A Song of Swan and Dragons IX. - part II
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Summary: Arianne discovers pleasure and reinforces her determination after a visit to the Dragonpit. Aemond fights in a melee and sees something less than pleasant.
Words: 132,463 tw: explicit content!, religious guilt, internalized misogyny, general misogyny, Aemond is his own warning Previous: I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII., VIII., IX- part I
IX. Vōre - part 2
nuhys sȳz riña = my good girl ;)
Albitsos = cygnet/little swan
You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?
A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing.
Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on.
What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon.
Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly
flames everywhere.
(Richard Siken)
(Arianne)
Arianne entered her bedchamber and shut the door with more force than necessary.
Despicable, horrid man!
She yanked off the silk caul, letting her thick curls fall loosely around her.
Her fingers fumbled at the laces of her gown.
She ought to have been basking in the success of her audience with the Queen, perhaps preparing for the Ball on the morrow, yet her thoughts drifted only to the Queen’s son.
The most loathsome creature in all the lands!
Once again, Aemond had ruined everything.
She might have approached him, true, but she did so with the honest reason of browbeating him into leaving her alone! It was supposed to be a civil discussion, not some sordid coquetry!
How dare he conclude she was so shameless as to seek an illicit embrace?!
And in the corridor near the Queen's chambers, no less!
Her teeth clenched. Her muscles were tight like strings on loaded crossbows.
It was that fever. The same one Arianne managed to douse with hard work back then, but now it has come back with a vengeance.
There was no question about it anymore, since it had happened twice.
Aemond, the nasty, nettlesome wyvern, had bewitched her with some curse or a potion!
Arianne's working hypothesis was that Aemond was dabbling in Visenya's dark magic rituals.
If there were any justice in the world, they'd take him away and confine him somewhere, far from sight and mind.
How could it even happen?
She could not possibly see him that way.
As a man.
Unfortunately, he was sculpted like the very image of a man whom the demons made to inspire unchaste musings in women. His hair, his austere face, the firmness of his hands, the way he moved, his voice, his....Gods, his scent.
Arianne scowled, fingers digging into her cheeks. She was so acutely aware of the chair she sat on. Just there, between her legs...
Enough. Enough. Enough.
Focusing, she took a copper brush in hand and dragged it through her hair with short, vicious strokes.
At least the painful tugging at her scalp momentarily blocked the broiling heat that lived low in her abdomen.
Her thighs pressed tightly together.
She itched to rub herself against the wood, to ease the ache. To chase after...something, though she did not know what.
What in the Seven Hells was wrong with her?
Had he poisoned her food or drink somehow to incite this?
Not that sweet, delicious Arbor Gold!
Irritably, she flipped through Elysar's writings — the original tome Jace had given her — stopping only at the sketching of her grandmother.
Princess Saera Targaryen had heart-shaped lips like hers, and they were pulled into a tiny, secretive smile.
This is all your fault. Arianne glared at the paper.
Your blood in me.
Perhaps, it had been Saera's fault after all. Possibly, Giulian Swann had tripped, and she'd grabbed him into her carnivorous arms.
Perhaps, she had him cornered in the corridor and wouldn't let him leave.
Perhaps she told him he would give her sons, silver-haired dragonlings like herself, and that he would be glad to do so.
Perhaps, she, too, was repugnant, and cruel, and vexing, and terrorizingly beautiful.
Arianne slammed the book shut and went to bed. The Ball was on the morrow, and poor sleep made the maiden uglier.
It was known.
She flung the coverlet from the bed, fluffed the pillows, turned them over and over again, and finally fell atop them, fuming.
Sleep!
He called her a cygnet. Arianne blenched at the diminutive.
What was worse, he talked as if he knew her, as if he knew anything at all.
He did not!
He did not see her standing at a precipice, barely clinging to the vision she had for herself — either she climbed higher… or she fell, lost in some piffling castle on the border of nowhere, wed to a forgettable lord, raising forgettable children, vanishing quietly into mediocrity.
It was a nightmare!
What if her forgettable lord also turned out to be an illiterate lord? The sort who might grumble at her reading habits and toss her precious Barth into the hearth and use her collection of Thyrne's Inquiries as tinder while shouting something idiotic like: “Books are for maesters!”.
Arianne nearly choked.
She thought of Bryen Caron, who’d lost half his teeth in a brawl over spilled ale and could barely spell his own name.
Seven save me!
What did Aemond care about her courtly stratagems? He could fly off on his monstrous dragon and do as he pleased, answerable to no one.
Her mind reminded her that both of them wanted the same thing, and Arianne groaned. If she'd only seen it sooner, she never would’ve told him a thing.
Whether she wanted it or not, Aemond Targaryen was her enemy.
There was nothing to it than plain logic: If somehow the Gods smiled upon her and gave her Jace for a husband, if she were to assume that, there could still only be one ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. If Aemond became King, then Jace could not. And if Jace were not King, then she would never be Queen.
So, in conclusion, one of them was doomed to failure. Either she was a Queen, which meant Aemond would never have his crown, or Aemond was a King, which meant she was not a Queen. They couldn't both win —
Unless...
The thought struck her like the blunt edge of a sword.
Unless they were wed.
Arianne sat up straight.
Then she shook her head, nearly laughing. The idea was so unfathomably preposterous that her brain refused to entertain it.
Ludicrous. Absurd.
Jace will be King after his mother, and she will be his Queen.
She will wed the one man who shall one day hold power to win a quarrel with Aemond, and she will do so even if Jace were somehow to lose all his teeth and descend into veritable madness.
She was going to ensure her hegemony over the One-Eyed twat!
He was so blusteringly certain that she could not win their quarrel, and that there weren't any men who could either.
She will show him!
Then, one day, she shall write up the declaration of his exile, and Aemond will be welcome to enjoy whatever delicacies they serve in Far Mossovy.
Well, even her chances of marrying Jace were better than ten people dropping dead before Aemond got a crown.
Spitefully, she stuck out her tongue.
He was practically dreaming.
That must eat at him, knowing he will one day kneel to his half-sister and the very nephews he sneers at.
Perhaps that was why he was so mean.
"There is no shame in wanting power."
It made her shiver, the honeyed inflection to his words as if he could pry open her ribs and pore over her grasping, covetous heart.
As if he could see her better than she could see herself, with that single eye. It was very blue, the color of the clear sky. So rare back home, since the rain would turn it grey for most days. So...lovely.
Sleep!
How useless her own mind was at commanding itself.
Arianne stared at the ceiling, arms folded over her chest.
Well, then go do something useful. You haven't translated all the texts you borrowed from Dragonstone.
However, she would not end up doing anything useful, because once her hands reached for her makeshift dictionary, she was looking for something else entirely.
After she was confident she got all the words correctly and formulated the sentence following the rules, Arianne stilled, her limbs locking in place.
He liked...sweet birds that were...like her?
A flush crawled up her throat. She crumpled the parchment and threw it into the hearth.
"Twat!" She hissed out loud.
Did he think she would stand for such mockery?
When he supposedly delighted in tormenting her. Only her.
She recalled his worst jest — the cruelest yet. She knew now he could be crueler still, and that knowledge made her belly flutter treacherously.
Gladly?!
As if she would welcome lying underneath someone like him. He was but a second son, with nothing to him except an illustrious name and a dragon.
Why would she ever wish to feel his weight on her, or his lips on her skin?
Soft, pink, with that perfect curve of the upper bow.
To let him trail down the length of her body with that callow, venomous mouth?
Undo her lacing and carry her onto the bed?
Then...she did not know, but it certainly wasn't something she'd welcome gladly.
What he had said...about Myles Mooton...
Seven!
She should not, not, not wonder if Prince Aemond undressed her during conversations, too, or if he reveried about deflowering her! Wonder whether he wanted to do it.
Whether he would do it, given the chance.
Arianne's breath faltered, shame burgeoning underneath her skin.
But what if he did? What if he had conjured her in his mind — laid her bare in some dark chamber of his thoughts, forced her down in cruel fantasy, whispering wanton, sinful things against her throat as he —
Stop, stop thinking! Taxes on luxury goods! They ought to be reinstalled!
And yet, something inside her twisted deeper, tighter. What if he'd imagined her just like this? With her hand between her thighs, panting, helpless, needy.
She yelped, pulling her fingers back from her smallclothes, suddenly cognizant of what she was doing. The thing Septa forbade.
Arianne squeezed her eyes shut.
No. Never. She'd never welcome it gladly.
Aemond would hurt her.
She knew he would. It was supposed to hurt. Everyone said so.
But he… he would make it worse.
Awful as he was, doubtlessly, he'd laugh at her tears, reveling in the ache he bestowed by robbing her of her maidenhead.
It would hurt, even with Jace...but Jace would not be cruel. He wouldn’t want to cause her pain.
He would only hurt her as much as necessary.
Maybe Jace could even have her enjoy her bedding, the way Princess Alyssa supposedly had. However, Arianne was sceptical of Elysar's claims. Surely, a princess would know better than to moan so loudly as to be heard throughout the Keep? That was...unbecoming.
Then she remembered Saera had been a princess too, and then she did not know what to think anymore. Aunt Johanna also mentioned that coupling should be pleasurable for a woman.
She blew at the curl that fell into her eyes.
He had named it lovely. Her unruly, stubborn, tangled hair.
Lovely.
Aemond could not have genuinely meant it when his own cascaded down his shoulders, smooth as finest silk and pale as starlight.
Arianne wondered what it would feel like to thread her fingers through those silver tresses.
What would he do? Would he allow it?
Her ear still brimmed with heat from where his fingertips grazed it. She shoved a pillow onto her face, resisting the urge to scream.
Arianne lifted her hips, seeking relief, seeking something, anything — but found only empty air and the throb of disappointment. With a soft thud, her arse dropped back to the mattress.
What in the Seven was wrong with her?
She could not allow this. This invasion, this seizure of her mind. Her body. Her breath.
No incense could cleanse what was unfolding in her thoughts.
Curling onto her side, Arianne hugged her knees close. Her stomach churned strangely, as if her body were shifting beneath her skin.
And it was far too soon for her monthly bleed.
These weren't butterflies, not a chance, these were things that crawled up here from the Seven Hells.
Butterflies were only for Jace, the tiny stabs of nervousness and anticipation, the pinpricks of warmth jolting her at his nearness.
Aemond did not give her butterflies.
No, these were fireworms, twisting and searing her flesh. Arianne fumbled with her sheets, groaning from sheer frustration.
Fireworms, the ones Septon Barth described, that killed Princess Aerea. She had at least seen Valyria before dying, while Arianne only talked to Prince Aemond.
When her last candle guttered out, so did her resistance.
Arianne bit her lip until she punctured the skin, shame burning her mouth as she slipped a trembling hand beneath the linen. Again, she let her fingers find that aching, swollen place just above her slit.
Gods.
Her own touch was...soothing. Pleasing. What a strange thing, considering knowing pleasure before marital bed was a sin.
Unless it was all some elaborate scheme to keep maidens from knowing. Aunt Johanna had written about lies and her sheltered innocence.
She rubbed small, insistent circles into it, her chemise riding unabashedly high over her hips.
Oh.
Arianne realized she had understood her aunt's question. This was pleasure. Her pleasure.
She arched into her palm, stunned by how natural the motion felt, like her body had been waiting for her to discover this particular rhythm all along. A secret, profane tempo etched into her flesh.
Would it be like this with her prince?
She thought of Jace, imagined him kissing her, pushing her gently but firmly against a cold stone wall, his lips hot on her neck, her collarbones, his hands bold as they held her waist. With each imagined breath against her skin, the need bloomed hotter, wetter, spreading down her inner thighs like a deluge.
Soon she was grinding herself against the heel of her palm, her other hand clenched tightly in the sheets.
The sensation was overwhelming, forcing her feet to curl.
Would he undress her slowly? Would he lay her out across soft sheets and pore over every inch of her skin with his mouth? She didn’t know what she was supposed to do — only that she would fall into beguiling surrender, sweet and willing, her body open as a blossom.
She would welcome him gladly.
Oh, wicked, wicked, wicked Arianne!
Oughtn't think so wantonly of him!
But would his dark hair tickle her cheeks as he leaned in close? Would Jace shield her from the world with his arms, his body, his name? Would he gut anyone who dared to steal her away? Just for her — his beloved lady, his future queen.
Only her.
Would he hold her so tightly, so, so closely, even as she slipped into sin under his touch? He had such wonderful hands, warm and sure, much larger than her own — Gods.
Maiden!
Jace's fingers could caress and touch between her legs so much better than she ever could. She was certain of it.
Her smallclothes dampened through, and for one panicked moment she feared her moon’s blood had come early — not now, not now of all times, not with the Maiden’s Day so close. But no...
This was something else entirely.
Sticky and watery, but also hers.
Arianne whimpered a tiny, half-strangled sound, desperate for that final crest. That intangible, involuted rapture. A pleasure, they whispered, granted only if a husband was particularly attentive.
Not whispered to her, of course — she’d only heard by accident, eavesdropping when one of her cousins was being prepared for her wedding night.
Arianne hadn’t even known what they meant by it.
She had no map of the place she wanted to go to.
So her thoughts drifted like rudderless ships sliding toward uncharted territories she hadn’t known existed.
Only that they were forbidden.
She rutted into her own hand, and the bedding, frustrated that she could not find it, that something she was chasing after. That sweet release.
Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Her delicate nub now throbbed, demanding it of her.
Then her small hand was Jace's, and then...something else entirely. A hand she'd never think about in her right mind.
But she wasn't now, she was terribly, achingly needy, and his fingers were so pretty, so elegant, so long, and she'd felt the constellations of callouses on his palms against her wrists and her knuckles enough times to recreate them inside her head.
And, Mother Above forgive her, his hold had been firm. Cruel. Unyielding.
Commanding.
Arianne imagined that if he were to touch her while she was in the throes of such sweet agony, she'd not extricate herself until he was done with her.
Until...
Until she squeezed her thighs snugly together, in a vain attempt to unclasp his hand from her cunt.
He'd only grin, a gush of warm air against the shell of her ear, and continue drawing excruciatingly slow circles on her pearl with those dexterous fingers. Mayhap, he'd insult her — and mayhap she truly was a wanton tart to imagine such acts, while holding her securely with his other arm, holding her wrists pinned between the small of her back and himself.
The way he had her fettered earlier.
It wouldn't be her fault, not then, not if he did it in such a way, not even if she surrendered, her head tipped back and baring her neck for him to taste. Not if he made her surrender. Then it wouldn't be her sin, but only his, and he'd be damned to Seven Hells.
Arianne shivered, biting into one of her pillows to stifle the most indecent sounds she had ever produced.
Would he kiss down her pulse, his teeth grazing her? Would he taste her? Would he say anything, anything at all, in that lilting language she scarcely understood?
Gods.
Gods.
He’d claim her mouth and steal the breath from her lungs, his fingers slipping lower, parting her slickness, the heel of his palm grinding slow and deep into her center until she sobbed from need.
"You would beg for me, wouldn't you, little swan?" Aemond hummed against her skin, and her blood followed in accord.
"I know you yearned to be held again, nuhys sȳz riña. So obvious. So shameless."
Her throat collapsed.
Yes.
Gods.
Yes. She would. She did. She was shameless. Just, just, if only she could—
She couldn't even remember the word.
Kessa. (Yes.)
Her thighs clamped tightly, trembling around her hand. She pressed down harder, the heat inside her mounting to something unbearable, a tightening spiral, a dark earth on the cusp of violent tremors.
“You’re desperate for me, my lady. Do you think I don’t see it? You think I haven’t imagined it?" His voice in her mind was soft and unkind.
Arianne cried out, half a gasp, half a sob.
That was the worst, most damning part.
She enjoyed the idea of him imagining her. Wanting her. Monopolizing her company in the tiltyards and banquet halls. Seeing the hunger in her soul, and licking his lips at the taste of it.
What if those words Aemond threw at her earlier weren’t just a jest, but a confession? What if his gaze darted to her lips because he meant to kiss her, gently and swee - no, not sweetly, because he was not, not even gently, but ardently, senselessly?
Madly?
Gods, what would happen if his lips darted everywhere? What if he traced the boundaries of her cunt while calling her lovely, or contriving, or mine?
Arianne arched, her pleasure building to a keening crescendo. Her blood hummed, like the susurrus of a great tide a moment before it crashes.
Aemond she had conjured, knelt, and, oh, she was not sure, but the man in the tapestry had bent low, at least it looked so, had kissed...
Had kissed —
"How futilely you press those thighs together, my sweet cygnet. You will part them for me."
He coaxed in that dulcet voice, smooth like Quartheeni slik.
"You dream of it, don't you? Of me kissing that little pearl of yours, carefully, thoroughly — like a pilgrim before Maiden's altar."
Breath fled from her lungs.
And at last — at last — the wave cracked, breaking violently against the shoreline.
Her rapture was jagged, unrelenting, blinding. It shattered her into fragments, like the painted glass in the Great Keep, those waves washing over her as she shuddered through it — lips parted and lashes fluttering.
She bit her knuckles to silence herself, but it was too much. She sobbed into the bedding, hips twitching, her slit pulsing with the aftershocks as her body trembled with the force of it.
When it passed, Arianne lay there, utterly undone.
Her eyes darted to the canopy, waiting for it to tumble onto her from the weight of her sin. Yet, somehow, she could not force the movement or the horror into her spine. The muscles forming her limbs melted, and she felt herself languid, softened, and incredibly sleepy.
So warm and so content.
Arianne yawned, nuzzling herself deeper beneath the coverings, drawing the linen up to her chin like a penitent child.
She would fast.
She would pray.
She would be on her best behavior during the Maiden's Ball.
She would be up at the hour of the nightingale to scour herself clean. A maiden must be pure in thought and conduct. Her Septa would agree that she needed a purification ritual to cleanse her body, soul, and whatever remained of her dignity.
The Maiden would forgive her, wouldn't she? She hadn't done anything truly wicked...and it was only one time! The Maiden would still...give her a husband, would she not? If she swore to never, ever, ever, ever speak to Prince Aemond again...
.
.
.
(Aemond)
Aegon.
Aegon.
Aeg-
Hobrenka qryldes! (Fucking pig!)
Aemond glared in disgust at the dark, wet stain on his tunic where Aegon's vomit had splattered him.
Not only had his brother interrupted what could have been the beginning of his affair with Arianne Swann, but the drunken fool had hurled all the wine from his stomach onto Aemond while being helped to bed. Then, he had the gall to laugh.
"Ohhh, my apologies. Now you're wetter than your lady's cunt."
Aemond's forearm muscles strained to resist the urge to strangle him.
"Do not be so sour, Aemond. I will help you." Aegon nodded to himself, rolling onto his side. A few moments later, he began to snore.
Fucking, ill-conceived wastrel!
Livid, the One-Eyed Prince stomped away before he could do something his mother would not approve of, like placing a pillow over Aegon's face and smothering him.
He slammed the chamber door so hard that it barely remained on its hinges, and went to the wardrobe. Aemond pulled the soggy clothes off, tossing them into the basket the servants would pick in the morning to clean.
He.had.just.fucking.bathed.
Of course, he was tasked with ensuring his older brother did not disgrace their family. Of course, it was he, Aemond, whom mother and grandsire trusted and depended on. He, who learned, bled, and upheld his duties. He, whom Daemon regarded with caution.
He, the younger brother, who had sat across Otto Hightower and toppled his jade King with an ivory trebuchet. Whom his grandsire then looked at, and proclaimed to be everything he had hoped Aegon would one day become.
Did Lord Hand not realize how callous those words were, considering he had no intention of changing his not-so-secret plans of crowning Aegon? Aemond was not privy to what his father's council whispered about behind closed doors, but he was no fool.
It was a plot.
His father deserved it, the weak, incompetent, bumbling fool that he was.
If he'd cared enough to look at his second son once, he would've seen the right man for the burden of rulership.
Because Aemond did not consider it a burden at all.
Rhaenyra and her brood of bastards could not be permitted to steal the throne from the King's trueborn sons. Since she was guilty of treachery, they would answer in kind.
If only he were born first.
Once again, the older prince had proven to be the sharpest thorn jabbing Aemond's side. Only Aegon would greet a lady by inquiring if she had sampled his younger brother’s cock.
Mittys! (Moron!)
And Arianne —
Arianne.
Aemond flexed his fingers.
Could he have been so...mistaken about her?
Not a courtesan, no, she definitely was not.
Would've fooled him back when they met, draped provocatively in that white garment, cut just low enough to cradle the swell of her perfect tits.
His bastard nephew was simply a foolish, spoilt boy, and Arianne was far too clever to cavort with boys. She'd only wed Jace...for a crown.
Aemond's remaining eye narrowed.
She could not desire such a weak, simpering whelp.
The man she would want in truth could never be less than she was.
So, it was a logical conclusion that the little lady Swann was telling the truth and had yet to be bedded. Or even...kissed.
But... to think she was so sheltered that she did not understand Aegon’s crude barb?
It was...unexpected.
He sighed contentedly.
It pleased him more than he cared to admit.
On the morrow, she would come to realize that he was the man she ought to waste her attentions, her wit, and her womanly sweetness on.
He notified her, in no uncertain terms, that she was to spectate the melee. Once he won, of course, he could let her fawn over his victory, in that grating way the ladies did after witnessing men fight, and then, he could invite her to play cyvasse with him.
He had it all handled.
Aemond tossed a log to the hearth, watching the flames devour it. It seemed the winter was creeping upon them, and summer was approaching a slow, prolonged final wheeze just like his father.
He refused to entertain the possible consequences of Aegon yapping to their mother about matters that were Aemond's alone.
His brother had been mightily inebriated, so, in any case, Aemond could deny everything and accuse the older prince of fabrication. His grandsire and mother would surely believe him over the drunkard.
As for his little choir of lickspittles, Aemond had already threatened them into silence.
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of his bed. The chill in the chamber licked at his bare shoulders, cooling his pale skin.
Furthermore, Aemond thought, fingers lingering on the fastening of his boots, his lady Arianne was not a woman one was ashamed of.
By claiming her, he'd only inspire the eternal envy of lesser men. They'd choke upon hearing it was he, and only he, who enjoyed the Court's newest darling.
The whore of Dragonstone would be devastated after realizing the Queen's son took her most promising lady to bed.
Aemond almost smiled.
Almost.
Yet the horror that would surely be dancing upon his mother's face ended that particular reverie.
Alicent wouldn't find his extramarital affair anything but a failure of morals.
It brought an uncomfortable scraping underneath his ribs that held him back from pursuing his lady more openly.
The disappointment of his mother, and to an extent, his grandsire and Ser Criston, prevented him from simply declaring Arianne Swann as his.
And he should. He should be allowed to claim her as his, to drape the red silk around her waist and get her fat with child.
Aemond shook his head, reaching back to remove the leather eyepatch and untie his hair. The silver strands unspooled, tickling his face.
If only they could understand that this was different. That it was only this once, that he would remain focused and never falter in his duties — that he wasn't a lech or a fanciful, coddled prince seeking to slake low lusts.
If Mother ever saw him as she did Aegon, Aemond wouldn't know what to do.
Not when he was, in fact, so devoted to his family that even his so-called romantic proclivities happened to be beneficial.
He was not just indulging a fancy like a lesser man would, no, Aemond was rather removing a clever, resourceful contriver from the bastard prince’s side, plucking a jewel from his whore-sister’s hands before she even realized it was gone.
Because that was what Arianne was, a gem, not some vapid, pampered tart. And he, for his part, was no capricious, enamored fool.
Aemond frowned because it was a genuine tragedy that Arianne's mind was not born inside a man's head — what great advisor, or even Hand of the King, that man would be. Instead, it had to make do with women's lot in life, scheming about their irrelevant courtly squabbles while being crammed inside her dainty skull.
To think that she bribed the kitchens and presented it as Rhaenyra's charity in the name of the Maiden! Also, she could cite Beldecar and Thyrne, and he was so damnably curious about what else was going on behind her green eyes.
He had seen anger there when he mocked her. Disdain, when she pontificated about tit for tat.
Joy, when she babbled about The Fires of the Freehold.
And that quiet vigor to achieve her ends, it gleamed underneath the veneer of modesty, and it made his fingers tingle.
He wondered how her eyes would shimmer when filled with different things...Admiration, submission, rapture.
Aemond opened Battles and Sieges of the Century of Blood, but the letters blurred into the parchment.
His eye felt terribly dry after the long day.
An irritation that soured his mood almost as much as Aegon, for he had intended to retreat to the library. It would be blissfully empty at this hour: no royal children at their lessons, and Jaehaerys was loud enough without Daemon and Rhaenyra's feral brood, whose presence he had to now suffer, no tedious company of its custodian, no one.
But reading was impossible when his eye burned so. Grandmaester said it was expected because it carried the burden of both eyes.
Aemond rubbed at it, cursing that wretched bastard Lucerys, and abandoned the thought, deciding instead to retire to bed.
He sprawled onto the cold sheets, allowing a contented grin to tug at the corner of his mouth.
Lady Arianne had turned after him.
To look at him. And the way she withdrew into the alcove, so that he might follow and have her all to himself, so coyly...
Aemond hummed lightly.
She was, quite clearly, attempting to engage in a flirtation with him.
Why else would she approach him at that hour, with a dress laced so tightly he could imagine what was being offered?
What could be his. His to fuck.
She glanced over her shoulder to meet his gaze.
It was clear as glass.
It was courtship in all but name.
Her courtship of him.
So why had she been so outraged that he touched her?
Something made his face scrunch in annoyance. It was an emotion Aemond abhorred.
Confusion.
She had come to him on her own accord, sashaying like a Lyseni strumpet, chin lifted like an invitation.
It was not the sort of thing well-bred ladies did on accident, or without good reason. And the reasons he found reasonable were far more pleasing than the one she had offered.
But then, the moment her mouth opened, it was all barbs and nettles. Insults of such variety, he would have struck her, had she been a man.
It made no sense.
Could she have been nervous? The barbs could've just been a maiden's armor.
Perhaps it was simply the way women of the Marches flirted. For all his reading, Aemond had never studied the customs of women from the Stormlands. The Marches were a harsh, unforgiving place that bred good men like Ser Criston.
Perhaps he could ask Cole about —
Absolutely not!
He needed no help in wooing a woman.
He only needed to get to the bottom of it. Either she was playing some coy little game with him, or she was truly so foolish as to bait him without wanting the bite.
She had wanted something.
Aemond dragged a hand down his face.
He had wanted something too, wanted it still — to kiss her mouth until her lips bruised, yank that infernal hairnet off and tug her hair loose, to quench his thirst with her sweet nectar, and ravish her inside that alcove. He wanted to ignore all the rules and laws and his own propriety and be what he truly was.
A dragonlord above it all.
It was unbearable, the way she tangled in his thoughts.
Arianne was extraordinarily lucky that he was possessed of exceptional restraint and discipline. Inferior men could not have possibly endured such a look underneath her sooty lashes.
No, they would have shoved her against the stone wall and appeased their vulgar lusts.
As a matter of fact, Arianne should want his protection. And he could be generous with it, should she warm his bed.
Should she learn some respect.
Aemond scowled, turning on his side, adjusting his pillow.
She had struck him in her little tirade.
And he had let her. Let her vent all her rage and fury upon him like he owed it to her.
He was not in the habit of allowing anyone to raise their hands against him, but she was so very much herself when she was angry.
So very insolent. So very beautiful.
Focused solely, unabashedly on him.
A wyvern. She had called him a wyvern.
It amused him, truly.
Did the stubborn cygnet not realize that every disparaging adjective she gave him, every flare of her temper, only proved she thought of him?
He might've acted boldly, yes, and taken certain liberties by barring her from leaving, but what did it matter?
Hadn't he already decided she was to be his?
Aemond supposed that if he were honest, he did it deliberately. The erratic patter of her pulse grounded him, preventing him from doing something truly brazen. The flex of her tendons against his palm was intoxicating in a way he did not wish to examine too closely.
It would be a lie to say he did not enjoy the realization dawning on her comely face — that she could not leave until he permitted it. That between them, the balance of power was not hers to command.
Arianne had evaded him, flittered around him, and rebuked him for long enough. It could've been the spite in his sinews, but it only made him that much more determined to show her there was no sky wide enough for a swan to outfly a dragon.
He stretched, rubbing his eye.
She fit so absurdly well against him. Her softness yielding to all the angular planes down to his hard cock.
How sweet she was, rendered wordless by his confession.
As sweet as a honey-glazed berry.
Even with her hair bound in that ugly silk mesh. Those curls were clearly straining to escape that offensive thing, because they weren't meant to be hidden. They were made to be unbound, loose, and splayed across silk pillows. Tangled in the crook of his elbow when he had her on her back, or wrapped around his fist when she arched for him.
Aemond hadn't considered outright declaring himself, but once she'd asked about his tastes, he couldn't hold the answer behind his teeth.
It clawed its way out.
He told her things not fit for a chaste maiden's ears, truths he knew would make her tremble. He wanted her riled, befuddled out of her clever mind, wanted her thinking of him long after she fled the corridor. Because she would think of him after this.
She understood enough of High Valyrian, didn't she? Mayhap, tomorrow, when she's gazing up at him with those emerald eyes, smitten by his prowess in the yard, Arianne declares her affections as well.
What greater honor could a lady of the Court dream of than to be the object of a Targaryen prince’s desire?
Aemond found it cathartic. Downright blissful, confessing.
Like making a decisive move during cyvasse opening that could not be taken back.
Like a first flight on dragonback.
Like Ayrmidon described the act of ordering an army to charge was — that breathless instant when the lines surge forward and there is no pulling them back.
Well, there was no turning back now.
Not that he wished to, what was there for him if he looked back? He never looked back. And he was no longer a dragonless child they laughed at, a boy who only dreamed of things or who needed luck to accomplish anything.
Aemond ignored the dull ache in his temples.
He only needed to resolutely follow his plan, knocking catapults and elephants off the board, until the opposing King fell.
Lady Swann was no King, but he'd have her lying down in surrender nonetheless.
.
.
.
Aemond squinted at the wooden stands. His gaze slid to the shaded area by the armory. Then toward the stone staircase, expectantly.
Back to the stands again.
Where, in the Seven Hells, was she?
"Are you ready, my Prince?" Ser Criston appeared all too pleased to see him joining a melee.
"You've fought Belgrave a dozen times, but Kettleblack," Cole leaned to Aemond's ear, voice lowering.
"Tricky, that one. He's left-handed and has a wider stance. I'd advise angling in and taking his shield-side. Step in close before he can counter."
His mentor's words faded into a dull hum as his mind refused to return to reason.
Mayhap, she was just...late.
Isn't that what they say about women? They never arrive on time.
"Did you fight in tourneys before you came to King's Landing?" Aemond interjected abruptly. He knew the man had seen real combat in the Dornish Marches. Cole told him as much while demonstrating how to pick a proper spot and make a camp in the Kingswood.
Aemond learned quickly, so the second time they went, he managed to do it on his own.
It was precisely Ser Criston Cole who taught him most practical things, including hunting.
Cole blinked.
"A few, after Ser Arlan Dondarrion knighted me. Why? This is just a melee, my Prince."
"Hm, do folk in the Marches enjoy watching them?"
"There's not much else to enjoy down there. Defending the borders against the Dornish takes precedence." Criston replied, a touch dry.
Aemond hesitated. He shouldn't ask. Criston might guess why.
His ears burned.
But what if he was entirely wrong, and Arianne abhorred violence, and that was why she was not yet here? What if spectating combat was just something the women from her lands did not do? Though Aemond doubted it.
Marchers, they said, wielded swords before they could walk.
Surely, ladies raised there would also appreciate a good fight, then?
Aemond pretended to test the weight of his sword.
"And...women from the Marches, do they...admire a man's skill at arms?" His tone was deceptively leveled. Or at least he thought so.
Cole's dark brows drew together. Slowly and way too suspiciously.
He stared at Aemond.
Aemond stared back.
"Forget it." He harrumphed, hoping that clearing his throat would also clear his head.
"What were you saying about Kettleblack?"
Cole, thank the Gods, resumed his lecture about forcing the man to expose his right side. Aemond let the words slide over him.
How dare she?! How dare Arianne Swann slight him after last night?
"Today is very important for the Queen." Ser Criston concluded at last.
"We must do our best to safeguard the Maiden's Celebrations against those who would rather change decency and integrity for debauchery and sin."
He inspected the shields before selecting one and offering it to Aemond.
"She will be overjoyed to hear you joined today. I am certain you will win and attain the Maiden's blessing —"
"I didn't come to entertain the Maiden or them." Aemond scowled in the general direction of the stands. One of the pages shrank after accidentally meeting his cold stare.
It was starting, and she was missing.
Did she not care at all to see him?
The One-Eyed Prince felt the sting of it. The sooner he gets this over with, the better. The men he considered formidable weren't competing today. Some of them were challenges he'd enjoy, like one of the Cargyll brothers, or Ser Criston himself.
Or Daemon, even as old as he was now.
Alas, the Gods have conspired to ruin his day because he was now stuck proving his worth against Aegon's lackwit friends like Estermont and Reyne, or Belgrave, or nobodies like Kettleblack.
Aemond slid his tongue along the edge of his incisors.
It was just another training, nothing more. It just happened to fall amid the celebrations for the Maiden's Day.
He told her in no uncertain terms that she was required to attend!
He had been clear, a training yard on the morrow! He couldn't have been more direct!
Did that spoilt hen think he trained to perform for the masses like some imbecilic coxcomb?! Did Arianne not realize what privilege he granted her?!
She was supposed to be here, so that he could impress her, and —
Why in the Seven Hells would he compete in a stupid melee otherwise?
Aemond rolled his shoulders and turned to Cole.
"It is morning, therefore time for my sparring." He recited, violence surging up his spine.
"Which is what I shall proceed to do."
.
.
.
The melee was a blur of steel and splintered wooden shields. He knocked Belgrave flat with a vicious shoulder-check and disarmed Kettleblack in three swift moves, driving the man to yield before the sun climbed to the highest point in the sky.
When Aemond straightened, ignoring the ovation from the gathered crowd, he found Criston watching him with not just pride but concern.
He was about to regret saying anything, wasn't he?
S even Hells —
"Well done, my Prince. You will be winning tourneys in no time."
"I don't give a shit about tourneys." Aemond sneered, pivoting towards the armory. Cole fell into step beside him without missing a beat.
"The Queen has noticed...you've been distracted lately." He did not waste time before probing.
"Is something troubling you?"
Yes!
One wayward, obdurate, waspish cygnet! Among other things...
"Ought it not?" Aemond countered.
"They're here, and Mother is pretending at some civility when everyone knows what the decision regarding that petition will be."
And then? They'll see it as unacceptable, stripping Lucerys of Driftmark. There will be war, likely.
A boy with tawny hair and a face covered in freckles hurried toward them and dropped into a bow. He was one of Cole's squires.
"Your Grace," he addressed Aemond breathlessly.
"The Queen requires your presence."
.
.
.
"I've a headache," Aegon muttered as the carriage rattled over the cobbles. They passed the main square and began the slow climb up the Street of the Sisters toward the Dragonpit.
"You should drink some tonic." Helaena replied, eyes not leaving the small window.
Aemond sat stiffly across from them, his long legs almost touching his sister's riding leathers. Jade green and light gray suited her well, though he himself chose Targaryen black adorned with the crimson sigil of their House.
He was having a grand, awful time.
Alicent had been waiting for him in Helaena’s solar earlier, pacing the floor like some wrathful apparition.
"They went to the Dragonpit! Today! Rhaenyra must think the smallfolk will see them as trueborn if they parade themselves above the city!" She lamented, arms raised in exasperation.
Aemond had spotted Aegon there too, slouched bonelessly over the table.
So, their mother must have been haranguing about Rhaenyra for quite some time.
He highly doubted it was his half-sister's scheme, for she was far too thick for any sort of politicking. Not only did she find the most non-Velaryon-looking man in the Seven Kingdoms to father her bastards, but she also hid on Dragonstone for all these years.
Yet, his mother's heed of everything Rhaenyra did or did not do bordered on obsessive. Had that treacherous cunt really mattered to her once?
It was a weakness of her soft woman's heart. He, the rational man, could never fall victim to the indignities and falsehoods of love.
If one asked Aemond, his half-sister, the whore, deserved to be relieved of her inheritance.
This, however, reeked of Daemon’s work.
"They must see you as well. You are Viserys's trueborn sons." Alicent grasped his forearms.
"You will go with your brother, won't you, Aemond?"
Aemond nodded mutely.
Much as he detested the bastards and the very air they breathed, he needed no reason to fly — though Vhagar would not be pleased about circling above rooftops like some trained hawk. She was a dragon bred for war, not for charming smallfolk.
They left so abruptly that he forgot to tell his mother of his triumph in the yard.
Helaena now waved at some passing children and smiled. She had only agreed to go after Aemond promised that he and Vhagar would follow Dreamfyre across the Blackwater Rush, where she meant to land and collect critters.
They grow larger over there, she had insisted. His sister might have her head in the clouds, but she was aware enough that their mother would never allow her to land somewhere alone.
"Why are you going up there? Vhagar’s not even in the Dragonpit." Aegon remarked, frowning as he yanked the curtain closed on his side.
"You'll be sad...and angry." Helaena murmured, glancing briefly at him.
Aemond’s single eye narrowed.
Why would he be sad? He had a dragon now, and his days of sneaking into the Dragonpit were long gone. He shall never suffer some cruel jest under that grand dome ever again.
"I am going because I do not trust you with Helaena’s safety!" he spat at Aegon.
"They ambushed me, the cowards, and cut my eye out, never forget."
The sigh that escaped his brother's mouth was incredibly grating.
"There’ll be guards and dragonkeepers. And Dreamfyre is the largest dragon in the pit." Aegon rolled his eyes.
"Besides," He tipped his head toward his wife.
"Once you start talking about the ten-legged crickets, they'll flee in terror."
Aegon was the only one laughing at his own jest.
"Crickets have six legs." Helaena corrected him gently.
The carriage slowed as they neared the imposing structure atop the Hill of Rhaenys. Two dragons swept over the dark dome in lazy arcs, their shadows dancing across the steps leading to the main entrance.
From this height, Aemond could not tell if the shapes were Vermax and Arrax, or perhaps his cousin's Moondancer. Joffrey Velaryon's dragon was yet to take a rider to the sky, if he estimated correctly.
Daemon's son, the older one, also had a hatchling, but the youngest one's egg had not hatched.
The Dragonpit’s massive bronze double doors awaited them, flanked by columns entwined with stone wyrms.
"You went to the melee earlier. How was it?"
Aegon's question caught him off guard. Aemond rolled his jaw as the older prince helped Helaena out of the carriage.
"Fine." He replied crisply, before striding over to their guards. He needed to make sure they kept a close watch on his siblings. Criston seemed to think that bastardy made one capable of any crime, and the One-Eyed Prince was inclined to agree.
"He won." Helaena noted, pointing at a smear of dirt on Aegon’s sleeve but making no move to brush it away.
"But she didn’t see."
"Who?" Aegon frowned, scowling as he dusted himself off.
"Mother? Well, if she weren’t so busy lecturing me —" He cut himself short, shooting Aemond a glare.
"And it’s always you two who want to fly off to gods-know-where." He jabbed a finger at his younger brother in mock accusation.
"The city has seen plenty of Sunfyre and me."
Yes, Aemond thought testily, especially you, Aegon. The Street of Silk and Flea Bottom, most of all.
He would not shame his sister by saying it out loud.
"The sooner you mount your dragon, the sooner I can go to mine." He made a sharp tilt of his head toward the entrance, as if he could compel his older siblings by will alone.
"Ah, yes, brother is in a rush." Aegon leaned conspiratorially to his wife, a lopsided grin erupting on his face.
"He has a wench, would you believe? I saw him snea—"
"Quit yapping nonsense. Get moving!" Aemond hissed through clenched teeth.
He did not want to think about Arianne Swann now. He would deal with her later.
And her blatant lack of respect for the Prince of the Realm.
The guards pushed the towering bronze doors, and the three Targaryens stepped beneath the archway. At once, the daylight seemed to bleed away, replaced by the muted dark.
The stench of ash and dragons clung to the air as they entered.
"Drēji usōven, dārilaros ñuhys." (I am very sorry, my Prince.) One of the dragonkeepers greeted, bowing low as Aegon strode a few paces ahead.
"Sunfyre will be readied soon," The man spoke High-Valyrian in a tone both reverent and harried. He leaned slightly onto the quarterstaff.
"Many dragons are flying today. Does the Princess wish to mount Dreamfyre?"
"Issa." (Yes.)
The keeper’s eyes flicked to Aemond.
"Vhagar is resting north of the Dragon’s Gate, my Prince. She hunted earlier." He continued carefully.
"I am aware," Aemond responded, his eye following his sister as she approached the column, fingers stretching toward some quick, many-legged thing skittering along the stone.
"I will wait with them."
Dreamfyre still needed to be coaxed out of her undervault, which meant he would be the last one to take to the skies today. It would take him at least twenty minutes to get to Vhagar on horseback.
Aemond shifted his weight impatiently, his boots grinding against the gritty floor. The Dragonpit incited something strange to burgeon in his chest — part of it was veneration, of course, but there was also the burn of old humiliation.
Too many memories he carried of feeling small beneath its vast dome, mocked and jeered at while watching Aegon and the bastards master their dragons. His brother might have come up with the pink dread, but Jace and Luke made sure to oink in his presence for at least a fortnight, squealing like imbeciles.
He thought of the girl who had given him the handkerchief. His vision had been blurry, no, not because he was crying, but because he had one fucking eye left and half his face swaddled in linen.
If she had been a girl at all beneath that black frock, with her hair scrunched tight with an equally dark caul.
The One-Eyed Targaryen could not even recall why he had wept like some feeble babe. Was it the sheer fury of finding himself suddenly unable to strike with the precision he had once been capable of? Or Aegon’s careless musing that very morning, wondering aloud what prospects his disfigured little brother might have left?
Aemond had scoffed then, but the words had burrowed deep. For hadn’t he wondered the same — what lady would ever want him, when his turn came?
Him, just as he was, not only his name, his dragon, his proximity to the throne.
Aemond clenched his jaw until it ached, rolling his neck to one side as if the motion might banish the thought.
It mattered not because if he could suffer marrying some vapid tart for her ships, so could any woman suffer to be wed to a Targaryen Prince, even one lacking an eye. Any woman, including the loveliest lady at court, his mother promised him.
He outgrew the tears and the tokens from meddling girls. To think that he imagined taking her scraped, girl-hand in his and pressing his lips to her knuckles, and marrying her, one day. Because she had been useful.
But they enter the motherhouses at ten and three, those girls given to the faith, like his girl of fortune.
Tremors raced through the dirt beneath his feet as a large blue shape followed the coterie of dragonkeepers.
Helaena was the first to greet her mount. Dreamfyre was a formidable she-dragon, and Aemond could hardly understand why his sister did not ride more often. For him, it was the singular joy of his life.
He'd waited and endured, and in the end, Mother had been right. He had a dragon. The largest one in the world.
Mayhap, Arianne was ill? Or did she need an entire day to get ready for the Ball? Or...
He was interrupted by a loud rumble. Sunfyre’s gilded head was next to emerge from the opening in the floor that led down to the pits.
The air was warm as dust sifted down from the dome.
His eye tracked Aegon, who strode toward the dragon as it unfurled its wings. The scales growing on Sunfyre's head shimmered like liquid gold underneath his brother's fingertips before the beast opened its maws and nuzzled into him.
It was as Aemond stepped back from the rush of heat that he heard it — light, unmistakably feminine laughter, carried faintly on the cooler draft wafting from a side passage. A sound that was wholly out of place among the low growls and hissing chains.
What?
He pivoted, marching straight toward the source. It came again, tickling his eardrums, clearer this time.
Aemond recognized it, Seven fucking Hells.
The passage led down a few steps into one of the shorter tunnels until he emerged through the grotto onto one of the landing areas.
For one bloodless second, Aemond thought his eye deceived him.
It was the eldest bastard's mount, Vermax, green and bedecked with frills the color of the flame, though notably larger than the last time he had seen it.
The dragon was perched near Jace, horned head following a smaller figure of a woman, standing brazenly, perilously close.
Arianne.
In a dark, simple gown, waist cinched with that girdle, that crimson provocation, and her hair unbound, curls tumbling over her shoulders like warm caramel. There was no austere, proper hairnet strangling them now, no careful pins he had itched to yank out last night. They bounced with her movement.
Tempting. Wanton.
He saw red.
How dare she?! The insolence! He looked for her in the stands, and instead, here she was, cavorting with the bastard!
The thought of Arianne preferring Jace Strong's company soured in his gut, foul as bile. Aemond's hand slid to his sword belt.
Vermax, seemingly, wished to get closer to Lady Swann.
Her skirts brushed the gravel as she edged sideways, circling around his nephew in an attempt to keep her distance from the snout.
The little flick of her hand betrayed her nerves, despite the mellifluous, airy chuckles spilling out of her throat. Jacaerys Velaryon lifted his arm, hand brushing along Vermax's neck, soothing the dragon even as his dark, baseborn eyes watched Arianne more than the creature he supposedly mastered.
"Umbās, Vermax." (Wait.) Jace commanded softly, stepping in between.
She clutched his arm, and his slid down to interlock their fingers, and the sight hit Aemond like a mace to the ribs.
That hussy, that scheming courtesan, she had refused him, scorned him with her sharp tongue, and yet she let this...this bastard hold her as if she belonged to him.
Arianne Swann had contrived this, he was certain of it. It was some sort of plot she concocted. The goal was simple, she'd told him herself, to become a Queen and birth the bastard's whelps.
Jacaerys will never be King, because Rhaenyra cannot ascend before her brothers. A son before a daughter. It was his, and Aegon's, and Daeron's birthright.
Even if Aegon cared not, Aemond would strangle himself with his own guts before relinquishing it.
"He won't bite you, Arianne. He likes you." The bastard's chuckle was so loud and grating that he couldn't catch what she retorted.
His fingers flexed so tightly against the palms that the leather of his riding gloves groaned.
There was a sinkhole in his chest, eroded into his flesh throughout the years, and at the bottom of it a thing so grim and foul that it hoped Vermax would bite. Sink its teeth into her lovely shoulder.
Swift, bloody, final.
Just a snap of jaws to silence her laughter and free Aemond of this constant torment of her.
It would serve her right.
It would be most gainful for his family.
The bastard son of Rhaenyra, murderer of an innocent, highborn maiden. The Realm would never let it go once his grandfather homed in on it. His half-sister would be forced to flee back to Dragonstone, and the Iron Throne would be uncontestedly Aegon's.
Or his.
Yet, his body tensed, as if already working on the quickest way to extricate her from there should that hatchling display any sign of aggression. Aemond told himself it was not concern, but contempt, she was his, and if he saved her, it was because her death, too, belonged to him.
Slowly, Arianne lifted her ladyish hand, and the beast pressed its snout to her palm as though she were some cherished thing. A pleased rumble was followed by a plume of warm breath that lifted her curls.
Vhagar would never debase herself so.
Jacaerys Strong still held Lady Swann's other hand, and he saw fit to kiss her knuckles, the bastard.
It was impossible to hear her murmur over the Sunfyre's playful screech coming from somewhere behind him, as the golden dragon sprang into the skies.
Arianne was laughing again, lashes fluttering in awe while her palm slid across the scales.
A glimmer of genuine wonder ignited her verdant eyes when Vermax crooned at her ministrations. Then, Jace leaned closer to her ear and clearly said something that had her backing away.
"I am quite content as a spectator!"
The dragon would have none of it, nudging her back to his rider with enough force that she stumbled.
As if on an instinct, the contemptible bastard caught her in his bastard arms.
The sight made Aemond want to rend them.
Vermax rumbled, wings twitching once before settling, his long tail, thick as a ship's mast, curling protectively around them. Arianne giggled, long-lashed and rose-cheeked like some bedeviling spectre.
His nephew was grinning.
The One-Eyed Prince caught the hilt of the dagger clipped to his waist. The familiar pressure of it was like a tether against the wildfire scorching his vessels.
Dragons knew their rider's heart, and that stupid hatchling practically purred at her touch, licking his fangs, coiling his tail, dragging them together as though he chose her for his rider’s keeping.
Aemond knew his nephew was courting her, yes, but this was far worse than courtship, worse than strategy or alliance.
The fucking bastard was besotted.
His breath left him in a snarl, teeth clenching hard enough to grind.
His mind had not forgotten. How could it? It was Jacaerys who had brought the knife that Luke used to carve out his eye.
Jacaerys, whom Aemond's own father once set upon his knee while he could still climb up to the throne, smiling through the rot in his bones to murmur insults.
“It will be your seat one day, lad.”
The Crown promised, as though Aegon and Aemond did not exist.
He already loathed him almost as much as he loathed Luke. But this...
This was something fouler still. Trashing through his chest — left side, just underneath the ribcage — acrid, sharp, green.
It seeped into his blood and gnawed at his bones, this thing that made dragons raze cities to the ground.
They were whispering to each other, and Arianne gazed at Jace with wide eyes, frightened and sweet like a doe, fragile in a way Aemond knew for a fact she was not.
His little swan had always stood with fire in her blood, even when her woman's tears betrayed her, ready to duel him with words, to draw blood if he got too close.
She had no right looking that docile.
Not here. Not with him.
No right to allow Jacaerys Strong to hold her, steady her, and wring a smile from her lips, because it was more than what Aemond had been given.
As if on cue, Arianne's hand shot up to —
She was —
The fucking nerve! In front of him!
Twirled a springy lock of hair that shimmered like honey under sunlight, around her index finger.
A slow and idle movement, which he found profanely provocative.
How dare she? Conniving, nettlesome tart!
Beguiling princes and dragons alike, driving him mad with her indecent coquetry!
How dare she choose this over witnessing him claim victory in the yard? How dare she invite him to have her, then gift her laughter to another? He wanted to tear it from her throat and crush it in his fist.
The dragon in his marrow roused and snarled.
She could not trifle with him in this manner!
The blood of the Old Valyria coursed through his veins. He rode the largest dragon in the world.
Aemond wanted to unsheathe steel. To drive his blade through the smug bastard's ribs. Every muscle in his body thrummed with primeval, singular ache.
Mine.
She was his to look at, his to touch, his to monopolize, his to argue with.
In a split moment, he decided it was nigh time to end this obscene tête-à-tête. Before he could blink, he moved, leather boots striking the stone as hammers while he strode forward.
Vermax shifted, tail scraping against the gravel, orange eyes blazing at him. A warning growl rumbled in its throat, but Aemond paid it no heed.
He was too furious to think about it.
Arianne startled at his approach, flinching before she tore herself from Jace's arms. It was unseemly, after all, to be held so in public.
But she did not look at Aemond, choosing instead to inspect her shoes like a guilty creature that she was. He took another step forward, his posture immaculate.
"Uncle." Jace greeted, dark brows pinched together.
"What are you doing here?"
Aemond peeled his eye from Arianne to glare at the bastard.
"My apologies, nephew. " He sneered in tones that couldn't be less apologetic.
"I was under the impression this was the Dragonpit...So, what is she doing here? Unless we began using hens as bait."
The words spilled from his bloodless lips, and Aemond waited.
Waited for a wave of delectable rage to enliven her pretty eyes and for her to come at him like a torrential downpour.
To declare him just the worst and to completely forget about his nephew.
Then, when she was out of her hysterics, he would take her hand and lead her to see what a true war dragon looked like. She could be properly awed then, and fall into his arms where her place was.
To his utter shock, his vexing cygnet smoothed her skirts hastily, those eyes darting anywhere but him.
Jace's jaw tensed.
"Insult Arianne again and you will lose another eye, Aemond."
"Hmmm, will I? How about tomorrow in the yard?" He drawled, gaze flicking back to Arianne.
"You and your brother have been avoiding sparring with me. Why, you could even invite your... albitsos to watch?"
To watch me cut you down, bastard.
The grin he afforded them bordered on feral.
Jace frowned, mouth opening to retort when Arianne pulled at his arm. She held onto the sleeve as if the bastard were her protector.
Aemond couldn’t stand it. He wanted to make her stop, wanted to hurt them, make her look at him instead.
"Lady Swann, have you come here to try and steal an egg?"
Arianne only muttered something to Jace's ear, and Aemond blinked in disbelief.
Was she fucking deaf? He was addressing her!
She brushed the dust off the free end of her girdle and, without sparing a glance for Aemond, bolted. Skirts flouncing, curls bouncing, she hurried past him and disappeared into the Dragonpit.
What?
He turned after her, nonplussed.
"How about you cease your less-than-welcome interest in my lady, uncle? Leave her be, or I shall make you!"
Jacaerys Strong bellowed, Vermax hissing in displeasure. Aemond almost paid him no mind because he knew the bastard had no guts to start anything. Not when his whore-mother brought him here to seek alliances. He was cosseted, and spoilt, and stupid.
"Avy gevives hen vīlībos, lo gevives kēbrion." (Meet me in the skies, if you should dare.) He snarled, thin and joyless. Without delay, Aemond marched back, remembering he had promised Helaena to follow her on Vhagar across the Blackwater Rush.
Arianne was nowhere to be seen. She fled like a swan startled from its reeds.
It only clarified his resolve.
Fixing his riding gloves, Aemond ordered that a horse be found for him, as it would get him to Vhagar much faster than a carriage. He had, after all, told Mother he would make sure everyone saw who the true heirs were.
Did Lady Arianne honestly believe she could prick him and fly off unscathed?
Foolish.
He inhaled, his vehement pulse steadying into something colder, crueler.
Fine.
If she wished to do this the way she played cyvasse — slipping, stalling, forever retreating, and annoying him with tricks, well, he was going to drive her to the edge of the board until she had no avenue to abscond.
He was going to capture her, much as she flits.
Soft feathers pressed into scale, delicate throat bared for his mouth.
All these idiotic flutters of resistance, of impertinence, these feints and ruses, would only sweeten the taking.
Aemond almost smiled at the thought.
He, after all, enjoyed challenges.
.
.
.
(Arianne)
(Earlier)
Arianne was calm.
She had woken before dawn and visited the Sept.
Perfectly calm as she prayed to the Maiden, whose blessed festivities began today.
Simply serene once she had dipped her hands in the basin of cold water and washed her face.
Had purified with ash and salt and was now free of the rot that went by the name Aemond Targaryen.
She was clean and perfectly composed, without those annoying, fleeting and downright disruptive thoughts that attempted to dissect his words from last night.
That sought to delineate the shape of his mouth.
Thoughts, wondering if he would have let her leave at all, had Prince Aegon not interrupted them.
Thoughts that were shameful.
Him reading Galendro's work aloud, his rich timbre soft like a caress.
His intellect, his mannerisms, the way he resembled the very answer to how Valyrians conquered half of Essos.
No — there were none of them in her head. She thought of him not at all.
Arianne was determined to excel today.
Not even her argument with Miriam dampened her spirits.
"This one?" Arianne turned to her handmaiden, holding a velvet dress the color of a bruised plum. Golden fern patterns decorated the bodice.
Miriam shook her head.
"The hem needs to be fixed in entirety, which I would've done," She glowered, acid seeping through her words.
"If we had any gold left."
Arianne shrugged.
She was going to steal some of Robb's once he arrived. There was another option, the dress her mother gave her, and Arianne could scarcely wait to wear it, for how pretty it was.
Ah, she needed to be so well-dressed that no one forgot her face or name. So, that Jace realized she was good enough to stand by him as his consort.
"Absolutely not!" Miriam screeched once she saw the fabric Arianne was eyeing.
"That dress is for your betrothal."
"If my betrothal to Jace happens, father will be more than happy to waste some more gold on a new one." She nodded to herself.
Her father was fair, and as certain as he was to punish failure, he would reward success.
"And if you are to marry someone else? You'd have nothing so nice to wear."
"I want to marry Jace and rule Dragonstone with him when he becomes heir apparent. We will have sons who will be like him! I do not care to marry someone else!" Arianne glowered petulantly.
She did not! Not even the emperor of YiTi, or triarch of Volantis, let alone some Lord's spoiled son.
"It is a calculated risk." She added carefully.
Miriam groaned.
"Calculated risk?! You always lose at dice!"
Arianne forgot that a maiden was to keep from anger today, so she bristled indignantly.
"That is because I play with Robb, and he always cheats!"
Miriam had only called her foolish and went to her prayers.
So, when Jace invited her to see the Dragonpit, she was wonderfully, gracefully calm and did not think about last night's debauchery for a single, fleeting second.
She forgot the object of her sinful exploration entirely.
One of the septas she'd spoken to in the Royal Sept told her that if one kept away from the sin, the sin couldn't find them.
Avoiding any and every thought about Aemond was not the only decision she had made that holy morning.
Arianne resolved to quash her fear of Vermax.
Do not be daunted, her father had written. Do not be timid, so had her Aunt Johanna.
Timid creatures did not belong with Targaryen dragonlords.
He was so clever, her prince, to think of his siblings and himself flying dragons today, and to demonstrate for everyone they were the blood of the dragon.
"Mother won't tell me how she will resolve this." Jace had complained to her. "As if I'm not her heir, a man now grown, but some coddled princeling..."
Arianne had hoped that whatever they were indeed planning was fruitful, because she saw no reason for King's Hand not to use this opportunity to gift Driftmark to Ser Vaemond and earn himself a powerful ally. An ally with the Velaryon fleet...
Sun seared the pale blue sky, a sight she came to cherish, as Stonehelm's black and white towers were often drenched in an ungodly amount of rain.
Arianne wore one of her simple black dresses, embroidered with small, ivory swans on each shoulder. About her waist, she had knotted her girdle of crimson silk, and for a moment, she fancied the combination suited her.
Black and red were Jace's colors, or at least, would be once he took his mother's name.
Best she grow accustomed to them now.
Until one day, when she held enough sway over the Court to bedeck the Red Keep in her hues, like Queen Alicent.
Arianne was partial to ivory and pearl, the white swan of her house.
"Rytsas, Vermax." She greeted the dragon, half-hiding behind Jace. It was true enough that such a prickly thing like Vermax seemed rather tolerant of her, but she was never keen on testing how far that tolerance went.
Much as Jace always reassured her, she could not help the apprehension swirling in her belly. It was impossible to predict how a dragon might behave, and she was at odds with everything illogical. Vermax just might decide her hand was as tasty as a goat and close those terribly sharp teeth over her wrist and...
She shivered.
He had somehow grown since she saw him last, when he departed Dragonstone with Jace.
Yet, she had to prove to Jace that she could follow him in all things.
Luke and Baela were already sky high, chasing each other over the tallest roofs of King's Landing.
Earlier, Jace had sat in a carriage across from her, and Arianne knew he did it out of gallantry, because when Baela had suggested a horse race down to the main square and then up the Street of Sisters, his dark eyes lit up. Still, he went with her, helping her climb inside.
It warmed Arianne's heart. It also dampened her spirits.
"Suit yourselves." Baela had simply shrugged, tucking a short silver curl behind her ear before mounting a black courser.
She had never been allowed on a horse as fast as a courser.
Arianne's father always set her on the mildest palfreys, and still she had once managed to topple from one, dislocating two fingers in the fall.
They had surely heard her screaming all the way to Nightsong while the maester popped them back in place. Her father refused her milk of the poppy, declaring the pain a lesson. Her mother had wept and called him cruel, but he'd only shaken his head. Next time, he had warned, it might be Arianne's neck instead of her hand if she did not learn.
Well, she had interpreted the lesson differently. Better to stick to carriages, they were more comfortable anyway.
Arianne's jaw slightly dropped, eyes following Rhaena's older sister as she struck her heels, the horse leaping forward, cantering a few strides before breaking loose into a full gallop.
Baela Targaryen was like those bold heroines from Rhoynish legends who always got their happily ever afters. Like Nymeria. The Septon in Stonehelm denounced those works as corrupting falsehoods.
Anyhow, she doubted Baela would've liked being compared to anything Rhoynar.
Oh, but Arianne despaired! She could never be like that. Unbothered, daring, wild, and free. Her head was constantly thinking, creating infinite loops of what-ifs and postulating the worst scenarios that would surely befall her if she faltered.
Their bumpy ride up the Hill of Rhaenys had been pleasant.
"There is nothing more dreadful than being pleasant."
So when Jace remarked how Vermax liked her, Arianne tried her best to be a little bolder. It was the strangest thing in the world, feeling those scales underneath her fingertips.
Warm, firm, ridged, and alive.
Vermax crooned, his sharp, ochre eyes fluttering shut. Fascinated, Arianne continued stroking down the creature's jaw.
Oh, you're not badly tempered at all. They are liars, and you are a sweet boy!
"He's...Charming." She murmured softly, quite taken.
To think that the first time Jace suggested she come closer to introduce them, Arianne nearly fled from terror. She'd only calmed upon learning that running would make it worse, because Vermax then might actually mistake her for prey.
"Gevie zaldrīzes." (Beautiful dragon.)
"Do not compliment him too much, or I'll start to worry you prefer him over me."
"I am practicing my High-Valyrian." Arianne smiled innocently.
Jace's dark eyes twinkled wickedly.
"So, shall I tell them to saddle him for two?"
The protest spouted from her lips, and Arianne backed away in horror. Flying? But she was not ready! She didn't read enough about it! There weren't any detailed descriptions and instructions, possibly confirmed by multiple sources.
Vermax huffed, a gust of tepid air, his spined head swinging toward her, and without warning, he nudged her, none too gently, straight into Jace.
Arianne released a shocked gasp, palms pressing against his chest to catch herself. Jace only laughed, and it was such an easy, rolling, boyish sound that it caught her by the throat. Blood warmed her cheeks.
"Careful, my lady." He teased, steadying her by the waist.
"Dragons don't take kindly to rejection."
Arianne rolled her eyes, laughing.
"Ought you not teach him some manners, then?"
"Impossible. He takes after me." Jace grinned, his arms still around her, which she tried not to think about. Which she could not stop thinking about.
It was vastly inappropriate. She knew it.
And yet...
Her finger found a curl and twined it, just as Johanna had advised.
"W-what is he doing?" Arianne asked curiously, her gaze drawn to the scaled tail furling around them.
Her prince shrugged.
"Maybe he considers you mine."
Arianne's heart leapt violently to her throat, her pulse stuttering into a tempest. For a foolish instant, she could not move, could not look away from him — those ardent eyes, dark as polished obsidian, the warmth of his touch — her curly-haired Galladon of Morne.
He was going to kiss her.
He did not, head tilting to stare at something instead.
Jace frowned.
Arianne glanced over her shoulder, following the line of his sight, and her limbs locked.
A tall figure strode from the shadowed passage, his pearlescent hair catching the light.
The riding coat billowed behind him, and he looked less like a man and more like something severe and terrifying, a dragonlord of myths and legends, caged in fallible flesh.
It took a few seconds for Ariane's illusion to fracture, and she saw him for who he was.
Aemond.
Awful, insufferable, loathsome Prince Aemond.
Aemond, who slandered her to the custodian, named her a schemer and would not waste this opportunity to further besmirch her good name.
Her stomach sank like a stone thrown into a pond.
Flinching, Arianne tore herself from Jace's arms, smoothing her skirts frantically. She backed a few paces until there stretched an appropriate distance between an unwed lady and a man.
She would not look at him.
Shame burned hotly in her belly.
Last night she had...
Maiden save her!
No, she could not meet his gaze under any circumstance!
Oh Gods, what if he knew?
What if he somehow sensed it — that she had imagined him, of all men, in the heat of her sin?
Was that why Prince Aemond was here? Not to merely sneer at her, but to expose her shameful escapade and ruin her life?
If he told everyone and her parents found out...
"That immoral creature is no daughter of mine! I would not insult Silent Sisters with her. Give her to the Dornish, for she is as wicked as they!"
Arianne's vision swam, and she almost collapsed.
What if he told Jace of her words in the yard?
Oh, Seven, what if he could somehow see her thoughts through some Valyrian blood sorcery?
Her incisors clamped onto the tip of her tongue.
He was speaking now, in that velvety baritone, and he said hens and — Gods, what if he mentioned how she approached him last night, too? Jace would think her unchaste!
She must deny it. She'd never approach a man after the hour of the bat. Not even to chastise him.
Arianne decided it would be most prudent to flee before she gave Prince Aemond any time to rope her into an argument. He did not know what she was doing in the privacy of her bedchamber, and he most certainly could not read her mind!
She had suspected it once, when they played cyvasse, but his remark on her earrings made her realize he was simply observant.
Well, then, best not to give him anything to observe.
"Um...I will return to the Keep, I think." Arianne muttered, intent on extricating herself as soon as possible.
"You should not let him distract you from your plan. The people of King's Landing should see you and Luke on dragonback."
She scarpered before Jace could protest and only inhaled once she was safe, inside her carriage.
Arianne crossed her arms, harrumphing. This was so unfair!
Wicked folk strolled around untroubled, but she committed one sin of lust, and retribution came immediately!
Did the Gods hate her? How could they not find some spare mercy to let her kiss her prince already!
She shook her head.
No.
It was an utterly irrational thought. The Gods did not hate her. Why would they? She purified this morning and performed all the proper rites. Tonight, she would recite the hymns, and the Maiden would bless her.
The Gods were not the ones who hated her; it was Aemond Targaryen who did.
He was the storm that darkened her skies.
That vindictive second son had seemingly made it his life's mission to thwart her! Was that...ugh, spoilt princeling so bored that he sought to avenge every insignificant, and imaginary, slight against himself?
Arianne wanted to yank her hair out.
No, she wanted to yank Aemond's glorious silver tresses out!
Jace would've kissed her.
It would've been perfect, just like in the songs!
And then he had to interrupt.
By the time the carriage passed the portcullis and rattled to a halt in the outer courtyard, she was all white-hot fury.
How could she have even imagined him in such a wanton manner?
Arianne was disgusted at herself.
He was horrible!
She loathed him! Loathed him!
To waste even a breath on the thought of Aemond Targaryen when her future was at stake was the most shameful of follies.
Stomping up the grand staircase and almost tripping over the hem of her own skirts twice, she made her way to the Holdfast.
"Vermax considers you mine."
Her belly jolted.
Arianne decided that it was nigh time Jace considered her his as well.
She needed to prepare for the Ball, and she hatched a plan. Who would think that her princess's rival, Queen Alicent, actually helped her?
She would practice the hymns the rest of the day, and then — Jace would see her wearing her prettiest dress, commanding attention with the most distinguished ladies of the Court.
She'd even let Miriam torture her hair into obedience. If Jace were to dance with Baela, she would grind her teeth and let Jorlan twirl her around the Grand Hall. She would not be daunted.
No more half measures.
By the time the festivities ended, and she swore it, her prince would kiss her.
If she had to encourage him, so be it.
Subtly, of course, she wouldn't risk a scandal.
Arianne lifted her chin.
This time, her dice would fly high.