Your only problem,
perhaps, is that you
scream without
letting yourself cry

– Friedrich Nietzsche 

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Being back in the training yard of the Red Keep was refreshing. Aemon missed the sound of training swords clanking and men yelling out to one another as they sparred. Most of all, he missed Brynden and his easy charm. The red-haired heir of Raventree Hall greeted him that mourning with the broadest grin Aemon had ever seen him sport.

It took him only two minutes to challenge him to a spar. And so most of their morning was spent hacking at each other with swords, laughing and jesting together as they'd always done. Brynden had grown a few inches taller in Aemon's absence. It greatly irked him. He'd always been the bigger of the two. But now Brynden was taller, and his shoulders had grown wider.

"You've let yourself go," Brynden said in jest as he successfully hit Aemon with his dull training sword. "Did you stop training completely when you were away on Dragonstone?" Aemon rolled his eyes and pivoted on his heels, swinging his sword in a broad arch. A loud clanking sounded as it collided with Brynden's.

"There aren't many people to train with on that dreary island." Brynden raised a brow, and his grin widened. He sidestepped to avoid another one of Aemon's swings. Then with a moment so quick that Aemon barely registered it, he lunged forward and hit him in the shoulder. Aemon cried out as pain burst through his arm, but he shook it off and tried to focus.

"Aren't there? I could've sworn there was an entire garrison stationed at Dragonstone." The exaggerated doubt made Aemon want to laugh, but he surpassed the urge and swung at Brynden again. This time, his hit landed directly on Brynden's side. He sucked in a sharp breath and clutched his ribs with one hand. Then he sent Aemon a grin and positioned himself back into a fighting stance.

"They go easy on me," Aemon admitted, parrying Brynden's hit smoothly. "It got boring quickly. The only times I bothered with a spar was when Uncle Daemon came out with Dark Sister." Testing his steel against the legendary sword of Queen Visenya had been a thrilling experience. Of course, Aemon lost miserably and gained a few painful bruises, but he enjoyed it all the same.

"And what about Visenys?" The question made Aemon still for a moment, but it was enough for Brynden to get another hit on him. With a grimace, he stepped far enough away to get a clear view of Brynden and take in his stance and form.

Brynden had asked for Visenys' favour during the Heir's Tourney. The sight of it had annoyed Aemon more than he cared to admit, but he hadn't mentioned it afterwards. Brynden loved to tease him and rile him up. It was the foundation of their friendship. The inkling feeling that Visenys harboured a crush on his closest confidant had always been there. Ever since his sister was old enough to start understanding boys, she'd made eyes at Brynden and blushed in his presence.

He'd hoped it was a measly and fleeting thing. She'd been only nine when it began, and she hadn't seen him for six months, longer still since she was still living on Dragonstone. It was very likely that she'd forgotten about whatever shallow and girlish feelings she might've had.

But for Brynden to ask him about Visenys was another thing entirely. He was older, soon to be sixteen. His sister had just recently turned eleven. The age difference wasn't that bad. The gods knew that some maidens as young as ten married men five times their age. He couldn't help the gaping pit in his stomach when he thought about Visenys and Brynden having something together. He was his friend. His closest companion, even more so than Rhaenyra.

Brynden knew things about him that almost no one else did. It was probably childish, but he didn't want to share him. Certainly not with his sister, of all people.

"What about her?" Aemon asked, schooling her voice to sound unbothered. Though he was sure some of the uncertainty still showed on his face, he tried his best to hide that too. Brynden shrugged, and it looked like he hadn't noticed the change in Aemon's demeanour.

"She told me before you left that she wanted to learn sword fighting." Thinking back, Aemon couldn't remember a time when Visenys and Brynden were alone together. His mind came to a screeching halt.

"Vis spoke to you?" He probed the topic a little deeper. He was almost too afraid to find out, but what Brynden said next soothed his nerves.

"I ran into her in the hall the day you were leaving. She wanted to say goodbye, and it seemed rude to ignore her." Brynden shrugged. "She said she wanted to convince your uncle to teach her, but obviously, that hasn't gone according to plan."

Aemon stared at him with slightly narrowed eyes before he broke into laughter. "No, I suppose it hasn't."

°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°

The sun was nearing its peak in the sky when they stopped sparring. Muscles aching and body covered in sweat, Aemon pulled himself up the stairs leading to his chambers. He cursed the many storeys of the Red Keep, his legs screaming at him with every step he took. In his exhaustion, he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. And when he turned the corner, he collided head-on with a woman.

The woman let out a cry of shock or pain. Aemon wasn't sure which. She almost fell, her hands shooting out to keep her balance. She let go of the heavy book she was carrying as she did so. A loud thud reverberated through the hall when it hit the ground.

Aemon's hand shot forward, catching the woman's forearm to keep her standing as she wobbled on her feet, ignoring the pain in his strained muscles. The pads of his fingers skimmed rich velvet.

"My Prince!" the woman cried out. A lady, no doubt. Golden jewellery glittered on her pale neck, and she did not speak with the same accent in her voice as most servants did. Her poise was one of nobility as well, with a perfectly straight back and elegantly relaxed shoulders. "I apologise for my clumsiness."

The woman curtsied, honey-brown hair spilling over her shoulders in gentle waves. When she stood again, he got a proper look at her face. He'd never seen her before, so she must've been new to the court. It made sense. She looked around his age, no more than sixteen years of age.

"The fault is mine, my lady," he said, stepping back. He leaned down and picked up the book she'd dropped. It was heavy, and the leather was worn. The golden letters on the front cover were also chipped, and he could barely make out the title. "Forgive me, but I do not know your name."

The woman gave him a dazzling smile and bowed her head again as she introduced herself. "I am Elinor Penrose, my Prince." Aemon's heart stuttered to a stop in his chest. He forced himself to keep his face neutral, even as everything inside tightened with the feeling of wrong. Elinor was a beautiful woman, of that there was no doubt. Her eyes were warm, and her smile pleasing. And yet, Aemon did not want her.

Not yet, at least. Somehow he doubted he ever would. He'd known he would be expected to marry eventually. He knew that. It was his duty as a prince, even if he was the son of the third-born son and second-born daughter. He forced himself to smile and hoped the stiffness of it wasn't too obvious.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Elinor," he said and handed her the book back. She nodded in thanks, and Aemon excused himself, biting hard on the inside of his cheek as he walked away.

°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°

That night, he sat at the table with Rhaenyra and his uncle as they ate dinner. The distance that Rhaenyra mentioned so often in her letters wasn't there between them anymore. Viserys smiled and asked about her day, and she answered gladly.

Aemon sits in silence. He doesn't know how to communicate with either of them. Not with Viserys present. The King was his uncle, but there was little familiarity between them. Lately, there has been hidden enmity between him and Aemon's father. A series of small cruelties dealt to each other, hidden behind duty and need, fueled by anger and envy. Aemon wonders if Viserys sees his youngest brother in him, if the slope of his nose and tilt of his lips looks like a painting brought to life.

He plays around with his food, not hungry enough to try and eat. The word wrong is etched into every inch of his skin, and a beast claws at his insides as he stares. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Nothing is as it should be. Lady Elinor's visage appears before him when he closes his eyes, and he feels the soft velvet of her gown still on his fingers.

There's no getting away, no matter how much he might wish it. He wishes Viserys would stop inviting him to these suppers. That way, he could at least hide in the shadows of his chambers and let his true desires swallow him whole. Instead, he sits here, fork clenched in his hand painfully tight, and he breathes shallowly through his nose to avoid any form of attention.

"Aemon," Viserys' voice jerks him from his stupor abruptly. Aemon blinks at his plate, then looks at his uncle. The man is staring at him intently, arms folded on the table and lips pulled into that casual smile he always gives his courtiers.

"Yes, your Grace?"

"Please, we are family here. There's no need for formality," Viserys says, and Aemon nods without thinking. "I would like you to attend council meetings from now on. You are old enough, I think, to start learning. Rhaenyra already does." Aemon's eyes wander shortly to Rhaenyra, and she's smiling at him, though it is a little tight and forced. "Your father served on my council. I hope he will again someday. And I hope you will one day serve on Rhaenyra's when she becomes queen."

"If it is your will, uncle," Aemon tells him. The King's word was law, and even if he was his uncle, he didn't feel confident enough to dismiss his words or refuse his desires. Viserys' smile widened, and Rhaenyra's stiffened further. "Would I be your cupbearer, then? As Rhaenyra once was?"

Almost immediately, Viserys shook his head. Once again, Aemon couldn't help but look in Rhaenyra's direction. This time, she wasn't looking back. He frowned, suddenly unsure of himself.

"You will sit on the council as my advisor. I'm sure a young mind will become useful on matters we old men do not understand." Aemon's frown deepened, and he quickly forced it to smooth over. Rhaenyra was still a cupbearer. She'd told him as such. The heir to the throne was forced into the sidelines and served wine to her father's councilmen. And he would do no such thing. No, he would be an advisor already. The distaste and anger that Rhaenyra so often described to him bloomed like rot in the pit of his belly.

"I see," Aemon answered, turning away from Viserys, suddenly unable to look at him. First Aemma, now Rhaenyra. When would his uncle's cruelty end? Was it not enough to cut open his wife so gruesomely? He now had to undermine his daughter as well. Did he not want her to succeed him? "Thank you, your Grace."

Viserys seemed satisfied with the answer. Aemon looked down at his plate and forced himself to take a bite of the roasted venison. It tasted like ash in his mouth.

°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°

The chair beneath him was uncomfortable, as were the stares of every lord in the room. Aemon did not wish to be here, but he swallowed his anger and dragged himself to the council room before he could back out. Rhaenyra stood at the far wall, arms folded behind her back and gaze pressed onto the floor. She looked as unhappy as he felt.

Despite the cold demeanour of everyone in the room – save for Lord Corlys, who seemed to be gloating – the sun heated the air to an almost uncomfortable extent. The remaining lords filtered into the room as the King stared out by the window. Lord Lyman Beesbury gave him a reassuring smile, Lord Lyonel Strong acted as if he were not there, and Grand Maester Mellos greeted him formally. Lord Corlys nodded to him from where he was already seated. And then the very last member of the council came.

The Hand of the King sauntered into the room. And behind him came his daughter. Aemon's face scrunched in confusion. Alicent looked exceedingly uncomfortable, her nails bitten and the skin around it torn to bloodiness. As the Hand sat down, she came to stand beside him, not meeting Aemon's nor Rhaenyra's questioning gazes.

Finally, the door closed, and the King turned around, walking to the table in the centre of the room. Viserys greeted the lords, then paused. Aemon was distantly aware of what was to take place that day. The King must choose a new wife. It was a common topic of interest in the Seven Kingdoms and Rhaenyra's letters.

"I have decided to take a new wife," Viserys said, and Aemon gritted his teeth. A fading flash of Queen Aemma's blood-soaked bed came to mind, and he had to force himself not to scoff and leave the room. It was the King's duty to remarry, he knew that. But did it have to be so soon? Did he truly have to do it now, only half a year since Queen Aemma died?

Lord Corlys' look of triumph glowed brightly upon his face. Viserys paused and looked in Rhaenyra's direction. Aemon tore his gaze away, focusing it on the table in front of him.

"I intend to marry," Viserys continued, and a long moment of silence followed. Aemon looked up, his eyes falling directly to Alicent on the opposite side of the table. Suddenly, it hit him. Like a knife in the back, it twisted in his skin. Burned him like tongues of fire licking across his skin. What was she doing in the room? It was a council meeting, and there was no room for the Hand's daughter here. There was only one reason. Disgust in its purest form took over Aemon, leaving him with a revolting taste of bile at the back of his neck. "I intent to marry the Lady Alicent Hightower."

The world spun, and his ears rang, and all he could do was stare at Alicent with his mouth agape. Alicent, this young and kind girl who'd been a constant friend in his life, who smiled at him and tried to comfort him in times of need, was to marry Viserys. She was so small, so slim. And Viserys was so old. Alicent's face twisted in something akin to agony, and she looked away from him towards the wall where Rhaenyra stood.

Aemon wanted to shout, scream, and protest, but no words came out. Someone was saying something, but he was too focused on Alicent and her ever-shifting expression of discomfort. Then there was shifting behind him, and loud footsteps echoed through the room as Rhaenyra fled the room. Without thinking, Aemon stood from the table as well, barely excusing himself before he took off after her.

"Rhaenyra!" he called to her, but she kept on going, breathing heavily and shoulders rising and falling so violently it must've hurt. Aemon sped up his stride, catching up to her in three long steps. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her carefully to a stop. She was still heaving for breath, and before he could react she spun around and buried her face into his chest. As her slim arms wrapped around his waist, he enveloped her in his arms as well. "I'm so sorry, Rhae."

A whimper was muffled by his chest and Rhaenyra's grip on him tightened like a vice. Aemon breathed out heavily.

"I'm so sorry."

°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°

Her son's nursery was silent save for Aella's shallow breathing. Aeron slept peacefully in his cot, chest rising and falling in a constant even rhythm. Aella's hand gripped her stomach, digging her nails into the skin as she looked down at him. A mantra of he is your son repeated in her head, but it did little to quell the anxiousness that arose from being in his presence.

She'd lost children before. Both times were painful experiences. But the stillbirth of Aeron's twin seemed to haunt her far more than her miscarriage or Daella's death did. It was him, she knew that. It was looking at the child that did live and wishing that the other had also. He is your son.

Aeron's silver-gold tuffs of hair appeared more pale in the dark, like liquid moonlight that ran through her fingers when she drifted her hand over his head gently. He is your son. He was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. Beautiful and sweet and so fragile. Guilt burned her insides. She barely held him. She couldn't bear to. It was left to Rhaegon to comfort him when he cried or the nurses when neither was present. She wondered if he even knew she was his mother.

She forced herself to even her breath again as it got shaky and squeezed her eyes shut. He is your son. If she took him into her arms right now, would she be able to overcome the overwhelming despair that came with it? She didn't think she could. Just a few more days, she kept telling herself, and then she would be able to hold him and love him without issue. Every day that passed, she was proven wrong.

Inhaling sharply, Aella spun around on her heel and walked towards the door as quickly as she could. After she closed the door quietly, careful to not wake the baby up, she all but fled to her rooms. With the silence enveloping her once more, she slid onto the settee and tried to calm her breathing. The solar connecting to her bedchambers was empty of all life except her. That's how she preferred it most times. Now, she wanted someone to hold her and tell her it would be fine.

But she couldn't go to anyone. It was late, so far past midnight that the sky was beginning to lighten outside the window. Rhaegon had long gone to sleep. And Daemon was off somewhere with Caraxes. Even if he was at Dragonstone, she wouldn't go to him. Despite her bedding him again. Guilt churned inside of her again, this time for a much different reason than with her son. What she was doing was cruel.

Everything she was doing seemed to be wrong, no matter what it was. She betrayed her husband and neglected her son, Visenys rarely stayed in her presence, and Aemon didn't even want to stay in the castle with her, leaving her to go to King's Landing. Only Viserra stayed by her side.

She knew it was natural for children to part ways with their parents. Aemon was nearing his adulthood and Visenys was discovering herself, but that didn't mean it didn't pain her. She felt so alone. Was so alone. She stayed there for hours, or it could have been minutes, looking down at her palms.

Eventually, a knock sounded on the door, and she called for the person to enter, not even realising she did so until a serving girl was approaching her, a letter in hand. With only one look, Aella recognized the seahorse seal of Corlys Velaryon. It had been so long since her good-brother had written to her. She took the letter from the servant's hands and sent her on her way.

When she broke the seal and read the words written in quick and somewhat lazy handwriting, she darted immediately to her dragon. 

Because Corlys was going to war.

Author's Note

I'm considering changing the ending of this book and OH BOY let me tell you it will be pain