Chapter Text
Arianwyn had never craved violence. When she tackled Rhaena all those years ago, all she wanted was to save Aemond. When she stabbed Daemon only the night before, it had been in a desperate attempt to save her own life. But now, as she frantically ran through the halls of the Red Keep in an ill-fitting dress borrowed from the Queen, with a fur stole covering her neck, she wanted nothing more than to feel her father’s blood running through her fingers.
If he had done anything to hurt Brynna, she… she did not know what she would do. Claw at his face, perhaps. Or rip every hair from his head. Gouge out his eyes. Take his sword and cut him in two, as he had done to Vaemond Velaryon. Command Emrys, the dragon he had once tried to keep from her, to burn him alive.
Or maybe she would simply unleash Aemond upon him.
From the murderous glint in her husband’s eye and the hard set of his jaw, she knew that was the cruelest thing she could do. He would make him suffer for what he had done to her. By the time Daemon finally breathed his last, perhaps some tiny modicum of justice would have been served.
Arianwyn was torn from her fantasy of revenge when she rounded a corner and nearly slammed into Aemond’s back. She could not see why he had stopped, only that his hand was on the hilt of his sword, ready to defend his new wife.
The four Bronze Guard that had followed them from their chambers drew their blades, two moving forward to flank Aemond.
“Stand down. All of you,” Alicent commanded, laying a soothing hand on Aemond’s shoulder as she stepped around him.
Though Aemond did not release his weapon, he did step aside, allowing Arianwyn to see Larys Strong standing before them.
Leaning heavily on his cane, the clubfooted Lord of Harrenhal looked over the harried group with a grimace. Though his face was set in pity and sadness, it did not reach his eyes. “I am afraid your presence is urgently required in the Great Hall, Your Grace. Prince Daemon claims he has been attacked and is demanding a trial immediately.”
“A trial?” Arianwyn asked, trapped somewhere between fear and hope. A trial meant that his attacker was alive, for a corpse could not face judgment.
Larys’ dull eyes locked onto her face. “He has brought the accused – your long-serving maid, Brynna Taler – before the Hand and the Small Council. The guards are presently attempting to disperse the crowd his… theatrics have attracted.”
“Has he hurt her?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from breaking with terror.
Flicking his eyes to Aemond and the sword on the prince’s hip, Larys replied with careful diction, “Not fatally, my Lady.”
But the words offered no comfort. That Daemon had laid even a finger upon her was enough to set her tears flowing and a sob ripping from her wounded throat.
That single cry was more than enough for Aemond. He growled, drawing his blade as he pushed past the Lord Confessor. Alicent followed him, shouting futilely for him to remain calm, with Aria not far behind.
Aemond could hardly see the path in front of him for the bloodlust surging through his veins. The fearful stares of courtiers and servants alike as he stalked through the halls of the keep were as inconsequential to him as rats in the gutter.
However, the words they whispered as they approached the Throne Room echoed through his mind.
“Do you think he did it?”
“Of course not! He has only done what we have always expected.”
“It’s only that she’s been on Dragonstone that it hasn’t happened sooner.”
“That is precisely what I mean! He’s been stewing in anger for all these years.”
“Perhaps since he could not have Prince Lucerys’ eye, he took her instead.”
“She may have loved him once, but that was when they were young, and he had no scar.”
“Would you want that sharing your bed?”
“Gods, just look at him. Not even Maegor looked such a villain.”
“He did it. Of that, I have no doubt.”
Aemond would not react. He would not give them that satisfaction.
He knew what he looked like. They had been so rushed to find Brynna that he’d only thrown on his trousers and loose tunic from the day before, leaving his hair untied and his eye – his scar – bared for all to see. He was disheveled, to say the least. And with his scar on display and his sword drawn…
Several ladies looked away in horror, and Aemond knew why – he appeared every bit the monster they all thought him to be.
A flash of Aria’s soft smile when she looked upon his marred face for the first time crossed his vision. You are gorgeous, Aemond. So painfully gorgeous that I cannot stand it.
Yet he could not help but grip his sword tighter, until the skin of his knuckles ached with the effort. He could not stop his scar from burning or the skin surrounding it from twitching. Nor could he stop his stomach from roiling, for despite Aria’s ardent insistence in his continued beauty, he knew that the whispers were true.
To all but his wife, he was hideous – nothing more than a villain and monster.
His despair only deepened when he approached the Great Hall and heard Daemon’s voice carrying beyond the heavily guarded doors and throughout the corridors for all those gathered nearby pretending not to be eavesdropping to hear.
“Arianwyn was distraught,” he boomed, voice wavering with fabricated despair. “It is no wonder why. From the moment we arrived, Prince Aemond never once relented in trying to molest her before our very eyes – ”
Whatever he said next was drowned out by the startled murmurings of the crowd as the One-Eyed Prince, the aspiring molester himself, stormed through their ranks to the still-closed doors, Daemon’s ‘distraught’ daughter close behind. With the steel of his drawn blade flashing in the morning light, they parted for him like stalks of wheat to a raging bull.
Aemond did not wait for the stewards or guards to open the doors, pulling them open himself without a care for their monstrous weight nor their thunderous sound as they again shut behind his wife, mother, and the two Bronze Guard that had followed them in.
The Hand stood before the Iron Throne, the other members of the Small Council and Septon Eustace just below the steps. Rhaenyra and her firstborn bastard stood to the right of the Throne, haughty and presumptuous as ever. A smattering of men from the Kingsguard and various household guards were scattered throughout the hall, eyes darting between each member of the royal family.
Curiously, Helaena was also present. Not truly paying attention, simply standing beneath the column bearing the likeness of Aegon the Conqueror. She gazed out the Eastern windows and watched the rising sun, nothing in her serene face to indicate that she was at all listening to what happened around her.
And Daemon.
Cruel Daemon. Hateful Daemon. Villainous Daemon.
Daemon, who had abandoned Aria before she was even born. Who ignored her for a decade while she had to wonder why she was unworthy of his attention and love. Who had broken her heart the very first time she met him by laughing at her at that damned funeral and saying whatever it was he’d said to her afterward to make her grow up in the span of only a few hours.
Daemon, who had torn them apart when Aemond needed her most. Who had confined her to that horrible island and locked her in that tower. Who had threatened to kill her simply for reuniting with Aemond. Who had nearly followed through on that threat only hours ago, when his hands had left bruises on Aria’s neck.
Daemon, whom Aemond swore he would kill, stood halfway between the dais and the doors, no doubt so his raised voice would carry to the gossipmongers.
Before he could continue his tale, however, the bastard Jacaerys burst from his place by his mother’s side, drawing his own sword and pointing it toward Aemond’s chest.
“Release my sister!” he demanded, despite the fact that Aemond was plainly not holding her hostage.
“I am not your sister!” Aria yelled back.
Aemond said nothing. However, he allowed himself a proud smirk as he raised his own blade in reply.
How dare Jacaerys call her ‘sister?’ What little blood they shared was thin and tainted by his bastard birth. Perhaps if he had been more than Aegon’s boorish toady in their youth or been kinder to Aria on Dragonstone, Aemond would not now be so eager for this fight.
Tilting his head in a silent dare for Jacaerys to make the first move, Aemond could not help but wonder whether the Curse of the Kinslayer applied to bastard nephews.
“Brynna!”
Arianwyn abandoned all her fears and good senses the moment she saw her beloved maid kneeling at the dais steps, pushing past the queen and Aemond. He had reached his offhand out to stop her, but she brushed it aside.
“Take my hand, Arianwyn,” Jace whispered as she passed him.
She did not give him the courtesy of a reply or even a glance at his pleading face.
Daemon glared as she approached, but she did not face him either.
At the base of the Iron Throne, she tripped over the too-long skirts of Alicent’s dress, falling to her knees. She cried without cease as she took in the woman’s wretched state. “Brynna, I’m so sorry.”
A large purple bruise covered most of her face, from her split brow to her bleeding lip. Her nose was broken, still marked with a dried river of blood.
But the worst of it was her hands. Her lithe, nimble hands that had crafted some of the finest dresses in the history of the Seven Kingdoms – including the dress that had become Arianwyn’s wedding gown.
Shattered.
Each finger bent and twisted like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree. The skin was so red and bruised that Arianwyn could hardly see the countless cuts marking where she had been struck over and over and over again.
Arianwyn knew that while it was not by her own hand, she had done this. By angering her father, by stabbing him. The moment she married Aemond, she made everyone she loved a target for Daemon’s wrath, and he wasted no time claiming his first victim.
“Oh, gods!” She cried, dropping her head to Brynna’s lap as she had not done in years. But she did not care that she was too old to cling to her maid. She just needed her close. As close as possible. “This is all my fault! I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”
Brynna shushed her, but her sobs soon joined Arianwyn’s. She attempted to wrap her arms around her young charge, only getting so far as to rest her forearms on her shoulders.
“It is not your fault,” Brynna whispered, voice hoarse and broken.
Arianwyn did not believe her.
She would beg and beg for forgiveness until her voice gave out. Until her knees bled from kneeling, and her eyes were dry of tears. She would beg until the Mother herself appeared to offer her mercy or until the Stranger took her away – though to the heavens or the hells, she did not know.
Aemond looked from his wife to Daemon and raised his sword level with the villain’s heart as he strode past Jacaerys. The bastard moved to stop him but was pulled back by his mother.
It was Daemon who had done this. He had hurt his wife’s greatest friend. He had made Aria cry. And he would pay for it.
But Daemon paid him no attention. Rather, he sighed and, with an expression of relief to rival the worst mummers in King’s Landing, took a single step toward his daughter. “Aria!” he cried, “How relieved I am to see you unharmed!”
Aria lifted her head from Brynna’s lap to stare at her father, her mouth dropping open as her brows scrunched. Another tear fell down her flushed cheek, and Aemond’s rage burst into a wildfire within him, lashes of hot pain licking at his scar.
She had been harmed, and he was the one who had done it.
“Stay away from my wife,” Aemond growled, circling his new father-by-law until he stood protectively between him and Aria. He could feel his anger hot on his breath and could swear he heard Vhagar roaring in the distance.
“Was it not enough for you to steal my dear Laena’s dragon?” Daemon asked, brow crumpled with false heartache and a voice loud enough to carry beyond the doors. “Now, you must take my firstborn, as well?”
“I have stolen nothing,” Aemond hissed, angling the point of his sword to Daemon’s neck. All it would take was one motion, one cut, and the Rogue Prince would never harm Aria again. “Can you say the same, uncle?”
“Put down your swords!” Otto bellowed from the throne. “There will be no more blood spilled in this hall!”
‘Swords?’ Who – ah. A quick glance revealed that Ser Warren and a man in bronze Aemond had never met stood behind him, scowling while sheathing their swords. But Aemond did not move, save for a twitch of the muscle in his jaw.
Gods, his scar was blazing. It had not hurt like this since the night it was given to him.
“Despite that pin on your breast, Otto, you have no right to rule in this. It is a family matter,” Daemon spat, dropping his besieged father act.
Otto did not yield an inch, speaking with all the authority of the Iron Throne. “Indeed. Concerning my grandson and his new wife. And seeing as how, in his absence, I speak with the voice of the King – your brother and Prince Aemond’s father –I have every right to rule on this family matter. Don’t you agree, Lord Wylde?”
The Master of Laws startled when his name was called, but he quickly collected himself and answered, “Yes, my Lord Hand.”
The only hint of Otto’s smugness was the nearly imperceptible twitch of a smile on his lips. “With that matter settled, we can begin. Prince Aemond, I will not repeat myself again. Put. Down. Your. Sword.”
Against all instinct and every nerve in his body, Aemond obeyed. Though he did not sheath the blade nor move away from his wife.
Arianwyn’s tears began anew when Brynna nudged her shoulders, pushing away from her. Was she angry for causing Daemon to hurt her? Or had she inadvertently agitated the wounds he gave her?
Brynna shushed her before she could give voice to either question, her hands coming to cup Arianwyn’s cheeks before she pulled away. “Oh, my Aria. You mustn’t cry. Not now. Not for me.”
“But it’s my fault,” Arianwyn whined.
“No!” Again, she moved to cradle her lady’s head, and again, she pulled back. “It is Daemon’s fault and his alone.”
“But–”
“Hush!” She glanced at the two Bronze Guard who flanked Aemond as they sheathed their swords, then over Arianwyn’s shoulder. “You must be strong now. Can you do that? For me?”
Arianwyn ducked her chin and shook her head, and Brynna finally took hold of her, forcing her eyes to meet hers. Against the purple of her bruises, her brown eyes appeared nearly black. “Start with standing, eh? Come, we’ll both do it. We can help each other.”
Careful to mind the wounds on Brynna’s hands, Arianwyn grasped her elbows as she fought her shaking legs to steady and rise.
She stumbled, and Brynna caught her.
Then Brynna stumbled, and Arianwyn caught her.
They at last found their footing just as Aemond lowered, but did not sheathe, his sword.
The Hand sighed, gesturing to Brynna. “Grand Maester, for the love of the gods, will you please tend to this poor woman?”
Daemon seethed. “That ‘poor woman’ has attacked a Prince of the Realm!”
“I have not!” Brynna shouted.
“She did not!” Arianwyn yelled with such a cold fury that she was sure she bore icy claws. Emrys’ howling echoed through her mind as she pulled away from her maid, only enough to allow Orwyle the access he needed to assess her wounds.
Orwyle examined Brynna quickly, then looked back to Arianwyn and gave a slight, reassuring smile. The same he had given her when he declared that Aemond would survive the loss of his eye. But her heart was hollow, and she could not return the gesture.
Brynna would not recover if she were soon executed.
Once satisfied that Brynna’s wounds were being tended to, Otto lowered himself upon the Iron Throne. “Prince Daemon,” he said, “If you are quite finished with your performance, the Crown will now hear your accusation.”
Daemon bit the inside of his cheek, scowling before he once again painted his face with fatherly concern. “After our family meal last night, I went to check in on Aria. She had been so upset when she left, after seeing her dear brother attacked by none other than the man who had treated her with such vulgarity all evening.”
Arianwyn looked to Aemond, begging with wet eyes for him to speak in his defense. But he only glared at Daemon, hatred painted on every inch of his face. Hatred so bright that, for a moment, it seemed a flame danced within his sapphire.
Unchallenged, Daemon continued. “When I reached her rooms, this woman,” he pointed at Brynna as he spoke, drawing attention to her, “was at the door. She would not allow me entry to my own daughter’s chambers.
“First, she told me that Aria was unwell. Then, that she was asleep. When she had run out of excuses, I demanded she stand aside to let me through. But she would not. So, I went to push past her. That is when she took her shears and did this.” He tossed the bloodstained iron shears to the floor and tore off the linen wrapping around his right hand before raising it above his head for all to see.
The comforting thought of spilling his uncle’s blood was the only thing distracting Aemond from the pain searing through his very skull. Until he revealed his wound, and then his heart flooded with dark pride.
A large gash was visible in the space between his thumb and forefinger. As Daemon turned to present his hand to those behind him, Aemond was gratified to see the wound was wide enough for sunlight to shine through the hole. When this was over, he would have to congratulate his wife on a job well done.
“I, of course, was able to subdue her even with the wound, and she quickly revealed the sinister scheme.” Daemon grinned at Aemond as he went on, “The prince here paid her quite handsomely to sneak him into our guest quarters, that he might steal her away for his own. He forced Septon Eustace to wed them. And then, I imagine, he raped her so the marriage could not be dissolved on account of a failed consummation.”
“Lies,” Aemond hissed. But Daemon’s eyes were not on him but on his grandsire.
“An interesting story, my prince,” Otto said, not a hint of emotion in his voice. “Though I am afraid I find myself with several questions regarding its details.”
Daemon scowled, unable to hide his disdain for the man. “And what, pray tell, are your questions?”
“I think we should start at the beginning, don’t you? With Prince Aemond’s behavior at dinner.” Otto raised an eyebrow, the only hint of his confidence. “You see, my prince, I was seated closer to him and Arianwyn than you were, and yet I saw no such evidence of molestation, attempted or otherwise.”
When Daemon opened his mouth to counter him, the Hand continued, “Though I may be mistaken. Perhaps we should ask the Princess Helaena, who was herself seated at Arianwyn’s side, what she saw?”
Daemon scowled but did not object.
“My sweet girl,” Alicent said from where she now stood with her daughter. “can you tell us what you saw between Aemond and Arianwyn at dinner last night?”
Helaena, emerging from her haze, glanced between her brother and his wife. “I saw love, gentle and true. As it has always been.” The princess smiled proudly for a moment, but it faded as a shadow passed over her eyes. “Shattered glass,” she murmured, “Silver shards sharper than a broken blade.”
Not even Daemon had a clever answer for the seemingly meaningless words.
In the silence that followed Helaena’s declaration, Arianwyn looked closely at her cousin as the fog cleared from her lilac eyes. At the dinner, she had said something about a cloak – a white cloak – in the moonlight. Had she somehow known?
Otto gave a soft thanks to his granddaughter, who then turned and simply left the Throne Room, before turning back to his rival. “But these are the small details of your tale, Prince Daemon. Indeed, they may be crucial to its veracity, but whether or not a lady was molested can be quite easily mistaken by even the most perceptive among us.”
Lord Wylde failed to conceal his chuckle.
“Let us focus instead on the larger picture,” Otto said. “For that, it seems we are missing the most important testimony. Lady Arianwyn?” He tipped his chin to her, and she was surprised to find reassurance in the gesture. “Please tell us what happened – but speak only the truth.”
The words echoed those that she heard once before, long ago, and brought Arianwyn back to the Throne Room on Driftmark. She was kneeling at Aemond’s side, pressing kisses to his trembling hand only moments after his eye was taken. She could feel Rhaena’s nails scratching her skin, the heat of Aemond’s fresh blood flowing through her fingers, and her aching chest wheezing for breath. She was drowning in desperation as she begged the king to believe her tale.
How had it come to this again?
“Aemond has done nothing untoward,” she declared, though her voice wavered. “Nor has Brynna. But the prince and I are indeed wed, and our union has been consummated – willingly.” She took a moment to steady herself and stepped towards Aemond, lacing her fingers through his. He startled at the touch, for she had approached him from the left. But he relaxed only a heartbeat later, finally sheathing his sword.
“Septon Eustace can attest to the veracity of the marriage,” she said, looking only at her husband. “My household guard, Grand Maester Orwyle, and Ser Criston Cole all bore witness. Orwyle is welcome to inspect our bedchamber to confirm the consummation.”
When Daemon scoffed, Otto held up a hand to silence him. The prince looked for a moment as though he might argue, but he was pulled back by his wife taking his hand. Rhaenyra gave him a stern look, whispered something in his ear, and he stilled.
“My dear, why wed in such haste? And in near complete secrecy?” Otto asked.
Arianwyn considered her words carefully. She knew Otto wanted her to tell the court everything – but he could not possibly know what he was asking.
With Brynna hurt and her marriage so publicly questioned, she dared not invoke more of Daemon’s wrath. Someday, he would pay for his crimes. But today, all Arianwyn wanted was to free her maid and remain by her husband’s side.
Vengence could come later.
“Aemond and I have been in love these many long years, even when separated,” she said. The truth, even if she had only just learned it. “We did not want to wait any longer for our families to negotiate a marriage contract or allow them to promise us to anyone else.”
That was a lie. But judging by the faces of the Small Council, it was at least a good one.
“I apologize for any pain our impatience has caused,” Arianwyn continued, inclining her head toward Alicent. “We have deprived our family of seeing us wed and all the celebration that comes with it. We married out of love, my Lord Hand. There is no more to say than that.”
The Hand again smiled at her, “Thank you, Arianwyn.”
She began to curtsy, but Aemond held her still. “You are wife to a prince,” he murmured, “You need not bow to him anymore.”
“Eustace,” Otto said, facing the man, “You performed the marriage?”
The Septon nodded. “I did, my Lord Hand.”
“And did the Lady Arianwyn show any reticence during the ceremony? Did she appear nervous or afraid?”
“No, my Lord Hand,” Eustace replied. “She was as happy as any bride I have ever seen. Happier, perhaps.”
Arianwyn blushed, squeezing Aemond’s hand. He tensed, then returned the gesture.
“Grand Maester,” Otto now plainly smiled as he turned to Orwyle, “can you indeed confirm the consummation?”
“I can do so now, if you think it necessary, my Lord Hand.”
“Thank you, but there is no need for haste. Can anyone else attest to the veracity of the marriage? Were there witnesses?”
Arianwyn’s heart soared as Sers Warren, Rolan, and Criston answered.
“Yes, lord.”
“Me, my lord.
“I would swear my sword to it.”
“I thank you, Sers, but I wager that will not be necessary.” Otto finally smiled as he swept his eyes past Arianwyn to his grandson. “Prince Aemond, is there anything you should like to say to the court?”
Aemond finally tore his eye away from Daemon, gaze softening as he looked upon Aria’s beautiful, hopeful face.
There was much he wanted to say.
He wanted to tell the whole court – the whole world – of Daemon’s crimes. He wanted to see him arrested and face the Father’s justice. And when he was executed, he wanted to be the one to swing the sword.
But Aria saw it all on his face, every sinful thought he had. She pulled him towards her, wrapping her hand around his wrist, and shook her head.
“No,” Aemond sighed. “Only that everything my wife has said is the truth.”
The Hand turned back to Daemon, “Well, my prince. It seems that the matter is settled. But there is still the question of your wound. Would you care to offer another explanation as to how you were injured?”
The Rogue Prince was practically steaming with rage. The sight awoke sinister pleasure within Aemond’s heart. He was about to retort, to mock his failure, when Aria released his hand.
She said nothing but pulled slightly on the end of the fur stole she wore so it fell just enough to expose her bruises, now clearly in the shape of a hand, but only to Daemon, his wife, and her bastard son.
Jacaerys gaped, looking as if he might cry. Rhaenyra looked shocked for a moment, then hissed something in Daemon’s ear as his face went as red as their house's sigil. Another hiss and he visibly forced the appearance of composure.
“No,” he bit out. “Seems it was an accident.”
Aria laughed – a light, blithe chuckle – wholly out of place at such a solemn occasion. But to Aemond, there was no sound more beautiful.
His wife may have silver eyes, but she was undoubtedly a dragon.
On the Iron Throne, Otto grinned. “An accident? What sort of accident?”
Daemon only sneered before Rhaenyra stepped in front of him, cutting off whatever biting remark he surely had planned.
“I think we have heard more than enough,” she said, the same forced diplomacy in her voice as the night before. “I suggest, my Lord Hand, that we dismiss this matter entirely as the unfortunate result of a father’s desire to protect his daughter and an excess of wine at dinner.”
Otto nodded, content in his victory.
“Grand Maester Orwyle,” he commanded, “please take the lady Brynna to your tower and give her your greatest care. Dear lady, you have the sincere apology of the Crown, as well as my assurance that you will be compensated for your troubles.”
“Thank you, my Lord Hand.” With the aid of the Maester, Brynna stood and curtseyed. Then, as she was led out of the Throne Room, she flashed a quick grin at Aria, who slumped against Aemond in relief.
Wrapping an arm around her waist to support her, he used his free hand to fasten the stole once more. He let his fingers linger on her throat, focused on the feel of her pulse slowing, the pain in his face fading with each beat of her heart.
The moment the doors – those on the side of the hall, to avoid the crowd – closed behind Orwyle and Brynna, Rhaenyra stepped forward. “My Queen, my Lord Hand. I thank you for your hospitality. But I think it time we take our leave.”
“We hope to see you again soon, Princess,” Alicent replied.
Otto leaned forward. “If you would stay just a moment, we may announce the marriage to the court.” He gave a gesture to a guard to open the main doors once more. “After all, Lady Arianwyn is your firstborn.”
The crowd poured into the Throne Room before either Daemon or Rhaenyra could argue against it.
Aemond took a moment to savor the look of defeat on Daemon’s face and vowed that he would see it again.
On the day he killed him.