An Eye For A Lie

11.Our Wicked Games

"I was in the middle of something important," Aelyria muttered under her breath, as her sisters ushered her away from Clement.

She cast a fleeting glance over her shoulder to look for Aemond, but she couldn't find him.

"Important or boring? I couldn't tell," Baela shrugged, guiding Aelyria closer to the buffet table.

"Actually, very entertaining," she chuckled.

Seeing Aemond squirm in jealousy was like a delicious nectar to her lips, with a taste sweeter than it had any right to be. She reveled in this newfound power she held over him, and she wanted to prolong his torture, to draw it out slowly, drop by drop, but now the chances were lost.

"You don't need to put on a charade to scare the Lords, we already have Jace and Father for that," Rhaena propped herself against the table, taking the most utter care in the selection of her pastries.

"I'm not surprised you brought us here," Aelyria glowered. "You and your sweet tooth!"

"We nearly missed dinner thanks to your dilly-dallying, sister," Rhaena scolded with a half-serious scowl. "I wouldn't miss the sweet cakes buffet for anything in the world."

Aelyria smirked to herself, recalling all the tactics she had employed to stall her time. She even resorted to slash the laces of her boots with her dagger, hiding away the rest of them, while the maids frantically scrambled for a new replacement pair in vain.

A low and petty move, but one that had served its intended purpose.

At one certain point, Rhaenyra had decided to leave, saying that she'd await them at the banquet. Her mother's departure with a frown was a rare display of impatience towards her antics, but Rhaenyra Targaryen had never been one to arrive late—a queenly prerogative.

By the time Baela and Rhaena were ready, she had effectively killed enough time to make a dragon yawn. Now, the same blade was resting securely in the holster around her thigh, under her skirts, an extra precaution that never left her.

"She dragged me from Lady Merryweather's table to come here," Baela complained. "The gossip she was about to spit was very salacious."

"So Rhaena is ruining the fun for all of us then," Aelyria concluded.

"It's tradition to enjoy the buffet of sweets together at every feast," Rhaena stated with indifference. "And I won't break tradition."

Before Aelyria could roll her eyes at Rhaena, Baela leaned into her ear.

"Lady Merryweather claims that Lord Butterwell has pledged his undying love and intends to make a proposal for your hand," she whispered giddily, trying not to laugh out loud.

Lord Butterwell, a senile old soul with a bushy mustache that seemed to have a life of its own, was a source of amusement for many. Rumors had long circulated about the absurdities he was often spewing, complete with embellished tales of his comical adventures, some even suggesting that he once mistook a rotten watermelon for the King, and swore his allegiances to it.

Aelyria laughed heartily at the silly thought of marrying the poor old man. "A lifetime of hearing his bizarre stories would surely be entertaining."

"She also says that Lord Peake and Lord Wode wanted to invite you to a dance," Baela said with an impish smile. "But they swiftly reconsidered when Lady Merryweather tactfully reminded them that they'll have to go through Daemon Targaryen first."

"Please, I'd sooner be sent to the Wall and freeze myself to death than dance with Unwin Peake," Aelyria cringed. "And Lord Oswald Wode should stick by his house's words, 'Touch me not'."