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Dreadful as the Dawn - 9: The First Full Moon of Summer

Part 8 | Masterlist

King!Aemond Targaryen x OFC (M'rone Vilendrys) darkfic - 18+ MDNI

Shortened summary: Braavosi artisan M'rone Vilendrys finds herself intertwined in the frenzied king Aemon Targaryen's politics of fear. He may have sired a bastard on a witch queen, he may be looking for a wife to sire an heir on, yet his depraved desires for strange affections he reserves for M'rone exclusively. Includes: DD:DNE; non-con; darkfic; forced and abusive relationship; child abuse (Aegon and Viserys); talk of pregnancy and child bearing; mentions of forced abortions; misogyny; violence; death; eating disorders; child death; and lots of other dark elements, my tags for this fic are not exhaustive Chapter summary: While in King's Landing Aemond Targaryen takes his cousin Rhaena to wife, the Vilendrysi leave the capital behind to celebrate the first full moon of summer. It is but a temporary relief. Chapter warnings: mind the general warnings, including the rape/non-con tag; suicidal thoughts. Word count: 10.8k

divider by @/strangergraphics

When the flames dance like this, one can almost imagine them to be whispering. A fire tells a story of its own. Of frostbitten colds long forgotten, of long nights yet to come.

‘When I was a girl a Red Priestess used to preach on a crossroads near our home.’

Aemond scrapes the whetstone over Blackfyre’s dark blade. He has been polishing the blade for a while now. The king is in an opaque mood this evening, quiet and distant. She would almost say that he is not preparing for his upcoming nuptials, but for battle.

She does not care. She does not mind. He did not have his pleasure with her and so, at least in this small moment, she cannot be bothered to feel bad. They had dinner, mostly in silence, and then he set her down by the hearth. Like this, in the quiet of night, nursing a cup of sour Dornish red by the fire, she feels almost at ease. He not so much.

‘R’hllor the Red,’ he says after a moment. ‘Did you pay this Red Priestess any heed?’

The sight of the flames, every changing, yet ever permanent, calms her. Without looking away, she says, ‘She was a good storyteller. My sister and I quite enjoyed her tales about ice and fire, eternal struggles and prophecies. Azor Ahai, wielding Lightbringer, raising dragons from stone.’

‘Fancy tales,’ Aemond mutters.

She scoffs. Of course he dismisses it so. He hardly believes in the Seven, that much she understands, and that was the faith he was raised in. Other religions must sound like fairy tales to him. Likely the only gods in which he believes are dragons. Dragons and Valyrians. He is his own god. She cannot afford such narcissist tendencies of her own.

‘So fancy that my father forbade us to listen to them.’

‘What do you see in the flames, M’rone?’

Her breath hitches. It is but a taunt, and yet it is not. They have barely spoken about it, what happened when she touched Dark Sister. What she saw. When she felt the world shift and turn, she had hoped only she would have taken note, but it is clear that in that moment Aemond felt something as well. Something wrong. And now he jests.

She turns her gaze to him and, not for the first time, she wonders why she is here at all.

The last two weeks have been a surreal half-waking nightmare. There is no place where she can feel fully herself. One night she spent in his bed, out of sheer exhaustion, out of sheer desperation. Since she has not allowed herself to make the same mistake. All nights following she has spent on the couch in her family’s quarters—to which she only returns late in the night, and which she leaves early in the morning. Being around her family is like burning alive in ice cold water.

She is no Vilendrys anymore.

Drenace has tried to talk her out of that conviction, but it is rooted deep in her, planted in her heart by her father’s silence and watered by the Red Keep’s gossip.

If Aemond is pleased with this turn of events, he hardly lets it show. She expected him to revel in her misfortune, but instead he has shown her a soft sort of care that she does not welcome, but nevertheless relents to every evening. By dusk, like clockwork, he calls on her and insists that they have dinner together—as if he knows that most days she can barely be bothered to think about eating. Sometimes he bids her to bathe, sometimes he joins her in the bath. Sometimes he has her read to him as he busies himself, making repairs to his riding attire, sharpening his blades, and one odd time, cleaning the sapphire usually embedded in his eye socket. Other times he reads to her from old history tomes, until she almost falls asleep. Until she wakes up when he tries to lay her in his bed, and she then ultimately flees. Sometimes he beds her, most times he does not.

It is a strange dance. She does not know how much longer she can keep it going.

‘A fire in the flames, flames in the fire,’ she dismisses.

‘So you kept true to your faith then?’ He wipes the whetstone over the long blade slowly.

When he does this, she cannot help but feel as if it is a threat. To remind her that he can bring this sword down on any he pleases. That he can make her touch it as he pleases. At least Dark Sister hangs high on the wall, where she could not even touch it if she were to stand on her tiptoes.

‘I could hardly betray it, even if I wished for it. It is in my blood.’

‘So mere inheritance it is,’ he says.

She sinks a bit deeper in the chair, pulling her legs onto the soft cushions—her boots are long discarded on the tapestry. Admittedly, it is a comfortable seat. No wonder she has drifted off to sleep here a couple of times already. ‘I would not say so.’

‘You truly believe in your moongoddess?’

‘Define “believe”, your grace.’

He hums, pausing in his work. A moment passes and he sheathes Blackfyre. He places his ancestral sword next to him, leaning it against his chair. She has drawn his attention. She did not intend that. Then again, they have something to discuss this evening.

‘Tell me, my lady, what is it precisely your family means to celebrate tomorrow?’

‘I told you, the first full moon of summer.’

‘And it will look the same as any other.’

Sometimes she wonders why he bothers to speak with her, if all he tries is undermine and irk her. Disgruntled she explains, ‘The veils between worlds are at their thinnest on such a night, Aemond, that is what it is about. The world of the living, the world of the dead: tomorrow the boundaries between them are fragile.’

He chuckles, his loose silvery hair swaying as he gets more comfortable. She takes a sip of wine, glowering at him over the rim of her cup.

‘So you mean to speak to your husband, then?’ he inquires.

‘It is hardly like that,’ she snaps. ‘Why are you interrogating me on the matter if you feel no inclination to even pretend to care?’

The grin on his face melts away. He inhales slowly and something akin to remorse lines his features. ‘I apologize, my lady.’

As he is now, she almost believes that his cruelty towards her is more instinct than intent. Perhaps he just cannot help himself, even if he would prefer to do better. Be better. Then again, he is a man grown. Even if his brutality is some sort of sick reflex, he should have learned how to control it by now. Just as he has learned how to be uncannily courteous even when distressing her so.

‘Do tell me, I wish to know,’ he insists.

She hesitates, gaze drifting toward the dancing flames. The fire is dying. ‘There are rituals at the moontemple, but this city, of course, lacks one. No matter, there is more to it than the temple rites. We light up lanterns, let them fly off. For dead loved ones. We bake pale bread, eat it with fish vinegar. Bathe in the moonlight, wash away our sins.’

‘Have you sinned, my lady?’ he asks softly.

‘You made certain of it, your grace.’ She wraps both hands around her cup and looks into the deep red liquid. Like spilled blood. ‘A widow is not supposed to even look too long at another man until a new moon has come’

But Mirtane would not have wanted that for her. She knows. He would have wanted her to find another, if she so pleased, who could make her happy, even if just half as happy as he did. He always hated her gloom, he’d felt that he was fighting an up-hill battle against a dark part in her that enjoyed to torture her. She does not enjoy it. At least she thinks so.

‘Many new moons have—’

She interrupts quickly, ‘I do not mean that.’

He tilts his head, urging her to explain. As if he truly is interested in the doctrine of a foreign religion. With a sigh, she goes on, ‘Each year, the moon renews itself. Our goddess has eight faces, eight moons, eight years. The daughter, the maiden, the dancer, the bride, the mother, the sorceress, the widow, the shroud. Mirtane died under the moon of the sorceress. It has not yet passed.’

‘Next is the widow,’ Aemond observes.

‘It is bound the be a solemn year. Then a wicked one.’

He gives a slow nod. His amethyst eye shines with curiosity, enveloped by amusement. But he does not jest, nor belittle. As he unties the laces of his eye patch, he inquires, ‘Who is she married to, your goddess?’

‘The waters of this world,’ she says. ‘But she is a fickle lover.’

The orange glow of the oil lamps reflects vaguely in his sapphire. ‘A woman married to—’

‘A goddess married to a goddess.’ The correction slips from her lips automatically, without thinking about it. With a sigh she adds, ‘Higher powers are bound to be female, the Moonsingers say, for only a woman is a whole man.’

At this he arches a brow, his disagreement audible even in the silence. She rolls her eyes.

‘Because she can bring forth new life. Do not question me on that. I dislike the notion. For clearly, the underlying implication is that I am no woman. Neither would I be a man. Instead I would just be some—’

A creature has outgrown itself.

She chokes on her own words and shakes her head. She downs what little wine remains in her cup. Aemond, taking note of her sudden faltering, says, ‘Why believe in something that negates your own pain, my lady?’

‘Hereditary mania.’ She sways her empty cup listlessly, considering pouring herself another. But alcohol has become too sweet to her as of late. She should not. ‘You certainly understand as much, your grace.’

Aemond rises. She watches him closely, intent on catching the moment his intentions shift to those she does not welcome. But he merely throws a log on the fire.

Carefully she inquires, ‘We have discussed my plans for tomorrow, but will we truly not speak about yours?’

He leans his arm on the fireplace mantle, looking at the shivering flames.

‘What is there to say?’

‘Tomorrow you will take a lady to wife. You will be a husband, bound in matrimony to Rhaena Targaryen by sacred vows.’

She half expects him to throw back some cold, cruel jest. It is how he has treated the subject up until now: with cool avoidance, dismissive taunts. Even though she hardly has the stomach for it, she finds herself dwelling on the empty promise she made to Rhaena Targaryen. She had assured the queen-to-be a husband who would treat her with deference and honor. While she would hope it was not a lie, she knows it most likely was.

Looking into the flames, as if he himself is now seeing something more mysterious than a fire burning itself out, Aemond replies emptily, ‘And you do not wish to be involved in adultery.’

‘You mean to see this through?’

‘I see no reason to give you up,’ he replies.

‘Is that on account of your lost eye?’ she mutters.

At this he does turn to face her, standing a bit straighter. That was petty and cruel, but she could not help it, and on account of all the murky water between them, she can hardly manage to feel guilty about the slight.

‘Careful now, M’rone,’ he says, slowly drawing closer.

She sets aside her empty cup and sits up. She will not cower underneath his shadow. She is beyond that.

‘Even now your court whispers of your kept woman. Will you truly be the sort of king to degrade your queen so brazenly, so openly?’ she demands.

Towering over her, he takes hold of her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze head on. ‘I will treat my lady wife with the respect she is due.’

That is foreboding.

‘You would truly be more loathsome than I expected, were you to subject your wife to needless cruelty.’ She places her hands on the armrests and pushing herself up to stand.

‘My lady, you have made your point. You wish to deceive me into relinquishing you under pretenses of honoring my queen. I will not do so and that—’

‘She is young and innocent and afraid,’ she interrupts.

At this he scoffs. ‘Young, yes. Afraid, as she should. Innocent? Hm.’

‘It is not she who has wronged you.’

‘You understand nothing.’

‘I understand that you have no inkling to be anything but callous toward her.’

‘Enough,’ he interrupts.

She hesitates for a moment, but then clenches her jaw. How dare he? Digging her fingers in the fabric of his doublet, she contravenes, ‘Either you call on me and I will speak as I please, either you cast me away and you will not have to hear me.’

She expects confrontation. She expects him to wrap his hand around her throat and squeeze down on her windpipe, hard. But to her surprise and utter confusion, a shade of a smile trembles on his lips. She blinks at him, lips parting. He leans in closer, so his breath fans on her mouth, and he cups her face in the palms of his hands. As if holding something precious, as if handling something so cherished.

‘Speak as you please then, M’rone Vilendrys,’ he whispers. ‘But on this matter, all is said.’

He kisses her, tenderly, and she, as usual, keeps still under the touch. And yet, underneath, she feels herself waver. For his mouth is soft and his body is firm and warm and there is a kindness to his gesture, even if perverted. How is she to feel nothing when touched so? Lips ghosting over hers, he says—no, he pleads, ‘Stay the night, my lady.’

What is wrong with her? For she is actually considering it.

‘The hour is late,’ she replies hoarsely. ‘I shall retreat, your grace.’

He tries to kiss her again, but it is too easy to slip from his soft touch now. They do not say goodbye, they do not wish each other goodnight. They have been past such courtesies for a long while now. Aemond, keeping the unspoken vow of silence, steadies her with a hand on her waist as she clumsily puts on her shoes. After one last look exchanged—how mellow he looks at her right now, as if truly lamenting her departure—she leaves. Undefiled, but not untouched. It was the first time he kissed her so. As if trying to coax her into taking pity on him.

The moon, almost full but not entirely, floats high in the clear night sky as she makes her way down into the faraway corners of the Red Keep. She hurries, on account of what may linger in the shadows, of what strange faces from forgotten memories she may yet encounter. When she gets to her family’s quarters, she is surprised to find an oil lamp still lit in the sitting room, to find someone awake still. Trystane.

The boy sits on his knees on a chair, hunched over the tabletop. He looks up at her, but says nothing. He simply continues working on his little project; painting a self-made paper lantern. M’rone closes the door behind her carefully. Her brows furrow when she sees on the table a set of paper lanterns. There is the one she made herself in the early hours of dawn, but the ten or so others her family has seen to. Usually they sit together to make them, a little rite of its own. In the morrow she felt it best if she did not intrude on it. Now she is sad to have missed it.

Quietly she takes a seat opposite of her nephew. Likely he snuck out of bed as soon as his parents drifted off; he is wearing his nightclothes. He is diligent about this task, completely focused on perfecting the scales on the mermaid’s tail. Mermaids are powerful magical beings, only to be drawn then when one needs a miracle.

‘What miracle will you pray for, Trystane?’ M’rone asks after a soft while.

How he looks like his mother, with his almost golden eyes and auburn curls. But his round face is pale and he can see the blemishes on his lips there where he has been gnawing on them. He is just a little boy. His parents do not forget that, of course they do not, but next to Lanna and her crying fits and overwhelming fears, they do—as does M’rone—tend to loose out of sight that he too is in need of the same sort of care and love as his sister.

‘I want to go home,’ he says.

‘My sweet boy,’ M’rone sighs, leaning her arms over the table. ‘That hardly requires a miracle.’

He finishes the decorations off quickly, as if he suddenly has decided the whole ordeal senseless.

‘Mommy says that the king is hurting you. That’s why you do not want to be with us.’

‘I—I do want to be with you,’ she retorts.

But of course, it does not look like that. She has been isolating, avoiding. With no care of how it would affect her family, the twins.

‘If he is hurting you, we should leave. But we are still here, so it means… We need a miracle.’

He has been thinking this through into far more detail than he should. It is easy to forget that underneath his serious frowns and dutiful obedience to the adults in his life, Trystane is just as sensitive as his sister. Narvo calls it the Vilendrysi heart; a soft, mushy thing that absorbs all around and is so easily squeezed, so easily crushed. And he sometimes jests M’rone lacks it. If only she truly lacked it, perhaps she would not be hurting so.

‘Trys—’

‘He hurts the princess as well,’ Trystane goes on. ‘Even though she says she loves her uncle, she is afraid of him. And he was cruel to Lanna. Lanna is terrified of him. But she said the king would not hurt us, because he is pleased with your work. But now he hurts you.’

Trystane inhales sharply, a shiver running through his body. M’rone blinks away tears, forcing herself to keep her wits about herself. If she breaks down crying now, that will only make things worse. It will make Trystane believe that he is right to worry so—and he is right to worry so—and she cannot have that. These are adult matters, he is a child. Yet, he is seeing things with his own two eyes, hearing them with his own two ears, and he is feeling a lot of confusion and dread in his own small heart. To lie in his face would be ignoring his own experiences. Whether she likes it or not, he is involved in this mess too.

‘The king is a cruel man, I will not lie on the matter. Whether it is his nature or whether it is what the war did to him, I do not know. But I can assure you that he will not hurt you or Lanna or the princess for that matter; not any of you.’

‘But you—’

‘I will not let him, do you hear me?’ she interrupts. ‘Trystane, your concern graces you. It is a testament to your kindness and kindness is a great virtue. But I am not in need of your kindness. More so, I need you to take care of yourself first.’

He shakes his head. ‘Lanna says—’

‘Not Lanna, you,’ she interrupts. ‘You will bring our family no greater joy than by growing up well and happy. We just want you to be happy.’

‘It is hard,’ he mutters.

She cannot stand to try and correct him on that. For she relates to him. Happiness is something she has no talent for either, easily swayed by fits of moroseness and melancholia.

‘It is,’ she admits. ‘Still, Trystane, promise me: you will not tire yourself out fussing over this, alright?’

He sighs and gives a soft nod of the head. ‘Alright, auntie.’

‘Go to bed then.’ She rises from her chair.

He should have been asleep hours ago. The lack of sleep will do him no good, will only make him spiral more. She watches him retreat into his room and dims the oil lamp. After having taken off her dress and shoes, she slips under the coarse blanket on the couch. Staring up into the dark, she ghosts her fingertips over her lips. How affectionately Aemond kissed her. How soft. She almost misses his touch. But not really.

Lanna’s tears have barely dried, and still she insists for the umpteenth time, ‘I will not leave without it!’

Drenace throws her hands up in the air. Her daughter’s caprices have got her at a loss of words. Narvo looks down at his daughter, unimpressed, unbothered, and tells her, ‘Then you should not have misplaced it, Lanna.’

‘I did not misplace it!’ Her brittle voice shoots into a high-pitch.

M’rone rolls her eyes, barely able to suppress a wry smirk. This morning has been an awfully chaotic ordeal. Trystane overslept, Tumyro spilled a bowl of porridge on the floor, and now Lanna is refusing to leave without the hairnet Jaehaera gifted her.

The little girl has been in quite the state ever since waking up. She barely ate, only dressed after being told so more than five times, and then refused to let her mother comb her auburn locks and braid them. She does not want to go with, she has been repeating all morrow; no, instead she wants to go to her “dear friend Jae”, to see the royal wedding with her own eyes and then attend the feast. Lanna even went so far as to insist that the princess expects her to come with and thus that she has no choice but to go, because she is a princess—notwithstanding that the queen dowager herself assured Drenace that the twins were not welcome near the princess today. Drenace tried to meet her daughter’s complaints gently, but ultimately cracked. Even Narvo, who is usually the most patient with the children, has put his foot down.

The dam broke when Lanna changed her tune and refused to come with, because she does not believe in the Moongoddess anymore; since having gone with the princess to the royal sept once, she now wants to learn the faith of the Seven. Confronted with such blasphemy, Tumyro threatened his granddaughter with a whacking. The threat alone—one seldom uttered in their household—was enough to make Lanna erupt into tears.

She cried a short while, only to then insist on wearing the caul Jaehaera gifted her. Apparently, the princess saw fit to present her friend with such a splendid gift of her own accord. Her parents are of course not pleased with it, fearing that their daughter will become spoiled. And M’rone, admittedly, suspects as well that Lanna expressed interest in the many pretty hairnets the princess wears openly and frequently. Such such sort of headdress is something seldom seen in Braavos, let alone worn by artisans.

As daughter and father continue to argue, M’rone’s gaze drifts to her own father, who sits next to her at the head of the table. It has been difficult, being near him, existing under his gaze, but then again she has seen no anger, no disappointment in his brown eyes. Only repentance. He regrets what he said to her weeks past. She knows he would never repeat such a vile accusation, but then again, he will not seek her out now. He has never been one for confrontation. If she hopes to smooth things over, she has to be the one to take the initiative.

Softly she asks him, ‘Do you want some more tea, father?’

He nods, offering her a watery smile. ‘Thank you, M’rone.’

As she pours him another cup, Lanna says, ‘I must have left it at old queen’s chambers. Just let me go look!’

‘Why ever were you there?’ Drenace demands, but to this Lanna just pouts.

Seeing a possible resolution to the issue, M’rone offers, ‘I will go look.’

‘No, she can go without,’ Drenace protests, but M’rone has already risen.

Whatever has Lanna in this mood, their best chance of having her calm down is finding the hairnet. As she herself has already eaten and dressed in today’s ceremonial garb, she may as well go look for the caul. Placing a hand on her sister’s shoulder, she whispers to her, ‘You sit down and eat.’

‘I will come with, auntie!’ Lanna exclaims.

‘No, you will help Trystane check the bags.’ Her niece’s brown eyes widen. M’rone can already see another tantrum coming, so she rushes to add sternly, ‘And by the time I am back, I hope to encounter a good girl who does not distress her mother and shun her own family.’

Lanna swallows down hard, but whatever crying fit she had planned, is postponed. The girl has been testing the whole family’s limits all morning, and while on account of her young age she hardly can be blamed, she should learn that this cannot stand. Narvo stops M’rone by the door, taking hold of her arm not softly, but also not too roughly.

‘She should not gave been given such a thing to begin with,’ he says.

The accusation is clear enough. Narvo has always been a bit distrustful of her, for reasons she can hardly fathom. But since coming here, since the twins having been elevated to be the princess’s playmates, his dismay of her has become sharper, more pronounced. It is as if in this unfortunate turn of events he has finally found a reason for his discomfort around her and is all too happy to let it show.

‘That is a conversation for later, when she is not around to throw a fit,’ she replies, pulling away from him.

She steps out into the chaos of the lowborn seeing to the entertainment and pleasure of highborn. The whole Red Keep has been uprooted to make today’s celebrations happen. As far as she understands a ceremony is to take place in the Grand Sept in an hour or so, meaning that the royal pair and the whole court will make their way down the streets of King’s Landing in a parade of splendor and power. After, they are set to return to the Red Keep, where there will be a banquet.

In her opinion, the whole ordeal has an extravagant touch to it. And indeed, as she meanders through the servants hurrying about, she is easily convinced certain the celebrations are grand: never before has she seen the castle in such a hurry. Still, she heard some of the older washerwomen complain that the city has right to a grander feast than whatever is being planned, that barely any festivities for the smallfolk have been prepared and that there will not even be a pie filled with living birds.

The last complaint can hardly be reasonable. Who puts living birds in a wedding cake either way?

It matters little to her, this whole arrangement. At least, that is what she tries to assert for herself. No joy will come from her dwelling on the nuptials of the man who has so utterly diminished her, who sees no reason to not unravel her any further even when he has taken another woman to wife.

As she makes her way into the Holdfast she realizes she has made a grave mistake. Even though she has avoided the most crowded hallways and stairwells, it does not keep her out of the court’s prying eyes whatsoever. There is no empty or silent corner left in the Keep at this moment. The courtiers pause and look, whisper and grin.

She hears one of them say it, with such gleeful amusement that it makes her falter; the king’s paramour.

‘Has she come to plead to His Grace to put a halt to his espousals?’ an older lady says to her lord husband, in a tone louder than the usual whisper.

M’rone grips her skirts a bit tighter and forces herself to keep her head straight and continue on her way.

Another voice comes, just a bit too loud, ‘What is she wearing?’

But they could never make her feel bad about her moondress. It is a long garment, made of gray linen and embroidered with silver tread in a pattern of stars and moons. The high neckline and sleeves are adorned with Braavosi lace. It is her most prized possession, one of the few pieces of clothing she actually made herself; the Moonsingers urge every child of the temple to make their own ceremonial garments. Having tended to many moondresses by now, as her body has grown and changed, she well understands why: it is calming to work on a project so concrete, all for yourself. Whenever she wears it, she feels better. Safe. As if nothing bad can get to her. And so the words of the court wash over her. Her hand drifts to a thread of the silvery belt around her waist, adorned with bells that chime softly as she walks.

Her cheeks are hot with shame by the time she turns into the wide hallway leading to the old queen’s chambers. As she sweats and blushes, she comes upon Aemond Targaryen.

Flanked by four guards, one of them a White Cloak, he turns into the hallway, walking toward her. He is not dressed like usual. Ceremonial attire, she realizes. Clad all in dark green, almost black, a large golden dragon is embroidered on his vest, covering his chest. He is wearing a heavy chain of golden links, a cape draped over his shoulders, pinned in place with brooches equally adorned with dragon imagery. His hair is pulled back in a braid and, to her amusement, he even put on a more refined eye-patch than usual. Yet, even on his way to his wedding he wears Blackfyre on his hip.

Setting out for battle.

As soon as his gaze falls on her, a smirk passes over his lips, if only for a moment. She sets a step aside, giving the entourage enough space to pass, and sinks into a courtesy. He should not. He could not. And yet, he pauses a moment. She straightens her back, looking up at him carefully. It is clear he means to say something—about her attire, perhaps, for he has not seen her like this before—but, placing his hand over his sword hilt, he decides against it. He hums and continues on his way. M’rone stays as she is, following him with her gaze until he is out of sight. Only then does she turn to continue on her way. Someone has been left behind by the entourage.

She cannot help but smile when she sees him: Halys Reed. He too has put a bit more effort in his attire today, but then again, he looks so tired, it diminishes the efforts. And yet, despite the bags under his eyes, the pale fatigue in his face, he responds to her soft smile in kind. She means not to stall him, quickly courtesying when she passes him, but he says, ‘My lady, I heard your family means to go out of the city today.’

She folds her hands behind her back. ‘And to which birdsong did you listen to hear of this, my lord?’

He does not reply.

‘A jest, master of whisperers,’ she assures, continuing on her way.

‘I do not mean to pry, my lady. It is simply, outside of the city, there are less eyes to watch over you.’

What a strange thing to mention, to speak of such prying eyes as protection and not inhibition. Making her way inside of the old queen’s chambers, she replies, ‘I would be glad to have less eyes on me, my lord.’

She begins her lackluster search for the hairnet in the entrance room, continuing on into the sitting room. Halys Reed trails behind her, keeping a polite distance.

‘Suffocating as the Red Keep may be, lady Vilendrys, its walls are high and thick.’

‘You must forgive me, lord Reed, but I do not do well in cryptic speech.’ She opens a box of supplies, of course not finding what she is looking for. ‘Are you concerned for my well-being, is that what you mean to say?’

She turns to meet his gaze and is fascinated to find him blushing.

‘Perhaps in Braavos it is otherwise, but in this Realm, men are not always courteous toward women.’

She swallows down heavily. Of what he is speaking now, she cannot discern; hypothetical men of ill intent roaming outside of the city, or the existent vile man in whose home the both of them currently reside.

‘My family means to go to a small lake, just west of the city. It is where all the Braavosi currently in King’s Landing mean to go. Our rites call for sweet water, you see. The lake as far as I am aware has no name, but certainly you must know it.’

‘I know it,’ Halys says. ‘I have no concern for what transpires by the lake. But your rites will last well into the night, I heard. You will only return in the dark.’

‘All of us, a whole group of Braavosi, among which even the odd, lost waterdancer,’ she says.

He is showing more concern over this than Aemond. She does not mind. Halys Reed gives a stiff nod, brows furrowed. His lips part, but it takes an odd moment before he speaks, ‘My apologies, I should not—’

‘It is gallant for you to concern yourself over the well-being of a mere foreign woman and her family, my lord,’ she assures him. She continues her search. ‘If more men were of your disposition, you would have no reason to worry so, I imagine.’

She drifts into the bedroom, there finding a golden hairnet, adorned with silver-golden bells. It lays discarded on the floor. What a pretty thing. And to be decorated in this way, with bells—did Lanna tell the princess about their significance? She picks the piece of the floor, but when she rises, she notices Halys Reed’s eye has fallen on the mural: her problem project.

‘Do not look at it too long, it will hurt your eyes,’ she urges him.

‘Your work?’ he inquires and she nods stiffly.

‘Your skills are refined,’ he says. ‘It must have taken years of discipline and dedication to hone it so.’

He has a way with words, this man, that does not leave her unaffected. ‘As you have spent years studying the blade, I imagine.’

He bows his head a bit and then gestures at the caul she picked up. ‘So that was your charge?’

‘My niece, Lanna, refuses to come with us without this. A gift from the princess, apparently,’ she sighs.

‘The princess Jaehaera is very fond of your niece and nephew, my lady. I think the whole Holdfast heard her cry this morning when the queen dowager insisted that today she would be have to do without her playmates.’

M’rone clenches her hands around the hairnet a bit too tightly perhaps. Friendship, of course, is a thing she wishes for her niece and nephew. But this is a dependency she does not welcome. While she can sympathize with the princess Jaehaera, who has known more suffering than any child should have, the only thing she feels now is concern and frustration. It is going to far.

‘They cling too hard to each other,’ M’rone mutters.

Frightened to have said such a thing where Halys Reed could hear it, she sets off. The master of whisperers follows in her trail.

‘What worries you, my lady?’ he asks.

She dismisses, ‘It is no matter, my lord. It is no matter.’

In the hallway, she comes to an abrupt, started halt. Halys Reed softly, quickly brushes against her, but he is quick to put a bit of distance between them. M’rone pays it no mind, her eyes are on the stranger at the other end of corridor. A face she recognizes, but cannot place. This time they are not dressed in the simple clothes of palace staff, but in the chain mail of the petty guards that roam the Holdfast. They even wear the Targaryen coat-of-arms on their breast. Her hands drift to her throat, and for a moment it is as if she can feel it again; the air inside of her lungs dissipating. But then she blinks and the immemorial face has gone. She inhales deeply turning somewhat awkwardly to Halys Reed, but when she means to speak, he beats her to it.

‘My lady, I must insist that you reconsider leaving the Red Keep today,’ he says with such sudden urgency that she takes a step back.

He has seen it, that strange face, those pale, hazy eyes. He has seen and the sight has frightened him. But why? It is just a face, just a stranger, just a fleeting memory. And if they comes back, it will only be for her. Not for anyone else. No one truly stands at risk. For she would not mind the gift they bear.

‘I—I must go,’ she stammers.

Without further ado, she takes her leave.

‘Lady Vilendrys!’ he calls out after her, but she does not look back.

A creature has outgrown itself.

M’rone rakes the white bone comb through Drenace’s damp auburn hair, careful as to not hurt her by tugging too hard at the knots. Lanna does not work with the same caution, however. She is combing M’rone’s hair diligently, but with no heed to whether she is hurting her aunt or not. M’rone does not have the heart to reprimand her for it. After the morning’s tirade, Lanna has been dull and fickle, easily brought to the verge of tears. Only while bathing in the lake’s cool moonlit waters, did Lanna somewhat calm down.

The Westerosi with their overly prudish rites would certainly think this ritual of water and moon to be horrendous: for men and women and children to bathe, naked as the day they were born, in the same waters. She was reminded of it when Lanna, for the first time in her young life, was hesitant to undress for this rite, as if she has recently found found in her own nudity a preordained sin. She and the princess must have talked rather often about the Maiden and the Mother of that seven-faced god, who so likens flesh to evil. As if having a body is sin in and of itself, not merely a neutral part of the multi-layered person.

But then again, for a moment, in Lanna’s hesitance, M’rone saw herself. She had not dared to let it show, to make her family worry over her, but she too had been uncertain whether she should undress, should show the world her naked skin. Her body that has been touched when it should not be. But under the first full moon of summer everything is renewed. Maybe even she herself. And so she relented and felt all the better for it.

Neither Drenace nor Narvo had dared not to pressure their daughter on the matter, however. Faith should come willingly or not. In the end, faith did come to Lanna as it has been for her whole life, and after a while she did join her family in the chilled waters. She has been calmer since. On this sort of night, the moonlit water can wash away all sins. And as far as it concerns Lanna, it seems to ring true.

M’rone’s own heart feels lighter, but only a bit. It is as much as she could have hoped for given the circumstances. But she must not be too hasty. The full moon still is high in the sky, the night is still long. And admittedly, sitting by the lake’s shore, her moondress a clammy on her cleansed skin, combing her sister’s long hair, is making her feel better. Lighter. Softer.

Drenace is unusually silent. M’rone follows the direction of her sister’s gaze. By the tree line young Trystane is struggling to shave his father’s beard without drawing blood. How stern he looks as he does so. Behind her, Lanna starts to hum along with the gentle melody played by some musicians who joined them in today’s rites. A company of about forty they make. M’rone, unlike the rest of her family, has kept somewhat to herself, but she is nevertheless happy to hear so much Braavosi around. To be reminded that outside of King’s Landing another life still lays waiting on her.

But not quite.

If she were to return to Braavos in a few months, who will she be then to her people? Still a Master-Artisan, or just a dragon’s whore? It is a question she does not mean to dwell on, not now or any time soon, for the answer is bound to break her heart.

‘You must tell me if I am hurting you,’ M’rone tells her sister as she slides the comb once again through her hair.

‘You have a soft touch, sister,’ Drenace replies. ‘But I have an inkling mine own sweet daughter has not.’

If Lanna has heard the remark, she does not let it show. She just keeps on humming and rakes the comb enthusiastically through M’rone’s hair, making M’rone’s scalp hurt with the sheer force of it.

‘I am not complaining.’

‘Like usual,’ Drenace says, mildly bitter.

M’rone ignores it. ‘We should oil your hair, the ends are dry and brittle.’

‘Yes, because between trying to keep this family together and working on those wretched murals, this is truly of importance,’ Drenace mutters under her breath.

Disturbed, M’rone leans back. Her sister does not turn around to face her, but does let out a deep sigh. ‘Lanna, sweetling, you can join the other children, if you wish.’ Drenace means, of course, the small flock of children dancing in a circle around the musicians. It is not so much part of the rite as of the festivities. Where Braavosi are, people will be dancing.

‘Can I?’ Lanna asks shyly.

‘Of course, sweetling.’

And off she goes. Now Drenace does turn to M’rone, a plea in her worried face.

‘I would cut off my hair if Narvo did not like it so,’ she says. ‘It is so heavy, it gives me headaches.’

But this is hardly what bothers her, M’rone well understands that. But she can indulge her little sister, if only for a while. Although cutting off her beautiful auburn locks would be a shame, she assures her, ‘Then cut it off, Drenace, your husband will love you either way.’

‘Aye, he will, of course he will. But he is so… He has not been untoward to you, has he?’

‘Narvo is a courteous man,’ she replies diplomatically.

Drenace lets her head fall back, raising her eyes to the moon. It is uncanny, to be so close to someone, yet feel so far away from them. As of late, M’rone has been feeling as if her sister is slipping out of her reach. As if soon they will be estranged from each other beyond compassion, beyond recognition.

‘That is good at least,’ Drenace mutters, but she does not sound convinced.

Getting worried, M’rone dares to ask, ‘Has he been untoward to you, Drenace?’

Blinking, Drenace meets her gaze. ‘No, of course not. But… I can feel his disappointment. I can feel that he thinks me a bad mother.’

‘Has he said as much?’ M’rone whispers aghast.

Drenace shakes her head. That is a relief.

‘Then it might as well be you tormenting yourself with your own imagination,’ she urges. ‘Drenace, do not linger here with me. Go to him.’

‘I—I cannot.’

It is almost as if she is talking to a shy maiden about approaching a potential suitor. M’rone grins and looks at Narvo, now cleanly shaved, pointing at something in the sky, while keeping his son close.

‘Tell him your doubts so you can rid yourself of them. Under this moon, he would not dare to be dishonest.’

‘You have no business acting the wise crone, you are still too young,’ Drenace grumbles as she rises. She pauses midway in her movements, so that she looms over her sister. She adds, ‘Go talk to father, will you?’

With empty eyes, M’rone watches her sister join her husband and son. It is as Drenace said; she should take her own advice and speak with her father. He would avoid discord under a moon like this one at all cost. But still, she does not need the protection of the goddess to speak with him. She only needs her own courage. And she finds that she lacks it. For all her talk on the matter.

She gets up, wiping sand off her dress and looks around for her father. She does not see him and so she sets out to look for him. While she begins by the lake’s shores, she is quickly diverting toward the tree line. Something is drawing her to the forest, something preternatural. She can feel it, and yet she is not afraid, yet she does not question it.

She is disturbed however, when all of a sudden the musicians interrupt their tune. The children stop dancing and the general clamor of the festivities dies down as instead those gathered begin to shout and look up. A dragon is flying past, a dark shadow against the pale full moon. It is not Vhagar, but a smaller dragon, perhaps Tessarion again. But it matters little, the sight of the beast instills in her such dread, that she turns away and steps into the forest.

The hour is late, perhaps already so late that inside the Red Keep, Aemond Targaryen has already left his wedding feast behind to instead take to bed his newly wedded lady wife. Bile rises to her mouth, so uncomfortable she is even thinking about it. But she cannot help it. It is not jealousy or anger that makes her think about it, but a more self-tormenting inclination. For she has heard that these Westerosi entertain an uncivilized custom with which to conclude a wedding feast. Both bride and bridegroom are carried off by guests of the opposite sex, who are responsible for undressing their charge. Aemond being undressed by ladies of the court hardly bothers her. But the thought of Rhaena, who so fears being taken to her wedding bed, to be debased in such a vile way even before Aemond has laid a hand on her.

What sort of Realm is this, that even its queen would be subjected to such humiliation?

Letting out a deep sigh, she leans her back against a tree. She is draining herself over nothing. The royal wedding has nothing to do with her. She is after all here. In the dark, in the quiet. She has strayed perhaps too far. She can hear in the far distance the musicians continuing their tune, the laughter, the murmur of conversation. But only barely. She should return, and yet she finds she does not want to. She cannot confront her father, she cannot speak to him on this matter once again, not under this moon, not under any other.

A twig snaps and M’rone turns her gaze. It is hardly a surprise, to see them here. That face, she is becoming accustomed to it. She has been waiting for it. The stranger is this time wearing unassuming common clothes, such as neither a lowlife nor a highborn would wear. Inconspicuous, except for their milky eyes which have an ethereal shine to it in the faded moonlight.

‘You again,’ she whispers.

‘A creature does not run.’

‘A creature would wish to know a face’s name,’ she hears herself reply.

The forgotten face smiles, but barely. They look tired somewhat, as if worn out from a long long search. And yet, there is relief too, as if they have reached a long striven for goal.

‘This face has forgotten,’ they reply as they draw closer still.

The calm that has washed over her is an insidious one, of the sort a person should not relent to, of the sort a person should reject. But she is too tired, too far beyond herself to not be seduced by its allure. This forgotten face has never truly frightened her, for they hardly ever wished harm on her. They merely move according to a tune she cannot here, abiding rules she does not know. Given all that has happened and what is likely to come, giving into this strange force now would hardly be the worst choice, would it? Her family will mourn, she knows, but they will swallow their grief and continue as they have. Continue better than if she resisted this higher will to instead remain.

‘A creature understands,’ the face says as they wrap their hands around her throat.

Closing her eyes she said, ‘No. But a creature is tired.’

Their grip around her flesh has barely tightened when an erratic voice disrupts the silence, ‘Get off of her!’

Father.

The forgotten face relinquishes their hold on her immediately. She leans toward them, ready to plead to leave her father be. Tumyro is approaching rapidly, his stride hurried, his hand on the petty dagger he always takes with. The face just looks, not frustrated, not bored—their gaze is empty. ‘A man should remember his promise,’ they say, loud enough for even Tumyro to hear.

But when her father, panting and heaving, has crossed the distance, the forgotten face is already long gone. Tumyro strays further, as if meaning to set in the pursuit after her assailant, but except for them the forest is desolate, as if they were alone here all along. And so he falters, not yet foolish enough to try and chase a ghost. M’rone, swallowing down saliva, rests her head back against the rough tree bark. The last words of the forgotten face linger in her mind.

What promise were they speaking of?

A hand on her shoulder. M’rone pushes the touch away instinctively. She immediately regrets it when she sees her father’s defeated eyes. For a moment they just stare at each other, like confused children. In the silence the contours of words unsaid shimmer. Accusations and apologies. Admonishes and reassurances. The empty shapes of the dozens upon dozens of conversations they should have had, but have been avoiding for years. For a brittle moment she almost believes that this is the moment he will finally say it, that which he has been chewing on for so long. But he, much like she, is a creature of habit. And their shared habit is quietude. Tumyro Vilendrys merely says, ‘Come.’

He does not try to touch her again and she is grateful for it. He urges her to go first and trails behind her. When they emerge from the forest and join their family, her eyes catch Drenace’s. The glint of naive hope quickly fades as she realizes that M’rone has failed to do what she asked of her.

M’rone goes through the remainder of the festival in a haze, barely tasting the sour fish sauce on the traditional flat bread her sister feeds to her, barely feeling the sauce stick to her fingers as she returns the gesture to her sister. An exchange of bread and fish under the moon is meant to strengthen bonds. But she only feels herself growing more and more faint. When the time has come to light up the paper lanterns, she finds herself overwhelmed by grief. The lanterns are meant as tokens, that drift up to the spaces between worlds, to the moongoddess herself. As she lights her own lantern, all she can think about it is death.

Her mother, sweaty and pale and skeletal, on her deathbed.

Her babe, stillborn and cold, in her arms.

Her husband, eyes open but dead quiet, under their shared sheets.

They are waiting for her. She could join them sooner rather than later. Her gaze drifts to Drenace, held tightly in her husband’s embrace, as they and their children watch the lanterns float off into the skies. Drenace will be alright.

‘It worries me to see you like this,’ her father’s voice comes.

She turns to look at him. I would not mind dying. She could say that to him, confess this sin, this deep-wrought desire. But she cannot. So maybe it is not entirely true.

She could not leave him behind. Without her, what would become of him?

‘Do not fret,’ she whispers.

Their entourage returns to the city at the hour of the owl. So tired Lanna is that her father has to carry her home. Trystane yawns and falters, but is insistent on walking the whole way home himself. The gold cloaks at the Lion Gate taunt their company when they ask for entry, joking about them having to wait until morning to get into the city. The musicians play them a tune, and a merchant gives them some coin. When that still refuse to sway, their father shows them their family’s emblem. This makes the city guards laugh and while she cannot really make out their murmured jokes, she knows what they are alluding to. Finally, one of the men’s eyes fall on her and he announces with an annoyed groan, ‘Aye, let them in. If the king finds out we are keeping his courtesan, we will all loose our cocks.’

At this their entourage grows silent, as do the guards. M’rone does her best to ignore the glances thrown her way. But if it were not for Drenace taking hold of her hand, she would have sunk through her knees right there and then. She is grateful for the lack of comment from any of the other Braavosi as they continue on their way through the city. Yet, if what happened at the gate made her feel uncomfortable, what awaits her at the caste’s portcullis is far worse.

The Red Keep’s guards do not make a fuss about letting them in, but as soon as the heavy iron gate is lifted, a tired servant comes forth to none than M’rone.

‘My lady, you are summoned.’

Despite the lack of explication, there is no doubt about who is calling on her.

Even on his wedding night.

Drenace clenches her hand tighter around M’rone’s, but is her father who sneers, ‘She is coming with her family.’

She can already see the aftermath of this. This night is an unusual one, this is not a common summons. If she is to ignore it, there will be consequences to it. Behind them the gate is lowering again. Caging them in. She shakes her head softly.

‘Sister,’ Drenace whispers harshly.

But still M’rone slips her hand from her touch, and says to the servant, ‘Lead the way.’

‘M’rone, I will not—’ her father begins, but M’rone interrupts, ‘Go. The hour is late.’

Her father scoffs, aghast, but no words follow. Narvo, still carrying Lanna, has already continued on his way, unbothered or at least not willing to be bothered by this ordeal. Trystane looks up at his aunt with an uncomfortable frown and she offers him a soft smile, before turning away. She is hardly surprised by where the servant leads her. But she is surprised by the anger beginning to swirl inside her as she ascends the serpentine steps of the keep.

It is the hour of the owl.

It is his wedding night.

And he calls on her, as if she is some base whore.

It is, for once, not Criston Cole, but ser Willis Fell who stands guard by his king’s quarters this night. He barely spares her a look and opens the door to give her entry. She clenches her hands tightly around the linen of her skirts and steps inside. It is quiet in the king’s chambers, as if the night has paused time itself. She waits until the door behind her falls closed before crossing the entry hall, the bells on her silver belt chiming softly as she moves. Her ire has mixed nauseatingly with distress; she is unable to make sense of what actually is happening.

She finds Aemond in the sitting room, a cup of wine in hand, leaning over the brazier in which rest the three dragon eggs. He is barefooted, in half a state of undress, wearing his breeches still, but over it only a white shirt. His hair is loose, his eye-patch nowhere to be found. His ceremonial attire, his king’s mask is discarded. And she is left with only the man underneath.

‘It is your wedding night.’

Her voice is soft, yet it searing hot—if words could burn, his skin would be torn and red now. Yet, Aemond is hardly unsettled. What else did she expect? He turns to her, licking remnants of wine from his lips and eyes her coolly.

‘Did the moonlight wash away your sins, M’rone?’ he asks, the corner of his mouth curling up.

She scoffs, eyes widening in exasperation.

‘You should be warming your wife’s bed,’ she spits.

He hums, nods his head as if truly considering her admonishment, and then gulps down whatever wine remained in his cup. Placing the empty golden cup aside, he says, ‘I did my duty.’

She gulps down, trying not to dwell too long on what those few words mean. He has not merely called on her after dismissing his newly-wedded wife. No, he has called on her after consummating the marriage. The thought makes her nauseous.

He closes the lid of the brazier, safeguarding the eggs inside, all the while his gaze still rests on her. So used she is to his eye on her, that she only now realizes he is looking in a way she cannot quite place. He is ogling and leering, but there is something else as well. Something softer, something less transgressive. Or perhaps it is even more violating, precisely in its intimacy. He approaches and she, unwilling to show her dread, does not move. He takes hold of her chin, rubbing his thumb over her lips almost, almost tenderly.

‘Moondrop,’ he whispers.

‘Aemond—’

He hushes her and then immediately leans in to kiss her lips. It is not so much a kiss of dominance as one of desperation. He tastes of wine and smoke and sheer need. Her eyes flutter as she tries to not succumb, not falter to this strange invasion of her self; one that is almost sweet and clumsy. He cups the back of her head, fingers digging in her hair, and pulls her close by the waist. Breathtaking, nauseating. A guttural sound erupts in her throat, but dies in her mouth.

And then the touch falls. Gasping for air, her hands instinctively follow Aemond’s body, coming to rest on his shoulders as he kneels before her.

‘What are you doing?’ she barely manages to utter.

He looks up at her, and immediately she knows. For the first time in her life, the soft linen of her moondress fails to make her feel safeguarded. The way he looks at her now, equal parts tender longing, equal parts carnal craving, defiles her in a completely new way. A woman in her moondress is sacrosanct. But there is nothing he takes as much pleasure in as sacrilege.

‘My moonlit swan,’ he mutters, setting to hoist her skirts up, making the bells on her belt chime.

‘No!’ she exclaims, pulling away.

He grips her hips hard, trying to keep her in place. She does not cease her struggles. He rises to his feet, trying to force her into obedience. It is a messy and petty struggle, which only causes her to finally end up pressed against the windowsill. He kisses her lips again, softly, fleetingly, and once more hushes her. Combing his fingers through her loose hair, only still a bit damp from her dip in the lake, he whispers in her ear, ‘You would not come between a dragon and his prize, would you, my love?’

My love.

The endearment is enough to make her head swim in bewilderment. This is not love, this is not affection or devotion. And yet, he is insistent on pretending it is, for once more he sinks down on his knees before her. This time, when he lifts her skirts, when he makes the bells around her waist ring, she does not protest. Whether it is fear or disorientation or some worse thing which keeps her still, she does not know. But under his touch, warm and wet and soft, she is unable to keep quiet for long.

He is a diligent lover, devoted to the craft of bringing delight to his beloved’s body. Soon enough it is not merely his saliva pooling between her legs. Tears spilling from her eyes, she tries to muffle the shameful sounds of her unwanted pleasure by pressing her hand over her mouth. It matters little, however, for when she reaches her peak, both her hands are hoisting up her dress, and from her lips spills in a cry, ‘Aemond!’

Leaning heavily against the windowsill, she looks down on him and lets her breath come from her in heavy sighs. He smiles, kisses the inside of her thigh and slowly rises. She tries to close her legs, but he slips his hand between them. Her brows furrow as she feels his fingers slip between her folds.

‘Did that not feel sweet, moondrop?’ he murmurs, as he slips a finger inside her. She bites on her tongue at the intrusion. ‘This time will be even sweeter, but I need you to be louder.’

It is humiliation and it is violation and yet, it is also depraved pleasure that he forces onto her body. Relentlessly. He is insistent on her not biting down her moans, he is even more insistent on her saying his name. And just for it to be over, just for him to be done with is, she relents. She says his name, and then cries it, until he is satiated with the sound. But after, he does not have his pleasure with her. At first she thinks this is her reward for her shameful obedience.

It is only later, when she is looking down at her discarded moondress on the floor, that she realizes this was not the usual exchange of her giving him control over body in turn for her receiving whatever leniency he is willing to award. Too tired to even protest, she allows him to carry her to his bed. As the silk sheets envelop her naked body, and she tries to ignore the wetness between her legs, she thinks of the new queen, laying alone in her marital bed. The mattress dips as Aemond joins her under the sheets.

‘Are you contented,’ she whispers into the dark, ‘with the statement you made?’

‘I did not proclaim anything.’

But she did. She called his name in some sick sort of pleasure over and over again. By dawn, the few ears who have heard, the few eyes who have seen her in the shrouded corridors will have spread the tale throughout the castle, throughout the city perhaps. On his wedding night, the king immediately after fulfilling his marital duties, took to bed his mistress—whose cries of ecstasy were heard for hours on end. For tales are anything if not inflated truths and lies.

He reaches for her, pulling her naked body flush to his, her back against his chest.

‘Sweet dreams, moondrop.’

But she lies awake, numbly listening to his breathing, and thinks of that forgotten face. What happens under the first full moon of summer is bound to echo for the whole season, drifting off like the chiming of bells. Aemond has assured that for her this summer will echo horrendously.

Valon zoraetes, the dragon says.

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