not a vessel of the gods @dubiousmetamorphosis - Tumblr Blog

Jun 6

Dreadful as the Dawn: 8 - Sins Confessed

Part 7 | Masterlist

King!Aemond Targaryen x OFC (M'rone Vilendrys) darkfic - 18+ MDNI

Shortened summary: Braavosi artisan M'rone Vilendrys finds herself intertwined in the frenzied king Aemon Targaryen's politics of fear. He may have sired a bastard on a witch queen, he may be looking for a wife to sire an heir on, yet his depraved desires for strange affections he reserves for M'rone exclusively. Includes: DD:DNE; non-con; darkfic; forced and abusive relationship; child abuse (Aegon and Viserys); talk of pregnancy and child bearing; mentions of forced abortions; misogyny; violence; death; eating disorders; child death; and lots of other dark elements, my tags for this fic are not exhaustive Chapter summary: M'rone awakes from a strange dream into her worst nightmare come alive. Chapter warnings: Mind the general warnings; violence; victim blaming. Word count: 8.6k

divider by @/strangergraphics

She is not herself. Not yet.

Valar morghulis, the sword says.

She sees herself from afar, as she was and may be, but is not.

Teeth lay scattered in the dirt. A trace left behind to guide her. She follows the bone path, out of the marshes into the belly of the mountain.

The dragon lays dying.

Valon zoraetes, he says before devouring her whole.

‘Valon zoraetes,’ she gasps as she resurfaces into the waking world.

Shadows shift. ‘My lady?’

The voice is shrill, hoarse, lined with age. Catching her breath, she blinks up at the old man who just now was fussing over her. He stands by the side of her bed, in his hand a damp cloth, stained a dark purple there where it is wet. She licks her lips, finding a bitter and sour liquid on them. Wiping away the taste, she swallows the urge to repeat those words once more.

Valon zoraetes.

It is common Braavosi. All men must rot. It means little and less. It makes no sense. Yet, she knows of a true High Valyrian idiom, parallel to it, and the reply that must follow. The words of the Faceless Men. And next to those ominous words, her own words, dreamed up in a strange sleep, frighten her.

‘My lady,’ the old man repeats, shuffling closer once more. Metal clatters—he is wearing a heavy chain made out of an intricate interweaving of links and gemstones. She has heard of this man, she realizes, or at least of his office. The Grand Maester. This is not just any healer, who goes there were coin is offered. This is not a man her family can appeal to for help. ‘I apologize for the tonic’s taste, but well, your awakening can attest to its effects.’

Whatever remnants of sleep dulled her senses, they are swiftly washed away by the panic surging in her chest. Pushing herself up on the palms of her hands, she takes note of her surroundings. They are familiar enough, safe for the Maester’s materials on her nightstand and the heavy scent of lavender in the air. What bothers her is the pale light seeping in through the small window. It is the middle of the day. It is the middle of the day and she just awoke from a fever dream only to find herself being fussed over by an old Maester who has a seat on the king’s small council. It is enough to make her break out in a cold sweat.

‘Why are you tending to me, Grand Maester?’ she whispers.

‘His grace bid me to do so, my lady.’

Her mouth goes dry. ‘I am no lady.’

The old man’s lips part, ready to reply, but ultimately he decides against it. In morose silence he begins to pack his things.

Closing her eyes she lets out a shaky breath. ‘Please, tell me… I do not remember. What happened?’

‘You fainted and fell from the stairs. You hit your head.’ Finished packing up he turns to her again, ‘Your father assured me that you are not prone to such fainting fits. The king bid me to look for signs of poison but I have found none. So for now I assume it was, well, overexertion.’

He makes certain not to look at her when he says it. He knows. He knows just what she is, just in which way she serves the king, just what caused her to be overexerted. If he knows, if he is here and has talked to her father—then surely everyone is aware by now. The realization is more horrid to her than the knowledge that no, she did not become ill because of any of that.

She should have never touched Dark Sister. The feeling still lingers, of seeing that which living eyes should not see, of being made privy of corners of this world not meant for the living. When her fingers wrapped around the sword hilt, she interfered with a layer of reality that should not be messed with. But how? Something like this has never happened to her.

‘How long was I…’ She falters.

‘Three days.’ The Grand Maester ponders a bit before continuing, ‘My lady, I do not mean to impose, but would you be in need of… There are ways to prevent unwelcome consequences.’

It takes a moment for her to realize what he is alluding to. She would laugh if only the truth of the matter did not hurt so.

‘Does His Grace order you to see to it?’ she inquires dryly.

The lack of response says more than enough. Aemond did not press this matter. Of course he would not. For a moment she considers accepting the Maester’s offer, if only to make a point. But what point would that be? She knows herself, she knows her own failings and she has informed Aemond about them into more detail than she ought have.

Wrapping her arms around herself in an effort to feel more steady, she says, ‘My body is sufficient in and of itself to prevent such consequences, Grand Maester.’

He gives a slow nod, clearly uncomfortable to be even discussing the matter. ‘Remain abed for at least two more days, my lady. You hit your head quite badly.’

He means to take his leave, but before he opens the door, she calls to him, ‘Do they know?’

The old man stills and she forces herself to be more explicit, ‘Since the king sent you, does that mean that my family knows…’

She cannot say it.

‘His Grace has come to see for himself the state you are in,’ the Maester says. ‘I suppose your family has made their conclusions regarding the king’s affections for you, my lady.’

And with that he leaves her be.

She would rather have never awoken, no matter how dreadful the material of her dreams, no matter how it would have grieved her family. With this she has injured them more cruelly. This will spiral into much worse. Her heartbeat quickens, tears welling up in her eyes. She tries to keep the crying fit at bay, but then her mind forces an awful thought into her head.

Just nine months ago, she had a husband to turn to when she felt lost.

She breaks out into tears. Not silently, but loud and hard and full of violence. She cries and moans so that her body shakes and her throat aches.

She had a husband who would hold her. Mirtane would whisper comfort in her ear, would make her tea and listen to her concerns and he would make her smile, despite all. He would place his hand on her swollen belly to feel the babe kick.

Her babe used to kick.

Hard and often. A lively thing it was, even when it was still growing inside of her. Lively, alive. And yet it never lived, not really, for it never breathed on its own. It was dead before it left her womb. Mirtane was dead before she could even begin to grieve that loss. Nine months ago she was happy. And now this. She has been ruined. She is ruining her family.

She is cursed.

She has put her pain away too deep inside of herself, so that now, when it swells and burst, it swallows her whole. Little did she remember that she could cry like this, coughing and hiccuping and groaning. She has not cried like this since Mirtane failed to wake up that morning. Since she was forced to bury him next to their babe. The violence of it all makes her nauseous and dizzy. Her vision swims and she closes her eyes, curling up on the mattress.

Time passes, she does not know how much, and the storm dies into a devastated waste. Silence comes and stillness. A void. She has been carved out, emptied of herself. Who is M’rone Vilendrys now?

‘My child.’ Her father’s voice is but a whisper. Yet in this wrecked silence it resonates loud, painfully so. ‘What have you done?’

M’rone turns around, blinking as she opens her eyes to the world. Tumyro Vilendrys stands by the edge of her bed, slouched, pale. A ghost of a man.

‘What…’ She thinks over what he just asked of her. ‘What have I done?’

His hands are wrapped tightly around the baseboard. He is looking at her, but not really. He does not see.

‘The court is talking,’ he mutters and then more insistent, more vehement, he demands, ‘How could you?’

‘I?’ she repeats forcing herself to sit upright.

‘You are a daughter of the Vilendrysi!’

She jolts at his exclamation. The words clash against the walls, resound inside the fragile chambers of her heart. Last he raised his voice like that, in reprimand, in anger, she was a mere child.

‘You are a Master-Artisan of Braavos, Moonsinger blood runs through your veins. And now you have set your eyes on the affections of a dragonking?’

She forgets how to breathe, she forgets how to think and be—he is accusing her. For a moment it is as if she never existed, so diminished she is under the weight of his vile allegation, the form of the depravity he believes that she chose for herself. But the moment passes like every one before it and then he says something far worse,

‘Mere months after your husband died, and you shame him thus?’

She stands. Not as herself, but as a shade of a woman dragged through more pain than one should see in a lifetime. The world spins, but anger keeps her on her feet.

‘Mere months after my husband died and you dragged me to this place.’ How horrid she sounds, even in these low, muted tones. A swamp creature, ready to stalk and haunt. ‘Mere months after I lost my babe, you threw me into the dragon’s den.’

Tumyro’s greyish eyes widen, pupils dilating, and he sets a sharp step forward only to falter. As if he has been hit in the face. His fingers he can control to excruciating detail, but he has never been steady on his feet. In face of danger, in face of a threat, in face of injustice, he always preferred to put his hand in the sand. So that instead his wife would deal with the discomforts of life. So that instead his daughter was left to live through hardship upon hardship on her own.

‘What kind of father are you?’ she breathes. ‘What kind of father dismisses his daughter’s grief only to address it when making degrading accusations? In the same breathe you dare mention Mirtane—for the first time in months—and accuse me of whoring myself to the highest bidder? You do not even ask whether I went to this dragonking’s bed willingly, you simply assume that I did this for pleasure, while all I have done these last months I did out of duty and—and fear!’

He stumbles back. His audacity was brittle and thin, made out of nothing but the self-important delusions of a man who thinks himself grander than he is, who thinks he understands all there is to the world despite having lived inside a box of his own making. His brazenness was easily broken and now all that remains is shock and disgust. Seeing the mix of agony and horror on his wrinkled face does little to calm her, nor does it bring her any comfort. The damage is already done. If her own father accused her so, she stands no chance against the whispers of a whole court. Against the tales that will reach Braavos.

Her reputation is damaged beyond repair.

Her future is forfeited.

Aemond Targaryen will rejoice over this.

‘You mean to say…’ Tumyro leans against the wall, placing his hands on the cool stone to steady himself. ‘Daughter, you mean to say that all this time, he took you unwillingly to—’

And because he will not, because no one will if she will not, she says, ‘Rape.’

Not even a sentence. Just a word. But it is a word utter for the first time. She never even thought it, did not spin it with the soft voice that lives in her head. But now it has been spoken and it lays bare all the depravity inflicted onto her. Aemond has raped her. Often enough for her to have lost count. Often enough for it to have become part of her daily schedule. A chore, that it has become, and she has always seen her chores through dutifully, even when she did not feel like it.

She cannot bear it.

‘M’rone.’

She ignores him, looking instead for her shoes, for her dress to pull over her shift.

‘Please, look at me.’

She shakes her head, dressing herself with more urgency than she can actually bear.

‘I am sorry,’ he insists. ‘M’rone!’

‘Do not trouble yourself, father,’ she says as she struggles to pull on her boots.

‘You should not be doing that.’

She speaks over him, ‘What is done is done and what will happen will happen. Do not worry about your name, I will not sully it by returning to Braavos.’

‘Daughter!’

She rises onto her feet, meeting his gaze straight on.

‘Braavos is your home. I would never cast you out,’ he insists.

‘But I would,’ she replies solemnly, meaning to walk past him.

He takes hold of her shoulders, but no sooner has he touched her or she shoves her away—with more force than she thought she had in her. The response takes her aback; she had not meant to. She did not even know she could or would treat her father with such violence. And yet she has. His mouth moves, but no words come for a short while. Finally he decides, ‘I will kill him.’

She scoffs. ‘And damn us all, even Lanna and Trystane? No matter, you are no violent man, father, let alone do you have talent for the art of the sword. You would not succeed either way. All you would do is cause me more grieve for being forced to bury you before your time.’

She cannot do this for a minute longer. This conversation has stretched her thin as it stands already. Wiping the taste of bile from the inside of her mouth with her tongue, she sets to leave. But her father still calls, ‘We will leave, then, we will go home!’

‘If you truly think we can do anything you are a fool, father,’ she decides bitterly.

And with that she flees. Beside her and her father, their family quarters are empty; a relief, for she would not have wished anyone to have heard their argument. Then again, she longs for her sister. But Drenace must be at work and either way, what would she say to her? No, she has no taste for a conversation about this with her yet.

Her heart aches for some quiet. For a place she had not expected to feel drawn to.

Since the moment she awoke, she knew just where she wanted to be. In this whole Keep she has only found one place of solace, however frail. She takes the long route to it, through the dark innards of the palace, but even here she is confronted with eyes. It is what this palace is built from, so it seems. Eyes that stare at her, following her movements. The servants know, the pages and the maids and the cooks and the washerwomen—all know. There is none who she passes who does not pause and look. Who does not pause and bow their head.

Except that one stranger, whose white eyes look familiar as if plucked from an old memory. They look at her as if willing to devour her whole. But the stranger disappears into the far corners of the Keep, leaving her with the servants going about their duties, walking around her at as wide a distance as they can.

They are afraid. Not of her, but of the king that follows in her shadow.

It is a small solace to find the godswood empty. She pauses by the malvales bush. It has come to bloom, its flowers a bright red, bees hurrying about to collect its nectar. She could mix paints from the leaves. If only she felt like it. She drags herself to the heart tree slowly. Her body feels heavy and lame, barely moving in the way she wishes. When she looks up at the tree’s face, it is as if she is locking eyes with it. She draws nearer until she falls on her knees beside it and all of a sudden well understands why the Northerners pray to these trees, whisper to them their fear and concern and hope.

How many women, broken by cruel men, have the old gods witnessed fall at the roots of their atrocious trees, praying for salvation?

Letting out a trembling breath, she raises her hand, but just when her fingers threaten to touch the white bark, she falters. She remembers the suffocating dread when she touched Dark Sister. She remembers what she saw, not with her eyes, but with her soul, when she unsheathed the sword. Pestilence and disease.

Valar morghulis, the sword whispered.

Valon zoraetes, the dragon replied.

Deciding against it, she lowers her hand and instead rests her back against the tree. And that is enough to ground her. Calmness settles and for a moment she is the air in her lungs, the blood in her veins, the tears dried on her cheeks. Footsteps disturb the brittle quietude and she immediately straightens her back, head shooting toward the sound of disruption.

She feels better as soon as she realizes it is not Aemond, come to taunt her. Instead it is that bog creature, that lord of the swamps and marshes—Halys Reed. She does not mind him. Maybe she should. Some servants told her, after all, who he is. Master of whisperers. He deals in information and secrets. So she should be bothered by his presence but all accounts. But in all honesty she is not. He carries himself with a certain docility other men would avoid, afraid of being called meek. But Halys Reed’s reserve is a promise for worse. She saw him in the courtyard that morrow. He can wield a sword as well or even better than any knight in this Realm, maybe he could even outwit some moondancers. If only he could have cut Aemond. Just a small cut. She would have liked that.

‘My lady,’ he says, coming closer but not too close. ‘I am sorry to disturb you.’

She does not reply, for she cannot find the words in herself to do so. Lost and hollow she watches lord Reed come nearer and sit down on the roots of the tree, still a fair distance from her. He takes out something from his pocket; a small knife, a piece of wood. It is already carved in half a form, but it still needs much work before it may begin to look like anything at all. Her gaze drifts to the sigil embroidered on his green doublet. That black lizard.

‘What sort of creature is that you wear on your attire, my lord?’ she asks, nodding at his coat.

He keeps his eyes on the task in his hands, careful not to cut him. But when he speaks, his voice is gentle enough to calm her, ‘A lizard-lion.’

‘A lizard-lion,’ she echoes. ‘I take it that the actual beasts are rather large, if they are likened to lions.’

‘They are largest of beasts in the Neck. Most ferocious too, my lady, with teeth like daggers.’

‘Your teeth are not like daggers,’ she mutters.

He pauses his carving and looks up at her, the shadow of a smile trembling on his lips. ‘I would hope not.’

‘So am I to take it that these lizard-lions terrorize your lands without constraint?’

‘My people hunt them for food.’

She grins. She had not thought the crannogmen—another term whispered to her by a maidservant—fierce enough. ‘Truly?’

‘Their flesh makes for a fine meal. A bit tough but one cannot complain about the taste.’

‘I would have to try it then,’ she says.

‘The Braavosi do not eat lizards I take it?’

‘There are small roasted ones you can find on the market, but I would not recommend those to anyone.’ He chuckles and she goes on, ‘And of course, high lords and ladies revel in eating all sort of strange and exotic meats—but even they would not dare to eat the bog crocodiles that roam in our marshes. It is considered blasphemous to disturb the great lizards. They are said to have protected the founders of the city when Braavos was naught but a dream.’

She does not like the way he looks at her when she speaks. Of course, she likes it—but not who it reminds her of. He listens to her, watches her, just as Mirtane used to. As if in this moment she is all that matters.

‘You must miss your home dearly, my lady.’

‘Do you not, my lord?’

It is anything but a discomfort to look into his green eyes and be reminded of the Braavosi marshes, of the coming of spring and the emerald fabric of her wedding dress. It lies gathering dust in a dark corner of her room, back home. All those warm memories, green with life and hope, lie gathering dust in the dark corners of her mind.

‘There are times wish I had never left.’ He raises is eye to the face of the heart tree. ‘But some choices the gods make for us.’

She wishes to reply, and from the darkening expression on his face she knows there is something more he wishes to tell her, but a muted, rhythmic thumping indicates the approach of an intruder and so Halys Reed puts away his half-carved piece of wood and knife, and rises. He bows, and M’rone’s gaze shifts. It did not take long at all for him to find her. Of course it did not.

‘My lady.’

Aemond Targaryen comes to a halt, hands folded behind his back, mere paces away. While Halys Reed mutters a polite “my king”, he does not reply. M’rone is sad to watch the northerner go. She is even sadder to watch Aemond draw nearer to her. Part of her wishes to rise and flee to another place, or to at least shove herself away and keep some distance. But she simply cannot move.

She has become too reliant on the art of quiet suffering.

When Aemond calls her so, she does not like it. He does not say it with the same gentleness Halys does. He strikes an unusually grim picture today. His body is rigid, shoulders pulled back, his head raised high. His purple eye, lowered, rests coolly on her. Traces of a scowl mark his lips, barely noticeable, but she is learning how to read the lines and angles of his expression. He is displeased, but it barely frightens her. M’rone’s gaze is drawn to Blackfyre. That sword, blackened by Death, imbued with the same Valyrian magic as Dark Sister—that is what frightens her.

‘You should be resting,’ he says.

‘You came to see me,’ she whispers.

He hums.

‘You all but announced—’ She swallows the sentence.

‘I announced nothing.’ He offers her his hand. ‘I will not watch as you overexert yourself in this manner.’

‘You promised me,’ she sneers, pushing away his hand. ‘You would respect my wishes at least on this. You would no further dishonor me—’

And then he moves with predatory swiftness. He grabs her by the arm, tugging hard, and then takes hold of her waist. He moves her body with such force tears blur her vision. But she is tired of crying. She just wants to be whole again. Herself again. What has become of M’rone Vilendrys? Two fingers pressed beneath her chin, he forces her to look up.

‘You enjoy to speak of dishonor and shame, do you not? But who are you trying to fool, my lady? What are you trying to cover up by pretending to spurn me? I have tasted your lips of wine and I have tasted your tears of salt—and I have tasted the nectar that spills from your legs when I make love to you. My touch pleases you, I know it, because I have become privy to the way you moan when lost in the thralls of ecstasy.’

‘Y-you believe what you wish to believe,’ she stammers, her voice soft in panic, but Aemond talks over her, ‘As for dishonor, as for degradation, you must consider yourself lucky that I have suffered your speech of this sort for so long. But my patience is growing thin. I have bestowed you more esteem, more prestige than a lowborn woman like you deserves. All your complaints on the matter, how do you expect me to take them, when you so dutifully come to me when I call? Do not tell me, your grievances, are they anger for I would not take you to wife?’ He chuckles and she almost gags at the thought. ‘One must be grateful for the blessings they receive, even if they do not suffice to fully quench one’s thirst. Wife to me you will never be, but you will be the woman who warms my bed, you will be the lover I seek out at night. By choosing you, you will confirm, I have honored you.’

Honor, he calls this honor. As if the whole life she has lived before was but casted in the shadow of the moment she met him. How dare he?

‘I am a Master-Artisan, a—’

‘Aye, even Jaehaera knows how to paint and embroider and sing. You have mastered your womanly arts, but do not pretend for a moment longer that they in any way distinguished you more than my affections for you did.’

She raises her hand, driven by impulse, but he catches her by the wrist and so the slap does not land. He leans in, lips brushing against her ear, ‘I told you once already, I could have your hand for that.’

His voice has subdued into a faint hush. She prefers him when he is loud and clear. This is too intimate. A shiver runs through her body and she feels the fight die inside of her that very moment.

‘Through your halls flutter pretty butterflies of ladies, willing to take you as I do not wish to have you,’ she whispers. ‘And yet you persist, yet you insist on me? Why? What have I done?’

‘What have you done, hm?’

His amethyst eye finds her dull, brown ones. He combs his fingers through her hair—and only now does she fully realize she has been wandering these halls unkempt, hair undone—and asks, ‘When you touched Dark Sister, what did you do?’

Her heart skips a beat. He noticed. Of course he did. He is not just any man. He is the blood of Old Valyria. He has known the embrace of a witch queen.

‘What did you see, M’rone?’

She squeezes her eyes shut and in an effort to hide from this place and moment, to hide from him, she rests her head on his shoulder. He exhales and wraps his arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. It is beyond maddening; to find comfort in this way.

‘You should rest,’ he says.

‘I should have been buried next to Mirtane,’ she whispers in Braavosi.

He holds her for a while longer, caressing her hair. It is strange how warm he always is. Looking at him, one would think him as cold as stone to the touch. And yet, his warmth seeps into her. It must be the dragonblood, she supposes. For all his unseemly cruelty, he is not sculpted from ice, he is not made for the colds of winter.

He is a fire that devours whole.

‘I need to get to work,’ she decides after a while.

She tries to pull herself away from him, but he will not let her.

‘You are not fit—’

‘You must have more pressing matter to tend to you, your grace,’ she says dimly.

‘M’rone.’

Her gaze crosses his. ‘Aemond.’

He clenches his jaw, but does not say a word otherwise. Instead he takes hold of her hand, not forceful this time, but with the carefulness and softness a lord would bestow on the maiden he is courting. What a farce. She is no maiden, he is no lord of flowers. They return into the castle, where a knight of the Kingsguard remains waiting. It is not a face she has seen often, a young one, with a thick black beard and piercing blue eyes.

‘Ser Ruskin will accompany you,’ Aemond decides.

‘No,’ she says in a harsh whisper.

‘I will not have you hurting yourself again.’

‘Do not pretend to care.’

‘I have no talent for such cheap deception,’ he deadpans.

He cares, or at least insists he does. What an abomination of a pretense. She scoffs and in a low tone replies, ‘Your Keep has enough eyes to rival even the Many-Faced God, Aemond Targaryen. If you truly must concern yourself with my wellbeing, trust them to watch over me.’

She does not even bother to courtesy. Instead, she just walks off. She is steady, only for so long Aemond’s gaze burns on her back. But once out of sight and confronted with the daunting task of climbing the steps into Maegor’s Holdfast, her willpower falters. She sits down on the stairs for a moment, catching her breath.

Eight fucking moons above, what has become of her?

The sun is setting, taking with it the light M’rone requires to continue her work. She is loathe to see darkness settle over the old queen’s chambers. Her mind is still. Her heartbeat is dull. Her hand is steady. She has not been able to work so diligently, so precisely without strain and cursing in weeks. Squinting, she perfects the shading of the ripe orange that hangs heavy from a high branch. Below, at the tree’s trunk, a white long-haired cat moves in circles, trying to catch her own tail. She labored on that stupid cat for weeks, but today she has donned the orange tree a crown of leaves. And now this one ripe fruit.

The mural is slowly coming together again, more lively and bright than how she found it two months back. Already now, upon entering the room, one is struck by the vague sense that they are walking into an orchard, not a bedroom. Give her a few more months time and she can make the illusion all the more convincing.

Truly, chambers fit for a queen.

Or just a really beautiful cell.

She has been working here alone, undisturbed for a few hours. Where her sister is, where the hired artisans are, she does not know and she finds herself not caring. She is too tired to care. She is grateful for the silence, she is grateful for the solitude, she is grateful for the work. Her fall down the stairs must have knocked some stability back into her muscles and bones, for whatever tremor Aemond Targaryen’s violence left her with has frozen into an unfaltering touch.

And yet, she is unwell. Her stomach aches with hunger, her head hurts and her ears ring. But it matters little. The only thing that is of importance in this moment is perfecting the shading on this fruit. Ripe for the picking. She hears the footsteps early on, but chooses to ignore them. It is not the first she has heard in these few hours; the Red Keep never rests after all. But this time the footsteps draw closer until she hears them thumping in the entry room. Hushed voices announce the interference in full. M’rone presses her lips together in annoyance, climbs down from the ladder on which she stood to reach the orange hanging high, and turns.

Once she catches sight of those purple eyes, she feels herself sway as she sinks into a courtesy. She has had enough hardship for one day, thrown from one crying fit into the next. This is the last thing she feels she can stand today.

Rhaena Targaryen draws further into the room, closer to M’rone. She paces, back and forth, slowly, not hurrying to break the silence. M’rone keeps her eyes cast down and her body sunken into a courtesy the whole time. Right until the lady speaks, ‘You are talented.’

Her words are lined with a small tremble. M’rone never enjoyed this kind of compliment. It is not talent, it is a skill she honed for years and years. But she can forgive Rhaena Targaryen the clumsy attempt at praise. She is nervous, M’rone realizes, and with that knowledge she feels certain enough to straighten her back and look up.

Last time the two of them spoke, the young lady was smiling and tender, asking about the peculiarities of M’rone’s station. Nothing of that mellow brightness remains now. Her brown complexion has a gray shine to it, as if she has taken ill. She is fumbling with the watery sleeves of her dark red dress.

‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘Do you work all alone?’ Her question is a hurried gallop.

‘Only today, my lady, so it seems.’

Rhaena takes a deep breath and nods, anxiously. M’rone places aside her paint brush and wipes her fingers on her apron, ridding it of any residue. She puts a careful step closer, but is not brazen enough to fully cross the distance between them.

‘Are you well, my lady?’

‘You are not,’ she shoots back. And finally she comes to a halt, facing M’rone.

‘My lady?’

‘You fainted and fell and Aem—my betrothed, he showed excessive concern over your condition.’

Of course the queen-to-be has come to inquire only about that. Yet, M’rone finds it difficulty to assess as to why she has sought out this confrontation. Rhaena Targaryen holds no love for her betrothed; for the murderer of her father, the captor of her half-brothers; for the man who should be courting her, but instead calls another to his bed. Surely, this course of action cannot be motivated by jealousy. Unable to fully understand what is going on, M’rone merely lowers her eyes. What else is she to do? She has discussed this whole depraved ordeal too much already, more than she can stomach. She does not need this to further ignite her shame. To deepen the pain.

‘It must be difficult, to see to the preparations of the rooms that will soon belong to the wife of the man you love.’

M’rone blinks. Pressing her hand over her mouth to muffle the shock, the anger, she turns away from Rhaena. To speak of love: this girl may be young but she has known war, she knows suffering, and she knows Aemond. She should know better than to assume that this is a matter of hearts and devotion. She should be wise enough to discern that this is carnal.

‘I—I do not spurn you,’ Rhaena goes on. ‘I came here in hopes of assuring you of that. In fact, I find myself rather relieved that he has found someone he prefers to keep close. I must admit, I do find it difficult to find in my heart any affection for him.’

M’rone listens to her in weary silence, hands resting on her waist.

‘And you think I do not?’ M’rone says lowly, looking down on that white cat.

Chasing her own tail. Devouring herself whole.

‘He… He favors you,’ she whispers.

‘If he does, my lady,’ M’rone decides, ‘I do not appreciate his way of showing it.’

When she turns back around, Rhaena looks as if she is considering to flee. Her lips tremble, struggling against words trying to slip past. Whatever annoyance M’rone may have felt, dissipates.

‘Do not trouble yourself with this matter, my lady. I am certain that once you are married, he will be a most attentive husband and I will soon—’

‘I do not wish him to be so,’ Rhaena interrupts, shaking her head. ‘Attentive I mean. He favors you, yet treats you in a way you do not appreciate. So what will he do to me, a woman whom he despises?’

M’rone does not like the pair they make together, she and Rhaena. Puppets, the two of them are, puppets in the hands of a cruel puppeteer. Mayhap some would find some sort of twisted sisterhood in this shared distress. But what is Rhaena’s compared to hers? What is hers compared to Rhaena’s? It matters little, how they relate to each other. She has no taste for panicking and agonizing alongside this Targaryen girl, no matter how sweet she may be.

‘You will be his queen, my lady, and he will treat you with the deference and honor any man owes his lady wife,’ M’rone says not too kindly, not too coldly.

But her lack of patience hums in the tone of her voice, and the hollowness of the statement is ever clear. A man does not have to be king to be allowed needless cruelty in his treatment of his wife. No law of men or gods has ever made a vile husband stay his hand. And a vile husband Aemond will be without a doubt. Rhaena, catching on to the lukewarm sympathy she is finding here, takes a deep breathe and raises her head high.

‘I will leave you to it, Master-Artisan.’

M’rone is relieved to see her go. Her patience was running out. It is not that she does not feel for Rhaena Targaryen—but she owes the girl no warmth or guidance. And in this moment she has not an ounce to give of either, emptied out as she is herself. She picks up her paint brush again, annoyed to see that the disturbance has caused her to loose more sunlight as dusk settles in. As she considers lighting a lamp to work for a little bit longer, she hears some footsteps. With an irritated groan she turns again, ready to tell off whoever it is who sees it fit to disturb her now, but no one is in sight.

‘M’rone Vilendrys.’

With a gasp she turns toward the other door opening; the one separating bedchamber and bathroom. When she turned around and her gaze crossed that doorway, it had been empty, but now—the paint brush slips from her hand.

A strange face, which she recognizes but cannot place.

Here, on their own, it is as if she sees them for the first time. Their pale eyes like milk and sea fog, their copper hair, lined with gray just as their face is lined with wrinkles and faded scars. One of the scars curves their lips into a curious angle. They wear the unassuming attire of palace staff, clothing which makes them melt into the crowd of anonymous faced that roams these halls in the unnoticed. Yet, she immediately knows that to them it is a disguise, a mere costume. A role to play.

‘How a creature has grown,’ the forgotten face says in perfect Braavosi.

But it is not their mother tongue. She knows it, just as she knows that they have forsaken everything once native and indigenous to them long ago.

‘Do not come any closer,’ she whispers, taking a step back.

But the command is empty. She does not wield the power to keep them. Or does she?

‘This one fears, child, that a creature has outgrown itself,’ they continue.

They do not move like she does, nor any other person born of this world. One moment distance shelters her from them, the other their hands are around her throat. She chokes on the lack of air, no words remaining in her throat. She raises her hands to theirs, trying to pry their fingers off of her, but she is taken aback by how cold their skin feels under her touch. The forgotten face grins, all teeth, only teeth. Her teeth. And they say, ‘A person must right their mistakes.’

What happens next is a blur. As the lack of air begins to shadow her vision she half takes note of someone approaching. Her eyes fall shut, her body goes limp, the world dark—and then someone is shaking her body and yelling her name in her face.

‘Dear goddess, finally!’ Drenace exclaims when M’rone blinks.

She catches her breath, fingers drifting to her throat, but there is no soreness there. No ghost of a touch lingers. She is simply sitting down on the windowsill, Drenace leaning over her, gripping her shoulders tightly.

‘What are you doing here?’ Drenace insists. ‘You should be abed, sister, you are—’

‘I am fine,’ M’rone interrupts.

Her voice comes out as a hoarse rasp. As if indeed moments ago she was being strangled. But it cannot be. It is just Drenace and herself here, in the red light of a dying day.

‘The hell you are,’ Drenace sneers.

And to M’rone’s utter horror she shoves her sister away. When was the last time that she treated her little sister so? It must have been when they were still small, during some squabble over nonsensical dramas that only make sense to children. Here she is, after a horrid day, at her lowest point, when all she thought she needed was her sister close by—and she lashes out, like some feral cat. Like an angry toddler.

Silence ensues. Drenace’s brows are furrowed, mouth curved into an ugly line of shock. M’rone’s glowering quickly fades as she instead angles her body away, shifts to gaze through the window. From here there is a beautiful view on the Keep’s gardens, the sea beyond, and the blooming darkness above it. She half expect Drenace to give up, to storm off. After how M’rone tried to rid herself of her, she has every right to such a flight in anger. But she must have forgotten just which kind of person Drenace is. Loyal to a fault. She would never relinquish her sister. Still, it comes as a shock to M’rone when Drenace sinks onto her knees on the floor, wrapping her hands in her sister’s skirts.

‘M’rone, please,’ she pleads.

It is enough to make M’rone’s heart break. Immediately she turns to meet Drenace’s eyes. She reaches for her sister’s hands, but finds that she dares not touch her. She cannot.

‘Get off of the floor, Drenace.’

‘No, not until you have forgiven me,’ Drenace insists.

Never before has her little sister so insistently prostrated herself before her. It is so unlike Drenace, so unlike what they have together. Forgiveness has always been a given between them, a promise, an assurance never spoken but exchanged between one another with a glance and a silent nod. And here is Drenace now, on her knees, like a penitent silverdaughter. M’rone is at a loss for words.

‘What do you have to be sorry for?’ she breathes.

‘For being blind to your suffering, to the horror done to you!’

Not this again. Not now. Only now does she realize that even in the moment she longed to be with her sister, it was not in the hopes of talking things through with her. She has said all she can on the matter. She does not wish to waste more words on it. It will not change a thing. It will not set things right, it will not lighten the burden, it will not rid her of any of the pain that has nestled deep inside of her.

‘Drenace—’

‘We will leave,’ Drenace promises.

She reaches for M’rone’s hands, but she raises them, out of her sister’s reach. Drenace’s doe eyes widen in shock. She cringes, clearly believing she is at fault. But it is only M’rone who is at fault here.

‘We will, I have talked to father, he agrees. This is not right. We did not come here for one of us to be so—so… maltreated.’

What a way to describe it. M’rone would scoff, if only she were not so overtly conscious of how Drenace must be feeling.

She forces herself to reply, ‘If we try, we will only make it worse. We will finish the contract.’

‘We will not!’ Drenace insists. ‘First he insists on my children. Then he insists on—on you. We are artisans, hired under the conditions of a contract. We came here to work our craft, not to be… enslaved.’

M’rone tilts her head, lowering her gaze as she lets Drenace’s words weigh on her. She is suffering in her own way. Homesickness is only the beginning of it. Her dear little sister should never have been made to worry over Lanna and Trystane as she does now. It is as she said, they were called to King’s Landing by an agreement detailed in a contract which was signed by Aemond Targaryen himself, which carries the seal of the Westerosi Crown. Such a contract is meant to ensure more than just the exchange of services for payment, it is meant to ensure safety and wellbeing. At least in Braavos a contract holds such worth.

Stupid. She knows just how the Targaryens treat the artisans they hire.

‘Maegor the Cruel had all those who labored on the construction of this Holdfast killed,’ M’rone says. ‘Drenace, sister, listen to me: I will not have Aemond Targaryen pay us for our services in our own blood.’

Drenace gasps for breath. ‘You cannot mean to continue as you have.’

‘Why not?’ she retorts. ‘I have lived like this for weeks. I can do it for months, if I must. If that is the price of you leaving this place alive.’

Drenace scoffs, shaking her head. Looking aghast she leans back. ‘You are eager to suffer on our behalf.’

That stings. That pierces straight into her soul. Wrapping her arms around her waist, M’rone rises, flees to pick up her paint brush—that lies discarded on the floor. That forgotten face. She half remembers seeing it, years ago, through her bedroom window on a rainy day.

‘I did not mean it like that,’ Drenace says, rising onto her feet, but M’rone cannot face her again.

She cannot continue this conversation. She has said all she could.

‘It is alright,’ she lies. ‘Go to… they must be waiting for you.’

‘And for you.’

She shakes her head. ‘I cannot see them, not now.’

Drenace takes hold of her hand, but M’rone immediately pulls it away. As she retreats into herself, her little sister tries again, ‘Do not turn away from us now.’

‘I cannot see father, Drenace,’ she repeats, blinking away tears. ‘Just go.’

She hesitates, not for a short while, but for moments that drag on for too long. Until finally she strides off, footsteps disappearing into the distance. M’rone gulps for air, as if returning out of the water of the Braavosi marshes to the surface. Sniffling she sets to light an oil lamp and in the golden glow, she continues to paint.

She recognizes Aemond by the sound of his stride alone. Swift, yet forceful enough to induce a sense of dread into her. He finds her in the old queen’s chambers where she sits on the floor, inspecting the dance of shadow and light, created by the dying oil lamp’s glow on the imperfect murals. Outside night has come in a quietude only disrupted by the chirping of crickets. She has worn herself out, spun herself into a thin thread.

‘Not now,’ she says without turning to look at him.

‘You have neglected to rest,’ he says as he steps around her, ‘as you have neglected to eat, I take it.’

She scowls, displeased with how he obstructs her view on the wall. She feels bad. Faint and weak. That much she has to admit. Then again, she was comfortable.

‘The meal that awaits me in my family’s quarters will be served with a side dish of arguing and glowering.’ She averts her gaze. ‘I would rather not.’

‘Then you will come with me,’ Aemond decides.

‘Not now,’ she repeats.

If he were to touch her now, if he were to have his way with her now, she would not know what to do with herself. But of course, he simply does as he pleases. He hoists her into his arms, nearly effortlessly. it is enough to make her unravel. Swallowing down hard, she lets the tears come and hides her face in the crook of his neck. If he notices her distress, he does not let it show. He carries her through the silence of Holdfast. For all the eyes hiding in the shadows to see. She is too tired, to beyond herself to even care.

She awaits it. His unwanted touch, his lips greedily in search for hers, his fingers there where they should not be. She dreads it. While she eats the meal he has the servants brought in for her, while she sits in the hot water of the bath he has the servants draw for her, and finally when, fed and bathed, she joins him in his bedchamber. Hesitantly she sits down on the bed, pulling her legs to her chest so she may rest her chin on it. He sits on the edge of the mattress, back turned to her, seemingly fumbling with something on his face. Only when he turns does she understand.

No eye-lap. And no sapphire.

Aemond Targaryen, unmasked.

Perhaps she should think the sight ghastly, the hollow eye socket. But nothing about his appearance—even if he were to look like Vhagar herself—could frighten her so as what he does to her so easily, whenever he wishes for it. Even now she dreads it. But she is so tired, and he is quiet. The world is quiet. He lays down on the bed and with a sigh so does she. She waits, she dreads. He draws the covers over the both of them. She waits, she dreads for him to reach for her, for him to slip his hand under her chemise. He does not.

She turns on her side. Even in the dim glow of night his purple iris has a faint shine to it. Suddenly she considers telling him about the forgotten face she saw. About the stranger who wrapped their hands around her throat and seemed so insistent, so set on killing her. But the memory seems like a distant dream and, either way, she could never tell the story so that it would not sound like a fever dream. Instead something unexpected slips from her mouth, ‘Does Vhagar speak to you?’

Half a chuckles escapes him, before replying dryly, ‘No.’

Valon zoraetes, the dragon said.

‘Not even in your mind?’ she presses.

He sighs. ‘What is this, M’rone?’

Dark Sister spoke to me, she could say. But that sounds nonsensical. Even if such powers in this world exist—which she does believe—who is she to tap in to them? No one. She is no one.

‘I do not know.’

She turns to lie on her back. Strange. By all that makes sense in this world, she should be uncomfortable lying here, next to the man who has inflicted such pain on her. But all she feels is tired.

‘You are a strange woman,’ he says softly, shifting to lie down onto his stomach. ‘Gods be good, if Alys has failed to be the death of me, maybe you will.’

Too tired to truly respond, she just mutter, ‘You are devouring yourself.’

When she finally drifts to sleep, she dreams of following a trail of teeth deep into a forest of weirwoods.