It was as if he had been struck by lightning.
Utter shock, confusion, and surprise overcame him all at once, a tumultuous storm of emotions that left him rooted to the spot.
He blinked once, twice, three times, certain that his remaining eye was playing tricks on him.
She was still there.
He had not even recognized her at first.
The familiar form had been obscured by years of absence, by the distance that had grown between them like a chasm.
And to think that Jacaerys returning was the worst thing to happen of late.
It had amused him to no end to see his half-nephew rebuke his offer of a duel.
It was more like Aegon to hide behind a woman’s skirt when called to fight, to slink away from confrontation with his tail between his legs.
But Aemond supposed that years on Dragonstone could have turned Rhaenyra’s bastard more rowdy, more willing to stand his ground.
It was uncanny how much he looked like his father.
The same brown hair, the same brown eyes, the same pug nose that seemed almost comical on his broad face.
The fool could not have been more of a strong if he had painted their sigil on his forehead.
Better still, everyone could see it too.
As he ran off to meet a hooded figure riding through the gate, hushed whispers followed his every move, a chorus of speculation and derision.
“So much for hiding,” Aemond spat at Ser Criston, his voice dripping with contempt.
The knight picked up a discarded practice shield and moved to mount it on the display rack, his movements unhurried.
“The princess is heir to the throne.
She could not secret herself on Dragonstone forever.”
Aemond twirled the sword in his hand, examining the blade with a critical eye.
It needed a good sharpening; the edge was dulled from too many practice sessions.
“No, but by returning, she lays the truth bare for everyone to see.”
His half-nephew hovered in his periphery, animatedly speaking to a brown-haired girl in riding leathers.
Aemond searched for a sigil to identify her but found none, which only heightened his suspicion.
“Careful, my prince,” Cole chided, his voice low and careful.
“I fear not everyone will be willing to see what is so plain to all decent folk.”
Even without turning to see what he was looking at, Aemond knew Lord Alyn Caswell was there, skulking about the yard like a shadow.
He scoffed.
With the amount of digging that sullen fool did for Rhaenyra, he should change his house sigil to a mole.
“Well then, I suppose we must make them see.”
Twirling the sword one last time, he beckoned one of the yard boys to take it.
Cole’s sudden change of tone made him frown.
“Princess,” the Kingsguard announced, his voice low and curt.
Stumped, Aemond cast a quick glance at the top of the stairs.
Helaena never ventured out into the training yard.
The song of swordplay made her deeply disconcerted, and she preferred the quiet solitude of her chambers.
Turning toward Cole, he was met with the same brown-haired girl his half-nephew was entertaining a moment earlier.
The blow came in a heartbeat.
No.
It was the curve.
The stupid curve in her top lip, the one that reminded him of a lyre, the one that had haunted his dreams for eight long years.
“Oh trust me, Ser, I had no desire to leave the comforts of the Vale either.” She quipped, cocking her head in that easy-going way she always did when she had been a little girl, before everything had shattered between them.
But she was not a little girl anymore.
“Shall I escort you to her?” a faraway voice said.
Criston, it was Ser Criston.
Lucera’s lips kicked up into a radiant smile, the kind that had once made his heart race with joy.
“No need.
I still know my way around.”
She mumbled something else to the knight, but Aemond could not hear her.
He was already moving, determined to seize her, to see if she was real, if she was truly here.
Whatever intentions he had turned to ash the moment she locked eyes with him.
She looks like a woman.
A foot taller than she had been, her wiry limbs had grown into a slender, shapely frame that spoke of maturity and grace.
Gone were those pudgy cheeks she would pucker whenever she sulked.
In their place stood sharp cheekbones and slanted half-closed eyes the color of the deepest oak bark, mysterious and alluring.
Her hair was longer too.
Those unruly locks were finally tamed into a neat braid that fell well past her shoulders down to her waist, a cascade of dark silk.
Even under her stained riding leathers, it was impossible not to notice how she had filled out, her figure blossoming into womanhood.
As a girl, she had been pretty, but in a common sort of way.
Wild and unkempt and unremarkable, like a dandelion growing in a field of roses.
Now, it was as if she had transformed into something far more dangerous.
Enticing and beautiful and seductive, the kind of creature that had men fighting over the chance to wear her favor.
The kind of woman that led others to their doom.
Bitterness flooded his mouth, sharp and acrid.
It is a trick.
A cunning asset she could use to play her games and ruin his family.
Just as she had before.
She is the cunt that took out your eye.
The bastard child of his half-sister.
The enemy.
He could not forget that.
He would not forget that.
Sword.
He needed a sword.
She would not look half as pretty with one eye missing.
Passing Cole, she ground to a halt mere feet from him.
Those dreamlike eyes pinned his in a wistful gaze, searching his face for something he could not name.
The wind had loosened some of the hair from her braid, and it fell across her cheek in a dark curl.
He wanted to push it behind her ear.
Feel the locks kiss his fingers like they used to when he was a boy.
Brush the smudge of dirt marring her nose.
Kiss her.
It would be different now.
They were both grown up.
It would not be chaste.
It would be…
“Let me show you how a woman kisses.”
He almost stumbled back, the memory bidding his mouth to fill with the taste of strong wine and sour leaf.
He frantically blinked away the scent of scarlet sage and Myrish lace, forcing himself back to the present.
Lucera was still there, her face unchanged.
But the wistfulness was gone from her gaze.
She stared at him unblinking, as if he were made of glass she could see right through.
Then, without a word, she rushed past him up the castle steps.
Sword.
Get a sword.
Gut her.
It was the only way to rid himself of this madness.
Yet, despite his burning desire, he did not move.
Not even Cole approaching, frantically hissing things at him, made him react.
“Jacaerys,” he half forced through his teeth.
He was so breathless; it was as if he had been running for leagues.
“What?” Cole came back into focus, his mouth scowling and his brows knitted with concern.
“She told you something about an escort for Jacaerys.
Get it.”
“Of course, but my prince…”
“Do it!” His raised voice brought the rest of the world into focus too, and Aemond realized just how loud he was being.
Straightening his back, he schooled his expression into one of careful neutrality.
“We need to know where he is going.
Who he is meeting.
Have someone follow them and report it to my mother.”
Cole crossed his arms on his chest.
“You will not inform her yourself?”
“No, I must find Aegon.”
“The Prince has gone into the city…”
“I know.”
Cole sputtered, clearly thrown by his abruptness.
“Right.
I shall escort you to…”
“No,” he hastily fired.
His head was swimming, thoughts crashing into each other like waves in a storm.
“I will go alone.
You will go to my mother.
Tell her I will not be joining her for supper.
Tell her…”
He paused, balling his fists until his nails dug into his palms.
This means nothing.
He was just being foolish.
A stupid boy who could not overcome the anger and resentment he felt toward a wretched bastard girl.
She was nothing in the grand scheme of things.
She has been at the Eyrie for three years.
Why come back now?
Releasing a breath, he gave Cole a knowing look.
Maybe Jace has acquired some wits after all.
“Tell her my half-sister has drawn the battle lines.”
Leaving the castle was easy enough.
The only favor Lucera had done him in his life was acquaint him with the hidden passages in Maegor’s Holdfast.
And the only error he had made was showing them to Aegon.
His brother had immediately begun sneaking out at every chance he could, often dragging Aemond to partake in his mischief.
It was always harmless fun, he insisted.
A chance to explore the city unburdened by the stifling presence of the royal escort.
Pity that his exploring always led them into the depths of depravity.
The smell hit him first.
The cloying stench of strong wine, silks, and flesh assaulted his senses, thick and suffocating.
Then the smooth uniform pathway broke down into a jumble of multicolored stones sloppily stuck together, the cobblestones uneven and treacherous.
It had been years since he had been to the Street of Silk.
Nevertheless, the same uneasiness he felt the first time he glimpsed those red lanterns hanging from the building rafters swallowed him up, a familiar dread that coiled in his stomach.
Steel yourself.
He was no longer a boy, trailing after his brother down a dark street.
He was a man grown, son of a king, rider of Vhagar, and a scion of a dynasty.
And he needed to act like it.
Keeping his head low and his hood down, he banged on the door furiously.
The wood creaked open with a screech of iron hinges, and a woman poked her head through the crack.
“Well, what do we have here?” she giggled, her voice lilting with amusement.
“A cloaked shadow, creeping upon us at midday.”
A red veil was draped over her face, but the lace was so thin it was easy to see the grin marring her lips.
Aemond squirmed under her appraising gaze.
“Really?
Good, I was just in the mood for some business,” she teased, her voice laced with some kind of foreign lilt that grated on his nerves.
“Not that kind of business.”
Her laugh made his legs go numb.
Why was he so lightheaded?
“Well, if not my kind, then I am sure we can find another kind m’lord likes.
We have so many businesses you have probably never even…”
“I am here for the Red Room.”
The way her face hardened told him he had not been wrong.
Aegon truly was here.
Aemond drew nearer, letting the crimson lantern illuminate a part of his face.
The woman’s inky eyes widened with recognition.
“So if you would not mind,”
“Of course.” She pushed the door open, beckoning him inside.
“My Prince.”
The hallway was just as dark and cramped as he recalled.
Lined with rows of red candles and draped with Myrish tapestries depicting scenes of unbridled debauchery, the walls seemed to press in on him from all sides.
When they neared the circular showroom, he saw that piece.
A scene of a small brown-haired girl being passed between a dozen naked men.
Her eyes were closed, her face twisted in pleasure as they pawed at her flesh.
For some reason, he remembered the tapestry as being larger.
Or that is just you.
He had been thirteen the last time he had been here.
A confused, sullen boy who kept shrinking into himself.
“Why are we here?” he had demanded of Aegon.
He had promised he would take him to the Murmer’s Quarter to watch the fire wizard’s show.
Instead, he had dragged him through a dark alley right into this dingy den that stank of perfume.
His brother’s hand slammed down on his shoulder, and Aemond looked up to find two pits of midnight purple staring down at him.
“Is it not obvious?” he grinned, the grip on his shoulder tightening.
“So you can get it wet.”
“Young Master!” a shrill voice broke the spell, and Aemond whirled on his feet, his hand half reaching for his concealed dagger.
He unclenched his fist when he saw the rotund Madame waddling toward him.
“It is such a pleasure to see your face again after all this time.
What has it been now?
Six years?”
Digging his nails into his palm, he straightened his back.
“Five.”
“Yes, yes, of course!” the pudgy thing chuckled, her meaty fingers trying to straighten the hem of her gaudy blue dress.
Her eyes protruded even further from her skull than he remembered.
They were like two overcooked egg yolks, lined sloppily with black soot.
“Time truly flies.
But we are glad to have you back at our most distinguished establishment.
Shall I fetch the girls?”
He could scarce answer before she turned to his veiled guide.
“Laddan, get our finest.
Our guest would like a showing.”
“No,” he cut her off curtly.
The damp, cloying warmth was making him sweat beneath his hood, his skin prickling with discomfort.
“I am looking for someone.
It is my understanding that he is in his Red Room.”
The madame’s painted lips fell open, and she stuttered.
“Ah well, you see, the young master asked not to be disturbed…”
Aemond was already moving, doing everything he could to ignore the muffled moans emanating from the adjacent chambers.
“I do not care what he said.
Move.”
He just about plowed through the whale of a woman, barging into one of the hallways that branched out of the showroom.
He remembered this one too.
The slanted ceiling, the rows of pink doors, and at the end, a smooth red wall with an oil painting hanging off it.
Aemond gritted his teeth and felt around the frame until his fingers hit the latch.
One pull and the wall creaked open, revealing the chamber beyond.
He stepped into a room filled with more red.
The place had become even more disheveled than he remembered.
Red lace and rope were strung about every inch of the room, hanging loosely off the rafters like abandoned webs.
A goblet lay discarded on the bearskin carpet, a wine stain soaking into the fur.
The stench bade Aemond’s remaining eye to water.
“Get up,” he growled.
The covers on the large feather bed stirred.
A head of silver hair came poking out from under the pillows.
“Gods, no,” his brother slurred, his voice thick with sleep.
“Why do you always come to wake me when I am having the best dreams…”
Incensed, Aemond rushed toward the curtains, yanking them off with one forceful pull.
Light streamed through the small window, bathing the chamber in a soft pink glow.
“Get up,” he repeated.
The groan Aegon let out was louder, gruffer.
“Mother have mercy.
Can you please put out that hideous light?”
“That is the sun, you dumb cunt.
Now get up.” He wrenched the covers next, discarding them by the bed.
To his fury, Aegon merely turned on his side and placed a pillow to cover his manhood.
“No, why?
Have the Others come to take us?”
“Lucera has come.”
Strained silence followed his declaration.
Then, to his displeasure, Aegon let out a half-hearted sigh.
“Oh…”
“Oh?” Aemond seethed.
“That is it?
That is all you have got?”
When Aegon chortled into a pillow, he just about pulled his dagger to bury it into his neck.
“Apologies, let me try again.” He cleared his throat, pitching his voice high.
“Oh?
Is that so?”
“For fuck’s sake…” Rushing toward the red velvet settee, he flung his brother’s small clothes at him.
That seemed to finally rouse him.
Twisting like a snake, Aegon rose into a seated position, his hands pushing strands of hair out of his eyes.
His face was so swollen from sleep and drink that it looked as if he had been savaged by a horde of bees.
“Fine, what do you want me to say?
Rhaenyra is here, so is Jacaerys.
Of course she is back as well.” He paused, leaning his head against the wooden bed frame.
The smirk on his lips was enough to make Aemond see red.
“Besides, I thought you of all people would be gladdened by the news.
Your Lady Bastard returned to you at last.
Now you can finally cease pining after her like an insufferable twat.”
He meant to strike him.
His hand itched to punch him clear in the jaw until it shattered like a twig.
But he steeled his nerves.
Mother would resent him cuffing Aegon about.
Instead, he circled the bed, his movements predatory.
“She has been at the Eyrie all this time.
It is not a coincidence.”
Aegon picked his nose with studied disinterest.
“Obviously.
Driftmark is her inheritance.
She had to come to defend it.”
“And bring the knights of the Vale to the battle as well.”
He could not tell whether the laugh he let out was one of pained desperation or genuine amusement.
“Well, Grandfather did say the great lords would choose their camp eventually.”
Aemond whirled, coming to rest his hands on the settee.
“This should not be happening.
Rhaenyra was not even supposed to come.
She has been banished.
The City Watch should have refused her entry into the Keep.”
“As if father would ever do that,” Aegon hissed.
“You should get him to send her away.”
This time, when he laughed, the desperation was plain.
“Gods, I would have a better chance teaching an ass to juggle.
He does not care for a word I say.”
“Which is entirely your own doing.”
The fury came then, twisting Aegon’s lips into a hideous scowl.
“Oh, it is so easy for you to say that, is it not?” He hissed, spit flying through his gritted teeth.
“You were not the one who had to sit beside his sickbed, attempting to get his attention, while he prattled on and on about his little girl, his late wife, his darling brother, and how terrible it was that he did not have his family with him.”
Sorrow slowly forced the anger out, and his brother leaned back against the bed frame.
Tears glistened in his purple eyes.
He did try.
For a time at least.
Rhaenyra and Daemon’s banishment left their father open and vulnerable, in desperate need of familial comfort.
Their grandsire the Hand reasoned this was the perfect chance to bring Aegon closer to him.
They had scarce interaction since his brother was forced to wed Helaena.
Granted, their bond was fickle to begin with, but this estrangement forced Aegon into a spiral the likes of which none of them had ever seen.
He had drunk to obscene excess, bedded anything that moved, and dealt their mother and sister untold grief.
He had few companions save the whores and urchins he met while out cavorting in the dens of Flea Bottom.
All the noble lords his lady mother had attempted to lead to his side, he corrupted and turned into the same drunken louts he was.
Getting him closer to Viserys was the only way to stop him from completing his self-destruction.
His brother seemed eager at first, so starved for their father’s affection.
But as each visit to Viserys’s apartments turned disastrous, his disposition soured.
At last, he ceased trying to visit him at all, resigning himself to the rejection and flying headfirst into his depraved pleasures.
“He does not care about me,” he repeated, the same line he always repeated whenever they spoke of their father.
“Because I am not his daughter.”
Aemond regarded his tears with quiet resentment.
Gods, he is soft.
He knew of Father’s true feelings.
He always had.
Yet he insisted on dwelling on them like some mewling boy.
It was pathetic.
Aemond too was affected by the same truth, yet he chose not to let it consume him.
It was a futile exercise that brought none of them any good.
He is not fit to do anything.
Still, he released a sigh and sat beside him on the bed.
When that happens, Rhaenyra’s own claim will come into question.
” He shot Aegon a look, willing him to understand.
“We will finally have a chance to stake a claim to what is ours by right.”
The disdain that poured from Aegon’s eyes made bitterness flood his mouth.
“I am sure you are eager to claim it, are you not?
You were always so eager.”
The accusation slid off him like water droplets.
I should have gutted you when we were children.
“It does not matter what I want.
It is what the law demands.”
Aegon lowered his gaze, listlessly pulling feathers out of the pillow.
“Careful, brother,” he chided.
“If Rhaenyra loses her inheritance, she and her brood will be sentenced to the executioner’s block.
I wonder…
how will you bear seeing your Lady Bastard’s head mounted on a spike?”
Fists balled, Aemond held his gaze.
“Those feelings died a long time ago.”
Carved out along with his eye.
The smile that stretched his brother’s lips cut him fiercer than that knife ever did.
“Then why did you run to me?
To this of all places?”
Stomach twisting, he looked away.
I should never have told him.
Aegon was the last person to go to for comfort.
But he had been hurt.
He had lost a fucking eye, and everything in his life had toppled over.
The pain was unbearable, especially in the months that it took for the gash to heal.
Twice the flesh had gotten corrupted, and the Maester had had to open it up to cut out the pus and rotten meat.
Though he had plied him with enough milk of the poppy to kill three grown men, it still was not enough to stop him from screaming through the night.
Worse still was that that was just the beginning.
After the pain had finally dulled to an uncomfortable ache, he had to begin life anew.
He had to learn how to read without straining and how to walk and ride without losing his balance.
His mother refused to let him mount Vhagar to practice due to his impaired sight, despite the Keepers telling her the period after the claiming was crucial for solidifying the bond.
But combat was the most dreadful.
Ser Criston was practically forced to start his training all over again, and he had to drive him thrice as hard to account for his blind spot.
It was grueling work that left him exhausted and shaking with rage.
Still, it could not compare to the pain of the betrayal.
It was she who had taken his eye, his Cera.
That wild, beautiful girl who used to take him on seaside adventures and kiss him until his head spun.
All in service of protecting that wretch of a brother she had spent so much time whining about.
His flesh may have healed, and his abilities returned, but the ache within never left.
A small part of him thought his brother would understand.
After all, he and Jace had been friends once as well.
And despite the careless indifference he had displayed about it, he knew Aegon was deeply wounded about losing him.
In a way, he did.
But the only solace he could offer was the one he partook in, a cup of wine and the pillows of the Red Room.
That is not comfort.
It is poison.
And it left him more wounded than before.
His brother seemed oblivious.
Rising laboriously from the bed, he found two empty cups discarded on the floor and made to pour wine.
“If you ask me,” he began, wiping the rim off with some cloth.
“I did not.”
As was custom, he barreled right over him.
“You should take this as an opportunity.” He knelt in front of him, naked and grinning, and thrust a cup his way while knocking back the other.
“To fuck her, in hatred, of course, and be done with it.
Free yourself of the misery.
She is what, six and ten now?” He paused, a most depraved smile grazing his lips.
“There is nothing so rowdy as a sixteen-year-old bastard girl.
The little thing has probably tumbled half the vale.
I am sure she would be willing to give you a turn.”
The knife in his scabbard screamed, yearning to be unsheathed.
Instead, Aemond pushed the filthy cup back in his face, splashing him on the chin.
“Get dressed,” he growled, pushing past him.
“Mother will want you at the Keep.”
His brother sat down on his backside, licking wine off his lips.
“Fine, stay sullen.
See what good it does you!
I was just thinking of your health.” He laughed.
“You should at least fuck something.
If you do not use your cock, it will cease knowing how to stand!”
His head started pounding like a war drum, and he could not stand being in that room any longer.
If he stayed, he would rip him open from ass to mouth.
He barreled through the smoky corridor, his brother’s laugh hot on his trail.
It was only when he got to the showroom that he ceased hearing it.
He sucked in breath after breath, steeling his nerves enough to stop shaking.
He was about to move when she appeared.
A slender figure in purple robes slithered from a room on the left.
All the blood fled from Aemond’s fingers.
She is older.
Almost as tall as he was, though still as flat as a board.
“Young Master,” a deep, husky voice sounded.
From the darkness of the same room, the girl’s older shadow emerged.
The woman had not changed much.
Stout and buxom, with a head of long brown hair pinned to the top of her head in a long braid, she stood as an opposite to the girl.
Yet the deep brown eyes, small nose, and beauty mark below her lower lip they shared betrayed their relation.
“How you have grown,” the woman purred.
Reaching over a jeweled hand, she pushed back the girl’s hair over her shoulder.
“It is good to see you again.
Have you come to finish what you started?”
The strap of the purple silk dress slid down, baring her breast.
When the girl peered at him through her thick lashes, her eyes were uncertain, nervous.
Just as they had been when he had first glimpsed her hiding in that same doorway.
At Aegon’s behest, the Madame had brought out all her girls for a showing.
The women had surrounded Aemond, spinning him in circles and giggling like mad.
Silks and naked flesh were in his face, and the smell of oils and heavy perfume was in his nose.
When one of the women brushed her hand against his manhood, he almost toppled over, bile in his throat.
She came into view then.
A mousey girl in plain brown skirts, she lingered on the edge of the showroom, watching the display with dismay.
Later, he had learned she was near five and ten.
But seeing her there, so small and slight, he had assumed they were of age.
It was easy to cling to her then.
“It seems the young master has chosen,” the fat Madame had cooed at his brother.
Aegon, who had been tumbling with a Summer Islander girl beneath some pillows, raised his head to look.
“All the splendid beasts of the world at your beck and call, and you chose the brown-haired rat,” he chortled, eyeing the girl.
The little thing reddened worse than a beet and shrunk into herself.
“Well, I suppose it is appropriate.”
With a clap of the madame’s hands, the women dispersed, grumbling about lost work.
Another older woman appeared from the shadows and gently guided the two of them to an adjacent corridor.
The floor beneath Aemond’s feet swayed like the deck of a ship, and he thought he would topple over.
A hand slipped into his to steady him.
The brown-haired girl trotted beside him, her eyes downcast.
Her nose was hooked with a slight crook in the bridge, longer than Lucera’s.
The room they entered was red.
Red carpets, red walls, red bedsheets.
It even smelled red, like spilled blood and scarlet sage.
They came to stand opposite one another.
“Go on,” the older woman said, lingering in the doorway, her hands toying with the pearl necklace hanging off her neck.
She had a beauty mark below her lip, the same as the girl did.
Aemond frowned at her, just as he felt a warm caress on his cheek.
The girl slowly undid the buttons on his doublet, her flesh quivering.
When he was left standing in nothing but his small clothes, her fingers entwined around the laces of her bodice.
His stomach seized.
Her eyes were still downcast, and her shoulders hunched, and when she drew breath, her chest rose in a shudder.
The kiss she planted on him was just as cold, and when he licked his lips, he tasted wormwood.
“No,” he withdrew when her hand trailed down his stomach.
She stood frozen for just a moment, her eyes wide.
They pinned him for the first time, and the fear he glimpsed in them made all feeling in his legs cut off.
“Go,” he had said, looking away.
He thought he would faint.
Her mouth opened to form words, but nothing but garbled stutters came out.
A shadow descended on her then, and the older woman from before embraced her from behind.
She whispered something to her in a language he could not understand.
In half a breath, she rushed out in a flurry of skirts, shutting the door behind him.
“I am sorry, I…” he shook his head, balling his hands into fists.
The older woman smiled, gently raising his chin.
“I know,” she cooed, tracing his jaw.
The sharpened nail dug into his skin.
“Lyra is still a girl.
Her caresses are uncertain and clumsy.”
A breath caught in his throat when her hands slowly began unlacing the front of her bodice.
“My Prince needs someone more experienced.” Her smirk deepened.
“Let me show you how a woman kisses.”
He meant to back away.
Every inch of him yearned to wrench free of her hold, to run out of the room and into the Keep to hide beneath the covers.
Yet all he did when she pressed her mouth to his was freeze.
She tasted of wine.
A sickening, honeyed sweetness mixed with the tang of sour leaf.
His stomach lurched.
He did not remember her taking him to the bed.
Just the feel of the red silk clutched in his hands.
He thought of the sky, of the clear summer clouds he would brave from atop Vhagar.
Of the soft murmur of waves crashing into the shore, the smell of river water and wet sand.
The taste of ripe strawberries and the gentle way Cera’s hand wrapped around his.
You will never have that comfort again.
Lashing the two women with a look, Aemond Targaryen straightened his back, a boy no longer.
Then he went for the door.