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[siliconecuk]

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[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (19/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 6989

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: Arianwyn delays her escape to attend the King’s family dinner to say goodbye to Aemond. But emotions run high, and a final toast may jeopardize her plans.

Warnings: None.

Series Masterlist

Taglist: @thelittleswanao3 @trap-house-homiecide @50svibes @literishdegree99 @dc-marvel-girl96 @henriettadreaming @multiple-fandoms-girl @gyuxmilk

Final Tribute

Arianwyn stood by the door in the plainly decorated solar of the guest apartments Rhaenyra and Daemon’s family had been given for their stay at the Red Keep, her head down and hands clasped in front of her. Servants scurried past her as they hastily readied the rest of the family for the last-minute dinner the King had commanded his family attend that evening. A desperate attempt for peace between the Greens and the Blacks.

The gruesome murder of Vaemond Velaryon by Daemon’s hand only hours before seemed long forgotten.

Forgotten by most, but not by Arianwyn. The cool steel of Brynna’s embroidery shears pressed against her side where they were tucked beneath her skirts. They were not as sharp as a dagger or a knife, but they were all Arianwyn could find without drawing attention to her search. Still, the knowledge that she had the means to defend herself brought her some measure of comfort.

Brynna had been overjoyed when she saw the rips in Rhaenyra’s red gown and realized that she would be able to dress her dear Lady in something much more suited to her coloring. But that joy was swiftly replaced by worry and dread when she saw the streaks of tears on Arianwyn’s face. When she learned how the dress had been torn and why Arianwyn had been running so frantically away from the throne room.

When Arianwyn asked her to help pack her most valuable jewels and least conspicuous clothes in a satchel for when she made her escape.

It pained Brynna beyond measure to accept that Rhaenys’ plan was necessary. She knew well what Daemon was capable of. She had seen Rhea’s wounds. She had witnessed his neglect and cruelty on Dragonstone. She had been the one to dry Arianwyn’s tears the night before.

Arianwyn would escape. Brynna would ensure it. But she would not be alone.

Brynna had cared for Arianwyn since the day she was born. She had followed her from Runestone to King’s Landing and across the Blackwater to Dragonstone. She would not allow her sweet Lady to venture into the dangerous wide world outside of the castle by herself.

So, Brynna packed a bag for Arianwyn, and another for herself. Tonight, they would steal into Maegor’s hidden tunnels and into the dark streets of the capital, together.

But until then, Arianwyn had a dinner to attend.

She dared not dress in any bronze, not when her father was so volatile and had already wet his sword with blood that day. Instead, Brynna selected a new gown, one that Arianwyn did not know had been commissioned.

It was modest, as Arianwyn preferred, with long, fitted sleeves and a gently curved neckline that revealed only a sliver of her collarbone. The skirts were full but without structure, leaving the fabric to drape elegantly over her waist and hips. The silhouette would have been rather plain were it not for the long train that began between Arianwyn’s shoulder blades and fell to pool on the floor, trailing gracefully behind her when she walked.

What made the dress truly beautiful was the fabric itself – a gloriously soft silk charmeuse in a delicate shade somewhere between blue and purple. Intricate scrolling patterns ran throughout, expertly embroidered with brilliant metallic silver thread.

It suited Arianwyn perfectly. Whereas the red dress given to her by her stepmother overpowered her and seemed to suck the color from her cheeks, this gown appeared to be an extension of her very self and set her pale skin and silver hair aglow.

“It is perfect,” Arianwyn said, admiring herself in the mirror.

Brynna smiled as she swept the girl’s curls into a loose knot at the base of her neck, “You deserve to feel beautiful tonight. It may be your last chance to wear such a gown for a long time.”

As she stood waiting in the solar, Arianwyn did feel beautiful, even when her stepbrother Jace emerged from his room and ran his dark eyes over her with a sneer.

“And what message does this dress send?” he asked mockingly.

With a sigh, Arianwyn turned to him. She had far too much to worry about tonight without his constant taunting. “It means I would like to be left alone, Jace.”

He nearly recoiled, taken aback by the lack of fight in her face or voice, which he had come to expect from his years of teasing her. Unsure how to respond, he strode to one of the couches in the room and sat, resigning himself to waiting in silence.

Baela entered next and, after a moment spent gazing longingly at her new fiancée, also approached Arianwyn.

When her half-sister reached a hand toward her face, Arianwyn instinctively flinched back. The last time Baela had touched her, it had been with her arms around her throat as she held her in the sand, choking the breath from her as she watched Aemond being attacked.

“It’s your hair,” Baela explained, still holding out her hand. “It has come loose. May I fix it?”

Arianwyn nodded, still wary, and turned to allow her half-sister access. With deft hands, Baela quickly braided the long silver waves before twisting it into a neat bun and securing it with a single pin.

“There is a balm the women of the Summer Isles make from a nut that grows there,” Baela said as she worked. “Velaryons have been using it for centuries to tame unruly hair, among other things. I can give you some; it may help you.”

Stunned at not only her offer of help but also by Baela’s sudden kindness, Arianwyn almost did not know what to say. When she felt her half-sister’s hands drop, she turned back and looked at her. There was no indication on Baela’s face that she was trying to mock or antagonize, but rather that she was earnestly trying to help.

“Thank you,” Arianwyn said, reaching back to feel her hair with a hesitant smile.

Baela returned the smile, though it nearly seemed to pain her to do so. “Thank you for all you have done for Rhaena. She truly cares for you.”

“As I do for her,” Arianwyn answered.

Neither said anything more. But in that single act of kindness, an understanding had passed between them, putting an end to years of hostility. Perhaps they would never be true sisters, but they would no longer be each other’s enemies, and that was enough for them.

With a final nod, Baela went to the couch where Jace sat, taking the seat next to him and blushing like a lovesick girl.

Luke said nothing when he entered, only glancing at Arianwyn cautiously before joining his brother. Rhaena offered a quick compliment on the dress before she, too, joined her new fiancée, nearly as thrilled as her sister by their recent betrothals.

Arianwyn tried to be happy for her sweet little sister and even for Baela. But it was difficult when she knew that, in all likelihood, her own betrothal would be cause for mourning and fear rather than happiness.

She was torn from her contemplation of whether her husband would be cold and neglectful or cruel and abusive when Rhaenyra and Daemon finally entered the solar. The Princess took in Arianwyn’s new gown with a disapproving frown, but as she wore no bronze or green, she seemed to deem it acceptable and did not argue against it.

“Before we leave,” Rhaenyra said, gazing over in front of her sons and stepdaughters, “I want to impress upon you that we are not attending this dinner to argue or fight. The battle we came here to wage has already been won. Now, it is the time to make peace with our family, to try and mend bonds that have been broken for far too long. You are to be kind to your cousins and not to gloat over our victory today.”

A victory won through cold-blooded murder, Arianwyn thought. Though Rhaenyra did seem to be sincere in her desire for peace – Dark Sister was absent from Daemon’s side. But he did not need his ancestral blade to be the most dangerous man in the room.

After Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena each promised to keep the peace and extend a hand of friendship toward the “Greens,” Rhaenyra led the family out of their quarters and toward the royal dining hall.

Arianwyn was the only one to notice that she had not been asked to make the same promise.

-

When Rhaenyra led her family through the doors of the dining hall where Arianwyn had attended many cheerful family meals in her youth, Alicent, her father, and her children were already waiting for them. All but Aegon stood to greet them. Though after a sharp tug on his shirt collar from Aemond, the eldest Prince also rose from his seat.

“Welcome, Princess,” the Queen said, bowing her head as a hopeful smile crossed her lips. “We are so glad you could join us this evening.”

Rhaenyra returned the gesture. “We are grateful for the invitation from my father… and yourself.”

So, neither would acknowledge that it was the King who had not requested, but demanded that they all attend. Instead, it seemed as though everyone was to pretend their dining together was an entirely ordinary occurrence and that the two factions of the family were not long estranged and conflicting.

But none of them were very good at pretending.

An awkward silence enveloped the room as Alicent began to direct everyone to their seats. She had seated the Greens on the opposite side of the table from the Blacks, with an ample space left empty in the middle of the table for the King, who had yet to arrive.

“Arianwyn,” Alicent said, stopping her from following Luke and Rhaena to the far end of the table. “You’ll be sitting on the other side – with Aemond.”

Daemon immediately bristled. But before he could object, Alicent turned to him, fixing him with a bold gaze that only a Queen could muster. “We must keep the numbers even, don’t you agree, my Prince?”

All eyes were on Daemon as he choked down the urge to order Arianwyn out of the room entirely. With gritted teeth, he offered Alicent a pained grin. “Of course,” he said with a voice as slick as oil. “Gods forbid we eat with uneven numbers. Surely, they would smite us where we stand.”

None laughed at the wry attempt at humor, least of all the Queen, who bore her resentment plainly in her dark eyes.

Warily, Arianwyn stepped away from her siblings and crossed to the other side of the table, taking her place behind the chair to Aemond’s right. When Daemon still did not object, she allowed herself to look up at Aemond’s face, finding only adoration in his eye.

They continued to stare at each other silently until many of the others had taken their seats and engaged in conversation with those around them.

Jace and Rhaena stood at the corner of the table between Baela and Luke, excitedly discussing the possibility of a double wedding. Rhaenyra and Daemon whispered to each other in hushed tones, too quietly for anyone else to hear. Helaena draped herself across the table toward her mother and grandsire, gleefully telling stories about what her children had done that afternoon. Aegon stood next to her, sipping from his cup as often as he breathed.

When he was sure no one would hear him, Aemond leaned down to Arianwyn. “You look so beautiful,” he murmured, running his eye over her reverently. “It is as if you are a star fallen from the heavens.”

Arianwyn blushed, unsure how to respond to such high praise.

“Indeed,” Aegon interrupted, obviously not quite as deep in his cups as Aemond had assumed. “You look absolutely ravishing, Aria. If I wasn’t so sure my dear brother would gut me for it, I would steal you away to my chambers right now.”

A barking laugh escaped Arianwyn. She knew that, as a proper Lady, she should be offended. But she knew it was as kind a compliment as Aegon could give. Besides, from what she learned from Aemond’s letters, she was not to his tastes.

“You flatter me, my Prince,” she said, falling so easily back into a comfort she had not known since she called the Red Keep her home. “I must admit, I find it hard to believe you ever have to pay for your women. Surely the Ladies of the court cannot resist those lovely circles beneath your eyes. Why, they’re nearly a Targaryen purple!”

Such teasing words would have brought her severe punishment on Dragonstone. But Aegon only smiled, taking another deep swig of his wine, and clapped a hand on Arianwyn’s shoulder. “Oh, I have missed you. There has been a severe lack of those who can match my wit since you left.”

Behind her, Aemond grabbed his previously untouched goblet of wine and took a single, great gulp. He knew that Arianwyn would rather pose as a man to take the Black than ever allow Aegon to touch her, but still, his fingers itched to strangle his brother when he looked at her like that. When he lowered his cup, he found Aegon assessing him with wide eyes.

“Had I known all I had to do to get you to drink was to speak of dear Aria, brother,” he said with a lopsided grin, “I would have done so long ago.”

Aemond clenched his jaw, “Does my drinking surprise you?”

“You do not drink enough,” Aegon replied.

“You drink more than a Braavosi Sealord,” Aemond growled, eliciting another laugh from Arianwyn. Despite his anger toward his brother, his heart fluttered at the delightful sound.

Aegon only shrugged, taking another sip of his wine. “I drink just the right amount.”

“Perhaps if you were a giant, that would be true,” Arianwyn quipped, looking back to Aemond to try and glimpse his smile.

But Aemond was not smiling, or even looking at her. Instead, he had locked eyes with Jace across the table. Both looked as though they wished for their swords. Then, remembering his promise to his mother, Jace looked away, resuming his conversation with Baela.

“Even when the noose is so tight,” Aemond grumbled, “they expect us to break bread.” He brought his cup back to his lips, bracing for the sour taste of the Dornish wine. Arianwyn laid her hand on his arm, her touch dulling the sting of his resentment more than alcohol ever could.

His words greatly concerned her. But before she could ask what they meant, the doors swung open once more. The screeches of chairs being hastily pushed back as their occupants stood brought all conversation to a halt.

The King looked even worse than he had that afternoon, though Arianwyn had not thought such a thing possible. His skin seemed even more pallid, and his cheeks sunken further in. He still held a cane, though it never touched the floor. Four guards bore the oversized, cushioned chair that he sat on into the room, carrying it around the side of the table. Even seated, his breath was heavy and strained.

Arianwyn was so caught up in the tragic state of him that Aemond had to brush his hand against the small of her back to push her out of the way as the great chair passed them. Her nose wrinkled as Viserys went by, the smell of decay wafting off him like a strong perfume. Seeing her despair and discomfort, Aemond returned his hand to her back, resting it there to steady her.

As the King’s chair rounded the corner of the table, Alicent sat, signaling for the others to follow her. Aemond kept his hand on Arianwyn, guiding her down as the servants behind them pushed forward their chairs. She angled her chin to him ever so slightly, a wavering smile of thanks on her lips.

“How good it is,” the King rasped, the strength in his voice from earlier long faded, “to see you all tonight… together.”

He swept his head around the table, glancing at each family member. When his lilac eye met hers, Arianwyn tried to remember the man he had been. The man who had taken her into his home. Who had cheered her when she mounted her dragon for the first time. Who had been family to her when her own father was not.

But all she could see was the man who had brushed aside the mutilation of his son. Who had banished her from the room when her own fate was at stake. Who left her to suffer at her father’s hands.

She mourned for him. For the good man he had been, and the dying man he was now.

The King’s eye lingered on Rhaenyra as Alicent leaned into him. “Prayer before we begin?” she asked.

Arianwyn bowed her head and clasped her hands before her. She had so much to pray for.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love,” Alicent said. “May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

Though the Queen’s prayer had ended, Arianwyn kept her head down as she continued her own silent plea.

May the Father deliver his justice for Vaemond’s death. May the Crone grant me her wisdom and the Warrior his strength so that I may make my escape tonight safely. May the Stranger reveal a clear path to me, that I may find my way to freedom. And may the Maiden keep Aemond always in my heart, so that I may return to him once more.

When she lifted her head, Arianwyn only caught a glimpse of the worry in Aemond’s eye before the King spoke once more.

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems,” he said, though the mood of the room certainly did not reflect it. “My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses.”

At the mention of his nephews, Aemond’s spine stiffened, and he glared at the bastards across the table. He detested the happy smiles on their smug faces and resented them the happy ending they had been so easily handed.

“A toast to the young Princes,” the King called, though he was barely able to lift his own cup, “and their betrothed.”

“Hear, hear!” Daemon called back, grinning boastfully to Alicent and the Hand as they weakly raised their own goblets and drank.

Aemond was smiling at Arianwyn, her sweet face scrunched in disgust at the taste of the wine, when he heard Aegon whispering to their nephew.

“Well done, Jace,” he said. “You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.”

Jace bit his lips to hold back a retort as the King continued his speech.

“Let us toast as well, Prince Lucerys,” he rasped, “the future Lord of the Tides.”

Rhaenyra and Daemon echoed the toast, and all assembled raised their cups again. Aemond’s fingers held so tightly to the glass that he was surprised it did not shatter.

Luke had permanently maimed him and faced no consequences. Now his stepfather murdered the rightful heir to Driftmark, and Luke was rewarded with not only the promise of the Driftwood Throne but a trueborn Valyrian wife to wipe away the sin of his parentage.

Aemond was the true son of not only the King, but also one of the seven great houses of Westeros, though he held no claim to any throne. For years, he had toiled to prove himself to his distant father. He had become one of the finest warriors on the continent, a scholar to match the Archmaesters themselves, and claimed the largest dragon alive. Still, he had never been granted any lands or titles by his father beyond the Princehood to which he was born. His many entreaties to take Arianwyn to wife, and heal the broken bond between House Targaryen and the Vale, had long fallen on deaf ears.

What had he ever done to be so cruelly denied his birthright and happiness, other than be born to the wrong Queen?

His rising anger was reaching a dangerous point when a cool hand drifted across the table to his. At Arianwyn’s touch, the burning rage deep within his heart seemed to quell as if blown aside by a winter’s breeze. While he could not take her hand when the eyes of so many enemies were near, he ran his little finger over hers, allowing her presence to calm him.

“You do know how the act is done, I assume?” Aegon asked of Jace as he wrapped an arm around his nephew’s chair. “At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that.”

Arianwyn blushed at the foul question, turning away from Aemond, though she was not sure why.

“Let it be, cousin,” Baela warned.

But Jace had always been too easily goaded. “You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

Aegon only gave a false hum of concession, his lips pursed in an exaggerated frown.

The rap of the King’s cane against the stone floor brought everyone’s attention back to him. Shaking, he lifted himself from the chair, though he nearly fell against the table as he tried to steady himself.

“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table,” he bemoaned. “The faces most dear to me in all the world, yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.”

At that, Aemond had to suppress a scoff as he tapped his finger twice against the table. When was the last time his father had looked upon his face – had truly seen him? Whose fault was it that they had grown so distant? Who had sent Arianwyn to a lonely island in the middle of the sea? Who had denied those supposedly so dear to him even the slightest affection?

The King reached with a trembling hand for his gold mask, fumbling with the clasp.

Aemond pressed against Arianwyn’s hand, drawing her attention. “Look away,” he warned softly, his voice hardly more than a breath.

He did not want her to see the horror the King revealed as he lowered the mask from his face. His left eye had rotted away, leaving only an angry, gaping hole in its place. The skin of his cheek below had long since decayed, revealing gray, dried muscles, black gums, and rotting teeth that clacked together sickeningly as he spoke.

“My own face is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me… as I am.” His voice grew weaker and more desperate as he continued, “Not just a king, but your father. Your brother. Your husband. And your Grandsire. Who may not, as it seems, walk for much longer among you.”

The mask dropped to the table, snapping Arianwyn’s gaze to the King despite Aemond’s warning. She blanched, suddenly glad that the food had not yet arrived. The sight of him set her stomach roiling. She pressed her hand even harder against Aemond’s, relying on the feeling of his skin on hers to ground her.

“Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts,” the King begged, pounding his fist weakly against the table. “The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

Shame welled in Aemond’s heart. It was a sin to resent one’s own father, even when he had never acted as such.

The hate he had held onto for so long felt like an iron weight in his chest. It had molded his life, his very being. How could he just set it aside at the request of a neglectful old man – especially when those who had hurt him never apologized for his wounds?

When they continued to strike at him by threatening to kill the woman he loved.

No, Aemond would keep his anger. Feed it like a fire and stoke its flames until it burned hot enough to blaze through his enemies like dried grass, not stopping until the world was safe for him and Arianwyn.

If that world was nothing but ash, then so be it.

Arianwyn could practically feel the heat radiating from Aemond as his anger rose higher and higher. She did not know what she could do to calm him, not when Daemon’s eyes kept flicking to where their fingers barely touched. But she hesitated to remove her hand, not when Aemond was so near to erupting.

The King fell into his chair with Alicent’s hand gently guiding him back. She cradled his face as she helped to refasten the mask over his wounds.

Only a moment later, Rhaenyra stood, goblet in hand.

“I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen,” she said, though the sincerity in her tone left something to be desired. Alicent looked up at her former friend, heart wrenching at her words.

“I love my father,” Rhaenyra continued. “But I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude and my apology.”

By the end of the short speech, the Princess’s words seemed nearly genuine.

The Queen’s face softened, and her lip wobbled as she spoke. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess.”

Daemon leaned forward to frown at her in disbelief, but Alicent resumed with confidence. “We are both mothers, and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow. I raise my cup to you, and to your house. You will make a fine Queen.”

Arianwyn sighed, looking down at her cup. Rhaenyra may indeed make a fine Queen, but Daemon would be her King.

Her father seated on the Iron Throne was a thought that made even Arianwyn feel cold.

But now was not the time to debate the succession. Instead, she raised her glass with the rest of her family and exchanged pleasant smiles as she brought the cup to her lips. She prayed for no more toasts, for she could handle no more of the unbearably sour wine.

Aemond, noting her extreme distaste for the drink, was about to promise her a bottle of Arbor Gold from the Royal stores when Aegon stood from his seat and leaned between Jace and Baela.

“I, um… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” Aegon said as he reached past her to refill his goblet. “But, if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

Jace immediately stood, pounding both fists on the table with all his might and setting the tableware clattering.

The sound startled Arianwyn, who instinctively laced her fingers through Aemond’s to calm her nerves. Much to her dismay, he gave only a short squeeze before releasing her hand and rising from his chair. He fixed Jace with such a stare that would send most men fleeing in fear, the cold malice in his one eye promising a swift and decisive reprisal should his nephew make a single ill move against Aegon.

None at the table, not even the King, dared speak as the two young Princes stared each other down. Alicent and Rhaenyra had only just laid the foundations of peace. Would it crumble so soon?

Even Jace was not so foolish as to antagonize Aemond. Grimacing, he seized his goblet from the table, raising it to his intimidating uncle before touching his fist to Aegon’s shoulder in a half-hearted gesture of friendship.

“To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond,” Jace began. “We have not seen each other for years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth.”

Had he not been boiling with buried rage, Aemond may have laughed.

He had fond memories of his youth, yes. None with the bastard Princes. All his memories of them were shadowed by misery. By their ceaseless taunting and brutal torment. Most of all, by the loss of his eye and Arianwyn. He would bear the scars of that night forever.

Aegon had been there too, yes. But at least his brother, for all his degeneracy and depravity, had the courtesy to admit his cruelty and make amends.

But Jace seemed more than content to pretend it all away as he continued his toast, “And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, uncles.”

The others around the table sipped at their wine. Even Aegon, after another prodding from Jace, murmured a returning sentiment and drank deeply.

Aemond and Arianwyn did not drink.

Her hand floating over the stem of her goblet, Arianwyn looked up to Aemond, waiting to see how he would react, ready to follow his lead. He sighed, glancing down at her before finally taking his seat, though he continued to glare at Jace. As he took a heavy gulp of his own wine, Arianwyn lifted her cup to her lips, though she did not drink.

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena muttered, fiddling with a model of a beetle she had brought with her.

The King smiled at Jace, rapping his cane against the floor. “Well done, my boy,” he said.

Then Helaena rose, raising her cup high with a carefree smile. “I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena,” she said, entirely ignorant of Aegon’s rolling eyes. “They will be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you... except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

Satisfied with her toast, she stretched her arms happily as she sat. But when her eyes met Arianwyn’s, they became distant. She tilted her head as she looked over her cousin’s face. “Your white cloak shall look so lovely in the moonlight,” she whispered.

Arianwyn started to ask what Helaena meant, for she did not own a white cloak, but the King interrupted her, calling for music while they waited for their meal.

As a jaunty tune that seemed well out of place began, Jace abandoned his chair and his betrothed to approach Helaena, holding out his hand in a silent request for a dance. She happily complied, beaming as she took his hand.

“Don’t worry, uncle,” Jace said to Aemond with a smile, “I’ll be back for my dear sister.” Then, he turned away, leading Helaena to the dance floor before he could see Aemond’s reaction.

Arianwyn saw.

She saw his lips thin to a sharp line, his eye widen in furious indignation. His hands and fingers stretched and tensed as if fighting the urge to choke the life from Jacaerys. A low growl rumbled from his throat as he moved to stand.

But he did not. He remained seated, seething as he watched Helaena leap cheerfully to the music.

He was held frozen in place by Arianwyn’s cool, soft touch as her hand lay gently atop his thigh.

“I will not go with him,” she whispered, drawing his eye back to her pleading face. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

There was more to her words than he knew, but this was neither the time nor the place to tell him of her impending escape. Still, knowing that she would remain by his side, at least for this night, was enough to settle the fire in his chest, and he relaxed against the back of his chair.

Aemond gazed ardently into her silver eyes, unable to decipher what he found there. It was not sadness, at least not entirely. There was a glimmer of hope, perhaps even excitement shining through. And a desperation – she wanted something. From him.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked, though he was loathe to break their connection, even just to stand.

Though she smiled, she shook her head. “I am perfectly happy here,” she replied, grazing her fingers over his thigh in an innocent way that nevertheless sent lightning through his veins.

At last, servants entered, bearing gold platters laden with food to the table. As they began to lay the plates at the far end of the table, Aemond turned in his chair to face Arianwyn, blocking out the others on the side of his lost eye.

“I sent an order to the kitchens this morning,” he said. “You will not find a single flake of fish on your plate for as long as you are here.”

“How chivalrous of you,” she teased, though she was genuinely touched. “How shall I ever repay you?”

His purple eye fell to her mouth as he wet his lips with his tongue. He was unsure what to say. Kiss me. Marry me. Love me. Nothing he could truly bring himself to say. Instead, he just laid his hand on hers, running his thumb across her smooth skin, and looked back into her eyes with all the love in his heart.

That simple gesture said more than enough, and Arianwyn understood perfectly. It told her that there was nothing for her to repay. That Aemond would do anything for her and more, and all he would ever ask in return was to see her smile and perhaps her gentle touch.

They stayed gazing at each other, speaking not with words, but with their eyes and touch as the dinner went on around them. Jace and Helaena danced happily to the lively music as Alicent and Otto looked on, the Hand clapping his encouragement. Baela, Luke, and Rhaena laughed amongst themselves in their corner, and even Rhaenyra and Daemon smiled as they spoke.

It was the most peace the family had seen for years, and the last many of them would ever know.

The spell broke when the King fell into his hand, moaning with exhaustion. Alicent quickly called for the guards to take him to his chambers, where he could rest and take his much-needed medicine. As the chair was lifted, everyone again stood, bowing their heads as the King passed them by.

When they sat again, Aemond was relieved when Arianwyn replaced her hand on his thigh, running her thumb back and forth over the smooth leather.

At that moment, he was entirely at ease.

But then the roast pig was laid before him, and as Arianwyn stared hungrily at the venison pies across the table, Luke caught her gaze.

His dark eyes flicked from the pig to Aemond, and he ducked his chin as he laughed.

The impish little bastard, Arianwyn thought as she scoffed lightly. She regretted it immediately.

Aemond followed her gaze. Not even Arianwyn’s kiss could have calmed his furor when he saw Luke laughing.

Had he his dagger, he would not have hesitated to throw it across the table and directly through the bastard’s heart.

Since the moment he could speak, Luke had taunted Aemond. Had mocked him. Laughed at him. Following Aegon like a mutt eager to run with the seasoned hounds, he nipped relentlessly at Aemond’s heels. Badgering him with unending questions about why his egg had not hatched, if that meant he could not be a Prince – if he was not a true Targaryen.

How mirthfully Luke had laughed when he led that damned pig up the ramp of the Dragonpit, unaware or uncaring of how Aemond’s heart shattered, again, in that horrible moment. The next day, when he saw the burns and scratches on his uncle’s face from his near-fatal failed attempt to claim Matgaon, he laughed once more.

The image of Luke’s victorious grin, his face spattered with Aemond’s blood, had never faded from his one remaining eye. Every time the scar burned, the pain so searing he was sure it was bleeding anew, he saw that grin in the blackness. Whenever the muscles of his cheek twitched without his command, he remembered how his nephew had looked when it became clear he would not be punished.

He remembered the crushing pain in his chest when he realized that the King had never truly cared for him. That his firstborn daughter and bastard grandsons would always take precedence, their crimes forgiven even when it was the blood of his own son that was spilled.

Everything Aemond had lost, and everything he had never been given roared in his chest in a boundless inferno that would surely level the world.

At the moment, he had no weapons, no dragon. But he had his words – and they were just as deadly.

Slamming his fist into the table, so enraged that he hardly noticed when Arianwyn recoiled from him, he stood. “Final tribute,” he spat, holding his goblet out before him, his grip so tight that the glass strained under the pressure. The musicians halted, and all conversation stopped as the entire room turned toward Aemond.

“To the health of my nephews,” he said.

Arianwyn looked up at him with fear as he gestured to the two boys present. The muscles in his jaw were so taut she feared they may snap, and there was a mad glint in his eye. She knew the demons of his past still haunted him; she had seen the shadows on his face. But she had never imagined him like this.

The corner of his mouth curled in a wild grin as he continued his mocking toast. “Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…”

Alicent met his eye, almost imperceptibly shaking her head to try and dissuade him from saying what she knew would come next.

Arianwyn was far less subtle. She tugged on the hem of his shirt as she softly urged him to stop.

He did not listen.

His eye twitched as he looked to his mother. He had been silent for far too long. He needed to do this. For the truth, for his honor, and for himself.

“Strong.”

With that one word, the tentative peace of the night was irreparably shattered.

The Queen and Arianwyn both pleaded with Aemond, but he ignored them.

“Come,” he called, though only Aegon moved to follow him, “let us drain our cups to these three strong boys.”

Jace stepped forward, chin held high. “I dare you to say that again,” he challenged.

“Why?” Aemond replied, low voice dripping with false ignorance. “’ Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”

He dropped his cup as he turned to his nephew. Arianwyn reached for his hand when he passed her, but he only brushed her aside.

“Aemond, please!” she begged, rising from her chair to chase after him.

Once again, she could only watch as Jace’s fist collided with the scarred side of his face.

To Arianwyn, it seemed as though Aemond barely felt the blow.

If only that were true. He felt it all too well. The impact set his entire face ablaze as his nerves crackled with immeasurable pain beneath the marred skin.

It was only from years of practice that he was able to not only endure the impact, but smile wickedly as he turned back to Jace and sent the boy careening to the floor with a single shove.

Arianwyn stepped forward to confront him when he turned back, but the Queen intercepted her.

“Why would you say such a thing before these people?” Alicent demanded, pushing into her son’s chest.

 “I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother,” Aemond smirked, rounding back on Jace and Luke, now each held back by guards. “Hmm. Though it seems my nephews aren’t as proud of theirs!”

As Arianwyn finally caught hold of Aemond’s arm, she spotted her father rising from his chair to approach his stepsons as they fought against their restraints. At the sight of the murderous displeasure in his eyes, she began to tremble. She tightened her grip on his arm, finally drawing his attention.

“Why would you provoke him, tonight of all nights?” her eyes shone with unshed tears as her voice cracked.

Aemond’s heart sank. He had been so blinded by his fury that he had forgotten the threats Daemon had brought against her, made sharper by his murder of Vaemond Velaryon that very day.

Suddenly, he was glad of his pain. He had put Arianwyn in danger – he deserved every bit of it and more.

“Aria,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her, but his apology was cut short when Daemon approached.

The Rogue Prince strode boldly between his nephew and his stepsons, calming the latter with only an outstretched hand.

“Go to your quarters,” Rhaenyra commanded from behind her husband. “All of you, go. Now!”

Daemon turned to where Aemond and Arianwyn held to each other. “Daughter,” he drawled, “You heard your mother. Go to your quarters.”

Arianwyn shuddered against Aemond’s chest. She was so tired; she could not muster the courage to disobey her father’s order. Nor did she have the strength to look back at Aemond as she pulled herself out of his arms and walked unsteadily out of the room.

Watching her leave, the urge to spill blood – Daemon’s blood – crept back into Aemond’s fingers.

Indeed, his uncle seemed to want him to make that fatal mistake, challenging him with an eager look in his dark violet eyes.

No. Aemond would get his revenge – Arianwyn’s revenge. But when his steel cut Daemon’s skin, there could be no doubt that it was justified. He would not be the villain in that final confrontation. He would be the hero.

With a single low growl, Aemond stalked past Daemon and left the whole cursed dinner behind him.

Next Chapter

[neo-502-kiana]

ARCHITECTURE STUDY : CYBERPUNK 2077

Cyberpunk architecture is a sub-genre of architecture the draws inspiration from the futuristic, dystopian settings found in cyberpunk literature and movies. It is often identified by a blend of futuristic, high tech design and gritty industrial features. The architecture draws heavily from the architecture of the 20th century—primarily the Brutalist movement. The Brutalist movement is a style that developed in the 1950s in the United Kingdom post World War II. There is a distinct emphasis on materials, textures, and construction.  Cyberpunk architecture makes use of the Brutalist movement’s concrete, steel and glass concepts in a natural and unpolished manner. Yet, it manages to add high-tech elements such as holographic projections, neon lights, digital displays, etc.  In the case of Cyberpunk 2077’S Night City a sprawling metropolis with large skyscrapers and mega-buildings create the beautiful skyline, yet the city is an evident mix of old and new—run down buildings manage to co-exist with high-tech structures.  Night City uses a lot of references to L.A, Detroit, Tokyo, and Hong Kong, however they primarily worked on from a clean slate. Urban Design experts were involved in the process to ensure that Night City looks credible—moving as a real city.

Night City wants to make you feel small and meaningless. The higher the building the more dominant it is. What happens behind the building is of little importance. That is why you get slum like areas even in the more central locations. Although there are obviously some things that could have been done about it, it seems that Night City was not built as a Theme Park. The image of the city, or how the inhabitants see it seems of little importance. Night City is a living, breathing metaphor. It is what you get when ambition, violence and overpopulation are the core foundation of the world you are building. Everybody wants a piece of the pie even if there is not enough for everybody. There are four varieties of stylistic identity used in the construction of the game: Entropism, Kitsch, Neo-Militarism, and Neo-Kitsch:

Entropism: Necessity over style. Buildings created in this style are old, grey and decrepit and are will often be found in areas where people cannot afford to modernize with the rest of society. Entropism, is a style based on poverty and a severe lack of resources. In a nutshell, this style visually tells the story of the very poor social layer of our world.

Kitsch: Style over Substance. Counter-Cultural movement against the austerity of the old days; an expression of happiness an d recovered. Bold colors, bright plastic and accessibility. Kitsch describes a slightly richer social layer of our world. Members of this social class would use some cyberware just to look amazing and grab attention. Architecture here would also be very attractive, with a lot of vibrant colors, a lot of shiny materials like plastic or good fabrics.

Neo-Militarism: Substance over style. Separated from the austerity of Entropism by its sleek and domineering aesthetic. It’s power dressing and has an air of luxury. A deadly layers of elegance and corporate, militaristic fashion. Associated with mega-corporations. Neomilitarism is very minimalistic, very rich, and very sleek. 

Neo-Kitsch: Style and substance. Holds similarity to Kitsch however it lacks semblance to the movement its predecessor aligned with. This is the youngest style in Night City but also a style only for the richest of the rich. People so rich you cannot even begin to imagine what you would do with all the money that they have. It uses only the most expensive materials in our universe like wood, gold, real animal leather and very unique but slick architecture design.

ARCHITECTS BENJAMIN BALL AND ALEX READINGER'S REVIEW OF NIGHT CITY IN CYBERPUNK 2077

Do you think it is realistic, what it would be like in 2070?:

Benjamin Ball: “I think cities are going to become more and more dense. We are going to be more packed in close to infrastructure. Old zoning rules will not apply. We will have to build closer and higher—we will have to build closer to freeways. People will have less personal space. There will be more, and more, runaway capitalism…Yeah maybe this [Night City] is a good take on what 2077 would look like...Hyper dense, very vertical places. “A lot of signage take on a lot of visage on the buildings.”

How sustainable do you think the city will be?

Alex Readinger: “It doesn’t look sustainable at all. There are wall-mounted exterior air conditioner units. This particular cyberpunk version has this ‘Bladerunner’ neon, whereas my version of the future would be powered by algae.”

Benjamin Ball: “Hard to say. Out environments would be synthetic—will be manufactured….Climate will have changed. It will be like living in a machine. Is that sustainable? I don’t know…We would be a lot more solar, a lot more nuclear, and a lot more hydrogen. Who knows?

Cyberpunk 2077 captures a lens of the world that encapsulates the future not just architecturally, but also sonically, politically, and in every single way. 

Alex Readinger: “What is frightening is that it feels like a world without relief. Endless sex shops, neon—no end to the noir experience.”

Benjamin Ball: “Endless trail. Endless maze. There is no break from the commercialism of it. Nothing comes out as sacred. There is no nature—it is all about consumption and desire. It’s relentless and it’s where we are headed.”

When you get to the columbarium—even death has be industrialized. “Step up as a uniform and non-personal gridded space with a digital readout. Even spaces that could be sacred was specifically designed not to be.” (Alex Readinger)

PROJECT: HOW/WHY IS IT APPLICABLE?

I plan to recreate chosen locations in Louisville while staying true to architectural design choices that have been used to create Cyberpunk 2077’s Night City. Since cities do not have to be recreated to have a Cyberpunk feel. All a city needs to go through is layers and layers of add-ons while keeping everything in the past. So I will do that exact thing with Louisville. Staying true to our local history while adding a bit of the fictional narratives associated with the Cyberpunk 2077 universe. For example, the downtown builds may depict Humana or the PNC Bank as a “mega-corporation” that domineers over all. Additionally, I will apply the concepts of brutalism into my builds as well. 

SOURCES

https://youtu.be/HnlaJFf7mC8?si=2PuUSZLs6lAAJUhl

https://www.domusweb.it/en/architecture/gallery/2020/12/21/night-city-how-the-cyberpunk-2077s-megalopolis-was-built.html

https://iuliu-cosmin-oniscu.medium.com/a-brief-look-at-cyberpunk-2077-city-design-night-city-66b54f686b66

https://www.architecturaldigest.com/story/inside-the-design-of-cyberpunk-2077s-urban-dystopia

https://www.architecturaldigest.com/story/brutalist-architecture-101

https://cyberpunk.fandom.com/wiki/Neokitsch

https://cyberpunk.fandom.com/wiki/Neomilitarism

https://cyberpunk.fandom.com/wiki/Kitsch

https://cyberpunk.fandom.com/wiki/Entropism

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[kvb227-n11044144]

There are a number of different contemporary artists that I have been interested during this semester, but that haven't directly linked to artworks I was creating.

A number of them relate to abject art movements. One of these is works by Tung Ming-Chin. This artwork really effectively connects figures of the body and the supple forms of human interaction with the hard nature of wood, and the level of labour needed to develop such perfectly smooth timber forms.

The Birth of a New Hero (2008), 35x30x45cm (Left). Inner Turmoil (2009), 85x85x30cm (Right). https://www.thisiscolossal.com/2019/05/wood-sculptures-by-tung-ming-chin/

Another artist who creates visibly similar artworks is Lois Cecchini. Cecchini creates artworks depicting objects almost languidly being contained in a stretching wall. It creates a similar sense of tension to Ming-Chin's work, but with much more sterile forms and a more architectural focus, as if a world was being absorbed and forced into sterility.

http://inspirationist.net/extruding-bodies-by-loris-cecchini/

Another artist that caught my interest is David Altmejd, with his artwork 'Le Trou' (The Hand). I found this artwork when researching contemporary artworks involving hands as they have been of interest to me recently. This particular artwork struck me because of how something without any form of colour and relatively simple forms could express such powerful emotion. In further research, I found a number of his other works were also highly psychological and abject, and focussed on distorting the human form, but in logical and mathematical ways, sometimes described as 'crystalline' to highlight the ways that different perceptions of reality can overlap and merge.

Image on Left sourced from daltmejd on Instagram.

Other images: https://www.davidkordanskygallery.com/viewing-room/one-on-one-david-altmejd

I don't want to make an excessively long post, so these are some other artists of interest I've looked into:

Susanna Bauer (the highly delicate and detailed embroidery works make powerful connections to the natural world), Armelle Blary Daphné (the stark red and white fabric sculptures convert the human body into dense structures of coral and roots), Wim Delvoye (the extremely detailed scultpures warp the world into a mathematical reality, drawing on contemporary and traditional art concepts), Keiko Sato (reminds me of exploring the ways that technology attempts to mimic the existing forms of the natural world), Jamie North (taking hard and industrial forms and placing them in organic shapes and softening them with plant inclusion), Marc Pouyet (using the natural world to create structural whimsy), Nicoletta De La Brown (Combining craft with contemporary waste in a performance that celebrates it rather than rejects it), Jonathan Callan (taking the readymade and converting it into something supple and new).

Image sources (in order) https://www.susannabauer.com/, https://armelleblary.com/sculptures-et-installations/, http://viemagazine.com/wim-delvoye-art-of-steel-and-elements/, http://kathrynrodrigues.blogspot.com/2011/02/metamorphosis-by-keiko-sato-laser-beam.html, https://www.behance.net/gallery/28139599/Rock-Melt-2015, https://www.designspiration.com/save/1845621598407/, https://www.mrxstitch.com/all-about-plastic-bags/, http://www.electricdreaming.com/archives/748

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[ferromagnetiic]

【 ⚙ 】  |  【 continued. 】 @chatcambrioleur

Drawing people didn't interest Kid in the slightest. Blueprints were one thing; he has no qualms with designing structures, or making visual plans for a project he's working on. He likes three-dimensional pieces and patterns, anything relating to geometry. Drawing inanimate objects wasn't a problem for him, but drawing people was an inconvenience at best, and preferably avoided entirely. Spending an extensive period of time staring at a person to capture their likeness was too discomfiting, and even if he was using a preexisting drawing or painting as a reference, the final result was always a little lifeless, somehow lacking a certain degree of displayed emotion required to result in a captivating resemblance.

In spite of not desiring to return the gift of Nami's sketches by drawing her in turn, he still wasn't willing to be outdone by her.

There's a little metal cat sitting outside the Straw Hat girls' bedroom door; only a few inches tall, more intentionally stylized than attempted realism. It has arms and legs made from lengthy screws that have been bent and curved to make it look as if it were in the process of running, with the ends having been reshaped to resemble paws. It's wearing a metal bandit mask that's been spray-painted black, and behind it sits two painted eyes which are looking to the side, as well as a cocky grin engraved into a steel muzzle — complete with wire whiskers. Slung over its shoulder is a fabric loot bag with a painted Beli symbol on it, which had actually been cut from a scrap of an empty coffee bag, and still faintly smells of roasted beans. Based on the expression alone, it's fair to assume the little cat has successfully evaded whatever unseen authorities it was running from.

Despite being made almost entirely from various pieces of metal, all of the edges and corners of the cat have been mindfully smoothed down, so the sculpture can be handled without fear of causing cuts or nicks — there's no hidden malice behind the sculpture.

Whenever Nami eventually finds the metal creation, Kid will already be long gone. He never intended to be around when she first came across it; handing it to her directly would have been too embarrassing. Since he intends to keep the artwork she gave him before, she can count this as her payment for it, and he will not be accepting any future invoices.

[high-nickel-alloy-products]

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