Desire as a question.
desire as a promise,
desire as a holy knife,
a foreign body,
lodged deep
 in the body

°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°

The wedding of Princess Rhaenyra to the heir to Driftmark was planned at record speed. Not even three weeks passed since the announcement, and the ravens were sent from the towers of the Red Keep, carrying invitations to all corners of the realm. The castle was awake and bustling at all hours of the day as servants rushed around to prepare everything in time.

Even the Rhaenyra's chambers weren't safe from the chaos. She was perched atop a stool, her arms outstretched to the sides with her face twisted in discomfort. Seamstresses pricked at her from all sides, tailoring her wedding dress to fit her body.

"Does it pinch here, princess?" one of them asked, pressing at a spot just below Rhaenyra's armpit. The girl frowned even deeper and shook her head. Aella could only watch grimly as Rhaenyra seemed to get closer to shouting at the women around her with every passing second.

"What do you think of this colour, Princess Rhaenyra?" Another seamstress ran up, splaying a beautiful deep cream satin over Rhaenyra's shoulder for her to see in the mirror. The colour went perfectly with the already pale fabrics being used for the underskirt of the dress, which would be visible from a slit in the front.

"I don't know." Rhaenyra shrugged. The seamstress frowned, about to retreat when Rhaenyra sighed heavily. "Wait." She turned to where Aella was perched on a cushioned divan. "What do you think." Aella rose from her chair, approaching the girl with a raised brow.

It was foolish for her to be here. She was Rhaenyra's aunt by marriage, her closest older female relative older than her, not counting Viserys' bride. Who the princess most definitely did not want present now. She most likely did not want Aella here either. She wanted Aemma. Her mother; burned to ashes and placed in an urn. And Aella could never replace that, even if she wanted to try.

Aella traced the fabric with her fingers, feeling its smoothness and assessing its colour. "It is beautiful, no doubt." She stepped back. "But you don't want my opinion, Rhaenyra." Her niece furrowed her brows.

"Yes, I do," she argued, "I would not be asking you if I didn't." Aella smiled at her indulgently. The only reason Rhaenyra was asking was because she truly did not know, nor did she care. She'd not chosen this wedding or the husband that came with it. Laenor Velaryon, Aella's nephew, had probably never even crossed her mind as a candidate. She could not help but wonder how Rhaenyra would be viewing this had her husband been someone she'd chosen. If it had been Aemon.

"Your mother wore blue and silver to her wedding, did you know?" The room felt silent, none of the seamstresses daring to inhale too loudly. The ghost of Aemma Arryn hung over them all. "Like the colours of her house. She looked so beautiful and radiant that day in the Sept."

Rhaenyra remained solemn as she spoke. "I do not think blue is the colour of our house, Aunt. You know I must look the part if I am to go through with this." Aella purposefully looks up and down Rhaenyra's form.

"Is pearl white the colour of our house, dear girl?" Silence was her answer. "You know, I wore black and red on my wedding day because it was what my grandsire wished. Jaehaerys was impossible to refuse and what I wanted held little value regarding his need for our family to be perceived well." After all that happened with his daughters, and then Prince Aemon's death, Aella could not say she was surprised. "But do you know what I'd wished for? I wanted to twirl in a gown of lilac or indigo. I wanted golden jewels placed upon me instead of the silver and white pearls in my hair, not black."

Stiff as a board, Rhaenyra looked down at herself, at the paleness of the white fabric on her, the mirage of innocence that Viserys wanted her to wear, despite him, Rhaenyra and Aella knowing the opposite. Her mouth fell, tilting downwards.

"This is your wedding day. You are the heir to the Iron Throne. Wear what you want," Aella continued. "Your mother's dress ought to be here somewhere, still. If you wish to wear it. We could make a few alterations, so it is not completely the same." Silence stretched for an increasingly long time. Rhaenyra was as stiff as a board, so unmoving one could mistake her for a statue. A smile tugged at Aella's mouth and she tossed a look to the maids surrounding them all, sweeping her hand out in a wide gesture. "Get her out of this thing."

"But, Princess–" One of the maids began to protest, turning to the half-finished gown.

"Do as I say." Aella's tone left little room for argument, and the maids got right to work. With careful hands, they tugged the silks off Rhaenyra's body, careful not to damage the frail, unfinished seams. Rhaenyra remained still, only moving when the maids needed her assistance as they undressed her and then put her into another gown. When it was done, Aella reached out her hand and smiled affectionately. "Come."

And Rhaenyra did. Her fingers wrapped tightly around Aella's own and she allowed herself to be led out of her chambers and down the halls of the royal apartments. Neither of them spoke the entire way. Aella was not even sure if her niece would be able to, with how far-off her stare was. Eventually, they came to the door that they had been heading towards.

Aemma's old chambers. The Queen's chambers. They had remained empty since Aemma's brutal death. No one wanted to step into those rooms, so haunted by the lively girl Aemma had once been, and soaked with the blood gutted from her. Not even Alicent wanted to step foot into those rooms. Not when she was crowned, and most definitely not when she'd had her own child growing in her belly.

Who could blame her? Aella certainly didn't. The only times she'd ever visited Aemma's chambers after her death was when she needed to feel not so alone. With a deep inhale, Aella pushed the door open by its handle and stepped foot inside, the daughter of the woman who'd been murdered there following right behind her.

The air was stale and hot, impossible to breathe without nearly choking on it. And the room was barren, all surfaces empty. Even the bed was stripped of its linens, only the mattress remaining. It was pale and serenely white. The one Aemma had bled out on had long been tossed out and burned. A few large chests lined the far wall. That was where they would find the old queen's belongings, Aella knew. They had all been piled into those chests and left here, locked away so no one would have to look at them and be reminded of things all would rather forget.

Aella did not need to search all the chests to find the thing she was looking for. She had been there as the servants packed all of Aemma's things away, and she'd looked through them a few times since her death. That was how she knew the gown Aemma had worn to her wedding was still here. It would have to be tailored heavily. Rhaenyra was a woman grown. Her mother had been a child when she married. Luckily, the style of dress the women of the Vale wore back then – two decades ago now – had been of a looser form, more focused on the intricacy of embroidery and patterns and the fullness of the skirts than the bodily form.

Letting go of Rhaenyra's hand, Aella knelt before one of the chests. It was filled to the brim with old gowns and veils, the fabric so heavy and rich that it almost felt wrong to run her hands along it. She moved some of the gowns off the way until she found the one she was looking for. She curled her hands around the fabric carefully and stood, pulling the gown out as she went. Turning back to Rhaenyra she beheld it in front of her like a sacred thing.

Her niece stared at it with wide eyes, taking in the pretty pale blue fabric and white lace. Silver embroidery lined the bodice and the hems of the sleeves and the skirt. Here and there, the eagle of Arryn was sewn into the fabric with darker blue thread, mixing with the silver around it in a beautiful pattern. Rhaenyra reached for the dress. She pressed the back of the dress to her chest as if to simulate her actually wearing it.

"I thought it'd be smaller." Aella did not think any line had ever cracked her heart open so viciously as that. Her lips spread in a strained smile, a feeble attempt to not burst out crying on Aemma and Rhaenyra's behalf.

"Your mother was rather tall for her age, though she was small in every other aspect." Rhaenyra hummed, barely listening as she moved her gaze over the dress again and again. Aella shifted on her feet, twisting the golden ring on her finger. "Do you like it?"

"It is beautiful," Rhaenyra sighed wistfully. Aella nodded.

"Yes. Aemma was a sparkling jewel on her wedding day." The day that sealed her fate, no doubt. Rhaenyra's eyes filled with tears, and her face twisted as she tried to stop a sob from coming out. She failed miserably, and it spilt from her lips that much more viciously. It shook her shoulders, jerked her chest, and tore at her throat.

She clutched at the gown, pressing it tightly to her breast, as if it would be ripped from her and it would disappear just as her mother had. There one moment, gone the next. It was not lost on Aella that Rhaenyra had not even been able to see her mother's body before it had been wrapped in linens. Maybe it was a good thing, but Aemma had truly disappeared from her daughter's life like she had never existed.

"You do not need to wear it, if you do not wish to," Aella reminded her softly, wrapping her arms around Rhaenyra in a loose hug, leaving the girl room to pull away if she wanted to. Rhaenyra turned more into her, hiding her face in her shoulder.

"No, I want to." The words were muffled by Aella's skin, but she heard them all the same. She nodded, tightening her hold on Rhaenyra, making sure her niece knew she was there. Rhaenyra continued to clutch the dress, her chest heaving with her cries, and Aella only held her.

°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°

Viserys had gone impossibly pale at the sight of his daughter in his dead wife's dress. Rhaenyra looked the very image of Aemma when she arrived at the Great Hall, garbed in the blue velvets and white silk of House Arryn. Her silver hair was piled on top of her head in a myriad of braids. The only thing unlike Aemma about her.

Rhaegon remembered vaguely that Aemma's had her hair mostly free-flowing down her back. A girlish style at the time, worn mainly by children and young maids. Of course, Rhaenyra was older now than Aemma was during her wedding. By a rather large amount, at that. The maturity of the look tied it all up in a pretty sight.

With a smile, Rhaegon helped Rhaenyra into her chair, then his wife who had followed Rhaenyra into the hall. Aella appeared impossibly proud of herself, fixing Rhaenyra's blue sleeve where it crinkled awkwardly.

"I believe you nearly stopped my brother's heart," Rhaegon jested as he sat down himself, roving his eyes over the crowd of nobles who were eagerly awaiting the arrival of the second most important party at the event – the Velaryons. The corner of Aella's mouth quirked upwards. Something twinkled in her eyes, as if she wanted to tell him that was exactly her intent. Then her gaze snagged on someone in the crowd, and her small grin dropped.

"Is that Ser Gerold Royce?" she asked him, leaning on the armrest of her chair to get closer to him so no one else would hear. Rhaegon followed her gaze until he saw the man she was referring to. He'd only seen him around the court a few times, mostly when Lady Rhea, his sister-in-law, didn't want to suffer Daemon's company in the city. She sent her cousin to handle her affairs at court, though they were rare and far between. 

It had been a good long while since he'd last seen the man, but even so, Rhaegon could not help but think that Ser Gerold had aged at least a thousand years. There was a certain glumness about him, hanging above him like a raincloud.

"Yes, though I must say I am shocked to find him here so soon after Lady Rhea's death." Rhaegon was sure Daemon had rejoiced at the news. To his great surprise, Daemon hadn't returned to the city he'd been banished from singing a tune and dancing a jig. He was sure he'd done it anyway, wherever his brother had decided to hole up. "I'd have thought there were a great many things to handle with the inheritance. What with Lady Rhea being childless and without living siblings."

"I am glad it was handled quickly, I suppose," Aella said, though she seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation just as soon as she'd started it. It was only the mention of Lady Rhea that reinvigorated her to some degree. "Have you heard from your brother? I'm certain he was positively bereft at the news."

Rhaegon breathed a laugh. "Oh, he is sure to be wearing all mourning black, dear wife." Aella's lips quirked upwards again. The trumpets began to sound their loud brassy tones, announcing a new arrival, and Aella pulled away from him.

All the nobles, low and high, rose to their feet. Even the King and his family stood from their seats as the large doors to the great hall were pushed open and the Velaryons entered, decked in turquoise and sea-foam-coloured silk from head to toe. At their head stood Corlys Velaryon. The man's head was raised high, a look of pure victory displayed on his hardened features.

He had won, Rhaegon supposed. In the end, it would be his blood to sit on the throne, even if it was not directly through Rhaenys' rule. As the harrold announced their presence, naming Corlys, his wife and his son, the hall erupted in thunderous applause. Their party only came to a stop once they reached the dais where the royal table was placed.

Rhaenyra broke away from the table. Her destination was clear to everyone even before she reached a hand towards Laenor Velaryon with the brightest smile Rhaegon had seen on her in quite some time.

"My betrothed," Rhaenyra all but sighed in a silky voice. It was all a play, Rhaegon knew, but that did not stop the hitch in his son's lungs directly beside him. As much as he could without rousing any curious looks, Rhaegon turned towards Aemon. He raised a brow in concern, but Aemon did not spare him a single glance. He looked as if he'd chugged poison by the barrel. And all he was looking at was Rhaenyra and Laenor directly in front of him.

Rhaegon opened his mouth, ready to question Aemon about his well-being, for he'd never seen his son look so aggrieved before in his life. The words died in his throat as surely as the morning dew faded. He knew that look. Knew it all too well. Though it had not been him who'd cast it in anger at someone else.

No, he'd experienced it from the other side. Rhaegon could only stare at his son as though he'd seen him for the first time. From where Rhaenyra and Laenor stood, Aemon appeared to be placed directly between them. Poetic, had this been a play, and not real life. His son's life. Rhaegon wanted to turn away and pretend like he'd never seen the sight.

But he couldn't. Because Aemon looked at Laenor with as much bitterness as Daemon had looked upon Rhaegon all those years ago, when his fist had cracked Rhaegon's nose and left it crooked if someone looked closely enough.

Unlike Daemon, however, Aemon clenched his jaw and bore it. He did not swing his fist, he did not do anything but stare. Then he turned to the woman beside him, the beautiful brown-haired Lady Elinor. And he reached for her hand to squeeze in his, and as she turned to him with bright and twinkling eyes, he smiled.

They stayed like that for a mere few seconds, before Aemon turned back to the scene before him. This time, there was no anger or bitterness. His expression had gone utterly blank. And he looked more like a puppet or a statue than he did Rhaegon's son.

Now it was Rhaegon's turn to feel poison drip down his throat. Something burned so voraciously in his gut that someone must have ripped him open, placed smouldering coal inside him and sown him back up.

As the seconds ticked by, the only thing he could hear was Laenor's answer to Rhaenyra's call.

"My betrothed."

A/N

I haven't updated this since the end of JULY which feels unreal. I swear time passed so quickly that it's insane. Anyway this is my short little Christmas present for you guys!

Rhaegon realising that Aemon is actually just like him (completely his duty by not protesting his betrothal to Elinor and watching as his own desires are squandered) but suffering the same thing Daemon had (watching the girl he loves marry someone else) GOODBYE I FEEL SICK.