im awake

He visited Aemond’s quarters after the festivities for the day were over. Invited his grandson to sit, his eyes severe, but Aemond did not flinch away.

“Grandsire,” he greeted. “What brings you here?”

Otto gave him a plain look. “You very well know what brings me here, Aemond.”

“Arthur Tyrell’s death,” he acknowledged. “A tragic accident, one that I deeply regret… I, of course, gave Lady Tyrell my condolences.”

“As did I.” The Hand scrutinised him. “She had no doubt that it was an accident, but I have my own reservations, grandson.”

Aemond had to stop his mouth from curling. “I can assure you that it was. I have jousted with many men and hit many of their necks—not once have I ever killed a man. By all counts, Ser Arthur should have lived like all my other opponents. It is unfortunate that he did not. I suspect there was a deficiency in his armour.”

“Yes, his armour.” The Hand, ever discerning, said, “As it happens, I tried to speak to Ser Arthur’s squire—to discipline the boy, of course. But it appears that he left the city in the midst of the tourney—slipped away after you won the joust. Rode out with haste, as I hear it.”

“To escape your discipline, I'm sure.”

“Interesting that he anticipated being found guilty before anyone accused him.”

It took Aemond effort not to frown. He did curse the boy after seeing his premature departure: he had told him to wait to go until the evening, or at the very least to slip out with some subtlety. Instead, the boy ran as soon as Aemond had crowned you as his queen of love and beauty. Aemond had noticed it even though he was blind in one eye; surely, a number of other people also had.

“Who knows what goes on in the mind of a commoner,” he deflected.

“Who knows, indeed,” Otto replied, “though I certainly know what goes on in the mind of the guilty.” The Hand sighed, finally discarding the charade. “I know you are attached to your cousin,” he said almost patiently, “but to jeopardise our relationship with a great house… I did not think it was in your character to behave so rashly, Grandson. Next time you find yourself fretting over the girl, I would much rather you simply speak to me before killing another man.”

Aemond was not stupid enough to let Otto’s congeniality fool him. Acting as if I am his conspirator while he’s in truth my puppetmaster. It would work on my brother.

“I know not what you mean, Grandsire. In truth, I was indeed displeased about my cousin's arrangement, but I did not wish to slay Ser Arthur over the matter. All I have ever done is in service to our family. I would not ever think to risk our standing with your liege lord.”

Otto considered him carefully. “You would not,” he said. “Not even over her, I think.”

“I thank you for recognising my loyalty, Grandsire.” Aemond allowed himself to relax. “How is Lady Tyrell handling her stepson’s passing?”

“Better than I would have expected.” The Hand sat, and that was when Aemond knew he truly had fooled the old man. “I do believe that the death of Ser Arthur solved her own looming conflict of succession. She may have no sons, but I am quite certain she is still trying for one. She may well have thanked you for killing Ser Arthur, had it been appropriate.”

Aemond pretended to be surprised. See, Grandsire, he wished he could say, I would never risk your standing with your liege lord. “The squire,” he murmured, “do you think—”

“My guess was either her or you,” Otto admitted. “Though Ser Arthur is disliked by a fair number of the Marcher knights. I am sure more than one of them envied you for having done the deed.”

“Ser Criston did not like him,” Aemond relayed.

“Ser Criston had good reason not to,” his grandsire admitted. “I am sure he has told you of Ser Arthur’s reputation. Still, his death puts us in a precarious position. I know you did not like the betrothal between Ser Arthur and your cousin, but you would have benefitted from it.”

He was careful not to frown. He spoke quietly, as if using a softer voice would keep his rage subtle: “And how,” he asked, “would I have benefitted from seeing my cousin marry a raper?”

Aemond expected any number of answers: It would help us secure the Throne. It would help our standing within the Reach. You would have a friend in a great house. You would be free from a foreign waif who has only ever dragged you down.

What Otto said instead was: “You could have stayed close to her. She would have been safe, and she might as well have been yours.”

He was startled. Otto’s mouth slanted. “Do you take me for a fool, grandson? Your cousin is a lady of House Targaryen and a ward of Alicent Hightower. I would not have let any harm come to her, lest our name be tarnished.”

“Easy enough for public slights,” Aemond agreed. “But the marriage bed is a private place.”

Otto gave him a wry look. “What care would anyone have for privacy when she has the power to destroy all of Highgarden? She has a dragon, and should Ser Arthur have been stupid enough to forget that fact, then I would have simply sent you to visit on Vhagar to remind him. Though I would have hardly needed to. If you had any wits about you, you would have visited her every sennight to continue your affair. Why, you could have even started living in Oldtown with your brother—Vhagar could easily cross the distance between the two cities in an hour.” Otto gave him a meaningful look. “A much more pleasant trip than the one to Winterfell or the Iron Islands, wouldn't you agree?”

Aemond's throat felt dry. “Weekly trysts would have been poor consolation for seeing my cousin wedded to a monster.”

“Then I suppose I should congratulate you. Your cousin will not wed a monster of my choosing—she will now align herself with the blacks, and is sure to wed a monster of Rhaenyra’s choosing instead.”

There it is. Aemond feigned concern. “She plans to align herself with the blacks?”

“Prince Jacaerys offered her the choice just yesterday. She only declined because of the betrothal to Ser Arthur—and now that that's gone, it is only a matter of time before she departs for Dragonstone.”

He was unsurprised. Anyone with eyes could tell that the blacks were hungry for your coin, your dragon, and very likely the opportunity of your marriage. Jacaerys may have been hungry for you alone, though. His bastard nephew had always been far too fond of you, and it did not escape Aemond how this fondness had now evolved into overt lust. Doubtless he saw you in that Lysene dress during the feast and resolved to bring you to Dragonstone to take his pleasure with you—and to eventually discard you once Rhaenyra decided on who should be his future queen.

Aemond could not think of it. He could not think of his bastard nephew trying to steal you away, let alone dishonouring you. The only thing that kept him sane was that he knew you would never leave him. Jacaerys had already once pleaded with you to come to Dragonstone with him when you were children, and you chose to stay for Aemond. Aegon had suggested you leave for Lys after your father’s death came to light, and again you chose to stay for Aemond.

You would always come back to Aemond: this was an inevitability. He knew that, but his grandsire did not, and he would use that to his advantage.

“You think it will pose a threat to us,” Aemond observed calmly, “if she aligns herself with Rhaenyra.”

Otto seemed to ponder it. “I do not think,” he said slowly, “that your cousin would ever wish to move openly against us. Against me, perhaps—but not you. So I would not call it a threat, per se, but an inconvenience. It gives Rhaenyra leverage that could otherwise belong to us. I would rather have your cousin stay here.”

“Then marry her to me.”

The Hand studied him for a long, quiet moment. At his stony expression, Aemond wondered if he had erred, but then his grandsire laughed.

“Splendidly done,” Otto said. “I’d have rejected your proposal outright a sennight ago, but I find myself compelled by it now. Alas, I have other plans for your betrothal, and they are worth more than your cousin.”

Worth more. The words grated him, frayed at his temper.

“My cousin,” Aemond replied carefully, “has a dragon. She has enough wealth to own half of Lys. And our children would be pure-blooded Targaryens—dragonriders, all of them.” Every single one of their eggs would hatch, Aemond knew. And the two of you would raise them fiercely, see that they became kings and queens and true dragonlords. No one would be able to touch them. No one would ever take an eye from any one of them. “What match could possibly be worth more than that?”

His grandfather gave him a long look. “Do not allow yourself to fall into the trap that your uncle did,” he cautioned. “When it comes to the Throne, there are things more important than dragons and blood.”

“Dragons and blood are how my forebears came to rule this land.”

“Yes—and Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Rhaenys all have both. Yet they do not rule, and they never will. Why do you think that is?”

Aemond did not reply. He'd read the histories, studied the intricacies of the Realm. Loath as he was to admit it, he was a Hightower as well as a Targaryen, and he would be a fool not to acknowledge the power of diplomatic cunning.

His mouth thinned as Otto observed him.

“All I ask is that you do what is needed to ensure that your brother’s claim is secure,” the old man said, “so that our family may stay safe. It is not just your life that depends on it—it is your brothers’ and sister’s and mother’s as well.”

His mother. He could never betray his mother, and his grandsire knew that, but he found himself asking, jaw tight, “And after? After the Throne is secure?” After I have lost countless nights to study and endless days to training and now my cousin too? All so that the Iron Throne may be squandered on a wastrel who is not fit to rule, who may not even keep Mother safe after all?

The tension was evident in Aemond’s voice, but Otto was unbothered.

“And after the Throne is secure, I am sure that your wife will fall off a horse, leaving you free to marry your lady cousin. I would ordinarily prohibit it, but I know that would be a futile endeavour with you.” Otto seemed tired, as if Aemond’s games were beneath him. “Do try to be more delicate about it when you kill your cousin's husband, though. If you must rely on the same kind of trick you did today, at the very least you should see to it that the squire is killed thereafter.”

Aemond did not have time to react before his grandsire rose. Otto Hightower paused at the door as he departed, giving his grandson a wry look.

“I look forward to meeting whatever great-grandchildren the two of you shall eventually give me. I have no doubt that they will be remarkable. If the gods are good, they will inherit all of your strength and all of her wits—not the other way around.”

IX. FIVE OF SWORDS

The second morn of the tournament was as lovely as the first, with clear skies and a gentle wind: a perfect backdrop for a melee. The crowd was abuzz with laughter and excitement, gathered around the tiltyard—today cleared of its partition, and filled instead with two dozen men and their mounts. Blunted morningstars, dulled greatswords, and polished armour gleamed in the sunlight as the men prepared to ride, carrying shields and cloaks steeped in the colours of their various houses. You only knew a limited amount about cavalry formations and swordsmanship—most of what you'd ever learned from Aemond pertained to dragon warfare—but from what you could hear of their conversation, you could tell that they were discussing tactics among themselves.

You sat with Rhaenyra and Luke today, for Rhaenyra had invited you to join them, and you could hardly turn her down: aside from not having a reasonable excuse for politely declining the wishes of the crown princess, your only other alternative was to sit with Aegon. He might not have been a terrible company were he sober, but he was still so drunk from the festivities the night before that he would surely harass you in Aemond’s absence.

You could not help but frown at being without Aemond. He had said he would sit out of the melee and simply spectate with you today, but your champion was currently once more in the tiltyard. At the feast the night before, he'd overheard that Jacaerys and Prince Daemon would be competing in the melee today; you should not have been surprised when Aemond showed up this morning with his black and gold armour, sword in hand.

It worried you, seeing Aemond in the same ring as Jacaerys. He had no love for Jace and had demonstrated no remorse after killing a man just the day before. You hoped that he would have more compassion for his nephew, perhaps even an inkling of fondness by consequence of their blood relation, but it was a slim hope and likely delusional. Your only comfort was that it was not Luke on the tiltyard: you would genuinely be worried for his life, if he were. Aemond would probably only injure or humiliate Jace at most, rather than attempt outright murder.

Still, you did not wish to see your beloved cousin be either maimed or humiliated.

“How do you think Jace will fare?” you asked Rhaenyra, trying not to seem apprehensive.

“Daemon has been teaching him,” the Princess relayed, “and says he's come along quite far in his training.”

But so has Aemond, you tried not to say. “I am glad for it. I am quite excited to see how he’ll fight.”

“Excited?” Aegon yelled, clearly having eavesdropped. “Would you be excited enough to hedge your bets on him?”

The notion of coin made you perk up. “Why, cousin? Do you wish to start a pool?”

“I do have a fondness for betting on fights. It is a pastime of mine.”

You raised a brow. “A pastime? What kind of fights are you betting on so often? Dogfights?”

Aegon smiled. “Dogs among other creatures,” he replied vaguely, speech slurred, “including distinguished princes of the Realm. Will you be betting today, my lady? Perhaps on my nephew? Or perhaps my brother? I'm sure he would fight valiantly for the kind of reward you would give him, as his Queen of Love and Beauty.”

You ignored his untoward implication. “Neither. I would bet fifty gold dragons on Prince Daemon.”

Various men in the crowd turned to you.

“Fifty? When Dayne and Selmy are fighting?” one of them asked.

“Prince Daemon has more battle experience than them,” you replied neatly.

“Experience on a dragon. And true battle is different from a tourney melee, my lady. Remember that he lost to Ser Criston the last time he was in a tourney. You have little knowledge of warfare if you think his experience in the skies means anything here.”

“If you are certain that he will lose, then you may wager against me. Our winnings will speak to our knowledge of warfare.”

One of the lords snorted. “A bold choice when the fairer sex are not versed in either battle or swords. But if my lady wishes to throw away her money in this game, then I shall play.”

“No,” another decided. “She may be a woman, but she has the right of it. I've heard of Prince Daemon's exploits in the Stepstones—I shall wager twenty gold on him myself.”

And thus the betting began. In truth, you were not so interested in making a profit; you only wished to endear yourself to Rhaenyra. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed that she was looking at you approvingly. Good. Best to play both sides. You did not want Aemond’s ruse of courtship to alienate you from her faction—you intended to stay a neutral party until the end of time.

But the appearance of neutrality was difficult when Jace rode by, easing his charger to a halt as he gazed up at you. Poised in his darksteel armour and branded by the three-headed dragon emblazoned across his chest plate, Jacaerys undeniably bore the countenance of a Targaryen prince. Noble ladies ordinarily gazed upon him with judgment over his bastardy; a great number of them today were instead smiling coyly and laughing prettily. Your whole body felt tight with agitation; how could they flip so easily from cruelty to admiration?

You tried not to let it bother you.

“Good morrow, cousin!” you greeted, leaning perilously over the edge of the tilting barrier. “Do you feel prepared for this battle?”

Jace seemed at ease. “It will be an interesting test of my abilities, and a good chance to familiarise myself with the finest knights of the realm.”

You blinked. “Such confidence!”

His brow arched. “Should I be anything other than confident?”

Yes, you thought immediately, glancing at Aemond. He was eyeing the both of you carefully, face unreadable but heart quite obvious to you: he deeply disliked that his nephew was talking to you.

“Well,” you asked, “wouldn't anyone be?”

Jace studied you a moment. “Caution is wise in every battle,” he conceded. “But if you are so concerned for me, I am sure that a token from you would help me greatly in this melee.”

You gave Jacaerys a long stare, uncomprehending. He looked at you expectantly, and it was only when he raised a brow that you realised he was requesting something of you.

“...are you,” you asked haltingly, afraid that you had assumed wrongly and would embarrass yourself, “asking… for my favour?”

Jace inclined his head. “Does it surprise you?”

“Yes?” you replied, voice oddly high. “No one ever asks for my favours!”

“Mine uncle just asked you for it yesterday.”

Your face grew warm. For whatever reason, the memory made you feel distinctly—embarrassed? Self-conscious? You were unused to receiving public attention that was not at least slightly cruel, so the whole affair had left you feeling off-kilter. “That was different,” you insisted. You could not explain with so many other people around that it was merely a ruse, so you added, “Aemond is my cousin.”

“As am I.”

“...”

You could hardly deny Jacaerys when he put it that way. You did not want to openly play favourites between the two of them when they were both your kin; and besides, you equally loved them. It felt only fair to give Jace your favour today if you gave it to Aemond yesterday, especially if he explicitly wished for it.

Once more feeling like a toy being fought over between two quarreling children, you fished out your handkerchief from your dress.

“I did not prepare a proper favour this time, as I did not anticipate a need,” you said. “This is all I can offer. Forgive my poor needlework. I will not be offended if you choose not to accept it.”

“Nothing could make me decline it,” he reassured you, receiving the soft cotton, “And surely your needlework can't be that bad. Every Targaryen lady is educated in—”

Jace stopped as he looked at the cloth. He squinted at the embroidery.

“Is this a dog?”

Your mouth opened, closed. “No! It is a dragon!”

“It looks more like a dog.”

“Jace!”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Don't be so distressed, cousin. It’s a very cute dog.”

“Alright—that’s it. Give that back here!”

“I don't think I will,” Jace said neatly. “Not to worry, my lady—I shall wear it with pride.”

You gave him a sour look. “I would kill you if you did not.”

Jace smiled as he rode off. As he passed by Aemond, you caught the two of them exchanging hostile glances. Your silver-haired cousin stared at you coolly as well, and you could only shrug and give him a weak smile. Sorry, you said with your eyes.

We will talk later, you knew he was replying with his.

The men assumed formation, quieting. Their horses whickered as they waited, sensing the tension among their riders. Daemon and Jace were on one side, both at the forefront; Aemond was on the other. The drums pounded as the two parties regarded one another, the crowd buzzing… and then, finally—the horn sounded, quickly followed by the screams of all the horses, the mad thunder of their hooves against the dirt.

It was difficult to make out what was happening among the tangle of swords and men, blades glaring in sunlight as steel crashed against steel. You heard the men crying as they clashed: Starfall! Riverrun! For the Vale! You wondered what Jace would say—Dragonstone, you supposed? So far away from the Iron Throne, the seat that he was meant to inherit? But Jace did not yell: he was wordless as he knocked away swords and men alike, your favour clear on his wrist.

Your cousin was skilled: this much was apparent to you. It startled you to see him cutting down men, his sword moving deftly among the others as his mount kicked and charged fearlessly. Yet there were men who seemed even faster, stronger. Aemond might have been one of them, for while Jace carried himself with the demeanour of a prince, his uncle always moved like a lethal weapon. You winced as his sword crashed against the gorget of several men; had they not been fastened correctly, they may well have died.

Some of the mounts fell; other men left them as they were challenged to single combat duels. As the opposing group shattered, Daemon’s men began to turn on one another, the team cannibalising itself in the quest for a single victor. You nearly fainted when you saw Aemond cutting a straight line for Jace; it was impossible to tell what his expression was behind his faceplate, but it was likely apoplectic.

“I may have erred,” you moaned.

Rhaenyra glanced at you. “For giving my son your favour?”

You swallowed. “I did not think it would anger your half-brother so.” At least, not this much, you thought privately.

Rhaenyra gave you a reassuring smile. “Have some faith in your cousin, my lady,” she said. “My son has trained hard and well over the years.”

You tried to believe her, but your faith was undeniably weak. It was difficult to keep your composure for Jacaerys’ sake, suppressing every flinch of your body every time their swords clashed. Perhaps your favour protected him, for he was—for a time—an even match for Aemond. His uncle’s movements were rapidfire, smooth and deft, but Jace blocked each stroke, and his returning blows were more powerful—shockingly heavy for his slim frame. You wondered for a moment if he had somehow inherited the instincts of Ser Harwin Strong. Breakbones, they’d called him.

But Aemond had been training his whole life against the heft of a morningstar, the might of Ser Criston. He parried Jace flawlessly, his sword brutal and relentless, and you nearly covered your eyes when Jacaerys’ shield shattered in his hand. You outright whimpered when he took a blow to the head. But he did not yield, nor did he allow himself to falter for long—he righted himself and countered each time, forcing Aemond back a step.

You were surprised when Aemond distanced himself and stopped. Jacaerys was too, you noticed, for he hesitated. His opponent lifted his faceplate during the lull in battle, and you were seated near enough to make out the fine details of his expression.

You did not like the look of it.

“Well done, nephew!” Aemond called, loudly enough for some of the crowd to hear. “I see you have improved greatly… you've become a fine swordsman. Courageous, clever, and… strong.”

The commons cheered at the false sportsmanship, but a hush fell over all the nobles who had heard the exchange. You glanced at the other greens—Queen Alicent and Helaena and the Hand—and even they seemed uncomfortable, although Aegon was unsurprisingly gleeful.

You supposed it was sensible that Alicent looked about as appalled as you felt. Aemond had always had a cruel streak over Jace’s heritage, but this behaviour was both cruel and stupid. Setting the court aflame with new whispers of Jacaerys’ lineage was one thing; doing it in a way that would openly draw the ire of Rhaenyra’s supporters was another. It was utterly mind boggling. King Viserys will surely want his tongue for this, you thought to yourself, for he had always cared more for Rhaenyra and her sons than the well-being of any of Alicent’s children.

Part of you wondered what madness had seized Aemond for him to do something so abjectly stupid—but mostly you worried for Jacaerys. With his helm on, it was impossible to make out his expression, but he was doubtless furious. Worse yet, he needed to keep a tight rein on his anger—something that he'd always struggled to do when it came to his bloodline. But a public, vicious reaction right now would look more damning than it would save him any face.

A vicious reaction was what had damned Ser Harwin and driven him away from the court all those years ago, after all.

Rhaenyra evidently remembered this too, for her face was dark but her mouth was still. She could not defend Jace either, nor could Luke, whose expression had crinkled up into worry. Daemon—who was mad enough to duel without a faceplate—looked openly disdainful, but he could hardly take his attention away from his opponent.

Nobody else could speak up for Jace. It could only be you.

You stood, drawing numerous eyes to you.

“Aegon!” you bellowed, and your cousin nearly jumped. He stared blankly at you, and the rest of the audience followed suit, finally distracted from Aemond’s insults. Pariahs and wastrels made for entertaining spectacle; it was no surprise that everyone was now watching you with interest, as they had for nearly two decades.

“You wished to wager on those two young princes, did you not?” you asked Aegon. “I have decided I shall accept.”

He blinked. “Accept?”

“Yes,” you said neatly. Your voice was trim, but loud enough for all to hear. “I will be wagering half a hundred gold dragons on Prince Jacaerys.”

A frenzy overtook the stands. Half a hundred gold dragons was nothing to scoff at, and you were openly betting against the man who had all but declared his intent to court you the day before. Jacaerys was no longer the only one being humiliated on the field.

Forgive me, Aemond, you thought miserably, but I did warn you to be diplomatic.

“Half a hundred!” someone yelled, scandalised. “Against Prince Aemond?”

“The Crown Prince has unseated three men and forced just as many to yield,” you replied simply. For good measure, you added, “As expected of a true Targaryen prince.”

“She speaks sensibly,” a nearby lord hummed. “It is a closer match than one would expect. I would put coin on Prince Jacaerys as well. Twenty dragons.”

“Hoh! Then I shall bet on Prince Aemond myself,” Aegon decided. “I look forward to being seventy dragons richer.”

“Eager to be robbed, I see,” you replied flippantly, and this further incensed the betting men.

When you sat down again, Luke leaned toward you, whispering loudly from Rhaenyra’s other side. He seemed disconcerted—concerned for you. If you overlooked his lack of repentance over Aemond’s eye, you would call him a sweet boy.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “People will speak ill of you for this!”

Betting pointedly and openly against Prince Aemond would indeed invite disdain, but you only shrugged at the observation. “The more they whisper about me, the less they will whisper about your brother.”

Though truthfully, with the betting pool growing so large, the crowd was now fixated on their wagers more than anything. The bids became outlandish; the predictions, equally so. Selmy and Daemon were probably the two strongest contenders for champion in truth; Jacaerys and Aemond were green in comparison to the two. But with the buzz you had just created, it was as if the two seasoned warriors were forgotten.

You wondered if it was being overlooked that enraged Daemon or if he was simply acting to protect the claim of his stepson and faction. The Rogue Prince cut into the fray, his eyes cold on Aemond and his sword gleaming in the sunlight.

“You have done well for yourself, nephew,” Daemon said. “Before you continue your match with the Crown Prince, I would like to challenge you.”

Aemond’s gaze sharpened as his uncle confronted him. “How eager you must be to fight me, Nuncle,” he retorted, “that you must interrupt my battle with Prince Jacaerys.”

“It would disappoint me if you lost to my stepson and I could not fight you myself.”

Aemond’s single eye was filled with something frenetic, something frightening. People around you murmured of his bloodlust, but you knew better: he was not hungry for blood, but for recognition. He wanted acknowledgement from the most fearsome Targaryen prince of this era.

He took the bait.

As the two began to circle one another, Selmy squared off with Jace. The Marcher knight disarmed your cousin with the kind of civility that one would expect from a tourney fight. It was clear that they were battling to showcase their skills, rather than having a contest of their killing intent.

The match between the Princes Aemond and Daemon was different: brutal and harsh, blows heavy and destructive. Even with dulled blades and full armor, you found yourself sitting at attention, your gut swimming with worry. For the first time in years, it occurred to you that the prince was not infallible in battle: that Aemond One-Eye could not only lose, but also be killed.

Daemon’s blade smashed against Aemond’s shield. The three-headed dragon painted across it fractured into splinters, and you could not help but jump to your feet as he discarded its remains.

Aemond was on the defensive. He was not being humiliated, but he was clearly outmatched. Briefly, you thought of all those hours spent in the tiltyard when he was a small, lonesome boy, constantly checked and kicked and thrown into the ground. Daemon’s blade sang as it crashed into his nephew’s helm, and then you thought of the red gash where Aemond’s eye used to be, swollen and oozing and stitched together as he lay in bed.

You tasted copper, and you realised then that you had bit your lip hard enough to break skin. It stung bitterly, but Aemond’s pain must have been worse.

Your cousin yielded in the end. Selmy did too, once Daemon resumed his battle with him. Daemon thus claimed the title of champion, but you hardly paid any mind to the gold you collected from his victory. You only wanted to go to Aemond.

It frustrated you that you first had to disentangle yourself from the blacks. You forced yourself to do the polite thing, waiting with Rhaenyra to greet Daemon and Jacaerys—though this was not so terrible, as you did truly want to check on your dark-haired cousin. You congratulated them both, japed about the gold you made off the former, and shrugged off all that you'd lost from betting on the latter.

“I did not think that you would bet so much on me,” Jace said.

“It was a fair enough match for it to be a reasonable wager,” you lied, and you suspected that Jace was too discerning to believe you. You thought of making another jape to deflect his suspicions, but you were too distracted. You kept glancing at Aemond’s lone figure, a horrible knot in your stomach.

So focused on him were you that you nearly jumped when cold metal ghosted your jaw. Jacaerys’ armored fingers rested against your skin; his thumb pressed near your lip.

“You're bleeding,” he remarked, frowning.

“Oh,” you replied dumbly. “Yes. I bit my lip.”

“Does it hurt?”

“I guess so,” you realised. Jace seemed concerned, his sleek brow knotted, and you could not for the life of you understand why. “You need not worry, cousin. ‘Tis only a cut.”

Aemond was looking at you, you noticed. His expression was unreadable, which meant he was displeased.

Your eyes returned to Jace, uneasy and uncertain. His match with Aemond had been difficult on him. It was not any bruise or blood that would linger, but the wound that Aemond had reopened about his lineage. Jace would be sullen over the humiliation, disconsolate. He probably would want your company for it, just as he always did when he was a child. But Jacaerys was surrounded by his kin, by his mother and stepfather and brother who were steadfastly loyal to him, and your other cousin was alone. This was always the way of things: for all his woes, Jacaerys had a great number of loved ones, and Aemond nearly always seemed to lack them.

Nearly always, except for you.

“Will you go to him?” Jace asked, his gaze bizarrely intense. You were not sure why. The answer should have been obvious.

“Don't I always?”

X. THE EMPEROR, REVERSED

“Look, Aemond. We match!”

Your voice rang sweetly in the privacy of Aemond’s quarters, but he knew the cheer was hollow. He caught the way your finger shook as you gestured between his bloody lip, then your own. Your other hand pressed a cold cloth against the throbbing swell of his temple; it trembled as well. And then there were your eyes, which Aemond knew so well that he could read them like a text: you were worried. Deeply, horribly worried.

Aemond looked at you now and could not help but remember the lonely but sweet-hearted girl he knew in his childhood. You were so crass and defiant nowadays that he sometimes forgot about how you once were, but it was hard not to think of your past self when you cupped his cheek with your hand. Your thumb ran gingerly along the bottom of his scar, the one that Luke had gouged into him. You did this to him many times when it was still fresh, and he had winced with the fear of pain every time, but he still let you. It never did hurt when you touched the wound though—your hand was always so gentle, so warm.

Aemond was too concerned about the blood on your mouth to feel sentimental about it, though. “Did someone do this to you?”

You blinked. “What? No, I bit my own lip too hard is all.” You frowned. “I was very worried about you, Aemond.”

“You need not have. You know I am too skilled for serious harm to come to me.”

“Actually, I’m not sure that I know you at all. I’ve never seen you do so many idiotic things in rapid succession. Please tell me what has possessed you this past day and night?”

He could not help but look at you wryly. You reminded him so much of Alicent and his grandsire at times, particularly in how you navigated court. You were not content to be a pawn, which Aemond deeply admired, but you always resisted his grandsire’s schemes with the subtle manoeuvres of a Hightower as opposed to the might of a Targaryen—often ineffectually.

“You may think my actions foolish,” Aemond said, “but you cannot deny that they worked.”

“They worked, but they were still too risky. You will sabotage yourself at this rate, Aemond.” Your brows pinched. “Starting a courtship that your family would never support? Implying treason to Jace, before a crowd of witnesses? Killing the son of a great house?”

“The death was an accident,” Aemond said immediately. You gave him an exasperated look. “A tragic one,” he added, frowning for good measure.

“Do you take me for an idiot?”

Aemond reached for your hand. You startled when his fingers brushed against yours; blinked when he came close so he could run a thumb delicately along your jaw.

“I take you for someone who knows me. Do you truly think I would jeopardise my standing in court by planning the murder of a Tyrell son?” You faltered, then. Sensing opportunity, Aemond continued: “I would not mourn him anyway, cousin. Ser Criston and I have spared you the grisly details, but I can assure you that that man was a monster. I am glad you will not be forced to give yourself to him… I shudder to think of how he may have hurt you in your marriage bed.”

Aemond need not say more. Otto Hightower thought he could keep you safe in your match to Ser Arthur, but after a lifetime of seeing you brutalised by men despite being a dragonrider, Aemond knew better—and so did you. Being a woman, there were some things that not even Targaryen blood could save you from.

Still, you were unable to admit that he was right.

“There must have been another way,” you said quietly. “It need not have come to such violence. It was… alarming, seeing you commit an act of such cruelty.”

Aemond gave you a long look. “You know that nothing else would have stopped Grandsire from making that match. Ser Arthur’s death was a tragic accident… but a fortunate one in terms of your marriage.”

Your brow cocked, but you relented. “Fine,” you conceded. “We can say it was an accident, if you like. You were still mad for courting me despite my betrothal to the Tyrells.”

“Do you dislike it?” he asked, and he delighted in the way you could not meet his eyes. Aemond did not often get to see you look so shy; he could not help but find it endearing. Someday when the two of you were finally wedded to one another, and when he could call you his wife and dote on you openly, he would make sure to draw more of these expressions out of you.

“I don't… dislike it, per se,” you said carefully, trying and failing not to sound flustered. “It is as I said—I think it is unwise. And rash. Did you even try to have an honest conversation with your grandsire about my marriage prospects before resorting to it?”

“An honest conversation would have done nothing but give him warning of my plans.” His mouth turned down. It seemed to Aemond sometimes that you were wilfully ignorant of the nature of the Hightowers despite your tremendous wits. “You know how it is in this court, in this family. For those of us who were born into lower positions, we cannot ask for anything important—we must take it for ourselves.”

You frowned. “Must we behave so cruelly to take it?”

“Cruelty is unavoidable,” Aemond murmured, “when it is our existence being threatened.”

You hummed, not agreeing—but also not disagreeing. Aemond knew you would see eye to eye. You were not unlike him: someone else who had fought for the tiniest scraps of power and respect.

“You may have a point,” you finally conceded. Then you added, voice curious, “Do you see me as something to be taken, Aemond?”

Your thumb brushed against the deep edge of his scar again. Flame and shadow flickered on his left side, where his face had been cleaved open by Rhaenyra and her sons, by the court and all its trappings. His mother had asked for justice rather than take it, and she had been humiliated and denied.

He would not allow the same thing to happen with you.

“I see you as something important to me.”

XI. SEVEN OF PENTACLES

A part of you had always known that Aemond was capable of abject cruelty.

It was not only for his mad behaviour in wanting to cut off hands and kill in trials for you. It was a matter of his family. For those born into House Targaryen without high station, it was not an option to ask for anything of true value. The first son of a second wife could not expect to live out his life safely. A second son without a hatchling could not hope to have even the slightest respect. The daughter of a foreign whore could not assume the protection of her family. Safety, respect, family—all these things had to be taken.

Not having any of them was what made Aemond lonely. Taking them was what made him cruel.

You realised you were not unsettled by it. You supposed that something must be wrong with you for your lack of remorse over Ser Arthur’s death, that you must suffer from some kind of moral deficiency for not feeling chilled at the memory of his corpse toppling from his destrier. But you were only grateful to Aemond for killing your betrothed, and it only made you feel safer near him. For as far as fears went, what truly terrified you—and had for all your life—were men like Ser Arthur.

A betrothal to a man like Ser Arthur had been your worst nightmare. Ever since you had bloomed at ten-and-two, there were far too many men who'd leered at you, grabbed at you, desired your maidenhead. The only reason that you remained protected was because the Queen and the Hand did not want anyone sullying you. But you'd always known that their protection was conditional: you'd always known that as soon as it became politically convenient, you'd be given to some lord and forced to lie with him. The best you could hope for was a man who did not wish to hurt you despite making you bleed on your marriage bed. The worst was Ser Arthur: a man who would have delighted to see you bleed and cry and suffer.

But Aemond had protected you.

Aemond had protected you, just as he always had. He’d risked his station to do it, gambling both his reputation and his relationship with his family. This had always been his way of taking care of you: fighting to gain respect, using that hard-earned power to shield you, cutting hands and piercing necks for the end of saving you. Scaring his mother so he could protect you. Being cruel so he could safekeep you.

It was not sustainable.

For those born into House Targaryen without high station, it was not an option to ask for anything of value. You had to take it. You, not Aemond—for you were grown and the Iron Throne loomed over you both, and the day was quickly approaching when he could no longer protect you.

On the final eve of the tourney, you found Prince Jacaerys and whispered into the shell of his ear:

“Meet me tonight at the hour of the wolf.”

END PART VII

if u are still somehow with me after a 2 year break and 7 smutless chapters, thank u so much i love you dearly. i actually returned to this fic for jace but unfortunately aemond is incredibly crazy and currently commanding the story because that's how his personality is. but!!! jace WILL get his romance in act 2!!

He visited Aemond’s quarters after the festivities for the day were over. Invited his grandson to sit, his eyes severe, but Aemond did not flinch away.

“Grandsire,” he greeted. “What brings you here?”

Otto gave him a plain look. “You very well know what brings me here, Aemond.”

“Arthur Tyrell’s death,” he acknowledged. “A tragic accident, one that I deeply regret… I, of course, gave Lady Tyrell my condolences.”

“As did I.” The Hand scrutinised him. “She had no doubt that it was an accident, but I have my own reservations, grandson.”

Aemond had to stop his mouth from curling. “I can assure you that it was. I have jousted with many men and hit many of their necks—not once have I ever killed a man. By all counts, Ser Arthur should have lived like all my other opponents. It is unfortunate that he did not. I suspect there was a deficiency in his armour.”

“Yes, his armour.” The Hand, ever discerning, said, “As it happens, I tried to speak to Ser Arthur’s squire—to discipline the boy, of course. But it appears that he left the city in the midst of the tourney—slipped away after you won the joust. Rode out with haste, as I hear it.”

“To escape your discipline, I'm sure.”

“Interesting that he anticipated being found guilty before anyone accused him.”

It took Aemond effort not to frown. He did curse the boy after seeing his premature departure: he had told him to wait to go until the evening, or at the very least to slip out with some subtlety. Instead, the boy ran as soon as Aemond had crowned you as his queen of love and beauty. Aemond had noticed it even though he was blind in one eye; surely, a number of other people also had.

“Who knows what goes on in the mind of a commoner,” he deflected.

“Who knows, indeed,” Otto replied, “though I certainly know what goes on in the mind of the guilty.” The Hand sighed, finally discarding the charade. “I know you are attached to your cousin,” he said almost patiently, “but to jeopardise our relationship with a great house… I did not think it was in your character to behave so rashly, Grandson. Next time you find yourself fretting over the girl, I would much rather you simply speak to me before killing another man.”

Aemond was not stupid enough to let Otto’s congeniality fool him. Acting as if I am his conspirator while he’s in truth my puppetmaster. It would work on my brother.

“I know not what you mean, Grandsire. In truth, I was indeed displeased about my cousin's arrangement, but I did not wish to slay Ser Arthur over the matter. All I have ever done is in service to our family. I would not ever think to risk our standing with your liege lord.”

Otto considered him carefully. “You would not,” he said. “Not even over her, I think.”

“I thank you for recognising my loyalty, Grandsire.” Aemond allowed himself to relax. “How is Lady Tyrell handling her stepson’s passing?”

“Better than I would have expected.” The Hand sat, and that was when Aemond knew he truly had fooled the old man. “I do believe that the death of Ser Arthur solved her own looming conflict of succession. She may have no sons, but I am quite certain she is still trying for one. She may well have thanked you for killing Ser Arthur, had it been appropriate.”

Aemond pretended to be surprised. See, Grandsire, he wished he could say, I would never risk your standing with your liege lord. “The squire,” he murmured, “do you think—”

“My guess was either her or you,” Otto admitted. “Though Ser Arthur is disliked by a fair number of the Marcher knights. I am sure more than one of them envied you for having done the deed.”

“Ser Criston did not like him,” Aemond relayed.

“Ser Criston had good reason not to,” his grandsire admitted. “I am sure he has told you of Ser Arthur’s reputation. Still, his death puts us in a precarious position. I know you did not like the betrothal between Ser Arthur and your cousin, but you would have benefitted from it.”

He was careful not to frown. He spoke quietly, as if using a softer voice would keep his rage subtle: “And how,” he asked, “would I have benefitted from seeing my cousin marry a raper?”

Aemond expected any number of answers: It would help us secure the Throne. It would help our standing within the Reach. You would have a friend in a great house. You would be free from a foreign waif who has only ever dragged you down.

What Otto said instead was: “You could have stayed close to her. She would have been safe, and she might as well have been yours.”

He was startled. Otto’s mouth slanted. “Do you take me for a fool, grandson? Your cousin is a lady of House Targaryen and a ward of Alicent Hightower. I would not have let any harm come to her, lest our name be tarnished.”

“Easy enough for public slights,” Aemond agreed. “But the marriage bed is a private place.”

Otto gave him a wry look. “What care would anyone have for privacy when she has the power to destroy all of Highgarden? She has a dragon, and should Ser Arthur have been stupid enough to forget that fact, then I would have simply sent you to visit on Vhagar to remind him. Though I would have hardly needed to. If you had any wits about you, you would have visited her every sennight to continue your affair. Why, you could have even started living in Oldtown with your brother—Vhagar could easily cross the distance between the two cities in an hour.” Otto gave him a meaningful look. “A much more pleasant trip than the one to Winterfell or the Iron Islands, wouldn't you agree?”

Aemond's throat felt dry. “Weekly trysts would have been poor consolation for seeing my cousin wedded to a monster.”

“Then I suppose I should congratulate you. Your cousin will not wed a monster of my choosing—she will now align herself with the blacks, and is sure to wed a monster of Rhaenyra’s choosing instead.”

There it is. Aemond feigned concern. “She plans to align herself with the blacks?”

“Prince Jacaerys offered her the choice just yesterday. She only declined because of the betrothal to Ser Arthur—and now that that's gone, it is only a matter of time before she departs for Dragonstone.”

He was unsurprised. Anyone with eyes could tell that the blacks were hungry for your coin, your dragon, and very likely the opportunity of your marriage. Jacaerys may have been hungry for you alone, though. His bastard nephew had always been far too fond of you, and it did not escape Aemond how this fondness had now evolved into overt lust. Doubtless he saw you in that Lysene dress during the feast and resolved to bring you to Dragonstone to take his pleasure with you—and to eventually discard you once Rhaenyra decided on who should be his future queen.

Aemond could not think of it. He could not think of his bastard nephew trying to steal you away, let alone dishonouring you. The only thing that kept him sane was that he knew you would never leave him. Jacaerys had already once pleaded with you to come to Dragonstone with him when you were children, and you chose to stay for Aemond. Aegon had suggested you leave for Lys after your father’s death came to light, and again you chose to stay for Aemond.

You would always come back to Aemond: this was an inevitability. He knew that, but his grandsire did not, and he would use that to his advantage.

“You think it will pose a threat to us,” Aemond observed calmly, “if she aligns herself with Rhaenyra.”

Otto seemed to ponder it. “I do not think,” he said slowly, “that your cousin would ever wish to move openly against us. Against me, perhaps—but not you. So I would not call it a threat, per se, but an inconvenience. It gives Rhaenyra leverage that could otherwise belong to us. I would rather have your cousin stay here.”

“Then marry her to me.”

The Hand studied him for a long, quiet moment. At his stony expression, Aemond wondered if he had erred, but then his grandsire laughed.

“Splendidly done,” Otto said. “I’d have rejected your proposal outright a sennight ago, but I find myself compelled by it now. Alas, I have other plans for your betrothal, and they are worth more than your cousin.”

Worth more. The words grated him, frayed at his temper.

“My cousin,” Aemond replied carefully, “has a dragon. She has enough wealth to own half of Lys. And our children would be pure-blooded Targaryens—dragonriders, all of them.” Every single one of their eggs would hatch, Aemond knew. And the two of you would raise them fiercely, see that they became kings and queens and true dragonlords. No one would be able to touch them. No one would ever take an eye from any one of them. “What match could possibly be worth more than that?”

His grandfather gave him a long look. “Do not allow yourself to fall into the trap that your uncle did,” he cautioned. “When it comes to the Throne, there are things more important than dragons and blood.”

“Dragons and blood are how my forebears came to rule this land.”

“Yes—and Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Rhaenys all have both. Yet they do not rule, and they never will. Why do you think that is?”

Aemond did not reply. He'd read the histories, studied the intricacies of the Realm. Loath as he was to admit it, he was a Hightower as well as a Targaryen, and he would be a fool not to acknowledge the power of diplomatic cunning.

His mouth thinned as Otto observed him.

“All I ask is that you do what is needed to ensure that your brother’s claim is secure,” the old man said, “so that our family may stay safe. It is not just your life that depends on it—it is your brothers’ and sister’s and mother’s as well.”

His mother. He could never betray his mother, and his grandsire knew that, but he found himself asking, jaw tight, “And after? After the Throne is secure?” After I have lost countless nights to study and endless days to training and now my cousin too? All so that the Iron Throne may be squandered on a wastrel who is not fit to rule, who may not even keep Mother safe after all?

The tension was evident in Aemond’s voice, but Otto was unbothered.

“And after the Throne is secure, I am sure that your wife will fall off a horse, leaving you free to marry your lady cousin. I would ordinarily prohibit it, but I know that would be a futile endeavour with you.” Otto seemed tired, as if Aemond’s games were beneath him. “Do try to be more delicate about it when you kill your cousin's husband, though. If you must rely on the same kind of trick you did today, at the very least you should see to it that the squire is killed thereafter.”

Aemond did not have time to react before his grandsire rose. Otto Hightower paused at the door as he departed, giving his grandson a wry look.

“I look forward to meeting whatever great-grandchildren the two of you shall eventually give me. I have no doubt that they will be remarkable. If the gods are good, they will inherit all of your strength and all of her wits—not the other way around.”

IX. FIVE OF SWORDS

The second morn of the tournament was as lovely as the first, with clear skies and a gentle wind: a perfect backdrop for a melee. The crowd was abuzz with laughter and excitement, gathered around the tiltyard—today cleared of its partition, and filled instead with two dozen men and their mounts. Blunted morningstars, dulled greatswords, and polished armour gleamed in the sunlight as the men prepared to ride, carrying shields and cloaks steeped in the colours of their various houses. You only knew a limited amount about cavalry formations and swordsmanship—most of what you'd ever learned from Aemond pertained to dragon warfare—but from what you could hear of their conversation, you could tell that they were discussing tactics among themselves.

You sat with Rhaenyra and Luke today, for Rhaenyra had invited you to join them, and you could hardly turn her down: aside from not having a reasonable excuse for politely declining the wishes of the crown princess, your only other alternative was to sit with Aegon. He might not have been a terrible company were he sober, but he was still so drunk from the festivities the night before that he would surely harass you in Aemond’s absence.

You could not help but frown at being without Aemond. He had said he would sit out of the melee and simply spectate with you today, but your champion was currently once more in the tiltyard. At the feast the night before, he'd overheard that Jacaerys and Prince Daemon would be competing in the melee today; you should not have been surprised when Aemond showed up this morning with his black and gold armour, sword in hand.

It worried you, seeing Aemond in the same ring as Jacaerys. He had no love for Jace and had demonstrated no remorse after killing a man just the day before. You hoped that he would have more compassion for his nephew, perhaps even an inkling of fondness by consequence of their blood relation, but it was a slim hope and likely delusional. Your only comfort was that it was not Luke on the tiltyard: you would genuinely be worried for his life, if he were. Aemond would probably only injure or humiliate Jace at most, rather than attempt outright murder.

Still, you did not wish to see your beloved cousin be either maimed or humiliated.

“How do you think Jace will fare?” you asked Rhaenyra, trying not to seem apprehensive.

“Daemon has been teaching him,” the Princess relayed, “and says he's come along quite far in his training.”

But so has Aemond, you tried not to say. “I am glad for it. I am quite excited to see how he’ll fight.”

“Excited?” Aegon yelled, clearly having eavesdropped. “Would you be excited enough to hedge your bets on him?”

The notion of coin made you perk up. “Why, cousin? Do you wish to start a pool?”

“I do have a fondness for betting on fights. It is a pastime of mine.”

You raised a brow. “A pastime? What kind of fights are you betting on so often? Dogfights?”

Aegon smiled. “Dogs among other creatures,” he replied vaguely, speech slurred, “including distinguished princes of the Realm. Will you be betting today, my lady? Perhaps on my nephew? Or perhaps my brother? I'm sure he would fight valiantly for the kind of reward you would give him, as his Queen of Love and Beauty.”

You ignored his untoward implication. “Neither. I would bet fifty gold dragons on Prince Daemon.”

Various men in the crowd turned to you.

“Fifty? When Dayne and Selmy are fighting?” one of them asked.

“Prince Daemon has more battle experience than them,” you replied neatly.

“Experience on a dragon. And true battle is different from a tourney melee, my lady. Remember that he lost to Ser Criston the last time he was in a tourney. You have little knowledge of warfare if you think his experience in the skies means anything here.”

“If you are certain that he will lose, then you may wager against me. Our winnings will speak to our knowledge of warfare.”

One of the lords snorted. “A bold choice when the fairer sex are not versed in either battle or swords. But if my lady wishes to throw away her money in this game, then I shall play.”

“No,” another decided. “She may be a woman, but she has the right of it. I've heard of Prince Daemon's exploits in the Stepstones—I shall wager twenty gold on him myself.”

And thus the betting began. In truth, you were not so interested in making a profit; you only wished to endear yourself to Rhaenyra. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed that she was looking at you approvingly. Good. Best to play both sides. You did not want Aemond’s ruse of courtship to alienate you from her faction—you intended to stay a neutral party until the end of time.

But the appearance of neutrality was difficult when Jace rode by, easing his charger to a halt as he gazed up at you. Poised in his darksteel armour and branded by the three-headed dragon emblazoned across his chest plate, Jacaerys undeniably bore the countenance of a Targaryen prince. Noble ladies ordinarily gazed upon him with judgment over his bastardy; a great number of them today were instead smiling coyly and laughing prettily. Your whole body felt tight with agitation; how could they flip so easily from cruelty to admiration?

You tried not to let it bother you.

“Good morrow, cousin!” you greeted, leaning perilously over the edge of the tilting barrier. “Do you feel prepared for this battle?”

Jace seemed at ease. “It will be an interesting test of my abilities, and a good chance to familiarise myself with the finest knights of the realm.”

You blinked. “Such confidence!”

His brow arched. “Should I be anything other than confident?”

Yes, you thought immediately, glancing at Aemond. He was eyeing the both of you carefully, face unreadable but heart quite obvious to you: he deeply disliked that his nephew was talking to you.

“Well,” you asked, “wouldn't anyone be?”

Jace studied you a moment. “Caution is wise in every battle,” he conceded. “But if you are so concerned for me, I am sure that a token from you would help me greatly in this melee.”

You gave Jacaerys a long stare, uncomprehending. He looked at you expectantly, and it was only when he raised a brow that you realised he was requesting something of you.

“...are you,” you asked haltingly, afraid that you had assumed wrongly and would embarrass yourself, “asking… for my favour?”

Jace inclined his head. “Does it surprise you?”

“Yes?” you replied, voice oddly high. “No one ever asks for my favours!”

“Mine uncle just asked you for it yesterday.”

Your face grew warm. For whatever reason, the memory made you feel distinctly—embarrassed? Self-conscious? You were unused to receiving public attention that was not at least slightly cruel, so the whole affair had left you feeling off-kilter. “That was different,” you insisted. You could not explain with so many other people around that it was merely a ruse, so you added, “Aemond is my cousin.”

“As am I.”

“...”

You could hardly deny Jacaerys when he put it that way. You did not want to openly play favourites between the two of them when they were both your kin; and besides, you equally loved them. It felt only fair to give Jace your favour today if you gave it to Aemond yesterday, especially if he explicitly wished for it.

Once more feeling like a toy being fought over between two quarreling children, you fished out your handkerchief from your dress.

“I did not prepare a proper favour this time, as I did not anticipate a need,” you said. “This is all I can offer. Forgive my poor needlework. I will not be offended if you choose not to accept it.”

“Nothing could make me decline it,” he reassured you, receiving the soft cotton, “And surely your needlework can't be that bad. Every Targaryen lady is educated in—”

Jace stopped as he looked at the cloth. He squinted at the embroidery.

“Is this a dog?”

Your mouth opened, closed. “No! It is a dragon!”

“It looks more like a dog.”

“Jace!”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Don't be so distressed, cousin. It’s a very cute dog.”

“Alright—that’s it. Give that back here!”

“I don't think I will,” Jace said neatly. “Not to worry, my lady—I shall wear it with pride.”

You gave him a sour look. “I would kill you if you did not.”

Jace smiled as he rode off. As he passed by Aemond, you caught the two of them exchanging hostile glances. Your silver-haired cousin stared at you coolly as well, and you could only shrug and give him a weak smile. Sorry, you said with your eyes.

We will talk later, you knew he was replying with his.

The men assumed formation, quieting. Their horses whickered as they waited, sensing the tension among their riders. Daemon and Jace were on one side, both at the forefront; Aemond was on the other. The drums pounded as the two parties regarded one another, the crowd buzzing… and then, finally—the horn sounded, quickly followed by the screams of all the horses, the mad thunder of their hooves against the dirt.

It was difficult to make out what was happening among the tangle of swords and men, blades glaring in sunlight as steel crashed against steel. You heard the men crying as they clashed: Starfall! Riverrun! For the Vale! You wondered what Jace would say—Dragonstone, you supposed? So far away from the Iron Throne, the seat that he was meant to inherit? But Jace did not yell: he was wordless as he knocked away swords and men alike, your favour clear on his wrist.

Your cousin was skilled: this much was apparent to you. It startled you to see him cutting down men, his sword moving deftly among the others as his mount kicked and charged fearlessly. Yet there were men who seemed even faster, stronger. Aemond might have been one of them, for while Jace carried himself with the demeanour of a prince, his uncle always moved like a lethal weapon. You winced as his sword crashed against the gorget of several men; had they not been fastened correctly, they may well have died.

Some of the mounts fell; other men left them as they were challenged to single combat duels. As the opposing group shattered, Daemon’s men began to turn on one another, the team cannibalising itself in the quest for a single victor. You nearly fainted when you saw Aemond cutting a straight line for Jace; it was impossible to tell what his expression was behind his faceplate, but it was likely apoplectic.

“I may have erred,” you moaned.

Rhaenyra glanced at you. “For giving my son your favour?”

You swallowed. “I did not think it would anger your half-brother so.” At least, not this much, you thought privately.

Rhaenyra gave you a reassuring smile. “Have some faith in your cousin, my lady,” she said. “My son has trained hard and well over the years.”

You tried to believe her, but your faith was undeniably weak. It was difficult to keep your composure for Jacaerys’ sake, suppressing every flinch of your body every time their swords clashed. Perhaps your favour protected him, for he was—for a time—an even match for Aemond. His uncle’s movements were rapidfire, smooth and deft, but Jace blocked each stroke, and his returning blows were more powerful—shockingly heavy for his slim frame. You wondered for a moment if he had somehow inherited the instincts of Ser Harwin Strong. Breakbones, they’d called him.

But Aemond had been training his whole life against the heft of a morningstar, the might of Ser Criston. He parried Jace flawlessly, his sword brutal and relentless, and you nearly covered your eyes when Jacaerys’ shield shattered in his hand. You outright whimpered when he took a blow to the head. But he did not yield, nor did he allow himself to falter for long—he righted himself and countered each time, forcing Aemond back a step.

You were surprised when Aemond distanced himself and stopped. Jacaerys was too, you noticed, for he hesitated. His opponent lifted his faceplate during the lull in battle, and you were seated near enough to make out the fine details of his expression.

You did not like the look of it.

“Well done, nephew!” Aemond called, loudly enough for some of the crowd to hear. “I see you have improved greatly… you've become a fine swordsman. Courageous, clever, and… strong.”

The commons cheered at the false sportsmanship, but a hush fell over all the nobles who had heard the exchange. You glanced at the other greens—Queen Alicent and Helaena and the Hand—and even they seemed uncomfortable, although Aegon was unsurprisingly gleeful.

You supposed it was sensible that Alicent looked about as appalled as you felt. Aemond had always had a cruel streak over Jace’s heritage, but this behaviour was both cruel and stupid. Setting the court aflame with new whispers of Jacaerys’ lineage was one thing; doing it in a way that would openly draw the ire of Rhaenyra’s supporters was another. It was utterly mind boggling. King Viserys will surely want his tongue for this, you thought to yourself, for he had always cared more for Rhaenyra and her sons than the well-being of any of Alicent’s children.

Part of you wondered what madness had seized Aemond for him to do something so abjectly stupid—but mostly you worried for Jacaerys. With his helm on, it was impossible to make out his expression, but he was doubtless furious. Worse yet, he needed to keep a tight rein on his anger—something that he'd always struggled to do when it came to his bloodline. But a public, vicious reaction right now would look more damning than it would save him any face.

A vicious reaction was what had damned Ser Harwin and driven him away from the court all those years ago, after all.

Rhaenyra evidently remembered this too, for her face was dark but her mouth was still. She could not defend Jace either, nor could Luke, whose expression had crinkled up into worry. Daemon—who was mad enough to duel without a faceplate—looked openly disdainful, but he could hardly take his attention away from his opponent.

Nobody else could speak up for Jace. It could only be you.

You stood, drawing numerous eyes to you.

“Aegon!” you bellowed, and your cousin nearly jumped. He stared blankly at you, and the rest of the audience followed suit, finally distracted from Aemond’s insults. Pariahs and wastrels made for entertaining spectacle; it was no surprise that everyone was now watching you with interest, as they had for nearly two decades.

“You wished to wager on those two young princes, did you not?” you asked Aegon. “I have decided I shall accept.”

He blinked. “Accept?”

“Yes,” you said neatly. Your voice was trim, but loud enough for all to hear. “I will be wagering half a hundred gold dragons on Prince Jacaerys.”

A frenzy overtook the stands. Half a hundred gold dragons was nothing to scoff at, and you were openly betting against the man who had all but declared his intent to court you the day before. Jacaerys was no longer the only one being humiliated on the field.

Forgive me, Aemond, you thought miserably, but I did warn you to be diplomatic.

“Half a hundred!” someone yelled, scandalised. “Against Prince Aemond?”

“The Crown Prince has unseated three men and forced just as many to yield,” you replied simply. For good measure, you added, “As expected of a true Targaryen prince.”

“She speaks sensibly,” a nearby lord hummed. “It is a closer match than one would expect. I would put coin on Prince Jacaerys as well. Twenty dragons.”

“Hoh! Then I shall bet on Prince Aemond myself,” Aegon decided. “I look forward to being seventy dragons richer.”

“Eager to be robbed, I see,” you replied flippantly, and this further incensed the betting men.

When you sat down again, Luke leaned toward you, whispering loudly from Rhaenyra’s other side. He seemed disconcerted—concerned for you. If you overlooked his lack of repentance over Aemond’s eye, you would call him a sweet boy.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “People will speak ill of you for this!”

Betting pointedly and openly against Prince Aemond would indeed invite disdain, but you only shrugged at the observation. “The more they whisper about me, the less they will whisper about your brother.”

Though truthfully, with the betting pool growing so large, the crowd was now fixated on their wagers more than anything. The bids became outlandish; the predictions, equally so. Selmy and Daemon were probably the two strongest contenders for champion in truth; Jacaerys and Aemond were green in comparison to the two. But with the buzz you had just created, it was as if the two seasoned warriors were forgotten.

You wondered if it was being overlooked that enraged Daemon or if he was simply acting to protect the claim of his stepson and faction. The Rogue Prince cut into the fray, his eyes cold on Aemond and his sword gleaming in the sunlight.

“You have done well for yourself, nephew,” Daemon said. “Before you continue your match with the Crown Prince, I would like to challenge you.”

Aemond’s gaze sharpened as his uncle confronted him. “How eager you must be to fight me, Nuncle,” he retorted, “that you must interrupt my battle with Prince Jacaerys.”

“It would disappoint me if you lost to my stepson and I could not fight you myself.”

Aemond’s single eye was filled with something frenetic, something frightening. People around you murmured of his bloodlust, but you knew better: he was not hungry for blood, but for recognition. He wanted acknowledgement from the most fearsome Targaryen prince of this era.

He took the bait.

As the two began to circle one another, Selmy squared off with Jace. The Marcher knight disarmed your cousin with the kind of civility that one would expect from a tourney fight. It was clear that they were battling to showcase their skills, rather than having a contest of their killing intent.

The match between the Princes Aemond and Daemon was different: brutal and harsh, blows heavy and destructive. Even with dulled blades and full armor, you found yourself sitting at attention, your gut swimming with worry. For the first time in years, it occurred to you that the prince was not infallible in battle: that Aemond One-Eye could not only lose, but also be killed.

Daemon’s blade smashed against Aemond’s shield. The three-headed dragon painted across it fractured into splinters, and you could not help but jump to your feet as he discarded its remains.

Aemond was on the defensive. He was not being humiliated, but he was clearly outmatched. Briefly, you thought of all those hours spent in the tiltyard when he was a small, lonesome boy, constantly checked and kicked and thrown into the ground. Daemon’s blade sang as it crashed into his nephew’s helm, and then you thought of the red gash where Aemond’s eye used to be, swollen and oozing and stitched together as he lay in bed.

You tasted copper, and you realised then that you had bit your lip hard enough to break skin. It stung bitterly, but Aemond’s pain must have been worse.

Your cousin yielded in the end. Selmy did too, once Daemon resumed his battle with him. Daemon thus claimed the title of champion, but you hardly paid any mind to the gold you collected from his victory. You only wanted to go to Aemond.

It frustrated you that you first had to disentangle yourself from the blacks. You forced yourself to do the polite thing, waiting with Rhaenyra to greet Daemon and Jacaerys—though this was not so terrible, as you did truly want to check on your dark-haired cousin. You congratulated them both, japed about the gold you made off the former, and shrugged off all that you'd lost from betting on the latter.

“I did not think that you would bet so much on me,” Jace said.

“It was a fair enough match for it to be a reasonable wager,” you lied, and you suspected that Jace was too discerning to believe you. You thought of making another jape to deflect his suspicions, but you were too distracted. You kept glancing at Aemond’s lone figure, a horrible knot in your stomach.

So focused on him were you that you nearly jumped when cold metal ghosted your jaw. Jacaerys’ armored fingers rested against your skin; his thumb pressed near your lip.

“You're bleeding,” he remarked, frowning.

“Oh,” you replied dumbly. “Yes. I bit my lip.”

“Does it hurt?”

“I guess so,” you realised. Jace seemed concerned, his sleek brow knotted, and you could not for the life of you understand why. “You need not worry, cousin. ‘Tis only a cut.”

Aemond was looking at you, you noticed. His expression was unreadable, which meant he was displeased.

Your eyes returned to Jace, uneasy and uncertain. His match with Aemond had been difficult on him. It was not any bruise or blood that would linger, but the wound that Aemond had reopened about his lineage. Jace would be sullen over the humiliation, disconsolate. He probably would want your company for it, just as he always did when he was a child. But Jacaerys was surrounded by his kin, by his mother and stepfather and brother who were steadfastly loyal to him, and your other cousin was alone. This was always the way of things: for all his woes, Jacaerys had a great number of loved ones, and Aemond nearly always seemed to lack them.

Nearly always, except for you.

“Will you go to him?” Jace asked, his gaze bizarrely intense. You were not sure why. The answer should have been obvious.

“Don't I always?”

X. THE EMPEROR, REVERSED

“Look, Aemond. We match!”

Your voice rang sweetly in the privacy of Aemond’s quarters, but he knew the cheer was hollow. He caught the way your finger shook as you gestured between his bloody lip, then your own. Your other hand pressed a cold cloth against the throbbing swell of his temple; it trembled as well. And then there were your eyes, which Aemond knew so well that he could read them like a text: you were worried. Deeply, horribly worried.

Aemond looked at you now and could not help but remember the lonely but sweet-hearted girl he knew in his childhood. You were so crass and defiant nowadays that he sometimes forgot about how you once were, but it was hard not to think of your past self when you cupped his cheek with your hand. Your thumb ran gingerly along the bottom of his scar, the one that Luke had gouged into him. You did this to him many times when it was still fresh, and he had winced with the fear of pain every time, but he still let you. It never did hurt when you touched the wound though—your hand was always so gentle, so warm.

Aemond was too concerned about the blood on your mouth to feel sentimental about it, though. “Did someone do this to you?”

You blinked. “What? No, I bit my own lip too hard is all.” You frowned. “I was very worried about you, Aemond.”

“You need not have. You know I am too skilled for serious harm to come to me.”

“Actually, I’m not sure that I know you at all. I’ve never seen you do so many idiotic things in rapid succession. Please tell me what has possessed you this past day and night?”

He could not help but look at you wryly. You reminded him so much of Alicent and his grandsire at times, particularly in how you navigated court. You were not content to be a pawn, which Aemond deeply admired, but you always resisted his grandsire’s schemes with the subtle manoeuvres of a Hightower as opposed to the might of a Targaryen—often ineffectually.

“You may think my actions foolish,” Aemond said, “but you cannot deny that they worked.”

“They worked, but they were still too risky. You will sabotage yourself at this rate, Aemond.” Your brows pinched. “Starting a courtship that your family would never support? Implying treason to Jace, before a crowd of witnesses? Killing the son of a great house?”

“The death was an accident,” Aemond said immediately. You gave him an exasperated look. “A tragic one,” he added, frowning for good measure.

“Do you take me for an idiot?”

Aemond reached for your hand. You startled when his fingers brushed against yours; blinked when he came close so he could run a thumb delicately along your jaw.

“I take you for someone who knows me. Do you truly think I would jeopardise my standing in court by planning the murder of a Tyrell son?” You faltered, then. Sensing opportunity, Aemond continued: “I would not mourn him anyway, cousin. Ser Criston and I have spared you the grisly details, but I can assure you that that man was a monster. I am glad you will not be forced to give yourself to him… I shudder to think of how he may have hurt you in your marriage bed.”

Aemond need not say more. Otto Hightower thought he could keep you safe in your match to Ser Arthur, but after a lifetime of seeing you brutalised by men despite being a dragonrider, Aemond knew better—and so did you. Being a woman, there were some things that not even Targaryen blood could save you from.

Still, you were unable to admit that he was right.

“There must have been another way,” you said quietly. “It need not have come to such violence. It was… alarming, seeing you commit an act of such cruelty.”

Aemond gave you a long look. “You know that nothing else would have stopped Grandsire from making that match. Ser Arthur’s death was a tragic accident… but a fortunate one in terms of your marriage.”

Your brow cocked, but you relented. “Fine,” you conceded. “We can say it was an accident, if you like. You were still mad for courting me despite my betrothal to the Tyrells.”

“Do you dislike it?” he asked, and he delighted in the way you could not meet his eyes. Aemond did not often get to see you look so shy; he could not help but find it endearing. Someday when the two of you were finally wedded to one another, and when he could call you his wife and dote on you openly, he would make sure to draw more of these expressions out of you.

“I don't… dislike it, per se,” you said carefully, trying and failing not to sound flustered. “It is as I said—I think it is unwise. And rash. Did you even try to have an honest conversation with your grandsire about my marriage prospects before resorting to it?”

“An honest conversation would have done nothing but give him warning of my plans.” His mouth turned down. It seemed to Aemond sometimes that you were wilfully ignorant of the nature of the Hightowers despite your tremendous wits. “You know how it is in this court, in this family. For those of us who were born into lower positions, we cannot ask for anything important—we must take it for ourselves.”

You frowned. “Must we behave so cruelly to take it?”

“Cruelty is unavoidable,” Aemond murmured, “when it is our existence being threatened.”

You hummed, not agreeing—but also not disagreeing. Aemond knew you would see eye to eye. You were not unlike him: someone else who had fought for the tiniest scraps of power and respect.

“You may have a point,” you finally conceded. Then you added, voice curious, “Do you see me as something to be taken, Aemond?”

Your thumb brushed against the deep edge of his scar again. Flame and shadow flickered on his left side, where his face had been cleaved open by Rhaenyra and her sons, by the court and all its trappings. His mother had asked for justice rather than take it, and she had been humiliated and denied.

He would not allow the same thing to happen with you.

“I see you as something important to me.”

XI. SEVEN OF PENTACLES

A part of you had always known that Aemond was capable of abject cruelty.

It was not only for his mad behaviour in wanting to cut off hands and kill in trials for you. It was a matter of his family. For those born into House Targaryen without high station, it was not an option to ask for anything of true value. The first son of a second wife could not expect to live out his life safely. A second son without a hatchling could not hope to have even the slightest respect. The daughter of a foreign whore could not assume the protection of her family. Safety, respect, family—all these things had to be taken.

Not having any of them was what made Aemond lonely. Taking them was what made him cruel.

You realised you were not unsettled by it. You supposed that something must be wrong with you for your lack of remorse over Ser Arthur’s death, that you must suffer from some kind of moral deficiency for not feeling chilled at the memory of his corpse toppling from his destrier. But you were only grateful to Aemond for killing your betrothed, and it only made you feel safer near him. For as far as fears went, what truly terrified you—and had for all your life—were men like Ser Arthur.

A betrothal to a man like Ser Arthur had been your worst nightmare. Ever since you had bloomed at ten-and-two, there were far too many men who'd leered at you, grabbed at you, desired your maidenhead. The only reason that you remained protected was because the Queen and the Hand did not want anyone sullying you. But you'd always known that their protection was conditional: you'd always known that as soon as it became politically convenient, you'd be given to some lord and forced to lie with him. The best you could hope for was a man who did not wish to hurt you despite making you bleed on your marriage bed. The worst was Ser Arthur: a man who would have delighted to see you bleed and cry and suffer.

But Aemond had protected you.

Aemond had protected you, just as he always had. He’d risked his station to do it, gambling both his reputation and his relationship with his family. This had always been his way of taking care of you: fighting to gain respect, using that hard-earned power to shield you, cutting hands and piercing necks for the end of saving you. Scaring his mother so he could protect you. Being cruel so he could safekeep you.

It was not sustainable.

For those born into House Targaryen without high station, it was not an option to ask for anything of value. You had to take it. You, not Aemond—for you were grown and the Iron Throne loomed over you both, and the day was quickly approaching when he could no longer protect you.

On the final eve of the tourney, you found Prince Jacaerys and whispered into the shell of his ear:

“Meet me tonight at the hour of the wolf.”

END PART VII

if u are still somehow with me after a 2 year break and 7 smutless chapters, thank u so much i love you dearly. i actually returned to this fic for jace but unfortunately aemond is incredibly crazy and currently commanding the story because that's how his personality is. but!!! jace WILL get his romance in act 2!!