Chapter Text
Aemond jolted awake, drenched in sweat and panting heavily, his pupil wide as he tried to adjust to reality.
He’d had the same dream for three nights in a row now: that he sat alone in the banquet hall, not a single envoy having answered his invitation. Aegon laughed at him, his now grotesque features contorting with mockery, while his mother and sister watched him pitifully and his grandsire stared disapprovingly. The whole kingdom laughed at him: the prince no one would wed. He wanted to summon Vhagar, but the words were stuck in his throat, as not even the great she-dragon could save him from this humiliation. With each night, the dream became more intense. The banquet hall grew bigger, as he grew smaller. His brother’s laughter thundered on him from atop the Iron Throne. On this particular night, Aegon’s laughter had lifted him off the ground and thrown him back into his childhood, with all his siblings and nephews mocking him that he was dragonless. The pig running around them had dragonwings and a bridal gown. No woman would want him same as no dragon had hatched for him. No one in his family cared for him, he was nothing, nothing..
Aemond took a deep breath and rubbed his face in an attempt to gather himself. The festivities were to begin today. He’d been the one who had insisted that his mother added the word “willing” to the invitation. It felt like the right thing to do, back then, after his visit at the brothel. Now he was beginning to doubt whether it had been such a grand idea.
He'd sworn off brothels since that night. He hated what it was turning him into. He’d tried to find his old, disciplined rhythm, but the tension boiled inside of him, and he’d begun to doubt that idea, as well. In fact, perhaps this whole thing had been a terrible idea. He scoffed. He was not one to doubt himself thus. Alas, everything was in motion now. Whatever the next days would bring, he could not do much to change it.
He rose from the bed and moved towards the terrace of his chambers, yearning for some fresh air in his lungs – the dream seemed to have sucked all the oxygen out from the room.
As he stepped out, he froze.
The courtyard swarmed with noise and banners, his mother frantically shouting orders to servants who scurried around to accommodate the guests. There were banners from most of the great houses, and the courtyard was so crowded one would not be able to toss a needle in there. He saw the Lannister banners demanding a path be cut for them, with Tyland shouting at the entrance of the Keep that he would guide the members of his house to the guest accommodations himself.
Aemond lifted his eyes and gasped.
Beyond the walls, the fields were littered with banners of the lesser houses, their help swiftly raising luscious tents to accommodate them. He hadn’t seen such a gathering since the last grand tourney that his father had organized. It had been years.
His eye quickly scanned the banners. Lannister – of course. The Tyrells were also in the courtyard as one of the great Houses. The Baratheons – notably absent. It did not surprise him. That betrothal had ended as fast as it had begun. They had witnessed him slay his own nephew outside the castle walls, all because Maris had mocked him about his balls. Well, that’s not exactly what happened, but that’s what they saw. It was safe to say both parts were equally bitter with each other to never mention the betrothal again.
Aemond’s eye continued scanning. House Arryn, of course. No one from the Riverlands, as expected. Except for the Freys. Their only loyalty lied with their own interests, as usual.
His eye moved up beyond the wall. The northern houses were stacked together in the fields. Stark, Bolton, Mormont.
Even the Greyjoy banner stood tall near a tent. Aemond wrinkled his nose. As if he’d ever marry a kraken. Her cunt probably smelled like…
“My prince,” Mina’s voice rang softly through the terrace. “We tried knocking. I’ve drawn your bath. The introductions will start in an hour.”
Mina was a sturdy woman close to her fiftieth name day. She had been his wet nurse and had known Aemond from when he was still in the womb. She had nursed his eye after his injury. In some regards, she had been more a mother to him than Alicent had. Mina was the only person in Westeros who could rush the One-Eyed Prince to his bathchamber and get away with in unscathed. Not only that, but he obeyed her most of the time.
Aemond sunk into the tub, and Mina’s deft fingers started quickly working to wash his hair. He did not normally accept assistance for this – he was not a child; but they were short on time, and she was quicker at the task than he was.
“Are you ready to meet every maiden in the land, my prince?” Mina asked cheerfully.
She was short-statured and plump, her hands worn from years of work, her fingers like sausages. She was unusually strong and dexterous for a woman of her size. Her life had known nothing but hard work behind the walls of the keep – but she believed she’d done well for herself, now commanding every maid and handmaid in the castle. She knew perfectly where everything was, what every member of the royal family needed, and how things were meant to function at all times. She was always cheerful, and she had a particular soft spot for Aemond – his somberness and broodiness completely failing to impress her or affect her cheery demeanour.
“Hm,” the prince answered.
“I’ve seen some of the ladies. The Lannister girl is very beautiful, indeed. The Tyrell twins are here – are you meant to take both?” Mina laughed, unaffected by Aemond’s lack of enthusiasm. “The Arryn girl is a bit strange, though..”
Aemond groaned softly. Whatever possessed him to do this?
“What?” Mina asked, still giggling.
“Nothing. There’s a lot of them, I suppose,” he said softly. Somehow the empty banquet hall in his dream did not seem so nightmareish anymore.
“Well, what did you expect? A prince of the realm, open to marriage? The heir to the crown, no less?”
Right. Of course. The crown.
“Thank you, Mina. I’ll take it from here,” he said, dismissing her.
Aemond walked into the throne room, his hair now neatly combed, his black attire clinging to him like second skin, eyepatch firmly in place. He hastily greeted his family – they were all there, save for Helaena. His sister seldom left her chambers these days. The war had affected her profoundly. She’d lost both her sons and came close to jumping outside the tower window with Jaehaera in arms, but Daeron had reached there in time to stop her. Since then, she’d been mostly in her chambers, murmuring to herself. Mina, bless her heart, fought a daily battle to get the queen to eat some food. Dowager Queen Alicent took over the duties of raising Jaehaera, as Helaena was completely unfit to the task. Alicent was involved in raising her granddaughter in a way she never had been with any of her children, Aemond had bitterly observed. Perhaps she hoped for some repentance by doing well by Jaehaera. Deep down, Alicent must have known she’d been a terrible mother to all of them.
Aemond watched as Aegon approached the dais. His brother had healed well, considering. His walk looked fairly normal as long as he kept a slow pace, and he was now capable of climbing the steps to the Iron Throne by himself. Criston Cole was the one they all had to thank for this small success, as the knight had spent several hours a day for many moons ushering the king to move his body and regain as much of his mobility as possible. Aegon had come close to ordering Criston’s execution on the tougher days, but alas, the work had paid off. He wore a piece of false hair that did well to conceal the scars on his scalp and the left side of his face. As he walked slowly towards the throne, clad in kingly attire and hairpiece in place, Aegon looked almost normal. From a distance, one would think he very much resembled his old self. But as he approached, the dimmed light in his eyes told a different story, and the shadow across his face had changed his appearance far more than his scars.
Aegon grieved his cock immeasurably more than he grieved his face, so Aemond knew he’d be particularly bitter on this occasion. He was right.
“What a lovely day,” the king hissed. “Parading every fair maiden in the land before the throne so my brother can choose which one he’ll sink his cock into.”
Aemond pressed his lips in a thin line. He did not care to retort. Whatever harm his brother had caused him, he’d been more than punished for it. Rook’s Nest had been by far the messiest battle Aemond had fought – and he’d been in many. He’d urged Vhagar to descend on Meleys from above, hoping to get her off Sunfyre. The three of them spiraled downwards, and all Aemond could think of was to keep Meleys at the bottom so Vhagar could crush her. He had not paid attention to the red she-dragon firmly holding on to Sunfyre’s wing, dragging him down. Aegon could not remember, but Aemond could. One of the three dragons had breathed fire, and they’d been covered in smoke. It could not have been Meleys, her teeth were firmly sunk into Sunfyre’s wing. His brother had been burnt by one of their own dragons. Aemond suspected the gold dragon had breathed fire in a desperate attempt to free himself, the downward spiral forcing the flames up and torching his rider. When Aemond saw the state of his brother, once the battle ended, he briefly considered running his blade through his chest and putting him out of his misery. But he could not bring himself to do it. A bitter memory.
“Well, perhaps I might find one or two to amuse myself with, nonetheless,” Ageon continued. “I still enjoy the taste of cunt. Perhaps the Tyrell twins…” he trailed off as he slowly began ascending the steps to the Iron Throne.
Once the king was sat on the throne, Aemond straightened his back and nodded to his mother.
The doors swung open and the herald stepped forward, announcing the first envoy.
“Lady Myrcella Lannister, daughter of Jason Lannister, lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West!”
Hm.
The Lannisters had fought loyally to the Green’s side and Aemond knew her father well. They’d been in battles together. He was fairly certain Jason Lannister more than half expected the prince to marry his daughter, due to their long-standing relations. Without having met any of the ladies, Aemond tended to agree, she seemed like the best choice. But he’d vowed to himself that he would for once put his needs first, and whoever this Myrcella was, she needed to be more than a useful political pawn for him to consider marrying her.
His eye snapped up and he saw her. She had long, golden locks extending past her waist, and wore a figure-hugging gown that flattered her every curve, crimson like the banners behind her. She was clad in jewelry and looked every inch the Lannister lioness. Her green eyes narrowed on him, alight with determination. As she advanced towards the dais, Aemond found that he almost wanted to take a step back. It was perhaps the first time in his life that he felt like… prey.
Myrcella bowed to the king before turning to Aemond, curtsying to honor his station, her movements graceful and her eyes never leaving him.
“My prince,” she chanted, a smile on her lips.
He inclined his head. She lingered for a moment, stretching the bounds of propriety as her eyes now seemed to feast on him. She then turned deliberately slowly, as to allow him to fully take in her figure, before taking her time to walk to the end of the hall. Aemond saw his mother restraining an eye roll. Women never missed such things.
The herald once more stepped forward:
“Lady Meredyth Tyrell and lady Alice Tyrell, daughters of Lyonel Tyrell, lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Reach and Warden of the South!”
The twins stepped forward in unison, their gowns swishing softly as they swayed their hips towards him. They had comely, typical Reach features: brown hair, blue eyes, light skin.
As Myrcella Lannister passed them, he saw her turn her head and quickly look them up and down, the disdain so visible on her face Aemond could see it even through her profile.
One of the twins – the one closer to Myrcella, threw her a quick side glance and her lips twitched in a grimace of contempt, before her eyes snapped to the prince and a smile quickly plastered on her face.
Seven preserve him.
The introductions had stretched long into the afternoon, and Aemond found that he could hardly remember the names of more than half of them. He of course remembered the Tyrells (though he had no idea which one was which), and Myrcella Lannister. Lady Jayne Arryn herself had petitioned for the marriage; he knew her well. The Freys’ daughter had been so nervous she had tripped and nearly fell to her knees, earning a reproachful look from her matriarch. The ladies of the lesser houses had batted their lashes at him and parted their lips, clearly feeling at a disadvantage and hoping he’d be seduced. Some of them – the Stark girl, for instance – looked like they hardly wanted to be in this position, and it was clear to him their parents had forced them here. Which part of the word willing had eluded them, he did not know. But if they had decided to ignore a direct order, the least they could have done was to instruct their daughters to pretend a little better. If there was one thing in this world Aemond truly hated, it was to have his time wasted. The other was to have his pride bristled.
Aemond sunk into the chair in Alicent’s solar, as his family sat around the table discussing his marriage options as if he was not even present in the room.
“The Lannister girl is clearly the superior choice,” Otto began, “though we already have their fealty, and Tyland sits the small council. It might be an opportunity lost to secure another region. Perhaps the Reach or the North – they’ve always kept to themselves more than strictly necessary.”
“Oh that Lannister girl seemed vile,” Alicent remarked.
“I reckon he should bed the prettiest ones and choose accordingly,” Aegon snorted. “It’s what I would do in this place,” he added.
Alicent shot him a reproachful look.
“What do you say, nephew?” Otto asked, turning to Aemond.
He scoffed. Oh, they remembered to ask his opinion, how graceful.
“I don’t have much to say yet, grandsire. They were merely introductions,” he said quietly.
“Right. Anyway, since Daeron should stay betrothed to the Prince of Dorne’s daughter – we need to secure the region – I reckon the best course of action...”
Aemond stopped listening, now staring into the distance. One thing was certain – whoever he’d choose, he was looking forward to fly with her to Dragonstone and have a long reprieve from all of them.
The banquet hall was alive with music and conversation, the lords and ladies of Westeros taking the opportunity to mingle, cajole and share food and drink together for the first time in what seemed like ages. Otto and Alicent had spent no expense: this event had to consolidate the position of the Crown, especially in light of the war that had just ended. The nobility of Westeros needed to see that the right side had won, that the Targaryen dynasty was still strong. Their banners adorned the walls, the chandeliers gleamed softly with enough light to allow the guests good vision, but maintain intimacy at the same time. The jesters moved through the hall amusing the guests with their antics, the music rang across the columns, and the tables were rich with roasted meats, sweetcakes and honeyed figs. The wine was flowing, the cups never staying empty for long, and the guests seemed to be having a grand time.
Otto took every opportunity to consolidate relations, treating the occasion as more of a political council than a banquet, while Alicent entertained the matriarchs of the great houses. Aegon sat at the royal table, bored and in his cups. Helaena was, of course, absent.
Aemond had hardly stepped foot into the hall before he got swarmed. The ladies surrounded him, offering to have his wine cup filled, asking about Vhagar and swordplay, complimenting his attire. One of them even told him she was jealous of his hair which made him raise an eyebrow – but it amused him, nonetheless.
“This hall reeks of desperation,” a voice rang from behind the wall of females. “Have some dignity, ladies, we’ve three days to spend in the capital.”
Myrcella’s eyes gleamed as the ladies moved backwards, many of them clearly now embarrassed by how forward they had been.
“My father was hoping to pay his respects, my prince,” she trilled towards Aemond.
He inclined his head and followed her, somewhat grateful but not feeling any less hunted.
“Does my memory serve me well; did you not have a sister as well?” he asked Myrcella as they made their way through the hall.
“Oh, yes, I do. She terribly wanted to attend. But alas, she tripped down the stairs a few days past and, well, her ankle is broken and she had to remain in Casterly Rock to be nursed. Clumsy thing,” Myrcella answered, not a single note of concern for her sister present in her voice.
Right. Tripped.
Aemond looked at her, half in horror, half in awe. Something told him that if he’d been born a woman, he’d resemble Myrcella more than he cared to admit.
“My prince, how great it is to meet you in happier circumstances,” Jason Lannister’s voice halted Aemond from his thoughts, and he quickly got absorbed by conversation.
Aemond spent the rest of the evening trying to divide his attention between the many guests who sought him out. He’d mercifully managed to avoid dancing and stuck to conversation, though he was convinced that the evening that would follow it would become unavoidable. The Tyrell twins accosted him, and he’d tried to learn which was which – they were nearly identical, though their eyebrows were slightly different.
He'd avoided the Greyjoy girl like the plague, though she smelled fine, but he simply could not fathom it. The girl looked like this was the first time in her life she’d put on a gown. Besides, he could not bear her accent, she sounded like a pirate – and to think that this was her on her best manners.
He’d lingered speaking to one girl from the lesser houses of the Reach, she was a pretty thing with a good disposition, full lips and a beautiful smile. Aemond felt a twitch inside his breeches watching her look at him with those wide eyes. She was on the smaller side, and she had to look up to him through her lashes, her innocent doe eyes absorbing his words. He could not help but wonder how pretty she’d be If her face was a little... lower. She was a typical court-bred lady, well-mannered and coy and seemed to know her place. Something about her demeanour made him realise she was the type that was bred to worship her husband. Hm.
Alas, their conversation was cut short as Myrcella accidentally tripped and spilled her red wine all over the girl’s gown, forcing her to retreat to her tent to change. He hadn’t seen her after that.
The Lannister girl waltzed around him, making sure to give him enough space as to not make him feel suffocated, but always returning to him and chatting lightly. She seemed to know everything about everyone in that hall – including who was pretending to still be a maiden but wasn’t, who was forced there by their parents, who had a secret crush on someone else, which houses struggled financially.
As the evening wore on, Aemond found that she reminded him slightly of himself. She was no pushover and carried herself well in events of the court – perhaps this would make her a good partner that would complement him well, especially given his lackluster for such frolicking. She did not seem to be bothered in the slightest by his scarred face or his war crimes – if anything, Aemond felt that she might have approved of most of his actions. But might it be such a good idea for him to marry … himself? He did not yet know.
The feast began to take its toll on him, his head now spinning from all the conversation – he’d spoken to more people in the last three hours than he had in the past year. He longed for a breather, a moment of solitude to collect himself. He clung to the wall as one of the jesters pulled a particularly amusing stunt, temporarily commanding the attention of the room, and managed to slip outside unnoticed.
He breathed the fresh air as he stepped into the terrace, bathing in the comfort of momentary silence.
As his eye adjusted to the slightly dimmer light, a dash of red entered his field of vision, making his head turn. Her fiery crimson hair sat in loose ringlets on her back. She hadn’t seen him or heard him. He stepped towards her, slamming his boots slightly harder into the ground to make his presence known. The sound made her turn, and they locked eyes.
Her lips parted, and she watched him as If struck by a lightning. He cocked his head. She had not attended the introductions; he would have remembered her. And she looked… surprised to see him, as if unaware of the occasion of her presence here? Surprised, but not entirely displeased; merely… intimidated. He took another step forward. He could see her more clearly now. She was striking. Her lips were as red as her hair. Her eyes were… he was not sure in this light. Blue? Turqouise? Her skin was soft, and white, like milk. He kept his eye firm in check, not allowing it to wander lower. For now.
“My prince,” she said softly, her voice trembling ever-so-slightly. She finally seemed to remember her manners. She curtsied quickly, her gaze to the floor.
He smiled.
“My lady.”