A minute smile crept onto Aemond's lips, "Hard work indeed, my lady."

Floris smiled back at him, unaware of the downright lecherous activity he was speaking about. "Shall we go meet your mother and the King? Oh, my father is here also, and my mother, they will be delighted to acquaint themselves with you."

He was silent for a moment before answering, "We shall— please, let me dress more... appropriately, an outfit befitting meeting my betrothed. I shall meet you in the throne room at high noon."

Floris nodded, her braided hair bouncing up and down from how vigorously she shook— she reminded Aemond of an overeager puppy. Sweet, but dumb. And mayhaps irritating. She curtsied and walked back to her sisters and they resumed their chittering.

Aemond grit his teeth inwardly, clenching his jaw. His plan to see Helaena had been thwarted and wouldn't be viable until after the frivolous and pompous gathering of his and his betrothed families. Pinching his brow in aggravation, he made it back to his chambers. He didn't even survey the room, already unbuttoning his leather training jerkin and tossing it aside with a growl.

"Something amiss, your grace?" the ever familiar and haunting voice of Rosemary asked. She was sitting in front of the fireplace, a needle and thread in her hand.

She was mending one of his doublets, one that he used to wear frequently before taking a particularly nasty cut to the shoulder during training — thankfully, the leather had just been damaged and not his skin, besides a bruise. He had thrown it in the back of his wardrobe in an angry haste a few moons ago, upset about letting Criston get such an obvious hit on him. He hadn't even thought of that doublet since then.

Aemond's eye narrowed, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The source of his ire, sweet Rosemary— was just sitting there. Was she waiting for him?

"When did you get here?" he ignored her question, striding to the dark oak armoire and opening it, rummaging through.

"Not too long ago. I like to keep busy." she hummed.

"I'm sure," he responded, a bit too quickly and mayhaps a bit snappily. He took a breath, tapping his finger against the wardrobe, "Help me pick something." he commanded.

Trotting to his side after putting down the doublet and sewing supplies, she peered into the wardrobe. "What is the occasion?"

"Meeting my betrothed." he said, his voice flat.

"You don't sound enthused." she noted as she got a bit closer to him— they were almost touching— as she looked at the selection of clothes.

"It's difficult to be enthused about a prospective marriage that I do not wish to take part in."

Rosemary hummed in agreement— how would she understand, anyhow?— as she pulled out a dark gray jerkin, chased with gold and violet embroidery. "This would look nice." she held the garment up to him, fully looking up at him.

It was only then that he noticed how close they were, her arm touching his forearm accidentally. He could smell her— she smelled of fresh linen and lavender. His throat felt dry once more, like it had in the training yard, and he distanced himself. He waved his hand dismissively, "Yes— I'm sure that would be fine," he turned away, "Do you think I... need to freshen up before going?" He usually was sure of himself, but Floris' comment about his musk made him doubtful— mayhaps he just wanted assurance that he didn't smell like a boar.

Rosemary turned to him, perking a brow. It was her turn to examine him, scouring for dirt. She circled around him, obviously somewhat amused with the prospect that he was asking her for her opinion. "You smell fine, if that is your worry," she finally replied, folding her arms together as she stood in front of him, "To me, at least. Mayhaps I am not the best judge, since my nostrils did just spew blood a few hours ago." she smiled and then laughed.

A genuine laugh— not a fake, hideous cackle like some ladies did— but a genuine giggle at her own jest. It was a lilting sound, harmonic, and not at all like Floris' that he had heard before. It made him feel slightly elated, his chest tingling.

He caught himself before he smiled in return, donning the jerkin that she had picked out. He observed himself in the mirror, turning away from her, "Yes— well, if I smell like an animal, it is just something she will have to learn to live with." He smoothed out the material of his shirt and adjusted his eyepatch, nodding to himself.

"Do you like her?" Rosemary asked then, as she went to busy herself with some other innocuous thing.

"I don't know her, how could I like her?" he quipped, his voice somewhat admonishing. He immediately felt guilty for his tone considering that he barely knew Rosemary, and he more than liked her. But she didn't need to know that.

"Well, did you get a funny feeling in your chest when you saw her for the first time?" she continued, sitting back at the table to finish her sewing, "My mother used to say that her chest would fill with butterflies when she saw her beloved."

Aemond's jaw twitched, "What is the point of this line of questioning?" And he did get that feeling, when he met her.

"Just curious, is all." she responded softly, glancing up at him.

"Curiosity is a dangerous thing for lambs— sticking their velvety noses where they don't belong. I suggest you keep to your duty and stop worrying over my affairs," he snapped, "You may have the rest of the day off— I will not be back for a while, you needn't wait for me."

He watched her reflection in the mirror, her face looked almost hurt, the corners of her mouth downturning into an imperceptible frown before wringing into a hard line.

"Yes, your grace." she murmured, putting her head back down.

He blinked hard, clenching his fist, turning to leave.

"Have a good day, your grace." she whispered, walking past him in a purposeful strut, out the door.

"You as well, Rosemary." he replied— she didn't hear, she was already halfway down the corridor.

The affair in the throne room was already a disaster. Aemond's father was unable to show up— huge surprise there— leading to Lord Borros being standoffish, ranting to anyone who could hear, which unfortunately was the ear of Aemond's grandsire, Otto. His stormy demeanor rubbed off on his daughters, who were quipping and pecking at one another, save for Floris. Aegon was drunk as per usual, swaying back and forth as his mother admonished him. Helaena wasn't present, thank the Gods for that, as she was caring for the twins and Maelor. Aemond was grateful that his sweet sister didn't have to deal with this painful, tense situation.

"I say— it is quite auspicious that the King isn't here to honor the match," Borros grumbled, drumming his fingers on the table.

"His grace is very busy, Lord Baratheon," Otto quipped back, "He has many meetings today he couldn't get out of— but he extends his blessing and enthusiasm for the betrothal."

That wasn't the truth— King Viserys was hardly awake and coherent for more than half an hour a day, much less moving around and actually doing his kingly duty.

But only a few were in the know to the real severity of his condition and a lid was kept tight on it. Aemond didn't particularly care that his father was nothing more than a living corpse— he more so feared what would happen after he passed.

"Viserys would've loved to be here, Lord Borros," Alicent chimed in, "He has been meaning to discuss with you about mayhaps attending a hunt in the Kingswood, in celebration after Aemond and Floris' wedding."

Borros visibly lightened, "Ah, a hunt! Good man he is for suggesting— it's been many a year since I attended one in the Kingswood."

Aemond swirled his wine in his cup, hiding a sneer. He knew there would be no hunt, and if there was, his father certainly wouldn't be there. He quickly gathered that his future good-father was dimwitted and easily entertained, but also quick to anger.

Floris stood across from Aemond awkwardly. She had changed dresses and hairstyles, but he couldn't care less. It was all frill and pomp, none of it meant anything. It was all a mummer's farce, a joke.

"We meet again, my prince," Floris murmured as she walked a bit closer— not too close, of course, as they were still unwed, "Your outfit suits you quite well."

"And so we do, my lady." he answered flatly. At the mention of his outfit, he couldn't help but snort, "Thank you."

It was all incredibly awkward and borderline excruciating for everyone involved. Aemond didn't have the patience for pleasantries, and the constant squabbling of the now three storms, plus loudmouth Borros Baratheon made him want to go mad.

They sat around a table and he picked at his food— they had served lamb for lunch. How fucking convinient. He watched his mother pick at her nails, his brother drown himself in alcohol, and his grandsire reel in the beastly Lord Baratheon.

Floris tried to converse further with Aemond, but he was all but a brick wall. He stared down at his lamb, the fork stabbed into it. It was still bloody in the middle.

He wondered of Rosemary— was she upset with him? His tone was unbecoming, especially when she had been kind. What was she doing now? Did she have any friends in the Keep, or was she as lonely as he?

The questions circulated in his mind for the three whole hours that the pathetic affair lasted. Once dismissed, he took the opportunity to see Helaena, finally.

He took an alternate path to the royal apartments, walking through the corridors near the Godswood. As he passed by the entrance to it, he saw something familiar in the corner of his eye. Red dress. He backed up, taking another look.

It was Rosemary. She was standing in front of the Weirwood tree, her hands clasped together. She seemed deep in thought, a vision amongst the leaves of the Weirwood.

Aemond's blood began to boil once more and his body moved of its own accord. He strode towards her, grabbing her arm— mayhaps a bit tighter than he intended— and led her to a discreet alcove in the Godswood.

She let out a small yelp like an injured animal, "Wh— my prince? What's going on? Are you alright?"

The fact that she asked him if he was alright whilst he was manhandling her like a sack of grain made his chest ache. He let go of her and boxed her in against one of the trees, his hair falling in front of his face, his breath heavy. He must've looked like a wild beast, his pupil blown wide.

"No," he growled, "I am not alright. What spell have you put me under? Why is it that you of all people have taken a host in my mind?"

She looked bewildered, shaking her head. They were so close, their breaths mingling. "What in the Gods' names are you talking about?"

"Why must you haunt me so, hm? You're nothing of significance to me, a mere sheep's bastard— and yet you plague my mind." he continued, one of his hands straying closer to her, the pad of his thumb cradling against her collarbone.

"I... haunt you?" she repeated, brow knit with confusion, "You're mad, dear prince— you dismissed me coldly only hours ago and now you think you have the right to ask me why I've betwixt you?" she scoffed, rolling her eyes, "You are unbelievable."

Aemond swallowed harshly, leaning forward more. He smelled her so well, so strongly— he had the overwhelming desire to sink his teeth into her flesh and consume her until she was nothing but lamb's bones. "Mayhaps I am mad— only because you have driven me to such. What is wrong with me— why is it you?" he spat her existence with such venom that it even stung him a bit.

The look on her face was reminiscent of before— the tiny frown and downturned brow, her lip even quivered slightly, "You are obsessive— and for what? You have done less than sweep me off my feet, acting all the part of a brutish dragon."

Aemond felt his face heat up, "Obsessive? Ao gaomagon daor gīmigon se nūmāzma hen udir, byka ōtor." You don't know the meaning of the word, little sheep.

She pouted her lip, brow furrowed in frustration. Her brown eyes blazed like molten pools of cedar, her face contorting as if she wished to say something more— but her, and Aemond's, train of thought was shattered by a twig being broken, a stone's throw away from them.

As much as his blood boiled, he realized the compromising position they were in. He took a breath and backed away, giving her a look of warning— mostly for her safety. If they were caught in something deemed unsavory, he would get off virtually scot-free, the matter being swept under the rug as if it didn't exist.

Rosemary would be the one swept under the rug, cast out from her employment to the streets or mayhaps even the dungeons.

Aemond's face softened as he realized that he was a fool. A complete and utter fool. He had been handling the entire situation as if there were no spectators, as if it was only their struggle to feel. He should know better, the Red Keep has eyes and ears everywhere.

Putting a hand up to pause, he glanced around the clearing of the Godswood— no one was there. He then looked to Rosemary once more, leaning in to whisper, "Be safe, little lamb." before departing.

He didn't dare look back, his palms suddenly sweaty. He could only imagine the look on her face, of confusion and hurt— he'd cornered her in a place of peace and piety and barked in her face like some animal with no control.

The walk from the Godswood to Helaena's solar was a blur— he felt ill and his vision was hazy.

The twins were playing on the floor with two wooden dragons when he arrived. Helaena was sitting by the window settee, letting a mantis rove over her fingers.

"Brother," she hummed, not even looking back to see who had entered. She just knew, she always knew. "What an auspicious visit."

"Helaena," Aemond murmured, taking a moment to ruffle the hairs of the twins in greeting before crossing the room to her, "I need... to speak with you."

"Did you know that mantises are the only kinds of insects that can turn their head from side to side," Helaena said, turning her head in example, not once lifting her gaze from the mantis, "and the lady mantises will decapitate their mate and cannibalize their bodies."

Aemond's brow furrowed, "Why do you think they do that?" he asked. He knew it was best to entertain her queries about bugs rather than dive head first into his own issue— no matter how pressing.

"It's not exactly known," she continued, "A few theories are viable, of course— like producing more eggs. But, I'd like to think she does it because she wants to. Because she can," Helaena hummed as she nudged the mantis off of her hand, back onto the windowsill. It glanced at her curiously, twisting its head back and forth before descending down a vine trellis, "What did you wish to speak about, brother?"

"Oh," he muttered, "Well— a few things. Firstly, do you think I'm obsessive? I recently was told I may be, to some extent."

Helaena positioned herself to face him fully, her lilac eyes meeting his own, "Dear brother, you are a manifestation of obsession itself. You learned to speak perfect High Valyrian perfectly before the rest of us, to write with utmost poignant penmanship, to memorize the history of Valyria, to best Ser Cole and any other knight you set your eye upon. You are obsessive as a dragon over a hoard of gold— or over a juicy, plump lamb."

Her last comment made his blood run cold, "Do you know?" he asked, his voice almost silent.

"Know what?" she replied, tilting her head.

Aemond shook his head, "Nevermind," he breathed, clenching and unclenching his hands, "Thank you."

"Mmhm," she hummed once more, "I have seen that new maid around, the one with the big brown eyes," she put her hands up to her eyes, fingers shaped into circles as if to emphasize it, "Is she nice? She looks quite gentle, I wonder if she would be good with the twins."

Aemond bit the inside of his cheek. Of course she knew— she knew everything. "Mayhaps she would be," his thoughts began to wander, to the image of Rosemary holding the toddlers on her hip, "Thank you, dear sister. I should visit more often, everything has just been... unorganized lately."

"I would much enjoy your company," Helaena said, "The lamb may yet best the dragon, may yet best the stag, but is blind to the gathering of rats at its legs."

The hairs on Aemond's arms stood up. He knew better than to try and ask anything in the form of an explanation to her mutterings— but it gave him much to think about. He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek before leaving.

He had much to think about.

—

Floris had always been the last in most things. The last to be born, the last to get supper, the last to learn to read.

But now, it seemed she was first in something. The first to be betrothed, and to a prince no less. She had been giddy since her father first told her a few moons before.

Their first impromptu meeting in the corridor wasn't what she expected, but it tantalized her. He was a gentleman, and certainly handsome— bar the nasty scar and eyepatch, but thankfully that wasn't something their children would inherit.

But once they had their meeting in the Grand Hall, his demeanor changed. He seemed as if he didn't want to be there, and didn't care at all for their betrothal. Floris tried her best to make conversation and be as ladylike as possible, but it was like talking to a wall.

She sat in her chambers hours later, letting down her hair from its pins when she heard a knock on her door.

Opening it slowly, she saw a man with curled brown hair, holding a cane, "Oh, hello," she murmured, "May I help you?"

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting yet, Lady Baratheon," he said. His voice was smooth, but it made Floris slightly uneasy, "I'm Larys Strong. We will become more acquainted once you marry the prince, I'm on the small council."

"Oh, Lord Strong," she opened the door wider, letting him hobble in, "It is... good to make your acquaintance."

"Acquaintance indeed. But I believe we may become more than that, mayhaps even friends," he purred, taking a seat on the loveseat near the fire, "You see, I'm not a financial advisor, nor a war strategist, and not a sea-faring man. I deal in a different currency than the others on the council do. I am in the trade of secrets and information."

"Information?" Floris questioned, "... is there something you need to tell me?"

Larys smiled at her, both hands over his cane in a resting position, "I do believe that I've uncovered some... interesting knowledge about the affairs of a certain prince. Something that may interest you, considering your close proximity to such a prince, hm?"