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ladylaviniya · 3 months ago

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐳𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐳𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 — 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 || 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭.

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤!𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐗 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 (𝐌𝐲 𝐎𝐅𝐂)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐄𝐚𝐭, 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭-𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐀𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. *𝐍𝐨 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫*

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟑,𝟗𝟎𝟕𝐤

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬:

⊹⋛⋋( ●´⌓`●)⋌⋚⊹ 𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘!!

★𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭, 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭, 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓, 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐓.

★ 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐚, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭. 𝐈 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐀𝐩𝐩. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝. (𝐈𝐟 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐯𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫, 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐀𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐯𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐬.)

𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: "𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬" 𝐛𝐲 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬

Ser Gilbar surveyed the chaotic scene, the carnage of Valeman soldiers sprawled across the ground intermingled with the corpses of the six unfortunate troubadours. He took a deep, remorseful breath as he cast a look over the desolate terrain, the gravity of their mistake weighing heavily upon him.

“This was a serious error in judgment,” he muttered, his voice carrying the weight of the consequences before them. “He won’t take kindly to this. Gods be merciful.”

Ser Ryden, the younger of the two knights, was far more nonchalant, casually cleaning his sword with a cloth, each wipe staining it a deeper shade of crimson. He dismissed his companion’s concerns with a roll of his eyes.

“Shit happens. You sound like a woman, stop your whining Gilbar, you’re overeating,” he responded with a scoff. To Ser Gilbar, who stood there staring mournfully at the fallen soldiers, he said, “Now, hurry, strip those troubadours of their clothes and put them on.”

The soldiers from the Crownlands – a total of four others in all – were busy attending to the corpses of the murdered, their nimble fingers quickly removing the outer garments adorned by the departed entertainers. Fortunately, these outfits showed only minor signs of damage, a stroke of luck considering the circumstances.

Ser Gilbar swore under his breath as he joined his fellow brothers in arms in preparations, adjusting a dull blue tunic adorned with yellow embroidery over his head. He couldn’t suppress a hint of irritation, his words carrying a note of disapproval.

“We wouldn’t have had to do this if we’d have simply followed his fucking orders,” he said, his voice tinged with resignation. Despite the unfortunate turn of events, he found solace in the fact that the consequences of their departure from the original plan were relatively minor. They were a safe distance from Runestones castle, and the ambush had occurred in a secluded area, likely minimizing any unwanted attention.

As they all awaited for the arrival of their king, the stillness in the clearing was almost stifling, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Despite the apparent anonymity of their disguises, each of them remained on alert, anticipating their sovereign’s arrival. However, for the time being, all remained blissfully unaware of their presence, and the plan to enter the city under the guise of troubadours seemed to be intact. The carriage they had commandeered stood ready, waiting to carry them into the heart of the castle yards.

Ryden’s response was flooded with over-confidence, his tone unphased by the mass of naked bodies by their feet, “Have you met our King? Forget not how he gained the throne, fire and blood. He’s not going to give a flying fuck about this slight detour and a few corpses.”

Ser Gilbar paused, searching for the most apt description. “Mayhaps not,” he agreed, his brow furrowed in thought. “Our King however is rather meticulous... sometimes.” He gestured at the aftermath of their chaotic ambush, a grimace on his face. “And we have made a great mess of this already, more than what was needed.”

Ryden’s scoff echoed through the silence like a sharp rebuke.

“You waste your breath with this Gilbar, you speak of his majesty as if he did not viciously murder his own kin astride dragonback,” he retorted firmly. “The king won’t care about these fools.”

The sound of distant hooves reached their ears, and a hush fell over the entire group. All eyes turned toward the figures in the distance, watching as they drew nearer to their position. Gilbar found himself clenching and unclenching his fingers nervously, his discomfort mirrored by the other soldiers, each one fidgeting in their own way.

Riding majestically upon a powerful steed, King Aemond appeared like a demon spirit, straddling the boundary between man and shadow. With the glow of the moon and the distant stars on his back and raining through his long silvery white hair, his imposing figure was silhouetted in shadow, leaving his features in a shadowy veil. The air grew tense as a small group of Kingsguards who were also on horseback formed a protective ring around them, effectively caging them in a small clearing.

“What occurred here gentleman?” the King asked tensely.

Ryden bent his knee in hurried obeisance, echoed by the others. His voice carried an urgent tone as he sheepishly pleaded, “Your Majesty, I implore your gracious understanding,” Ryden began, bowing his head low. “Circumstances beyond my control have led us to deviate from our intended course.” His hunched stance reflected the towering presence of the king on horseback, a giant amongst men. “Our aim was to target an unguarded convoy, as instructed, but there was an unforeseen complication.”

Aemond dismounted with a casual grace, his armored boots striking the ground with a rattle that echoed through the clearing. A hint of mockery laced his tone as he spoke, his eyes narrowing on Ryden.

“Did you grow impatient, perhaps?” he drawled. “Is that why you decided to throw caution to the wind and deliberately disobey my orders?”

Ryden hastily corrected himself, his voice quick and strained. “No, Your Grace,” he protested. “It wasn’t impatience, I assure you – I only thought...it might be better to risk a slightly guarded carriage than wait any longer and risk missing our opportunity altogether.”

Aemond’s gaze hardened on him in the dim light, his lips curling into a wry smile. “Is that so? Hm?”

Aemond’s tone was dry and contemplative as he examined the slain bodies with his shrewd eye, shifting one of them with the toe of his boot.

“Despite the banquet being many hours away,” he remarked, “it seems your little endeavor began quite some time ago. And I’d hazard a guess that these unfortunate souls were dragged a fair distance just to end up here. So, not only were you impatient, but you also moved up your timeline considerably.”

Ryden’s voice was tinged with a hint of uncertainty, but he carried on, eager to defend his decision. “Yes, Your Grace, but it was not a thoughtless move, I assure you,” he reassured. “The road was deserted, there were no witnesses – ”

As Aemond stepped closer, his towering figure casting an intimidating shadow over him, Ryden’s false bravery slowly faded. He swallowed hard, but continued, “We thought – the risk was worth it. Taking on a few Valeman guards seemed the same as any other target.”

Aemond paused, allowing a lengthy, unsettling silence to fill the air. The quiet seemed to stretch on endlessly, only intensifying the tension. When he finally spoke, it was with a smile that was both patronizing and unnerving.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice dripping with irony. “A perfectly logical decision.”

Ryden looked up hopefully, the first hints of relief flitting across his face. “Your Grace – you mean...you understand?” he asked.

Aemond nodded, his voice tinged with a light, almost flippant tone. “Indeed. I would never oppose efficiency,” he said. “And you’re correct – the risk seemed the same either way, didn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, precisely your majesty,” Ryden nodded, eager to validate his decision.

Aemond smiled, his tone dripping with a veneer of graciousness. “Of course,” he continued, “The disappearance of these guards will not go unnoticed. When they fail to return to their commanding officers, questions will be asked. And when you arrive with no guards, they will surely ask about the missing soldiers, will they not?”

Ryden stumbled in his explanation, his voice laced with uncertainty as he suggested, “We say that a Hill Tribe ambushed us, perhaps?”

Aemond’s smile widened, giving a glimpse of his teeth as he responded with a dry humoring tone. “Ah, yes – a bold move on the part of the Hill Tribesmen,” he agreed, “Quite fearless to attack Vale Knights so close to Runestones instead of waiting further on the eastern roads, one might say?”

Ryden froze, feeling a sense of unease as he registered Aemond’s words. “It – it’s believable,” he protested.

Aemond’s tone remained steady and even, but his unsettling smile had turned fixed, lending an uncanny stillness to his features. “And you’re certain there was no possibility of someone witnessing your little transgression, considering you chose to fight them where they were and then dragged their bodies here after the attack? Instead of doing as I instructed and luring them off the road first.”

He tried to explain, but before he could say more, Aemond’s hand – encased in its armor – suddenly encircled his throat, cutting off the flow of words. The ait around them grew colder. Ryden desperately clawed at the fingers, trying to pry them away, but they remained firmly locked in place. Gilbar and the others instinctively withdrew their daggers, but none dared to intervene as Ryden struggled helplessly in the king’s iron grip.

Aemond’s voice cut through the tension, the quietness of his tone making his words all the more chilling. “I dislike unnecessary risks,” he stated simply, his gaze unflinchingly fixed on Ryden’s flailing form. “It was sheer good fortune that you weren’t discovered – mere happenstance. You gambled on the odds and fortune smiled upon you this time.”

Ryden gasped and wheezed, his pleas ignored by the king. He began to choke, but only when his struggle became more desperate did Aemond relinquish his grip, sending him sprawling to the ground. Then, with a careless twist of his foot, Aemond pinned his wrist beneath the heel of his boot, immobilizing him like a specimen on display. “My orders are not to be questioned or altered at your convenience,” he declared harshly. “I don’t issue them just for the sake of it. Understood?”

With a sickening crunch, Aemond stamped down with his foot, crushing the bones of Ryden’s fingers in a single brutal movement. The tortured sound of the breaking bones sliced through the night, accompanied by a sharp bark of pain that escaped from Ryden’s lips. He crumpled forward, cradling his injured hand against his chest, his body curving in submission like that of a wounded animal.

Aemond observed the scene for a few more seconds, a malevolent glint in his eye betraying his satisfaction. With a smooth motion, he swung himself back onto his horse, as if casually brushing aside the recent violence. There was almost a perverse enjoyment in his tone as he continued, “However, I rather like the tale of a Hill Tribesman ambush. It might raise some eyebrows, but it should hold up under scrutiny when time is limited. You may proceed with the plan as I have commanded.”

Ryden’s face still wore an expression of shock and horror, his features frozen in the aftermath of his suffering. He cradled his injured and now mangled hand close to his chest, his voice shaken as he protested weakly, “But...but my hand...my fingers...”

Aemond’s tone remained calm and nonchalant as he spoke, as if commenting on the weather rather than the mutilation he had just inflicted. “Really, you can hardly expect to be unscathed after a supposed altercation with hill tribesmen,” he remarked casually. “And there’s nothing quite as effective at diverting scrutiny as a bit of compassion, wouldn’t you agree?”

The king turned his back, "Ser Raynard! Be sure Ser Ryden is dealt with accordingly in the future?"

The Commander Raynard glanced down at Ser Gilbar and drifted his eyes over to the whimpering Ser Ryden.

The King and his entourage rode off into the night, the thumping of hoofbeats gradually fading away. A stunned silence lingered for a moment as Gilbar collected himself, knowing very well that the punishment could have been far more severe.

“You were correct,” he noted wryly, assisting the wounded Ser Ryden to his feet. “It wasn’t the corpses that troubled His Majesty.”

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

Ser Trevor Belmore returned, bearing two goblets in his hands. With a courteous gesture, he offered one to her, a note of disappointment in his voice as he spoke. “I must admit, I had anticipated a more impressive display from the Targaryen King of Westeros. After all the tales of war and conflict, it seems we’ve been treated to rather...a different spectacle,” he observed with a slightly bemused tone.

His gaze shifted to the nearby gathering, where the King and his company engaged in a seemingly civil conversation with your second cousin, Lord Regent Gunthor Royce of The Runestones and Ser Eldric Arryn, the current heir presumptive to The Runestones. King Aemond, in contrast to his well-known reputation, had presented a surprisingly benign and even softened persona throughout the night. It made you disgusted.

Lady Laviniya received the goblet from Trevor with a modest bow of her head, then she gently swirled the drink, all while silently resolving not to consume any of its contents.

Lady Laviniya chuckled softly under her breath. “Yes, my cousin Ser Eldric had some interesting observations about the ferocious King Aemond....He called him a fat goose.” She whispered with a smile, her voice quieting to avoid any unwanted attention.

Trevor chuckled, his handsome, youthful face adopting a carefree smirk. “I wonder, Lady Laviniya,” he inquired playfully, “you speak of cousin Eldric, yet you have familial ties with the king as well, do you not? Are you not cousins also, through your father? And yet you seem to choose the company of your mother’s kin instead.”

Lady Laviniya tensed slightly, her fingers gripping her goblet a little tighter as she responded. “My blood,” she began, her voice firm and steady, “My blood, Ser Trevor, flows deeper in the veins of House Royce, the First Men who ruled these lands long before Aegon the Conqueror ever stepped foot on our precious Westeros, more deeply than that of the dragonlords of Old Valyria.”

Trevor dipped his head close, his smirk unwavering as he murmured in her ear, “Your silvery locks and pretty lilac eyes tell another story, my lady.”

Laviniya suppressed a grimace, her eyes closing briefly as she clenched her jaw. Though her hair had been elegantly arranged, the whiteness of her tresses and the unmistakable shade of her eyes betrayed her heritage. Her only safeguard was her well covering mask.

Her lips pursed into a thin line and she retorted, “Pray Ser Trevor, let us not forget, our current King cut down the Prince Daemon above Gods Eye? Who else is there for me to pledge my allegiances if not to the House of my mother, the mighty Royce name?”

To say the least, it was an insult. She didn’t want to be here, not in his presence. Aemond Targaryen was the kinslayer...the murderer of her father who sired her and the murder of his own brother, the usurper king before him Aegon Targayren.

Though Laviniya even loathed her father at times, the brutal manner of his death left her with a sense of disgust, a bitter taste in her mouth.

Trevor’s eyebrow arched in skepticism as a smirk played on his lips. “I must admit, I struggle to understand how that unassuming fellow over there managed to fight in all those wars, battle after battle, and emerge victorious. And those wild tales of his savagery and ruthless conquests, ah, they fall short of the image I had in mind. Disheartening, indeed. What about you, my lady? Do you share my disappointment?”

One of Trevor’s companions, an older knight, leaned in with a hushed warning. “Mind yourself, my lord,” he murmured cautiously, “Keep your voice down. We don’t want any...unwanted attention.”

Trevor’s face scrunched into a dismissive sneer as he spoke. “Unwanted attention? We have no cause for fear,” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance.

The companion knight shook his head, his expression grave. “You would do well to reconsider. They say the man has a temperament that changes like the wind. One moment, affable and pleasant, the next, vicious and volatile. And he has a reputation for being rather vindictive.”

The King’s actions went far beyond mere vindictiveness. He left a trail of atrocities in his wake, including public humiliation and severe punishment of those who dared to defy him. It was a shrewd political tactic of sorts, as it instilled an atmosphere of fear and obedience that led to few instances of resistance and swift surrenders.

It was hardly surprising that the southern kingdom had devoured its northern neighbors in a quick and ravenous expansion. While the King’s abilities undoubtedly played a part, it was his ruthless nature that truly paved the way for such rapid conquest.

In small secluded hallways it was often whispered that he was not only a kind but now titled, “Aemond The Conqueror.”

Despite his penchant for cruelty, there was no denying that King Aemond possessed a remarkable level of strategic skill when it came to warfare. He was a true master of tactics, his intellect and cunning rivaling his own ruthlessness. In all his years of battling, he had never tasted defeat.

The young lady’s lavender shaded eyes flitted impatiently back and forth, her pale nose wrinkling every time she caught a glimpse of her maidservant and friend Myrielle. Trevor was boastful and proud, but he possessed a striking appearance that drew admiring looks from some of her handmaidens. Even Myrielle couldn’t help but steal glances at him, finding his confidence and flourish captivating.

Trevor seemed keenly aware of the admiring looks he received, puffing out his chest slightly in an air of confident self-importance. “Your elder cousin should know that the men of Runestones can count on the support of my kinsmen, should the need arise,” he declared, his voice filled with the same noble pomp and bravado.

It brought a sense of reassurance knowing that the Belmore would stand at their side in their time of need. “Your people are truly gracious,” Laviniya replied, her smile carefully crafted to reach her eyes but lacking any genuine enthusiasm.

The pair took a small wander about the Runestones hall.

It didn’t take long for Laviniya to identify the troubadours, for they were the very same ones she had been gossiping about with Ser Trevor earlier. They were the musicians that the chamberlain had deemed to be substandard in their performance and had subsequently exiled them to the outskirts of the event, far enough away as to prevent any further embarrassment.

She noted with some fascination that the lute player appeared to have a broken hand, and her curiosity was piqued. Rumours had circulated about a group of troubadours that had been ambushed by bandits en route, and these seemed to be the very ones.

Ser Trevor, with a conspiratorial tone, leaned towards her and whispered, “I wonder if these troubadours are truly as atrocious as to be relegated here.” He continued, “Are you skilled in recognizing musical talent?”

She shrugged, “If they are genuinely awful, it shouldn’t take much skill to discern that,” She also added a touch of intrigue, questioning, “But is there such a thing as being so bad it becomes entertaining?”

As they approached the performance, an unexpected intermission abruptly halted the show. The jester stepped forward with a few fellow actors, his voice changing subtly to signify he was speaking out of character.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “I am regretful to report that our actress who was to play the role of Lady Saerra has unexpectedly taken ill.”

He continued, “However, rest assured, she is perfectly fine, merely indisposed and unable to continue the show. We kindly request that one among the audience volunteer to step in for her. Fear not! We have the script at hand, so all you need to do is place on this mask and read the words with a dramatic tone of voice!”

It seemed like the troubadours were having quite an unfortunate night. The jester’s desperate pleas for a volunteer were nearly causing her second-hand embarrassment. To add to that, she had a nagging feeling that if she lingered too long, they might enlist her as a volunteer – an uncomfortable privilege that came with being the fair lady, an easy target to be used as entertainment.

Determined to avoid the situation altogether, she subtly steered away from the scene. Thankfully, the lord seemed to understand her intent and loyally followed her.

Trevor chuckled softly, speaking in a lighthearted whisper. “I thought you might have jumped at the chance to showcase your performance skills and impress us all,” he teased.

As they distanced themselves from the jester’s plight, the lord brought up another unfortunate artist. “It appears that many performers are having a rough night tonight,” he observed. “Your lordly troubadour and now the plight of poor Lady Saerra.”

He continued with a dry smile, adding, “But at least I’ve spared you from my dubious lute-playing skills.”

With a deadpan expression and her head held high, she threatened Trevor in a serious tone, “If I hear so much as one verse from you, I will leave you here. I swear it.”

Despite maintaining her serious facade, she was comfortable enough with him now to tease him with playful threats. Her step increased slightly, keeping her slightly ahead of his. Myrielle who walked on her other side touched her wrist. The time was drawing nearer that her friend wanted to greet her squire outside soon.

Trevor lowered his voice to a whisper, his expression darkened with disdain as he cast a pointed glance at the Targaryen entourage. “Frankly, I find it baffling why your cousins would invite them or the King here and throw such a lavish celebration in his honour,” he said, his tone filled with disdain. “Imagine how Prince Daemon would feel, if he were still alive.”

Her smile wavered at the mention of her father, Daemon, as her slender figure seemed to shrink slightly, becoming more fragile in an unspoken display of sorrow. “You know, I think you’re right, Ser,” she admitted, her voice laced with an air of melancholy. “Aemond doesn’t appear to possess the aura of a conqueror, does he?”

Trevor understood the fragility of the fair ladies and looked genuinely remorseful. “I didn’t mean to bring back that painful memory,” he apologized. “What I mean is that inviting the Greens here is like letting venomous snakes into your own home. They cannot be trusted after what they have done,” he said firmly. He then paused for a moment before adding, “Of course, I know the decision was not yours to make, but rather your elder cousin’s.”

Laviniya gently touched Myrielle’s shoulder. “The Greens were notorious expansionists after the dance of dragons,” she said, “and I can’t say I’ve ever heard of an expansionist snake. No, you see Ser Trevor, The Greens are rather more like rabbits... Burrowing holes in crop lands and spreading their chaos across the valleys...At times I miss Aegon the Idle. He was not so formidable.” she added with a touch of sarcasm. Laviniya then motioned to move away. “Now, if you’d excuse me.”

Laviniya found herself growing increasingly frustrated. They were never going to get to discussing Myrielle, and Ser Trevor seemed capable of talking endlessly. Moreover, all this talk of politics wearied her, as it seemed to be at odds with the expected delicate sensibilities of young ladies as herself.

She couldn’t help but wonder if her elder cousin really believed they could make peace with a warmonger over a fancy dinner party. And if he honestly trusted that king, with his deceptively mild demeanor, to keep his word... Well, that was his prerogative. But Laviniya tried not to concern herself too much, as she did not want to face disappointment.

She flashed a warm smile once more to the young lord Trevor Belmore, this time allowing it to reach her eyes. With a graceful wave of her hand, she signalled for her Lady-in-waiting to follow her. The flowing silk of their gowns trailed behind them as they left in a swish of fabric, creating a mesmeric spectacle.

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒:

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬. 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬.

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