#aemondweek

The fever encapsulated his body like a tight, heavy, unwanted embrace from a person that had yet to realize they had been sweating too much. Hot and cold all at once. A small groan left Aemond as he turned in his bed. Every movement sent signals of anguish through his muscles. It wasn't as bad as it had been two days ago, but this stubborn sickness refused to leave him promptly. He rarely got sick, but this time around it was one of the harsher examples. 

What irritated the 10 year old the most was the fact that he was missing his studies; he could deal with the sweating, the pestering of the staff who came by every hour or so to change the cold cloth on his forehead, the tasteless broth he was made to drink, and he could keep the eminent boredom somewhat at bay by reading in the bed to which he was confined, but the fact that he was missing his customs was harder to accept. 

The grown-ups just didn't understand; he had to study and be better than he was yesterday. He had to train his mind as well as his growing muscles to show himself worthy of the name Targaryen. Why could none of them understand that? 

His mother certainly didn't; stopping by every few hours to check on him, putting a hand to his forehead while commenting on his ever present too hot temperature. The worried line between her brows seemed to be permanently carved into her face after his mere two days in bed. She was fussing needlessly, Aemond had no doubt about it. Still, he couldn't deny the gratifying sense of comfort he felt whenever she'd come by and check on him, ask him if he was drinking enough water, if he needed anything out of the ordinary and so forth. Her efforts almost made up for the fact that she couldn't quite hide the sheer force she had to use to make her present this side of herself; like the maternal instincts simply didn't come as natural to her. It wasn't something Aemond's young mind was able to articulate into words, but he felt it in his chest. The slight tense strain in the air around Alicent when she comforted him, like she really had to put in the extra effort and remind herself how a mother was supposed to be around her young. 

She struggled. 

It had never crossed his mind that he ought to hold it against her though. She was simply his mother, the only one he had, and he cherished her for all she did and could give. It wasn't her fault that he'd gotten sick. And it certainly wasn't her fault that Aegon, yesterday, had decided to wake Aemond in the morning by emptying a bucket of ice water on him while laughing. 

That prick.

His prank may have earned Aemond another day of sickness. His older brother had laughed diabolically at him, saying ‘this ought to cool your fever down a bit’.

Aemond shivered at the thought, and sneezed. He rubbed his reddened nose with the sleeve of his shift and settled back against his pillow again. Every movement made him ache. He threw a glance at the book pile on the table next to the bed. Longing for sunshine and fresh air, the silver-haired prince groaned and pulled up the covers to his chin. He'd read most of the books before but he had nothing else to entertain himself with. Quietly, Aemond hoped sleep would find him again so the days would pass by faster and his health would replenish sooner. He closed his eyes and tried so. After fifteen minutes or so, there was the faint sound of his door clicking open, then shutting again. Assuming it was most likely the staff coming to set broth on his table or to check on him, he paid it no mind and didn't bother to open his eyes. There was a shuffling of feet, soft steps, then the sound of them stopping at the foot of his bed. They were probably looking at him, assessing his state. Any second now they'd wake him and ask him how he was doing. But no voice came, which puzzled Aemond. He blinked his eyes open fully and turned his head to look at them.

He had expected a taller figure, and the color red of the maid's gowns. Instead, he saw a head of dark hair, and a big set of eyes that blinked once as they looked at him quizzically. His niece didn't smile. She just stood there, looking at him with those eyes that seemed to study him as if she were some kind of curious hound.

“You're still sick?” She asked with a vexing type of ignorance.

“It's been three days,” she added just as senselessly.

There was a tension on Aemond's forehead, when his brow furrowed at the sight of her.

“I know,” he replied with a voice thick with irritation, and yet it was veiled by the complete lack of restraint the sickness had put him in.

She had a bad habit of just waltzing into his chambers and seeking out his attention, as if she owned the entire godsdamn keep. But it was no use to scold her on it. Aemond had long ago learned that his rebukes towards her bounced off of her, as if his words were a mere passing breeze. And even if he could find some meaning and inspiration to reprimand her for her insolence, he physically did not have the energy. 

He simply scoffed and turned in his bed, tugging up the covers as he faced away from her. A small hopeful part of him alleged that she might grow bored once she came to realize he could not be poked with the state he was in, and then make her leave. But that hope was frail.

The fever ridden prince heard her feet shuffle against the floors, as she instead of leaving stepped closer to him, up on the side of the bed where his back was turned to her.

“You're not feeling better?”

She asked, surprisingly softly.

“... A bit,” Aemond murmured without turning around. It was strange hearing her ask him that. He reckoned the words would have had a more comforting effect had they come from his mother.

She pouted her lips in contemplation for a couple seconds, as she looked at the sweat-damp back of his neck where small clumps of silver strands stuck to. The princess couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him with his hair all loose. Just the mere act of leaving the top part down instead of neatly tied back, gave him a softened exterior that made him seem so… Defenseless in a sense. Obviously he still held that pesky wall of his up, trying to remain on guard, but the fever had clearly softened his edges in a way that almost made him seem endearing.

She'd always felt provoked by that pesky wall of his, though she did not possess the maturity nor capability to put a finger on why. Nor did she have the vocabulary to understand that feeling of how her uncle always seemed to have but a sort of armor on constantly. Even now as he laid there in but a thin shift that stuck to his warm feverish skin, he seemed to remain behind a shield. 

She knew that they were family, but she didn't quite understand it. They were just a couple children living in the same castle from opposite sides of the same family that held a thinly veiled disdain towards one another due to her mother's succession. 

But she never thought about that when she was with Aemond in their customs. 

She never kept in mind that he was the younger brother of Aegon who, by all meanings of the word, was a threat to her mother. But Aegon could hardly remember the High Valyrian glyphs, so she didn't quite see how he could be a threat to her. 

With Aemond on the other hand,  she thought more of him as an egg. An egg had a shell that could be cracked to reveal the contents; reveal its purpose. In a driven subconscious way, she was curious to know what Aemond contained, what he meant his purpose was.

She'd never say it out loud, but the past three days in class had been rather dull without him there. She had grown accustomed to finding small ways to get his attention, when she found her mind drift as the maesters tutored her, her siblings and cousins. Like the time when the maester had his back turned to the students, and Aemond was taking notes, she'd suddenly reached across the table with her tiny hand and poked his cheek. Aemond had turned and looked at her wide-eyed as if she were mad.

She had settled back in her seat as if nothing had happened, and when the maester turned around at last, he had politely asked Aemond to stay focused and not stare at the other students. Her mouth had been tight as she struggled to keep herself from giggling. Aemond did nothing but purse his lips, as his face and ears grew red hot and he resumed on his notes, staring down at the papers, as his fingers nearly snapped the quill.

Her gaze wandered from Aemond's back over to the small bedside table with the books stacked. Each and every one of them were history books and bland texts about heraldry. 

Boring.

She looked back at Aemond. He felt her poke the back of his shoulder. It wasn't hard enough to hurt his aching muscles, but more like the press of a kitten's paw.

“Are you bored?” She asked.

“I'm trying to sleep,” he grumbled.

“Liar,” she stated flatly.

Aemond heard her fingers tap the surface of something.

“I brought a book,” he heard her say.

“I have books,” he grumbled back, still with his back turned to her.

Even though he wasn't looking at her, he was certain she just rolled her eyes at him.

“Yeah, but this is a fun one,” she countered and threw a glance of disdain to the stack on the bedside table. She was inches away from adding a comment about how he was trying to read like a grown up, even though he was only ten, but she withheld the urge. 

Finally, Aemond turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. His eyes were narrowed in skepticism. Truly she did hold a book in her right hand. He recognized the red leather bound cover as one of the old fairy tale books that had once been read to him and his siblings when they were much younger. 

He tch’ed at his niece and once more rolled over in his bed, showing her his back again.

“That's for stupid children,” he muttered as if the very idea of reading it were beneath him.

Still, she remained immune to his mockery.

“You're a child too!” She countered stubbornly. The silver-haired prince did not have a second to conjure up another snarky remark, before he was muted in surprise at the feel of his mattress dipping behind him under her weight.

“What are you doing!?” He exclaimed, sitting up, and looking at her wide-eyed as she settled next to him with the book in her tiny hands. His shock at her very audacity and insolence was so all-consuming, that he had forgotten to feel the ache in his sore muscles from his hasty movements. A flush bloomed over his indignant face. She had no place in his chambers, no less the bed in which he slept and was fighting his illness in. She was fully dressed in a red gown decorated with gold and black embroideries and freshwater pearls - she hadn't even bothered to take off her slippers. All while he was but a sickly mess with messy hair, dressed in a cotton shift that stuck lightly to his skin from hours of sweating, and his breeches. Never in his wildest nightmares would he have imagined being so close to her while he was in this state of undress. But he could feel he ought to feel shame for it, that this was all improper and beyond anything he had been taught of how any princess and prince were to interact with one another.

“Reading to you,” she answered plainly, utterly unmoved by his distress as she opened the book in her lap, and with meticulous care gently flipped through the pages.

Aemond opened his mouth, about to protest, when she turned the book to face him, showing a title.

The Dragon's Gold

The title written in perfectly crisp, intricate calligraphy sent an unexpected spark of familiarity and nostalgia through him.

Right. It was one of the ones he remembered more vividly. But she had most likely had it read to her many more times, as Aemond had an inkling that  Rhaenyra was more inclined to read to her children than his own sweet mother had been. But what did that matter?

Aemond scoffed softly.

“I'm not a babe no more,” he dismissed to let her know he refused to be amused by a story from his youth.

“And dragons don't hold gold,” he reasoned.

“They don't care for that,” he spoke with the arrogance of a scholar who'd studied the beasts for centuries. It was important that she understood he would not marvel in stories that held no foot in the true biology or nature of dragons.

She merely rolled her eyes.

“That doesn’t matter. It's a great story!” She argued with a beaming, insistent smile, and wiggled her hips for a more comfortable seating, with the book in her lap.

She seemed about ready to read to him against his will, before her eyes darted between Aemond and the pages in contemplation. Then, from where she had before sat across from Aemond, she crawled to sit next to him, book in her lap still, shoulders rubbing slightly back against another pillow, supported on the headboard. Aemond was stunned by this further display of discourtesy, but all he could muster was a grumbled sigh of irritation. He had no business trying to act surprised by her behavior.

“Ready?” Her smile beamed to him in encouragement, as she adjusted the book in her lap. She was so close to him that their shoulders touched, and Aemond was certain she could feel his fever radiate from him. Before he'd even mustered up a response, his niece took to reading aloud. She made the story come to life with a gentle form of enthusiasm that she probably had deemed fitting for the sickness that Aemond was battling on his own. 

She was poised and serious in a way. A way that only a young princess trying to act more proper and grown up than she was could muster. It nearly made Aemond chuckle dryly witnessing this display. Instead he just leaned back and listened; he reasoned that if he yielded for now, mayhaps the girl would grow tired of her endeavors and leave sooner rather than later. He could humor her till then.

But against his will, Aemond saw the story come to life before his eyes. The young boy reasoned with himself that the pesky fever had lowered his defences too much, leaving him susceptible and weak against the girl's voice filled with wonder. That voice was simply too insistent. Her words prodded open his ears, and squirmed their measly way into his brain, making him live through the tale, regardless of whether he would allow it or not. 

The characters came to life. He saw the sleazy merchant, the brave knight, the glistening golden scales of the dragon. He nearly felt the warm breath of its fire. She had gotten to the part where the knight stood face to face with the dragon. Glistening gold and jewels spilled between its claws as the beast hovered in warning before the kn-

“Which is your favourite?” His niece's voice broke character, as she turned her head slightly to Aemond's side.

He blinked once and lifted his gaze to look at her properly.

“‘Favourite?’” Aemond asked, brows pressing together. His eyes were somehow both glassy and dull at the same time.

“Of jewels and gemstones,” she responded and poked him with a surprisingly gentle finger against his fever pink, freckled cheek.

Aemond showed no immediate response to her touch, but gave a faint tch at the realization of her question. 

Such a girl thing to inquire.

“Don't have one,” he stated flatly.

That earned him a soft roll of her eyes.

“Everyone has one,” she insisted. 

After a beat, her eyes moved over his face, like they held questions of their own from simply looking at him.

“I like emeralds,” she revealed, even though he didn't ask.

Aemond's eyes travelled from hers over her face, like he was trying to decipher a hidden meaning in her statement.

When he found none, his lips remained sealed.

“Hm,” he hummed.

“Sapphire, I s’pose,” was the final admittance.

His niece nodded and gave a small smile.

“They are pretty too,” she mused and turned her attention back to the book, now that the matter had been settled, and resumed her reading.

The dark-haired girl read on for the remainder of the story. When she finished, she picked a new one, with little inquiry or protest from Aemond. Her annoying voice had made him forgetful in regards to his sickness. At least that much did her disturbance help.

Then he noticed her lean further back against the headboard. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand when a yawn crept up on her.

“Tired?” Aemond asked her, and felt like a fool immediately after. The contagion had set in and not long after her yawn had ended, his own followed.

“You can't sleep here,” Aemond berated, voice slightly thick with drowsiness.

“I won't,” she mumbled, with a protesting furrow forming on the brow. She turned another page and kept reading to her uncle. The strain and hint of exhaustion in her tone gave a certain relaxing flare to her voice, which affected Aemond's senses the same way dream wine did. His eyelids grew heavy in spite of himself and one side of his head tilted softly to rest against hers.

He hardly noticed when she stopped reading. The book simply laid open in her lap, and it wasn't long before her head rested against the fever ridden prince's shoulder, eyes closed instead of reading. Aemond knew that she'd be in trouble for being in his chamber under these circumstances. He might get scolded too. But the consequences and weight of them faded away as he slowly drifted off in the seated position, leaning against the headboard of his bed, Head tilted and supported against his niece's, who in turn supported her head against the warmth of his shoulder.

Whatever, was his final thought, before sleep caught up with him.

The victorious shrieks coming from his nephews, still made his jaw clench when thinking back on it. Vermax had been such a stubborn dragon, but Jacaerys was slowly beginning to take reign on him, as the dragonrider he pretended to be. And Jace's siblings would cheer him on in his small victories.   

It was always his sister’s reactions that were the worst. Granted, she did not partake in any sorts of the torments that her brothers and Aegon found so much thrill in subjecting Aemond to — the closest thing she’d come to teasing him, was simply a type of banter that often caught him off guard. It’d usually present itself as small comment thrown back in his face when he’d point out her obvious mispronunciations in her High Valyrian.  

But what really bugged him was her eyes. The look. Anytime the others had another triumph stoved upon them from training their dragons, her eyes would seek sideways over to Aemond, while she kept her hands firmly folded behind her back. There was never any frown on her face but still, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of unwanted pity from her.  

Don’t look at me, he always thought with a clench of his jaw, often feeling inclined to scream it at her face, and watch her eyes well with tears. He didn’t care if she cried. 

Those eyes that looked nothing like his own, but carried an obvious resemblance to her mother’s sworn protector. She was an imposter, just as the rest of her side of the family. How she and her imbecile brothers had managed to hatch their dragons in the cradle, while his own egg had remained intact was a cruel jest of fate. At times Aemond pondered that he must be a reincarnation of some cruel ancestor, for the gods to punish him in such a way. To see his bloodline be mocked by dark-haired relatives who had no place in this family, and yet yielded dragons of their own. And yet he still  took the lessons in the dragonpit, and he learned every High Valyrian dragon command there was, despite not having a dragon of his own. But he would someday. He was certain of it.  

The young prince huffed out a breath as he laid there on the carpet in the solar in solitude, flipping pages in his books. He may not have a dragon, but he made up for it in his education. He was sure to show that he was worthy. He was already far wiser than Aegon and he was training harder with the sword than the Strong boys ever did. How could his father not see that? The old King Viserys always seemed keener to favour the offspring of his only daughter. Those boys and the girl always got the longer end of the stick simply for being Rhaenyra’s.  

Mere bastards.  

Though, granted… It’s not that she took any part in the teasing.  

His niece.  

In fact, she often seemed to throw a glare in the direction of her brothers if they made enough jabs at Aemond In her presence. But that only lasted for as long as she was in the room. And Aegon never cared whether she was there or not. Frankly, he didn’t shy away from taking some of the bullying out on her, if he felt she’d tried to speak out of turn.  

“I can already tell you’re going to grow up with no tits and the face of a pig!” he’d laugh at her and perhaps even grant her a shove, or pull her hair for good measure. But that was her own fault. She ought to  know not to  talk back. Aemond had stopped that a long time ago.  

Perhaps being the subject of Aegon’s cruel attention, had given her a smidgen of empathy towards Aemond. It would explain the looks and the fact that she’d seek him out sometimes. Either she’d be asking for help with her studies or ask simple, at times plain dumb questions regarding Valyrian lessons that she forgot. He would often scoff at her for her forgetfulness. It did not become a princess of the realm to be so lazy with her studies. Still, he always answered and guided when asked, despite his distaste for her lack of diligence. 

These quiet moments seemed like they might be her way of making conversation, though he rarely understood why. They used to play together when they were much younger. But they were older now and things were different. His mother had made that very clear. How many times had he not heard all the sharp remarks in regard to his niece and nephews. He understood Alicent’s disdain. He understood what it all meant.   

Over were the days of hide and seek in the gardens; Aemond was 10 now and needed to think of what was expected of him as royalty and blood of the dragon. As far as he was concerned he was almost a man fully grown, or at least he’d like to believe so himself. 

The rain was beginning to drip down on the red stone of The Keep, as Aemond flipped a page in Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History. His legs shifted lightly as he laid there on his belly against the carpet, arms crossed, eyes focused on the text.  

His attention was pulled from the page when the door to the solar suddenly flung open, breaking the gentle noise of the rain for but a mere second. 

Usually, the staff would announce their presence. But she never did. She just walked, no stomped in as if the chambers were her own personal domain and she had every right. The silver-haired prince noticed that she had had her hair rebraided. It was probably something Rhaenyra had insisted on even though it was a style that her daughter hated. It was as if the curly texture just didn’t fit with the Valyrian braids. It looked off. Maybe that was why her expression looked sort of constipated as she marched towards him. That too – the marching in as if she were of the King’s Guard– looked off as she wore a teal dress that grazed the floor, rather than armour. To make the entire scene even more ridiculous, she was carrying her favorite possession. A large plush stuffed dragon was lodged under her arm. She carried the darn thing nearly everywhere. Aemond himself reckoned she was too old for that — did she not realize how juvenile it was to carry stuffed toys around for all of the Keep to see? The thing was nearly the size of a pony, made up of patches of fabric that had been chosen due to the pattern’s resemblance to scales. It had two giant gold buttons where eyes would be, and the rustling sound of the toy being dragged across the stone floor revealed that the feet and end of the tail had been stuffed with rice, as opposed to the rest of the body that swelled with either cotton, fabric scraps or a mix of both.  

Aemond moved to sit up and spoke her name in equal parts surprise, and irritation of being interrupted without the proper decorum. He was about to give her a lecture on manners and ask if she’d ever heard of knocking the door. But before he got that far, the girl stopped in front of him and suddenly kicked the small pile of books he’d set aside to read later. The books scattered on the floor in front of him, one ending with the back of the cover facing upwards from atop the open pages of Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns.  

“What the fuck– Careful!” The young prince exclaimed and looked up at his niece in scrutiny, shocked at her careless handling of his literature.  

“I’m bored,” the princess stated flatly, as if it was a natural reason for her behaviour. She stated it so plainly as if it were Aemond’s problem, and now his task to solve it.  

Aemond didn’t look up at her as his jaw clenched in anger and he started gathering the books. He checked for any potential damages caused by her slipper.  

“So?” was all he bit out at his niece who could have been the most spoiled little brat in all of Westeros, he reckoned. He had half a mind to hurl her out the window, as his eyes were focused stifly down on the books he re-piled.  

“So, I want something to do!” she stated as if it was the most obvious thing. The rice-stuffed feet of her toy dragon rustled slightly as they hung free under her arm.  

“Why don’t you just play with your stupid dragon?” Aemond grumbled in irritation while he aligned his books in an even flat pile. He realized he wasn’t sure whether he spoke of the dead stuffed piece of fabric under her arm, or her live, fire-breathing one kept in the dragonpit.   

His niece blinked and looked down at the large soft toy under her arm, as if it was the first time she became aware that she was carrying it.  

She scoffed softly and looked back down at Aemond who was still preoccupied with sorting out the mess she’d caused.  

“No, I don’t play with it. I just keep an eye on it because Aegon said he’d feed it to Sunfyre,” she explained and gave the toy dragon a little squeeze, making the rice stuffing rustle again.  

“Mm,” Aemond hummed flatly, but felt a small sense of awareness about the situation that made his expression soften a bit. She was also a victim of his older brother after all. And though his niece and her temperaments were not Aemond’s responsibility, he couldn’t blame her for trying to escape the torments. He had lost count of how many of his toys in childhood that had either been broken or thrown away by Aegon in sheer malice. 

Aemond sat back with his legs crossed on the carpet and looked up at the girl with an expression that would make outsiders think he were an older brother, tired of getting pestered by his little sister. He huffed out a breath through his nose.  

“Aegon is a prick,” he stated.  

 “Yes,” she agreed plainly.  

Aemond’s expression eased a bit more, with the annoyed frown between his brows fading visibly as his eyes travelled from his niece’s face to the stuffed monstrosity she carried around. The hem of one of the wings had been resewn many times, after she had used to drag it around by the wing. When she was younger, she used to ask the maesters to fix it for her, since it was ‘after all their task to treat all members of the royal family when they were sick or injured’. But of course, it was the maids or her septa who took that task on them and gave her a kind instruction to stop dragging the plush by the wing from then on.

Aemond chewed lightly on the inside of his cheek.  

“Well, if you’re bored, then go find something to do. What am I supposed to do about it?” Aemond asked, trying to sound more irritated than he was feeling. The very fact that he had yet to kick her out of the solar all together baffled him slightly.  

“Play with me!” The princess beamed and then tossed the giant stuffed dragon over at Aemond, causing it to land with a thump and make the small pile of books slide off one another, once again leaving his quiet hour of self-study in disarray. Aemond looked down with a scowl, first at the books and then at the stuffed toy that had landed with its head on his knee. He looked at it as if it had caused some personal offense to him by touching him.  

“No,” Aemond said sternly and pushed the dragon off.  

“Come onnnn,” his niece pleaded more stubbornly, while clutching her skirts and bouncing lightly on her feet, seemingly unmoved by her uncle’s sour mood. She clearly did not think of him as a threat, and it occurred to Aemond that perhaps he ought to have been offended by that.  

“We can play Come-into-my-castle?” She suggested with a small smile and sat down opposite Aemond.  

Aemond’s eyes shot wide open and looked back at her as if she’d just suggested that they set fire to The Seven-Pointed Star.   

“No!” He exclaimed. “That game is for children... And girls,” he reasoned.  

She rolled her eyes in response.  

“But we’ve played it many times before!” She countered.  

“I don’t care. I’m not a babe anymore,” he spoke with a kind of stubborn resolve and smug wisdom that he was sure exceeded his mere ten years of age.  

“Besides, you always get cranky when you don’t know the answers. Even though it’s simple things like which house has which crest, and what house has which words, and so forth,” Aemond counted on his fingers as he cited the examples.  

“Well, that’s because you always ask the difficult questions! Nobody cares about House Footly!” she countered stubbornly and put her hands to her hips.  

“You thought their banner had a foot on it,” Aemond answered back slowly and clearly, to make sure she understood how stupid she’d been.  

But the girl simply rolled her eyes, as if this were mere banter to her, and his intented humiliation rolled off of her like water on a duck’s feathers.  

“What should we play instead then?” She asked and started fidgeting lightly with the tip of one of her stuffed dragon’s wings. It laid next to them, slightly lopsided, staring with its two gold button-eyes like a witness to the two youngsters’ interaction.  

Aemond sighed, seemingly baffled by the princess’s endless pools of audacity. Did she really think she could just decide they had a game to play?  

“Nothing. I was reading,” he said as if he assumed the concept of reading was foreign to her and started piling his books back together and dusting imaginary dirt off of them.  

His niece blinked and looked down at the scattered literature like it had only just occurred to her what he had been doing before she interrupted him.  

“What are you reading?” She asked. Aemond huffed out a breath and simply tapped a finger on the cover of ‘Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History’, that lay between them.  

She tilted her head as she looked at the cover.  

“Is it good?” She asked as he aimlessly piled the remainder of Valyrian history books that were of a drier taste.  

“You wouldn’t like it,” he mused without looking at her as he finished his pile. Aemond opened and flipped the pages of ‘Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns’ back to where he had been interrupted. The book settled in his lap and he resumed his search for the last paragraph he’d granted his attention. 

“It’s above your level,” Aemond said flatly, as if it were a plain fact.  

“That’s not what I asked,” she pressed, with a slight edge to her tone, and followed his eyes.  

“It’s not entirely factual. But yes, it is interesting,” was the answer and Aemond brushed over the page he deemed to be the destination where he had left off. He figured once he started reading, she’d hopefully get bored and leave on her own.  

But the princess stayed put. The girl’s eyes darted between Aemond’s face and the book. If she had possessed any of the mean streak her brothers did, she could have easily used this as an opportunity to cruelly point out to Aemond that he didn’t even have a dragon, so reading so meticulously about them was futile and pointless. Instead, she sat back in a more comfortable position and settled her hands in her lap almost like she was preparing to be entertained. Her legs were crossed under her skirts, mirroring Aemond’s position.  

“What’s your favourite part?”  

She seemed to ask with a sense of interest that surprised her young uncle slightly. Aemond raised a brow and gazed up at her for moment, to assess for any ingenuine streak.  

“Well... Septon Barth wrote a lot about the dragons that used to be under Targaryen rule. Balerion, Meraxes, Vhagar... I like the idea that they lived longer than any of our ancestors, and that they’ve seen more battles than any of us will ever experience,” he explained with a thoughtful edge to his voice that betrayed a sense of pride; as if he considered himself a part of that history.  

“Vhagar still lives,” his niece pointed out with a matter-of-factly small shrug.  

“Yes. She does,” Aemond replied and lowered his gaze back to the page, though his eyes did not resume their movement. He knew of course very well that Uncle Daemon’s ladywife Laena Velaryon had claimed Vhagar a minor lifetime ago. Vhagar was the last living proof of the conquest; a living testament to the ancient reign of House Targaryen. She was supposedly massive and nearly 200 years old. Aemond couldn’t begin to imagine the battles she’d witnessed and the lands she’d laid to waste with her flames.  He’d often imagined riding Vhagar himself and doing so alongside Daemon on the back of Caraxes. How magnificent it must feel to ride alongside the notorious brother of the king. 

The dark-haired girl tilted her head a bit to get a better look at the pages, and the illustrations on them.  

“Which is your favourite?” she suddenly asked, while looking at a detailed ink illustration of a dragon, showcasing its suggested wingspan.  

“’Favourite?’” Aemond repeated and raised his head to look at her with a furrow on the brow, as if she’d handed him a riddle.  

“Of the dragons,” she elaborated and tapped a finger on the page.  

“Of all the ones you know. Which do you like the most?” She asked and leaned a little forward with her elbows on her knees.   

Princesses weren’t supposed to sit like that, he thought. 

Aemond chewed the inside of his cheek a bit. The silence stretched for a moment, only occupied by the light thrumming of rain outside. He considered asking her where this interest in the answer came from, but instead he just licked his lips and adjusted his seated position on the carpet.  

“Balerion,” was the answer.  

“He was the largest, most formidable dragon of them all, ridden by The Conqueror himself. Some say that he was so large he would block out the sun entirely once he took to the skies. But I think that’s just exaggeration for the books,” Aemond mused, with a sense of pride at his conclusion, like it was a testament to his wisdom.  

His niece nodded. All of these things were not exactly news to her. Aemond knew that what he’d told her was practically a paraphrase of one of their earliest classes in Valyrian history. Still, he felt a sense of gratification from having her undivided attention.   

Aemond’s eyes travelled back over to the girl.  

“... And you? Which dragon is your favourite?” He asked with a reluctant interest.  

Her eyes went up and over the room as if she needed a moment to ponder, but in the end the answer came rather promptly.  

“Vhagar”.  

“Vhagar. Why?” He asked, feeling a little surprised she’d pick something so bombastic. If Aemond had to guess he’d suppose most girls, if asked, would have favoured old Queen Alysanne’s mount Silverwing. Certainly not the enormous instrument of war that *Vhagar* was. 

The Princess fidgeted lightly with the hem of her skirts, as she pondered her reasonings behind her choice.  

“Because she is the largest living dragon right now. And she flew with Visenya”.  

One of Aemond’s brows lifted slightly.   

“You like her?” he asked in a gentle form of surprise.  

His niece nodded with enthusiasm.  

“Yes. I like her the most from the conquest. She saw much battle and Aegon owes a lot to her and Vhagar”.  

Aemond hummed softly. He had been certain she’d either slept or simply not paid attention during most of their lectures. To find that she had a certain soft spot for the histories surprised him and sparked a hesitant flicker of interest.  

“So, you like Vhagar because of her?” His focus dipped and lingered a little on the open book, but it was obvious that it was a ruse. He wasn’t reading.  

“Yes. I want to be like her when I grow up,” she declared with youthful pride in her voice.  

Aemond tch’ed and for the first time, since she stormed in, the corner of his mouth curled into a small, bemused smirk. It was almost mocking. 

The princess felt the tips of her ears heat up.  

“It’s not funny!” She protested, feeling the flush spread.  

Aemond shook his head softly, but it hardly seemed because he agreed with her.  

“You truly think you can be a fierce warrior queen?” he asked with a challenging smirk.  

The girl put her fists to her hips in defiance.  

“I might!” She insisted stubbornly with a frown on her face that Aemond found rather amusing. Her cheeks were rosy.  

“Well,” she then said and crossed her arms.  

“Who do you want to be like?” she pressed.  

Aemond fidgeted lightly with the corner of one of the open pages before him, rubbing it softly between his index finger and thumb.  

“The Conqueror, I suppose,” he replied. There wasn’t much pride in his tone as his gaze drifted over the dragon illustration. A reluctance was in his voice.  

He’d need a dragon if he were to be a conqueror.  

The princess’s eyes, that were very unlike his own lavender ones, followed his gaze. She seemed to reach a sort of understanding though it was unspoken. Her expression softened.  

“You might. You’re good with the sword,” she said. 

That earned her but a mere scoff from her uncle.  

She rolled her eyes and smiled.  

“You might! You’re already better than Aegon,” she insisted.  

Aemond didn’t meet her gaze and instead chewed on the inside of his cheek. He felt the tips of his ears become slightly warm.  

After a second, he cleared his throat and straightened his back in an attempt at making himself taller. He met her gaze once more and placed his hands on his knees.  

“... Thanks,” he muttered with an effort of giving his smooth voice some more bulk.  

She smiled. It was the type of cheeky smile one formed if they felt somewhat satisfied with themself. Like she’d succeeded in a personal goal of hers.   

Aemond didn’t note any pity in her gaze this time.  

Suddenly steps approached the doors to the solar. On the other side, boomed a familiar voice, calling out her name. After taking the courtesy, that the princess had liberated herself from, of knocking on the doors and entering politely, her septa appeared.   

The elder woman’s face contorted in a mix of relief and irritation. The septa sighed exasperated.  

“Princess, you are late for your needlework!” she scolded dryly.  

“Leave Prince Aemond be and come with,” she instructed with the wave of her hand that had hardened with wrinkles.  

“Fine,” the girl rolled her eyes and stood up.  

Princesses weren’t supposed to act with such insolence, Aemond thought.   

“Apologies, my prince. She will not disturb you further,” the septa curtsied.  

“It’s... Alright,” Aemond mumbled, and stood up at the same time as his niece did. The princess may have forgotten her manners, but he hadn’t.  

The girl gave a swift curtsy that came and went so fast it seemed like the act would have burned her, if she’d taken her proper time.  

Then she stepped over to her septa in the doorway, but on the way there, she looked back over her shoulder and smiled at Aemond.  

No pity. Not a polite smile dressed up in decorum either. Just a smile.  

“Bye!” she waved.  

Aemond just looked at her, wondering what had possessed her. When the elder woman and the girl were halfway out the door, he looked down and realized the princess had left behind that silly stuffed toy of hers.  The plush dragon laid there beady-eyed and nonsensical in its existence. The dragon’s snout just stared up at him, grazing his boot with its muzzle and gold button eyes staring blankly up at him.  

“Wait,” Aemond called out for his niece.  

“You forgot your– “  

“Keep it,” she cut him off without turning back to look at him. Her hands were folded behind her back, and by the sound of her voice she didn’t have to turn around for Aemond to know that she was smiling.  

“You can take care of it for me,” she added as the final words before she disappeared into the hallway with the septa scurrying her on.  

Aemond’s brows knitted together in confusion and looked down at the plush dragon. It was a silly childish thing for him to be in possession of, even if the craftsmanship was impressive. 

 Sure, when he was younger, he might have liked to have had such a plaything, but not now. Did she not realize he was becoming a man, and training to be a warrior and worthy prince? Was this supposed to be some sort of juvenile, useless attempt at a consolation prize for his lack of dragon?  

He scoffed in distaste and nudged the soft snout with his foot.  

Still, he reckoned, it might be best to keep it in his custody lest Aegon decided to antagonize the girl again and make real of his threats. Even if Aemond felt nothing for the lumpious piece of fabric, it was still the polite thing to do; to protect the princesses of the realm and their belongings. 

The thought left a dry taste in his mouth. A Taste he had been taught to savour. But it also made his chest swell with a small sense of pride. A sense of protection. 

 It was a chivalrous thing to do. Even if that princess was but a mere bastard.  

He supposed he could keep the damned thing for the time being. Just until he was old enough to discard it, or to throw it back at the girl. Or until she came to retrieve it herself. Which he assumed she would. 

Mayhaps hoped she would.