𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

𝐢𝐢.

𝐢𝐢. | 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲

It startles him—how Aemond's mind has already begun to conjure her features, as abominable as they are soft and rigid and utterly embossed into the reaches of his mind when they're called to break fast on the morning's arrival. Aegon being nowhere in attendance.

He pushes another stray hair of his aside, silver decorating the outskirts of his ear like an altar of once-laden offerings.

He draws the first cup, begrudgingly musing over his whoremonger of a brother.

Good riddance to him.

Off to lick his wounds, Aemond surmises; although, he's not one to castigate the change when it's come so opportune in its unraveling. Better it be Aegon, always truant in his learning, and now, missing for the spread of cheese, delicate, fat-clung meats, and trencher bread to serve as the platters.

He's never been grateful for anything in his pitiful existence, has he? How could he be? Everything's served to him as if scribed in the stars.

"Ae—mond! Ae—gon!"

The twins plump themselves on their mother's lap, and Jaehaerys, the mischief-maker, articulates himself well enough through a mouthful of ground-pressed legumes.

Not like the Tyroshi, that's for certain. The way she battled to wrap her tongue around something as simple as blood—ānogar—well, one could not be faulted if they misunderstood her blethering nonsense. She could sooner be compared to a goat with that performance.

How does Cole style her, again? He's heard him on the battlements one evening, calling down to a girl with a fat face, all round-cheeked and red like an apple.

No. Red like a demon.

She-devil? Fork-tongue? Yes, he thinks, that's fitting. The horns to match.

Gods, he's jaded, surely, to ruminate on that impudent, little maid when the hour demands he pay more attention to possibly anything else. He pours the ale himself.

Bafflement, frustration, one or the other erodes his patience for the cupbearers that stand idle outside the table's periphery. They're twisted—more so wrong in the semblance they pose—quiet, calm, as though it's an ordinary morrow, yet they're more restless than he's ever seen them before. Half-lurching forward, then shuffling back into their positions as though they're to otherwise fall into a brigand's trap.

It's curious as they lack Aegon's passions to sift through, dread haunting their eyes when the prince touts a lockstep with the women. Why the dread now?

The most unusual thing admittedly surrounding this circumstance remains to be the water in place of the wine. Only a preference hosted by one person in the keep.

Queen Alicent sits beside him, bridled like a birch tree, hands affixed in prayer that none can hear amidst clang of silverware and more dishes presented in a string of impenetrable chorus as the rounds are made. He should have known. There's something aberrant about her to be causing such discontent—the red-mane called Alerah.

If the Seven parade any semblance of justice, they'd see to Aegon's absence well into the darkness. Sunrise coming victorious against Sunfyre's majestic shadow. Then dawning, and new beginnings once again. Hells, he wouldn't dispute another moon's ripening of his brother's departure. Perhaps they all need the lesson.