Salvation | HOTD

11

Aemond reclined upon the Iron Throne, his eyes fixed on the vaulted ceiling high above. One hand cradled his head, while the other clenched the arm of the throne with a sense of authority.

The imposing doors swung open, interrupting Aemond's reverie. His gaze shifted to the entrance, his expression expectant.

At the threshold stood Garin Sand, his presence commanding attention as he strode confidently into the throne room. His eyes met Aemond's, a silent acknowledgment passing between them before Garin approached the throne, his movements calculated and deliberate.

"Garin," Aemond greeted, his voice echoing in the grand hall. "You arrived faster than I expected."

"Hmm," Garin started, "And here I thought you were waiting for me, your Grace. But really, you just like sitting on those swords for fun."

Aemond looked at him through lowered lids, "With the amount of blood I had shed to get this throne, I should be able to sit on it whenever I want. Do you not agree?"

Garin bowed deeply at the waist, his movements fluid and practiced. "It suits you well, your Grace," he remarked, his tone respectful.

Aemond regarded him with a piercing gaze before leaning forward, his voice edged with suspicion. "The Hightowers sent you to watch me?" he inquired, his tone betraying a hint of irritation.

"Not you, your Grace," Garin replied calmly, straightening his posture. He adjusted his dark attire with a casual brush of his hand. "The Princess of Dragonstone."

Aemond's hand clenched involuntarily, a sudden sting drawing his attention downward. He noticed a thin trail of blood trickling down his wrist, a result of his tightened grip.

"Why?" Aemond demanded, his voice laced with frustration.

Garin's grin widened slightly as he met Aemond's gaze. "Your announcement to be wed. Your mother was not very happy," he explained casually.

Aemond rose to his feet, his eyes flashing with fury. "My mother is dead!" he snapped.

Garin's expression remained unchanged as he met Aemond's wrathful glare. "Perhaps to you," he countered smoothly.

Aemond's jaw clenched tightly, his frustration boiling beneath the surface. He paced the length of the throne room, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. The revelation that the Hightowers had sent Garin to spy on Princess Aemma only added fuel to the fire of his anger.

"Why should they care about her?" Aemond muttered to himself, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and resentment. He turned to face Garin, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What do they hope to gain from watching her?"

"Your mother opposes your marriage to Rhaenyra Targaryen's daughter, the last of her bloodline," Garin stated plainly.

Aemond's eyes narrowed with understanding. "You're not here to monitor her, but to eliminate her," he concluded grimly.

Garin remained composed, adjusting an invisible speck of dust from his attire before meeting Aemond's gaze. "There will be no need for such drastic measures if you choose not to wed her," he replied calmly.

"I could have you executed for speaking treason against your king," Aemond threatened.

"But you won't," Garin replied confidently.

Aemond's expression softened slightly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "It's good to have you back. I appreciate your warning," he acknowledged.

Garin nodded respectfully. "Your mother wishes to return here," he informed Aemond.

"No," Aemond responded abruptly, his voice betraying a hint of distress. "I cannot... I cannot bear to see her."

He had once idolized the late queen. But after the war, all he could see in her face was his deceased sister's visage, much like when he looked at Aemma.

Sometimes he swore her could see her ghost in her blue dress and long white hair from the corner of his eye.

"Garin, our past in the brothels matters not. If you so much as glance in the direction of the Princess, I'll have your head mounted on the Keep's door as a warning."

Garin's grin widened. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he quipped.

Aemond's brow furrowed. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded.

Garin's smile faltered, and he paused. "May I speak frankly, Your Grace?" he asked cautiously. Aemond narrowed his eyes but nodded. "You're not renowned for your kindness and mercy. People expect brutality from you."

Aemond scoffed dismissively and waved his hand.

Deep down, Aemond knew Garin's words held a different meaning. He believed that if Garin failed in his mission here, the Hightowers would hunt him down relentlessly, like moths drawn to a flame.

Out of all the ambitious, power-hungry lords and ladies, his mother was the only one he ever respected.

"I will marry no one but Princess Aemma," Aemond declared firmly.

Just uttering her name made his chest tighten. Despite his years of resentment towards her, he realized she was all he had left—his only family. Without her, he would be the last Targaryen, with no heir to carry on his name.

Until he had a son of his own, he was willing to accept Aemma as his heir. As long as a Targaryen remained on the throne, even after his time had passed, he would be content.

"I've revealed this to you out of loyalty, Your Grace," Garin continued, his voice tinged with concern. "If you truly desire to marry the Princess, we'll make it happen. By force, if necessary. But perhaps... there's another way."

Aemond's gaze snapped towards Garin. "And what way is that?"

"We could make her love you," Garin suggested, his tone laced with cunning.

"How?" Aemond inquired, intrigued.

"By giving her something worth living for," Garin proposed. "Then, when she's at her happiest..."

Aemond's mind raced with possibilities. Perhaps hiring a mercenary to infiltrate her chambers...

"You will be her king and her champion," Garin proposed. "What more could a princess desire?"

It was a plan that seemed flawless.