#ok bedding next chapter fr i got carried away bc im the biggest yapper i know

[jaimeslanisters]

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

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: 16.1k notes: posting. so i can finally beat those death allegations... 🙏🏼 please take this extra long chapter as my apology if any of you are still around

The wedding of Aegon and Helaena Targaryen ends with as much fanfare as it had began with. Buried underneath the cheers and claps, you can still distinctly hear a choir singing a hymn, its lyrics completely muffled by the sound of revelry still reverberating within the Dragonpit. You’ve long since stopped clapping, having decided to at least save your palms some of the misery, but the rest of the room seemingly does not seem to mind the sting, the sounds of their claps shaking the room like thunder. From your vantage point, you can see how Helaena’s smile tightens and how Aegon’s eyes seem to grow increasingly more and more distressed. Their hands are squeezing each other so tight that even from your vantage point, you can see how their pale knuckles whiten even further from their tight grip on one another. They look beautiful, striking and unnatural, but all you can see when you look up at them are the ghosts of the children they used to be, dressed up and lovely but painfully unprepared.

Part of you wants to usher them off the altar, to save them just a little of the embarrassment, to shield them from the all too piercing gazes of the capitol.

A larger part of you, however, knows that this is only a taste of what they will have to face in the future. Sooner rather than later, the entirety of the realms would be looking to them for direction, for wisdom, and for strength, and they would all trace it all back to this singular moment in time. The historians, the maesters, the singers, and the storytellers would all look back to this one day, to this mere stretch of an hour, and say that this is where the tone of their reign was decided. It’s monumental. It’s historic.

It’s no wonder the Queen looks as stressed as she does. It’s a miracle you haven’t ripped your own hair out.

Just as the cheers begin to die down, you sense movement out of the corner of your eye and you turn your head in time to see Ser Criston nod to the Lord Hand, murmuring something quietly in response. In the next breath, Ser Criston moves up towards the altar, bowing his head to Aegon and Helaena as he does. Behind him, other kingsguards move up to follow behind, their white cloaks starched to perfection so they practically shine with a pale glow from the sunlight filtering in through the windows in the domed roof. They form a wall around the two Targaryens, leaving space for them to remain visible to the rest of the Dragonpit but close enough that no attackers would stand any chance of getting close enough to do damage. It’s a shockingly familiar picture, one that you’ve seen countless times before though not in recent memory.

It’s King Viserys and Queen Alicent, hand in not quite loving hand, their twin crowns perched delicately onto their heads as they stand proud before their people.

Almost.

Not quite but maybe just enough.

“The Lord Hand has an eye for the dramatics,” you murmur to Aemond, not taking your eyes away from the altar, from the show of extravagance.

Aemond hums, dropping his arm down to scoop your’s up. You hide a smile at his show of affection, however small it may be. “He was the one to insist on the coronet. Mother was the one to push for the wedding to be in the Dragonpit rather than the throne room. The throne room would be limited to only nobility and even then, only the highest echelon. Here - thousands can fit.”

You nod, glancing over your shoulder. In the very back, some people have started to move towards the wide open doors, sensing that the ceremony has ended and seeking a quick escape, but the vast majority of people stay, still clambering to catch a glimpse of the royals. The mass of the smallfolk are held at bay by a wall of City’s Watch, their cloaks forming a golden wall between the nobility and the rest of King’s Landing.

Like the curtains of a playhouse stage.

This was a performance. A beautiful lie where the actors would play their roles to perfection or fall to shambles in front of the world. Endless and endless roles and parts to play, endless scenes to perform. It would never end. It couldn’t.

Smallfolk didn’t care about who sat the Iron Throne. They didn’t care about which Lord ruled over them, didn’t care whose birthright was being taken, whose ruling right was being usurped. They cared about being fed. They cared about surviving the winter. They cared about their sons growing into old and grey men instead of dying young in a nameless field and their daughters marrying good, kind men.

They cared about their stories - their pretty little stories they could pass onto their children and their children’s children. They cared about Jonquil and her fool of a knight. They cared about Symeon Star-Eye, about Lann the Clever, about Brandon the Builder.

They would care about this - about the beautiful Targaryen maiden with emeralds in her hair and amethysts in her eyes marrying her equally beautiful brother, the yet uncrowned king. They would care about the dragon and his treasure.

They would care about the performance.

The performance was all that mattered.

“All the world’s a stage,” you murmur quietly and Aemond lets out a small noise, prompting you to tear your eyes away from the goldcloaks to peer up at him. Even as the guards begin to prompt all of the nobles to start to be ushered out of Dragonpit, to be guided through the tunnels, he looks down at you, focusing his attention solely on your words. It warms something up in you and you resist the urge to curl into him, tuck yourself into his side.

“It’s a quote,” you say, smiling slightly thinking about your little sister with her ink stained fingers. “Jeyne… She loves plays, you see. Always reading them, writing them. She used to make me and Tyshara act in them even. There’s a playwright she enjoys. It’s a quote from one of his works, I believe. She convinced me to go see it with her in Lannisport a few months ago.”

“You used to act in her plays?” He questions, gently pulling you along as the guards begin to grow a little more insistent. He walks slowly, keeping pace with you, and the two of you trail behind the rest of the wedding party, behind them but leading the rest of the nobility.

You mockingly frown at him. “What are you trying to imply, my prince? I was a once-in-a-generation talent. Joy still talks about my turn as a knight, a queen, and as a lady in a lake. In the same play.”

“Really?” Aemond says flatly, raising his eyebrow. “I remember a lady always finding my hiding spot in the library and somehow always being surprised to find me. You stopped being convincing after the first few times.”

You tilt your head up to hold your chin high even as your cheeks flare with embarrassed heat. “It worked, didn’t it? Seems like I was something of a leading star.”

“Your audience was a lonely ten-year-old boy and you were the prettiest girl I had ever seen, let alone the prettiest girl to ever talk to me. You could have convinced me that you were Balerion the Black Dread reborn if you had set your mind to it.”

A laugh bursts its way out of you, loud enough that Otto and Alicent turn around to peer curiously at the two of you, one smiling and the other frowning. Part of you wants to seize up at the scrutiny but a bigger part of you wants to stay in this moment and curl up in the warm glow in your chest.

Anything to distract you from the night ahead.

From all the nights ahead.

“Seems a shame I didn’t realize my skills,” you muse, pulling yourself away from the anxious thoughts that creep at the edges of your subconscious. “Then again, if ten-year-old me had known her own power, I’m afraid she might have grown drunk off of it. Who knows what she would have ended up doing?”

Aemond smiles, shaking his head slightly. “Perhaps she would have grown bold enough to woo a prince?”

You laugh again, gleefully, and this time Daeron stops in front of his mother to look back at you. You wave him off, smiling at him, but not before he grins at the two of you, so clearly pleased by the closeness you’re sharing with his brother.

The two of you settle into the silence and, once you step into tunnels leading deeper and deeper into the Dragonpit, you pull his arm closer to you as you follow the blend of goldcloaks and kingsguard. The tunnels are brighter than they were the last time you had entered these halls, when you had followed Helaena deep into the bowels of the pit itself. New lit sconces have been placed into the walls, carefully carved into the stone so they cast the light of the flames over the uneven ground. Even still, you’re careful to watch your step and keep your grip tight on Aemond’s arm, using him to balance yourself in case you misstep and stumble into a dip in the ground.

Somehow, it’s louder the deeper you go into the tunnels, the stone walls amplifying the footsteps of thousands above of you until it’s almost like there are waves crashing on the shore over your head, torrential and powerful. It reverbrates and shakes to the point that dust falls off the rocky ceiling, covering your dress with a thin layer, dulling the starched white into a yellowed shade. You’re not the only one suffering if the cries of the noblemen behind you are anything to go by and you can even feel it on your skin, feel little rocks falling into your hair.

The tunnels have never been so crowded, so full, before.

But there’s a strange emptiness in the air.

“Where did the dragons go?” You ask Aemond. As impossible as it would be, a part of you feels like you’ve snuck into the tunnels, even surrounded as you are by everyone in King’s Landing. It almost feels like you could turn a corner and run into the massive beasts that call this hill home, as if you’ll stumble onto them and have a dragon breathe flame onto you for the injury of trespassing.

Aemond tilts his head. “Dreamfyre and Sunfyre are waiting at another exit to take Helaena and Aegon to the Red Keep for a final procession in the sky. I believe Daeron has Tessarion housed somewhere near the Kingswood though she might have left if she grew bored of the cattle that they got her.”

“And Vhagar is at her roost, I assume?” You ask and Aemond spares you a small smirk.

“Why so inquisitive? Are you interested in meeting her, my lady?”

You miss your next step and only your hand curled around Aemond’s bicep keeps you upright. You right yourself fast enough but not so quick that you don’t hear his stifled laugh, a quick and quiet little thing.

Cheeks embarrassingly hot, you swallow thickly, holding back your immediate and empathetic ‘No’. It is a poorly kept secret that you aren’t fond of the Targaryens’ sigil and Aemond would love the chance to push and prod at this side of you. You weren’t hateful or even open about your aversion. You have just never once jumped at the chance to get close to any dragon, no matter the countless opportunities you’ve been given over the years, and you would shy away from offers to see them.

Helaena never failed to offer to bring you along with her to the Dragonpit and you would occasionally accompany her even if you would always beg off on actually going in with her. Aemond had only ever made one explicit offer, back when he was only weeks into having had claimed Vhagar, and you had been humiliatingly forceful in your denial. It was an embarrassing memory to look back on, one that you always cringed away from even thinking about. Even now, you can remember how you had stammered out a no, citing a recent newfound fear of heights and a mystery injury that had rendered you incapable of climbing up the tangled web of ropes that constituted Vhagar’s harness. You had been petrified to hurt his feelings, so soon after Driftmark, but Aemond had taken your rejection remarkably well even if he had looked insufferably amused by your poor excuses.

Yet another mark against you as an actress.

Aemond had never asked you again though he was remarkably transparent in his desire for you to meet Vhagar. He’d always announce when he was going to go see her, making sure that you were in earshot, and, once, when you were both years younger, he had made a grand show of having commissioned a large saddle of Vhagar - large enough to fit two.

His brothers, surprisingly, were less single-minded in their attempts to convince you to warm up to their sigil. Daeron, in the early years when Tessarion had been comparatively small and he would come to visit, would cheerfully invite you to come feed her with him, seemingly oblivious to the way you would grimace at the thought of seeing a dragon feast on a goat again as you had as a little girl. Aegon was, shockingly enough, the Targaryen least invested in your interest in dragons. While he was always prone to bragging about Sunfyre’s beauty, he hoarded moments with him to himself, zealously protecting his time with his dragon with such fervor that one would almost think that he was paranoid someone would steal Sunfyre out from under him.

No, your lack of fondness for the dragons the Targaryens rode was hardly a secret.

But it feels wrong to say that now.

Now, when all of your intentions had been laid bare at Aemond’s feet. Now, when you’re holding onto Aemond without nervous fear creeping up your throat, without the anxieties of wondering if he wanted you half as much as you wanted him.

No, you couldn’t say that.

“Perhaps,” you start slowly, the words dragging themselves out of you slowly, sluggishly as if your own body was rebelling against what you were about to say. “I would want to meet her. I… I imagine it’s time I see her.”

You feel a jerk on your arm and you stop short, turning to gape at Aemond. He’s completely stopped in the middle of the hallway, staring so intently at you that for a moment, you fear that your very skin will light on fire where his eyes trail on you. You’ve pulled away from him slightly, the most space between your bodies since you had stood in your place next to him during the ceremony, but your hand is still loosely gripping his arm, a tether between the two of you.

“Do you mean that, my lady?” He asks softly, as if he’s scared you’ll take it back, as if he’s nervous you’ll snatch your own words out of the air and push him away.

Around you, your guards slide to a stop behind the pair of you, a crimson wall between the two of you and the rest of the nobility approaching. There are only moments until they’ll be pressing down on your sacred space.

But you don’t look over at them. You look at him.

You feel like a ten-year-old again, sitting at your table in the library, eyes wide as you stare up at Aemond. If you try, you can almost erase the grown man in front of you and slot in a ten-year-old boy, his head wrapped in bandages, his mouth set in a determined line. He had been holding books in his arms, tight to his chest like a shield to protect himself with.

Had he been nervous? You can’t quite remember. Maybe he had been shaking. Maybe his teasing smile after had been hiding the hurt in his eyes. You can’t remember, can’t remember anything but the way it had felt as if your own stomach had dropped to the very ground at the mere idea of approaching the Queen of All Dragons.

You lick your lips, mouth dry. Despite the nerves creeping up your spine, the primal fear that threatens to settle in your bones, there’s only one answer you can give.

“Yes,” you say, voice soft and gentle, almost like a whispered promise down in these winding tunnels where dragons make their home. “Yes, I will meet her.”

Aemond Targaryen is all sharp edges and white knuckles, a dragon’s rage contained within one man. Just two days ago, he had plunged a sword through a man’s throat and stood victorious over him, had been hungry for more and for you. He was proud and lethal, fire and blood embodied.

There’s little trace of that man now.

Now, he stares at you as if this is the first time he’s ever seen you before. His gaze is almost unbearably soft, unbearably gentle. Even as children, he’s never been this open, this completely vulnerable.

Your heart clenches painfully in your chest.

A near decade since Driftmark. A near decade you’ve denied Aemond this.

You tug on his arm, beckoning Aemond to keep up, and this time, he’s dependent on you guiding him through the winding tunnels. His eyes stay on you, scanning you for any sign that you’re reluctant.

You’re not, however. More than your fear, more than your anxieties, you feel remorse creeping up your throat.

It’s an ugly, sickly feeling. You’re not used to guilt, not used to feeling sorry. You like moving people like chess pieces, the subtle art of manipulation, exercising your control and power.

But not with Aemond.

Never with Aemond.

And now, he’s caught you twice in a mere few days.

Your stomach still churns at the memory of when he had revealed that your intentions had always been plain. He had seemingly been okay with it, had seemingly appreciated that you had pursued him, but a part of you still wants to apologize for it.

Just not here.

You can feel the eyes of the nobility behind, peering through the wall of crimson cloaks that can’t quite shield you from their prying eyes. What you want to say deserves to just be his, your’s and his alone with no danger of someone stepping in and interrupting.

You already had to share him with the rest of the world. You didn’t want to have to share this too.

For just a moment’s breath, you allow yourself to lean into Aemond, pressing your side into his, resting your head on his arm. It’s only for a moment but you soak it in, trying your best to commit to memory the feel of his toned arm under your cheek, the way his body shifts to accommodate you, always aware of you as if you’re burned into his periphery, another part of him as he is to you.

You pull away, curling your hand around his arm. He doesn’t say anything but his other hand floats up, moving to cover your own, squeezing it tight.

You walk deeper into the tunnels, the crashing footsteps of King’s Landing all around you.

——————————–

The sunlight is almost unbearable after the tunnels. The sconces had done little to acclimate your eyes and when the narrow passageways open up to the bright blue cloudless sky, you reel back on instinct, turning your face away from the relentless sun. Blessedly, the ground is smoother out here, the rock having been worn down from decades of wagons and the heavy feet of dragons, and you move forward blindly before your eyes adjust.

You’re at the base of Rhaenys’ Hill, away from the grand entrance with its soaring arches and bronze doors. Here, the trees have receded, giving way to a few brick houses that line the bottom of the hill, houses that you know are large and luxurious but somehow seem so quaint in the shadow of the Dragonpit. In the distance, you can see the walls of King’s Landing, looming high over the city. From your vantage, you make out the Dragon Gate with its oversized dragon statues serving as sentinels, the golden bronze serving as a beacon to denote its location. If you turn your head west, you can just see the Old Gate though your sight of it is obscured by the massive mansions that surround it, populated by the richest merchants in the city.

Out here, in the barely fresh air, it almost feels like a world removed from the crowded Dragonpit or even the lined streets of the capital. There are no smallfolk jostling to catch a glimpse at the gilded few. There is no cheering, no screaming. There are just rows and rows of wheelhouses, servants standing at the ready next to them, such a familiar sight that it borders on the mundane. It feels, for the first time all day, normal.

It’s almost sickening.

It feels like you should have walked out to a world on fire. The buildings should have shifted, rearranged themselves to fit this new reality, but all of it is the same. It’s the King’s Landing you’ve grown up with. The King’s Landing you’ll die with.

You dig your thumbnail deep into your own palm, using the small jolt of pain to anchor yourself back into the moment, to quell your own mounting disappointment at this new bitter reality.

Aemond leads you down to the closest ring of wheelhouses, towards the gathered crowd of his family. You spare a glance over your shoulder. It’s a mass of people, all of them more finely dressed than the last, but Lannisters have always stood a head and shoulder above all the rest and that stays true even now. Jason and Tyland are tall and Tygett is even taller and, through seeing them, you can spot the smaller figures of your cousins and distant uncles surrounding them, even as deep as they are in the crowd of nobles.

“I imagine my father will come to fetch me soon enough,” you muse quietly to Aemond, eying the massive crowd that separates you from them.

Aemond spares you a look, his delicate mouth downturned. “You’re free to ride with us in our wheelhouse. There’s room to spare since I believe Princess Rhaenys will ride with her house and Grandfather has some matters to discuss with Lord Hightower in his wheelhouse.”

You hide a smile before shaking your head. “I’m a Lannister, my prince. I may live with dragons but I’m a lion and I go with the rest of the pride for now.”

“For now,” Aemond repeats and you don’t bother hiding your crooked smile now.

“For now,” you echo.

You rejoin his family by his wheelhouse and, the instant you arrive, Alicent descends upon the two of you, her hands fluttering up to brush off nonexistent dust off of Aemond’s tunic.

“You both did lovely,” Alicent praises, offering you both nervous smiles, and you instantly recognize the look in her eye, the energy that seems to pour out of her fingertips and fill the air with a cautious, staticky charge. She’s coming down from an impossible high - for all intents and purposes, she could still be riding that high, still drunk off the adrenaline.

You smile back at her, feeling a similar pulse of nervous energy coursing through your veins even as you bow your head in gratitude. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’d like to congratulate you on the beautiful ceremony - all of it, every single last detail, was an absolute marvel.”

Alicent’s smile softens, losing some of that manic quality and turning into something warmer. There’s a flicker of pride on her face, that age-old feeling of success and satisfaction. It makes her look that much younger, more overeager girl desperate for a pat on the head from her septa than a Queen carrying the burden of seven kingdoms on her back.

She is young if you think about it. If your math is correct, she’s over a decade younger than your own mother and Cerelle is not even a year older than Aegon. Your stomach twists at the thought, at the age she must have been during her first pregnancies. It had been a miracle that no harm had come to Alicent or to any of her babes.

Your mind flashes to Helaena, to the fact that now that she was wedded and soon to be bedded, her first child would come soon enough. That familiar, tell-tale nausea of anxiety begins to creep up your throat and you swallow it down thickly, trying desperately to bury it deep within you, alongside all the other anxieties that haunt your every move. Helaena is older than her mother had been. Helaena is stong - healthy.

You forcibly drag your focus back onto Alicent, just in time to see her bow her head in gratitude, pulling away from Aemond to give the two of you some space. As soon as she moves, however, Daeron takes her place, beaming brightly. His hair is slightly messier than it had been earlier, some of the delicate braids knocked askew as if he had run his hand through the tresses, but all of it only serves to give him a boyish charm. He’s still otherworldly, still more beautiful than anyone has any right to be, but he’s unmistakably human, unmistakably a boy.

It warms you right up and you smile more easily at him, part of you wishing you could reach out and muss up his curls even further. Boy that he is, and as close to adulthood as he is, something in his rosy cheeks and his bright eyes reminds you of Joy, of your little sister with her own rosy cheeks and bright eyes.

“I think you were right, Aemond,” Daeron says, grinning. “All of it went smoothly. Maybe the sun is a blessing for Valyrian weddings? Keep them warm and all of that.”

“As smoothly as it could,” Aemond drawls, seemingly unaffected by the warmth that his brother seems to exhibit like a little sun of his own. You suppose he’s rather used to it, having had him for years before little Daeron had been shipped off to Oldtown. You imagine he was even freer in his affection and kindness as a little boy but somehow, it’s impossible to imagine Daeron being any more sweet. “Helaena and Aegon will need every blessing the Gods see fit to give them.”

You snort, completely unladylike to the point you can feel the ghost pain of your childhood septa rapping you on the knuckles with her ruler. Neither prince seems to mind so you barrel forward. “If an entire day of prayers solely devoted to their union can’t conjure up some goodwill and luck, I pray the sun will do the trick.”

Daeron laughs. “I bet everyone else in the city is also praying for them too. They all want their future princes and princesses to be healthy - especially the heir. I’m sure they’re praying for them as they prayed for Mother and Father.”

You hide a smile but Aemond makes no such effort, looking supremely amused by his younger brother’s guileless treason. Daeron says it as if it’s a settled fact, a law of nature - not the most dangerous dispute to threaten House Targaryen since perhaps Maegor the Cruel. In a way, you suppose it is.

Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne. He may not be a named heir but calling something by a different name did not change the facts, could not shift the foundations that all of Westeros was built upon.

It is not treason to see the truth.

No one has ever said it so plainly and with such clear language though. You wonder if Daeron even has it in him to be duplicitous, to weave lies in with the truth until it was interchangeable in the same way his grandfather could.

No, you think as you look him over. He’s far too gentle for it, far too chivalrous. He’s the son of Alicent Hightower or, at least, the son of the gentle girl she must have been before the throne turned her into the woman she had to be.

“If the Gods see to bless them, then they will be blessed,” you say in as sincere a voice you can muster. You sound so devout that even the High Septon could not find fault with you but, judging from the tremble of Aemond’s arm tucked into your’s from his suppressing his laughter, you’ve failed with at least one person.

Daeron smiles at you, smaller than his previous grins but all the more sincere. “You’re right, my lady.”

“She rarely isn’t,” Aemond says, sounding entirely too smug to be praising you. “With the exception of her evaluation of her own acting skills.”

You scowl, immediately losing whatever minimal glow you had earned through your holy act. “I was ten and it clearly worked.”

“You used to act?” Daeron asks, looking like a child who’s just been handed a new toy.

You flush. “I didn’t. He’s poking fun.”

At the same time, Aemond says, “She used to. She was terrible but she has improved.”

Daeron laughs gleefully, his amethyst eyes flashing with unbridled joy. “My lady, I had no idea you were a thespian.”

“My sister,” you say, rather than explaining your storied past with acting with regards to Aemond in particular. “She fancies herself a would-be playwright. She’s always scribbling away on any scrap piece of parchment she can find.”

The youngest Targaryen prince tilts his head in response. “Is she good? Have you read her plays?”

You smile slightly. “I tried my best to read them when I was home, my prince, but she guards them more zealously than some dragons guard their treasure.” Aemond snorts quietly next to you, clearly amused by your little barb, and Daeron’s gaze turns all that fonder at his older brother’s obvious satisfaction. “I’m afraid the only writing of Jeyne’s I’ve read in recent memory is her letters,” you finish, sighing slightly.

It certainly hadn’t been due to lack of effort. You had cajoled, attempted bribery, even tried to (unconvincingly) threaten her. Short of locking her in her room, you had no way of getting the opportunity to read Jeyne’s plays. When the two of you were younger, you could hardly go a day without her shoving sheets of parchment in your face, staining your dress sleeves with the ink on her fingers with the way she would tug on them to beg you to read them over. When you had returned home, you had been the one chasing her down, begging for even a morsel of her thoughts.

Just another way that your world has shifted in a way you’re never going to get back.

“I’m sure she’s a great talent,” Daeron says, cheerful and amiable. He’s so sincere that you imagine even the High Septon could find no fault with him though you are certain he would try.

“Like the rest of her sisters, my Jeyne is a rare talent,” your father’s voice cuts through the din and you start slightly, turning to the source. Behind your father, you can see your uncle speaking with Lord Otto and the Queen, Tygett and Tygett’s own father and uncles at his side.

You bow your head at your father in greeting and, next to you, Aemond and Daeron do the same, Aemond deeper than his brother. This doesn’t pass Jason’s keen eyes and his gaze turns sharper, more mischievous boy than a High Lord, and you fight the urge to bury your head in your hands.

Your father will always have his fun.

“Prince Aemond,” Jason says, his voice high and lofty, and Aemond straightens next to you, his normal rigid posture even stiffer. Your father’s eyes sharpen at the shift, looking distinctly leonine, and even Daeron looks absolutely delighted by the turn of events. “I didn’t get the chance to congratulate you directly but House Lannister would like to extend our thanks for honoring my daughter as you have.”

Aemond bows his head again. “She brings herself honor, my lord. I was only given the opportunity to bring the rest of the capital’s attention to it.”

Jason laughs, so clearly amused, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from saying something. Knowing your father, it would only make this game he’s playing all that more fun. “The rest of the capital? After the tourney, I’m afraid the rest of the kingdoms are all too aware of my daughter’s honor now. On my way to the Dragonpit, I could hear some songs being sung through the walls of my wheelhouse. My uncle’s granddaughters were enraptured - they’re already asking their fathers to bring some bards back to Lannisport so they can share the songs with the other members of House Lannister.”

A thrill crawls its way up your spine. You certainly haven’t heard any songs - not that you would have had the chance to hear them - and you had known that the bards would do as they always do and write their songs. The pretty little story that the tourney had provided them with had been too good, too perfect, for them to resist.

But it actually happening is something else entirely.

You don’t dare look up at Aemond now, not when you’re certain it’d be impossible to hide from his amethyst eye, and the sight of your father’s increasingly amused face makes you want to crawl into your own skin to hide so you stay quiet, praying that the conversation will end.

Daeron, however, has no such qualms.

“Really?” He exclaims, so audibly delighted that you look over at him without even thinking. He’s brightened up entirely, grinning so wide that one would think that the bards were writing their songs about him. “Are they any good?”

Jason laughs, similarly pleased to have found someone to play along with his charade. “I’m no great expert on songs, my prince. You’ll have to ask my cousins for an educated opinion.”

Daeron laughs. “Perhaps a bard or two will sing a song at the wedding feast.”

“Perhaps not,” you intervene, sniffing delicately, unable to hold back your tongue. Next to you, Aemond snorts quietly. “This is Helaena’s wedding. Not mine. The singers should stick to the classics rather than trying out any new material on everyone.”

“Give it time, sweetling,” Jason teases and his voice has taken a softer tone, his smile just that much warmer. “Soon you and your dragon prince’s songs will be the classics. You’ll be begging for them to play new songs then.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes, and, against your own better judgment, you glance up at Aemond in hopes of finding an ally in this battle with your father and his unexpected ally Daeron. Predictably, he looks horribly amused as if this was all a big game to him, a show being put on for him. But he’s not just amused. There’s a shine to his eye, a gleam of something that isn’t just barely concealed laughter.

It’s warming. It’s gentle. It’s intoxicating.

You quickly look away, suddenly all too aware of the consequences of looking at him here, in front of your own father.

The thought of providing Jason Lannister with that much ammunition is almost too much to bear.

“We’ll have time to continue this at the feast,” Jason finally says, shedding the skin of a teasing young boy and donning his high lord costume. “In fact… Your Queen Mother and I have planned a tea for tomorrow. Just a simple meeting. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Nothing to be concerned about? You could almost laugh out loud. There would be nothing simple about a tea with the Queen - not one following a declaration of intents. Your father and Alicent would sit down and discuss joining their two houses, probing politely at the bones of a bethoral contract without overplaying their hand. If they were even feeling particularly productive, they could likely even hammer out the larger details of one - questions about your dowry, bridal payments, properties to inherit and divide. Knowing your father, he would be sure to push trade contracts that would heavily favor House Lannister, maybe try to slide in a chance for another marriage contract for Jeyne or Joy.

Tomorrow would be a starting point. It would be the first move to lay down the foundation on which your and Aemond’s futures would be built on top of.

Your mouth dries in anticipation.

“Yes,” you echo, letting a small smile slip on your face. “We have a tea tomorrow. There will be much to discuss.”

Your father smiles, pleased by your easy obedience, and Daeron grins, delighted by another chance to tease and poke at his brother.

But Aemond…

When you tilt your head up to look at Aemond, that gentle warmth has fled from his sole eye. There’s a curve to his lips still but it isn’t amusement or laughter.

No.

This is him moving with you, him responding on sheer instinct alone to the gnawing ambition that lays claim to your peripheries, pushing and pushing inwards until you can see nothing else.

This is him seeing your hunger.

And this is his answering your call.

——————————–

Sometime after the wheelhouse’s easy travel on smooth dirt roads gives way to the familiar bumping and jostling of the cobblestone roads of King’s Landing, you hear the roar of a dragon.

It’s like a shot in the dark, so loud and invasive that it slices through your father and uncle’s easy conversation without remorse, and you freeze for a moment, primal urge overtaking any rational thought.

Don’t move. You can’t be seen if you don’t move.

The impulse leaves you quick enough and you’re left with just a fading sense of embarrassment as you turn to one of the many windows that line House Lannister’s grandest wheelhouse. Sliding one open, you peer up to the sky in time to see a golden shine break apart the endless blue.

Sunfyre. Beautiful and peerless.

You frown slightly as you look up at his shape gliding delicately through the air, more graceful than any beast of that size had any right to be. You couldn’t hear the telltale sound of Dreamfyre’s wings beating loud and clear or see her blue scales glinting in the sun. There was no sign of Helaena’s companion which meant that there was only place that the girl herself could be.

Helaena and Aegon were riding together.

The thought makes you slide the window shut and you slump back in your seat, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth. Aegon was notoriously possessive of his dragon - all of his rings were styled after Sunfyre, obnoxiously ostentatious things, and most of his clothes were embroidered with metallic thread in an attempt to capture even a sliver of his beauty. Since reaching adulthood, he had forced the Dragonpit keepers to swear off approaching Sunfyre even to feed the dragon, preferring to do the gruesome task himself. If you’re being honest, you doubt there’s even another relationship in his life that would come close to his uncomplicated and free passion towards his own personal sigil.

And now Helaena had invaded that sacred space.

Even just a week ago, you would have gambled everything on Aegon preferring to be bathed in fire rather than allowing any of his siblings to ride alongside him on his one treasure. He coveted Sunfyre something fierce, more possessive of him than he was of anything else.

Yet Helaena was with him.

You’re not sure what it means.

Aegon loves his sister - you know that as surely as you know that you love his sister - but he didn’t love his sister and that maybe mattered more now. Aegon and Helaena would be no Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Good Queen Alysanne whose love for each other only dimmed in comparison to their love for the realm.

But maybe they could be something better. Something more than their parents with their glacial relationship. Something more stable than their grandparents and their infamous Quarrels.

You sigh, pushing the thought out of your mind. There would be plenty of time in the future to worry and fuss about Helaena and Aegon’s relationship and how the realm would view it. There would be plenty of time to plan how you would twist Westeros into cherishing it. You had enough to worry about for today.

Namely the feast.

“I wonder how Queen Alicent will outdo herself tonight,” you muse out loud, drawing your father and uncle’s attention to yourself. “She’s guarded her plans rather zealously.”

Tyland snorts quietly. “It’s certainly been a grand expense. Lord Beesbury has not stopped fussing about the cost of this and that to anyone who will listen even though the Hightowers are paying for most of it from their own coffers. You’d think the expenses are coming straight from his own purse with the way he goes on about it.”

You hum, letting a mischievous smile slip on your face. “Lord Beesbury, may the Gods forgive me for saying so, much prefers the sound of his voice rather than putting forth any meaningful solutions. He’s never been fond of the Queen and he’s even less fond of her children. It’s a miracle that the Lord Hand managed to loosen his grip on the purse of the Targaryens to fund even the tourney.”

Your uncle nods in agreement, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “He’s Lord of Honeyholt. They’re always getting the castoffs of House Hightower and old Lyman is no exception to the animosity his House has nursed for centuries now. I sometimes wonder if he’s really so fond of Princess Rhaenyra as he likes to say he is or if he just hates the alternative. He himself has a daughter older than his heir and you don’t see him pushing her first in his line of succession.”

Jason shakes his head, looking genuinely annoyed. “They should have retired Lord Beesbury years ago. He’s senile in his old age. It’s a miracle he doesn’t crumble into dust whenever he bumps against something.”

You blink, somewhat caught off guard by your father’s frustration. “Is he really that old?” You prompt, eager to coax more of his true thoughts out of him.

“He was old when they placed him on the small council, sweetling,” Jason scoffs. “He’s even older now.”

Tyland grins at his brother, looking absolutely tickled by his twin’s simmering anger. “You’ve never gotten over the fact that King Viserys snubbed Uncle Stafford for him.”

“More that he snubbed you,” Jason shoots back. “Master of Coin should be yours. You’re a Lannister - who knows gold better than us?”

You nod slowly. “If King Viserys was smart, he’d offer you, Uncle Tyland, Master of Coin and offer Master of Ships to Corlys Velaryon if not his brother. Bring the Velaryons back to the fold. Everyone knows that they’ve split from Princess Rhaenyra.”

“If,” Tyland murmurs, raising an eyebrow, and you stifle a laugh. “Besides… The Queen and her father hold the throne now, truly, and they might be hard-pressed to convince the Velaryons to come to their side. I don’t doubt that the Sea Snake still harbors a grudge for King Viserys passing over Lady Laena for Alicent Hightower.”

“The Sea Snake,” you say without thinking. “Not Princess Rhaenys. She’s a Velaryon and, like Queen Alicent, she holds her House’s power while her husband fights an endless war in the Stepstones.”

Jason leans forward slightly, quirking up a brow. “Since when have you been so close to Princess Rhaenys?”

“I’m not,” you reply. “But I’m not a Hightower or a Targaryen and that seems to count for something in her eyes. She clearly wants to foster a connection where her husband did not if she accepted the role of the Crone. Moreover to the point, I believe she’s… Fond of me.”

“Fond?” Tyland now questions you.

You shrug, flashing a smile. “Fond. Like a lady and her pet. I imagine she’d be surprised to find anything in my head that wasn’t revolving around Aemond or Helaena.”

Jason hums, leaning back in his seat. He starts drumming his fingers against his thigh, eerily echoing his brother perfectly. “Princess Rhaenys always liked to think that she was cleverer than everyone around her by far. She never did quite live up to her own expectations.”

She is clever, you muse, keeping your thoughts to yourself. But she’s too stubborn to approach allies - not when she can wait for them to approach her. She harbors the same grudge that her husband does towards the Hightowers. She can’t move past what Rhaenyra and Daemon did to her children. She’s isolated herself in a war where she’ll need allies to survive.

She would need to pick a side eventually if only to keep herself and her granddaughters afloat.

The only question was which side would snap her up first.

“The key to the throne is through the Velaryons, through Princess Rhaenys,” you say quietly. Jason tilts his head at you but Tyland nods at you, immediately understanding. “Securing her means securing her husband’s fleet and bringing two dragons with her.”

“Two?” Jason asks.

You nod, thinking of bared teeth and sharp purple eyes narrowed in your direction. “Lady Baela,” you say slowly, mulling over your words before you say them. “I do not believe she’s… as dedicated to Princess Rhaenyra’s claim as people think. She resents her for the shame she brought upon her mother by marrying Prince Daemon so fast.”

“Prince Daemon is her father,” Tyland says, more out of prompting you to continue with your logic rather than truly reminding you.

You tilt your head, playing with your sleeves slightly as you ponder what to say. “She’s loyal to her sister before anything else. I think… she may be more loyal to House Velaryon than to House Targaryen. Surely, that would mean something to her father.”

Jason snorts. “Prince Daemon deflowered the Realm’s Delight. He took a second wife and shamed Rhea Royce before a fall saved her from that humiliation. There are even more stories about him that would make your ears bleed, sweetling. He covets the throne. Always has. I doubt even his daughter could sway him from a lifelong dream being so close to his grasp.”

“Perhaps he does not need to be swayed,” Tyland murmurs. “A mad dog is only dangerous if it’s off its leash.”

“He is not a dog,” you reply. “He’s a dragon and those are rather hard to leash. If his own brother could not do it, I doubt we’d have much luck even with his daughter.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Your uncle asks and the look in his eye gives you pause for the first time in this conversation. He’s searching you, looking into you. He knows what your answer would be but he wants to draw it out of you, wants you to admit it to him, to your father. He wants your resolve to be firm. “How would you manage Daemon Targaryen?”

Silence hangs in the wheelhouse. Outside, you can hear the constant hum of people, the sound of hooves hitting the cobblestones, the shouted orders of City’s Watch.

Inside, you stare down at your uncle.

“I wouldn’t manage him,” you finally say, your voice steady. “I would kill him.”

Tyland’s eyes glint with something and you don’t dare look away, not even with your father looking at you with the same inquisitive stare. “And Rhaenyra Targaryen?”

Your breath catches in your throat and Helaena flashes in your mind. Helaena who had nothing in common with her sister but everything in common with who she had once been to Alicent Hightower.

“If I must,” you finally respond. “If I need to.”

“You’ll be kin by the time this would be necessary,” Jason finally says and your eyes swing to look at him. “She’d be your sister by law. He’d be your uncle by law.”

“No one is as accursed as the kinslayer,” you say on instinct, the phrase coming to you as easily as breathing. This time, you see Aemond. You see Aemond and dusty books and can hear you whisper about Brandon the Breaker and the night’s king. “There are kinslayers in every line,” you finally say, echoing your childish self. “What’s one more?”

“There are septons who would demand your tongue for that, little one,” Tyland muses, smiling all the while.

You shrug. “They’re not in here, are they?”

“Even if there was,” Jason starts, still peering at you as if he’s never seen you before. “I can’t imagine they’d have much sway on you.”

“Septons can be useful,” you reply, thinking of the High Septon with his clear gray eyes, with his rainbow crown. “I believe in them, I do, but I value my family, mine, over any of their words.”

“Your family is a mite larger than just lions,” Jason says, no question in his voice.

You meet his green eyes head-on, straightening up. “You sent me here,” you remind him, feeling that years-long grudge, that childish anger you could never quite free yourself from, rear its ugly head. “You told me to find a space for myself in the royal family. I did. I have. You cannot fault me for its consequences. Lannisters protect their own - at all costs and damn the consequences. I just have more to protect now than I did at ten.”

Jason looks at you, his eyes looking all over you as if he’ll find the answer written somewhere on your body. Maybe he’s searching, you muse almost fancifully, for the little girl he had sent away, the little girl he had damned to the capitol with its endless hate and its even more endless schemes. Maybe he’s wondering who this stranger that took her place is, this stranger that sends her sister off to freeze in the North, who wears a crown of bloody flowers like a prize, who walks amongst dragons.

You can’t miss her now, you almost want to say out of sheer spite. Not now when you didn’t want her then. You bite the inside of your cheek, knowing that’s more than unfair. It would just be cruel. Vicious.

It doesn’t make the desire to say it go away, doesn’t stop the anger from bubbling underneath your skin.

Finally, Jason smiles. That same old friendly smile that always disarmed your resentment, took away its teeth to make it into something docile. It’s the same smile that had coaxed you into the Sunset Sea after him, the same one he would give you the few times he had allowed you to crawl onto his lap during the summer storms.

You wish it didn’t work just as well now as it had back then.

“Hear me roar,” he says, grinning at you like you’re sharing a funny joke.

You simply nod, not wanting to speak anymore.

——————————–

None of the chaos of the earlier week of feasting seems to compare to the maelstrom that has gripped the halls of the Red Keep now. It feels impossible to move without having to elbow at least five of your cousins out of the way and not even your father and uncle forming a small retinue around you seems to clear your path any.

Perhaps I should have taken Aemond up on his offer you grumble in your head, eying the crowded hall outside the throne room with disdain. At least with the royal family, you doubt you would have had to wade through what seems like every single noble family in Westeros.

Up ahead, towards the entrance of the throne room, you can see the poor servant in charge of informing Ser Harrold of the next family to enter so that the Lord Commander can announce it. He looks harried and stressed, seconds from pulling his own hair out with his bare hands and you feel a flash of pity for him. Aside from the major houses, sure to be announced first, the minor lords must be haranguing him to be bumped up the list, to inflate their own self-importance by calling their name closer to the high lords.

It’d be a pointless exercise - you doubt people listen to the names if they’re not a major house and even then, you doubt most would care if it’s not their high lord being called.

You watch the servant for a few beats longer, fighting the urge to laugh when he gets shoved back by a lord only for the lord to realize that that was the man in charge of the procession. You’re so engrossed in observing that you miss the first whisper of your name. It takes a few more times but you finally register it and you turn slightly to see Jocata standing next to you, her big green eyes peering up at you anxiously.

You furrow your brows slightly as you look at her, more baffled than annoyed. Aside from the final day of the tourney, when she had complimented your crown blood and all, she has practically hidden herself from your sight, trembling like a leaf when your gaze did fall on her. You had silently resigned yourself to having soured that relationship for good but now she’s here, standing in front of you looking as if she would rather be anywhere than there.

“My lady,” she starts, her voice trembling as she takes a deep inhale to steel herself.

“You’re my cousin,” you interject before she can say her next bit, frowning slightly. “There’s no need to stand on etiquette between the two of us.”

Her lip shakes and you distantly wonder if she’d have a better go of it if you looked away or closed your eyes. She says your name weakly, shyly, as if she’s trying it out for the first time in her life and not having had used it for the eternity of your relationship with her. “I just wanted to… I ran away last time and it wasn’t right and I… I wanted to congratulate you on your crown… and apologize again for my role in Ser Victor’s favor.”

It’s a credit to her that she doesn’t burst into tears but she does look dangerously close to it, her pale cheeks a brighter red than either of your two dresses. You smile at her, trying your very best to put her at ease. “Just see to it that men don’t take further advantage of your innocence, Jocasta,” you warn. “It’ll only get more and more difficult the older that you get.”

Jocasta sniffles, nodding her head, looking distinctly like a scolded puppy. “I understand. I won’t… I won’t fall for it again. But I wanted to offer you a true apology. Not… Not what I had tried to do.”

She’s too soft to be a Lannister you think without any malice or anger as you look at her. She’s kind, gentle, sweet - all the markings of a lady and none of the characteristics of the house she called her own. With any luck, her husband would be a knight, a true knight who could uphold his vows and honor and cherish his lady wife. You somehow doubt her father would prioritize that, likely more concerned with increasing his own wealth as the third son of a second son, far removed from the main line and its heir, but you hope for it regardless.

“Of course Jocasta,” you finally say, reaching out to squeeze her hand, and she blinks at you before a small hesitant smile lights up her face.

“I prayed for Prince Aemond in the melee,” she whispers as if it's a secret she’s confessing. “I went to the sept and I lit a candle for him at the Warrior statue. I lit one for you too in front of the Maiden. Not because I knew you were going to the Maiden in the wedding party b-but just because I thought she should bless you regardless.”

Your breath hitches, caught off guard, and, wildly, you remember your fervent prayers that day, remember perfectly how much you had wished you had been able to light a candle for Aemond at the Warrior’s feet. Sweet Jocasta had. She had lit one for him and you.

You squeeze her hand again. “Thank you,” you murmur, wishing you could say more without tripping over your own words.

Jocasta just gives you another smile before she pulls away, walking beyond you to seek refuge among her sisters and brothers and cousins. You stare at the spot she had been occupying, turning the feeling of gratitude over and over in your mind, trying your best to force it to solidify into something you can do. Something you could reward her with for her good nature, for her gentle soul.

A good marriage is the only thing you can think of. Perhaps even an offer to serve in the royal court as a lady in waiting for you and Helaena. She could better her odds here, away from Lannisport where only lions roamed, but it would be dangerous here. She was too soft for the cesspit that formed King’s Landing and the Red Keep. The snakes in the court would eat her alive, and would strive to take advantage of her at every turn. Her Lannister name would protect her - some - but she’d still be subject to the court politics that haunted everything around her.

You bite your lip, moving forward on instinct when your father and uncle step closer and closer to the entrance to the throne room. There wouldn’t be much time to debate this or any time at all. Your cousins were scheduled to leave in the next couple of days. They’d possibly be delayed a few days if your father formalized a betrothal contract with the Targaryens but he could hold that card close to his chest. Cerelle’s marriage with Cregan Stark was sure to break soon and the announcement of a royal engagement could prove loud enough to drown out the whispers around that.

You wouldn’t be surprised if Cerelle’s new role as Lady Stark would be talked about tonight. If she was riding out to gather her new husband’s bannermen for him, more than a few of those lords would let any allies in the South know about the shock of a Stark lord taking a Southern wife for the first time in their long history and that wife being a Lannister of all things. Her letter couldn’t have possibly beaten all that gossip and could have very possibly been delayed if everything had happened as fast as she had said it had.

A part of you that isn’t preoccupied with whirling plans and ideas childishly longs for the next raven to be carrying a letter for you; that with it Cerelle will either castigate you or soothe your guilt. Either way, you want to hear her voice, read her words. You miss your oldest sister with a fierceness you haven’t felt in years. It had been different all the times before - you had always been secure in knowing that she was safe in Casterly Rock with your other sisters and your mother. Now, she’s in the frozen North, married to a man no one in your family has ever met before, far from your grasp and she would be for the foreseeable future.

Suddenly it feels like there’s no time at all. No time with Jocasta. No time with Cerelle. No time for anything. Everything is speeding up more than it had ever before, threatening to leave you in the lurch.

That familiar tight ball of pain begins to bear down on your chest, crushing your lungs and your heart under its weight, and it’s only the gentle call of that poor, harried servant that knocks you out of it.

When you come back to it, you’re standing right by the door of the throne room, positioned to the right of your father while your uncle occupies his left. Ser Harrold looks over at you and, as is customary with him, he spares you that little smile that you know has always been meant more for your mother than it has ever been meant for you.

You smile back though, completely instinctual, reminding yourself that this is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Who cares if he only likes you because you were the walking mirror image of Johanna Westerling, born looking more like your mother than any trueborn Lannister had any right to be? What mattered was that he liked you.

He looks over at your father and the warmth that he had held in his eyes for you slips away when he looks at Lord Lannister, replacing it with the stern face of one of the greatest knights in the realm.

He nods at Jason and your father nods and you take a deep, settling breath.

“House Lannister, with their lord, Jason Lannister. Lord Paramount of the West and Master of Casterly Rock.” Ser Harrold booms, loud and thunderous, and the endless chatter of the throne room, of all the lords and ladies of the regions that had gone before the Westerlands, ends and a silence settles across the room.

Your house moves as one.

The throne room is an impossible marvel, burning sconces of different colored flames illuminating the tables, mini suns lighting the room and making the banners and the tapestries glow with an otherworldly gleam.

Making House Lannister glow.

Underneath the flickering fires, the veins of gold within your dress glitter endlessly, the delicate rubies and emeralds woven within gleaming with a vengeance. Your bust and corset are covered with this, armorlike if not for the fact that it's molded perfectly to your body, tailored so perfectly that it clings like a second skin. The jewels stop at your waist, giving way to the crimson velvet that forms the skirt and train of your gown but the tendrils of gold continue, swirling and spinning in careful spirals down your body and skirt.

It is by far the most expensive thing you’ve ever worn, more expensive, you’d wager, than all the gowns and jewels some houses could bear to afford. It was the most extravagant show of wealth at this wedding - it would be obnoxious if it wasn’t so Lannister. Showing off your riches came as easy to you as breathing. Lann the Clever had won the Rock from the Casterlys and that made this your right.

Your father leads the procession to the royal table, somehow even more confidence in his step than ever before. He’s secured a grand prize, after all; a prince for his daughter. He walks like it too, smugness radiating from his every pore, as proud as he’s ever been. One would think that he was the one all but set to marry into the royal family.

When your family arrives at the foot of the Iron Throne, you all bow deep. When you rise, you look over in instinct at Aemond’s seat. Dimly, you recognize Daeron sitting in Helaena’s old seat, accommodating the shift to have Helaena and Aegon sitting together in the center, but he’s almost blurred in your periphery as you stare at Aemond.

He’s changed from his warrior outfit into a tunic more fit for a feast - fit for a prince. The black velvet is fitted to his chest perfectly, emphasizing his slender build to the point your mouth dries. Embossed on his chest, three dragons twist and curl around each other, each so distinct that you immediately recognize them as the dragons that conquered Westeros, and your lips tug up into a smile when you recognize the familiar shape of Vhagar front and center. Some of his long hair is braided up away from his face, the braids like a pattern against his scalp, but the majority falls like a sheet around his face. He’s so far removed from what he had been wearing earlier - a nobleman now rather than the living manifestation of a god. Even like this though, even without wearing the robes of the Warrior, he’s still undeniable, still holy and sanctified.

Your body lights up again, deep in your core and spreading out into your chest, and you feel the sudden desire to pray at his own altar, to prostrate yourself in front of him, to kneel and worship.

Your mouth runs even drier and you snap yourself back into focus, suddenly feeling too warm inside the throne room. You feel a hot desire for the cool air of the gardens or even the chill of the library and you bite your lip to pull yourself away from it, to settle in the now. It’s only then that you notice Aemond’s hot stare, the way he looks at you as if the entirety of his world has shrunk down to just you. That increasingly familiar heat is back in his eyes and he looks at you as he had when he had been covered in the blood of Victor Florent, when he had licked the sugar off a candied lemon.

He looks at you as if he wants nothing more than to devour you whole.

That gnawing hunger in your core, that burning flame, glows that much brighter, that much hotter, and you snap your eyes away from him, taking in a shaky deep breath.

You settle your gaze on Aegon and Helaena, sitting together directly in the shadow of the throne. They’ve changed as well, matching in velvet green and shining golden. You wouldn’t be surprised if the seamstresses had used the same bolts of fabric to make their clothes. It’s meant to present an image of unity, of harmony, but they look nauseatingly similar. Dressed like this, the scant year gap between the two of them vanishes entirely, leaving them as mirror images of each other, as alike as Jason and Tyland.

Your stomach twists but you force a smile anyways, meeting Helaena’s eyes. She’s plainly ignoring your father’s introduction of the gift House Lannister is presenting (three golden dragon statues with rubies for eyes), putting less of an effort than even blearily eyed Aegon, but she’s plastered a bland smile on her face to at least attempt the veneer of an interested party. The moment she registers that it’s you looking at her, however, her entire face brightens up and she sits up straighter in her seat, her fake smile melting away into something softer, more genuine.

  You smile at her almost girlish expression. She almost looks like her old self, the sweet girl who had let you read to her in the shade of old trees. She looks like that little girl wearing a costume, too big in certain places, too tight in others, but it’s undeniably her. Maybe your fears were unfounded. Maybe your anxieties didn’t need to ruin every waking moment. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Your father finishes the presentation with a final vow to always be faithful to the crown and Alicent smiles gracefully, nodding and plainly deferring to Aegon to accept his oath. Aegon, for his part, doesn’t seem wholly aware of what’s happening, only jerking to attention when his mother leans closer to him, her smile placid as if she wasn’t driving the point of her elbow into his ribs. He jolts straight up, clearing his throat instinctually, eyes looking skyward as if he’s trying to remember a script he’s forgotten.

“As the first son of King Viserys, first of his name,” Aegon says slowly, trying the words out carefully like he’s learning them as he goes. “I am grateful… and appreciative of your loyalty to House Targaryen and… vow to return your faith. I- We look forward to only deepening and strengthening our bond and alliance.” He meanders his way through the sentence, clearly lost and struggling to remember, but when he finishes, there’s a quick flash of boyish pride on his face when he realizes he hasn’t messed up and he looks so much like the boy he must have been before even you had arrived to the capital and you feel an unfamiliar warm glow towards him.

You’re not used to feeling cozy towards Aegon - amused, yes. Annoyed, most definitely. But this is something new and your own confusion at your feelings must show on your face since Aemond looks supremely amused. You quickly move your sleeve up to cover your mouth, trying to play off your aborted laugh like a sneeze or a cough, but, judging from the way your uncle shoots you a reproachful look, you haven’t really succeeded.

Your father gives one final nod to Prince Aegon and, when he turns to face the rest of your house to be led to your seats, he meets your eyes. For a moment, in all the colors of light, he almost doesn’t look real with all the shades cutting across his sharp features. He doesn’t look like your father, doesn’t look like Jason Lannister. He looks like something else - almost like a painting with the colors smeared across it.

He looks proud, fierce. He’s won a windfall for House Lannister. You’ve won a windfall for House Lannister. He must already taste the iron in his mouth, must already dream of a daughter of your’s marrying into the house of the dragon, his blood sitting the throne itself.

And it’s all owed to you.

Your blood thrums with success, strong and vicious, and a part of you wants to hiss that truth to your father. Tell the Lord Paramount of the West that it was his daughter, his third daughter, the daughter he sent away, that brought this bounty to their house. Not him. You.

Jason nods at you, a smile flickering on his face, and you bow your head in response, only looking up once he’s passed you. You meet Aemond’s eye once more and he tilts his head at you, asking a question without words.

I’m fine.

He shifts in his seat, straightening up slightly, and you bite the inside of your cheek to hold back a grin when you realize if you made even the slight move to suggest it, he’d leave the royal table to follow you like a shadow to ensure your comfort and safety. You give him a small smile as assurance before taking your leave, following the rest of your house to be directed to your seats.

Unlike the feasts before, the seating isn’t strictly by houses. While your uncle is directed a few seats down from you, next to Lord Ormund, and your father settles into a seat next to Lord Celtigar, clapping the younger lord firmly on his shoulder, a maid directs you towards a seat nestled between Baela and Lady Floris Baratheon. You idly wonder how long it took the Queen to arrange this seating - who she must have consulted and what patterns she must have seen. You wonder if Aemond told her about your attempts to form some relationship with Baela Targaryen or if she had seen it for herself at the melee.

The moment you sit, eying the spread of food already laid out for you to enjoy, Lady Floris turns to you, a pretty smile on her face. “Lady Lannister,” she greets, leaning closer than she should, close enough that you can see the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the kaleidoscope of colors in her eyes. “I just wanted to personally congratulate you on your crowns - oh, what an honor! I heard the songs the bards were playing near the Dragonpit - they were so, so lovely! I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this but I hadn’t known Prince Aemond was so handsome and he looked so beautiful crowning you.”

You smile awkwardly, slightly caught off guard by her overly effusive praise. She’s not all that much younger than you, closer in age to you than you were to Jocasta, but she’s so free in her manners that you wouldn’t be surprised if she was nearer in age to Jeyne. It seems half a miracle that such a sweet girl would come from the stormy house of Lord Borros, that such a frivolous girl could be the daughter of a high lord.

“I thank you, Lady Floris. I’m afraid I haven’t gotten to listen to the songs myself but it seems I will have to soon enough,” you reply, bowing your head in thanks, and she beams prettily. Everything she does is pretty - from the way she smiles to the way she reaches for her goblet of wine. Everyone around you seems to notice and you hold back a laugh at the way Floris seems to glow under everyone’s attention. You doubt there’s much of it to go around in Storm’s End - you can’t imagine a lovely girl like her thriving in the dark and dread of the tempests that haunt her home even if the Baratheons are nearly as prolifically virile as the Lannisters. It’s almost impossible to imagine it - even more impossible to imagine that she is one of the Four Storms, that her fights with her sister can and do grow to the point of infamy.

She giggles, her pale cheeks a bright red, and you drop your gaze slightly to the nearly empty goblet in her hand before looking back at her flushed face. You look slightly behind her, further down the table, to see her father laughing loudly as he snatches a carafe away from a servant to keep for himself.

As pretty as she is, it seems Lord Borros left his mark on his daughter after all.

She gives you one final big smile, slightly lopsided now that you look at her more carefully, before turning to talk to the enraptured son of House Reyne sitting at her side.

“She’s had two of them so far,” Baela murmurs, leaning slightly closer to you. Her white curls hang loose today and it tickles on the back of your hand when she moves closer and her hair sways over to you. “I’m afraid she might be a bit of a lightweight.”

You stifle your snort of laughter. “I’m sure she hasn’t had much to eat either - I only had some lemon cakes to make sure I didn’t keel over during the ceremony. I doubt she did much better.”

Baela snorts, reaching for her own goblet of wine in response. “I imagine it’s her first time being out in the court. Easy to get caught up in the splendor of it all.”

You tilt your head, reaching for a candied strawberry to pop in your mouth. “Royal weddings are usually the first time most ladies are brought to the court.”

“There hasn’t been one for years,” she responds immediately before pausing. Something darkens in her eyes, a flicker of old anger or regret, before she shakes her head, trying to clear it from her mind. “At least, none like this one.”

You bite down on the strawberry, enjoying the crunch of the crystalized sugar followed by the sweetness of the fruit. As you chew, you look over Baela carefully. She’s occupied herself with a tart, listlessly picking at it as she glares down at her plate.

The last royal wedding had been her father and Princess Rhaenyra. A rushed affair by all accounts - both in the time after her mother’s death and in the actual ceremony itself. There had been no traditional wedding - at least, no traditional wedding in the light of the Seven. No feasts. No tourney. If what you had heard when it had happened was true, they had had a Valyrian wedding on Dragonstone and that had been it.

You had little knowledge of what went into a Valyrian wedding - Aemond had briefly told you the details of it when the news had first broke but he had been uncharacteristically reticent to share information with you. He had explained there was meant to be a mixing of blood, to symbolize the different bloodlines coming together to become one, in the presence of fire to represent the strength that it would bring. He hadn’t given you much detail after that and you, admittedly, had not pressed him for it.

To be fair, he might have been sore over you debating out loud whether or not mixing the blood was necessary when the bloodlines were one and the same.

There hadn’t been tell of who had attended the wedding. Only that it had been attended by a maester who had confirmed its legitimacy to both the crown and the Citadel and a handful of guests.

You had never stopped to consider whether or not Baela had been there, if she had been there with her sister and with the Strong boys. You try to imagine what it must have been like to watch your father remarry, the tears not even dried from your mother’s funeral, and something in you trembles with rage and, alarmingly enough, sympathy.

Sympathy you didn’t care to feel, not when you can still remember the way Aemond had flinched when the maester had stitched his face back together, stitch by agonizing stitch.

Baela still harbors a grudge over it, bad enough that the memory of it would still send her into a dark mood years later. Another chink in the armor of House Targaryen, in the armor of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen.

Another place you can dig your fingers in and pull and pull and pull until it is an impossible gap to close.

“I doubt there will be more weddings like this for quite some time,” you muse, Baela looking up from her plate to meet your eyes. “No other prince is even betrothed.”

Baela snorts inelegantly. “Not as much time as you’re trying to pretend there will be. The Queen might be better off leaving these decorations up to save some time for the servants for the next one.”

You smile despite yourself. “I wouldn’t dare presume to tell the Queen what to do.”

“You might not but I would,” she responds with the typical brash confidence you’ve come to expect from her. Only her eyes twinkling tell you that she’s teasing. “Might as well tell the guests not to go home. Save us all some trouble.”

“My older sisters are yet to be married,” you remind her, thinking of Tyshara with her letters of love and Cerelle with her new wolf husband.

Baela’s eyes flash and she tilts her head, looking as if she’s caught you out on a lie, and you realize it half a second before she opens her mouth. “I’ve heard a rumor that’s come down from the North. Something about the first southern Lady of Winterfell.”

Something in you seizes for a moment and you can’t think about the fact that Baela is watching you for any reaction or that the intense focus on your house will only increase from here.

You can only think about the fact that Cerelle Lannister doesn’t exist anymore. She’s Cerelle Stark now - both in the eyes of the gods and the court.

You smile on instinct, forcing it easily. “I was wondering when that would spread.”

Baela cocks an eyebrow. “So it is true then?”

Your heart beats hard in your chest, so loud in your ears it’s a miracle she cannot hear, but you nod. You let your smile grow wider and force yourself to relax in your seat. “Lord Cregan Stark heard about my sister and grew curious about the girl who was set to be the Lady of Casterly Rock if there was no boy born to us. He sent her a letter, hoping to bond over their duties, and it grew from there. When Lord Bennard caught wind, he invited her North in hopes of swaying House Lannister to his claim but my father sent her with his blessing. I’m sure you can understand why they couldn’t have a large wedding with us there, not with Bennard Stark refusing to give Lord Cregan what is rightfully his. After the matter of succession is settled in the North, we plan to travel to Winterfell to pay our respects to the new and the rightful Lord and Lady.”

A lie. A very practiced lie. It’s one you’ve mulled over for weeks now, testing the weight of it. It had been Cerelle’s idea, back when the two of you had approached your father and uncle with your plan. A love story, Cerelle had said, would make the idea of a rushed wedding go down easily. Gossip loves a story and, above all, they loved a love story. Your uncle had helped hammer out the details and all of you had agreed on the finished version. Even back in Casterly Rock, your mother and Tyshara had been coached on what to say when questions undoubtedly drifted their way.

For weeks, you’ve stressed about whether or not this flimsy story would be believed, if people would honestly think that Cregan Stark had fallen for your sister through letters. You’ve stayed up wondering if you should have pushed for this certain detail to be added or rallied for that aspect to be changed.

You never once considered if some people simply wouldn’t care.

Baela shrugs after you finish your short speech, looking as if you’ve just commented on the strawberry you just ate or how Floris Baratheon seems to be leaning in closer and closer to you once she realizes you’re gossiping. “Interesting that House Lannister would be so invested in the matters of succession of other houses.”

Your smile grows sharp. “House Lannister just likes to ensure that the correct people receive what is theirs by law.”

She gets that now familiar glint in her eye, that vicious gleam that you’ve seen in Aemond’s. For all that she’s aligned herself with her mother’s Velaryon side, she’s still a Targaryen, still a dragon. You half expect her to lash out but instead, she visibly takes a deep breath, looking down at her plate again and taking another stubborn bite.

You eye her for a moment, taking in her stiff back and her tight grip on her fork, before you sigh slightly, turning back to focus on your own food.

You think you’ll be doomed to sit in silence through the rest of the introductions, through however many courses Alicent has arranged, up until you’re free to leave your seat and find Aemond and Helaena, but then Floris drags you into a conversation about Storm’s End, her goblet thankfully refilled with water from a watchful servant. She tells you about her sisters, the three she has, and she’s absolutely delighted when you tell her you have four.

“You have me beat, my lady,” she giggles, swaying into you. You shift slightly in your seat, accommodating her so she’s pressing more into your chest rather than your shoulder, and she slides closer, nearly leaning on you entirely. You glance over her head towards the royal table, just in time to see Daeron laughing uproariously at you while Aemond hides his smirk behind his own drink. You’re so busy making a face at them that you almost miss her next words entirely. “Maybe the gods will bless my family with another daughter soon. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough or another sister.”

You glance down at her, your eyes roaming over her reddened cheeks and her half-lidded eyes. She’s still smiling, just barely as if she’s not wholly aware that she is. “Not a boy, my lady?” You ask, unable to stop yourself from bringing your arm up to wrap around her shoulders. It’s a small show of comfort, a little affection, and it embarrasses you slightly to do so in public - especially to a girl you’ve only just met. A quick look around, however, reveals that Floris Baratheon is hardly the only drunk at the feast and that most likely she’s not even the drunkest. Her own father has only gotten louder and louder, singing bawdy songs over the hum of the crowd, and you can spot your father laughing at Lord Celtigar as the poor man spills wine all over himself. Tyland and Ormund are speaking to each other in low tones, their heads bowed together as if they’re sharing a secret for only the two of them. Everywhere you look, people are deep deep in their cups and this is still only the beginning of the night.

You shudder to think what it means for the rest of the night.

Floris doesn’t respond after a moment and you glance down at her, praying that she hasn’t fallen asleep on you, but instead, you just see her playing with her goblet, swirling it gently in her hand.

“My lady?” You prompt again and Floris heaves a sigh before dragging herself up in her seat, pulling away from you.

She frowns, the first time you’ve seen a smile drop from her face. “Maybe I’ll be lucky enough for another sister,” she repeats again, not meeting your eyes. You stare at her a little longer, trying to puzzle out her meaning.

House Baratheon didn’t have an heir - at least, no boy had been born to them as of yet. Only four daughters, nearly as precarious a place as House Lannister had been, but your house had had a key advantage. You had the blood of the Andals coursing through your veins. The lordship would have gone to Cerelle before it ever would have gone to your uncle. That rule had been what had allowed for Queen Leila to rule, protect her inheritance, and choose a husband of her picking. Joffrey Lydden had only earned the title of King of the Rock through her and, even then, he had had to change his name to hers. There was a precedent of strength through the maternal line in House Lannister.

Not so in House Baratheon though, to be fair, there wasn’t much of a precedent in anything for that house. It was scarcely over a century old, formed the same year that Aegon began his conquest. They had Andal blood, yes, but also Valyrian and First Men. It’d be much harder for them to force Cassandra Baratheon, their current heir as it all stands, through to the lordship without being able to use Andal law as a major precedent. This crisis would be the first true one yet. A boy was a necessity or else their house could very well crumble.

But Floris wants a sister.

You eye her for a moment longer, wishing you could probe her for more, but as soon as you open your mouth to ask her, Lord Otto Hightower calls the hall to attention.

You straighten up and even Floris next to you pulls herself up to her full height, the sound of the Lord Hand’s voice nearly enough to sober herself. On your other side, you can feel Baela shifting, settling her attention towards the throne.

Just like during the opening feast, Otto Hightower stands in the shadow of the Iron Throne but now, Aegon and Helaena stand on either side of them, mirrors of each other. You’ve never seen much of a resemblance between the Lord Hand and his grandchildren but now, with the three of them standing side by side, you can catch echoes of him in the pair of them. Aegon is purely Alicent, a perfect copy if not for his Targaryen coloring, but it’s Helaena who bears the greatest resemblance. She’s always been pretty, always been soft around the edges, but here, next to her maternal grandfather, she’s almost handsome in a certain way. In the same way that Otto Hightower demands respect, Helaena demands worship.

“The crown would like once more to thank all the great and noble lords of Westeros for coming to celebrate this union of King Viserys and Queen Alicent’s children,” he booms, his voice loud and strong. The room claps, a few of the drunker occupants cheering loudly, and Otto raises his hands, calling for quiet. “The crown’s strength comes from its people, from you, my lords, and from the power of House Targaryen itself, from its dragons, from its allies. As we look to the future, Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena will serve as leaders, as examples, as pillars to guide the crown to even greater heights. They will help to usher in a power not seen since the days of the Conqueror himself.”

The throne room cheers again, loud and raucous, and, even as you clap, you look around. Otto Hightower’s words are chosen carefully, vague enough that to take umbrage over them would be an extreme overreaction, but directed and pointed enough that his message is clear to those who care to listen. Most are applauding, completely buying into the words of the Lord Hand, but there are a few who look more thoughtful, more suspicious. Lyman Beesbury looks as if he’s sucked a lemon, his weathered face pinched and scornful, while Lord Grover Tully nods firmly in agreement.

Rhaenys Targaryen sits, surrounded by Baratheons and Tyrells and some of your Lannister cousins, looking to all the world as if she’s working out a puzzle, trying to make a piece fit where it ought not go. You can almost see her weighing her options, mentally calculating between the two claimants and what power they bring, calculating what Rhaenyra or Aegon would bring to the realm and, more importantly, what they would bring to her and her own.

Remember your children you want to whisper in her ear. Remember how Laena screamed in pain by herself, half a world away from you. Remember how Laenor must have fought in his final moments before they burned him in his childhood home.

You can hear Baela’s clapping slow next to you and, when you tear your stare away from Rhaenys, you meet her own blazing amethyst gaze. She doesn’t bother to hide the question in her eyes, doesn’t bother to disguise her naked curiosity. You know that there’s no answer you can give her - not one that would satisfy her by any means - so instead, you give her a smile.

Her gaze hardens like flint and you wonder if this will be where she snaps, where the Rogue Prince’s impulsive nature will take over, but her own common sense takes control and she simply looks away, back to the Iron Throne.

You eye her for a moment longer, brushing your gaze over her tense frame, before returning your own gaze back to the three figures standing at the royal table.

When the clapping slows and there’s a lull in the noise, Helaena claps her hands, the sound soft but still striking enough to call attention back to her before it can turn elsewhere. You straighten up even taller in your seat, focusing completely on her. She’s been worrying over this since she told you a few days ago and you bite your lip.

Helaena takes a deep breath, looking visibly anxious to your familiar eyes, before clasping her hands together to hold against her chest. “In thanks for all the warmth the people have provided, Aegon and I would like to gift the leftovers from this feast to the poorest in this city.”

Aegon nods beside her, waiting for the applause to die down again. “We’d also like to provide more funds to the poorhouses in Flea Bottom so they can share in some of the plenty.”

He stands there awkwardly for a second, clearly unaware of what to do once he finishes his part, but, when the crowd begins to clap and cheer for him too, he straightens up, a small smile creeping on his face. You release a breath in relief when their small speech is over and it’s clear that the room is pleased by their show of charity. It had been the Queen’s idea - both the gift itself and the actual presentation of it - but you had helped Helaena practice. She had rehearsed it over and over again until you’re sure you could say her part in your sleep.

But it had all gone according to plan. You can feel one of the countless knots of anxiety inside you loosen and vanish but it gives you no relief, not when there are countless other knots to unravel within you.

There’s a beat where Aegon and Helaena look at each other, both of them caught in the moment staring each other down. It would look romantic if you didn’t recognize it for what it was - reluctance.

Then Aegon, drawing on strength from who knows where, holds up his hand for his sister, bowing his head as he does. Helaena only waits a breath before taking it and, together, the two of them walk around the royal table, beginning the slow march down to the empty space that had been cleared for dance. When they pass Aemond, your stare lingers on him.

He’s watching his siblings go, stone-faced and looking to all the world as if he was sitting a normal dinner and not the wedding feasts for his siblings. His eye tracks Aegon and Helaena as they walk and when they reach the center of the room and turn to each other, a flicker of something flashes on his face. It vanishes quickly, as if it had never been there, but it had been there.

Regret? Pity?

For all his talk of doing what he must for his family, you imagine even he would chafe at this duty. Even he would resist. Talk is easy. A lifetime tied to his sister with more than just blood is not.

You watch him, greedily taking in every single minute twitch of his face. For once, he doesn’t seem to sense your gaze. He’s completely lost in watching his siblings, his eye solely focused on them, and you know without looking when the dance begins. More than the soft gasp from Floris, more than the songs of the bards growing louder and more pitched, you can tell from the way he shifts in his seat, pitching forward as if it’ll give him a better view. His hair falls over his shoulders, falling around his face as if a curtain to protect him, but it doesn’t hide his complete concentration.

He would pull them away if he could. He would try to save them from this pain.

If he could.

Your breath hitches and you look away, following his gaze to see Helaena and Aegon.

They’re closer than they had been at the opening feast, their chests pressed up against each other in a show of intimacy. They’re clinging to each other, their heads bowed together as if they’re whispering to one another. It looks romantic. It should work.

But it doesn’t. It almost can’t. It’s the closest Helaena has ever been to anyone else - closer than even you have been to her in years but it fits her all wrong. It’s like trying to fit into a dress made for someone years younger, trying to shove your foot into one meant for a child. She holds Aegon as if she’s never held him before - never held him so close to her, so intimately. You wonder if she’s ever held anyone like that and somehow you doubt it.

She’s never been allowed it, never been given the opportunity to desire it out of anyone but her brother.

Not even with you - never been allowed to, had maybe never even considered.

A hot flame of resentment and jealousy begins to burn through your chest, burning and painful and agonizing. Why Aegon? Why her?

None of it has ever been about fair, about what was just, but now more than ever, you want to break something. Somehow this dance, this close of a dance, feels more a finality than even the wedding had been. This is everything put into motion. This is the first show of the performance that the two of them will have to give every day for the rest of their lives. You had told yourself you could manage it. You had told yourself that you could swallow back the bile and work with the pieces they’ve given you.

And you can. You will. You’ll bear it and relish the weight of the burden because of the power it gives you.

But as you watch the two of them, spinning round and round on the dance floor, it’s hard to remember that horrible truth about yourself - not with the pain swirling inside your chest.