He thought it would plague him.
Most of Aegon’s jests did.
They always lingered in his mind, festering, stabbing at his flesh till they hit bone.
But to his surprise, the events that followed suit were what ended up occupying his attention.
The Pink Dread.
It was a name so stupid, only his brother could have come up with it.
Helaena had agreed with him.
After their mother had departed to speak to their father about the incident, he and his sister had remained alone in the confines of her chamber.
Her apartments were darker and more cramped than his own, filled to the brim with the scent of grass and autumn rains.
Perfect accommodations for her pets.
“I do not want to do it anymore.
I know I told Mother I would watch over him, but I cannot.
He will never listen to me.
He does not even treat me like his brother but his whipping boy!”
Snatching a handkerchief off her vanity table, Aemond sat down and started wiping the soot off his face.
It took no more than two swipes for the white cloth to be completely drenched in black.
“He is your elder.
The future of our house.
It is up to you to keep him from straying.”
He had once thought himself capable of fulfilling his mother’s wish.
But Aegon had proved too willful, too vile to manage.
“We are better off dumping him in some wine sink in Fleabottom and forgetting he ever existed.”
“Wine will not help either.
It never does.
But people keep drinking it.
It is strange” Helaena paced about her chamber in arcs, finger caressing the bug coiled about her hand.
Aemond could not for the life of him understand her interest in the spindly things.
She was the blood of the dragon.
The girl who had wandered into the pit one day and claimed Rhaena Targaryen’s splendid beast with no effort whatsoever.
Yet she chose to spend her time playing with insects and spiders.
“But it is how he does things.
Always playing silly games, always trying to hurt others.
There is nothing you can do to stop it.”
Aemond bent over the water basin to wash his face.
The splash did much to dampen his rage, but the embers kept crackling.
“It is easy for you to say when you are not on the receiving end of his lashings.”
Helaena whirled on her feet, her white rivulets cascading past her shoulders like a river of silver.
Regret filled Aemond in an instant.
“I am sorry, I should not have…”
“He thinks I am an idiot.
He has told me so himself.”
“No, he does not.
He was just being a…” he bit back the curse.
Mother would be displeased with him if he used such crass words in front of his sister.
That did not make it less true.
Though Aegon was content with ignoring their sister’s existence, when forced to interact with her, he had been nothing but cruel and callous.
“He does.
I know it,” Helaena announced.
“But I do not think he thinks the same of you.”
Aemond rose, uncertainty in his belly.
“I do not follow.”
His sister cocked her head, her fingers restlessly caressing the worm’s scales.
As was custom, her eyes would not meet his.
“I think he envies you.
All that you are.
I think that is why he tries to reduce you at every turn.”
Aemond could not contain the scoff.
He is the eldest.
The subject of all our mother’s attention.
I could not even hatch a dragon.”
A heaviness settled on his chest, and he could scarcely draw a breath.
Helaena’s pale brows knitted together into a shadow of concern.
She inched closer, her pink dress whispering with each step, like the flutter of dove wings.
“I told you.
You will get a dragon once you close your eye.”
He stumbled over his words.
“I…
I do not know what that means, Hel.”
The crease between her brows deepened, and the color vanished from her cheeks.
Her pale hand closed around the worm like the jaws of a dragon, crushing it with ease.
The thing thrashed and hissed, spraying foul brown liquid everywhere.
Aemond leapt up.
“Hel, what are you doing?
Stop!” he slapped the thing out of her hands, wincing when the brown gunk licked his skin.
To his horror, Helaena’s palm had blistered a furious red.
“I wish you did not have to find out.”
Aemond glared at her, dumbstruck.
She ignored the carnage and stuck her right hand into her pocket.
When she extended it to him, he was surprised to see a wooden toy dragon.
He left her chambers shortly after, rattled.
Maester Orwyle.
I should fetch Maester Orwyle.
Mother always stressed to call the Maester whenever Helaena succumbed to her ramblings.
His sleeping draft was the only thing that calmed her down.
Aemond did not have the heart to do that to her.
Instead, he called one of her chambermaids, Talisa.
The kindly woman had been some sort of healer in the Free Cities.
He wagered she could mend his sister’s hand without causing her distress.
Pity he could not find a way to resolve his own distress.
He spent the following morning in a fretful agony, torn between the thought of his brother’s prank and Helaena’s outburst.
Jacaerys accosting him in the hallway left him tethering the edge, a hairbreadth away from dashing his stupid head against the wall.
But Lucera’s sudden appearance had hindered his plans.
Not only that, but she had derailed his mind completely.
“Thank you,” she had whispered, after she had crushed him into her arms.
The touch was sudden and unexpected.
Only his mother had ever embraced him, and even she had never squeezed him so hard.
But it was justified.
They were family, after all.
What followed was not.
Wrapping her hands around the collar of her doublet, she yanked him down to brush her lips against his cheek.
The heat of her skin made his muscles seize, and he froze, unable to think, unable to breathe.
Even when she pulled away to give him a sweet, earnest smile, could he not bring himself to say anything?
Instead, he watched her trot after the Septa, her pale blue skirts billowing behind her like the sail of a ship.
His cheek was still warm from the kiss.
When he licked his lips, he could taste something sweet.
Strawberries.
She had eaten strawberries.
Warmth squeezed his belly.
He unfroze.
Library.
He needed the library.
Half running down the corridor steps, he burst through the double oaken doors, lungs starved for air.
The maesters attending the scrolls gave him reproachful looks for disturbing the peace.
After finding succor in between the rows of shelves, he searched for a new tome to read.
The first title he glimpsed was a poetry book.
The Art of the Kiss.
Aemond gritted his teeth.
Why would she do that?
They had barely ever spoken.
The most she had ever said to him was asking him to pass her the turnips at family dinners or telling him to move so she could sit beside Jace during their lessons.
Perhaps she was just being kind.
He had lent her his book after all.
But that was stupid.
Who repaid kindness with a kiss?
It is a trick.
She was trying to confuse him, as was her nature.
Mother had warned him of this.
She and Jacaerys were born of wickedness and thus harbored nothing but malice and treachery in their hearts.
Why defend me then?
If she and her twin truly were the same, she would have joined in the torture.
She would have been at the pit, with her brother and Aegon, leading the pig to him.
She does read a lot.
That implied some amount of cleverness.
It stood to reason she would use cunning in place of brute force to bring him down.
I cannot trust her.
She was his half-sister’s brood.
His enemy.
There could never be any sort of goodwill between them.
Resolving to put the business behind him, he searched the shelves once more.
He must have read the same title four times before releasing a strangled grunt.
“My prince?” the soft voice bade him stumble.
Two scrolls fell with a clatter, unfurling till they hit Maester Orwyle’s feet.
“Is everything alright?”
Aemond blinked, absorbing the question.
It was only when the maester squinted at him that he realized the man expected an answer.
“Yes, I…”
“Good, have you come seeking another book?” he bent down to pick up the paper, prompting Aemond to follow suit.
His endeavor was a failure, for his hands could not seem to recall how to roll up parchment.
“I have, yes.” Embarrassed, he stood back up and withdrew.
The Maester kindly ignored his ham-handedness and placed the scrolls back up onto the shelves.
“Anything particular in mind?”
“Lomas Longstrider.” The words came out quicker than a crossbow bolt.
“Do we have anything by him?”
The maester pursed his lips.
“An adventure book?
I have not thought you particularly keen on those.”
“I am not, I…” His voice caught in his throat, and he averted his gaze.
He should not be doing this.
I have just lent her a stupid book.
There was no reason he should indulge her more.
Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, he pondered.
The taste was still there.
A faint touch of ripe strawberries.
He liked strawberries.
He liked reading too.
And learning High Valyrian.
“I wanted to try something different,” he said, unclenching his fist.
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