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jaimeslanisters · 2 years ago

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the pawn in every lover’s game (part twelve)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 8.2k notes: i live!!!! so sorry this chapter took so long - i got a new job, had relatives visit, my college friend visited, i saw taylor swift omg omg omg - but i’m still here working on it!! trust that it will be finished bc i have big plans for our little pack of greenies (: enjoy part one of the helaena/aegon wedding day!

Your hunger pangs wake you long before the sunrise ever does. For a few moments, you lie there, listening to the quiet sound of Helaena’s breathing. After the dinner that was more a test in restraint than anything else, you had dutifully followed the princess up to her room and, just like the pair of you had so many times as children, you had curled under the covers together, not touching but just close enough to feel each other’s heat radiating through the thick covers. As little girls, the two of you would always whisper and giggle throughout the night and you would fall asleep to Helaena eagerly lecturing you about whatever insect had caught her attention, your mind spinning with her passionate words and all the little facts and details she had learned from her books.

There had been none of that last night. Instead, the two of you had crawled into bed and, after a final prayer that you didn’t think either of you believed, had fallen asleep.

A part of you wishes you had kept her awake, that you could have made her laugh with jokes about the septas that had trailed the two of you all day or about all the ceremonies the pair of you had to perform. Maybe you could have asked her about Aemond and his unerring desire to push boundaries and your own willingness to let him, let her tease you in that kind way she always did where there was no bite to her words, no hidden meanings for you to puzzle out. Maybe you could have comforted her, maybe you could have lied and said everything would be alright.

But you hadn’t. You had slept instead.

You feel a flash of relief that you didn’t eat anything last night. That means there’s nothing to throw up.

As quietly as you can, you creep out of the bed, careful not to make any noise or shift the bed too much. Helaena has always been a heavy sleeper though and, aside from a whine of displeasure, she doesn’t stir, simply turning on her side and curling into herself.

You look at her for a moment, taking in her white curls poking out from underneath the blankets, her pale hand lying limp on the side of the bed. She looks so terribly young like this, more the girl she used to be rather than the woman she was and had been for some time now. You wonder when the switch had happened, when the girlish features of Princess Helaena Targaryen had faded away and been replaced with the ones of the woman who would turn into Queen Helaena, sister-wife to King Aegon, second of his name.

Try as you might, you can’t find that version of herself in her sleeping form, can’t make a crown on her seem like anything more than when you had played pretend as children. She’s a girl. You can’t make her anything but - can’t pretend you have any desire to.

Yet this is the final day when you will have that girl. Tonight, she will be married to a brother that she only loves as a brother. She will be wedded and bedded and that girl will only exist in your memories. Maybe sometimes you’ll see her in echoes in the future, in the children Helaena will bear or even in Helaena herself, but you will never see her, not truly, again.

Today was a funeral as much as it was a wedding and you want to scream and scream until your throat rubs raw and no more noise can escape you.

Today should be happy you remind yourself, forcing yourself to remember the songs you had sung only yesterday underneath the watchful eyes of the septas and the Maiden statue, the beautiful songs about the grace and strength that came inherent in marriage. You even try to remember the songs that the singers sung, the ones that promised that marriage was beautiful and kind and good. It isn’t the end of anything. Nothing will change.

Nothing would change, not physically so. Helaena’s chambers would move to border Aegon’s, of course, but the two of you spent your time in her mother’s sitting room or the gardens anyways. She would remain in the Red Keep, just like you would, and things would be like they were. You would still have tea together, you would still read your books and go riding and dig with her in the dirt to find whatever shiny bug had caught her attention. Nothing would change.

Maybe if you repeat it to yourself enough, you’ll eventually start to believe it.

With a quiet sigh, you pull yourself away from the side of the bed, heading towards the plush chaise that bordered the massive window in her room. You clear off the cushions, gently placing Helaena’s glass terrariums on the ground. Inside of them, insects slither and writhe, clearly upset by you disturbing them, flailing wildly in protest, but once you move them, you promptly settle on the chaise, curling up so you can stare out at Blackwater Bay.

This early in the morning, the sun hasn’t even risen yet but you know that much of the castle must be awake. By now, servants must be running through the halls, hastening to finish whatever tasks they had to complete before the ceremony today. Perhaps even the Queen was up by now, already managing the preparations, no doubt worrying herself to excess with all the little details that made up a royal wedding.

You already know, without a doubt, that Aemond is awake. He’s always been an early riser - a fact that you had often bemoaned to your uncle in your first years in the capital. Before Driftmark, he would always use the early morning hours to study in the library and you would usually accompany him, hiding your exhaustion behind copious amounts of tea. After Driftmark, however, he had used that time to train in the yards, dragging Ser Criston along with him before the sun ever got a chance to rise in the sky. He never told you why he changed his schedule, merely informing you that the pair of you would need to meet at a different time, but he hadn’t needed to. It hadn’t been too difficult to figure out.

He trained as early as he could so people wouldn’t see him fumble with the loss of his eye. The injury had taken away all the skill he had worked for years to attain, leaving him no better than a green boy who had never touched a sword in his life, and his pride would not allow him to suffer the pitying stares from everyone else in the yard, not when he already had to deal with them as he walked through the hallways of the Red Keep.

You know for a fact that it had taken a better part of a decade for Aemond to rejoin the typical hours that the knights occupied the yards, having preferred his early habits so he could continue training with only Ser Criston as an instructor. Occasionally, other members of the Kingsguard had joined, in order to keep his training from getting repetitive against only one opponent even if the opponent was widely considered to be the greatest knight living.

His years of training, however, had paid off - when Aemond had finally deemed himself ready to reenter the training yards with the other men, he had famously knocked even some of the most seasoned knights into the dirt, something that he had never bragged about to you but you had heard from the gossip that spread like wildfire throughout the castle. His victory did not mean his habits changed, however. Even now, having long since made up for the lack of an eye, Aemond kept to the same schedule, rarely, if ever, straying from it.

Somehow, you can’t picture him in the training yards right now, though, not when the entire city was preparing for his siblings’ wedding. You’d be surprised if the yards were even open for usage - no doubt some form of wedding preparation had taken advantage of that large and relatively empty space. No, if anything, you imagine Alicent has placed him and Daeron on Aegon duty, to both ensure he ended up where he needed to go and to ensure that he was sober - A difficult task that you’re not sure even the most experienced Kingsguard nor the most grizzly man of the Night’s Watch could handle.

Kingsguard swore oaths to protect the king against all of his enemies and the men of the Night’s Watch were supposed to be the shield that guarded the realms of men and, somehow, you doubt that either could handle Aegon at his worst.

This past week, poor Daeron has been tasked with serving as his brother’s keeper, trailing behind him to prevent him from becoming too embarrassing in public. Aemond, no doubt, would have been tasked with the same impossible demand if only his attention hadn’t been stolen away by the tourney.

You can only imagine how exhausted the two princes had to be if they spent the night with their wayward brother. Aegon had left the dinner looking distinctly queasy, even more sway in his steps than when he had first arrived even though Alicent had purposely kept the wine carafes out of his reach. Daeron had immediately followed behind him but Aemond had only moved when his mother had shot him a glare, sharply jerking her head in command. Aemond hadn’t complained or even said anything in return, merely getting up to trail behind his brothers, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else than there.

With any amount of luck, hopefully, the two princes would have reined in Aegon’s indiscretions. Aegon tended to steamroll Daeron, typically able to get away with more than he ought to, but with Aemond, the dynamic always seemed to flip. Out of everyone, save maybe the Lord Hand, Aemond alone seemed to be most capable of forcing Aegon to bend to his will for the sheer fact that he was unafraid to physically manhandle his older brother, uncaring of his brother’s position as the presumptive heir in the eyes of most in Westeros. In turn, Aegon tended to follow his brother’s commands even if he usually did it while arguing fiercely or causing as much trouble as he could.

If there was anyone who could ensure that Aegon would turn up to the wedding in a state at least resembling sobriety, it was Aemond.

You settle into the corner of the chaise, staring out at the Blackwater. The sun still hasn’t risen but soon - the sky is lightening more and more by the minute and already, pink and yellow clouds soften and blur the horizon like paints on a freshly finished portrait that someone had run their hands through.

It will be a beautiful day - more than the wedding deserves.

Taking deep breaths to steady your nerves, you watch the shifting sky, thinking about watching Vhagar feed with Aemond only two nights earlier. In the daylight, with no dark skies and empty waters to hide her, she would look even more monstrous, even more like an impossible spectacle that could engulf all of King’s Landing in her shadow.

You wonder where she is right now. Whether or not she’s resting or if she’s hunting in some other part of the world.

Maybe the sunrise will summon her.

You keep staring out of the window, a part of you hoping that Vhagar will fly back from wherever it is if only so you can see her in the morning light, when the doors to the chambers fly open and you twist your upper body towards the source, slightly frowning at the loud interruption.

Immediately, a stream of handmaids enter the room, each of them laden down with something that they’re carrying whether it be all the silks and lace Helaena will be dressed up in or trays and trays of food for the pair of you to snack on while they prepared you for the day. In the middle of all of the almost militant movement, Queen Alicent stands, deep in conversation with her handmaid Talya.

The Queen is already dressed, an absolute marvel in emerald green with her red hair nearly glowing in the warm sunlight streaming in from the windows, and you wonder what time she would have needed to get up at in order to prepare herself.

Did she even sleep? You think, completely baffled by how put together she already looks. You were in your nightgown still and Helaena was still in bed, completely covered by blankets, and here she was, already ready to ride down to the Dragonpit for the ceremony.

Before you get the chance to say something or even stand to greet her, she gestures for the handmaids to put down the food where they can, taking over a good solid half of the bedchamber. On the other side of the room, the other handmaids clear space, laying out Helaena’s wedding gown on a table, her maiden cloak neatly folded next to it. From here, you can see glimpses of the red thread that you and Helaena had used to painstakingly embroider her House’s sigil and something in your chest squeezes tight and fierce at the sight of it.

Alicent gives you a small smile and nod before she sits on the side of the bed, staring down at her daughter for a moment, her hand reaching out for her daughter’s curls. Helaena shifts in the bed, rolling over on her side, staring up at her mother.

You watch them, heart in your throat, and the only thing you can think is that you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here to see this moment. This should just be for Alicent and Helaena. A mother and her only daughter.

I want my mother.

You look away sharply, staring down at your lap, twisting your hands up in the white fabric of your nightgown.

If Lady Johanna were here, nothing would change. Helaena would still be marrying Aegon. Her girlhood would end to the cheers of a watching King’s Landing. The night would end in blood-stained sheets. There’s nothing your mother could do to stop it nor would she.

But she would be here, with you. She would be sitting by your side just as Alicent was sitting with Helaena. She would be brushing her hand over your hair and she would tell you that even if everything changed around the pair of you, that didn’t mean that the two of you had to change with it.

You’re the blood of the old kings, a lion of the Rock, Your mother’s voice echoes in your head. The world bends to your will, not you to it.

Taking deep breaths, you calm your pounding heart and lock away your longing deep inside of you, where it couldn’t hurt you. When you look up, Helaena is sitting up in the bed, her hand curled around her mother’s.

Alicent isn’t crying but her eyes are shining in the light.

“Are you ready, my sweet girl?” Alicent asks. Behind her, a handmaid steps forward as another one carefully lays out brushes and oils and strips of ribbons onto the vanity.

Her question hangs heavy in the air.

After a moment, Helaena nods. She doesn’t shake or tremble. She doesn’t tear up or frown. She simply nods.

Helaena has always been stronger than anyone has ever given her credit for.

Alicent doesn't say anything. She merely raises Helaena’s hand up to her lips and presses a kiss on her knuckles, closing her eyes as she does.

You did this, a part of you wants to accuse. You and no one else.

But then again, who were you to judge someone for marrying their family off? You sent Cerelle into the North, away from everything she’s ever known. At least here, Helaena would remain in her home, would remain surrounded by those who love and support her.

Alicent was marrying Helaena to Aegon to protect her, to protect their lineage. You married Cerelle off for your own ambition.

You swallow back your protests, all your complaints and accusations. They weren’t meant for the Queen anyways.

Alicent guides Helaena to the vanity where a handmaid immediately descends upon her to start rubbing oil in her hair as another begins to brush her thick hair back. Helaena flinches back, startled by their fast movement and their intimate touch, and Alicent swoops forward, gently pushing the handmaids back slightly so that they’re not pressed up against the princess’s back.

You watch for a moment longer, eyes trailing the way the handmaids are beginning to work together to braid elaborate patterns into the hair at the crown of her head, their hands moving nearly impossibly fast, before you turn to the spread of food that has been laid out. Most of it is light food - various loaves of bread and cheeses and hams - so that the pair of you could break your fast and not keel over in the middle of the ceremony.

None of it, however, feels particularly appetizing right now. The bread looks unbearably heavy, the meats look salty. You don’t want any of it - not now when your stomach is still rolling with anxiety and worry for not only the upcoming day but for all the days that would follow after.

Still, if you didn’t eat now, your next chance wouldn’t come until well into the evening, during the wedding feast. You’d be just as liable to gnaw off someone’s arm as you would be to pass out and disrupt the ceremonies.

With a small frown, you stand from the chaise to walk towards a small end table where servants had laid out small slices of bread with little jars of assorted jam placed carefully all around. You look down at the food with a sense of trepidation, trying to figure out which fruit would be less likely to upset your stomach, when someone clears their throat next to you, calling your attention.

You turn to face a short servant girl, one you’ve seen often trailing behind Talya and, in turn, Alicent. She smiles nervously at you, no doubt terrified to have called your attention towards her, and, after a beat, holds up a tray of lemon cakes in front of her.

“Prince Aemond asked me to save some from the feast for you, my lady,” she says, a small tremble in her voice telling you that she’s wholly unused to being the one to address the nobles she served.

You stare down at the tray, your cheeks feeling impossibly hot.

The absolute nerve of him…

“Thank you…” You flounder for her name, feeling a flush of embarrassment that you can’t recall it, but the girl only smiles, clearly desperate for any reason to leave your immediate vicinity. She moves the tray of bread and jams slightly to the side, placing the lemon cakes right next to them, before she gives you a quick curtsey, scurrying off to join the other handmaids waiting patiently by the door for any one of your commands.

You turn to face the lemon cakes, feeling your stomach turn for a completely different reason.

Aemond and you rarely toed the line of impropriety, the past few days aside. The most you had ever gotten to doing something decidedly improper with him was when you had snuck into his room at Driftmark. Your intentions had been entirely pure though, if someone had spotted you, you doubted that they would have accepted any explanation you could have put forward. In the years after, though, the two of you had kept your careful distance from one another, conscious of the rules of etiquette that ruled your every move.

Of course, that didn’t mean you obeyed all of them - neither of you had ever bothered to get a chaperon for your meetings in the library or even raise the question of it. Maester Dustin, the old man in charge of the library, was asleep half of the time and was deaf the other half. If ever questioned, you would have cited his presence but no one but the most lenient and generous would count him as a true chaperon and the court at King’s Landing was anything but.

Despite ample opportunity, however, the two of you had never tried anything improper. You hadn’t even tried anything proper. Aemond had never requested a meeting with your uncle, had never made a formal request for your presence that would indicate he was interested in a betrothal meeting. Things had been as they always had been.

Until the tourney. Until Victor Florent had tried to claim you, forcing Aemond’s hand in revealing his intentions or risk an attachment between you and another man in the eyes of all of King’s Landing.

Things were different now. You didn’t know where the line of acceptable transgressions was and, if Aemond’s words last night at the dinner that was not quite a dinner were any indication, he was very interested in pushing it as far as he could.

It wouldn’t be a problem if you knew where the line even began. Aemond’s ‘hint’ about the bud between your legs was the first time anyone had ever told you something concrete about your body and the pleasure that could be derived from it, the pleasure from which you were supposed to abstain. Your septas only ever spoke about the act of bedding in the most clinical of terms; he’s meant to get on you and his member will enter you. It will hurt. You must bear the pain. You must take it. This is your duty as a wife and as a mother.

None of it had ever sounded appealing to you, had never called your attention. It was easy to restrain yourself when the actual act sounded like a tortuous thing to suffer, something you would have to endure rather than enjoy.

Aemond promised pleasure though. He promised that the prize was something you would want, something that would be difficult to hold back from. Something that you would long for just as you had yearned for the lemon cakes last night.

You stare at the lemon cakes for a moment longer, your eyes lingering on the candied lemon slice placed delicately on top of the soft yellow sponge. The sugared delicacy gleams in the light, the glaze incitingly beautiful, and all you can think about is the way Aemond had licked the sugar off his fingers, the way his mouth had gleamed after.

You’ve never been one to pray to the Maiden but you pray to her now, asking for her forgiveness.

Perhaps if you met Aemond, you would understand, you tell her even as you reach for a lemon cake. Perhaps you didn’t know what you had to abstain from either.

——————————–

Somewhere in the middle of the handmaid weaving flowers into your hair, Helaena starts to scream.

You nearly knock the poor handmaid over in your attempt to rush to the princess’s side, tripping over your own feet slightly, but you right yourself quick enough, nearly blind in your panic to reach her. Alicent is already standing next to her but, when she tries to touch her daughter, Helaena jerks away, shaking her head and curling into herself, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

“Helaena,” you cry out as you slow to a stop in front of her, hands trembling from the restraint of stopping yourself from reaching for her. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

She shakes her head again, eyes gazing ahead without seeing. You’ve seen them go empty and glazed when she tells her strange riddles but this is something else. Her amethyst eyes are so dark you can no longer see the color as she stares at the table in front of her. She’s shaking so badly you would think it was freezing inside of the room if it wasn’t for the sun’s blazing heat coming through the windows.

“Shadows in the wall,” she sobs, sounding as if she’s gasping for air that just won’t enter her lungs. “Shadows in the flame. There will be no choice. No choice at all.”

Helaena lets out a loud keening cry, finally ducking her head down as she curls into herself even more.

“Clear the table,” Alicent hisses, waving her arms wildly, and immediately servants move forward, taking away the trays of jams and cheese and bread with even more speed than when they had put them down. The Queen is shaking, terrified and helpless, and you’ve seen this look in her before and it stings now just as it had at Driftmark.

She could do nothing then and she can do nothing now.

You kneel in front of the princess, close enough that you can reach out for her but far enough that there’s no danger that you’ll touch her by mistake. “Helaena,” you try again, a note of desperation entering your voice. You’ve never seen her like this, so out of control, so hysterical. “Helaena, I’m right here. Your mother is right here. You’re ok. You’re safe.”

You almost scream yourself when Helaena’s hands fly out, grasping your face. Her grip is tight, almost painfully so, but you bear it because it’s her. She stares into your eyes, searching and begging, and you wonder where she begins and where the prophet that replaces her does. You wonder if there’s even a difference. “A lioness,” she begins, her voice soft like a prayer. “Will burn blood to protect her pride.”

You nod, almost dumbly, and she leans again, nose nearly brushing yours.

“Feed well the land,” she insists. “Drown the stone. Burn the sea. Fell the sky.”

You nod again, your heart pounding so hard in your chest that it reverberates in your skull, a marching tune for no one to follow.

Helaena’s eyes bore into yours for a moment longer, a moment that reaches into eternity and traps you within it, until finally, she lets go of you, leaning back until she sits perfectly straight, a statue for all to see.

Helaena comes back.

And she begins to cry.

It’s soft and gentle cries as if she’s already exhausted herself and this is the only noise she can produce. Next to her, Alicent settles on the bench, hesitantly reaching for her daughter’s shoulder. When Helaena leans into her touch, the Queen lets out a shaky breath, pulling her daughter into a tight hug, cradling the back of her head as she rocks the two of them back and forth.

You sink to the ground completely, leaning forward to rest your head against Helaena’s knees as you take a deep, gasping breath. Your quick movements have completely unraveled all of the handmaid’s work and, even now, you can feel the delicate poppies she had braided in falling all around you, landing on the cool stone floor.

You can’t bring yourself to care, however, not when Helaena’s desperate words are running rampant through your mind. Two of them are her most repeated prophecies, ones that always send her into hysterics. You wake up in the middle of the night thinking about them, about what they could mean, what you could even do to prepare. Her last prophecy was a new one but no less nonsensical.

None of it meant anything yet it all meant everything.

An eye has been closed Helaena had promised that night in Driftmark and Aemond had been scarred forever and the war between the two branches of the Targaryen family had started in a crowded hall with a brawl between children.

You couldn’t decipher her words, not until it was too late. There was no one you could talk to, no one you beg for answers. Helaena herself never knew the meaning behind her riddles for all that they haunted her every movement.

There was no easy answer here, no solution to puzzle out, and it made you want to weep for the unfairness of it all.

You feel a hand touch the back of your head and, after a moment where you forcibly pull yourself together, you lean back, resting your chin on Helaena’s knee so you can look up at her. Helaena’s eyes are redrimmed and her face is impossibly pale. She doesn’t do anything like smile but something in her gaze is soft, comforting.

Tears rise in your eyes and you press your face against her knee, taking deep breaths to try and calm yourself. Her hand rubs down the back of your hair, gentle and kind, and soon another hand joins to touch your shoulder and you know that Queen Alicent is reaching for you as well. You press your face even harder into her knee, fighting the urge to sob.

None of you say a word.

You don’t have to.

——————————–

You’re late down to the courtyard because of course, you are. Even the handmaids’ top speed was not enough to prepare you and Helaena in time and Alicent had waved you down to the courtyard in a bid to at least start the ceremony slightly on time. It’s a verifiable hive of people, more crazed and hectic than you’ve ever seen it. A small army of servants is racing to prepare wheelhouses and horses while golden cloaks from the City Watch take up a good bit of the crowded space, all of them listening attentively as Ser Harrold belts out orders to them. Behind you, the same red cloaks your father had assigned to watch you at the tourney trail behind you, their hands on their swords as they carefully scan the only slightly organized chaos around you.

The tourney will seem almost like child’s play compared to the pageantry the Queen had planned for the wedding proper. Even arriving at the Dragonpit will be a chore - while the majority of the court will ride in their wheelhouses to reach the ceremony location, you and the other attendants will ride on white chargers, out in the open for all of the smallfolk to see you. The route would be heavily guarded, of course, but the idea was for the people of King’s Landing to witness the strength, the might, and the beauty of the royal family of Westeros.

These are people to be loved. These are people to be followed.

It was a show - a crucial one. The smallfolk would have little say in who would next sit the Iron Throne but having their devotion would certainly make things easier.

You scan the hordes of people and almost immediately, you spot Aemond and Otto Hightower, standing tall even next to the massive white horses that would serve as your ferry to the Dragonpit. As you approach them, weaving your way through the moving masses, you can start to make out Rhaenys and Daeron and Aegon, their silver hair a beacon in the crowd.

Surrounded by soldiers and servants, the extravagant luxury of their clothes stands out starkly, a marked difference from all the silver armor and the grey uniforms. Otto’s outfit is the most understated - it was a darker green than he normally wore, so green that it was nearly black, but the velvet was rich and it shone in the sunlight, the golden flame of House Hightower outlined in actual golden thread. Similarly, Rhaenys’ dress is a tribute to her family, paying respect to House Velaryon. It is a dark blue, the silk moving like the water that surrounded Driftmark whenever she shifted. In her hand, she casually swings the Crone’s lamp though the flame was not yet lit.

The Targaryen princes were a marvel to behold.

Daeron, standing between his two brothers, has some of his curly hair pulled up and away from his face, braids keeping the rest of his hair from falling into his eyes. His tunic was a rougher fabric than either of his brothers but it was hardly anything to scoff at with its golden trimming and brilliant sheen. Around his neck, a necklace of golden hammers hung and, whenever he moved, they would clink together like bells in the wind.

Someone, more likely than not his own brothers, had likely held Aegon down to be scrubbed at and cleaned since you haven’t seen Aegon look nearly this alert in years. His curls are neatly maintained rather than the stringy mess they normally were and an iron coronet was nestled neatly on top of them. It wasn’t a crown, no true crown by any means, but it was dangerously close to being one. There were no heavy arches, no bold jewelry, but it was a distinction that only few would make. No one but the Lord Hand could have been the one to decide for Aegon to wear it since you doubt the prince himself would make that bold of a decision and there were few that could force him to do it anyways. It was a reminder to the realms that this was the next King of Westeros, the only true heir that could be by all the laws and traditions that governed the kingdoms.

It’s a testament to how striking Aemond looks that you’re able to tear your attention away from the political moves Lord Otto is making to focus on him.

Unlike most depictions of the Warrior, he wasn’t in a suit of armor but whichever tailor had designed his outfit had clearly drawn inspiration from one nonetheless. He is dressed in a dark, velvety green, similar to his usual dark clothing, but, in ode to the Warrior, black chainmail has been laid over it. It was far too fine to be made out of actual metal, the twists in it too delicate and careful, but it shone in the sunlight, gleaming dangerously and swallowing the light. The mail was cinched at his wrists by black vambraces and around his waist by a heavy belt, pulled tight to showcase his slender build. Off of it hung a sword and, encrusted onto the pommel, the seven-pointed star formed out of dark rubies.

This is what the Warrior was meant to look like. This is who the songs were about.

You reach them soon enough and, when all their eyes turn to stare at you, you realize why the smallfolk whispered about the divinity of the Targaryens, how they were closer to gods than to men.

All of them, from Rhaenys to Aemond, are otherworldly, too beautiful and odd to be real.

If you were a lesser lady, you would be frightened to stand in front of them, too scared to draw their attention and mar their vision with your own imperfection.

As it is, you drop into a curtsey before rising up to stand tall and proud, tilting your head up to look them all in the eye.

Rhaenys smiles at you first. “You look lovely, my lady,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the corner from her smile, and you duck your head in acknowledgment, murmuring your thanks.

Unlike the rest of Seven, the Maiden didn’t have a symbol that denoted her holiness. She wasn’t like the Smith with his hammer or the Warrior with his sword. She wasn’t the Father or the Mother where her virtue was the service she had done for the world. Her beauty was her grace instead.

You’re dressed simply to accommodate that - a white linen dress that is tailored exactly to your figure, so perfectly starched that it’s nearly blinding in the sun. The handmaid had worked deliriously fast to weave red and yellow poppies into your hair, braiding your hair to keep them in place, and, unlike everyone else, you weren’t laden down with gold to showcase your wealth and power - your only accessory is a garland of parchment that annoyingly crinkles whenever you move.

You’re almost ridiculously plain next to all the Targaryens with their silver hair and amethyst eyes but you try your best not to let it get to you as you nod your thanks to the chorus of compliments that come your way from all gathered.

A chorus that one voice does not join and, when you look up, Aemond is already standing by your side, looking you over carefully.

You raise an eyebrow when he meets your eyes, suppressing the urge to laugh delightedly when Aemond refuses to be flustered, simply quirking his head instead and offering you a real smile.

“Please don’t commit an act of blasphemy through your compliment,” you say when he opens his mouth, grinning when he shakes his head.

“I was simply going to say that the Maiden herself would be envious of you.”

Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire even as you mockingly frown. “That feels borderline.”

“You’ll have to forgive me then,” Aemond murmurs, his arm brushing yours. The chainmail feels cold even through the thin layer of linen and you fight the urge to shiver at its cool touch.

You smile then. “I may be dressed like the Maiden but I don’t think I’m qualified to forgive people for that. You’ll have to ask a septon.”

“Good thing there will be plenty of those at the Dragonpit,” he says. He picks his head up, having spotted someone in the crowd. “In fact, here comes one now.”

When you glance over, the first thing you see is the High Septon’s crystal crown gleaming in the sun. It’s almost blinding the way it shimmers and reflects the light but still, most people stop and gape at the rainbow streaming through the stones and how the colors dance on the cobblestone. It’s the most beautiful crown you’ve ever seen in your life, completely peerless and without compare.

What a shame that the man beneath the crown was not.

To be fair to him, you’ve never spent much time with the High Septon. You’ve only ever seen him at a distance during his weekly sermons that the royal family all attended. But the times you have been near him have been uncomfortable, to say the least.

The High Septon has these pale gray eyes, so pale they seem almost colorless up close. Those eyes always latched onto you, staring so deep into you that it seemed like he was searching for the smallest hint of sin and blasphemy within you. His eyes would trail any bit of skin you had on display and it didn’t feel like when men in the Red Keep would stare at you with lust in their gazes, when they were attempting to peel back your layers of clothing with their stares alone. His gaze felt burning, scornful.

Like with his look alone, he could damn you to one of the Seven Hells.

Even dressed as the Maiden, you feel sorely lacking as his pale eyes seek you out from underneath his rainbow crown. The dress feels too tight, the fabric too thin. All the beautiful poppies in your hair suddenly feel like vanity rather than a prayer for fertility.

You shift awkwardly, wishing you had insisted on a shawl or something to cover yourself with. It would have been more of a hassle than anything, especially considering the spring sun beating down on your back, but it would have been worth it just to have something to pull closer to yourself, to hide away even the smallest scrap of skin.

You only meet the High Septon’s pale, cold eyes for a moment before Aemond moves in front of you, casually and seemingly without purpose. His back is broad enough that he neatly covers you up and, when the High Septon looks over at him, he bows his head in acknowledgment even as he stands his ground, concealing you from sight.

Your heart pounds loud in your chest as you stare at his back for a moment, wishing you could reach out and grab him. Instead, you stay rooted to your spot, carefully sidestepping the High Septon as he walks past you to the carriage that will carry him to the Dragonpit. Behind him, a few septons trail behind, heads bowed as they murmur prayers under their breath, and, behind them, looking frazzled, Alicent speeds past her two youngest sons, heading directly for Aegon, stopping right in front of him.

She doesn’t say a word as she cups his face with her hands. She doesn’t say a single thing. Instead, she stares at her oldest son, her first child, and Aegon stares back.

The courtyard is crowded, people streaming past you, pushing and jostling to get to their spots quicker. All around, there are servants yelling and, even now, you can hear Ser Harrold’s booming voice speaking to the knights surrounding him.

But none of it matters. Not when Aegon looks like a little boy again, his eyes wide and vulnerable. You don’t even remember him looking like this when you had first come to the capitol - even at thirteen, he had never seemed like a child. There had always been this world-weariness to him, this anxiety that he wrapped around himself like a cloak. The worst thing to ever happen to Aegon Targaryen had been his own birth - with it, his fate had been sealed and the noose had been tied around his neck. Since the days when the First Men struck down the Children of the Forest and lifted themselves to power, there had only ever been one thing that the firstborn sons of Kings could become.

He had never been a boy.

But he is one now as he stares at his mother.

You want to look away, you want to give them their privacy but you can’t. You can only stare at them. Hesitantly, you move closer to Aemond, your hand coming up to grip the edge of his sleeve slightly. He rocks towards you but, in your periphery, you can tell that his eyes are also focused on his mother and brother.

Alicent opens her mouth, to say what you’ll never know, since Aegon shakes his head slightly, finally looking down, looking away from his mother. Even from here, you can see that he’s shaking.

The Queen pauses for a moment, staring at her son’s face in her hands. You wonder when’s the last time she’s held him - when’s the last time she tried and the last time he let her. You pray it wasn’t long.

After a moment, she presses up on her tiptoes slightly, pressing a kiss against Aegon’s brow, lingering for a breath.

Aegon doesn’t move, doesn’t react, but, when his mother pulls away and his eyes open, they’re glistening with tears.

Is it worth it? You want to ask even though you already know the answer you will surely receive.

Otto Hightower pauses for a moment by his daughter and grandson, gazing down at them with his usual stoic expression. Not for the first time in your life, you’re desperate to peer inside his mind, desperate to know what he’s thinking.

He doesn’t give you even the slightest opening, the slightest hint of what is running through his mind. “We must begin if we’re to finish anywhere near on schedule.”

Alicent tears her eyes away from her son, dropping her hands from his face. She nods, her own mask coming back onto her face. “Helaena is waiting for you inside. The rest of the attendants must leave with Aegon. Only you will ride with her.”

Otto looks at his daughter for a moment longer, clearly looking into her for something. The Queen stands steady as she looks at him, her brown eyes hard as steel as she stares into the eyes of her father. Whatever he was seeking he must find since he nods his head and begins to walk back into the Red Keep, some members of the Kingsguard trailing behind him.

The instant the Lord Hand moves, it seems like the chaos in the courtyard finally has a focal point: all of the attendants. Immediately, servants begin to bring the massive white horses to each of you, the grand beasts in question neighing loudly as their fragile peace is disturbed. The chargers move slowly, heavily, and you eye them as a pair of them slow to a stop next to you and Aemond. You’ve ridden horses before - every Westerosi noble worth anything was skilled in horsemanship - but never one close to this size. The horse looms over you, snorting air out through his nose aggressively as he stamps his feet, and you reel back slightly, stepping closer to Aemond and pulling the fabric of his sleeve closer to you.

“You control him,” Aemond reminds you, his voice low, as the servants swarm around the white chargers, securing the straps of the saddle soundly. “He’ll listen to your commands.”

“I should hope,” you respond, glancing up at him. “I feel like it's an awful omen if the Maiden gets carried away on a runaway horse.”

He shakes his head. “Surely no more bad luck than a Maiden being tempted during her fast.”

You smile despite yourself. “There’s no abstinence without temptation. I’m sure my sacrifice means more that way.”

“Perhaps the Seven will reward your faith. Surely they know that Aegon and Helaena will need it,” Aemond responds, shaking his head at a servant when he takes a meaningful step towards you. The servant in question falters slightly, looking at a loss for words, before he quickly steps back, nodding his head as he folds his hands behind his back.

You’ve done this song and dance before. You don’t ride often with Aemond but sometimes he would accompany you and Helaena whenever the fancy struck him. Sometimes servants would help the pair of you climb onto your horses. Sometimes he would. You’ve done this countless times before.

Somehow, this feels different. Maybe it’s that he’s dressed as the Warrior and you’re the Maiden. Maybe it’s that you can hear the gates slowly begin to open, hear the screams and cheers from the waiting audience of King’s Landing filter through the air. Maybe it’s how he grips your waist harder than he ever has before as he picks you up high in the air, your hands flying to steady yourself at his shoulders.

He places you on the horse, sitting you side straddle, and you stare down at him, letting go of his shoulders so you can twist one of your hands up the reins of the horse. He looks back and you know that he can see straight through you, can see the scream that is building up in your chest, buried so deep so that none of it can slip out.

Aemond lets go of your waist and you lean down, your hair falling all around you, as you lean over him, his face turning up towards yours. A poppy knocks itself loose from the breeze and he reaches up to grab it, catching it by its cut stem.

It’s golden.

In front of you, by the gates, you can see Alicent and Aegon begin to move forward, can hear the screams of the crowds reach a feverish pitch as they catch sight of the royal family, but you ignore them as you reach for the flower in Aemond’s hand. You brush his fingers as you pluck it from his grasp and for a moment, you hold it between the two of you.

It’s beautiful. More beautiful than anything has a right to be on this day.

Carefully, you lean down even more and you tuck the flower into the links of his chainmail, the yellow startling against the black. Your hand lingers for a moment and he captures it, pressing it to his mouth gently.

It’s a promise. It’s an apology. You want to laugh. You want to cry.

Finally, he lets you go, pulling away to his own silver charger, mounting it with an ease that only a warrior could have. In front of you, Daeron and Rhaenys begin to ride out and, as you turn your head slightly to watch them go, you can see the flame in Rhaenys’s lamp has been lit. As she rides through the gate, she lifts up the lamp in front of her, her arm steady and sure even as the flame flickers and sways from the canter of her horse. She’s a guiding light, wisdom and strength personified. You’re supposed to follow her.

But you can’t imagine wanting anything less.

Somewhere behind you, Helaena waits with her grandfather, her maiden cloak pinned around her neck. Somewhere ahead of you, Aegon rides with their mother, a crown that was not quite a crown placed in his silver curls.

This is it. This is where it all ends. This is where it begins.

Servants begin to gesture you to move forward and, after a moment, you shift your weight forward in the saddle and, without missing a beat, the massive charger moves forward with a shake of his mane. You glance to the side and meet Aemond’s amethyst eyes blazing in the light.

Together, you ride through the gates.

#aemond targaryen x reader #Aemond x Reader #aemond x you #i wrote this in my notes as no one has fun at a westerosi wedding #and the actual wedding hasnt even happened yet sdkflasdlfkasdf #hopefully the next chapter wont take as long im so sorry babes!!!

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