chapter twenty-one !
deeper than blood
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ALAYNE, 134 AC
The tourney seemed to go on for eternity. Alayne sat in her seat dutifully, her fingers constantly twisting her ring. Her body was stiff, always ready to react whenever her betrothed shifted in the seat next to her.
Aemond was always moving in some shape or form. Whether it was tapping his foot against the wooden floor or turning his head to observe his surroundings, he was always on alert. But mostly, it was his hands or fingers. They would grip the armrest of his chair, or lighting rapping his fingertips to an unheard tune.
Either way, it was terribly distracting.
As a Lannister knight was escorted from the field and to the medical tent, leaving a trail of scarlet blood to match his House colors, Alayne's eyes were drawn to the last pair of knights to take the field before Aemond would join the lists.
The bright Hightower green was familiar enough, the painted shield sitting in the hands of one of the queen's nephews. But the other man across the field was clad in the armor gifted to him upon being knighted, bronze armor that Alayne knew was etched in runes.
She sat up in her seat as the Hightower knight trotted over to the royal box with his lance in hand. Every so often, a knight would approach the box and ask the favor from one of the royals. So far, a Baratheon had asked for the favor of his cousin Princess Rhaenys, a Mormont had asked for Myranda's, and the insufferable Lannister who had just been carried off the field had borne the favor of Queen Alicent.
It obviously hadn't done much for him.
"Princess Helaena, it would be a great privilege to ride with your favor," the Hightower knight asked of his cousin.
From his seat next to his wife, Aegon squirmed as he sent a glance to his brother below him. The elder prince and princess were on Aemond's right but seated next to their grandfather Otto, who sat at the king's side.
Alayne watched as Helaena uncomfortably stood, clutching her hands together as she crossed to where her favor was being kept. It was a pretty thing, red and green leaves intertwined and tied together with two cream colored plumes.
Helaena approached the railing, sliding her favor onto the lance. "Good luck to you, cousin," she murmured quietly before crossing back over to her seat.
A frown grew on Alayne's face as she noticed the exchange between Aemond and Aegon. It seemed to her that they were quite protective over their sister, which confused her greatly. If she remembered correctly, Aegon didn't care very much for a betrothal to his sister, and in fact, he'd hardly interacted with her at all during Alayne's first visit several years ago and even now. So why was he so concerned if his cousin asked for his wife's favor?
Alayne rolled her eyes. Men and their stupid, territorial whims.
But Aemond on the other hand was merely protective of his sister, which Alayne understood. Helaena was a sweet and lovely young woman, always had been, but her sensitive nature made her susceptible and almost vulnerable to an extent.
Alayne would be quite protective, too, and when Aemond slowly straightened from his leisurely lounge against the armrest of his chair—the one closest to her—she couldn't ignore the blossom of warmth that bloomed in her chest. His gaze never left his sister's form until she was back in her seat.
He must've felt her stare, for he turned his head to look at her, and Alayne quickly averted her eyes.
Strange, that Willam hadn't asked for a lady's favor.
Both knights lined up in their places as the drums began to sound, lowering their visors, and then they were off. Their horses sped down the field, kicking up sandy dirt.
Hightower's lance crashed into Willam's shield, scraping the bronzy-orange paint.
Alayne gasped, and out of instinct, she grabbed hold of Aemond's hand.
His bright violet-blue eye found hers, not harsh or cruel as it usually was, but alarmed and panicked. Alayne couldn't help but notice as his hand drifted toward the dagger on his belt, ready to strike.
He was ready to defend her if the need arose, she realized. But was it for her, or out of pure instinct?
Then she saw the familiar mold of the handle of his dagger, one that matched hers. But while hers was made of bronze and had sapphires embedded throughout its hilt, his was made of silver and was unadorned.
But now it seemed that had changed. His dagger now had the tiniest of stones scattered across the handle, glittering like stars in the light, just like hers.
Sapphires.
Aemond followed her gaze to his dagger, then glanced back up at her. "You never answered my question," he said in High Valyrian, not bothering to remove his hand from underneath hers. "Do you still carry your dagger?"
"Always," she replied, his skin's warmth seeping into her palm. Her mouth suddenly grew dry, so she wet her lips, and she could've sworn he watched the action. "I promised that I would."
"Where is it? I do not see it on your person."
Alayne's eyes filled with mischievous light. "Just because you do not see it doesn't mean it's not there."
He regarded her with a curiosity filled with such heat and intensity, she wasn't sure what to name it. "I will find it, I assure you."
She glared at him, a smirk forming on her lips, and he glanced back down at them. "I'd like to see you try."
The sound of wood splintering drew her away from her betrothed, and she removed her hand from his, sitting up in her seat. Shamefully, she'd forgotten about the tournament. She tended to forget many things when Aemond was looking at her.
Willam had emerged from the joust victorious, dismounting and offering the royal box a bow. Alayne shot to her feet and applauded with the rest of the crowd, smiling brightly as he offered her a wink.
Alayne felt Aemond's heated stare burning into her cheek, and he rose to stand next to her, the side of his arm brushing against her shoulder, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. "It seems that I will meet your cousin on the tourney field."
He'd whispered the Valyrian words into her ear, sultry and deep, and it took her breath away.
Gods, it irritated her, how he had such an affect on her body. Her mind was sharp and steady, prepared to lash out and strike at him with all the insults in her arsenal. But then their gazes locked, and her insides melted. Her heart would pound, and something molten and hot would spark deep within her belly.
So what if he was unconventionally attractive? She began to tell herself as he smirked down at her. He was still annoying and rude and godsdamned infuriating.
Alayne narrowed her eyes, nose wrinkling as she did so. "And as I said, I wish my cousin the best of luck."
His grin only widened, exposing pearly white teeth behind his lips. "I am also your cousin, my dear."
"No longer, as you are my betrothed now," she enunciated, fire burning within her.
"You mean to dismiss our blood connection so easily?"
Alayne turned to him fully, and because of their close proximity, she had to tilt her head up just to look at him. Targaryens were fairly tall thanks to their Valyrian heritage, but the Royces weren't far behind. However, it seemed that Alayne's average height came from far down the Royces' connection to the First Men.
It was strange how all of that worked.
With eyes full of fire, Alayne recalled words that were written to her long ago, words that had such an impact in her life, words that were being whispered through her instead of by her. "This is deeper than blood."
Aemond wouldn't know what they meant, the significance to her. In truth, Alayne didn't know why she said them. She had been prepared to defend herself, that family was everything to her, that she was entering a life chained to him because of blood.
But then those words escaped her lips like leaves in the wind, flowing off her tongue in Valyrian as smooth as sweet cream.
All sound drifted away, and it was as if she and Aemond were the only ones there.
A warmth spread over her left shoulder on the exact spot where her burn scar was. It wasn't the usual sting she felt every so often, but it was gentle and calming, like a hand touching her. In fact, it felt as if there was a hand resting there.
Alayne went to turn, but then Aemond quickly took her hand and bowed over it. "I shall see you after the tourney, my lady," he said in the Common Tongue, an air of obligation about him.
She nodded politely, her tightened throat preventing her from speaking as the weight on her shoulder remained.
Aemond left her, nodding to the king and queen before leaving the royal box.
Alayne turned her head to look over her left shoulder, to see who was touching her.
But no one was there.
And as she sat back down in her seat, Alayne could've sworn that there was a figure in the corner of the royal box nearest to her, a young woman with dark bronze hair, her bearing forlorn and mournful.
But as soon as she saw her, the woman disappeared. The last thing she saw were her bright, sapphire blue eyes as they filled with tears, and Alayne feared she was going mad.
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AEMOND, 134 AC
By the gods, that woman was confusing. He couldn't tell if she was insulting him or flirting with him. Either way, it was incredibly maddening. Alayne had acted so strange earlier when departing for the tournament arena, and then she kept looking at him with those eyes, disconcerting and curious.
And the way she moved her mouth was damned distracting. The way her tongue had darted between her lips and left them shiny and captivating, how she bit her bottom lip until it was plump and the darkest shade of pink. The words that left that diverting rosebud of a mouth ranged from tart to sour and spicy to sweet.
One minute, Aemond wanted to wrap his hand around her throat and push her against a wall, telling her how she was driving him crazy and to behave herself, and the next, he wanted to press his body to hers, feel her soft curves against him, and kiss her hard and thoroughly until she was squirming and begging for more.
He was so fucking close to doing just that despite the crowd around them, but then she'd whispered those words, so ethereal and glazed, she sounded like Helaena whenever she said her strange mutterings.
In the past, there were Targaryens known as dreamers. Daenys saw the Doom of Valyria twelve years before it happened, but if there were others, they must have kept them quiet, for Aemond has not heard a word of any other dreams.
But his sister, her mystical phrases weren't dreams. She often had that distant look in her eyes, yes, but Daenys' dream had been vivid and detailed. Helaena just spoke words.
Alayne was the exact same.
This is deeper than blood.
It hadn't sounded like her voice at all. It was Valyrian, but the pronunciation was off, less fluid and smooth, and Aemond would be the last to correct Valyrian pronunciation, for he was still mostly self-taught, especially after he no longer had Alayne's tutelage. In fact, she had spoken in some sort of accent, but which one, Aemond couldn't tell.
All of these thoughts raced through his mind as he went to the tent that had been prepared for him. His armor was there, and standing beside it, a squire waited to assist him. But not just any squire.
His younger brother Daeron stood inside his tent.
When his brother had arrived yesterday, Aemond had noticed that he'd let his hair grow past his ears. It wasn't as short as Aegon's, nor as long as Aemond's. Daeron had also grown taller in the past year, perhaps the same height as Aegon now, but his legs were still gangly for the boy of thirteen years.
"What do you want?" Aemond asked hotly, his mood already affected by his betrothed.
"Ser Criston said I am to squire for you. Cousin Ormund doesn't mind," Daeron said, his voice cracking mid-sentence.
Aemond started to undress, starting with the buttons of his dark green doublet. "I don't need a squire. I never needed one before. I do just fine on my own."
"But you don't have to."
His younger brother's words poked at something deep within him. Ever since his eye was taken, Aemond had gained a righteous sense of independence. No one wanted anything to do with him because of his mutilation. He couldn't blame them. The scar was ugly enough to look at, even peeking outside of the eyepatch, but when he removed it, not even he could stand to look in the mirror.
Aemond glanced over at his brother, who suddenly looked so young and eager. Daeron had been young enough when Aemond had received his plight, that he most likely didn't remember him being without it, just like Aegon and Helaena's children would always know him to be marred.
And so he nodded, a brief tilt of his chin, and allowed Daeron to dress him in his nightblack armor chased in gold.
His midnight steed was waiting for him, and when Aemond mounted, Daeron handed him his shield painted with the black and red Targaryen sigil, and then his lance. With a gentle kick to his horse's belly, he was off to the tourney field.
Aemond entered the lists, spurring his horse into a gallop as he circled the tilt, and the crowd cheered wildly when his name was announced. Oddly enough, the sound filled him with pride, for no one had ever cheered for him before, until today.
Approaching the royal box he had occupied earlier, Aemond bowed his head to his mother and father as Ser Willam approached.
The other knight had been polished and refreshed, though his shield's paint was still chipped and scratched.
Aemond leveled him with a look through the lifted visor of his helm. Willam's eyes lowered, and then he turned back to the royal box.
"Cousin Josslyn," he called out. "It would be a great honor to have your favor bestowed upon me."
It took everything within Aemond not to scoff, though he had phrased it quite eloquently.
"Of course, cousin," Lady Josslyn replied, then stood to retrieve her favor. The tiny circlet was made of brown autumn leaves with light blue flowers adorning it, followed by a white plume. She slid her favor onto Willam's lance, accompanied by bows of acknowledgement from both parties.
Aemond felt all eyes on him, like little pin pricks all over his body. It was the most uncomfortable feeling he'd ever experienced, which was why he disliked social events and feasts like these, why he limited the tourney to one day.
With a deep inhale, he announced, "My lady."
Then it was only her eyes he could see, only her eyes that mattered. The crowd died away, the cheers drifted into silence.
Alayne's blackberry depths bore down on him, and the sun peeked through the clouds, casting through her hair like a golden and bronze crown. Her dress was in her signature colors, which weren't the ones of House Targaryen, despite her name, but of the Houses Royce and Velaryon. The gown was mostly a bronzy-orange, the deepest orange of a sunset—her favorite color—with accents of a blue near the color of the sea, the same shade as a sapphire.
Aemond found his words again, asking, "Will you honor your betrothed with your favor?"
It wasn't as well-spoken or graceful as Willam's request, nor as romantic as most ladies would imagine, but it did the trick, and it was enough for him.
And it seemed to be enough for Alayne, too, for she stood and retrieved her favor.
Aemond watched it as it slid down the shaft of his lance. Brown leaves dusted with gold powder to mimic the bronze shade of her House, red and sea-green ones intertwining—like Princess Rhaenys'. All of the colors that meant something to her.
"Good fortune to you, my prince," Alayne said, steadying him with a look so intense and surprisingly heartfelt, Aemond could feel it in his bones.
He nodded, then trotted his horse to the end of the list, where Daeron was waiting for him, performing the last checks of his saddle straps and making sure his armor was secure. One final glance toward the royal box, and he saw that Alayne's hands were clutched together, no doubt twisting her ring around her finger.
Drums pounded, and when both men were ready, they took off.
Dirt sprayed against the armor on his legs, and he kept his lance level, aiming it at Willam's shield.
They collided, and wood splintered and cracked. It had been Willam's lance against Aemond's shield.
Aemond bent backward as shards flew toward his face, and he was thankful to be wearing a houndskull helm. The wood merely bounced off the metal.
While Willam took on a new lance, Aemond's was merely cracked. When Daeron motioned to exchange it, Aemond shook his head. He still wanted Alayne's favor with him when he beat Willam Royce.
Urging his horse faster, he took off toward his opponent again, ready for this to be the final joust.
His lance met Willam's shield, bursting in an explosion of splintered wood. Willam was knocked off his horse, and a gasp echoed through the crowd.
Aemond slowed his stallion, then quickly dismounted as Willam stood up, brushing stray bits of wood off him. By some miracle, he hadn't been harmed. Aemond's hand instinctively reached for the sword hanging on his belt.
But Willam didn't reach for his. Instead, he turned toward his prince and bowed. "Congratulations to you, your highness. On your victory and your impending marriage."
Willam removed his helm, then bowed toward the royal booth before walking off the field.
The victory was too swift, in Aemond's opinion. He would have expected any lover to fight for his woman. But when Aemond glanced up at the lady in question, Alayne sat in her chair with a hand over her heart, a look of relief on her face.
It wasn't the relief that he'd seen ladies express over a knight they admired romantically, but it was the same one as Lady Josslyn and Lady Myranda bore, one for a cousin or someone they saw as a brother.
And then Aemond had the sinking feeling that he'd been wrong.
Alayne loved Willam, that much was clear, but she wasn't in love with him. But then why had she never denied that fact, other than stating that it was none of his business?
It was as they'd been doing the entire time since she arrived in King's Landing. She was goading him, messing with him, testing him to see how far she could take it, how far he could last.
From underneath his helm, Aemond grinned. Two could play at that game, and thankfully, he already had an advantage in his corner, ready to be used at this precise moment.
He removed his helm, then took the back stairs leading to inside the royal box, beckoning Daeron with a jerk of his head.
His boots thudded heavily against the wooden steps, the added weight of his armor making it cumbersome to travel up the flight of stairs. But it had taken a matter of seconds for him to reach the top, taking the object from his brother, who followed closely behind him.
Aemond passed by his grandfather, his older brother and sister, his father and mother. They didn't matter now, not when he had this game to play.
Alayne stood when he approached, her gaze roaming over his disheveled hair, the sweat on his brow, the dirt dusting his black armor. And then her eyes widened ever so slightly when Aemond extended the crown of flowers in his hands.
He'd chosen orange blossoms for a reason, and had requested vanilla flowers to be added here and there. It was the scent he'd associated with her, the scent she wore because of her mother Laena.
The crown's perfume surrounded them, and Alayne sighed, her eyes briefly closing, her cheeks relaxing and growing pink.
Aemond admired the color, for it was unlike any shade he'd ever seen, slightly golden over the rosy hue.
"For my queen of love and beauty," he said softly, placing the crown atop her burnished waves, right above the circlet of braids already there. It was as if the gods knew he'd need a guide for the crown, so they had her hair plaited for him.
Alayne's breath was shaky as she inhaled, then met his gaze, dropping into a slow curtsy. "My prince," she whispered.
"My betrothed," he replied, then extended his hand to her.
She was hesitant, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. Aemond followed the movement, completely fixated on the dark flush, and for a mere second, he wondered if there was anything else that would turn her lips that color, anything he could do.
He was brought out of his thoughts when she placed her hand in his, soft and warm, calluses from dragon riding and archery brushing against similar ones of his own.
That was all Alayne had expected, he knew, for the hitch in her breath went straight down his spine as he bowed and placed his lips to the back of her hand, the crowd's cheer roaring louder than it ever had before.
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