#htod

Darkness clung to the four walls that kept you contained. The repugnant smell of rot was profuse, while the stone ground was covered in a thick layer of grime.

You had been held prisoner since the day after the tourney, ambushed the morning after whilst walking the Street of Flour, a famous street for its many twists and bends as well as its countless bakeries and dessert stalls. Two cloaked thugs had roughly manhandled you before throwing you into their carriage and speeding away.

You had verily considered, fending them off, breaking an arm or two, and continuing your day as if nothing had transpired but ultimately you decided not to.

It sort to reason that someone had their grievances with you, most likely due to Aemond's recent antic of crowning you the Queen of Love and Beauty. Therefore, you chose to play along. To unearth the question of who? You wouldn’t reveal your hand nor let on that you knew how to fight. You wouldn't risk such notions being spread by the wordlessly prying eyes of the city folk. For months you had tirelessly built an image of fragility and innocence. An image you intended to keep utilizing until you could successfully fulfill your duty to your House.

The dank and dingy vault below the castle was void of sunlight. The only light source available came from the dull lantern, its transparent case protecting the faint flame from blowing out. Beside it stood a short wooden frame that they’d dubbed ‘the bed of tortures’. You were bent over the frame, ropes restraining your wrists behind your back. The twisted strips of hide gnawed at your skin, leaving cuts and burns behind. Exasperated, you blew the mattered strands of hair away from your face, your eyes trained on Lord Unwin Peake who sat on the opposite side of the cell observing how the interrogation progressed.

“Let me ask again,” The foul-breathed servant of Lord Peake tormented, “What kind of relationship do you have with Aemond Targaryen?”

You near rolled your eyes, spent by the same handful of questions the servant had repeatedly asked. You grappled with yourself whether you ought to just tear off the restraints you had managed to loosen over time and stab the servant with the knife you had hidden in the pockets of your undergarments.

Your limbs ached, your stomach famished and most pressingly your mind was bored. You had despised being held hostage during the war and the sentiment hadn’t since changed.

“I guess one can’t go ahead with killing Lord Peake’s servant without inferring further consequences for one’s self,” Your mumble was inaudible, neither Peake nor his servant catching what you had said.

The servant sneered, “What was that? Speak louder girl!” He chastised.

You said nothing, your lip curling in defiance.  

It appeared you had made a powerful enemy out of Lord Unwin Peake, the hand to the king. Aemond’s declaration and favor towards you during the joust had foiled Lord Peake’s plans to propel his daughter, Myrielle Peake into Aemond’s arms (and eventually bind the two with marriage). You huffed. Your intentions were never to be thrust between such political affairs, your initial plans were but to attract a wealthy Lord to marry and to save your House. However, after being held captive for days, you were feeling particularly spiteful... Perhaps you would change those plans, perhaps you'd begin to embark on the dangerous political game you'd thus far avoided. A new plan, with a new goal—one which involved the Targaryen Prince after all.

“The relationship between Prince Aemond and I?” You toyed, prolonging your eye contact, “Would you care to hear that we’re close? Or would it make you feel safer if I said we weren’t?”

Lord Unwin Peake’s face soured, comprehending the underlying threat of your words. The conveyance was that if Aemond indeed considered you more than a plaything, more than a pastime then Lord Peake would be faced with the Prince’s unrelenting wrath.

A thick silence lingered as Lord Peake thought through his options.

“From this moment on you shall stay away from the Prince,” He calmly rose from his chair, dusting his trousers, “If you care for that life of yours, I’d advise you not meddle where you ought not to.” He then nudged his head toward one of the instruments that hung to the wall, “Finish off her punishment.” He ordered.

“It’d be my pleasure, my Lord,” The servant eagerly bowed.

You heard the crack of a whip, the distinctive sound of leather.

Lord Peake stopped before the cell’s exit, turning aback, “Her face is to remain untouched,” He soon left, the cold metal bars slamming loudly behind him.

The whip came lashing at your calves. You squeezed your eyes tight, balling your fists until your fingernails dug into your palms. A flurry of curses were stuck to your tongue as you tried to drown out the pain by thinking of happier thoughts, such as taking your sweet revenge and plunging your knife into the servant’s chest.

You felt the warmth of your blood streak down your legs and feet, a puddle of scarlet pooling on the ground below.

A manic laughter echoed throughout the dungeons, “Scream for me,” He sadistically urged.

You gritted your teeth. You wouldn’t oblige. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg. You held in any sound, swearing to yourself you’d inflict a pain tenfold worse onto both Lord Peake and his servant.

The fire burned, its flames licking the wood of the balsam fireplace in Helena’s study. Aemond was lent against the fireplace, absently watching Maelor play with his toys. The young boy roared aloud as he pretended his dragon carved from birch burned down the stick figures of men.

Helena had neglected her book, her violet eyes fixated on her brother. She was curious about what had brought on Aemond’s recent behavior. Aemond was not known to listen to just anyone… Even their dear mother struggled to put him in his place. Yet, during the joust he’d immediately caved to your demand, stopping just as you’d asked.

Helena knew this displeased her mother greatly. Aemond was handful enough for her to restrain but to have him now obey another? It threatened all she’d thus worked for, all she’d done to ensure Aemond wouldn’t rise up against Aegon and seize his brother’s crown.

Gaomagon ao hae zirȳla? Do you like her?  Helena’s dreamlike voice inquired.

Qilōni? Who? Aemond grumbled, well aware of whom his sister was referring to.

Se riña lēda mele laesi. The lady with crimson eyes.

Before Aemond could answer, his mother Alicent came sauntering into the study, Ser Criston Cole following shortly behind.

Alicent's neck was flushed, her expression clearly vexed, “What do you think you’re doing?” She bellowed, the volume of her voice startling young Maelor.

Helena quickly attended to the boy, picking up Maelor as he began to wail.

“What does it matter?” Aemond countered, his arms firmly crossed against his chest.

“What does it matter?!" Alicent exclaimed, “It matter so, you’ve crowned a maiden from a lower House. A House insignificant in comparison to the great Houses we are hosting during the tourney.” She flailed her arms, “Great Houses we intend to forge allyship with.”

“House Vermillion wasn’t always insignificant,” Helena softly corrected, “Despite, their small fleets they were unmatched in naval warfare. Their vessels were painted red as their sigil, their cargo carried a myriad of hibiscus’ which they threw into the sea to bribe the gods for their victories—”

"House Vermillion was a House which supported Rhaenyra’s false claim to the Iron Throne," The Dowager Queen Alicent cut off her daughter, her eyes narrowing, “A House which should have been wiped out completely.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched at his mother’s last sentiment, “A House, like many others Aegon pardoned,” He sternly rebutted, “An idea you proposed would unite the Seven Kingdoms.”

Alicent's bottom lip trembled, taken aback by Aemond's retort.

“If that’s all mother, I’ll excuse myself.” Aemond’s heavy boots stomped, the door slamming behind him as he left Helena’s study.

“I cannot believe it,” Alicent bespoke to Ser Criston Cole, “Of all the noble ladies in King's Landing why her?” She shook her head in objection.

“Perhaps, it is but a fleeting affection that will die when the controversy and excitement begins to wane.” Ser Criston offered.

Alicent peered upward, still riddled with doubt, “Do you truly think so?”

Ser Criston Cole opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Helena.

“Hair of silver. Eyes of crimson. Footsteps in a set of three,” Helena’s eyes glossed over, as she faded into a trance.

Alicent and Ser Criston exchanged looks, Alicent quickly bending down beside her daughter. She gently took Maelor off his mother’s lap, offering him to Ser Criston to hold while Alicent tried to regain Helena’s attention.

“What do you see?” Alicent had long learned to heed her daughter’s words, to pay mind to Helena’s prophecies, as frequent to none, they near always came to tuition.

“A mother’s beauty. A father’s temperament. All is sound, all is as it ought to be.” Helena finished her train of thought.

The Dowager Queen Alicent’s face hardened. What possibly did the gods have in store for her son Aemond?

“Keep an eye on Lady Y/N Vermillion,” She instructed Ser Criston Cole, “And report back to me. I want to know whom she interacts with, her goals, and her every intention.”

The midmorning offered your deprived and cold self a yearned warmth and solace. The sun's golden rays filtered themselves through the stained-glass windows, reflecting a merriment of colors on the ground beneath your bloody feet. Without assistance, you had managed to crawl up the stairs of the dungeons, trekking a trail of blood behind you.

Your torture had been drawn out the length of the night, Lord Unwin Peake's servant only leaving after the seventh hour. You couldn't discern how long you had stayed laying motionless on the bed of tortures, staring at the unlocked door to your cell. After what felt like an eternity, you dragged your rigid body off, your calves protesting as you forced yourself to stand.

The pain, however, grew too great, causing your vision to blur, and your head to spin. You stumbled, your knees buckling from underneath. You placed a hand on the wall beside you, stopping yourself from faceplanting into the tiles. Days without food and water had finally taken their toll and you hadn’t the energy to continue.

“Lady Y/N Vermillion!” A surprised voice called aloud.

You felt their hands immediately rope around your hips, in an attempt to keep your torso upright. You blinked a couple of times, trying to determine who had found you.

“Ser Criston Cole?” You croaked, your cracked lips turning downward. Surely, you were mistaken.

“Yes, it is I,” He said softly, brushing back your wayward hair that draped over your face.

He observed the terrible state you were in, deducing it to be in result of what had transpired with Aemond during the joust. Others besides the Dowager Queen Alicent would consider you a threat to their political agendas and wouldn’t think twice about taking their frustrations out on you.

Ser Criston Cole’s eyes momentarily flickered toward the sound of footsteps in the distance, “Let me help you back to your room,” He whispered, sounding almost as if he pitied you.

Without waiting for a response, he hurriedly lifted you off the ground and cradled you against his steel-plated chest. You were too frail to argue, allowing him to carry you throughout the rest of the castle.

Ser Criston took an alternative route to your chambers, sensing the footsteps he’d heard, belonged to the prince. Over the past day or two, he'd had been discreetly watching Aemond from afar, noting the numerous times he’d tried knocking on your chambers only to be turned away by Lady Alyssa Royce. Ser Criston Cole was weary of the scene Aemond would surely cause if he saw you in such a state.

As Ser Criston reached your door, his knuckles thumped on the wood.

It was Lady Alyssa Royce who answered, “I’m afraid my Prince, Lady Y/N, still hasn’t returned—" She abruptly paused, sighting you limply lying in Ser Criston Cole's arms.

“Y/N?” Horror replaced her usual unemotive persona, “What happened to her?”

“Let us lay her down first,” Ser Criston bypassed Alyssa without a further explanation.

He quickly lifted the furs and delicately placed you down on the bedspread, “We have to roll her over.” He directed.

Lady Royce obliged without complaint, aiding Ser Criston to roll you onto your stomach. You muffled a cry, the sudden movement aggravating your open lesions. Blood continued to hemorrhage, spilling onto your white linen sheets.

Lady Royce's brows furrowed as she hastily lifted your skirt and removed your torn petticoat. She gasped, once the true extent of your wounds was revealed. The soles of your feet had been mercilessly slashed, whilst the irate lacerations to your calves had cut deep into the muscle.

“There are some gauzes and string in the cupboard,” Lady Royce demanded forgetting her station, “I’ll find us some alcohol to disinfect her wounds.”

“Shouldn’t we call for a maester?” Ser Criston Cole questioned.

You grabbed Lady Royce’s hand with haste, squeezing it with all the strength you could muster, “No,” Alyssa Royce said firmly, apprehending what you were trying to communicate, “Otherwise, Lady Clarice Osgrey will be summoned. Let us keep this between ourselves.”

Sir Criston reluctantly nodded, undecided if he’d pass on what had occurred to the Dowager Queen.

Aemond stalked the corridors, his irritability only increasing by the hour. Over a week had since passed, and you had missed the chaos that was brought by the melee, an event where forty or so riders armed with blunt weaponry, fought to be prized as the next knight. Aemond disinterested how the contest unfolded, drowned himself in drink instead.  

You were avoiding him, or so he thought…

As the afternoons passed, he began to grow dubious. Suspicious, why all the other ladies beside you and Lady Royce were in attendance at the Targaryen festivities? He'd also taken note that Lady Myrielle Peake was now serving his niece Princess Jaehaera in your stead.

He reached the large oval door of your chambers, reaching of its handle. However, Lady Alyssa Royce opened the door first, her body blocking Aemond’s view of the inside.

“Where is Y/N?” He sternly imposed, “She has not been in attendance to melee nor has she served my niece.” He drew a maddened breath, “Princess Jaehaera has naught been impressed by her replacement.”

“I’m afraid Lady Y/N is still unwell your highness,” Lady Alyssa Royce politely bowed, her voice ever so slightly trembling.  

You listened from inside, overhearing another of Lady Royce’s fumbling excuses. You and Alyssa had always been civil but far from close. Nonetheless, she had aided you, stitched up your wounds, and kept your injuries secret. You owed the girl a great debt, one you’d hope to someday repay.

You were running a fever, your insides hot, your outsides cold. You were sat against the headboard of your bed, leaning on some flat pillows while your legs were covered in furs. A small smile crossed your lips as you continue to listen. In truth, you were gladdened by Aemond’s concern. Thankful, for the countless times he’d implored for you. It wasn’t something you were accustomed to, the worriment, the exertion. Nobody had ever put so much effort in for you.

Aemond’s exasperation was obvert, he was growing tired of the evasiveness of Lady Royce, “Step aside,” He, at last, demanded, the intensity in his tone, making Lady Royce cower.

Your smile faltered, conceding Aemond was going to barge in. You hurriedly unraveled your legs from underneath your furs and forced yourself to stand upright.

You silently yowled, it was as if lightning had struck your legs. It took a few seconds for you to regain your breath, the agony that pulsated from your calves immense. You used the bedside table for support, wincing as you slid on your cloth slippers.

You had made the short distance to your vanity when Aemond furiously pushed back the doors to your chambers, his violet orb narrowing as searched around your room.

“Prince Aemond,” Short of breath, you did your best to bow.

Aemond’s annoyance dissolved instantaneously. Yet, the creases on his forehead remained. He swiftly approached his silvery hair bouncing behind him as he moved. You took a short moment to admire how his hair glistened underneath the yellowish candlelight, how it only enhanced his fearsome beauty.

Aemond abruptly stopped before you, his large hands unexpectedly cupping both of your cheeks, drawing your face closer to his. You involuntarily shivered, as his thumb brushed across your cold lips.

"What is it you are ailed with?" He searched your face, his brows knitted.

Aemond studied your sickly pale hue and the shade of blue that replaced the color of your lips. He felt a protectiveness over you. A feeling which was foreign to him.

“I’ll send for a maester immediately,”

“No,” You shook your head, his hands still firmly resting on your cheeks, “I have no desire to cause a fuss. All I need is some rest.”

Aemond didn’t feel assured, in fact, it only strengthened his worry.

“You’ve had a week’s worth of rest” He pressed “You should be seen by a maester. What if your sickness gets all the worse?” His hands slowly slid from your face and down your arms until he grasped your two hands within his own. Aemond held you so gingerly as if he was afraid you’d break.

Your stomach fluttered, recalling the change of your plans. Lord Unwin Peake desired you to stay away from the Prince… And you’d do nothing of the sort.

“I won’t get worse”

“You couldn’t possibly be sure.” His face close, his breath hot.

You stifled a smile. Boldly you closed the distance, using your nose to gently nudge his, “I am,” You insisted, pulling away.

Aemond’s eye widened, the violet of his iris deepening. He was overwhelmed by the impulse to pull you back but to capture your lips this time.

“Just a few more days of rest and I’ll be back to my true self,” You wriggled your hands free, “But first you must go,” You incited, softly pushing his chest to leave, “You’ve caused me enough trouble. If someone catches you in my chambers, I’d never hear the last of it.”

“What trouble? I only crowed the one deserving of the title of the Queen of Love and Beauty,” Aemond smiled smugly “And showed King's Landing of my intentions,” He playfully tilted his head, his hair falling off his shoulder, “And what a mistake it would be if others were to approach what is mine,” He whispered the last part.

“I repeat,” You light-heartedly shook your head, “Trouble.”

Aemond laughed, relenting and taking a step back, “I’ll go but if you feel worse, promise me you’ll summon a maester?”

“I promise,” You nodded, “My Prince you may take your leave,”

“Not until you are tucked soundly under the covers,” He directed, lifting an arm towards your bed.

“You won’t leave otherwise?” You swallowed, dreading the walk from your vanity back to your bed.

“Yes,” He maintained, “Do you need some help?”

“No need,” You vigorously shook your head, exchanging a daunted look with Lady Royce who had been loitering by the door.

You tried your darndest to ignore the heat that radiated upward with each excruciating step. You just needed to make it to the bed without falling, you told yourself.

Aemond followed you with his gaze, his body stiffening as he caught the stain of red on the hem of your nightgown.

“Y/N,” He said, his tone spine-chillingly cold.

You hadn’t the chance to turn completely round when he wrapped a steel arm around your waist and carefully lifted the cotton of your nightgown to expose your calves.

You sucked in a breath.

Aemond’s face darkened, while an enraged snarl left his mouth. His playful disposition vanished, a seething fury coming to take its place.

“Y/N,” He growled, his arms shaking uncontrollably, “Who dared to harm you?”