He thinks she may run, prompting her to consider whether she should try to run. She is in trouble, that much is evident. She may have saved the princess, but that does not take away that this turn of circumstance has made her privy to likely the most delicate matter in this castle: young princess Jaehaera’s wish is to follow her mother’s example.

She remains as is for a long while. Call it a professional deformity, but she cannot help but inspect the paintings put on the wall. Most of them feature dragons of old; Balerion the Black Dread, the silver-scaled Meraxes and the Bronze Fury, Vermithor. There are few of them left now, she supposes, she heard a great many of the dragons were killed when the smallfolk stormed the Dragonpit in the city. But a few did escape. She may not know how many of these terrifying beasts still live, but she does know what is of importance now: the king she will have to face still has a dragon, alive and well. Even more, he rides the largest, most terrifying beast still alive. Dusk has turned into pitch black night by the time the doors open and in walks the king of the Seven Kingdoms, Aemond Targaryen.

Swallowing down her fatigue, she stands and courtesies low. But the king pays her no mind. He walks past her to pour himself a cup of wine. In the meanwhile the Kingsguard leaves. As the king drinks, M’rone straightens her back, but keeps her eyes low. Once emptied, he places the cup on the table with hard clank which does nothing to soothe her nerves.

‘Look up,’ he says and she does. ‘Not like that, as you did before.’

But she cannot. Then she was emboldened by being in her element, by knowing she was right to speak as she did. This circumstance is different, unknown. So she tries to meet his gaze, but she cannot.

He hums and leans against the table. ‘You are shaking. Sit.’

‘Thank you, your majesty,’ she mutters as she does as ordered.

‘You have the gratitude of the Crown, my lady.’

‘I only did what was right.’

‘Then you will find it easy to do the right thing furthermore and show the utmost discreetness on what you witnessed.’

‘Of course, your grace.’

Silence falls and it leaves M’rone uncomfortable. Aemond Targaryen—not so. He takes his time observing her as she is now. Undoubtedly, he is amused. She is a shade of the woman who during the day told him her mind.

‘A shame,’ he says. ‘You may leave.’

‘Thank you.’

She rises, courtesies. She has already turned her back on him, when she hesitates. She cannot just leave. Not without asking. She would spend the whole night lying awake if she does not at least inquire.

‘Your majesty, if I may.’

She turns around and now does meet his gaze. He arches a brow.

‘You may.’

‘Why did she… Why did the princess do that?’

‘She takes after her mother,’ he replies and after a moment he adds, ‘A fragile creature.’

Jaehaera Targaryen did not come across on her as fragile. Broken and tarnished, yes, but not fragile.

‘Does she…’ She bites her tongue. That goes too far.

‘Go on.’

‘It is not my place.’

He takes a step forward, leaning a hand on the back of the chair whereon she just sat. ‘I prefer it when people finish what they start.’

What a rigid man he is. And also wrung so tightly. He is clad all in leather, of a dark green color. And then that sword—is it one of the renowned blades of Valyrian steel?

He strikes an imposing, stern picture. It is unsettling.

‘I heard she lost two brothers.’

‘Lost is a soft word for it.’

‘I would not know the details, your grace, I do not make it my business to think on foreign wars.’ She is already losing her patience with him. But he only smirks. ‘What I want to inquire about is whether she has companions.’

‘To replace her brothers?’

‘To not make the loneliness so daunting,’ she corrects.

He scoffs, fingers clenching around the backrest, and says, ‘She has her grandmother. And governess.’

Yes. Sara Snow. What a strange choice for the king to allow a Stark bastard so close near his niece.

‘They are women, adult women, there to raise her not to… A friend, your grace, do you not think she could do well with a friend?’

‘Who do you propose?’

‘Any child would do, I think.’

‘This is a princess.’

‘And a child.’

‘Not for long anymore.’

She opens her mouth, baffled. How can he say that? She is still so young. Finally, knowing not what better to say, she pleads, ‘Let her enjoy what remains of her childhood.’

Aemond tilts his head, eye slightly narrowed. The shade of it, that otherworldly purple, distresses her so. She half understands why some Westerosi believe their kings to be more akin to gods than to men. Yet, now that she is so close to this Targaryen king, she wonders if they are not perhaps half demon.

‘I heard you have children—’

‘Then you heard wrong.’ Her interruption comes like the lash of a whip.

He hums. ‘Then… Ah, your sister.’

‘She has twins,’ she admits, folding her hands behind her back. They have become clammy.

‘They speak the common tongue?’

‘Well enough.’

‘How old are they?’

This is not the direction she intended this conversation to take.

‘Nine.’

‘Younger than Jaehaera, but she would not mind. Two girls or…’

‘A girl and a boy. But they are to help us, your grace, in the restoration, with the paint mixing—’

‘Of course. They will do their work, we do not want them to become lazy, hm? But after seeing to their tasks, they will join the princess in whatever she sees fit.’

She lets out a trembling sigh and bows her head. ‘As you wish, your majesty.’

He closes the distance between them with slow, unbothered steps. Tilting his head, he takes hold of her chin and makes her look up at him. The gesture is too intimate; it crosses a line which he has no business to cross. And yet, he does, and yet here he stands, so close she can smell him. Like ash and smoke.

He says, ‘Now you dare to sound displeased. It was you who insisted the princess needed a friend.’

‘I am not displeased, your majesty.’

‘You are a liar, M’rone Vilendrys.’

His fingers wander to her jaw, to her throat; over the scales of her scars. Her breath hitches. She remembers the last time someone touched her there. The last time a man touched her there.

‘You are the eldest daughter, the heir to the Vilendrysi trade. You have no children, but deducing from this gray attire of yours, your shadowed eyes, I would say that you are a widow.’

He is invading her. He is breaching her privacy, trespassing across her body—and he knows it and he enjoys it.

‘If that is all,’ she says, ‘I will take my leave, your majesty.’

Aemond hums and removes his touch from her. As she courtesies, he inquires, ‘He has not been dead for long, has he?’

‘Half a year.’

He says something in High Valyrian; maybe he thinks she will not understand, but Braavosi is related to High Valyrian and she has been taught enough of the old language to understand.

Good riddance.

She does not remain to linger there any longer. By the time she returns to her family’s temporary quarters in the far edge of the castle, she is nauseous with frustration and disgust. The remainder of the Vilendrysi are eating dinner. Her father calls her out to join them, but she mutters something about needing to freshen up first and retreats into the bedroom she shares with him. With a sigh she sits down on her bed. Drenace is by her side before she can blink.

‘What is it?’ she takes hold of her hands. ‘You look as if you have seen a ghost.’

She remembers the man in the hallway, leaning on that cane, with his gold mask and mutters, ‘I think I have.’

‘M’rone?’

She blinks and then says, ‘Drenace, I am sorry.’

‘Alright, no. Now you are just scaring me.’

M’rone shakes Drenace’s hands off and, standing up, she says, ‘I cannot explain in detail, but… Lanna and Trystane, they will be the princess Jaehaera’s playmates while we are here.’

Never one for quietude, Drenace shrieks, ‘What?’

A tiresome day is followed by a tiresome night of informing her family about the agreed arrangement for the children. While Lanna and Trystane are only happy to have been ordained more play time than they would without this turn of events, her sister, brother-in-law and father are hearing none of it. Of course they are not: she cannot explain to them the reason for it, the circumstance which brought them here. While Tumyro gives his questioning up rather quickly, Drenace and Narvo are annoyed with M’rone for the remainder of the evening. Their resentment tastes bitter.

There is no doubt about what just occurred: his manhood is softening from what must have been a very painful erection mere moments ago.

It is not so much that he got aroused in the depths of sleep as the dream which drove him to such unconscious pleasure; to the high of orgasm. He has not come from a wet dream since he was a mere boy. And to think that this happened now, when he was a man grown, because he dreamed of…

It had not even been such an obscene vision. The scene had not been drenched in slick lasciviousness, adorned with the sheer fabrics and sweet smells of lush erotica. He has those kind of dreams sometimes, not often, but enough to not be surprised by them. This one has surprised him, in fact it has shocked him. He had not thought himself capable of dreaming of, yearning for you.

He has been dreaming of a squire girl, an Orphan woman whom he has not seen in two months. But whom he has not been able to ban from his mind ever since leaving her behind in Riverrun.

What does it mean that he dreams of delicate intimacy shared between his body and yours? No, not just your bodies: you and him, body, heart and soul. It had not been as much about sex, as it had been about closeness, about the sensual joys of affection shared with someone he holds dear. It had begun with you sitting down on his lap by the hearth. At first you just asked him about dragon eggs as you toyed with his hair, loosened his eye patch. But then moments later, he was slipping his hand between your legs, he was licking your nipple. And you, smiling softly at him, wrapped your hand around his cock. In his dream he had not even reached climax himself. No, he had bolted awake when you came undone, sighing and whining his name against his hot flesh.

Gods be damned, what have you done to him?

Before Aemond can even make sense of what happened, the doors burst open. Making sure his lower half is still covered by the sheets, he turns to sit up. He half expected the intruder to be his mother, for she has made herself rather comfortable in disrupting her children’s privacy whenever she sees fit even if all three of them are grown. Yet, it is not the dowager queen: it is Aegon. Something must be amiss for him to have risen from bed so early. The sun is only rising, drowning the bedroom in a strange orange-golden hue, and still Aegon is already dressed and all for the day. Aemond makes no initiative to get up, lest his brother noticed the spot on his underwear.

‘Brother, rise!’ Aegon grabs the pair of trousers Aemond took off the night before from the floor and throws it towards the younger Prince.

The piece of clothing lands against his face. Throwing the trousers beside him on the bed with a snarl, he asks, ‘What is it?’

‘Now, do not look so grim, Aemond.’

Aegon sits down next to him on the bed. He is wearing that shit-eating grin on his face again. The one that gives rise to an unrelenting urge in Aemond’s chest to punch his older brother so that his nose may for the remainder of his life be crooked and ugly.

‘It is a beautiful day. An important day.’

‘It is a day like the one before and the one after,’ Aemond leans away from him. ‘You should brush your teeth or at least rinse your mouth. You reek.’

He does stink of alcohol still. He huffs his breath right under Aemond’s nose. Disgusted Aemond grabs a handful of his brother’s silver hair in a forceful grip. Aegon groans and giggles as Aemond pulls his head back. He is suspiciously cheerful and this undiminished joy does nothing to put Aemond’s mind at ease. With a jolt he lets his older brother go and inquires, ‘What is the matter with you?’

‘I am just happy. Joyful even.’

‘Why?’ Aemond insists, his voice almost rising.

This is unnerving. Aegon tilts his head, remains silent for a moment longer, but he is bursting with too much enthusiasm to keep still for long.

‘I just happen to be well pleased, for finally my little brother will be getting a lady wife!’

Aemond stares at his brother aghast, face flat with shock. Then he realizes that there is no way his brother, even more useless of a prince than he himself, would know anything on the matter, and he gathers himself.

‘Whatever you say.’

Gods, if he could he would stand now. But the embarrassing wet spot on his undergarments keeps him from doing so. Knowing his little brother just had an orgasmic wet dream would certainly amuse Aegon beyond elation. Aemond does not care to be subjected to his brother’s childish teasing now.

‘You do not believe me, but it is true. I overheard our sister and mother discussing the matter last night when I left for… No matter. I swear on the Gods, Aemond, today they mean to inform you that after too long of a postponement you will finally be bestowed the domestic joy of marriage.’

His thoughts do not drift to the question which poor lady was chosen as his betrothed. Instead all he thinks of is you, sitting by the hearth and playing that soothing tune on the waterflute. He bans the image from his mind immediately. Thinking of you is of no use. You could never be his wife.

‘Are you not pleased?’ Aegon insists.

It is not difficult to guess as to why this amuses Aegon. When his siblings married, Aemond had barely been able to hide his jealousy. Still he thinks it ridiculous that from the two of them, his wayward brother was the one given the honor of Helaena’s hand in marriage. Their sister, as curious as she is sweet, deserved better.

Now he knows, due to hindsight, that the marriage had also been an attempt to prepare Aegon for ascension to the throne, a ploy from his late grandfather who had been plotting to prevent Rhaenyra from sitting the Iron Throne after the death of their father. Marrying Aegon and Helaena, after all, prevented an union of the different main factions in their family. Rhaenyra’s flock consists only of sons after all. Not that Aemond would ever have allowed his sister to be married to a bastard, but then again Aegon is not much better of a match, is he?

It matters little now: Otto Hightower was easily felled by a fever before he could see the plot through, so the Realm was spared the insult of Aegon as king at least. Now it only had to suffer Rhaenyra. For what it is worth, Helaena has no complains on her marriage and Aemond is well aware that while Aegon is a fiend, he does treat his sister-wife with kindness. Still, that Aemond was so easily discarded from the equation stung. Being deprived the honor of his sister’s hand in marriage any other match seems to him more of an insult than anything else. And Aegon knows that, that is why he is here in his rooms now.

‘And who would be the lucky lady?’ Aemond forces himself to ask.

‘Who else but our cousin Rhaena?’

He should have expected this answer, yet he remains displeased. He has no qualms with his Targaryen cousins, but more he cannot say on the matter. He thinks seldom of them and whenever he considered the possibility one of them being forced onto him as a wife, he had always eased his mind with the supposition that both girls would likely marry a Strong boy. That Baela would marry Jacaerys has been announced months prior. In fact, their wedding draws near. Rhaena, romantic as she is, would prefer Lucerys for a husband. The two of them had been close ever since childhood, and now too Lucerys has been away from King’s Landing for over half a moon to visit her in the Eyrie.

It is strangely cruel, even for Rhaenyra, to dismiss the happiness of her son like this. Moreover, to dismiss the resentment of her husband—the father of the bride—is undoubtedly a bold move, even for his careless big sister. Was this dowager queen Alicent’s idea, who felt that if Jacaerys got one of the Targaryen princesses, her son should get the other? Not unlikely.

What a tiring family he has. Renowned and god-like the Targaryens may be. But so damn tiresome they are.

Aemond ponders for a moment: if he can put aside what happened in his childhood, if he can make a marriage with his cousin work. This union would without a doubt keep the Targaryen line he would bring forth pure and therefore had to be considered carefully.

Surely, he does not think of you when he rejects the match. Truly, he does not spend even half a thought on you as he makes his decision. It is remembering Rhaena as a child, how she flocked behind Lucerys, what makes Aemond decide: let her marry the bastard. She will not be his wife.

And he does not think of you—he cannot, he should not. At least, that is what he tells himself when he reminisces on the way you smiled as you traced your fingers over the scales of that golden dragon egg.

He is not so foolish as to tell Aegon any of his thoughts, any of his resolutions. Even if he is indebted to Aegon’s early interference: it is what allows him to act swiftly.

Aemond hums. This, at least, makes Aegon’s grin falter.

‘Truly, you must be displeased, little brother?’ he tries. ‘You can talk to me about it, you know that!’

‘Get out of my room, Aegon.’

Of course it takes a whole lot of effort to convince Aegon to leave, but once Aemond is finally alone, he gets up. With a disgusted snarl he looks at the wet stains on his undergarments. Nonetheless, when he thinks back to the cause of them—when he thinks of you, in nothing but a shift and your soft lips on his throat—his cock twitches.

A specter you are, equal parts fascinating and bothersome. You haunt him, day and night, no matter how often he forces himself to dismiss you from his mind. If only he’d dreamed of you in a more obscene manner, if only his dream had not been lined with that strange, uncanny implication he would feel better.

The gist of the matter is, in that hazy dream, when you came to sit on his lap and twirl strands of his hair around your finger, he was thinking of you as his wife.

How absurd. But no more absurd than marrying his cousin would be. He calls for a servant. He has to wash himself, he has to eat, pack. And then he will be on his way. Rhaena cannot possible marry him if she is already Lucerys’s wife, not even the queen or queen dowager could dismiss that. If he leaves now, he may out-fly the ravens.

The Eyrie is as good a place as any for his cousin and nephew to be bound in matrimony.

The pale pink dragon will not let Aemond near. How amusing: she is still small enough to sit on Rhaena’s shoulder, nevertheless, sensing her rider’s anxiety, the little beast insists on hissing and growling. As if it would deter anyone, let alone a Targaryen prince.

‘What is she called again, cousin?’ Aemond asks, still ignoring Lucerys.

Just as Aemond expected, his nephew has been nothing but unwelcoming since he set foot in the Eyrie. At least the lady Jeyne Arryn knew better than to show him anything but a warm welcome. She sent out an entourage to guide him from where Vhagar has made herself comfortable up the steep road through the Bloody Gate to the castle. Under different circumstances, Aemond might have taken the time to explore the fascinating feat of architecture. When seeing its seven towers from above, one cannot help but wonder how the men of the Vale even managed to construct the castle. Above all, he would like to applaud whomever came with the idea to make the Moon Door. Two weirwood thrones may stand in the High Hall, but it is that circular door in the floor which draws all the attention to himself.

How he’d love to send his nephew flying down it. Aemond had almost forgotten how irksome it is to see  Lucerys’s face, that dark brown hair of his. He has been growing a beard, trying to look older, more experienced. But in Aemond’s opinion does little more than emphasize his childishness.

Nothing is more painful, however, than seeing those big, brown eyes of his. For a fleeting moment just seeing them—two eyes, matching, making a perfect pair—made Aemond consider to not resist the marriage his mother and sister have decided on. If Rhaena were to marry Aemond it would undoubtedly send the Strong bastard into near frenzy. It would only be part of the repayment Lucerys still owes.

But the idea was only worthwhile for a handful of seconds. Aemond may be at a loss of what sort of legacy he will leave behind, but he will not have this girl be part of it. And so he must remain as courteous as he can suffer, for he needs the bastard to marry his cousin.

‘Her name is Morning,’ Rhaena replies.

Aemond merely hums. He has always felt that dragons deserved High Valyrian names. Then again, given her scales reminiscent of a breaking dawn, it is a suitable name. Yet also a bit soft for what will grow up to be the fiercest among animals. Morning is fierce enough already: she hisses once more at Aemond, but he does not flinch. Rhaena orders the little beast to cease her aggressive behavior and the pink dragon immediately settles down, even if she keeps a suspecting eye on Aemond. Morning is not alone in her staring: the whole court has gathered in the High Hall, if only to witess the one-eyed prince standing face to face with the nephew who caused him to gain the cognomen.

While Rhaena keeps a safe distance from him—a pity that she fears him, for she has no reason to do so: his vendetta is not with her—Lucerys’s impatience has grown so that the Strong bastard puts a step forward.

‘What are you doing here, Aemond?’ Animosity runs clear in the sharpness of his voice.

‘Must I have a reason to visit my dear nephew and cousin?’ Aemond taunts, tilting his head.

In the distance he catches a woman with auburn hair whispering something in the lady Arryn’s ear. The Lady of the Vale has been sitting silently on her weirwood throne for a whole while now: this matter pertains to dragons, not to falcons. But now she does rise to speak, ‘You are welcome at the Eyrie, prince Aemond, but I must say that your arrival comes at a rather particular moment.’

Aemond merely hums in response. The Lady of the Vale steps down from her throne. Lucerys and Rhaena part to make way for her. Jeyne Arryn is a rather plain creature. If she were not highborn, one would not look twice her way. But there is an uncanny sparkle in her gaze which betrays that despite her insignificant appearance she is a woman to be reckoned with. Then again, what else is he to expect of a woman who, despite plenty of men laying claim on the title of Lord of the Vale, has defended her rights to this position so fiercely?

With an unreadable expression she says, ‘Your nephew was about to fly out on Arrax together with a party of knights lead by the lady Phaelia Santagar of Spottswood.’

He arches a brow as he lets the announcement sink in. Phaelia Santagar is in the Eyrie. So you must be here as well. His heart skips a beat—how unsettling. Did you weave a spell when you played that waterflute in the Citadel library? What else but witchcraft can explain the two of you crossing paths over and over again? What else but sorcery can explain the way his chest burns when he thinks of you?

He ignores the instinct to ask about you and instead inquires, ‘What would they set out for?’

His nephew replies, ‘A mountain clan has attacked the lady Santagar on the road. They stole her long sword, some goods, a horse and abducted her squire.’

The words crash in on him like a tidal wave. There is naught he can do to bite down the shock piercing through his throat, a burning hot mixture of concern, fear and pure anger blooming in the pit of his stomach. A scream, thunderous and bellowing, is confined to the hollow of his chest as the only outward hint of his inner turmoil is the way he clenches his hand around the hilt of his sword.

So you are not here, you are not within reach. No, your lady has failed you, has let you be reaped away by savages who would degrade and torment you. Rape and kill. It is Riverrun all over again. When he came upon you in that cell, when you told him of what had transpired, all he had been able to think of was the terrible things those fiends had intended to do to you, to your body. When he came upon you crying in the stairwell, then too all he had been able to think about was what that vermin had dared to put you through. He has always had a talent for the macabre. His imagination is easily stirred to weave scenes so grim and dark and bloody it at times disgusts himself. And what he imagines those clansmen are putting you through at this very moment is beyond disgusting. It is maddening.

The urge to go and find you rumbles in his bones: he cannot remain idle at the Eyrie for a moment longer.

The silence to which he has sought refuge has been taken note of. Lucerys opens his mouth, but before he can state whatever jest he came up with, Aemond says, ‘And you, Luke, owing the lady Santagar your respect because she came victorious over you in a tourney joust, intend to help her retrieve horse and squire?’ Lucerys is always easily thrown of guard. It makes Aemond wonder how ever he could have let him taunt him when they were children.

‘You owe her your respect as well, she—’

‘I respect the lady, nephew,’ Aemond interrupts, ‘I am merely uncertain whether you and little Arrax would truly pose so much of a threat to a mountain clan. You do know of their savagery, do you not? They enjoy to feast on the flesh of their enemies.’

And those barbarians may as well already be feasting on your flesh—in more ways than one. He is wasting time with this taunting.

‘Arrax is not so little anymore.’

‘Vhagar is far grander, obviously, and thus may induce the clansmen with the required sense of fear rather easily. Stand down, nephew, I will retrieve what was stolen. I suggest you and Rhaena… get accustomed to each other’s company while I am away.’

‘Whatever is that supposed to mean?’ Lucerys spits.

But Aemond ignores him and implores his host, ‘Lady Arryn, where may I find the lady Santagar?’

The Lady of the Vale gestures for one of her pages, who comes rushing. With a bow the man declares he will bring the prince where he pleases.

‘Cousin, you still have to declare the purpose of your visit!’ Rhaena calls after Aemond, but he does not even shoot her a glance over his shoulder.

He finds the lady Santagar in the courtyard, where she is testing the weight of a longsword lent to her by the castle. She looks pale, sickly, and not merely due to concern. Indeed, when Aemond nears, her confused frown is disturbed by a cough then a sneeze and then a cough again.

‘You are ill, lady Santagar.’

‘Prince Aemond.’ She sniffs in a rather unladylike manner. With a bow of the head she remarks, ‘At this point, I feel obliged to ask: are you somehow aware of my whereabouts? This is the third time that we have crossed paths when, in all likelihood, we should not have.’

Crossing his arms he replies, ‘I stand as intrigued by these recurring circumstances as you.’

She gives a stiff nod. ‘Forgive me for my less than enthusiastic demeanor.’

‘I understand you lost something very dear to you.’

‘Because I was seeing double due to this damn fever, yes,’ she grumbles, slipping her blade into its sheath. ‘It’s a disgrace upon myself that I let this occur.’

‘But in the state you are in, you will not be retrieving what you lost any time soon,’ Aemond observes.

Phaelia’s eyes drift over him, considering him, and finally she relents with a sigh. ‘You are right, your highness. Yet, I cannot leave my squire to die… or worse.’

He clenches his jaw. ‘Naturally.’

‘The prince Lucerys offered help…’ Phaelia begins, but Aemond cannot help but to interrupt immediately, ‘Arrax is a petty dragon.’

At this the corner of her mouth curls up. She is seeing right through him, is she not? She has seen him and you together. Perhaps you may have not noticed him unraveling, but Phaelia, who knows the ways of those of noble blood and has many years of experience on both you and him, surely must suspect something. Despite scalding embarrassment pooling in his stomach, he tries his best to keep himself in check.

‘Vhagar is the most fearsome beast in the Seven Kingdoms,’ Phaelia observes.

While she makes her words sound polite it is clear what she means: she is not going to propose this herself. Aemond leans on his right leg and despite knowing better he hears himself saying, ‘Lay down your armor, milady. Tell me what occurred, where to look and I will retrieve your squire by next sunrise.’

Phaelia grins. He is beginning to suspect that at least some of your ways must have rubbed off on this she-knight. Or perhaps you have learned your mischief from Phaelia; he would not put it beyond the lady, after all, she is defying all odds, norms and traditions merely by her way of life.

‘How gallant of you, your highness,’ Phaelia observes.

She gestures for a squire boy to help her get out of the armor and then sets to tell him of the ambush, of the hill tribe called the Redsmiths who called for a ransom to be paid in two days time, and of where the knights of the Vale suppose this tribe convenes. She is all but freed from the weight of her armor when she concludes, ‘Do be wary when flying over their lands, prince Aemond. It is said a wild dragon roams there, a deranged beast worshiped by the hill tribes.’

‘You mean the pitch black beast called the Cannibal?’

‘Aye, called thus because it terrorizes its smaller kin.’

‘Our dragons are not its kin. And no dragon alive is larger than Vhagar.’ A rush of wind tugs at his hair. ‘No need to worry, milady, I will get Drymilla back to you all safe and sound.’

He has already turned away when Phaelia, voice hoarse and rough, calls out, ‘What brought you to the Eyrie, your highness?’

‘I believed that I came here to settle some family matters.’ He looks over his shoulder. ‘Yet, as it stands now, I am rather inclined to suspect I was brought here by something entirely else.’

You must have turned to some ancient water magic to bind your fate to his.

Thanks to the instructions of some local knights finding the Redsmiths’ encampment is an affair so easy it is rather dull. He has set off on Vhagar late in the day, yet the sun is only setting in a spill of orange and red by the time he spots on a high plain the tents and huts of the hill tribe. From the ground finding this location may as well be a challenge, but from the skies the settlement, only half hidden by trees and cliffs, is easily discovered.

At the sight of Vhagar commotion spurs in the encampment: some flee into the woods, some hide in their huts, while some reach for their weapons. His blood is rushing scorching hot and wild through his veins.  He is close to you now.

While he urges Vhagar to fly lower, he does not set her on the descend, not yet. His eye darts over the scene, looking for wherever these barbarians may keep their prisoners. Looking for you. Not making much sense of their haphazard settlement, Aemond lets out an annoyed grunt.

‘Ninkiot, Vhagar,’ he calls and the dragon, intrigued by the chaos brewing beneath, soars downward with eagerness.

Vhagar lands amidst fearful screams and the cracking of wood. Having sensed her rider’s annoyance, she was not careful about how she came to the ground. She stands on uneven land, her massive claws dug deep into the steep rocks of the mountain to keep her steady. A smaller hut has caved under one of her great wings. Lazily she wipes away one of the barbarians who was stupid enough to take up an ax with a shove of her head. While some bows are raised, no arrows land on Vhagar’s tough scales. Savages they may be, but they are as easily scared into cowardice as any other. Amidst the chaos, a handful of figures are standing their ground. Even more, some are approaching.

Vhagar grumbles. Although he would not mind seeing this lot burn, he has no use for them dead.

‘Lykiri,’ he orders his dragon before he sets to climb down the ropes strung across her body.

Rocks crunch under his boots as he steps forward. Most of the tribesmen have either fled or stand aghast at a far distance from the dragon. Aemond is met only by two large, rough-looking men who are flanking an equally unsavory looking woman. From the way things are looking, it is the dark haired woman who is in charge.

‘Targaryen,’ she speaks—and she is immediately given a reply from Vhagar, who rumbles and moves her head so that it looms nearby where Aemond is standing.

Aemond’s eye flicks to Vhagar, who huffs a puff of hot breath from her nose right into his face. He better keeps his wits about himself. Vhagar may be his to ride, but ancient as she is, she has a strong will of her own. At times it is difficult for him to control her. So insistent she is.

The tribeswoman exchanges a look with her kin and then lets out an angry sigh. She detaches her sheathed sword from her belt and slowly lays it on the ground while she kneels

‘I, Hiran daughter of Urth and leader of the Redsmiths, surrender this encampment to your mercy,’ she grumbles. Then she looks up. ‘And your dragon’s.’

Behind her, her clansmen are quick to lay down their weapons as well. Aemond is unsure whether he is amused or disappointed. Flying Vhagar means that more often than not he is bereft the pleasure of a fight. So easy humans tremble in fear before her monstrous size.

‘Vhagar and I figured as much already,’ he remarks. ‘Now, use your easy compliance to return that which you stole, barbarians.’

Hiran rises to her feet again, slowly for with each little movement she makes, Vhagar lets her displeasure known with either a hiss or deep rumble. Yet, Hiran’s fear seems to be outweighed by something else. She is angry. She raises a hand and a mere moment later two men, covered in dirt and blood, are pushed face flat on the rocks in front of Aemond. He places a hand on the hilt of his sword, gripping it hard. His annoyance is growing and his desire for fire, for blood with it.

‘These rats are of no interest to me, Hiran daughter of Urth. Return what you stole from the lady Santagar.’

One of the lads thrown at his mercy tries to get up. Not willing to deal with this nonsense, Aemond places his foot on the man’s back and presses down so hard until the fiend stops moving completely. Hiran swallows nervously, but her grim expression does not sway.

‘The long sword, horse and goods I can return to you, Aemond One-Eye.’

His face twitches. She dares call him that? Only then does he consider that among these hill tribes cognomens are usually spoken with reverence. Given how easily she swayed to surrender, he supposes he can give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she means no insult.

She has only spoken or indeed a heavy sack and a sword are brought forward. Aemond does not even spare the goods a glance. Pressing his heel deeper between the tribesman’s shoulder blades, he opens his mouth to speak, but Hiran beats him to it.

‘But ‘tis the girl you want, aye? For that…’

‘You will deliver her to me. Now!’ he interrupts with such a forceful roar that it prompts Vhagar to rumble as well.

The dragon pushes her head forward in a clear display of dismay. Hiran, cursing, takes a step back and yells, ‘We cannot return her, Targaryen prince! She escaped in the night, leaving no trace.’

He steps over the man pushed face down into the dirt, lounging for Hiran until he has hold of her throat. ‘You believe me a fool?’ he bellows in her face ‘Where is she?’

‘We promise, prince, the girl ran!’ one of the braver tribesmen calls out.

‘Aye, a cunning lass she is,’ another adds. ‘Just as we were discussing what to do as to not create more problems than we need, she cut loose he ties and ran. Down the mountain, we suppose, but she left no trail.’

They are far too insistent on this story for it to be mere lies. With a hum he lets go of Hiran who falls heaving for air against some of her kin.

‘I can only give to you the two idiots who are guilty of the ambush, Aemond One-Eye,’ Hiran proclaims. ‘An ambush which, I must have you know, the tribe wanted no part in.’

He paces, wondering what to do now, agonizing over you. You fled—which you were smart to have done—but thus you inadvertently fled from him as well. Why could you not sit down and wait for him to save you? Not to mention that you have gone into the wild. You could be feed to shadowcats by now or to bears or to both. Gods be damned.

Grinding his teeth, he comes to a halt in front of one of the fiends who saw it fit to take you. The man has managed to scramble onto his knees. Aemond grabs him by the collar and snarls, ‘What did you do to her? Did you touch her? Did you defile her with your filthy hands?’

‘N-no!’ he is quick to promise. ‘Did not… Just took her here for ransom! Or… to sell. But we didn’t touch her! Spoiled goods don’t sell well.’

Spoiled goods… Aemond hums.

He cannot tell whether the man speaks truth or not, too blinded he is by the rage burning inside of him. It is easy to kill a man when high on fury. And so Aemond does not think twice, or even once about drawing his sword and piercing it right through the man’s throat.

Blood dripping from his blade he turns back to Hiran. The second one, he notices just in time, is trying to crawl off. Not breaking eye contact with Hiran, Aemond commands Vhagar, ‘Dracarys.’

It is no pretty sound, the screams of a burning man. The smell of melting flesh evaporates in the dusk. Hiran’s grim eyes sparkle with disgust and something akin to slumbering frenzy. The screaming does not last long. The end of it comes not as much as a relief, as another form of torment: it gives rise to an unsettling silence. None in the settlement dares move, lest they be the next one at the prince’s lack of mercy.

‘By the morrow, you will return these belongings to the owner yourself.’ He nods at the long sword. ‘You may find her in the Eyrie. If I do not find the girl, I will be back with the next setting of the sun.’

And with that promise, he climbs the long ropes back onto Vhagar’s saddle.

‘Sōvēs,’ he commands the dragon and they rise into the night sky.

It is a clear night, adorned with a pale full moon. Yet, even guided by the silver light and flying low it is almost impossible to discern anything of the landscape below. Nevertheless he remains in the sky for a long while. He guides Vhagar minimally, only urging her into a new direction when he is rather sure you could not possible have drifted of so far from the encampment on merely a day’s time. His biggest hope of finding you now is that you take note of the dragon roaming above yourself—that you recognize the beast as Vhagar and call out. Then again, you may not, for in the dark you as well could mistake Vhagar for the monster which haunts these skies, the Cannibal. Chances of finding you are slim, yet he cannot bring it in himself to return to the Eyrie. He cannot show up empty-handed.

He cannot rest until he knows that you are safe.

He has been in the air for hours when his eye starts to feel heavy. Only when his belt, to which the chain of his saddle is attached, begins to feel to tight around his waist does he realize that he was starting to fall asleep and slide off the saddle. He sits up straight and looks to the landscape below. This time, however, his attention is immediately hooked to something unusual: orange light spills from a hollow in the flank of a rocky mountain. A shallow cave of some sorts: and someone is there.

Without hesitating he calls Vhagar to descend. Tired as she is, she does so sluggishly: she breaks of the tips of some trees with her claws before practically crashing into the rocky mountain side. She does not seem to mind that the terrain is uneven and steep. She merely digs her claws into the dirt for steadiness and then goes to lie her head to rest. By the time Aemond has climbed off her back and stands next to her head, her eyes are closed. He hums at the rumbling sound coming from her throat. She is snoring.

Better not wake a sleeping dragon.

Hand on the hilt of his sword he makes his way up the uneven rocks of the mountain side to the cave. Inside he does not find you nor a stranger. He is met only by an abandoned fire. However, the fish which lies already impaled on a large stick does not suggest as much abandonment as someone smart enough to hide when they hear a dragon landing nearby. The cave is larger than he expected, likely only the first room in a complex maze of underground chambers. He has no doubt that just out of sight his host is hiding from him.

He remains standing in the entrance and calls out, ‘Come out. I do not intend harm.’

The reply comes immediately.

‘Aemond?’

Shaken by the soft voice he sets a step back. Silence blooms and in this stillness he is easily convinced the resonance of that familiar tremor had just been a figment of his imagination.

Yet he does call out, uncertainly, ‘Drymilla?’

Something stirs in the shadows. Someone steps forward.

You.

Hair undone, your light leather armor covered in blood and dirt, but your face clean and soft and your eyes—shining. By now, he had not expected to find you until sunrise. Yet, here you stand. You grin. No, you are smiling; ever bright, ever delighted. He should see to it that you never smile like that anymore. Or maybe, he should make sure you do nothing but smile that. It makes him want to do despicable things to you.

‘By Mother Rhoyne, it is you!’

You run up to him, but just when he is convinced you are about to embrace him, you come to an flustred halt. Then, hesitant, you set a step back and hide your hands behind your back. Bowing awkwardly, you try to contain yourself.

But Aemond is far too tired, far too worn out by this long search to care anymore about decorum. He crosses the torturous distance between the two of you with swift strides. He cups your cheeks in his hands and makes you look up at him. Aye, you’ve got pretty eyes, alright. He is quite sure that he is blushing, but hopefully the fire does not illuminate the cave enough for you to see it. Without further ado he forces you to turn your face to the right, to the left. He inspects every inch, the curve of your nose, the soft laughter lines around your mouth and the plump flesh of your lips. Your throat bobs with a gulp, but he does not mind. He has to make sure that you are unharmed and well.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks and he cringes at his own harshness.

He had not meant to sound so displeased. In fact, he is quite pleased to have found you alive and whole.

‘Tired and hungry, but I am well,’ you reply in a nervous murmur.

Only now does he notice the tension in your shoulders, your wide eyes. He has made you uncomfortable. Somewhat apologetic he lets go of you, yet his fingers instinctively flex at the loss of the feeling of your skin on his.

‘I—I did not expect to welcome you this night in my, well, humble abode, your highness,’ you say as you wrap your arms around yourself, rubbing your hands up and down.

Seeing you shiver prompts his own body to remind him that he himself is growing rather cold as well. Until now the strange mixture of adrenaline and fatigue kept him under the illusion that the high winds and the moonlit night had no impact on him. But as he stands here now, the warmth of the fire does call to him.

‘Go sit by the fire, squire, lest you freeze,’ he says as he turns away.

‘Where—’ you call out, but he interrupts, ‘Will you make me repeat myself?’

By the time he returns, you are rather awkwardly roasting the fish above the fire. Without much ceremony Aemond drops the sack he collected from his saddle on the floor. He did not think ahead to refill the sack with provisions, but he always has a pelt with him.

You keep your tongue, but you are not much subtle about how your staring. He takes the fur blanket out and without a word he stands to drape it over your shoulders.

You blink up at him.

‘Are you not cold?’ you ask.

‘Usually, I am alone and do not need more than this one pelt.’

He keeps the provisional sack attached to Vhagar’s saddle at all times. On long flights he prefers to spend the night in the wilderness, by Vhagar’s side, instead of crowded taverns. Those nights are pleasant. If not, at times, rather lonely.

You wrap the pelt around yourself just a bit better and lower your gaze.

‘Thank you,’ you say as you turn the fish on its other side.

He hums and sits down on the other side of the fire, careful to keep a distance from you. The two of you have been alone before. But this is different. This time dawn is far away as is any other living soul. Well, except for—

‘So it is… What I am hearing, is that Vhagar snoring?’ you ask softly.

He cannot help the smirk. As he detaches his sheathed sword from his belt, he warns, ‘Do not think of waking her, squire. She is not keen on strangers. Let alone strangers who dare to wake her.’

You keep your eyes low, but the way your mouth curls up does not go unnoticed by him. Did he fluster you?

‘But in the morrow, you will introduce me to her?’

‘I will have little choice if I am to keep my promise to your mistress and return you safe and well to her.’

‘So that is what this is then? You actually were out looking for me?’

‘I was,’ he replies.

‘She is well, Phaelia?’ you ask and then you go on, ‘Where did you meet her? And why are you in the Vale? Did someone steal a—’ You bite your tongue and go on with a grimace. ‘Nothing. No one stole anything that I know of. I know nothing about that last thievery.’

He raises an eyebrow. It is rather endearing, how you try to convince him that you have kept your promise on not telling about the dragon egg.

When he does not reply, you go on, ‘It is just… When I was there, tied up among the sheep of that hill tribe, reminiscing on my life and how I ended up a prisoner to barbarians, I was rather sure that if I wanted to get out without being cannibalized first—’ Must you phrase it like that? He is already plagued by concern without picturing someone roasting your severed arm above a fire. ‘—it would be completely up to me to save myself. Yet, here you are, sent by my mistress! My very own—’

You shut up then, suddenly embarrassed about yourself. Aemond cannot help but wonder what you were going to say. Your very own prince? Your knight in shining armor? He is not much for chivalry, he must admit, but with you he finds that he at least wants to try to be more knightly. Whatever that means.

‘These meetings of us are rather strangely recurrent,’ he agrees. ‘So strangely that I am beginning to suspect some mystical forces are at play.’

‘What do you mean?’

You are forgetting the niceties and titles. He rather enjoys that.

‘You summoned me with that waterflute of yours once,’ he observes, tilting his head as he leans the palms of his hands on the cool stone.

‘I hardly summoned you! What? Do you think that I am some sort of witch, wielding ancient water magic to—’ You snort. ‘Mother Rhoyne, I wish I had such talents. Alas, Aemond, I hate to disappoint: I am just a plain woman.’

Although he knows better, although he knows he should not, he refutes, ‘Not plain by far.’

At this your mouth falls agape, but no sharp witted words come out.

‘I came to the Eyrie to deal with family matters,’ he says.

You take another moment to collect yourself. ‘With the lady Rhaena and prince Lucerys you mean?’ He only hums, causing you to bite your tongue. ‘Apologies. Not my business.’

And he does not know why he tells you. Maybe because he has not actually discussed the matter yet with anyone except for his brother. Maybe because he just wants to know how you will react. Whether you will be displeased or indifferent to it. Be it as it may, he tells you honestly, ‘The queen has decided that I am to marry my cousin Rhaena.’

Whatever he had thought you would say to the news he had not expected you to keep your tongue. But that is the only thing you meet his honesty with: stark silence and a refusal to meet his gaze. Usually, your moods are easily deciphered. But this, he cannot guess what it means.

‘The fish is almost done,’ you say after a while. ‘It will be rather plain. They took my purse of herbs, although I doubt hill tribes from the Vale of Arryn would know how to appreciate Dornish spices. My sister dried those for me.’

At least now that you are speaking, he can deduce that you are unsettled. There is a nervous shiver in your voice, making your words all brittle and frail. So you are not indifferent to what he told you. Aemond is not sure what he is to make of that. If, by some miracle, he has managed to endear himself to you then still there is no fertile ground for anything. Even this, the two of you sitting by a fire in a cave, should by all rules of men and gods not be occurring. He is a prince, you are a commoner.

At least, if you’d been a whore, he could have bedded you.

He bites the inside of his cheek, disgusted by his own thought. Yet, it is the depraved thought which has been haunting him ever since he had that soft, beyond erotic dream of you days past. The whole flight to the Vale, the full five days, all he had thought about was how infuriating your shared disposition is. He stands too far above you to ever take you to wife. But then again, you are not debased enough for him to merely pursue without honor.

‘I came to the Vale to convince my nephew and cousin to marry each other,’ he hears himself say.

You almost drop the fish in the fire. Awkwardly holding the stick with two hands you stare at him.

‘But you are to marry lady Rhaena!’

‘I will not take any lady to wife whom I have not chosen myself,’ he says.

‘Have you chosen another lady then?’

And it is frivolity he will admit, but however could he let this opportunity pass by? ‘Mayhap.’

You furrow your brows. Rightfully so you observe, ‘Now you are just teasing me, are you not?’

He cannot help the smirk at which you scoff. You grumble, ‘Here he comes, prince Aemond Targaryen flying into my cave on his dragon, just to be a pest.’

‘I did not come just to torment you, squire. I am also here to ascertain that you would not freeze to dead.’

‘Instead you are freezing to dead.’ You tug the fur a bit better over your shoulders. ‘I see you shivering, your highness.’

And he is cold, so damn cold, but what is he to do about it? You look him straight in the eye, let the silence stretch and then finally speak, ‘I do not bite, you know?’

He does not move. Just then the wind catches, comes howling into the cave and with it the night’s biting cold. He tries not to let it show, but the chill sends a tremble through his body so intense his teeth clatter.

You laugh, shaking your head. ‘This blanket is big enough for two. Come here, Aemond Targaryen.’

And you raise on arm, illustrating the width of the fur. In the soft orange glow of the fire, with that hint of a smile on your sweet face—how is he to refuse such an invitation? Yet, it does sting, that you manage to convince him so easily, that you make him want to be near to you without any effort, any scheming, or any witchcraft at all.

No, you are no witch. As he shuffles closer to you he realizes that you did not seek refuge to any sorcery whatsoever to make him melt for you. It is just you and your charm and your warmth which draws him in, draws him closer. Once he is nearby, you drape the fur over his shoulders and he feels better immediately. It is not only the comfort of the blanket, but the heat of your body which seeps into his bones and tempers the cold that had settled there. Add to it the intimacy, the closeness of it and he is so flustered that he warms up even more due to boyish embarrassment. His arm brushes against yours, his knee presses against your leg. The cold is long forgotten. Now all he can think of is that you smell faintly of pines and something akin to mint. The fragrance of the Vale.

‘Where did you catch it?’ he asks, just to distract himself from the feeling of you.

‘There is a stream below. The fish are lazy here. Caught it on my first try.’

The two of you are speaking soft. With your bodies brushing against each other, there is not need for more than whispers to make conversation.

‘But you must also be adept at it.’

And thank the Gods that you are such a blabbermouth.

‘At catching fish?’ you set off. ‘Sure am. If you ask Phaelia, catching fish is kind of my foremost redeeming quality. It makes up for the poor hair cuts and the dull armor. My sister, I’ll admit, is way better at cooking the fish than I am though. Gods I should visit her soon just for that. But I am not so bad at it anymore since I have begun traveling. I have been trying to recreate the taste of home and I think I almost mastered it, but now those fiends stole my pouch I will have to cease honing that skill…’ You turn the fish. ‘Hm, I reckon it is quite done now.’

As you talk, he feels himself calming down. Maybe, if he just focuses on the sound of your voice, he can get through this night without doing anything unbecoming after all.

There is not much to the roasted fish, as you said. It is bland and tastes a bit grassy—but it is also warm and he is hungry. And so even though it tastes of nothing, he finds himself devouring it. As you eat, you go on to talk about Dornish spices, about the kinds of fish that live in the Greenblood, which types are poisonous, which are the most difficult to catch, which kind you once left in your brother’s bed when he had been misbehaving.

He is long finished eating when he interrupts, ‘How many siblings do you have?’

You hold your hand before your lips as you speak, ‘One sister, two brothers. I am the runt of the litter.’

‘You should not speak with your mouth full,’ he taunts and you roll your eyes.

Yet, you do swallow before you retort, ‘Now you sound like my sister. She is the oldest and thus fashions she can orders the rest of us around.’

At this he grins. ‘Three elder siblings, a sister who thinks a whole lot of herself. It seems that we in fact do have something in common.’

‘You do not like her? Your sister the queen I mean?’

You have finished your piece of the fish and so set to lick your fingers clean. He averts his eye, ashamed by the tension rising in his abdomen. The things he is thinking off now are beyond obscene.

He does his best to sound unaffected. ‘Rhaenyra? Hm… Well, her son cut out my eye and she prevented any justice to be met for that, so I suppose I must dislike her.’

‘But do you?’

At least you are done licking your fingertips. A bit of fish sticks to your cheek. Not thinking twice about it—or even just once if he is completely honest—he wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. You flinch at the sudden touch, but you do not lean away, nor do you say anything of it.

‘What can I say?’ He shrugs. ‘Family is complicated.’

‘Your family is the most complicated one in the Seven Kingdoms.’

He narrows his eye, trying to make out whether you are jesting at their custom to meet marry kin to kin.

‘Do you consider them family as well, the dragons I mean?’ you ask.

‘You have a talent for bold questions.’

‘We are stuck together under this fur for the night,’ you point out. You should not lean even closer to him, really you should not—yet you do. And he is not so gallant as to try to widen whatever distance remains between the two of you. He can feel your breath fan against his face as you speak, ‘This is likely the best opportunity for me to pose you my bold questions.’

Shaking his head, he replies, ‘It is complicated.’

‘Aemond Targaryen…’ And then you trail off to say something in a language so strange to him, he can barely catch the sounds of it.

‘What was that?’

You say it again and translate, ‘It is Rhoynish. I called you the complicated prince. An epithet from me to you.’

‘That language is long dead,’ he comments before he can catch himself.

‘It is alive and well at the Greenblood. It was what my mother spoke to me when I was wrapped to her belly.’

How utterly fascinating.

‘The princes of Dorne—’

‘Aye, The Nymeros Martells of Sunspear forbade it,’ you confirm. ‘But what are they going to do against what they do not know about?’

‘If it is supposed to be a secret, you should not—’

‘For what you entrusted to me, I entrust this to you,’ you interrupt him.

Underneath his ribs, deep in his flesh, his heart stutters and jolts. A lump has settled in his throat—a feeling he has not experienced in ages. And as he looks into your eyes, doe and hazy, he knows that he is not alone in this. Whatever despair is rushing through his veins, you feel burning in your chest as well, surely. Despair that this is blooming between the two of you, despair that something so fragile and cherished is flowering there where your soul meets his. Nothing can come of it, nothing can be done with it, yet here it is: warm and fleeting and tender.

Whatever this is, it will be short-lived, if it can catch its first breath at all. Perhaps that is why he speaks, ‘Jorrāeliarzy.’

And you are. In this moment you are, even if you do not know it, so beloved.

You tilt your head. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Squire,’ he lies.

You hum, clearly suspecting he is being untruthful. Still, all you reply is, ‘When was the last time Rhoynish and High Valyrian were uttered so closely to one another, do you think?’

‘If I were to guess: a millennium ago.’

‘And likely not between friends,’ you speak. ‘Or am I too bold once again when I call you friend?’

‘I have few friends,’ he admits. ‘But I would count you among them.’

What happens next is not so much the two of you staring at each other, as drowning in each others eyes. For a while his world only exists out of the wind howling, your breathes mingling, and your soft-eyed, shimmering gaze. The spell is broken when you bite your lower lip and look away. He tries not to let his displeasure show.

‘Did you see Fishtail?’ you ask.

He has no idea what that is supposed to mean. ‘What?’

‘My horse,’ you clarify. ‘They stole it as well.’

‘You named your horse Fishtail?’

‘It is a lucky name,’ you retort.

‘Whatever you say, woman.’

Your mouth falls agape. At first he is not sure what happened, what the hard jab against his ribs are. But then he realizes: you punched him.

‘You would dare lay a hand on your prince?’

Mere inches from his lips you threaten, ‘I would dare lay both hands on him if he speaks to me like that. It is a superstition, but one which has served me well: to name things we want to keep safe for things of the river.’

He cannot help but tease, ‘So of all pretty things a river has to offer you chose… a fishtail.’

Admittedly, part of why he had said that was precisely so you would keep your word and place your hands on his body. Yet, the way you press your fingers under his ribs, so hard and deep no mind the leather of his vest, makes him groan and shove himself away so abruptly that he falls on his back on the cold stone. You know nothing of mercy, however, and before he knows it you have straddled him, both hands pressed on his chest with all your body weight.

You look marvelous.

His cock twitches.

He prays to the gods, old and new, that you take no note of it.

‘Apologize!’ you demand.

‘How did you do that?’ he merely asks.

Gods, he is uncertain whether burning with shame or with infatuation.

‘You may be a prince, but you are also just a man. I know all the sensitive spots on a man’s body.’

And that only makes matters worse. That only makes his trousers strain even tighter. This may just be a game to you, but for him this is anything but innocent.

You lean in and face hovering over his, you demand again yet this time all saccharine and mellow, ‘Apologize, my prince.’

He has never been so lost in his self as he is now. Perhaps he acts in retaliation, perhaps it is merely him playing along, perhaps it is his desire leading him astray: he takes hold of your waist and in a rough, yet swift motion he pushes you with your back onto the stone. He is kneeling between your legs. Both of you are breathing heavily. He digs is fingers deeper in the soft flesh of your waist, wondering how your naked skin would feel on his. He cannot help himself, he is neither gallant or chivalrous enough as to restrain himself from it. So easily flustered you are.

‘You forget yourself, squire,’ he says, but not with anger or menace.

No, the sweetness of his voice makes your eyes widen even more.

‘Do you still consider it?’ you blurt out all of a sudden.

‘Consider what?’ Lest he may do something unbecoming, he sits back while his hands linger on your soft form.

You lean on your elbows. ‘In Riverrun you said that you wanted to take me with you, to King’s Landing—’

‘For safekeeping,’ he finishes for you, raising his eyes as to avoid having to look at you.

‘Yes,’ you whisper.

‘Do not think of that, squire. Doing that to you would be unjust of me.’

‘How so?’

‘You are no bird to be caged, are you?’

You pull your legs to yourself and he turns away from you. Awkwardly you ask, ‘What about Fishtail?’

‘I…’ He was too busy burning a man alive to think much about the horse, that is the truth of it. ‘They have it. I told them to return all of what they stole to the Eyrie in the morrow.’

And you are back to blabbering, ‘It’s a farmer’s horse, a draught horse I mean. She is really big, so those tribesmen were talking about eating her. I felt so scared for her. She is really a good horse, if only not so fast as my mistress would like.’

You are nervous. He has unsettled you. Likely, it is guilt which finally makes his manhood soften. As you speak he arranges both of your capes so your heads may rest on them. The sooner the two of you fall asleep, the sooner dawn breaks, the sooner he can get you to the Eyrie and make sure to keep at least five meters of distance between the two of you. For your own wellbeing.

‘Let’s go to sleep,’ he interrupts your monologue on prejudices about draught horses and how your Fishtail truly is rather agile.

Your mouth falls shut and you give a stiff nod.

‘Will you take it off now?’ you ask, making him arch an eyebrow. ‘The patch, I mean.’

He did not intend to, even if sleeping with it on is uncomfortable. When he does not reply, you say, ‘It is just that I imagine it is unpleasant to sleep with it on.’

He has an inkling that that there is more to you asking this of him. Do you want to see? You will be disappointed then, because it is not pretty sight. But that will be good. If he takes it off, if you see how repellent he is, you may as well realize that whatever transpired just now, will come to nothing. With adept fingers, so used to doing this every evening, he loosens the knot and let the patch fall down. Yet, you do not flinch, you do not frown. You just smile at him, at the gap in his face filled uselessly with a sapphire.

‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ you just say.

What is he to do with you?

As you lay down, he throws some light twigs on the fire. You have laid down on your side, back facing him. It is for the better he supposes. He draws the blanket over your first, before crawling underneath it himself. He lays on his side away from you.

‘Drymilla.’

‘Hm?’

‘If you wake before I, do not approach Vhagar.’

A moment of silence before you admit, ‘Alright then.’

Staring into the fire, he listens to Vhagar’s deep snoring. Sleep does not take him for another hour.

He wakes in the morrow with an ache in his back and your head resting on his chest. As soon as he realizes that the weight on his waist is your arm wrapped around his body, he is wide awake. Grey sunlight is seeping into the cave, the fire is long dead, yet he is warm—covered as he is by the blanket and, well, by you. You are breathing evenly. So serene do you look that he barely thinks twice about reaching out, trailing his fingertips over your cheek. You stir slightly, but you do not wake.

He should wake you. You should be on your way. But he does not find it in himself to break this moment. This is likely the only time in his life that he will be able to see you like this. Sound asleep, peaceful, comfortable—in his embrace.

But you wake mere moments later by your own accord. Blinking against the gray light you yawn and stretch, apparently not minding that you are practically draped over the body of a prince.

‘Good morrow, squire,’ he breaks the silence.

At this you tense. A second passes by, another and then you shift your head so you can look up at him.

‘Seven hells,’ you curse and you sit up with a jolt. ‘Good morrow, prince, ehm—apologies for…’

‘I suppose that I make a rather good pillow.’

You stretch your neck, right then left, and admit, ‘I am not sure. My whole body hurts.’

‘So does mine.’

You grimace, but keep silent. You are looking at his face, at his eye—and the one missing—with not an ounce of repulsion, but only warmth. There is a whole lot of things he would want to do to you now, but he cannot. Should not. It is no mere affection he feels for you, it is something deeper and more refined. But what use is it to either of you if all of it would amount to nothing? With a hum he stands and sets to gather his belongings. You do the same. Once both of you are readied, you tread to the entrance of the cave, but he grabs hold of your arm.

‘Behind me, squire.’

‘Fourth time is the charm,’ you mutter.

Now he wonders, do you even like him or is it just his dragon that has piqued your interest? Brushing aside the thought he steps forward. He keeps hold of your arm, if only to make sure you remain behind. Outside, Vhagar is already awake, her eyes open and wary of her strange surroundings. As soon as she sees her rider, she lifts her head. You, gasping, take hold of the back of Aemond’s clothes and clench your hand in the fabric. There is always a hint of danger to a dragon. They are never truly tamed, let alone a beast so ancient and strong-willed as Vhagar. As soon as she notices that her rider is not alone, that there is a strange smell coming from him, she bares her teeth and groans.

‘Rāpirī, Vhagar,’ he calls.

That is the moment you decide to set half a step forward, so the dragon may see more of you. Vhagar immediately lunges for you, so abruptly that Aemond curses. But her head comes to rest right in front of your face. She smells you, sniffing roughly. One hand clenched hard in Aemond’s garments, the other squeezing his lower arm, you let the dragon judge you. Vhagar shows you her teeth once again.

‘Daor,’ Aemond grumbles.

The dragon looks at him, as if displeased, but then turns away her head. She has obeyed. She will not be a threat to you. Only now does he dare to exhale.

‘I do not think she likes me much,’ you say, a slight shiver in your voice. ‘Yet.’

He chuckles at your last addition. Shaking his head he takes you to where the ropes hang dangling for Vhagar’s side.

‘Ladies first,’ he offers.

As soon as you take hold of the rope, Vhagar stirs, but, seeing her rider close by, she does not lash out.

Swallowing you look up. ‘Seven hells, why is she so big?’

‘She is more than one hundred and fifty years old, that is why.’

‘Mother Rhoyne be good.’ You are already climbing the rope when you call down to him. ‘Do you think I will be the first Rhoynar to have flown on dragon back?’

‘Likely.’

He has you sit in front of him on the saddle. You are fidgeting, but he does not comment on it. Instead he just focuses on attaching the chain of the saddle to your belt.

‘You only have one,’ you comment.

‘I will be fine without it,’ he assures.

You give him a side-eyed look, but do not comment on it. He grins at your unusual anxiety.

‘Do not tell me you are scared now,’ he whispers in your ear. ‘You all but begged me to introduce you to my sweet, sweet Vhagar.’

‘Introduce! I never asked to—’

And with a grin he interrupts you, calling out to Vhagar, ‘Sōvēs!’

She is extra rowdy this morning. She takes off in a steep angle, as if testing whether Aemond truly can ride her unshackled to the saddle. He holds on tightly, but is rather unfased. She does this now and then, test his limits. Vhagar likes to keep him on edge.

You, however, are screaming. Eyes closed, hands wrapped tightly at the handles of the saddle, you scream your lungs out. As if you are not going up to meet the skies, but falling to your death. Only when Vhagar has reached high enough of an altitude to come to somewhat of a horizontal float, does your mouth finally fall shut. You blink, looking up at the skies and exclaim, ‘Mother Rhoyne keep me safe!’

He laughs.

‘What do you think of this, water girl, soaring through the high skies?’

‘I think I prefer a boat,’ you proclaim. And then daring to look down you add, ‘Aye, but the view is pretty. If not lethal!’

‘The view is not deadly, squire, unless you fall down of course.’

‘Do not speak of falling now, I beg of you.’

He laughs and calling out a command to Vhagar he cannot help but wrap one arm around your waist. ‘I will not let you fall, Drymilla.’

And that silences you, calms you. On dragon back the return to the Eyrie hardly takes up an hour. The flight last too shortly in his opinion, and when he calls Vhagar to descend, he does so with reluctance. As he unfastens the chain attached to your belt, you lean so that your hand comes to rest on his shoulder. A smile so delicate, so mellow blooms on your face he quickly has to avert his gaze. Once both of you are safe and well on the rocky land, you say, ‘Vhagar, thank you for not burning me alive.’

The dragon looks at you uninterested. That is likely the best scenario you could have hoped for.

‘You gain nothing by thanking her,’ Aemond says as you set to make your way up to the Bloody Gate.

‘I told you I would charm her,’ you reply.

Men of the Vale stand atop the cliffs flanking the steep path, yet they have not raised their bows, nor made any comment. The two of you make your way up to the Eyrie in silence. Now and then Aemond reaches out a hand to help you over a tricky spot in the road. Once you have to grab him by the shoulder as to prevent him from falling. Yet, neither of you make any comment one the regular touches, the mundane familiarity shared between your bodies.

You only break the silence when the Eyrie looms in the distance. ‘Marvelous.’

This reminds Aemond of something. ‘Why did you come to the Vale?’

‘I begged my mistress to take me to the Wall. Alas, she does not want to go there. Too far up North, and all those men of Night’s Watch… Anyway, she suggested the Eyrie instead. It is an impressive feat of architecture as well. Oh, and she knows a lady there. Jessamyn Redfort?’

He only hums. He would ask why you want to go to the Wall, but now nearing the Eyrie once more, he suddenly feels hollowness spread in the pit of his stomach. This will be over soon. Whatever it is you shared last night, in that cave, whatever bound you together midst dragon flight, it is withering away already.

The two of you are well met at the Eyrie and immediately ushered to the Crescent Chamber, where servants quickly serve breakfast. Only when you have taken seat at the table and chose a piece of warm bread for yourself, does he take something to eat himself. Chewing on a mouthful, he pours you a glass of light ale.

‘Drink,’ he orders as he leans against the table.

You swallow and without a retort you do as commanded. You are still nursing the cup when the doors open and in comes Phaelia Santagar. As soon as her dark eyes, wide and glimmering with concern, land on you, she lets out a deep sigh.

‘Seven blessings on you, your highness.’ Without as much greeting you, she takes hold of your face and begins to inspect you. ‘By break of dawn the savages came to return sword and horse, but—You brought her back alive.’

‘I escaped by myself,’ you point out.

‘Aye, so the Redsmiths told me. Off you went, into wilderness which you know nothing about!’

‘Fish swim the same everywhere, mistress.’

Phaelia groans and looks at him from the corner of her eyes. ‘You have my gratitude, prince Aemond. She is clearly unscathed. She is still as graceless as when we were separated.’

‘She is not to be separated from her impudence, that stands for certain,’ he observes, and then, softer he adds, ‘It is good to see the two of you reunited, milady. Now, I must attend to—’

The doors open once more, this time to reveal his cousin and his nephew.

‘So you have returned, uncle,’ Lucerys speaks as he strides into the room.

Phaelia Santagar bows politely, but you remain as you are: chewing on a piece of bread. Yet, your brightened eyes are hooked on Morning, who sits on Rhaena’s shoulder. He can imagine your elation. To have seen not one but two dragons in one day: even more so, one so small as to make it difficult to fathom these beast can grow to be the size of the other.

‘I have returned the lady Santagar her squire, yes.’

Lucerys’s dark gaze drifts to you. You only lower your head, not saying much of anything. Rationally, he knows there is nothing really occurring. Still, the slight shift in Lucerys’s demeanor once has taken note of you irks Aemond. Luke may have taken his eye, but he will not get to look at you. Moving so as to obstruct the bastard’s view on you, he adds, ‘Now I can deal with you.’

This at least alarms Lucerys enough for him to set a step back. Aemond hums, pleased that he at least remains imposing enough to unsettle his dear nephew.

‘Cousin, you must now finally tell us,’ Rhaena interrupts, ‘what is it that brought you to the Eyrie?’

‘A wedding, dear Rhaena,’ Aemond speaks. ‘Yours and Lucerys’s to be precise.’

‘What do you mean, Aemond?’ Lucerys spits.

‘The queen has ordered that I and the lady Rhaena are to be married,’ he announces—to which Rhaena nervously reaches to scratch Morning over her little pink head.

‘You—you lie!’ Lucerys spits.

‘You are a bit slow, are you not, dear nephew?’

A soft, short-lived chuckle echoes through the Crescent Chamber. You. Aemond grins: amusing you was not his goal, but he is pleased he could make you laugh. Yet, you are rewarded for it with a slap on the head from your mistress. You cringe, rubbing the soar spot.

‘Do not mind my squire, princes, milady,’ Phaelia announces. ‘She is a bit dim-witted.’

You glower at her, but keep your lips sealed. Before Lucerys can say anything, Aemond explains primarily to Rhaena, ‘I believe neither I nor the lady Rhaena are much thrilled at the match the queen has planned. And so I propose that we… make my sister review this matter by changing the circumstances.’ Folding his hands behind his back, he nears his cousin. ‘Marry Lucerys, Rhaena, and be rid of me before we are forced to torment each other till death to us part.’

‘How can I be sure that you are not lying?’ Rhaena asks.

‘I have no reason to lie to you. Whatever qualms I have, I have with that one—’ He nods to Lucerys. ‘—not with you.’

Rhaena’s attention drift to Lucerys, but then she lowers her gaze immediately. ‘You are too presuming. Lucerys and I—’

‘Oh, please, do not begin,’ Aemond interrupts. Now he does address his nephew, ‘I have no interest to hear you two whine like children. If you must be difficult about it, go do it away from my breakfast.’

Assertively he sits down on the chair opposite of yours. Lucerys, clearly beyond insulted, grabs hold of Rhaena’s wrist and says, ‘You are foul company either way.’

With that he drags the lady Rhaena with him. Yet, with them gone, it is the lady Phaelia’s gaze which torments him. She seems puzzled, she seems suspecting of something unbecoming. Placing a hand on your shoulder she says, ‘We will leave you to break fast in peace, your highness.’

And he wants to assure that your company would not be unwelcome, but he cannot. Not when Phaelia is looking so grim, not when she is digging her fingers so deep in your shoulder.

You make another attempt at a courtesy—again, failing to master the art— and mumble, ‘Thank you again, my prince, for… everything.’

Thus you follow in your mistress’s trail. He is sad to see you go, but that is all there can ever be between the two of you: fragile, fleeting moments, doomed to end in unsatisfying goodbyes.

He would ask you to dance. The wedding celebration, although arranged haphazardly, is joyous and bright and filled to the brim with invigorating rhythms and sweet melodies. While the Eyrie hosts many beautiful ladies, all he has eye for is you. You are wearing that pretty yet peculiar damask dress again. As you are now, a glowing smile on your face, all he wants is to ask you to dance, but he cannot. Instead he is forced to stand at the sidelines as you are invited to the dance floor by others, squires and pages: men closer to you in standing.

He supposes that even if he were to ask you, the two of you would manage nothing a but a stumble of limbs. The lowborn have rather different dancing customs. He does not think you would be able to make sense of the steps he has been taught since boyhood and he would only be confused by what you think can be called dancing. And so the torture of you being courted by others is all that he is bestowed on this merry night.

At least he has successfully avoided his own wedding. For now. In due time his mother will surely force another proper match on him. As he watches you being twirled around and laugh, he wonders what he will do the next time. He cannot find a decent match for every lady his mother and sister try to betroth to him.

‘Prince Aemond.’

He tenses at the sound of Phaelia Santagar’s voice behind him. The lady, dressed in cordial men’s clothing, comes to stand beside him. Although he has made a point of looking elsewhere now, Phaelia has without a doubt noticed who he had been staring at.

‘Lady Santagar,’ he greets her flatly.

She does not speak immediately, but when she speaks, it is with a strained voice, ‘She told me what happened.’

He only hums.

The lady goes on, ‘She told me that nothing unbecoming happened, but…’

‘Speak plainly, Phaelia,’ he interrupts. ‘You always ascertain that you are no lady. So then we will speak as men.’

She straightens her back a bit and then turns to face him head on. ‘You did not bed her?’

‘There was no bed in the cave,’ he replies, although behind his back he is clenching his hands around each other hard.

‘Your highness, I am well aware that given your standing you may do as you please to my squire. But I will not stand for—’

‘Were you so opposed when she gave herself to previous lovers?’

‘Are you her lover then?’ she hisses, eyes wide.

Inside he is seething. Inside he is raging. How dare this woman berate him? Yet, he cannot let his anger show. Yet, he cannot even blame her. She is right in watching over you. She is justified in being concerned over the times when you are alone with him.

‘No,’ he says.

At this she lets out a deep sigh. ‘My apologies, your highness. It is just…’

‘You do not have to explain yourself. I understand well enough why you worry.’ She frowns and he adds, ‘She has grown on me.’

And with that he leaves. He cannot look at you dancing with another for a second longer.

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