Chapter Text
Princess Aemma Velaryon could not recall a life without her brothers. They had been born after her in quick succession—first Jace, then Luc—and she had not been old enough to retain the image of her mother, belly round with child and face heavy with exhaustion as she tried desperately to lull her to sleep. She had not understood the significance of it, the gravity of her peril. She hardly understood it now, even as she clutched to her mother’s skirts with tears in her lilac eyes; eyes which were normally soft and serene, now wild with fear as she asked a question Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen most certainly did not expect to hear.
“Will you die just as your mother did?”
Rhaenyra became a statue staring down at her, pale and still as if she had seen a ghost. “Sweet girl…” Her voice was but a breath. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
Aemma’s grip on the skirts tightened. The sturdy fabric between her fingers served as an anchor in the storm. “The king.” Grandsire. She was meant to call him Grandsire. “He speaks of her sometimes, when he thinks no one is listening. Will you die on the birthing bed and break my heart, just as she broke yours?”
Her mother composed herself before prying Aemma’s small hands away from the dress. She looked at her with an intensity that was foreign to her. “No, little seabird. I shan’t die as my mother did.” Yet as the words left her lips, it seemed to Aemma that she was speaking only to herself.
There were whispers at court, about her brothers. Everywhere there were whispers, and they were easy to hear when nobody thought she was listening. Half-blood. Bastard. Strong. There were no such whispers about her, and though at times she pretended not to understand why, it was as clear to her as the sea surrounding Driftmark (if her father was to be believed; Aemma had never been herself).
The matter was simple. Aemma looked like Ser Laenor Velaryon. Her brothers did not.
Only a fool would look at her and dispute her heritage. At the long, silver curls she enjoyed styling in the same fashion as her aunt Laena, who once sang to her and showed her how to be beautiful; at the clear, brown skin that was barely a touch darker than her father’s; at the purple eyes which acted as a startling betrayal of the Valyrian blood that flowed through her veins. She was every bit her father’s daughter, though perhaps with her mother’s jawline (a dragon’s maw, ready to split apart and rain fire upon the populace… what a thought).
At ten years old, Aemma Velaryon did not think herself a fool.
The same could not be said of her uncle, Prince Aegon, who drunk his days away in the comfort of his chambers and bedded every serving girl that caught his fancy. Aemma was not meant to know what bedding a woman was. She caught him once, in a hushed corner of the Red Keep, pinning a girl to the wall and driving himself into her from behind. The girl cried out like she enjoyed herself, but Aemma thought she would be sick at the sight. She had not been noticed. She rarely ever was.
Her other uncle was far more partial to her. As was her aunt—sweet aunt Helaena—who the world thought touched in the head but who Aemma enjoyed unraveling, picking her apart just as Helaena’s spiders picked apart their flies. If only people would listen, they would see her for what Aemma knew in her heart she was: a dreamer.
Aemond was not a dreamer, yet she enjoyed his company most of all. Where Helaena was sweet as honeyed milk and intricate as a spider’s web, Aemond was simply Aemma’s equal. He was her friend, and she was his. His only friend, most likely, because even though he was fond of his sister, he never spoke as much around her as he did around Aemma. He never laughed as freely, or allowed himself to be made as large a fool as Aegon simply to dry her tears, the way he was doing now.
Aemma’s back was to the heart tree. The pale bark provided her with a soothing, strange warmth, as if she were soaking in a hot spring. She asked Helaena once if she felt it too. Her aunt, who watched a caterpillar crawl along her hand, told her that it must have been the tree’s blood, which flowed from its eyes like tears. Her own blood, Helaena said, was always warm.
There was a wind in the air, rustling the red leaves overhead and bringing to ear the sound of the ocean. She ran her fingers through Aemond’s soft, silver hair. His texture was so different to her own, but her mother sometimes allowed her to prepare her for the day, so she’d had enough practice. Her blunt nails brushed his scalp when she gathered a strand, and she felt him shift in his seat, perhaps uncomfortable.
The poor boy had looked utterly lost when she ran into his chambers, distraught at the thought of her mother dying so soon. He had no clue how to react when she flung herself to him and grabbed him by the shoulders, begging him to never die, vowing to burn down all seven kingdoms if he did, before he tentatively embraced her and asked what he could possibly do to make her feel better.
And that was how he found himself here, allowing his niece to braid his hair as if he were a simple child and not the son of King Viserys Targaryen.
“What do you think it’ll be?” He sounded careful, as if he would say the wrong thing and she would burst into tears.
“Hm?”
“The child. Your sibling. Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?”
Aemma stopped. If he felt it, he said nothing. She resumed the braid, unable to resist running a hand through the free portion of his hair. “A girl. I want a girl. There are far too many boys in this family.”
“Including me?”
“Including you. Why do you think I’m tending to your hair if not as a ploy to turn you into another aunt of mine? I should weave a crown of flowers and declare you my Queen of Love and Beauty.”
Aemond turned around, undoing her hard work and fixing her with a glare. There was a pink blush on his high cheeks.
“Aemond!” She was sure she looked crushed. “You’ve ruined it.”
“You ruined it yourself when you called me a girl.”
“Because being a girl is so horrible.”
“It is when you don’t want to be one!” He looked angry in only the way he did when he was embarrassed, and his blush deepened when she covered her mouth to giggle. “It isn’t funny.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
Aemma continued to laugh, and Aemond’s ire melted the more that he observed her. “I’m glad you feel better,” he said.
“You always make me feel better.”
He turned back around in an effort to hide how pleased he was. She began working on the braid again, having decided that she would form one on either side of his head, hugging his scalp before flowing freely into the rest.
“You do not possess a dragon.” It was him who once again broke the silence.
One strand over another, Aemma worked undisturbed. “Your point?”
“How can you burn the kingdoms if you do not possess a dragon?”
Aemma thought his question silly. “Oh, uncle… no one can possess a dragon.”
There was a pause. “You jest.” He sounded as if she were insulting her own intelligence by saying such a thing. “Our entire bloodline possesses dragons.”
“I disagree.”
He nearly turned to look at her then, but a tug at his hair convinced him otherwise. “You cannot disagree. It is fact.”
“Aemond… if you were as large as a tower, breathed fire, and flew, would you ever allow yourself to be possessed? I find it unlikely. I cannot possess a dragon… no more than I can possess you.”
(Aemond would never admit that, as a gust of wind forced him to bathe in the Pentoshi oils Aemma’s aunt Laena always sent her, the thought of being possessed by his only friend was not entirely horrible.)
“You’ve not bonded with a dragon either,” she said, and felt him go stiff. “It bothers you.”
His voice became bitter. “Of course it bothers me. It should bother you as well.”
“Why?”
“We are the blood of Old Valyria. Dragons made us who we are. Without them we are nothing.”
Aemma felt a pang of hurt deep in her chest. So then I am nothing? “I disagree,” she repeated. “You are something. You are my friend.”
“They mock me. My own brother and yours. They mock you as well, when you aren’t there.”
“My brothers would never mock me.”
“They mock something that applies to you. Is that not the same?”
Aemma fell silent. If her brothers truly saw her as something lesser, they never gave any indication. Not when they played together and snuck into each other’s beds in order to continue their conversations late into the night. “Does it matter? You and I will each bond with a dragon one day. We simply haven’t met the right one.”
She tied off one of the braids, and he turned to look at her. He did not seem placated. She reached out and brought him into her arms. “Do not worry, Aemond. Your time will come. And should you never so much as touch a dragon, remember that you will always be one yourself.”
She felt his breath as he laughed into her shoulder. “Then our brothers are all fools, for I will be your dragon. And if you command it, I will burn every kingdom in the world for you.”
Indeed, Aemond was her equal, and at times she thought that perhaps she loved him more than her immediate family. Yet as she stood frozen in her mother’s chambers not a week later, watching as she screamed and wept and called the midwife a cunt (Aemma wasn’t meant to know what that was either), she realized that she would sooner give her own life than choose Aemond over her mother.
The cunt commanded to, “Push, Princess. Once more, I see the head,” and her mother stirred from her pained stupor in order to groan again, her brow slick with sweat and hair matted to her skin. There was a wet squelching noise that turned Aemma’s stomach, and she watched the babe slowly exit her mother. She went dizzy when she spotted an unnatural green growth sprouting from its stomach.
“A boy, Princess.”
Another cunt sighed in relief when her brother began to cry. “Praise the Mother.”
Aemma watched in terror as the growth was snipped off. She realized she had screamed, but how could she not? They maimed her brother. He had not yet breathed twice and already he’d been hurt so grievously. This was beyond cruel.
“Hush, seabird,” her mother said with some weakness. “It is part of the birthing process. Everyone enters this world with one… and everyone must be cut free of it.”
Aemma’s wide eyes were full of tears as they flicked back and forth between her mother and the babe. This was what the realm expected of her when she reached maturity? It was the most horrifying event she’d ever witnessed. Why had she been the one to witness it? Where was her father? The door swung open as if to answer her call, but any hopes she might have had of seeing him died when her mother’s handmaiden rushed in.
“Princess… the queen has requested that the child be brought to her.” The woman glanced at Aemma for a moment, as if thinking something she was not wont to say. “Immediately.”
Rhaenyra grit her teeth as she pushed herself into a sitting position. “Aemma,” she called hoarsely. “Help me up.”
Aemma wished to run away and hide, but she forced herself to walk around the bloody rags on the floor in order to reach her mother. She was not as strong as she would have liked, and it hurt plenty to have her mother lean on her in order to stand, but she did so without protest.
One moment, her mother was fine. The next, she was groaning and muttering something about an afterbirth. There was another disgusting squelch, then Aemma saw something round and red and flat fall out along with a matching green growth, and that was all she could take, doubling over and hurling her breakfast onto the floor.
There was a gasp from behind. “Princess!” The younger of the cunts rushed forward, holding Aemma’s long hair away from her face as she violently emptied her stomach. Distantly, she saw her mother being guided behind a changing screen so she might discard her bloodied shift. Could they not have done so before Aemma became ill?
Aemma cleaned herself as much as she was able. As did her mother, before hoisting the newborn into her right arm and beckoning for Aemma to support her left. They exited the room, one of them far less steady than the other.
Soon, Aemma spotted her father, who looked well-groomed and clean and like he hadn’t just vomited or forced a human out of his body. “I came as fast as I could,” he said, and to his credit he did sound breathless.
Yet Aemma glared. “I suppose that made the birth easier.”
“No fighting,” Rhaenyra grunted. Laenor came to support her other side, which mercifully lessened the load on Aemma.
“No, no,” he said, throwing a sorry look towards them both. “Our daughter is right. There is no excuse.” Our daughter, he said. Our child. Could he say the same of her brothers?
“I suppose after three births, I can—urgh—forgive you for missing the fourth.” Her mother took a deep, pained breath as they turned the corner that would lead them to the queen’s apartments.
It was true that Queen Alicent Hightower was not terribly fond of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, but there existed a special kind of hatred when she looked at little Aemma. It did not exist when she looked at Aemma’s father, and for that reason she surmised that the queen had no blood feud with their House. There were two main possibilities. The first was that she hated her because Rhaenyra was her mother, and the second was that she hated her because of her namesake; King Viserys’ late wife, whom he loved more than his living one.
Neither Aemond nor Helaena were there, and Hells, neither was Aegon to provide her with some crumb of entertainment, no matter how infuriating. It was only the queen and her Kingsguard, Ser Criston Cole, a man who hated only Princess Rhaenyra and never Princess Aemma.
Queen Alicent examined the babe—Joffrey, their father decided without consulting his wife, the heir—and then King Viserys joined them to do the same. From birth, he favored Aemma over his own children (apart from Rhaenyra, who had always been his favorite), and this had no doubt deepened Queen Alicent’s dislike of her. Aemma understood. She disliked King Viserys for the same sin, because she disliked seeing Aemond and Helaena so neglected. That was why she refused to call him Grandsire. He was unworthy of the title.
It was clear to Aemma that the queen knew as well as she did that Joffrey was not of Ser Laenor’s blood. It was unclear whether the king knew it also, but he laughed and likened the child to him, and if he was only playing the part of a fool then he was performing remarkably well.
Her parents dismissed her once they walked out into the Red Keep proper, and she wasted no time in going to where she could learn more things that were meant to be forbidden to her. The library.
As she rounded the corner into yet another hallway, she spotted her brothers and Aegon sitting on a bench and imbibing a fresh bottle of Arbor Gold, which would no doubt upset their mothers were they to ever see. Aegon caught sight of her and raised the bottle with a crooked, unkind smile.
“Behold! The future queen of Westeros, the wingless dragon! Long may she reign.”
“Long may she reign,” Jace and Luc echoed, though from them it sounded genuine, since they hadn’t realized Aegon was mocking her.
Aemma was not a violent child, and if Aegon had only ever been cruel to her, she would have ignored him. Yet he had hurt her friends, calling Aemond weak and Helaena stupid, and that was something she could not allow.
“Take care, uncle,” she told him coldly. “Once I am queen, I may decide to tear your wings off as well.”
Aegon stood unsteadily, his cheeks flushed, trapped between anger and drunkenness. “Mayhaps you’ll never have the chance, niece. Girls like you cannot wield a sword as well as I, can you?”
Luc was too far down the bottle to notice the sudden threat, but clarity broke in Jace’s brown eyes and he stood, coming between Aemma and Aegon. “My sister cannot, it is true,” he said. “But I can. I would so hate to lose my drinking partner.” He was only a boy of eight but already spoke like a man grown when he had to defend his family. Aemma admired him for that, and was interested in who he would be in ten years’ time.
Aegon sneered at them before returning to his seat. Then, he took the bottle from Luc and forced himself to laugh. “It was a jest, nephew. Come, let us continue our drink. Run along, little Aemma.”
She bit the inside of her lip so suddenly she tasted blood. “Farewell, little Aegon.” She saw him anger again, but left before he could do something more.
The library was barren, which suited her well. She enjoyed solitude, something that had ironically brought her and Aemond closer together. She had most recently read through a collection of plays (her favorite in its insanity had been one where a Northern girl was bedded during her blood moon and gave birth to a half-man half-wolf), yet now she craved something more grounded in reality. She searched through the various scrolls and tomes until something caught her eye. An History of Weaponry in the Kingdoms During Aegon’s Conquest. It reminded her of her own Aegon, and how he mocked her for not knowing how to fight. She did not enjoy hurting people, but the subject might fascinate her if only she were to read about it.
It was a struggle to reach the thing, but in the end she was able to do so with the aid of a tall table. She went to her favorite corner—one that was surrounded by the scent of books and hid her from the world—and settled in her favorite divan. She opened the tome carefully, but the spine still made a cracking sound that signified its age.
She devoured pages upon pages detailing the making of swords and spears and greataxes as well as their advantages and disadvantages, and found that while the subject was not her favorite (that was something the maesters dubbed astronomy), it was interesting enough to keep her entertained for a time. Perhaps she would request that her mother allow her to spar with Ser Harwin Strong one day, to know if she took to the practice of it as much as she did the theory.
“Aemma?”
She was ripped from her studies by the sound of Aemond’s soft voice coming from the hallway.
“In here,” she returned his call.
Quiet footsteps shuffled along the floor, weaving through innumerable, tall bookshelves, before Aemond’s smooth, silver hair came into view. His face was blank and his eyes were rimmed with red. Worry gnawed at Aemma’s gut.
She set her tome upon a small, round table to the side. “Uncle?”
He failed to answer, going to the book and lifting its front so he could read the title. His eyebrows lifted in acknowledgment before he set it back the way it was. He came to sit beside her, yet felt more distant than ever.
“I was searching for you.” There was nothing in his voice as he stared ahead. “I only discovered where you were because my brother said he saw you.”
“Why were you searching for me?”
“Apparently it was to realize that what I wanted to tell you is stupid.”
“Never. It could never be stupid.”
Aemond’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “But it is. It is.” There was a pause as he carefully considered his lap, his fingers fighting not to damage the skin around his nails. “I thought perhaps we might make peace. Be friends, like you and your ba– your brothers. Now I know the thought was foolish. There will be no peace. No love. The only way to make it stop is to prove myself.”
She laid a hand on his cheek and turned his face towards hers. “Aemond… what happened?”
Aemond’s silver eyebrows were curved upward in pain. “They gave me a pig,” he said quietly. “Put wings on it and called it the Pink Dread. Said they found me a dragon. They huffed and snorted, all three of them, as if it was some grand jest. Everyone but you and Helaena, since you weren’t there. Not that you would, if you were.”
Aemma felt something squeeze her like a vice. “That was cruel.” She had never thought her brothers to be cruel. “I’ll have a talk with Jace and Luc. For them to do this was unacceptable.”
“You think them unaware of the fact? The sole reason you haven’t witnessed anything is because they favor you over me.”
“Which is why if I tell them to stop, they will.” Yes. She was sure they would. “We are family, uncle. I refuse to see you hurt if I can help it. Even if we shared no blood, I would hate to see you this way.”
“Because you are my friend?”
“Yes. Because I am your friend.”
The frailest bit of joy seeped into Aemond’s expression. Joy that Aemma wished to keep in a jar and hold near to her forever. It made her feel complete.
“You are good to me,” he said. “You, Helaena, and Mother. Ser Criston too, at times. Mayhaps I don’t deserve it.”
“I disagree.”
“You often do.” He found it amusing, she could tell. That was good. She wanted him to find her amusing.
“You deserve all the goodness in the world.” She went nearer, forcing him to feel her warmth. “Every single scrap of it.”
“As do you. You are kind, wise, and loyal. I could never imagine a better queen. Though my mother doesn’t think so.”
“It doesn’t matter what your mother thinks. It matters what you do.” That always mattered to her, she found, even when she was alone.
Aemond’s joy deepened. “Treason.”
“Then behead me.”
“Perhaps I will.”
Aemma’s lips formed a pout. “You would rid yourself of the most interesting person in the world so easily?”
“Oh, it would not be easy. But I would do my duty, as a worthy prince of the realm.”
Aemma pushed him then, and he fell against the divan with a laugh.
“I hate you,” she said, crossing her arms and looking away.
“You do not.”
“I do,” she said, though she was lying. “I hate you more than anything.”
“Even Aegon?”
“Even Aegon.”
Aemond laughed again; more of a cackle, really. She was glad for it. He was not upset. “Now that is a feat.” He tugged at her arm, but she did not move. “Look at me.”
“No.”
He tugged again. “Aemma, look at me.”
She shook her head and remained staring at a far-off bookshelf. Then, she was pulled forcefully by the waist until her back hit Aemond’s chest. She snapped her head to look at him, her jaw slack with disbelief.
Aemond’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Finally.”
“Now that…” She turned fully to poke his side, where nobody knew he was ticklish. “Was treason.”
Aemond batted her hand away. They were close enough to be touching, so it was easy for her to replace it with another (that was batted away also).
“Then we shall be headless together,” he murmured as if that wasn’t the horrible fate they both knew it was.
Aemma rolled her eyes. “You’ve gone mad.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But then surely you are mad as well, for what other reason would you have for enjoying my company?”
“So I might laugh at the peril of poor, mad Aemond.”
“Then you are cruel as well as a traitor.”
Aemma leaned in quickly in an attempt to intimidate, but it caused their noses to brush against each other. A sudden ache clutched her stomach, though strange enough it was an ache that she craved. Aemond’s pretty face turned white, and then red. She forgot what she was going to say. She had to say something. She refused to be a fool.
“You have yet to witness my cruelty, uncle,” she whispered, and felt his breath reflect her own. “Of that I can assure you.”
She pulled back as soon as the words left her mouth, and a moment later her skin burst into flames.
She refused to look at him. She could not. Her stomach waged war and a sweat broke on her brow. Some image she must have made, Princess Aemma Velaryon, second in line to the greatest seat in Westeros, a sweat-ridden, red-faced, nervous mess next to the dearest friend she’d ever had. Perhaps she was mad indeed. There was no other explanation.
(In that moment, Aemond knew he had been right. Being possessed by his friend was the most wonderful thing in the world.)
“I never knew you had interest in weaponry,” Aemond said after some time, as quiet as a mouse. His cheeks were still pink. “It is wise of you. There are few who would accept you as their future queen without protest. You must teach them to fear as well as to love you.” He lifted her book and placed it upon his lap. “I have not read this one. Perhaps we might leaf through it together?”
Aemma bit her lip. “I would love nothing more.”
But that was a lie. There was one thing she would have loved more; something she did after the two of them were finished in the library, when they realized they had spent half the day together and missed a meal.
Her palm stung as she glared into Jacaerys’ hurt eyes, warped as they were through her tears. “How dare you?” Spit and venom laced her tongue. She had found him and Lucerys in the chambers the two of them shared, both being boys and neither being the future heir to the throne. “Every quality you despise in Aemond, I possess tenfold. If you are too craven to present me with a pig, how dare you present one to him? I will not have the two of you torment him any longer.” She switched her focus onto Luc, who flinched beneath her heartbreak and fury. “I will not.”
“It was Aegon,” Jace stammered, rubbing the cheek that she had struck. “We only aided him in making the wings.”
“Then perhaps I should have Mother only aid me in shipping you to the Wall, so you might learn to forgive her.” Aemma waited for Jace to admit that his logic was flawed before she continued. “I demand that you present him with an apology. Both of you. And the next time Aegon attempts to drag you into one of his cruel tricks, you grab him by the collar and tell him that he’s a… a… a…” A midwife. “A cunt!”
A gasp came from the doorway. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood aghast with little Joffrey fast asleep in her arms. Lucerys ran to her, clutching her skirts and using them to hide himself. The hand she had used to open the door now lay atop his thick, brown head of hair, comforting him as she silently demanded an explanation.
Aemma pushed the tears away from her cheeks and sniffed. “Not to worry, Mother. I was only teaching my brothers a lesson in humility.”
Lucerys tilted his head and looked at Rhaenyra with the innocent gaze of a pup. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
Rhaenyra shut her eyes, looking like she would rather be anywhere else in all the world. “Jacaerys. What is the meaning of this?”
Jace looked to Aemma first. “We aided Aegon in being cruel to Aemond,” he said. “It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
Aemma nodded, satisfied.
“I see,” her mother said. “I suppose keeping the peace sometimes requires tears and humility. Thank you, Aemma.”
“It wasn’t for you,” she responded.
“Of course.” Her mother gave Luc a gentle push towards Jace, prompting him to move away. “I thought mayhaps you would join me in laying your brother to bed. As queen, you shall be expected to do the same with your own children. As for you boys… you are never to speak that improper word again. Do you understand?”
Luc flushed red. “It was Aemma.”
“And I will deal with her swiftly. Yet it is unbecoming of your station. Never speak it, lest someone other than me hear.”
“We never—”
“We understand, Mother.” Jace interrupted him. “The word has been forgotten already. I swear it.”
“Good.” Rhaenyra watched them a moment longer before stepping into the hallway with Aemma.
The walk to her mother’s chambers was silent, and she wondered if she was past due for a thorough scolding. Upon reaching Joffrey’s cradle, Rhaenyra spoke once more.
“Do you approve of his name?”
Aemma watched Joffrey’s small, pink lips move in his sleep. “Do you?”
Her mother laid him in the cradle, smoothing the lace of his clothes away from his fat cheeks. “It matters not, I suppose.” She brought herself to stand tall. “Who’s the cunt?”
Aemma’s mind stuttered. Was this a trap? Her mother noticed her alarm and laughed.
“I shan’t fault you for something you learned from me, sweet girl. Now pray tell, who’s the cunt?”
Aemma could not meet her eyes. “Aegon.”
“Ah.” There was a pause. “He… makes you unhappy?”
No. Needles made her unhappy. Cakes made her unhappy, when she ate so many they hurt her teeth. Hells, sweet Lucerys made her unhappy when he didn’t understand something because of his age. But Aegon… “He makes me want to kill.”
“I see…”
Aemma managed to look at her then, and found that she was troubled. “I can keep the peace,” she was quick to say. “If you wish it.”
Rhaenyra’s smile was brief. “Of course I wish it. That is not what bothers me. I am sure you are aware of the… hostility between our branch of House Targaryen and his. There are those who would support my rightful claim to the throne, and there are those who would support his simply because he has a—” She thought better of what she was about to say.
Aemma did not. “A cock.”
“A cock,” Rhaenyra acquiesced wearily. “You are to be a woman grown in six long years, but he is to be a man in only three. I fear his mother might seek to strengthen her own position by wedding him to Helaena. That would be most disadvantageous to our claim. However, betrothing him to the future, rightful queen of Westeros would go a long way to sealing the breach within our family, as eventually your child and his shall—”
“No.”
“You failed to let me finish.”
She did not have to. “I will be dead before I marry Aegon.”
Her mother looked like she understood but disagreed. “My love, the thing I want most in the world is for you to be happy. You and your brothers. And I hold deep love for my father, as you do for me. Yet I have learned much from his failings. He should have married me to mine own uncle, who once coveted the throne also. Then much pain could have been avoided.”
Aemma refused to so much as entertain the thought that her mother was being serious. “Aegon does not covet the throne. He covets wine and lustful whores.”
(Rhaenyra wondered, with heavy trepidation, whether she unknowingly taught Aemma what lustful whores were as well.)
“The queen covets the throne for him,” Rhaenyra said. “As do the people of King’s Landing. Perhaps all the Seven Kingdoms do.”
“I will burn every kingdom in the world for you.” That was what Aemond had vowed. Where was he now, to enact her will?
“Marry me to Aemond,” Aemma said, knowing she would be content with that choice. “He is my uncle also.”
“He was not born first.” Her mother’s hands took her own. “I know the two of you hold love for each other, and for that I am sorry. To be married to a friend… it is far from the worst fate in the world. Alas, the gods have not been so merciful.”
Aemma removed her hands from her mother’s grasp. “Not the gods,” she said harshly. “You. You will not marry me to Aegon. I forbid it.”
That begot some coldness in her mother. “You forget yourself too easily. You are mine to command, not the reverse.”
“Then I will kill myself.”
“This is no time for dramatics.”
“I mean it. I’ll throw myself from the Red Keep before I agree to marry Aegon.”
“Aemma. I desire your acceptance. Truly, I do. I wish for you to understand what it would mean for our family should this match be made. How much safer we would all be. Do you not wish for your brothers to be safe?” Rhaenyra let the question hang in the air. “But in the end, if you force my hand, then I shall force yours. For if I do not, I know war will follow.”
Aemma felt her nose begin to burn from unshed tears. “He is as cruel as Maegor. He despises me. I will be miserable.”
Rhaenyra cupped her cheeks, gazing down at her with no small measure of sadness. “Boys like Aegon are easy to force into submission. He may despise you now, but when you are wed, he will learn to adore you.”
“How?”
“That is knowledge you are far too young to possess, with far too little experience to wield it. Fret not, sweet seabird. Your mother will be your tutor. No harm shall come to pass so long as I draw breath. This I swear to you.”
Aemma thought of war. Of blood. Of fire. Of Jace and Luc dead, their bodies stiff and unblinking. Of little Joffrey with his innards spilling from his tender stomach. Of her mother and father, a moment before they turn to ash from dragonfire, accusing her with their violet eyes; telling her she could have prevented the carnage if not for her stupid pride. “No harm shall come to pass.”
No, Aemma decided. No harm would.
She picked her lower lip with her teeth, a habit she unknowingly inherited from her grandmother Rhaenys, who forced herself to never again do it in public when she was four and ten. “Very well,” Aemma said, because she always did. She would always choose her mother, even over her dearest friend. Even over herself. “Very well. I will marry Aegon.”
A sigh of relief escaped Rhaenyra, and that made every bit of pain that Aemma felt worth it. “Thank you, my love,” she murmured into her silver curls, embracing her tightly. “Thank you.”
Aemma knew what it was she meant to say. “I’m sorry.”
Aemma never had the chance to spar with Ser Harwin. There was an incident in the training yard, she heard; one which had cost him his honor. After that, she and her brothers saw little of him, if at all, until he informed them that he was to return to Harrenhal with his father, the Hand of the King. This upset Jace and Luc immensely. Aemma enjoyed Ser Harwin’s company, but she did not love him like her brothers did. Why would she? He was not her father.
One eve’s supper was a stilted affair. It was one that King Viserys had called, forcing all of his family to be there. Aemma was seated between Jacaerys and Aegon, a strategic move by her mother if ever there was one. The two eldest boys of House Targaryen, one of whom she adored and the other who she wished to see dead by her knife’s edge. It sliced the ham on her plate most cleanly. There would be time for that later.
Aemond could sense that something was wrong. He continued attempting to catch her eye, yet she refused him at every turn. She would not look at him. If she did, she would descend into tears. (Would Aegon ever make her stomach hurt so sweetly?)
“It will be alright,” Helaena had told her when they first entered the dining hall. “It hurts in the beginning, but then there is nothing.” She offered a smile of comfort, a spider at a fly. “Like death.”
“I must confess,” her mother announced during a frequent moment of silence. “I have come here tonight with a proposal. One which I have given much thought to and believe would tighten the bonds of our family.” She looked at Queen Alicent. “Bonds I have felt go taut near to the point of snapping, of late.”
The queen looked displeased.
“It has not escaped my notice that of the seven of our children, none have been betrothed.”
Aemma felt Jacaerys tense at her side. She laid a hand upon his knee.
“I am certain we can all agree that securing the realm’s succession is paramount for the continued strength of the kingdoms, and of our House.” As for which succession that was, answers would differ. “You have a son. I have a daughter. A daughter who will one day sit the Iron Throne, and a son whose standing shall forever be uncertain so long as we stand divided. Let us betroth them, and join the branches of our family once and for all. Your Aegon shall wed my Aemma, and their firstborn child shall one day rule after her. I would be partial to a match between Helaena and Jacaerys as well, though I would understand if you wish to forge another alliance using her, additionally to the alliance you would be forging with me.”
Aemma dared a look at Aemond then. He was staring at his plate, and the way he clutched the cloth on his lap concerned her.
At her side, Aegon went pale. It was a comfort, at least, to know that nobody wanted this match. Nobody except for the king, who pounded his first onto the table merrily and congratulated his daughter. “A most judicious proposal.” He looked to his wife, seeking her approval, but found only contempt.
“Thank you, Princess Rhaenyra,” Queen Alicent replied. “We shall take this matter into consideration.”
The king wilted like a neglected flower (like his neglected children), and the image was so startlingly pathetic it infuriated Aemma to the point of speaking.
“Forgive me, my king.” All eyes turned to her. All eyes except for Aemond’s, who still stared at nothing. “It is a king who rules this land, is it not?”
Her mother drew a breath, but Aemma refused to face her. She knew what she would see. She avoided Jacaerys too, who stiffened beneath her grip.
“Or is it a council consisting of a different House than House Targaryen? I believe that the fate of your family is a matter that concerns you and you alone. There is no ‘we’ in the ruling of a realm. The Iron Throne is not a wide enough seat for two. And there is nothing to consider. If you find it to be a judicious proposal, my king, agree to it.”
Aemond looked at her then, and she avoided him most of all.
“This is the only way to end a war before its beginning. Unless you are too blind to see that upon your passing, you have ensured failure for all your children. Even the one you have managed to love.”
Aemma’s heart was pounding in her ears, though all else was silent. Later, she would not know what possessed her to speak in such a way. She simply sought to defend her mother, and in doing so strung together ideas and phrases she had heard uttered by both her and her father. In a matter of years, she would look upon this moment with a sense of shame and pride, wondering what Alicent Hightower had made of her speaking like she was already Queen at the tender age of ten. Yet she would never wonder what King Viserys thought, because as always, he was incapable of hiding his emotions.
Even from this distance, she could tell that he was shaken. The edges of his mouth trembled when he formed words. “You honor me, my granddaughter, by speaking to me as an equal. And by reminding me of my duties to the realm. To my family.” That made her want to scoff. If she were Aegon or Aemond or Helaena, he would have demanded that her mother discipline her. Yet she was none of them. She was Aemma, named after his beloved wife, sired by his beloved daughter. He was destined to be a fool for her. “You are correct. As are you, Rhaenyra. This is a wise political match. I hereby command it to be so. I shall allow you to retain your daughter for as long a time as you please not exceeding her twentieth year, after which she is to wed Aegon and perform all the responsibilities owed by her as his lady wife.”
“The responsibilities owed by her.” There was that memory of Aegon driving himself into the serving girl, except now an older Aemma took her place. Her mother on the birthing bed. Blood, sweat, tears. Joffrey in the cradle. Her stomach turned. She failed to realize that her grip upon Jacaerys’ knee had begun to hurt until he touched her forearm and let her feel his sympathy.
(Aemond watched from down the table. He desired nothing more than to strike Jacaerys for comforting her in his place, except perhaps to strike his father for allowing this marriage; to strike her mother for proposing it. Aemma had not meant the words she said. She did not wish to marry Aegon. He refused.)
“Thank you, Father,” Rhaenyra responded. Then, a cacophony of voices broke loose.
“Father—”
“Husband—”
“Your grace—”
Aemma cared not for the protests that sounded around the table. She cared only for Aemond and his frigid sorrow. He would not show it, but it was clear enough to her. He was one of Helaena’s webs whose lace had been torn in twain, and she wished nothing more than to stitch him together.
Supper was finished in silence. Aegon received a scolding for speaking out against his betrothal, and Viserys would not listen when Queen Alicent attempted to urge caution before committing to the match. He rarely did, when it came to Rhaenyra.
Aemond was ushered to his chambers by his mother, along with Aegon and Helaena. Aemma returned to her chambers as well, though sleep refused to grant some reprieve from her guilt. She laid staring at the ceiling, ripping skin off her lips until they bled. “Then you are cruel as well as a traitor.”
Aemma flung the covers off her body and left her room. Her Kingsguard, Ser Lorent Marbrand, was a young, bald man who always gave her figs and spoke to her sweetly. She found him on duty outside her doors, and he knelt down to ask what was wrong, looking for all the world like he wanted to set things right.
“I must speak with my uncle,” Aemma told him, peering into his sad, blue eyes. “I have hurt him, I’m afraid, and I cannot sleep until I do.”
Ser Lorent rose to his full height—which to her, was not very high—and stretched out a hand. “Come then, little princess. Let me take you to your uncle, so you are safe while on your journey.”
Aemma walked, hands linked with Ser Lorent, through the dimly lit walls of the Red Keep. She pulled him in the correct direction, and saw him nod at the Kingsguard before the doors.
“Ser Rickard. Is the princeling asleep?”
“I would imagine so, Ser Lorent. I am not wont to wake him in an attempt to check.”
“I am,” Aemma said, and tried to push past Ser Rickard. He blocked her way with his arm.
“Princess… there will be time for this on the morrow. Please, return to your chambers and—”
“Helaena is your princess, Ser Rickard. I am your future queen. If I demand to see my uncle, then I shall. Unless you wish for me to cry out his name, so he might hear and wake regardless.”
Ser Rickard’s hand flexed upon the pommel of his sword. He would never draw it. She merely wounded his pride. After a shared look between the men, he stepped once to his left, and allowed her access to Aemond’s room.
Aemma was quiet when she opened and shut the door, careful not to let light in as to wake him gently. She crept towards the bed and the figure beneath its intricate covers, illuminated only by the moon.
She was close enough to see Aemond in full. He looked terribly innocent and frail, with his features lax and his hair aglow like a divine cherub. She lowered herself beside him, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching him for a time. She knew not why. Perhaps because it was possible.
He stirred on his own, bringing her attention from the way his fist curled near his chest up to his head. Aemond’s eyes were thin and unfocused as they opened enough to see her between their long, silver lashes. His shoulders went stiff, and his eyes opened fully. He remained prone.
“Why are you here?” His voice was calm, as if unwilling to break the peace.
“You are upset at my betrothal to Aegon,” Aemma said. “I am partly to blame. I’m sorry.”
“You woke me simply to apologize?”
“It is important to me. I have no desire to see you unhappy, even in your sleep.”
Aemond sat up, forcing her to move farther down the bed. “Do not apologize for something that isn’t your fault.”
“I convinced the king to accept.”
“You had no choice. You owed it to your mother. My own mother would have forced Helaena to marry Aegon whether she wished it or not. I heard her muttering recently.”
“My mother did not force me.” She lied because she had to. Their family could not appear divided. “I agreed to wed Aegon of my own volition, with no threats or promises made by another. This was my choice. It still is.”
“You lie.”
“I do not. Your brother is the wisest match for me, for all the reasons stated during supper and more. The only one who enters this betrothal unwillingly is him.”
Aemond shook his head. The intensity of him increased, as if he just now remembered how much dislike he harbored for the situation. “I shan’t believe it. This is unlike you. You hate Aegon. You always have.”
“I won’t be happy with him at my side, to be sure. But this is what is best for the realm. The two branches of our House must be united. It is the only way.”
“But it isn’t. Someone as terrible as Aegon doesn’t deserve the joy that you bring. You cannot be miserable forever. It is too sad to be true.”
“It is how the world works for people like us,” she refuted, though she appreciated the sentiment. “One day you’ll be forced to marry someone as well. Someone who might make you miserable. But you’ll smile and bear it because that is the duty that was forced upon you at birth. It is the same with me.”
“It isn’t,” he said adamantly. “This is not the way to unite our family.”
“Then what? What is the solution to our problem, since you are so—”
“She could have betrothed you to me,” Aemond interrupted harshly. “You are my friend. You said so yourself. I would make you happy, just as you make me. I would let you braid my hair every day for the rest of forever, and we would read in the library every night. I would bring you flowers when you wake, just as Mother told me she wished Father had done before his body began to slip. I would defend your honor against any who would question it, and say that I love your company. We would be good together. I know we would.”
Aemma had wished for the same when she’d spoken to her mother. She wished for the same even now. But she had a duty to the realm, and it was out of the question. “You wouldn’t be enough.” That sounded colder than she intended. “You are the second son. Politically, it would be foolish.”
“But you would be happy.”
“No. My family would be unsafe. I would never be happy.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Of course I don’t,” she wished to say. “How could I when you, uncle, are my family.” Aemma tasted iron on her tongue. Steel. Fire. Blood. “I do.”
(“Liar,” Aemond nearly spat. He wanted to shake her. “Liar, liar, liar.” His insides burned as if he were a dragon. Her dragon. He wished to set the world aflame.)
Aemond reminded her of Luc then, when his expression melted into one of fear. “I don’t want you to leave.” He sounded frailer than he’d looked while sleeping. “If you marry Aegon, you’ll have to spend all day with him. You’ll have no time for me. I’ll miss you.”
Aemma thought that to be an odd line of thinking. “My mother and father are wed, and they are rarely together. I would be here, in the Keep, and you would be too after you marry, since you are a boy. We could enjoy each other’s company, same as always.”
“I suppose,” Aemond allowed. “Yet I still dislike the idea. I always will.” Contrary to his words, he began to calm. He looked out the nearest window, which overlooked the city and touched the black sky. “Is it terribly late in the night?”
Aemma lifted her shoulders. “I saw no one except the Kingsguard.”
“Hm. Would you care to join me in a trip to the Godswood?”
“At this hour? Are you mad?”
“You told me I was.”
“We could get into trouble.”
The cloud over Aemond’s head lifted then, and he offered her a wry smile. “Only if we get caught.”
He donned his boots and cloak, beckoning Aemma to follow as he strode to the wall opposite his bed. He dragged the tips of his fingers over the painted stone before stopping at a particular place and pushing with all his might. A section of wall slid back, grinding open with a low, rough sound, and Aemond regarded her proudly.
“I found this by accident,” he said, “when I rested against it one day. Fortunate, don’t you think?”
Aemma’s eyes were wide. “Someone could sneak in to kill you.”
Aemond snorted and passed through. “Do you plan on killing me, niece? You’re the only one who knows.”
“As far as you’re aware!” Aemma followed suit, watching him strike fire into a torch. “This cannot possibly be safe.”
“Yes, I know how fond you are of safety,” he responded, bringing to mind their conversation of not five minutes past. It caused her to sour. He took the torch and lit the way. “Follow me.”
Aemma huddled shamefully close to him as they descended narrow, winding steps that led to somewhere unknown. The lower they went, the colder it became, causing gooseflesh to break on her skin. There was a dampness to the air. Aemond was unaffected.
Eventually, they reached a dead end, and Aemond grasped a handle on the wall, pulling it open. Dark stone met their vision. They were still inside the Keep. Aemond stuck his head through and looked either way. He waved for her to exit, then shut the entrance behind them.
“This way,” he whispered, torch held above his head as if he were the Hightower itself.
Aemma marked the location of the entrance. If they turned left at the next junction and opened the second door on the right, they would find themselves in the Godswood. And so they did. Aemond dunked the torch in a ready bucket of water, meant for the purpose of extinguishing. They fell into darkness with the hiss of a serpent.
“Why are we here?” Aemma asked, careful that her voice did not carry.
“The air has been warm recently.” He unbuckled his cloak. “I’ve been curious what it’d be like to sleep beneath the stars.”
Aemma watched him approach the trunk of the weirwood tree, less than pleased. “You didn’t think to ask if I wanted this before you dragged me here?”
Aemond settled at its base, the cloak covering his lap and the ground beside it. “Would you prefer to be alone as you are every night, or to enjoy your freedom while it lasts?”
Unwittingly, Aemma walked to him. “We are in the open and without company. We make easy targets. Someone will kill us.”
Aemond laughed lightly. “So concerned with murder tonight… Sit.” He lifted the edge of his cloak, allowing her to slide her legs beneath. “If you wish, I’ll stay awake to guard you.”
“That’s preposterous.” Aemma leaned against him and found that, indeed, it had been warm recently.
“Hardly,” he insisted. “I said I would defend your honor if we were married. Since we aren’t, I will defend your life instead.”
“Would you not defend my life if we were wed?”
“No.” His smile was audible. “I would leave you to a pack of starving wolves.”
Aemma smacked his chest. He grabbed her wrist and adjusted her position so they were both comfortable. Her head lay atop his shoulder. Aemma gazed upward, between the crimson leaves into black speckled satin that glittered with life.
“What do you think they are, if you had to guess?” she asked Aemond. “The stars.”
She felt when he tilted his head in order to view them. “Perhaps they are dragons, breathing fire so far we cannot perceive them; only their light.”
“Hm. The maesters think there is a realm of flame from which the sky protects us. But at night, the moon is so dim that we can see the holes within. As new holes open, new stars appear. Perhaps one day the holes will grow so great that the sky will rip apart, and the world will end in fire.”
“The world already ended in fire, niece. The Fourteen Flames erupted, molten rock shot into the air, and Valyria was gone. Westeros has nothing compared to its glory.”
“I disagree,” she said once more. “There is much glory to be found in Westeros. There will continue to be glory, so long as there is you.”
Aemond looked at her then, his gaze soft from affection. “So long as there is us.”
“There will always be us, uncle.” Aemma sighed and shut her eyes. She huddled closer until she felt his heart beating through his throat. “Always.”
When Aemma woke, she was in her bed. Ser Lorent had carried her up, having searched everywhere after barging into Aemond’s room and finding them both missing. Rhaenyra joined her as she dressed, and while deftly lacing the front of Aemma’s bodice, announced that their family was to depart for Dragonstone imminently. When Aemma pressed her on it, she would not say why.
They had a quiet breakfast with her father and brothers. Then, Aemma was on a ship, sailing to a home she had never known. Rhaenyra met her on the deck. A ring-covered hand ran down her back as her mother regaled her with memories she had of visiting the black rock in her youth. It was clear that she viewed it with fondness in her heart.
That was all that mattered.
Aemma never had the chance to say goodbye.