Aemond
The training yard was empty when he arrived, the straw dummies standing silent sentinels in the early morning light.
Aemond preferred it this way, arriving well before the others so he could have the space to himself.
It was a habit he had developed over the years, born of a quiet determination to excel at his duties without the distraction of Aegon and his gaggle of Marcher lickspittles crowding the grounds and showing off for one another.
Gods, but they were idiots.
Every last one of them.
Simon Dondarrion was not nearly as insufferable as that weasel-faced Florent boy had been, but that was faint praise indeed.
He was still a brutish fool who would trade jests and insults if it meant earning a laugh from his peers.
Aemond had tried to cultivate a friendship with him when he first arrived at court, hoping to find an ally among the Marcher lords.
But after he had knocked the heir to Blackhaven flat on his back during a practice session, Simon had given him a wide berth.
The memory still brought a small smile to Aemond’s lips.
He had no use for Aegon’s leavings anyway.
He had all the companionship he needed.
She appeared in the yard a few moments later, her pale blue skirts billowing in the wind like the sails of a ship.
As always, her maids had attempted to tame her unruly curls into some semblance of order, but the wild locks refused to be contained.
They cascaded past her waist in a riot of dark waves, the playful breeze tossing them into her eyes with each gust.
Aemond’s grip on his practice sword faltered, the weapon nearly slipping from his fingers entirely.
He caught himself just in time, but not before his concentration had shattered completely.
The moment her brown eyes met his across the yard, she lifted her hand in a wave, and he forgot all about the straw man he had been whacking with such dedication only moments before.
His practice session was abandoned without a second thought.
“Rytsas, qȳbro,” she called out, her smile spreading across her face like a sunrise.
Her lips had a peculiar shape to them, full and plump with a distinct dip just beneath her nose.
Every time Aemond looked at them, he was reminded of the elegant curve of a lyre.
He halted in front of her, forcing himself to release a measured breath.
“Still calling me that, are you?”
She shrugged, pushing ineffectually at the strands of hair that had fallen across her eyes.
When she failed to tame them, Aemond reached out and gently brushed them aside, trying very hard not to shiver when his fingers grazed the soft warmth of her cheek.
Her hair was perpetually tangled, but it felt like spun silk against his skin, impossibly soft and fragrant.
“What would you have me call you instead?
You are my uncle, after all.
What else am I supposed to use?”
“I do not know.
It just seems strange.
I am not much older than you.
Uncles are usually old men with gray beards and creaking joints.”
She blew out a breath, her cheeks puffing with the effort.
“Well, Em, you do act like a serious old graybeard sometimes.
So perhaps it is fitting after all.”
The urge to roll his eyes was nearly overwhelming, but before he could formulate a proper retort, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.
All thoughts of clever comebacks fled from his head, replaced by a roaring heat that bloomed in his belly and spread outward through his entire body.
He stood frozen for a moment, his mind blank, his senses consumed entirely by the soft pressure of her mouth against his.
When she pulled back, her smile was teasing.
“Fine, do not be upset.
I shall not call you that again if it bothers you so much.”
He knew he was supposed to say something, to offer some witty rejoinder that would make her laugh.
But the words simply would not come.
All he could think about was bending down to kiss her again, to feel that warmth once more.
Blessedly, she seemed to understand his speechless state and took the lead, rummaging through her leather satchel with an air of triumph.
“Look what I found!” she announced, extending her hand toward him.
Aemond composed himself as best he could and squinted at the object she was offering.
“Is that a compass?”
He took the contraption from her hands, turning it over with careful reverence.
The base was made of metal, twisted into two elegant coils that formed a perfect circle.
At its center was a piece of murky glass, etched with delicate lines marking the cardinal directions.
“Yes.
I found it in my grandsire’s solar.
Apparently it was a gift from some ambassadors from Old Volantis.
It is what Valyrian sailors used to navigate in the days of the Freehold.”
Aemond traced his finger along the metal frame, his eyes widening as he recognized the distinctive rippling pattern in the metal.
It was Valyrian steel, unmistakable in its smoky sheen and impossible weight.
“It is missing the handles,” he observed, handing it back to her.
“I know.
Grandsire said it was given to him exactly like that.
The handles were lost long ago, apparently.”
“What do you mean to do with it?
A compass is not of much use if it cannot give direction.”
That magnificent smile bloomed across her face once more, radiating pure mischief and determination.
“I thought I might make it give direction again.”
Aemond crossed his arms over his chest, a skeptical eyebrow raised.
“I doubt you will find a man alive who could repair Valyrian artifacts.”
“Of course not.
But if I can somehow add handles to it, perhaps it will start pointing again.”
He regarded the rippling steel with deep apprehension.
“Doubtful.
It takes more than handles to make a compass work.
Besides, how are you going to find a blacksmith who can fashion Valyrian steel for you?”
Her cheeks puffed out in frustration.
“Well, I suppose I did not think that through.”
The urge to laugh was strong, but he could not bear to mock her.
She had a habit of this, he had noticed, coming up with grand schemes that sounded magnificent in theory but proved utterly unfeasible in practice.
It was one of the things he loved about her, her boundless imagination and refusal to accept limitations.
“You could just forge regular handles, steel ones,” he offered and watched as the elated grin returned to her face.
“Right, but where would I find a compass handle maker?”
“In the castle smithy, Micah is quite skilled at metalwork.
I am certain he could fashion something suitable.”
She gasped, her eyes going wide with realization.
“Yes, of course!
That is brilliant!
I can ask him.” A shy blush crept across her pudgy cheeks.
“I had rather forgotten we even had a castle smith.”
This time, Aemond could not resist a chuckle.
“Good thing I am here to remind you.”
She launched herself at him, her arms winding around his neck in a fierce embrace.
He welcomed it eagerly, squeezing her back until the breath in his lungs was nearly gone.
“I will go and take this to him right away.
After we get the handles, perhaps we can ask Maester Orwyle about how to make it work again…”
A shrill scream cut through her words, sharp and jarring.
Aemond looked up to see a parade of boys in greens and blacks bounding down the steps into the training yard.
Ser Criston followed in their wake, accompanied by the tall, burly uncle of Simon Dondarrion, the two men conversing in hushed tones.
Aegon and Simon jostled each other like overgrown puppies, while the weasel-faced Alliser Carron laughed like a hog at some private joke.
Their fourth companion, Ser Arthur’s page boy, was mercifully absent.
“And to think the day started off so well,” Aemond muttered under his breath.
He felt warm fingers entwine with his and squeezed Cera’s hand tighter.
The boy looked utterly dejected, bundled in his red doublet and practice armor, his shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast.
Ser Harwin Strong trailed behind him, his heavy-set jaw clenched in a mask of barely contained fury.
For once, neither of them acknowledged Aegon’s pack of dogs.
Instead, they made their way directly to the weapon rack to select practice swords.
When Jace finally glanced up and spotted them across the yard, the scowl that twisted his lips was so venomous that Aemond felt it like a physical blow.
“What is wrong?” Aemond asked, feeling Cera’s grip on his fingers tighten.
“What has he done this time?”
Cera held her brother’s gaze for just a heartbeat before looking away.
“Nothing.
It is stupid.”
“I swear, if that little wretch has done anything to upset you…”
“Princess!”
Both of them jumped at the deep baritone.
Ser Harwin was making his way toward them with a purposeful stride, his dark eyes fixed on Cera.
The moment Aemond glimpsed the venomous squint Jace was casting his way, he knew the boy had sent him.
“What are you doing out in the yard?
You should be doing needlework with the Septa.”
Cera withdrew, her shoulders bunching with tension.
“I just came to go to the smithy…”
“Come, I shall escort you back to the apartments.” He motioned for her with his mailed hand.
“I can go myself…”
“Princess…”
“She said she can go herself.”
The knight balked, his bushy brows furrowing in surprise.
Aemond immediately moved to stand in front of Cera, his shoulders squared and his back straight.
“My Prince would do well to return to his lessons and leave the business of grown-ups to men.”
Blood rushed to Aemond’s cheeks.
“Do not presume to tell me what to do, Strong.”
He readied himself for the next retort, but a booming voice interrupted from across the yard.
“My Prince!” Ser Criston called out.
The swarthy knight stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his white training mail gleaming in the morning sun.
“We are about to begin.
Assume your position.”
Aemond had half a mind to argue, but Cera nudged him from behind.
“Go,” she whispered, switching to Valyrian.
To his private satisfaction, Ser Harwin narrowed his eyes at their exchange.
“I will finish my business at the forge.
We can talk about this later.”
His hand reached blindly for hers, giving it one last squeeze before he rushed past the captain of the city watch.
As was his custom, he ignored Aegon’s jabs and picked up his practice sword where he had discarded it.
Ser Criston quickly lined them up so each of them could square off against a straw man.
Aemond cut and slashed at the cloth, sweat dripping down his brow as the Kingsguard circled him.
“Arm higher.
Swing with your shoulder,” Ser Criston advised, his hand correcting the angle of Aemond’s elbow.
When he moved to strike again, the blow opened up the straw man’s belly.
He would have been pleased with himself if the swing had not caused him to lose his footing.
“Soften your knees.
That will help you keep your balance.”
Blinking, Aemond nodded and swung again.
The next try was nothing short of perfect.
Ser Criston nodded his head in approval and moved on to correct Simon’s senseless whacking.
Aemond threw a few more blows, careful to mind both his swing and his footwork.
At some point, when he dared to peek at the top of the steps, he glimpsed a figure in black.
His father was here, pointing and conversing with his hand, Lord Lyonel Strong.
He quickly gathered his composure and moved to swing again, but Aegon’s wild grunting spoiled his concentration.
His brother danced around his straw man with a fury that bordered on reckless, dealing blow after blow with a grace that was almost admirable.
After striking at the thing’s neck, its head lolled to the side, spilling straw and sawdust across the ground.
His brother exchanged a satisfied smirk with Simon.
“Good form, my prince,” Ser Arthur Dondarrion nodded approvingly.
“Soon, no man will dare stand against you.”
“No man can stand against me now,” Aegon declared, his attention already wandering to a pair of serving girls who had stopped to watch.
His eyes had been lingering on the maids quite a lot of late, a development that had caused their mother considerable concern.
Ser Criston did not tolerate the meandering attention.
“Aegon, eyes on your opponent.”
His brother tossed back his silver hair with a dismissive gesture.
“Why?
I have already won my bout with Ser Criston.
My opponent sues for mercy.”
“Well then, you shall get a new opponent, my Lord of the Straw.” Fastening his gloves, Ser Criston seized a practice sword of his own.
“Let us see if you can touch me.
You and your brother.”
Aemond blinked, uncertainty settling in his belly.
Sparring against Ser Criston had always been a nightmare.
The man was too quick, too agile to be touched.
If he could not trounce him on his own, he knew he could not do it with Aegon getting in the way.
His brother, however, did not share his reasoning.
Taking a stance, Aegon rushed forward and swung, but the knight parried the blow easily.
Aemond tried to take advantage of the opening on his left to strike, but Ser Criston simply dodged out of the way.
They danced around the Kingsguard like lost ducklings, each strike a futile miss.
At one point, Aegon grew so flustered that he swung his sword blindly, the blade narrowly missing Aemond’s head.
He stumbled back, his heart in his throat, but the attack was in vain.
After disarming him, Ser Criston parried Aegon’s blow and tripped him.
His brother crashed face-first into the dirt, heaving a cough when his hair fell into his face.
“Rule number one.
You never get too cocksure.
Because there will always be a better, more skilled opponent ready to make you eat your words.”
Aegon huffed, twisting his face into a grimace.
“Now, come.
Let us have you spar with Alliser and Simon.”
The two idiots marched forward gleefully, practice swords at the ready.
Behind them, Jacaerys stared wide-eyed and dejected.
Ser Harwin bent down to say something to him, his face a mask of quiet fury.
“Is there an issue, Ser?” the Kingsguard stepped forward.
Both Jace and Harwin shot him glares.
“No, Ser.
It just seems like the lesson is a bit unequal, that is all.” He paused, adjusting his gauntlet.
“The Prince Jacaerys could also use a bit of your attention.”
Ser Criston’s face remained a picture of poised calm.
Shooting a quick glance at Arthur Dondarrion, he nodded.
“Very well then.
Jacaerys, come here.” In two quick strides, he crossed the distance between them and seized Jace by his breastplate.
Aemond himself could not resist a chuckle.
“Eldest son against eldest son.”
“That is hardly a fair match.” Ser Harwin circled the training ground, his jaw working his teeth.
“I know you have never seen true battle, Ser, but when real steel is drawn, nobody should expect fairness.”
The commander lashed Cole with a look but made no further attempts to counter.
Smirking, the knight drew a breath.
“Engage.”
No sooner had the command left his lips than Aegon attacked.
He swung wildly at Jace, pressing him forward until the boy lost his footing and fell into the dirt.
His victory was met with approving nods from the Marchers.
Aemond too allowed a small smile to graze his lips.
But Jace was far from beaten.
Rising in a fury, he rushed at Aegon like a brazen bull.
His swing caught Aegon in the arm, and he pushed the straw man at him to halt his advance.
“Foul play!” Ser Harwin immediately interjected, rushing to take Jace aside.
“I will deal with him.” Ser Criston did the same, giving his brother hushed instructions on how to proceed.
When he was done, Aegon’s face was twisted in fury, and he screamed for Jace.
His next attack was vicious and did not allow his opponent a moment of respite.
“Close with him,” Criston commanded, his jaw clenched.
The fire in his eyes made Aemond uneasy.
Aegon took instruction and swatted Jace’s sword with force, the blow hard enough to make him stumble.
“Drive him backward.
Use your feet!” He was screaming now, his rage stroking his brother’s.
With one final kick to the chest, Aegon sent Jace crashing down to the ground.
His half-nephew squirmed, his cheeks flush with exhaustion.
The fear in his brown eyes made something stir in Aemond.
He half wished Aegon would simply whack his sword against the boy’s head and be done with it.
“Do not let him get up,” Ser Criston commanded.
Aegon followed his instruction thoughtlessly, screaming as he slammed his weapon against Jace’s.
“Stay on the attack!” Criston was hissing now, his jaw muscles so tense they looked like they might snap.
Aegon raised his sword again, the angle perfect for landing a blow right in the center of Jace’s skull.
But the swing never came to be.
“Enough!” A shadow seized him from behind.
Ser Harwin wrestled the tourney sword from his brother’s hands and pushed him to the ground with ease.
That did not make him happy.
“You dare put your hands on me!” he screeched, lunging for the knife sheathed at Ser Harwin’s waist.
“Aegon!” From atop the balcony, their father’s stern voice rang out.
When Aemond glanced up, his face was twisted into a most sour frown.
Beside him, Lord Lyonel looked as if he might faint.
“Behave yourself.”
“You forget yourself, Strong,” Cole chided.
“That is the Prince.”
The knight brushed off his remark.
“Is this what you teach, Cole?” He bent down, collecting the practice swords in a flurry.
“Cruelty?
To the weaker opponent?”
Rushing past him, he kicked up some loose straw and moved to mount the blades back onto the rack.
The way Ser Criston’s gaze pivoted from Lord Arthur to the king left Aemond uneasy.
“Your interest in the young princeling’s training is quite unusual, Commander,” the Kingsguard began.
“Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a brother, a cousin.” He paused, sucking in a breath.
“Or a son.”
For a moment, time stood still.
All sound had vanished from the yard, and every pair of eyes was fixed on the Commander of the City Watch.
Aemond immediately glanced at Jace, to find him whiter than a ghost.
His terror tasted sweeter than honey.
He had half a mind to throw a quip at him, but he lost his chance.
Ser Harwin lunged with a fierce war cry, his mailed fist striking Ser Criston clean in the jaw.
The force of the blow sent the knight stumbling, but the commander gave him no respite.
He struck and struck until Cole was flat on his back, and the man was atop him, his fists dashing his face to a bloody pulp.
Ser Criston made no move to deflect his blows.
“Say it again!” Strong screamed as figures in white rushed to pull him off his opponent.
It took four Kingsguard and two men-at-arms to drag the shrieking knight to his feet.
“Say it again!” he repeated, spit flying from his mouth.
Sprawled on the ground, beaten and bloody, Ser Criston laughed.
“Thought as much,” he fired, his quip bidding Lord Arthur to smirk.
The Marcher boys followed suit, along with Aegon.
Aemond too cast a pitiful glance at Jacaerys, relishing the blank look on his face.
His pallor had deepened to a sickly shade of green, and he looked as if he were about to piss himself.
Who was laughing now?
Aemond lifted his nose, satisfaction warming his belly like a heartfire.
The pleasure was short-lived.
A figure appeared in his line of sight, dressed in spring blues.
He had not noticed Cera had returned to the yard, but suddenly she was there, small hands clutching her Valyrian compass.
The look on her face mirrored Jace’s, wide-eyed and blank and sickly.
Full of terror.
Terror most of all.
The warmth in his belly vanished in a gust of ice.
He rushed over to her side, his hand immediately moving to take hers.
She scarcely noticed his fingers, her flesh quivering under his touch.
Her eyes were frantically darting about the yard, sucking in quick, shallow breaths.
When Aemond chanced to look around as well, the coldness in his stomach slashed at his insides.
Everyone was looking.
His brother, the Marchers, the serving men, and the castle guards.
Even Micah had left his forge to come observe the spectacle.
His half-sister’s shame was on full display for all the world to see.
Wordlessly, Aemond moved to stand in front of her.
Tall as he was, he was able to shield her body from the mob.
But there was no protecting her from their judgment.
You cannot change her blood.
He knew his mother had meant he could not alter the supposed wickedness tainting her from within, the deceitful and twisted nature that supposedly flowed in her veins.
But it was more than that.
It was also about how the taint affected her from without.
She will never be safe.
As long as she bore her scarlet mark, the world would always look down on her, no matter how many titles she had or how many dragons she tamed.
That cannot happen.
She was too kind, too good to deserve such cruelty.
Never once had she treated him poorly or said anything ill about his family or his mother, though they had wished her plenty of misfortune on their end.
She was wild and clever and daring.
A true Targaryen princess.
So what if her father was not the one whose name she bore?
It was just stupid rules.
And Aemond Targaryen was not about to let them ruin the one good thing he had in his life.
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