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zeciex · 12 hours ago

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Alicent is a hypocrite, that's an integral part of her character. That's not to say that other characters aren't hypocrites either, but she's perhaps the most blatant of them.

She has a very set set of rules, she puts people into boxes and gets upset when they no longer fit into those boxes. She would protect Aemond and stand with him against the Blacks, if they were to face them down again like on Driftmark--but that doesn't mean she condones his actions. She wants to be 'better than them,' and Aemond doesn't fulfill that. She is reproachful and resentful of his willingness to use violence. Which is where we get this between them.

She thinks he should taken the high road. He did not, and now shes more angry with him.

And it all truly goes back to Storm's End and Aemond supposedly ruining any chance of a 'peaceful' resolution to the war (which would never have happened, but she wants it to be true). After that, Aemond really becomes the Green's scapegoat--and more so Alicent's scapegoat. She puts all the blame on him, because it's easier than facing it.

Which is kind of funny because both Aemond and Daenera at least try to face their actions and the consequences.

ALSO!!! Don't worry, we'll have Daenera snapping at Alicent, defending Aemond, more than once. And more so, just calling out Alicent. And I think, we'll also see Aemond at some point just getting sick and tired of carrying the blame and snapping back.

So you will get Daenera defending her hubby AND you'll get Aemond standing up to his mom.

I won't spoil Dae finding out and her internal reaction to it, but.... it's not great. And then Mertha makes it worse. (by this time, Dae is like, last fucking straw lady)

Imagine how much things would have changed had Rhaenyra/TB taken king's landing then.....

The council doesn't so much care about Wyllam as they care about how the whole thing will look to other people and how it might effect gaining and retaining allies. Alicent is in her 'my son is a fucking idiot and Im so fucking mad at him' era--like we saw in the show--but that doesn't mean that she won't defend him against others and take his side when it's important.

Don't worry, you'll get some more Dae being 'petty but out outright wanting to actually kill him' soon enough. And.... oooo... there's a scene that's a bit more like what they use to be like coming. There's tension there, of course, and some pettiness and such, but... it's quieter and just them.

First you'll get some more pettiness.

Daenera has somewhat forgotten the 'accident' part of his confession, mostly due to, well, everything that came after--the whole 'i fed him to my dragon' thing and such. But I promise you, I have a plan for it. We will see her realize that he meant it, that it was the truth.

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 2

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 2: Ruthlessness or Mercy

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

The Council Chambers lay shrouded in a dim, restless light that filtered through the latticed windows, casting fractured patterns across the stone floor. Beyond the intricate panes, the sky was a tumult of shifting grays, heavy with the promise of rain.

Aemond stepped into the room, his presence commanding even in its quietness. He moved with the careful deliberation of a predator–each step purposeful, measured, as though the very act of walking across the threshold was an assertion of control. His leather boots met the cold stone with a muted thud as he ascended the steps.

The chairs surrounding the long, austere stone table stood empty, all save one; his mother’s. She sat with rigid poise, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as though to anchor herself. Her dark, expressive eyes locked onto Aemond as he settled himself into his seat. Those eyes burned with reproach, their intensity drawing attention to the faint furrow etched between her brows and the subtle downturn of her lips.

It was not a new expression; he had seen it countless times before, though it had more often been directed at his brother. It was the look she reserved for disappointment, for exasperation with sons who, in her eyes, ought to have known better. The weight of her disapproval bore down on him like a silent accusation, as though he were a boy caught in some misdeed.

Aemond felt the flicker of annoyance stir in his chest, hot and unwelcome. She judged him, he knew, for what he had done–for the actions he considered necessary. His jaw tightened, but he met her gaze unflinchingly, letting it wash over him like a tide breaking on stone. He would not yield to guilt; there was none to feel. His choices had been measured and justified.

Still, her silent condemnation lingered, her brows knitting further as though she sought to unravel him with sheer force of will. When she finally broke her gaze, turning her head with an almost dismissive air, it sent another sharp pang of irritation through him. His fingers twitched before he placed his hand deliberately on the cold surface of the table. He began to tap his fingers against the stone.

The low hum of conversation rippled from the periphery of the room, an almost distant sound that Aemond registered without interest. It hovered at the edge of his awareness, much like the men who spoke it–inconsequential.

“–ruined my velvet doublet! Vile creatures,” Ser Tyland Lannister’s voice rang out, laced with indignation. He stood by the side table laden with food and wine, its offering ever ready in case the council dragged on into hours of tedium. Tyland poured himself a generous cup of wine, shifting with irritation. Beside him, Lord Jasper Wylde plucked absently at a bowl of fruit, the polished grape he selected glinting faintly in the candlelight.

“Whomever thought of releasing them inside should be made to pay for it,” Tyland continued, his reddish-golden hair catching the light as he turned to glance at Jasper for sympathy but there was none to be found.

“Is there nothing to be done about them?”

“The rat catchers are at work,” Tyland replied, swirling his wine as though the answer soured his mood further. “But they are rat catchers, not bird catchers, and birds, it seems, pose a challenge beyond their meager skill.” He let out a sigh, casting his gaze briefly towards the ceiling as though pigeons might descend upon him at any moment. “Pigeons are nothing but rats with wings, I say.”

Jasper smirked faintly as he plucked another grape. “Why not shoot them down?” He proposed. “Surely the archers would find some amusement in it.”

“Perhaps,” Tyland conceded, though his tone suggested doubt. “But killing the birds might invite ill fortune upon the union they were meant to bless...”

For the first time, Aemond sensed the weight of Tyland’s gaze, a fleeting glance that carried subtle unease, as though unsure of his reaction. Aemond did not respond by meeting his gaze, his focus remained elsewhere, unconcerned and wholly uninterested in the conversation.

Jasper emitted a gruff sound of disapproval. “I hadn’t taken you for a superstitious man, Ser.”

Tyland hummed in reply, a noncommittal sound as he lifted his goblet and took a measured sip of wine. Aemond’s gaze flicked briefly to the lattice windows, where the gathering storm clouds darkened the room further. The council had yet to truly begin, and already, his patience frayed.

The faint jangle of chains announced the arrival of Maester Orwyle before he even appeared in the council chamber. It was a sound that carried an unassuming weight, familiar and mundane, yet always accompanied a matter of seriousness. Aemond heard it now, the soft clinking growing louder with each deliberate step the Maester took. The sound seemed to linger in the heavy silence of the room.

Orwyle entered, his gray robes trailing behind him as his thick, wrought chain swayed heavily with each movement. His posture was stiff, his lined face bearing the caution of a clever man. Before he could fully take his place at the table, Alicent’s voice cut through the stillness, direct and demanding.

“Maester Orwyle,” she began, her tone tight with concern, “how fares Ser Wyllam? Will he recover?”

The Maester hesitated for only a moment, his hands steadying on the back of his chair as his gaze flickered–briefly but noticeably–towards Aemond. Aemond met the Maester's gaze, his lone eye gleaming with a sharpness that dared any present to hold it. There was no concern in his expression for the wounded knight’s recovery; instead, a faint trace of amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth, like a predator toying with its prey. The tension the mention of Ser Wyllam seemed to bring to the room only added to his quiet satisfaction.

Orwyle’s eyes darted away quickly, and he lowered himself into his chair with measured care, the links of his chain clinking softly against the wood. “As you’d expect, Your Grace.”

He folded his hands in his lap, his thumbs worrying at the links of his chain as he spoke. “I have dulled his pain with milk-of-the-poppy and stitched his wounds, though…” His voice faltered briefly, “…the scars will be… significant. I fear there is little to be done for that. However, I am confident he will make a full recovery.”

Alicent’s shoulder relaxed fractionally, though her expression remained grave. She drew her hands together, fingers interlacing, the gold of her rings catching the flickering light of the chamber. “By the Mother’s mercy,” she breathed, her voice softening, though her eyes betrayed her weariness. “I will pray for his swift recovery then.”

Orwyle offered a slight nod of acknowledgement but avoided meeting Aemond’s gaze. He offered no comment, though the mention of Ser Wyllam stirred little in him beyond vague irritation. It was a matter resolved, in his eyes–a lesson given and received.

His mother’s concern grated faintly at his nerves, though he kept his composure. It was not prayer that would heal Ser Wyllam’s wounds, nor had prayer saved him from earning them in the first place.

Strength did not come from the gods; it came from within–or not at all.

The room seemed to grow heavier with silence, each word spoken about Ser Wyllam hanging in the air like an accusation. To him, the recovery of Ser Wyllam was a trivial matter, unworthy of the energy it seemed to draw. Aemond’s fingers tapped against the cold stone of the table, the movement seeming to briefly draw his mother’s scrutiny. His mother steadfastly avoided his gaze, though her disapproval was as palpable as if she had spoken it aloud. Her deliberate refusal to look at him, as though he were something too terrible to acknowledge, struck a nerve. It was not simply avoidance–it was rejection, a silent declaration that he was somehow awful, wrong, unworthy of her regard. The thought burrowed under his skin, needling at him with an insidious persistence.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his fingers resuming their steady drumming against the table’s surface. He would not give her the satisfaction of a reaction, but the sting of her silent judgment lingered, a thorn he could not easily remove.

The tension in the chamber was a living thing, dense and suffocating, pressing down on those gathered. It was born not only of silence but of the morning’s events–the blood spilled in the courtyard, the words exchanged, the mutilated knight recovering in the maester’s wing, and the consequences that followed. Whispers had swept through the castle like wildfire, ensuring that no soul within its walls remained ignorant of what had happened–of that he was sure.

The faint scrape of boots against stone signaled Otto Hightower’s entrance. The Hand of the King moved with purpose, his long robes trailing softly as he rounded the table. He passed both his daughter and grandson without so much as a glance, his focus fixed on his destination: the chair to the king’s right, conspicuously empty in his absence. Otto carried with him a leather-bound book of notes, which he set down with care and a weary sigh. His movements were measured as he reached for the marble ball of his station, its cool surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. He lifted it from the center of the table and placed it into its designated holder before him, the soft clink of stone on metal breaking the heavy quiet.

The Hand’s presence seemed to draw the council together. Ser Tyland Lannister followed Lord Jasper Wylde to the table. He placed his wine goblet on it with a dull clink before pulling out his chair. The scrape of wood against stone cut through the room as he lowered himself into the seat to Aemond’s right.

“The King?” Lord Jasper queried as he eased into his chair, the polished marble ball of The Master of Law clinking softly as he placed it into its holder. His tone was casual, though his question carried a faint trace of scrutiny.

“The King is still recovering from the previous night’s indulgences,” Otto Hightower replied, his words measured, laced with the subtle implication that the council would proceed with or without the King’s presence. The Hand’s tone brooked no argument, his focus shifting to the matters at hand. Yet, before the finality of his statement could fully settle, the room was interrupted by the cutting edge of another voice–raspy, pointy, and unmistakably annoyed.

“The King,” Aegon interjected, his footsteps heavy as they echoed through the chamber, drawing every eye towards him, “is here.” The heavy doors thudded shut behind him as he ascended the steps with a languid arrogance that belied the irritation in his tone. “And in a rather foul mood.”

Aegon reached his chair with a haphazard grace, dropping into it without ceremony. His movements were unhurried, his expression drawn. He snapped his fingers sharply, the gesture summoning the cupbearer–a nervous-looking nephew of their grandfather–who hurried to bring the King a goblet of wine.

Settling back into his seat, Aegon’s fingers wrapped around the stem of the goblet as he took a long sip. Lowering the cup, his gaze flicked towards Aemond, a crooked, humorless smirk curling his lips. “Tough,” he drawled, his voice carrying a sardonic edge, “I suppose I’m not the only one in a foul mood this morning, am I, brother? There seems to be an abundance of it today.”

Aemond’s eye met Aegon’s with cold indifference. He remained silent, his fingers tapping the deliberate rhythm against the table’s surface.

“No bruises, no cuts… still one good eye.” His gaze roved over Aemond’s face with exaggerated scrutiny, a faint, mocking smirk playing at his lips. “Not a mark on you–aside from the usual, of course.”

Aegon leaned back in his chair, lifting his goblet with lazy precision as though to toast his own wit. He took a slow sip, savoring the tension in the room, before continuing, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. “Either my sweet niece was exceptionally docile on her wedding night,” he said, lifting his eyebrows in mock surprise, “or your night wasn’t quite as… eventful as one might have hoped.”

He tilted his head in a goading manner, his smirk deepening as he allowed his words to linger, the implication hanging heavy in the air. The faint scrape of his boot against the floor punctuated his deliberate shift in posture, his movements slow and unhurried, as though he reveled in drawing out the moment. “I’d wager the latter is the reason for your sour mood this morning,” he added, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and derision.

Aegon’s gaze sharpened then, a glint of something darker flickering behind his lazy smirk. “But no matter,” he continued, his tone softening into something almost conspiratorial, though the mockery remained clear. “It seems you found your excitement elsewhere, didn’t you?” He set his goblet down with a deliberate clink, his eyes narrowing as he added, with a pointed edge, “Brother.”

Aemond’s gaze locked onto his brother’s, unflinching and devoid of even a flicker of remorse. His expression was a mask of cold composure, as if carved from stone, offering no satisfaction to Aegon’s taunts. Yet beneath the surface, a storm churned–a simmering fury that burned in his chest, coiling tighter with every word that dripped from Aegon’s mocking tongue.

His jaw tightened, the faintest motion betraying the restraint it took to keep his temper in check. The insult gnawed at him–as it had when spewed from Ser Wyllam’s now mutilated mouth–but he refused to give his brother the satisfaction of a reaction. He gritted his teeth, the metallic taste of anger sharp on his tongue.

“How could you do such a thing?” His mother finally spoke, her voice cracking through the room like the lash of a whip. Her tone was tight with disbelief, her head shaking slowly as she turned her gaze towards Aemond. “Your actions are not without consequence, Aemond. Have you not done enough already?”

Her words needled at him, burrowing beneath his skin and sinking into the awful, tender part of him that wanted nothing but her understanding–her love. He heard it in her voice, the reprimand laced with disgust. Had his actions not brought them enough ruin? Had he not stained his hands with enough blood? Was he not already enough of a monster?

Another feeling soon rose to the surface, sharp and biting: resentment. He was not a boy to be chastised in front of an audience. He steeled himself, refusing to let the emotion show. He was justified–he had been right. And he did not appreciate his mother’s reproach.

“I defended myself,” Aemond said finally, his voice steady and cold, though his anger simmered beneath the surface. His gaze shifted back to his mother, sharp and unyielding. “He made the mistake of thinking he could speak to me freely–insult me without consequence. Would you rather I let them laugh at me?”

His brow furrowed, the faintest trace of bitterness creeping into his tone. He remembered too well what it felt like to be the object of ridicule, the powerless boy mocked and taunted at every turn. He would never allow that again. Not from a knight, not from anyone.

Alicent let out a sound of disbelief, a scornful exhale that stung as much as her words did. She turned her head sharply, tearing her gaze from him as though even looking at him was too much to bear for an extended period of time. Her hands drew tighter on the table, the golden rings on her fingers digging into her skin.

“So you mutilate him over an insult?” She said at last, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “Over words, Aemond?”

Her tone struck like a hammer against the brittle silence, and the weight of her disappointment pressed down on him. Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he refused to look away, even as her words burrowed deeper, feeding the gnawing ache inside him. He would not falter.

“I gave him every opportunity to take back his words,” Aemond said, his tone measured–tilting his head in a half shrug. His gaze fixed on his brother, sharp and unyielding. “But he proved more fool than man. I suppose that is why you keep him around brother. He suits your needs well enough, does he not?”

His brother had made a habit of surrounding himself with fools and jesters–lickspilles who would glady lick the soles of his boots and then offer honeyed words of praise for the privilege. Aegon seemed content with their false flattery and praise. To Aemond, it was a testament to his brother’s weakness–his inability to command true respect without relying on the spineless throng that clung to him like leeches.

The knights and lords Aegon favored were no better, men more adept at wine-drinking and bawdy tales than strategy or strength. They were eager to whisper in his ear, to stroke his ego, but when true action was required, he thought, they would scatter like leaves before the wind. And he saw it for what it was; a weakness that left their house vulnerable.

Ser Wyllam was just another one of his brother’s chosen fools, a knight whose tongue was far quicker than his sword. And Aemond would not abide his disrespect.

“Can you not take a simple jest?” Aegon drawled, his voice oozing derision.

“I can take a jest,” Aemond replied, his voice cold enough to chill the room. “But I will not take disrespect.”

Aegon’s laugh was sharp and unkind, cutting through the thick tension like a blade. “Mother, do you suppose the next time someone dares to mock his… shortcomings,” his eyes flickered towards Aemond’s eyepatch and what lacked beneath, “he’ll lop off an ear as well? Or perhaps a head?” His eyebrows drew together as his head tilted in scrutiny. “Or is this about more than words, hmm? Did Ser Wyllam strike too close to the bone?” He paused for a moment, drawing out the tension. “…Did he speak of your fine wedding night? Was it not all you’ve dreamt of, brother?” Aemond's gaze narrowed.

“Could you not, at least, have left one side of his face untouched?” Aegon huffed as he sank back in his chair, waving his hand dismissively, his expression irritated. “Now I have to rearrange the seating at every feast to keep Wyllam out of my line of sight. Honestly, Aemond, if you wanted to maim him, couldn’t you have picked somewhere less noticeable? His hands, perhaps? No one cares about those.” He lounged in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet with lazy precision.

“Aegon,” Alicent chided, her tone weary and exasperated. Her head shook with reproach. “This is a serious matter–”

Aegon grimaced and leaned back further in his chair, sinking slightly with a huff. “Of course, Mother,” he drawled. “Far be it from me to disrupt the sanctity of these proceedings.”

“Did you ever pause to consider what consequences your actions might bring us, once again?” Alicent’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension as her attention snapped back to Aemond. Her dark eyes, burning with condemnation, locked on to his with unflinching intensity. “You act without temperance or restraint. You let your pride dictate your actions, no matter the cost.”

Aemond held his mother’s gaze, his expression cold and impassive, though a faint tension betrayed itself in the slight curl of his fingers against the table’s rough surface. His lips quirked upward faintly, the ghost of a smile that carried no warmth, only a trace of bitter satisfaction.

He believed he had shown temperance and restraint–far more than was deserved. He could have killed Ser Wyllam for his insolence, could have struck him down the moment the mockery left his lips. The memory of the man’s jests, his sneering tone, still gnawed at him, as did the feeling of being laughed at. Aemond’s jaw tightened slightly at the thought. He had given Wyllam every chance to retract his words, to swallow his putrid mockery and concede. But the fool had not.

And so, Ser Wyllam had borne the consequences. Aemond’s fingers stilled their tapping, his gaze unwavering. It had been a matter of pride, certainly–but it was more than that. It was about setting an example. To allow such open disrespect to pass unchecked would have emboldened others, encouraging them to whisper behind his back, or worse, to mock him openly. He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever.

Let them call him a monster if they wished. Better to be feared than ridiculed. Better to inspire dread than to be seen as weak.

Slowly, Aemond leaned forward, his gaze narrowing as his voice dropped into something colder, harsher–more unforgiving and calculated. “He should think himself fortunate for my restraint.” His head tilted. “I could have killed him for his insolence. Perhaps I should have. But we are at war, after all, and we may yet need his sword arm.”

“It would have been better had you killed him,” Lord Jasper muttered, his voice gruff and sullen. The harsh lines of his face betrayed no hesitation as he spoke, and his iron-gray eyes carried the weight of a man as unyielding as his moniker ‘Iron-rod’ foretold. His gaze flickered briefly to the scowling king and he seemed to consider his words for a moment before pressing on.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he continued, inclining his head towards Aegon in a gesture that carried only the faintest hint of apology, “I know he is your friend, but it would have been better had he been killed.”

“How so, Lord Jasper?” Alicent demanded, her tone indignant, her brows knitting into a deep frown of disapproval. Her gaze pinned Jasper–who seemed exasperated by her judgment.

“It would have been cleaner,” Jasper said, his tone steady and matter-of-fact. “Easier to explain. A training accident, nothing more.”

Alicent let out a sharp, exasperated breath, leaning back in her chair as though the weight of the conversation pressed down on her. Her eyes turned towards the ceiling, seemingly beseeching the gods for intervention. “As Master of Laws, you should understand the weight of such actions, Lord Jasper. Killing him might have been simpler for you to explain, but it, too, would not have been without consequence. Should every insult end in death, what message does that send?”

Her disapproving gaze lingered on him. “Must every problem we face be solved with a sword? This is not the battlefield, nor should it become one.”

Lord Jasper drew in a huffy breath, eyes briefly turning skyward.

Alicent’s voice remained sharp, her frustration seeping through each word as she turned her gaze back to Lord Jasper. “And what of Lord Lefford?” she continued, her tone cutting and precise. “House Lefford may have bent the knee to Aegon, but what happens when he hears of what has been done to his son?”

“If Lord Lefford values his son’s tongue more than his loyalty to the crown, then let him break faith,” Aemond said callously. He straightened slightly, his gaze sweeping across the table. “Let him turn against us, if he dares. His defiance will end as all other’s do–in fire and blood.” He hummed. “The Golden Tooth is no more resistant to dragonfire than Harrenhal was.”

Alicent’s face hardened further, her hands clenching tightly in her lap. “You speak as though every slight can be answered with violence.” She stared at him furiously. “But this is not a battlefield, Aemond. It is the realm we must hold together, and your actions threaten to tear it apart.”

“Lord Lefford will not break faith,” Otto Hightower interjected at last, his voice cutting clearly through the tension that lingered in the room. His expression was composed, his tone measured, though there was an edge to his words. His sharp eyes swept across the table before settling on Ser Tyland, whose posture stiffened slightly under the weight of the Hand’s gaze.

“Ser Tyland,” Otto continued, his voice steady and deliberate, leaving no room for ambiguity. The red-haired lord straightened in his chair at the sound of his name, his hands folding neatly atop the ledger resting on the table. “House Lefford is a vassal house of the Lannisters. Write to him. Impress upon him that the breaking of his oath will carry dire consequences for him and his house. Make it clear that his son’s foolishness–” his gaze flicked briefly towards Aemond, though his expression betrayed nothing, “–is no excuse for disloyalty.”

Ser Tyland inclined his head slightly, though a faint shadow of apprehension flickered in his eyes. “Yes, my lord Hand,” his fingers brushed against the leather bound ledger, the movement carrying a note of unease.

Aemond watched the exchange in silence, his lone eye narrowing slightly as Tyland nodded again, his agreement all but perfunctory. The room remained still, the weight of Otto’s directive lingering in the air.

Otto’s gaze lingered on Tyland a moment longer before shifting back to the table at large. “The strength of our alliances lies not only in oaths,” he said, his voice carrying across the chamber with quiet authority, “but in ensuring those oaths are upheld. Make certain Lord Lefford understands that.”

With that, the Hand leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers steepling as he surveyed the room. The tension in the chamber remained palpable, though Otto’s calm command had shifted it, reframing the conflict as a matter of order and duty. Aemond’s fingers tapped lightly against the table, his expression carefully blanket, though the faintest trace of a smirk touched his lips.

Let Lord Lefford be reminded of his place. Whatever words Ser Tyland might send, the lesson had already been carved into his son’s face. And if he should prove as foolish as his son, Aemond was prepared to teach him a similar lesson.

A heavy silence hung over the council chamber, stretching uncomfortably as the weight of the previous conversation settled over the gathered lords. The tension seemed to press against the stone walls, each second thickening the air until even the faintest movement felt intrusive.

At last, Ser Tyland stirred, the quiet rustle of fabric breaking the oppressive stillness. He adjusted his doublet, the subtle gesture betraying his unease as he straightened in his seat once more. His gaze flickered briefly towards Aemond, lingering for the barest of moments, before he turned his attention back to the table at large.

Clearing his throat softly, he breached the next subject with measured care, his tone deliberately light as though attempting to dispel the tension that gripped the room.

“My lords,” Tyland began, his tone careful but pointed, “while the events of the morning have captured much of our attention, there remains the matter of the ledgers–specifically, the expenses for the recent wedding celebrations and their strain on the crown’s coffers–”

Alicent shifted forward in her seat, her brows furrowed with concern as she fixed her gaze on Maester Orwyle. Her voice cut through Tyland’s words abruptly, redirecting the council’s attention. “Has Rhaenyra returned any of my letters?” She asked, her tone sharp with urgency, though an undercurrent of hope clung to her words.

Lord Jaster Wylde let out a huff, the sound teetering between a scoff and a sigh. His steely eyes rolled towards the ceiling, and he shook his head, his exasperation plain for all to see. “More letters?” He muttered beneath his breath as Tyland sank back in his seat, seemingly deflated by the interruption.

Aemond did not blame Lord Wylde for his frustration; he felt it too. His mother’s insistence on reaching out to their enemy grated at him, a futile gesture that reeked of desperation. What use were letters when blood had already been drawn. Rhaenyra was no longer a sister to be reasoned with–she was the enemy. Every word his mother penned to her was a mockery of the conflict they were in, as if ink and parchment could soften the inevitable clash of steel and fire.

What irked him more was the purpose behind those letters. His mother sought to apologize, to soothe tensions, to mend something that had long since shattered. But why? Aemond’s lip curled slightly as the thought roiled within him. Had anyone apologized to him when Rhaenyra’s son took his eye? No. Instead, he had been humiliated, threatened, left to bleed as the room stood divided over who was to blame. There had been no soothing words, no justice offered to him. Only pain, humiliation, and the cold truth that his suffering mattered less than preserving some fragile, already broken, peace.

His fingers curled against the table, his blunt nails scraping lightly over the rough stone. The sound was faint, but it tethered his simmering anger, grounding it as his mind churned with memories he wished he could bury.

“No, Your Grace,” Maester Orwyle replied at last, his voice hesitant, as though reluctant to speak into the heavy silence that had settled over the room. His hands clasped tightly around the chain draped across his chest, the soft jangle of links barely audible as he shifted uneasily under Alicent’s gaze.

Aemond’s lone eye flicked toward his mother, studying the faint furrow of her brow, the tension in her frame. He wondered, not for the first time, why she continued to hope that Rhaenyra could be reached. His mother’s heart, soft as it was, could not see what Aemond knew to be true: some wounds could not be healed, some chasms could not be bridged. And Rhaenyra had chosen her side the day her son took his eye.

Alicent seemed to brush past Lord Jasper’s reproach, though the faint tension in her jaw betrayed her irritation. At Maester Orwyle’s reply, her lips pressed into a thin, strained line, disappointment flickering across her features. But she didn’t seem to allow it to linger. Her hands folded neatly on the table, the soft rustle of her movements breaking the silence as she let out a sigh.

“In her condition,” she began, her tone measured but carrying that note of damning sentiment, “it cannot be good for her to remain at Storm’s End.” She shook her head slightly, her brow furrowing further with concern.”Surely, she must think of the life she carries. A mother must hold her child above all else. In that bond, she might yet find reason.” Her eyes sought out the council as she spoke. “Reason to see the madness in prolonging this war.”

His mother’s words hung delicately in the air, heavy with unbidden hope, though faint as it was. Her gaze sept across the table, as if silently imploring them to share her hopes.

Aemond’s jaw tightened imperceptibly as he listened, his lone eye narrowing ever so slightly. His mother’s persistent hope, her belief that words and decency could sway their enemies, rankled him more than he cared to admit. It was a weakness, in his eyes, to entertain such notions when the path forward could only be carved by steel and fire–not by sentiment or fragile appeals to childhood friends.

Yet, for all his frustrations, he remained silent. She was misguided–too soft-hearted to accept the truth before them. The war was not looming; it was here, and there was no avoiding it. Blood would be spilled, lives would be lost, and no about of letters or appeals to maternal bonds would change that.

It infuriated him to see her falter now, to witness the hesitation in her resolve when they stood at the precipice. Had this not been her cause? Had she not spent years insisting that Aegon was the rightful king, that his claim was just, and that they must fight for him–for their family? Had she not warned them time and again that failure would mean death? That Rhaenyra would put them all to the sword?

Yet now, when the time had come to act, when their path was set, she hesitated. She spoke of reason, off reconciliation, as though he hadn’t already bloodied his hands for them. It felt like a betrayal of the very principles she had so fervently instilled in them.

But, Aemond supposed, his mother had the luxury of hesitation–of clinging to hope and appealing for peace. She was not the one with blood on her hands. It was easy for her to falter now, to pull back and second-guess, because she had not been the one in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay.

Yet, he could feel her blame, sharp and unwelcoming, pressing against him like a blade. She blamed him–he knew it. She blamed him for the war, for making it inevitable, for being the spark that ignited the conflict. As though he alone had set them on this path, as though she had not spent years scheming and maneuvering to put Aegon on the throne.

It grated against him, the way she distanced herself from the very path she had forged. She spoke now as though the war was something thrust upon them by his actions alone, as though it was not her own choices that had brought them here. She had fought and conspired, whispered in the shadows, wielded her influence to get them here–and now, when the blood began to flow, she wanted to wash her hands of it all. To absolve herself from responsibility, to lay the burden at his feet.

He could see it in her now, the faint flicker of guilt that she sought to mask with reason and compromise. But guilt did not change the truth. The war was here, and they were all bound to it. She could no more escape its consequences than he could escape the stain of blood on his hands.

Let her place the blame upon him if it eased her conscience. Let her believe she could undo what had been done. Aemond would shoulder the weight of it, as he always had. But he could not waver, nor would he forgive her for faltering now.

Jasper Wylde interjected, his voice as unyielding as forged iron. “Mediation? Shall we send her flowers and a heartfelt apology too? Daemon will laugh himself hoarse before sending the envoy’s head back in a basket.” His head shook dismissively. “The princess is not a woman of reason–had she been, she would have accepted our terms when we first presented them to her,” he stated gruffly, his tone laden with disdain. “And she is not likely to find it any time soon.”

The weight of his words drew the room’s attention, his head turning toward him as he shifted slightly in his chair. He sat more upright, his expression measured even its gravity. “Her… condition… is no longer.”

Wylde’s gaze swept over the table, letting the silence stretch before continuing. “I’ve heard whispers from the fishermen around Dragonstone. They say the child has been lost. The shock of her father’s death, the crowning of our rightful king, or perhaps the capture of her daughter–it matters not.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to Aegon, who appeared to listen with unusual attention. He leaned back in his chair in a leisurely fashion, his fingers absently turning his council stone in its holder. The faint, repetitive scrape of the marble echoed softly in the room.

Wylde continued, “The child… is said to have been malformed and monstrous. With horns, twisted limbs and a tail.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, their weight growing with each horrified glance exchanged around the table. “They were quick to burn it,” he added, as though it spoke to the validity of these rumors. “But still, the tale has spread.”

“Mother above,” Alicent murmured, covering her face for a moment of despair, brushing her fingers down and then along the curve of her neck.

The chamber was cloaked in a heavy silence, the weight of Lord Jasper’s words settling over the council. Alicent’s expression darkened as she sank back into her chair, the tension etched into every line of her face. Her hands rose slowly, covering her face for a brief moment before brushing down her neck, a weary gesture that betrayed the strain pulling at her muscles. She exhaled shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mother above…”

Aemond sat motionless, his features carved into an impassive mask, though his mind raced. If the news was true, it would be a blow to his half-sister–a deep and personal one. Yet even as the thought stirred something darkly satisfying within him, the thought of her suffering retribution for her defiance. Yet satisfaction gave way to contemplation as he considered the ripples such a loss would create–and what it would mean for Daenera.

The notion of Daenera’s grief unsettled him. He could not ignore how deeply it would cut her, even if the child had never drawn breath, even if no bond deeper than the promise of its existence had been formed. The loss would compound. It added its weight to wounds that already bled freely, deepening the injury, making it bleed all the more.

His eye flickered to the table, his fingers curling against the smooth surface as he wrestled with the thoughts crowding his mind. He did not want this for her, did not want to see the grief that clung to her like a shroud grow heavier.

“A sign from the gods,” Wylde added, his tone measured as he continued, “They punish the princess for her ambition. Surely, the gods are showing their favor to the rightful king.”

“Indeed,” Tyland said cautiously, his words measured yet clumsy, as though unsure whether to agree outright or temper his response.

The scrape of Aegon’s council stone against it’s holder ceased as he leaned further back in his chair, hands spreading on the table as he grimaced with that lopsided grin of his. “One less brat to grow up with airs of grandeur. A shame the gods didn’t finish the job and rid us of their mother too while they had the chance.”

“Aegon,” Alicent snapped, her voice sharp with reproach, though it carried the tone of a mother scolding her son rather than addressing the king he was–before his own council. “That is not something to wish for, not even against our enemies.”

Aegon’s gaze darkened, his smirk giving way to something harder. “Not even against those who would steal my throne and see us all put to the sword, Mother?”

Before Alicent could respond, Tyland awkwardly cleared his throat, stepping in to diffuse the rising tension. His words came out haltingly, as though he were carefully picking his way through a minefield. “With such loss, one wonders if she might yet find reason,” he began, though his tone betrayed a faint condescension. “Grief make women… unreasonable…”

“Perhaps it is reason enough for her to seek peace,” Maester Orwyle ventured, his voice careful, as though stepping across thin ice. He glanced at Alicent as he continued, “I agree with the Queen Mother that mediation should still be pursued. The princess is unlikely to wish for the loss of more children, and war will only increase that risk. The longer this conflict continues, the greater the toll on all sides.”

“War is not merely a threat at our door, Maester,” Lord Wylde cut in, his tone firm, laced with grim finality. “War is already here. First blood has been spilled, the realm is divided, and Daemon Targaryen is not a man to be reasoned with even if his wife may be. He will not stand down.”

Otto Hightower cleared his throat, the sharp, deliberate sound cutting through the tension in the chamber and drawing all eyes back to him. “We’ve received a raven from Storm’s End,” he began, his voice calm but carrying the weight of importance. His fingers deftly pried open the leatherbound book before him, extracting a long, narrow piece of parchment stamped with the stag sigil of House Baratheon. The parchment unfurled over the closed book as he set it down, the faint crackle of the wax seal’s remnants breaking the silence.

“Lord Borros sends word,” Otto continued, his gaze steady as it swept over the council, “that Rhaenyra has abandoned her search.”

The words hung heavily in the air, and Alicent immediately straightened in her chair, her posture rigid as her brow furrowed deeply. She cast a sharp glance toward Aemond, her condemnation wordless but clear. The weight of her stare needled at him, but he remained unmoving, his features an impassive mask.

“Back to Dragonstone?” Alicent asked, turning her attention back to the Lord Hand. Her voice was sharp, though edged with apprehension, as if she both dreaded and demanded the answer in equal measure.

“No,” Otto replied, his gaze sweeping across the table, assessing their reactions. “She was seen flying along Blackwater Bay towards King’s Landing yesterday.”

The weight of his words pressed down on the room, and the air seemed to grow heavier with it. The lords shifted uneasily in their seats, exchanging wary glances, the tension palpable as the implications settled over them. Aemond remained still, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the table’s surface.

A note of unease coiled tightly in his chest. They had been vulnerable the day before, the lords and ladies of the realm gathered in the sept for the wedding, their defenses thin, their focus elsewhere. The realization gnawed at him. Rhaenyra could have taken them–taken the Red Keep, King’s Landing itself. The thought clenched his stomach like a vice.

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as his mind turned over the possibilities. If she had descended upon them, there would have been no time. He would not have reached Vhagar before it was too late. They would have been at her mercy, forced to watch as she reclaimed the throne, as she tore his wife from his grasp. And then, there would have been fire.

Lifting his gaze from the table, Aemond let his eye sweep across the council. He saw the same dawning realization mirrored in their faces, the unease etched into furrowed brows and tight mouths.

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of a chair. Then, Aegon’s voice broke through the tension, sharp and flippant. “Well, she didn’t reach King’s Landing, did she? Otherwise, we’d all be ashes by now.”

“She reached the outskirts of the harbor before turning back,” Otto informed, his tone steady but heavy with implication.

“Perhaps she remembered that we too have dragons,” Maester Orwyle murmured, his voice thoughtful, though his words carried a faint edge of uncertainty. “She couldn’t have known of the wedding taking place.”

“We should have sent men after her at Storm’s End and been done with it,” Aegon muttered displeased, the disdain in his voice unmistakable. He tipped back his cup, draining the last of his wine before letting the empty vessel thud softly against the table. Slouching back in his chair, he let out a huff, his expression souring. “Instead, we let her slip through our fingers. And what now? She slinks back to Dragonstone to gather her dragons and mount her war against us?”

“We still hold her daughter,” Otto said, his tone calm and calculated, each word chosen with care. “Unless she is willing to risk the life of a third child, she will not strike so soon. For all her grief, she is bound by some reason–at least for now.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the table. “While she may have secured the loyalty of House Darklyn and the lesser houses surrounding Dragonstone, and House Velaryons treasury and fleet, she remains at a disadvantage.”

Aegon scowled, his fingers once again fidgeting with the council ball, but it was Tyland who broke the silence. “Even so, the princess has more dragons than us.”

“Dragons may be her strength,” Otto replied, his tone calm but firm, “but they are also her greatest liability. If she brings them to bear without the strength of men behind her, she risks everything. The lords of the realm will not stand idly by while their fields burn and their people starve. If she seeks to rule through fire alone, she will find herself with little more than scorched earth to govern. And so will we if we are foolish enough to risk our dragons before it is absolutely necessary.”

“Dragons are our greatest strength,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the table, lingering briefly on Aegon and then Aemond. “But they are also our greatest gamble. Recklessness could cost us more than a battle–it could cost us the realm itself.”

Aemond’s fingers tightened against the edge of the table, his expression unreadable. He did not look away from Otto, his mind parsing the warning even as his blood simmered at the implication of restraint. His grandfather’s logic was sound, but Aemond found himself bristling at the caution. To him, inaction was its own form of weakness.

Still, he said nothing, allowing Otto’s voice to carry the weight of reason, even as the tension in the room deepened.

“What is to be done, then?” Aegon demanded impatiently, his fingers twisting his council ball, the stone scratching irritably in its holder. His tone was sharp, his irritation palpable as his gaze narrowed at his Lord Hand.

“We arm ourselves with patience,” Otto replied evenly, his voice measured and deliberate. “We consolidate our strength and gather our allies. House Tyrell has yet to respond, as have the Vale and the North. The lords of the Riverlands remain undeclared, but with the Lannisters marching from the West and my nephew advancing north, they will soon be compelled to make their decision.”

He shifted in his seat, his eyes scanning the room as he continued. “We already have an army, and more will join our cause. The advantage is ours if we proceed wisely. Let us not repeat the mistakes that have already been made.”

Otto’s tone grew heavier, his gaze sharpening as he leaned forward slightly. “The realm will not accept her as its queen,” he said, his voice firm with conviction. “The lords of Westeros will not rally to a woman, especially one crippled by grief. Her weakness will be her undoing, and we will ensure the lords see her for what she truly is.”

With Otto’s final words, the matter seemed settled, though Aegon’s sour scowl lingered, his displeasure evident in the taut set of his jaw. The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of their discussion hanging in the air like an unwelcome guest.

Outside, the clouds had thickened, swallowing the last vestiges of blue sky. The heavens darkened to an ominous slate gray, heavy with the promise of a downpour. The chill crept insidiously into the chamber, seeping through the cracks in the stone walls and curling around their feet like an unwelcome specter. The faint rustle of fabric and the soft shuffling of boots betrayed the discomfort of the council as the cold nipped at their toes.

Aemond remained still, his gaze flicking momentarily toward the window where the dim light barely penetrated the storm-laden gloom. The coming rain felt like an extension of the tension within the room–a foreboding herald of the storms that awaited them outside these walls and beyond in the realm.

Tyland adjusted his doublet, his expression grave as he leaned forward slightly, hands resting atop the ledgers before him. “If I may, my lords, there is another matter pressing upon the realm that demands our attention.” His eyes swept the table. “The crown’s coffers, though extensive thanks to the late king’s frugal nature and decades of peace, have begun to feel the strain of this war.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, his fingers pressing down on the pages as if to emphasize his point. “The expenses of the wedding alone were considerable–the coronation feast as well, and now, with the added burden of preparing for conflict, the treasury faces mounting pressure. The blockade imposed by the Velaryon fleet has worsened matters, choking key trade routes. Imports of fabric, and more critically, ore and coal have been severely disrupted.”

Tyland’s eyes swept across the council, seemingly gauging their reactions. “We may need to consider alternative trade routes, though these would inevitably increase costs. Moreover,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, “such routes may expose us to vulnerabilities, particularly if a siege were to be imposed.”

“Rhaenyra hardly has the men for a siege,” Jasper Wylde interjected, his tone curt, as though dismissing the concern outright.

Tyland hesitated for only a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line before he countered, “But she has the dragons…”

“If Rhaenyra dares to even attempt to lay siege to King’s Landing,” Aemond spoke finally, his voice low and calm, a dissonance to the weight of his words, “Vhagar will meet her in the skies, and we shall end this war swiftly.” He hummed, his head tilting as though he took measure of his own words. “Should she gather the men, I will burn them.”

“Yes!” Aegon chimed in with an exclamation, pointing fervently at Aemond in agreement, “Yes! And–And we should burn her ships as well. Without the Velaryon fleet at her back, she is exposed and in no position to prolong this war.”

Otto leaned forward, his expression stern as he interjected. “The fleet is well-guarded. The waters they hold are constantly by one dragon or another. To send Vhagar against it would leave King’s Landing vulnerable–”

“To vulnerability, then!” Aegon exclaimed flippantly, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he leaned back in his chair. “It seems to be all we’re good for these days. Let Vhagar loose. The smell of burning sails might improve the stench wafting in from the harbor. “I will defend the city on Sunfyre while my brother burns their fleet–”

“You musn’t, Your Grace–”

“No, Your Grace–”

The voices around the council table rose in a chorus of objections, each lord offering their variation of the same warning. Aegon’s expression darkened with each interruption, his shoulders slumping slightly as he sank back into his chair. His frown deepened, petulance creeping into his features as the weight of their disapproval pressed upon him.

It was Otto who finally broke through the discord, his voice calm but firm. “You musn’t risk your life, Your Grace,” he said, his gaze steady as it fixed on his grandson. “It is precisely what Rhaenyra desires. If you fall in battle, the crown will be lost, and with it, the realm.”

Aegon scowled, restlessness etched into every line of his face. He wanted action, to drive the war forward without the slow tedium of ravens and diplomacy, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “Are we to sit here and with our thumbs up our asses while they choke off our trade then?”

The silence stretched taut as Aegon’s words hung in the air. Otto’s gaze lingered on his grandson, his expression weary. It was not the first time Aegon had spoken impulsively, nor would it be the last, Aemond thought.

“This is a war of strategy, Your Grace,” Otto said calmly, drawing in a deep, exasperated breath. “Nor a war to be won by heedlessness.”

Aemond watched the exchange, silent and cold, his gaze shifting between his grandfather and his brother. He could feel the impatience rolling off Aegon in waves, the desperate need to act without considering the cost. It was reckless, but Aemond understood it too well. The waiting gnawed at him, the knowledge that every day spent sitting idle allowed Rhaenyra to consolidate her own strength.

“We will act,” Otto assured, his tone measured but firm–guiding, like taking a child in the hand. “But we will act when the time is right. Reckless moves will only make us weak.”

“And we cannot afford more mistakes,” Alicent added, her voice steady but carrying the weight of reproach. Her gaze did not land on Aemond, but the pointed absence was felt all the same.

She leaned back slightly, her hands clasping in her lap as she continued, her tone softening but still firm. “Every action we take now will echo through the realm. We must tread carefully.”

Aemond’s fingers drummed idly against the table, the soft tap of his nails barely audible over the weight of the conversation. He agreed with Otto in principle, but the waiting chafed at him as well. There was a part of him, dark and eager, that longed to take to the skies with Vhagar, to bring fire and ruin upon their enemies and snuff out the rebellion in one decisive strike.

But he knew better than to speak of it now. Instead, he watched the exchange unfold, cold and calculating, his thoughts quietly burning as he weighed the balance between prudence and destruction.

Otto continued carefully, “However, I agree we should patrol the skies surrounding King’s Landing and along the coast of Blackwater Bay. We cannot allow her to move so freely.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his lips pursing slightly. Though he held his composure, the suggestion felt reductive, like a chore given to a child to keep him occupied rather than a true acknowledgement of his capabilities.

He considered the possibilities. He could destroy the Velaryon fleet with Vhagar, even if it were guarded by a dragon. If one of the Velaryon bastards defended the fleet, their fate would be the same as their brother’s. They were no match for him or Vhagar.

Meleys, however, presented a greater challenge. She was swift and somewhat experienced in battle, if what he had heard was true. But even Meleys would struggle against Vhagar’s sheer size, her long years of battle hardening making her a force of unmatched ferocity in the skies.

It was Caraxes that posed the most significant threat. Both the dragon and his rider were seasoned warriors, tactical and relentless. Still, Aemond believed he could defeat them–if it came down to just the two of them. The thrill of such a confrontation stirred something fierce within him.

He reasoned it was unlikely the fleet would be protected by more than one dragon at any given time. If that were the case, he could strike swiftly. He could descend upon the fleet, destroy it in flames, and take down its guardian before they even had a chance to counter. Vhagar’s roar alone could sow chaos among the ships, scattering their formations, making them easy prey for her fire.

He could burn the fleet to ashes and return home before the enemy could mount a proper retaliation. The risk was great, but the reward–crippling Rhaenyra’s forces and removing her naval strength–was greater still.

Have you paid the smiths?” Aegon abruptly turned his gaze towards Tyland, expression shifting to one of impatient inquiry.

Tyland blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. “Your Grace?” He stammered, his brow furrowing as he tried to catch up.

“The smiths,” Aegon reiterated, his tone edged with irritation. “They are to be paid up front for their work.”

Tyland’s eyes darted toward Otto, seeking guidance, but the Hand of the King looked thoroughly exasperated, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“As you said,” Aegon pressed on, his voice growing sharper, “the price of ore has risen, and if we are to arm our forces against Rhaenyra, we’ll need to be well-equipped, won’t we? Scorpions, swords, armor–they don’t forge themselves. And if the smiths can’t pay for the materials to craft them, tell me, what shall we defend ourselves with? Words?”

Aegon’s gaze turned toward Otto, a pointed challenge in his expression, as if daring his grandfather to counter him.

Tyland cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said carefully, his voice low and measured. “I shall see if funds can be found for such an endeavor, though we may need to consider–”

“See to it,” Aegon interrupted curtly, his tone brooking no argument. “I won’t have this war lost for lack of preparation. And if coin must be spent, then spend it.”

The heavy oaken doors to the council chambers groaned open, their creak loud and intrusive, cutting through the already-tense air like a blade. The sound reverberated through the vaulted stone chamber, followed by the shuffling of uneven footsteps–boots scuffing against the floor–and the sharp, deliberate tap, tap, tap of a cane striking the ground. The cadence was distinct, calculated, and immediately recognizable.

Aemond didn’t bother to turn. He didn’t need to. He knew precisely who it was. His sharp features remained still, his cold gaze fixing ahead as if the interruption were beneath his notice–and it was. His fingers, however, continued their steady, deliberate drumming against the table’s surface, the faint sound almost lost amidst the approaching steps.

The air in the chamber grew heavier, the council's unease palpable as the figure came into view–always a herald of less than fortunate news.

“Lord Confessor,” Alicent began, her tone clipped and brimming with restrained frustration. “What is the meaning of this? We are in the middle of a meeting.”

She did not rise, but Aemond could almost sense the stiffness in her posture, her spine straight as a blade, her dark eyes narrowing on the man approaching them. Larys Strong. The Lord Confessor’s presence was rarely welcome, his arrival at the council unbidden even less so. His peculiar mixture of deference and menace unsettled most.

“Your Grace,” Larys murmured, inclining his head in a shallow bow. His voice was soft, almost soothing in its cadence, though it carried a serpentine quality that sent an involuntary shiver through even the most steadfast. “I would not dare to intrude, were it not a matter of some urgency.”

His cane struck the stone floor again, a sound that seemed to echo too long, too sharply, as he moved further into the room. The council shifted uneasily, exchanging wary glances. Even Aemond, for all his practiced stoicism, felt the corners of his mouth tighten in irritation at the man’s presence.

“And what matters?” Otto questioned, his voice wary.

Aemond’s lip twitched imperceptibly, his distaste for the Lord Confessor stirring within him like a slow burn. He had little regard for the man, whose honeyed words and subtle manipulations slithered through the halls of the Red Keep like an unseen viper. Still, he waited, unmoving, letting the air grow heavy with the weight of the interruption.

“The boy,” Larys began, his tone carefully measured, the words dragging slightly. He came to stop just at Aemond’s good side, lingering beyond his peripheral view. “I thought it prudent to inform you that the princess’s charge, Patrick Piper, has died…”

The words hung in the air like a dagger suspended on the edge of falling. Aemond’s gaze shifted, gliding along the rough grain of the stone table, his lone eye tracing its length to the place where it abruptly ended.

“Died?” Alicent’s voice cut through the tense silence, a note of shock sharpening her tone. The weight of the news rippled through the room, stirring unease among the gathered lords and counselors. Shuffling movements, the soft rustle of fabric, and the creak of chairs betrayed their discomfort.

“Yes,” Larys confirmed, his voice measured. His cane tapped against the floor as he shifted closer, the sound loud and damning in the hush that had fallen over the chamber. “One of the guards went to see to him,” he continued, “and found him dead in his cot. By all accounts, the boy was well and healthy this morning. His death was unexpected.”

Alicent’s hand rose to clasp at her throat, her fingers tightening around the ornate chain she wore. “If he was well and healthy,” she pressed, her voice betraying her unease, “how could he have died?”

“That is the question, Your Grace,” Larys murmured, his tone carrying an almost lilting insinuation, each word carefully measured. “There were no signs of a struggle, no visible wounds or ailments to explain his sudden demise. It appears as though the boy merely lay down to sleep and never woke.”

“A boy his age does not simply fall asleep and never wake,” Jasper Wylde growled, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the room. His pale gray eyes, sharp as steel, narrowed beneath his heavy brow, and his scowl seemed to carve itself permanently into his weathered face, like a blacksmith hammering out a blade. “It’s unnatural,” he added, shaking his head, his disapproval evident.

Larys did not falter beneath the weight of Wylde’s scrutiny. If anything, he seemed to delight in it. “It is perhaps worth noting,” he said, his tone unctuous, “that the boy had a visitor this morning.”

Aemond felt the weight of Larys’s words like a subtle blade turned in his direction, and though he refused to look at the man, he could feel the insinuation laced into his tone, like a prickle against his skin.

He had not been to the dungeons save for that single time, to oversee Fenrick’s release. He had stood there in the dim light as the guards unlocked the iron door, the screech of the key grating in the lock, and the rusty hinges groaned in protest. Fenrick had been hauled from the cell, shackled and dragged forward. The boy had been there, alive and wailing like an infant torn from its mother’s arms, his thin limbs flailing against the guards’ unyielding grip.

Aemond had watched as Fenrick, though shackled and subdued, turned his gaze to the boy. “Be strong,” the man had said, his voice firm despite the circumstances. “Daenera will not let harm come to you.”

Aemond could still recall the venom in Fenrick’s glare as he was shoved past him, up the stone steps and out of sight. The boy’s cries had echoed through the narrow corridor, the sound grating and pitiful. Aemond had stood there, unmoving, as the door to the cell slammed shut behind them, its clang reverberating through the stale, rank air. The dungeons had reeked of rot and despair, a stench so pungent that it lingered in his memory if he allowed himself to think on it.

But he hadn’t returned since. He hadn’t visited the boy again, nor had he interfered in his fate. Whatever had befallen Patrick Piper, it was not of his doing.

He refused to carry the blame for it.

“The princess, Daenera, saw the boy not long before we released her man,” Larys continued, his tone deceptively casual, though every word seemed laced. He let the revelation hang in the air for a mere moment, then added, “She informed the guards that her husband granted her the permission for a visit.”

The words struck like a hammer against Aemond’s tightly controlled composure. He felt his muscles tense beneath his skin, a taut coil of suppressed surprise. His fingers, which had been tapping idly against the cold stone of the table, stilled abruptly. Yet, he betrayed nothing. His mask of cold detachment remained firmly in place, his sharp features carved into an expression of calm indifference.

Beneath the surface, though, a storm brewed.

The knowledge that she–Daenera, his wife–had used his name in her ruse stirred something within his chest. There was a dark twist of satisfaction at the thought of her invoking his authority, drawing on their union as leverage. A faint smirk threatened to tug at the corner of his lips, but he replaced it with a faint purse as he weighed the implications.

Amusement flickered within him, tempered by the cold edge of unease. That she had claimed his permission was not surprising–she was clever, as resourceful as she was bold–but the thought of her slipping into the dungeons, placing herself among rapers and murders, gnawed at him. And for a boy whose significance was no more than a pawn in this game?

But that was the reason, wasn’t it?

“And they let her in?!” Alicent’s voice rose sharply, her reproach immediate and laced with indignation that prickled against Aemond like a nettle. Her piercing gaze swept over the room before fixing on her son. “You allowed her to see him? You gave her permission to enter the dungeons?”

Aemond met his mother’s gaze with a calm defiance, his expression a mask of measured indifference. His singular eye, sharp and unyielding, revealed nothing of the turmoil beneath, though a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth hinted at a flicker of irritation. He held her gaze steadily, unmoving, feeling no inclination to answer to her accusations.

“Are you insinuating, Lord Confessor,” Maester Orwyle interjected, his voice hesitant and laced with unease, “that the princess had a hand in the boy’s demise?”

“Where is the boy now?” Otto’s gaze settled on Larys before the Lord Confessor could turn to address Maester Orwyle.

“With the Silent Sisters,” Larys replied smoothly. He adjusted his cane with a soft tap, the sound a punctuation mark to his words. “They are preparing his body as we speak and will report their findings when they are finished.”

“We don’t need their findings to know what happened,” Alicent interjected sharply, her voice rising with conviction. Her dark gaze swept across the table, searching the faces of the council as though daring someone else to voice the accusation she was poised to make. None spoke. The tension in the room thickened as the lords exchanged wary glances, their discomfort palpable.

When silence met her challenge, she drew herself up, her lips pressed into a thin line as she spoke the accusation aloud. “She poisoned him.”

Aemond felt the accusation press against him as if it carried with it an expectation of response. Yet, he remained still, his expression carved from stone.

“We cannot act on mere assumptions,” Orwyle countered carefully, the jingle of his maester’s chain punctuating his words as he shifted in his seat. His voice carried a cautionary note, attempting to temper the queen’s fervor. “As of now, there is no evidence to substantiate such a claim. A proper investigation must be conducted before any conclusions are reached.”

“It is no assumption,” she countered tersely, her gaze snapping towards the master. “We all know the princess is well-versed in such matters. She poisoned him.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,�� Aegon muttered, his voice laced with bitter humor as he stared into the depths of his empty wine cup. He swirled it idly in his hand, his brow furrowing deeper the longer he looked, as though questioning whether the wine had been poisoned.

It was not an unreasonable fear, not after what had transpired–not after experience. Aegon had, after all, been on the receiving end of her knowledge of plants before.

His gaze shifted, lifting from the depths of his cup to meet Aemond’s, a faint trace of amusement twisting the corners of his lips. “It seems your marriage is a match forged in the Seven Hells, brother,” Aegon jibed, his tone dripping with mockery as he leaned back in his chair. “A kinslayer and a child killer. Truly a union worthy of song. The bards should write one about it–though I doubt they’d sing them anywhere respectable.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, the tension in him coiling tighter with each passing moment. He cast a glance toward his grandfather, noting the faint twitch of Otto’s lips–a subtle signal of disapproval, though he remained silent for now.

His gaze drifted downward, settling on the golden ring that encircled his finger. His thumb brushed over its surface, the cool metal gleaming faintly in the flickering firelight. His touch was deliberate, almost meditative, as though the weight of the band tethered him amidst the chaos. His thumb grazed the hidden lever etched into the intricate design, the faintest pressure threatening to release the blade-like needle concealed within. He didn’t press it, not fully–just enough to feel the faint resistance, the promise of its sharp release.

The ring was more than just ornamentation; it was a reminder, a tool, a weapon. It carried the weight of shared secrets and unspoken truths. He knew well what she was capable of with her poisons, had seen it firsthand, had even taken part in her lethal artistry. That knowledge hummed in the back of his mind now, a steady, dark undercurrent beneath the council’s chatter.

His finger lingered on the hidden mechanism, a subtle, private acknowledgment of what he already believed to be true. They lacked the evidence, yes, but Aemond didn’t need it. Certainty settled in his chest like a stone. He knew she had poisoned the boy as surely as he knew the breadth of his own sins. It wasn’t a question of if, but why–and that, too, he understood with unshakable clarity.

She had done it for a reason, calculated and purposeful. Aemond’s jaw tightened, and his lips pressed into a faint line. Her actions, while ruthless, were never without cause. And as the council continued its murmured deliberations, he found something strangely satisfying in the knowledge. She had acted, just as he might have in her place, wielding her tools with precision and intent. It was a grim kinship, one forged in blood and necessity.

“Why would she do such a thing?” Maester Orwyle’s voice broke the charged silence, tentative and tinged with disbelief. He shifted in his seat, the links of his chain clinking together loudly.

“To ensure we no longer have any leverage over her,” Otto Hightower said, his voice even, deliberate. He leaned back in his chair, the polished wood creaking faintly beneath his weight. His steely gaze swept across the council table, calculating and cold, as if weighing each member present. For the briefest moment, there was a flicker in his eyes–a glimmer of something akin to admiration, though muted and fleeting, like the final embers of a fire. The corners of his lips twitched upward, but the gesture lacked warmth, quickly overshadowed by the sharper edge of his annoyance. “Without the boy, she no longer has to concern herself with his life–or what we might do to him.”

It seemed he had come to the same conclusion as Aemond.

“Surely the princess isn’t so ruthless as to sacrifice a boy like that,” Ser Tyland Lannister drawled, leaning against the armrest of his chair with a languid grace that belied the weight of his thoughts. His brow furrowed, the red of his hair dulled to an almost rust-like hue in the dim, gray light filtering through the chamber’s narrow windows. The overcast sky outside mirrored the somber atmosphere within, as though the heavens themselves recoiled from the grim discussion.

Aegon shrugged nonchalantly, the movement almost careless as he set his empty wine cup aside, the hollow clink against the table echoing faintly. He shifted in his seat, the fabric of his doublet rustling softly as he leaned back, a lazy, speculative glint in his eyes. “She cared for the boy, didn’t she?” He mused aloud, drawing the attention of the council. “I doubt she would have killed him solely to free herself. She’d have known we’d never let him go…”

Mercy, Aemond thought, the word echoing in his mind with a bitter edge. Yes, that was certainly part of it. He knew her well enough to understand that. Her sense of justice, of sparing the boy from further torment, was tangled with her own desperation for freedom. She had wielded poison as a blade, not to sever ties with her captors entirely but to sever the boy’s suffering. There was no doubt in his mind that her actions had been deliberate, calculated, but not entirely devoid of compassion.

“Mercy or ruthlessness,” Lord Jasper Wylde interjected gruffly. “It matters little which it is, the outcome is the same. The boy is dead, and our leverage with him. What shall we do now, when we’ve no means left to control her? What are we to do with her?”

“We punish her,” she said firmly, her hands pressed tightly together on the table. “She murdered a boy in our care. She cannot be trusted not to move against us. Who’s to say she won’t poison all of us next?” Her gaze swept across the faces of those gathered, her dark eyes burning with urgency. “ She must be punished.”

Aemond shifted slightly in his seat, his expression calm but his lone eye narrowing as he listened to his mother’s growing fervor. He drew in a breath, deep and measured, releasing it in a soft, deliberate sigh. The sound was enough to draw the room’s attention, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, cutting through the tension like steel through silk.

“If she intended to poison us,” Aemond began, his words measured, “she would have done so at the wedding.”

The chamber fell into a brief, uneasy silence. All eyes turned toward him, their gazes heavy with anticipation. Aemond met them unflinchingly, his expression carved from ice, unyielding in its certainty.

“Daenera has no intention of killing us,” he continued, his voice carrying a quiet authority that demanded attention. “She does not wish to become a kinslayer. This was to sever our hold on her.”

“She is a viper free from its cage,” Alicent hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and disbelief. Her dark eyes bore into him, unyielding and fierce, the reproach in her gaze sharp enough to wound. “We cannot be sure who she will strike next. You should never have married her.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened at her words, though his expression remained carefully composed. Beneath the surface, a flicker of anger coiled, but he buried it deep, unwilling to let it rise. He swallowed against the sourness that formed on his tongue, choosing to remain silent.

The tension in the room thickened as Alicent’s voice rang with fervor. “We cannot let her slither about the castle without punishment,” she insisted, her tone unyielding as she turned sharply away from Aemond to address the table. Her gaze fixed pointedly on Otto and Aegon, her desperation clear. “She must be punished. Let her take the boy’s place in the dungeons–”

“We cannot act rashly,” Lord Jasper Wylde interjected, his voice gravelly but firm, cutting through the Queen Mother’s demands. His pale gray eyes, like tempered steel, locked onto Otto’s measured expression. “If we imprison her in the dungeons, her mother will hear of it soon enough. And even in her grief, Rhaenyra will be at our gates with her dragons to free her daughter.”

The weight of his words settled over the council, the unspoken threat of dragonfire searing in their minds. Jasper straightened slightly in his seat, his weathered hand resting heavily on the table. “Imprisoning her would undo everything we’ve done thus far,” he continued, his tone sharp and edged with warning. “The realm will know we lied. And if dragons are not at our gates, the mob will be.”

Alicent’s jaw tightened, her hands clutching the edge of the table as though the tension in her grip could ground her fraying composure. Her dark eyes flickered with frustration, darting to Otto, who remained silent but contemplative, his brow furrowed deeply as he weighed the options.

“And what do you propose we do?” she demanded, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger. “Let her walk freely after what she’s done? Let her sit comfortably in her chambers as though nothing has happened?”

“But we do not know for certain what happened,” Maester Orwyle interjected cautiously, his eyes lingering briefly on Alicent as her expression darkened.

The weight of Otto Hightower's words settled heavily over the room, his voice flat and deliberate as he leaned forward, his steely gaze sweeping the table. “It makes no difference what befell the boy,” he stated, his tone carrying an air of finality. “To punish the princess is to admit we allowed this to happen—that we cannot even protect those within our own walls, and that we cannot control her.”

His eyes shifted briefly to Larys Strong, whose ever-watchful presence seemed to linger like an unwelcome shadow. “The boy died of illness,” Otto continued, his words clipped and resolute. “As for the princess, her servants should be questioned–find out how they could have allowed this to happen. Determine how she managed to procure the means of poison, if poison is indeed what occurred. Her chambers should also be searched.”

“Yes, my Lord Hand,” Larys responded with a deferential bow of his head, though the subtle gleam in his eye grated on Aemond’s nerves. The thought of Larys, with his sly, intrusive manner, rifling through their chambers, overturning their belongings, was enough to make his jaw tighten. Still, Aemond remained silent, knowing any objection would fall on deaf ears.

“That’s it?” Alicent’s voice broke through, sharp and incredulous, her disbelief tangible. “She is not to be punished?”

Otto’s gaze met hers, unyielding. “What more do you wish done?”

Alicent shook her head, her frustration spilling over. Her hands clenched tightly on the table’s edge, her jaw working as she swallowed her anger bitterly. “Restrict her movements further,” she demanded, her tone cutting. “She may leave her chambers once every other day, and those days should be spent in repose, with guards ensuring she does not overstep her bounds.”

Aemond’s teeth ground together at her words, his irritation barely restrained. The implication that Daenera should be caged like some wild beast clawed at his pride, but he said nothing, his fingers curling against the table’s surface. He forced his expression to remain neutral, though the tension coiling beneath his skin was undeniable.

Otto straightened in his chair. He let the silence linger just long enough for all eyes to turn to him, the weight of his authority palpable in the air. When he spoke, his voice was calm but edged with a note of weariness that brooked no argument.

“The matter is decided,” he said firmly, his tone cutting through the growing murmurs. “The boy’s death will be declared a result of illness. The Silent Sisters will prepare his body, and we will ensure his family is notified with all due sympathy. As for the princess, her movements shall be restricted as the Queen Mother has suggested. The guards will be informed, and her chambers searched–discreetly. Let this be all for today.”

With the council adjourned, Aemond rose from his seat with deliberate composure, his long fingers brushing the edge of the table as though grounding himself before he moved. The room was already dispersing around him–lords and advisors shuffling toward the chamber doors, their murmured conversations a soft hum in the background. But Aemond paid them no heed. The need to see Daenera itched beneath his skin, insistent and consuming.

They were not so different, he thought as he made his way toward the exit, his stride measured but purposeful.

Weariness had become a shroud around Daenera, wrapped tightly in its suffocating embrace. It pressed into her skin, her bones, deep inside. She sat before the dressing table, the polished surface of the mirror reflecting a face she barely recognized, her features drawn and pale, shadows pooling beneath her eyes. The glow of the candlelight flickered unevenly, throwing long, restless shadows across the chamber, though even the golden hues couldn’t soften the sharp lines of her exhaustion.

Behind her, Mertha’s voice grated against the stillness, sharp and unforgiving as the scrape of iron on iron. The older woman held up the damp remains of Daenera’s dress, the once-lustrous fabric darkened and heavy with rain. She shook it with an exaggerated vigor, droplets splattering the floor like blood against stone.

“–I hope you’ve had your fill of death,” Mertha snapped, her voice climbing. “I hope you’ve commended the sight to memory! The poor boy.”

The sound of rain battering the shutters filled the room, a steady rhythm drumming against the windowpanes like the beating of some great, restless heart. . It was as though the gods themselves had grown tired–tired of the endless schemes and betrayals of mortals, of their blood-soaked ambitions and unending grievances. Perhaps they sought to drown the world in their wrath, to wash it clean of sin and sorrow. But mercy was not the gods’ way, and the rain fell without promise of redemption, a bitter reminder of how unyielding the world remained.

Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the dressing table, the cool wood grounding her as Mertha’s tirade continued unabated. The chamber felt stifling despite the chill creeping in from the storm, the air thick with unspoken tension. Somewhere in the depths of her fatigue, Daenera wondered if the gods had sent the rain not as wrath but as a mockery–an illusion of cleansing that would never touch the festering wounds of this world. No storm could wash away the sins that had taken root here.

Daenera watched the droplets race down the glass, her envy flaring briefly. How simple it must be, she thought, to be the rain–to rage freely, without consequence or restraint, without care. The rain lashed against the stone walls of the Red Keep, it seemed to carry the weight of its own wrath–seemed to mock her.

Patrick’s life had been the noose she carried, her every movement constrained by the knowledge that the Greens held his fate in their hands. But now that burden was gone, severed by her own hand. And in truth, she felt a bitter sense of relief, even triumph–it stirred something far darker within her.

It would take time before the Greens loosened their hold on her again; she knew that much. The death of the boy would only deepen their scrutiny, tighten their watch. Yet she had paid that price willingly, knowing that it would cost her what little freedom she had. And yet, there were still freedoms she could take within the confines of this gilded cage.

A bird in a cage might not be free to fly, but it could still sing–and it could still bite.

The thought brought a bitter twist to her lips, an almost imperceptible smile that carried no warmth. If this was to be her prison, she would make it as wretched for her captors as it was for her. Let them watch her every move, chain her to her chambers, whisper their suspicions behind closed doors. She would show them there was no caging her rage.

Her fingers grazed the edge of the table, the cool wood grounding her as her thoughts turned sharper, more deliberate. She could make life miserable for them–Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, Otto, even Mertha.

Her reflection stared back at her, unyielding, as she leaned closer to the mirror. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed to deepen, the firelight flickering across her features like the glow of embers. That ember of rage had been with her since the moment she rose amidst the rubble of her chambers. It had been a spark then, small and fragile, but it had grown, fed by every indignity, every insult, every betrayal. It burned against her ribs now, a constant reminder of what she had lost–and what she would one day reclaim.

Aemond. His name pressed against her mind like a sharp edge. He had gotten what he wanted–a wife bound to him by chains as much as vows. But she would make sure he wished he hadn’t. She could see his cold, calculating expression in her mind’s eye, his singular gaze that sought to pierce through her, to lay claim to what he had ruined.

“They should make you take his place in the dungeons,” Mertha spat, her voice sharp and unforgiving as she moved about the chamber like a restless bird. The fabric of her skirts swayed and hissed with her movements, the quiet rustling as sharp as a blade in the otherwise suffocating silence.”That is where you belong–among rapers and murderers, you wicked creature.”

“I would take the night watch over her myself,” Mertha said, a sneer curling at the corners of her lips, her tone dripping with self-importance. “But the day has drained me, and you are young. Your energy will serve you better tonight.” She busied herself with gathering the discarded underdress from the floor, shaking it out before throwing it carelessly into the basket at the foot of the bed. “It will be a long day tomorrow, and I’ll need my strength.”

Mertha’s gaze snapped back to Edelin, sharp and commanding. “You must not fall asleep,” she warned, her voice lowering into something that resembled a hiss. “The gods know she cannot be trusted. I wouldn’t want to wake in the morning and find you dead, as they did the poor boy.” She straightened, brushing her hands off with exaggerated finality as if ridding herself of some invisible stain. “Stay vigilant, do you hear me?”

Daenera’s gaze lifted from her reflection in the mirror to regard the older woman. Mertha’s face was pinched with disdain, her eyes gleaming with self-righteous fury as she discarded the damp dress in a basket. A sickly pallor clung to her skin, her complexion ashen and lifeless, while the whites of her eyes blotted with red. The skin around them was flushed and swollen, betraying the rawness of fatigue and strain. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause. She’d been retching–violently so, if the bloodshot state of her eyes was any indication.

Her attention did not linger long; instead, it drifted to the young woman just behind her. The girl had been uncharacteristically silent, her usual chatter replaced by a subdued quiet since leaving the sept. There was a heaviness to her presence now, a weight in her every movement as she worked through Daenera’s hair with a brush. The tangles yielded reluctantly to her careful ministrations, and each stroke of the brush seemed to carry an unspoken frustration. She did not meet Daenera’s gaze in the mirror, her focus fixed on the task at hand.

“You will remain at the Princess’s side at all times. Do you understand?” Mertha snapped, her tone dripping with scorn as she pointed an accusing finger at Edelin. The older woman loomed like a shadow over the younger lady-in-waiting, her presence a constant weight that pressed down on the room. “You will not let her out of your sight for a single moment–not a single breath! If she so much as steps into the privy, you will stand outside, staring in at her from the open door!”

Daenera grimaced, her frown deepening as the indignity of Mertha’s command settled over her. The thought of being watched even in her most private moments, of someone hovering behind her as she relieved herself, made her stomach twist with revulsion.

Edelin seemed to share her unease. The younger woman’s hands faltered in their careful work, her brushing pausing for the briefest of moments. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as if to protest, but Mertha’s sharp, scornful gaze bore down on her like a hammer. Reluctantly, Edelin turned back to her task, her face a careful mask of submission that failed to hide the faint tremor of her fingers.

“Yes, Lady Mertha…” she murmured, the words clipped and heavy with reluctant obedience. Her frown deepened as she resumed her brushing, the strokes growing firmer.

“And if she proves even a bit difficult, you will call for the guards immediately. Do you understand me?” Her sharp voice carried across the room from where she stood. “I will not let her humiliate us again.” She hefted the basket with a grunt, the motion sharp and deliberate, as though the weight of her burden served as evidence of her righteousness. Her eyes, hard and gleaming, turned towards them.

Daenera felt the prickle of Mertha’s attention against the back of her neck, an unwelcome presence that tightened her shoulders. She met her gaze in the mirror, her expression calm but cold, her eyes glittering with defiance. They held each other’s stare for a long, tense moment.

Then, Mertha shifted her focus to Edelin, her tone hardening. “Be wary of her, girl,” she warned, her words laced with bitter scorn. “She is as kind as a viper and twice as cunning.”

Edelin shifted but said nothing, her head bowing slightly in a gesture of reluctant acknowledgement. Her hands moved with practiced care through Daenera’s hair, the brush going through the strands smoother now.

With a final sniff of disdain, Mertha spun sharply on her heel, the heavy skirts of her dress swishing against the stone floor with each forceful step. The wicker basket bumped against her hip, the motion punctuating her retreat as she disappeared behind the lattice screen. Moments later, the muffled sound of the chamber doors opening and shutting reached them, followed by a decisive click that seemed to echo in the still air.

“A viper,” Daenera murmured, her voice soft and edged with a dry humor. “How inventive.”

The room settled into silence, broken only by the steady drumming of rain against the windows, the world outside dark and lost in the storm’s fury. The fire crackled in the hearth, sending errant sparks dancing upward before they vanished into the darkened stone. Its heat radiated outward, warring with the persistent chill that lingered at the edges of the chamber, crawling along the floor like an unwelcome guest.

The brush moved slowly through Daenera’s hair, the soft bristles tugging against stubborn tangles as they worked through the dark curls. Each stroke coaxed the locks into a loose cascade, spilling down her back in an unruly spill of shadowy waves. The ends tickled the curve of the chair’s back, swaying faintly with each pass.

Daenera’s gaze shifted from her own reflection in the mirror to Edelin’s, studying the girl as though seeking answers in her quiet demeanor. The red-gold of Edelin’s hair gleamed in the firelight, the strands pulled back into a tightly braided coil pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her pale blue eyes remained fixed on the task, unyielding and methodical, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her unease. Her lips pressed into a tight line, a silent barricade holding back whatever thoughts churned behind her calm exterior.

The silence grew heavier, thick with words unspoken, until Daenera broke it. Her tone was soft, measured, yet it carried the weight of apprehension.

“What is it?” she asked, her fingers drifting to toy idly with the edge of a strand of hair. “I can feel you want to say something.”

Edelin drew in a deep breath, measured through her nose, as though summoning every ounce of courage within her. The brush in her hand stilled mid-stroke, her fingers tightening around the handle. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her head and met Daenera’s gaze through the mirror. Her blue eyes were steady, but the faint quiver in her lower lip betrayed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior.

“Did you poison him?” She asked, her voice low. The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over a neck. The corners of her mouth pulled downward, her expression strained, but she pressed on. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

Daenera’s face remained impassive, her dark eyes locked with Edelin’s in the glass. Her heart thudded a painful rhythm against her ribs, the ache reverberating through her chest. The acrid taste of bile rose in her throat, and her tongue felt dry, as if all the moisture had fled her mouth. She resisted the urge to look away, though it took more resolve than she cared to admit.

“I cannot give you the truth,” She said at last, her voice calm but laced with an edge of weariness. Her words were measured, deliberate, as though she were stepping carefully along the edge of a precipice. “You know that.”

“You can,” Edelin pressed, her tone soft but insistent.

Daenera’s lips twitched, the faint curve caught somewhere between a smile and a scowl, though it was neither. “And what will you do with it?” She asked, her voice strained. “What then? Will you bring it to the Small Council? March into the Great Hall and lay it before them?”

“I should,” Edelin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It is my duty.” Her pale blue eyes held Daenera’s in the mirror, unflinching despite the tremor in her fingers. The words lingered in the air, as though the room itself held its breath, waiting for what might follow.

Edelin moved, setting the brush aside on the polished surface of the dressing table. The faint clink it made against the wood seemed louder than it should have been, an unspoken punctuation. She straightened, drawing herself up, her youthful features set with a determination that made her seem older than she was.

“I am not asking for them,” she continued, her tone sharper now, steadier. “I am asking for the truth–for myself.” Her hands disappeared briefly into the folds of her skirts, and when they reemerged, she held a small pouch.

Daenera’s gaze flickered to the object as Edelin placed it on the table before her, the soft scrape of fabric against wood drawing her attention. The pouch was unassuming, its pale, creamy cloth bright against the dark surface. But it was damning in its simplicity, a quiet truth laid bare between them.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The storm outside raged on, the relentless drum of rain on stone a backdrop to the tense stillness that filled the chamber. Daenera’s heart plummeted, a hollow ache settling deep within her chest as the lavender pouch lay before her. The scent of lavender wafted into the air, delicate yet overwhelming, mingling with the cloying remnants of incense that still lingered in her nostrils. It was a sickly-sweet aroma, at odds with the cold dread that coiled in her stomach. Her eyes burned with the prickle of unshed tears, though she refused to let them fall. Tears would not help now.

Her gaze lifted slowly from the pouch to Edelin’s face. For a moment, the younger woman seemed transformed–her features hardened by the weight of understanding, the sharpness of her expression far removed from her usual youthful softness. The knowledge she carried was etched into her face, undeniable, even as she sought a confirmation she already knew in her heart.

“You could take it to the Council,” Daenera said, her voice strained and dry as though every word scraped against her throat. “They would no doubt welcome your… evidence.” Her tone grew brittle, laden with weariness. “But it would change nothing. Their punishment is already decided.”

Her hand moved, reaching tentatively towards the pouch. She wanted to seize it, to hide its damning presence from sight, yet part of her just wanted it within her hold–wanted the security of it, however damning it was for her to keep. Before her fingers could close the distance, Edelin’s hand shot out. She slid the pouch across the table, out of Daenera’s reach.

“Are we all so easily discarded?” Edelin demanded, her voice cracking.

Daenera froze, her outstretched hand retreating slightly as Edelin’s words settled on her with the same sharp sting as a slap. Her brows knitted together, as she stared up at Edelin. “Nothing about this has been easy,” she said, her words twisted into something sharp and bitter, almost a sneer. Her voice was raw and strained as tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, unwilling to let them fall.

“You told him he was going home,” Edelin pressed.

“This was the only way he was ever going home,” She answered, her jaw tightening as she leaned back against the seat, the wood pressing into her spine. “The Hightowers would never have released him.” Her gaze flicked back to meet Edelin’s, her voice growing harsher, weighed with frustration. “He would have stayed in the dungeons–alone, forgotten, rotting in the dark. Every footstep outside his cell would have been a death knell, every echo a reminder that the noose was waiting.”

Her throat tightened as she swallowed hard against the lump rising there, her emotions clawing at her like a living thing. It felt as though she had swallowed a jagged stone, its edges tearing into her, making every breath ache. “I didn’t want him to suffer.”

Edelin stood silent for a moment, her pale blue eyes searching Daenera’s face, her expression wavering between pity and unease. When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, understanding yet cautious, as though she were treading carefully across ice.

“I understand that,” she said, her voice low. “Truly, I do. But… it gives me pause.”

She hesitated, her hands twisting together as she gathered her thoughts. “I have been kind to you, as you have been to me,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “And I am grateful for that kindness, Princess. But… I am still in their service.” Her words hung heavily in the air as she looked down at her hands, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her skirts. “I’ve held my tongue before because you asked it of me–held my tongue when I properly shouldn’t have…”

Her voice broke, and she raised her head again. “I don’t want to find myself in the same position as the boy,” she said, her words low. “I don’t want to end up discarded, forgotten, let to rot because I’ve been loyal to the wrong person.”

“You won’t,” Daenera said firmly. The words hung in the air, a promise or a plea–it was hard to tell.

“You don’t know that,” Edelin countered, her voice trembling slightly. “I might end up in the dungeons, just as he did. Waiting for the noose.”

Daenera held her gaze, reading the desperation written across the young woman’s face. She understood Edelin’s fears all too well–that her kindness, her proximity to Daenera, would mark her. And yet, even as her chest tightened with the weight of understanding, she found herself speaking. Words rose unbidden, soft but steady. “I don’t believe you’ll find yourself in that position. You are neither child nor fool, and that is why I trust you, Edelin. You’ve stood by me when many would not, when it would have been easier to distance yourself. I see the risk you take, and I do not take it lightly. If the time comes when they turn their eyes toward you, I will not begrudge you for your choice.”

Edelin nodded and stared into the middle distance, her expression apprehensive. When she finally spoke, her voice wavered, as if she were forcing herself to ask a question she feared the answer to. “There are still berries in the pouch… Are–are you going to poison the King? The Small Council? Your husband?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Daenera let out a slow breath, her lips curving in a faint, humorless smile. “If I’d meant to poison them,” she said, her tone edged with sardonic amusement, “it would have been done by now.” She shifted in the chair, her eyes drawing to meet Edelin’s wary gaze. “I’d be no freer for it…”

No, she would not be spared. She could already see it–herself locked away in a damp, lightless cell, awaiting a trial that was no more than a performance. The verdict would be predetermined, her fate sealed. Whether it ended with a rope tightening around her neck or the cold kiss of a headman’s blade, the result would be the same.

Even if she somehow managed to rid the Keep of the Greens, even if she tore them out like the weeds they were, the realm would still cry out for justice. The lords and banners of Westeros would demand her head, and her mother, for the sake of the crown, would have no choice but to oblige them.

Daenera’s heart twisted at the thought. Her mother, who had already lost so much, would lose yet another child–this time by her own hand. It would break her, she thought.

And she didn’t want that for her. She didn’t want to be the shadow that darkened her reign, the wound that festered in the heart of her rule.

But more than that, she didn’t want to die.

Daenera glanced at the pouch where it rested on the table, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air like a ghost. She knew exactly how many berries remained. Four. Four lives she could take, if she so chose.

For a fleeting moment, Daenera allowed herself the indulgence of impossible imaginings, the kind that belonged to children spinning dreams of kingdoms they would never rule. Each name pressed against her mind like a dagger poised to strike.

Aegon, who occupied the throne that was her mother’s by right, his existence the linchpin of the Green’s ambitions. Otto, the Hand that set the board against her mother. Aemond, the rider of Vhagar, the Greens’ most fearsome weapon, and her brother’s murderer…

Her fingers tightened instinctively, though there was nothing in her grasp. She would need three to strike at the heart of their power. Aegon, Otto, and Aemond. Without them, the Greens’ strength would falter, their unity splintering like a cracked blade.

But that would leave her with only one berry. One final life to take.

Her thoughts turned to Alicent. The Queen Dowager had tormented her mother for years, weaving webs of guilt and ambition to smother the rightful Queen’s claim. Alicent’s venom had seeped into every corner of the Red Keep, infecting all it touched. Yet as much as Daenera despised her, Alicent’s power was waning. Without her sons and father, the Queen Dowager would be nothing more than a shadow in a court that no longer needed her. Killing Alicent might bring momentary satisfaction, but it would do little to weaken the Greens’ cause. Her death would be a wound that no longer bled.

For a fleeting, haunting moment, Daenera thought of using the berry on herself. It would be over in an instant–a brief, bitter swallow. Her death would be on her own terms, out of the hands of her mother. That would be a waste, and she had no use for waste. There were other ways to die, should she decide on that course. The berry was a tool, not a reprieve.

If Aegon, Otto, and Aemond were removed from play, the Greens’ foundation would crumble. Their strength would falter. But even without its leaders, the council still held power. The Small Council would not vanish overnight; its members would scramble like rats on a sinking ship, seeking to salvage what they could.

Yet one figure remained in her thoughts, an unseen viper lurking in the shadows of the court: Larys Strong.

The clubfoot. His loyalty was to no one but himself, his scheming far more insidious than the others. It would be a mercy to her mother if Larys Strong was removed entirely from the board–and Daenera would take great satisfaction in his death.

But such thoughts were idle, and she pushed them aside–for what use was poison without a means to deliver it? She had neither the freedom to act nor the cunning to see it done unnoticed. And though vengeance burned within her, she could not stomach the thought of dying as both a Kingslayer and a Kinslayer. History would not look kindly on her, even if her heart carried honor. No, she did not wish to die–not yet.

“The remaining berries are assurances,” She added softly, her voice taking on a weightier tone. They were a contingency. “For myself.”

Understanding flickered in Edelin’s eyes, her expression softening with sudden clarity. Before she could voice her thoughts, Daenera tilted her head ever so slightly, a wry smile playing at her lips. “And Mertha, perhaps,” she said, her voice carrying a dry edge. “If she keeps on the way she does.”

The jest hung in the air, and after a beat, the corner of Edelin’s mouth twitched, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was the kind of amusement one found when laughing felt almost too dangerous–subdued, guarded, but genuine. The firelight danced between them, casting flickering shadows across the polished oak table and the intricate weave of the rushes beneath their feet.

Silence settled in the room once more, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint rustle of fabric as Daenera adjusted her seat. But it didn’t last. She leaned forward, her voice cutting through the quiet. “What will you do?”

Edelin rose slowly. Her fingers tightened around the pouch in her hands as she looked down at it, her brows furrowing as though the pouch itself might offer some guidance. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally, she drew in a breath, her voice firm but low as she answered.

“I’ll hide it.” Her voice carried the conviction of a decision made, though her gaze, when it lifted to meet Daenera’s, revealed the unease beneath her resolve. “Your chambers will be searched come morning. They’ll tear through everything–every chest, every corner. I will take it with me and keep it hidden.”

Relief washed over Daenera, lifting the weight from her chest, though a shadow of unease lingered at the edges of her thoughts. “You cannot hide it in your room. They’ll question you either way, but if they uncover it…”

Edelin gave a short nod. “I won’t say a word of this.” She paused, looking down at the pouch in her hands. “I will keep your secrets.” Her eyes lifted, meeting Daenera’s. “But if the choice comes down to you or me…”

“I understand,” Daenera said, reaching for her hand. Her fingers closed over Edelin’s, feeling the faint outline of the pouch concealed within. “I am thankful for you, Edelin. Truly. I value your friendship more than I can ever express.”

The girl’s slips curved into a faint smile, a look that carried warmth and steadied Daenera’s frayed nerves. The weight that pressed against her chest eased just slightly, like a knot loosening.

Without another word, Edelin shifted her hand, tucking the pouch deep into the folds of her skirts. The moment passed, and she stepped behind Daenera, where she began to gather the dark waves of her hair. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving strands into a loose braid, her touch light yet sure. She worked in silence for a time, adding thin ribbons of silk to the braid, the delicate fabric glinting faintly in the firelight.

“I am sorry,” Edelin murmured after a moment, her voice soft, almost tentative, as though the words were a fragile offering. “For your loss.”

Daenera blinked, the words catching her off guard, though she quickly masked her surprise. The weight of grief, ever-present and unyielding, swelled in her chest. She swallowed hard, willing away the tears that threatened to rise. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that settled over the chamber was tentative, stretched taut between them like an invisible thread that might snap at the slightest of breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, its embers pulsing faintly in the dim light, casting shifting shadows across the polished wood of the dressing table. Rain still drummed against the windowpane–louder in the silence.

Daenera watched Edelin through the mirror as the girl worked through the length of her dark curls. The younger woman’s movements were practiced, careful, as she wove the ribbons of silk through the strands, taming their unruly wildness in preparation for the morning. Edelin had fallen back into her quiet diligence, though Daenera did not miss the occasional flicker of thought in her eyes.

When Edelin finally spoke, her voice was measured, but there was something tentative beneath its surface, something that made Daenera’s lips twitch with wry amusement.

“What will you do now?” She asked, her pale blue eyes fixed on the task before her, the words carrying an air of casual curiosity that did not quite mask the deeper intrigue beneath.

Daenera exhaled softly, lifting a hand to toy with one of the silk ribbons that had been woven into her hair. She wound one tightly around her fingertip, then unraveled it, only to wrap it around another. A small, idle act–something to busy her hands while her mind shifted through the weight of the question.

“What can I do but languish in bed all day?” she murmured, her lips curling in a wry smile. “I shan’t leave my bed for a week, I think. Not that it matters–I won’t be permitted beyond my chambers regardless.” Her lips quirked as she met Edelin’s gaze through the mirror. “ I should be rather easy to keep an I on, don’t you think?”

Edelin hummed softly, twisting another length of silk through Daenera’s dark locks. “Mertha will be beside herself,” she mused, amusement creeping into her voice. “What was it she said this morning? ‘The only people who can afford to spend their days sprawled in bed–”

“‘Are down on the Street of Silk,” Daenera supplied with a smirk, shaking her head in amusement. She stretched lazily, her fingers tracing the embroidered edges of her robe. “Yes, I seem to remember something to that effect.” She stretched her arms above her head, letting her limbs go slack as she lounged back on the chair. “It’ll give her something to gnash her teeth over, and I rather like the thought of it. What can she do? Drag me from bed? She’d have to haul me through the halls like a sack of grain, and I doubt she has the strength or the nerve to try.”

A small chuckle escaped Edelin–almost a snort–before she caught herself, pressing her lips together as if she had not right to find humor in any of it. But Daenera saw it–the briefest glimpse of something lighter beneath the surface. It was a fragile thing, but it was there nonetheless and it eased the mood.

“You’re making things harder on yourself by opposing her at every turn,” Edelin chided, though there was no true reproach in her tone–just the weary truth of someone who had spent too long in the company of Mertha. “Not everything has to be a battle. Sometimes it’s easier to endure than to suffer the consequences of her ire.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, hesitation flickering in her gaze before she continued, softer now. “And… she should never have struck you.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to her reflection in the mirror, tracing the contours of her face. The cheek that had been struck bore only the flush of exhaustion, no bruising, no swelling. The slap had stung, but it left no lasting mark—whether by design or by lack of force, she could not say. Had Mertha wielded just enough control to ensure it would not linger, or had the sheer audacity of the act stolen some of its strength? Either way, the sting had been real, sharp enough to startle but not wound. And, in some strange way, she had welcomed it.

“I was deserving of that one–” she murmured, the admission barely more than a breath.

“No.” Edelin’s voice was firm, sharper than before. Her red brows knitted tightly, her displeasure writ plainly across her features. “You are a Princess. It doesn’t matter what you may have done–she had no right to lay a hand on you.” Her head shook slightly, as if the very thought of it unsettled her. “Her mistreatment of you–it isn’t right.”

The vehemence in her tone, the unguarded concern that colored her words, sent a flicker of warmth through Daenera. It was a rare thing to hear such defiance spoken on her behalf. A rare thing, to feel the weight of someone’s anger on her account.

For a moment, she simply watched Edelin, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting but genuine.

“I do not understand why you allow it,” she said, her voice edged with quiet fury. Then, as though realizing she had overstepped, she hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath. “Forgive me, Princess. It is not my place.”

Daenera caught the flicker of restraint in Edelin’s reflection, the way her lips pressed into a thin line as if she wished to swallow the words back down. “Do not hesitate now,” she said, her tone measured, absent of reprimand. If anything, there was an openness to her words.

Edelin’s shoulders squared, seemingly emboldened. “Then I will speak plainly.” Her voice softened, though urgency still simmered beneath the surface. “Why not go to him?” Why not let him put a stop to it?” She hesitated just slightly, as if weighing her words. “He’s your husband–”

Daenera’s expression darkened, and the flare of irritation was immediate. Her lips curled into something that was neither a smile nor a scowl. “He is my brother’s murderer,” she said flatly.

The words settled like iron between them, heavy and immovable. Aemond’s name was not spoken, but it didn’t need to be. His presence loomed over the conversation all the same.

Edelin did not flinch, though the tension in her posture grew, her hands tightening ever so slightly around the strands of Daenera’s hair as she twisted them into careful braids–had the hands been Mertha’s, Daenera was sure she’d feel the reproach burning at her scalp.

“Then I could go to him,” Edelin said carefully. “He is still your husband. He would not allow–”

Daenera’s lips curled into something caught between a sneer and a smirk. “We may be married,” she said, her voice clipped with barely restrained irritation, “but I have no desire to rely on him.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she heard the petulance in them, like a child railing against a gentle reprimand. It irked her. She was no child, yet the stubbornness in her own tone betrayed her.

The very thought of going to Aemond–of seeking his protection, of pleading for his intervention–curdled in her stomach like spoiled milk. The notion made her blood boil. To humble herself before her brother’s murderer, to ask anything of him, would be a betrayal of all that still burned within her. The thought stung sharper than any of Mertha’s slights, cutting deep into the raw edges of her pride. She would endure a thousand small humiliations, suffer every sneer and whispered insult, before she would ever crawl to Aemond Targaryen for help.

He had already taken too much from her. She would not give him this.

“I do not want him to know.”

She would suffer Mertha. She would suffer this prison. But she would not suffer Aemond’s protection.

“Your pride may keep you standing, but it will not make it any easier,” Edelin murmured, finishing the last braid. “And you will only suffer for it.”

Daenera grimaced, rolling one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Perhaps,” she allowed, though there was no real concession in her tone. Then, as if to undercut the moment, the corner of her lips curled in a ghost of a smirk. “But should it ever become too much to bear… I still have a few berries left.”

She watched Edelin’s reaction through the mirror, saw the way her lady’s eyes widened, her fingers briefly stilling in Daenera’s hair. There was a flicker of hesitation–just for a heartbeat–before the tension shattered with a sudden, incredulous laugh. Edelin shook her head, amusement chasing away her earlier unease, her lips pulling into an exasperated smile.

“Gods save us,” she muttered, still chuckling, “You are impossible.”

Daenera only hummed in quiet satisfaction, tilting her head slightly as Edelin resumed her work, weaving silk through the long, dark strands. The storm still raged beyond the Keep’s walls, the wind howling through the towers, but within the chamber, for just a fleeting moment, the weight of it all seemed a little lighter.

Once Edelin finished weaving the last of the silken strips through Daenera’s braids, she stepped back, seemingly admiring her work with quiet satisfaction. Daenera studied her reflection, tilting her head slightly as she took in the intricate braids cascading down her back. They varied in thickness–some woven tightly, others looser, softer–and threaded through them were silken ribbons of varying hues. Deep crimson, pale gold, and midnight blue intertwined with the dark strands of her hair, each color catching the firelight as though a rainbow had been woven into her tresses.

Her father, Laenor, had taught her to braid her hair like this. "To protect it," he had said, his hands deft and sure as he wove the strands together, "and to keep it from tangling into mats. You’ll thank me for it one day."

And she had.

Even now, she could recall the warmth of his hands as they guided hers, the quiet patience in his voice as he showed her how to twist and weave each section with precision. It had been one of the few things they shared—an unspoken ritual, a bond forged in simple, careful movements.

She had been young then, barely past her sixth nameday, her hair wild and unruly as the sea. He would laugh as she wrinkled her nose in frustration, murmuring, "It’s a Targaryen mane, but it has the soul of Velaryon waves. Stubborn as the tides."

She had not understood then how precious those moments were. How fleeting. But this–this, at least–was something of him that remained. And for that, she would always be grateful.

Daenera rose from her seat, rolling her shoulders as she stretched her aching limbs, feeling exhaustion seep deeper into her bones. Every movement felt weighted, as though the events of the day had carved themselves into her flesh, leaving her heavier with their burdens. The thick layers of her night robe trailed behind her, whispering against the cold stone floor as she made her way towards the bed.

When she reached it, she sank onto the mattress with a slow, weary exhale, feeling the feather-stuffed bedding give beneath her weight. For a moment, she simply sat there, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing away the dull throb of fatigue. Gods, she was tired. The kind of tired that settled into the marrow, that no amount of sleep could truly mend.

And yet, she knew rest would not come easily. Even if her body yielded to it, her mind would not. It would race in endless circles, retracing the same agonizing thoughts, the same bitter regrets, the same simmering anger that refused to fade.

She let out another slow breath, lowering her hands to her lap. The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire and the steady drum of the rain against the windowpanes.

The quiet rustle of fabric and the soft click of the drawer were the only other sounds in the chamber as Edelin moved with quiet efficiency, gathering the leftover ribbons and slipping them neatly into their place. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, smoothing each strip of silk before tucking them away, the motion precise, almost reverent. When she finally closed the drawer, the faint snick of wood meeting wood echoed in the stillness, a small, measured sound against the hush of the room.

“Would you choose a book?” Daenera murmured at last, her voice quiet but steady.

Edelin paused, glancing over her shoulder. “A book?”

“I doubt I’ll find any rest, and I have little desire to be left alone with my thoughts,” Daenera admitted, shifting back against the headboard. She reached for the pillows, propping them up to sit more comfortably. “I thought I’d read to you, as I promised I would.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Edelin’s entire face lit up, her expression shifting from wary surprise to something far softer. “Really?” She asked, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of hope, her pale blue eyes bright with something almost childlike.

Daenera inclined her head in a slow nod, and that was all the encouragement Edelin needed. Without hesitation, she turned swiftly, the fabric of her skirts whispering against the cold stone as she hurried from the bedchamber into the adjoining common room.

Beyond the doorway, the faint sounds of movement reached Daenera’s ears–books shifting, the soft scrape of parchment, fingers trailing along leather-bound spines. The quiet rustling carried through the dimly lit chamber, each sound deliberate, searching.

Moments later, Edelin reappeared, cradling a book in her hands as though it were a relic of great worth. She held it carefully, reverently, her fingers tracing the embossed title along the gilded spine before she extended it toward Daenera. The firelight flickered over the worn leather cover, illuminating its deep indigo hue.

The Watchers on the Wall by Maester Harmune.

Daenera’s gaze flickered over the familiar gilded spine, recognition settling like a stone in her chest. It was one of Aemond��s books.

For a moment, a stubborn flicker of defiance sparked within her. A part of her wanted to refuse it outright, to push it back into Edelin’s hands and send her to find another–any other–so long as it did not bear the mark of him. The thought of reading something Aemond had once poured over, of letting his choice in words take root in her mind, was enough to make her fingers twitch with hesitation.

But just as quickly as it came, she forced it down. It was a childish, foolish kind of obstinacy, and she knew it. It is only a book. Whatever satisfaction she might gain from spiting Aemond in this small way was not worth the effort. To refuse it would be to give him more power over her than he already held.

With a quiet resolve, she took the book from Edelin’s hands and settled back against the pillows, fingers tracing the worn leather before she opened it to the first page.

When Edelin lingered at the bedside, her hands clasped before her, Daenera glanced up, a slight furrow creasing her brow. The girl stood uncertainly, her posture stiff, as though waiting for permission she had never needed before.

Daenera tilted her head, studying her for a moment before patting the empty space beside her. “Join me,” she said, her voice softer now, lacking the usual guarded edge. “You can’t very well stand there the whole time. And–I’d like the company.”

Edelin blinked, her expression shifting between hesitation and something unreadable. But the reluctance lasted only a moment before she relented, moving with careful grace as she crawled onto the bed, settling beside Daenera atop the thick layers of blankets.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the pages as Daenera opened the book. The weight of it felt solid in her hands, the scent of parchment and ink mingling with the lingering traces of lavender from the silken sheets.

Then, in a voice steady and measured, she began to read.

“It is said that the wind howled across the black pines of Sea Dragon Point, carrying with it the cries of wolves and the whispers of greenseers, when the Warg King had called forth a storm from the spirit wood, thick with mist and shadow, to blind his foes. But winter was coming for him, and winter did not fear the dark.”

She read aloud from the Chronicle of Sea Dragon Point, one of the many accounts compiled within the Waters on the Wall. The words painted images of long-forgotten battles, of the King of Winter riding at the head of his armies, banners snapping in the frozen wind as he marched against the Warg King and his skinchangers. The story spoke of war-wolves the size of destriers, of ravens that carried the voices of the dead, of a battle fought beneath a sky thick with swirling snow and seething magic.

Edelin listened intently, her breath slow and measured, and as the tale unfolded, her head found its way to Daenera’s shoulder. It was a quiet, unspoken thing–no hesitation, no formality, just a simple shift in weight as she rested against her.

Now and then, she murmured soft comments, wondering aloud if the Warg King had truly wielded such power, or if the greenseers’ whispers were just the fancies of storytellers. Daenera responded when she felt inclined, but for the most part, she simply read on, allowing the cadence of the words to fill the space between them.

It was… comfortable. Almost familiar in a way she had not expected.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like another life–like the nights she once spent in the nursery, reading to her younger brothers beneath the warm glow of candlelight. She remembered Joffrey nestling close, too proud to ask outright for another chapter but lingering until she gave in. She remembered the way little Aegon would nod off before the end of the tale, his small fists curled into the blankets, his silver hair tousled against her arm.

That time was gone now. Her brothers were gone too, one buried, the others out of reach.

But here, in this quiet moment, with the fire casting long shadows across the walls and the steady weight of Edelin at her side, she allowed herself–just for a little while–to remember what it was like to be a sister instead of a prisoner.

She had fallen into a steady cadence of words, weaving through one chronicle and into the next, when the distant groan of the chamber doors echoed through the quiet. It was not a sound easily mistaken–the heavy wooden doors did not yield to passing drafts or the stirrings of servants. Someone had entered.

Daenera stilled, her gaze lifting just slightly from the book in her hands. Beyond the lattice screen, she caught a flicker of movement–a shadow gliding across the floor, tall and deliberate. Then, a glint of silver, unmistakable even in the dim light, and the sound of measured footsteps against stone.

Aemond.

The warmth of her head resting against her shoulder vanished as Edelin sat up abruptly, her breath catching as she straightened further.

Aemond did not acknowledge them at first. He crossed the chamber without hesitation, his long strides carrying him toward the desk tucked into the corner, moving with the same quiet purpose he always carried. A drawer scraped open, its sound sharp against the hush. He rifled through its contents with practiced ease, plucking something from within before shutting it once more.

Only then did he turn, his gaze flickering toward them.

His eye found Daenera first.

Daenera refused to acknowledge him, her gaze fixed on the weathered pages of the book before her. The words blurred into meaningless symbols, their substance lost to her entirely. Yet she kept her eyes trained on them, feigning indifference even as she tracked his every movement from the edge of her vision, her senses sharpened to his presence. Every measured footstep, every shift in fabric, every controlled breath–she noted it all, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

“Leave us.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and unyielding as tempered steel. The weight of his command was absolute.

Edelin stiffened, hesitating only for a heartbeat before swiftly rising from the bed. She had been seated near him–on his side. The very thought sent a bitter taste to the back of Daenera’s throat. Would she ever allow him in that bed again? If it were her choice, the answer would be never.

Edelin dipped into a quick curtsy, her skirts whispering against the stone as she moved. Before departing, she cast a fleeting glance toward Daenera, her hesitation evident, as though silently asking if she should truly leave her alone with him. Daenera nodded in reassurance, and with no further protests, Edelin turned and hurried through the chamber, her steps light but swift. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

Silence settled in the room like an encroaching fog, thick and unrelenting. And then, there were just the two of them.

As Aemond turned his back to her, Daenera’s gaze flickered upward. The candlelight glowed against the hard lines of his shoulders, the deep green of his doublet darkened further by the shadows. He moved with an air of quiet purpose, reaching for the flagon of wine resting upon the table. The deep red liquid sloshed against the sides of the goblet as he poured, the only sound in the heavy, suffocating silence. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in a single swallow, setting it down with a dull clink against the wooden surface before abandoning it entirely. Not a single drop left.

Daenera forced her eyes back to the open book before her, though the words on the page blurred into nothingness. She turned the mover in her mind, trying to weave sense from them, to anchor herself in something that was not him. And yet, from the edge of her vision, she caught the way he moved–a controlled, deliberate pace as he wandered back to the desk, returning whatever it was he had retrieved back into its place–a habit, she knew.

When he turned at last, his gaze found her. She felt it settle upon her, heavy as a weight pressed into her skin. There was no mistaking his interest–his presence bore down on her, a silent force demanding acknowledgement. Her grip tightened slightly around the edges of the book, the parchment rough beneath her fingertips. The pages might as well have been blank for all she could read of them now.

He leaned back against the desk, a picture of ease, though she knew him well enough to recognize the tension radiating off of him. He watched her for a long moment, the familiar prickle of irritation itching beneath her skin as his gaze slid over her.

She would not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

Then, without a word, he pushed off the desk, his movements measured and steady as he crossed the room. Each step sent a ripple of tension through her, her pulse quickening in defiance of her will. The sound of his boots against the stone floor echoed in the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm that grated against her nerves. He rounded the bed, drawing closer, and for a fleeting moment, she bracing herself, half-expecting him to lower himself onto the mattress beside her, to claim his place without care or question.

But instead, his hand reached out, long fingers curling around the pillow at her side. He lifted it, the fabric shifting beneath his grip, and without a glance in her direction, turned and carried it across the room.

Daenera breathed out in relief, heart shuddering in her chest. Had he dared to settle beside her, she thought she might have driven the spine of the book straight into that cursed sapphire eye before smothering him with a pillow for good measure.

He settled on the chaise with the same quiet deliberation, shrugging off his belt and unfastening the claps of his doublet. The fire caught the hard planes of his face as he discarded the garment, his movements unhurried, effortless. Every action spoke of ownership, of familiarity, as if he had already decided this was his place to claim.

Bitter words rose unbidden to her lips, lodging against the back of her teeth. She did not want to break the silence, did not want to acknowledge him, did not even wish to breath the same air as him. And yet, despite herself, her lips parted.

“I do not want you here,” she said, her voice cold as iron.” From now on, if you wish to sleep well, you will do so in your own chambers–or else you’d have to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

Aemond did not flinch, nor did he seem surprised. Instead, he merely shifted, settling into the chaise with an air of measured indifference. “The chaise is comfortable enough.”

Daenera’s gaze narrowed at the page. “Not when it’s wet.”

His eye seemed to gleam with something unreliable, she felt it even as her gaze was set on the book, felt the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of his lips. “And if I have all the water removed?”

She hated the way he spoke–calm, controlled, so certain of himself. And she hated, more than anything, that he found humor in her defiance.

And so, pettily–because pettiness was the only weapon left to her in this gilded prison–she answered, each word honed to a pointed edge. “Then I will fucking piss on it.”

#a vow of blood #a vow of blood comments

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