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The smell of incense came pouring out the open doors of the Great Sept, filling the air with spicy earth and fresh citrus. Stone masons ceased their carving and bowed their heads. Naerys offered them a soft smile as she passed. Her hand lay gently on Aemon's armored arm, her grip tightening slightly as they climbed the stairs. Aemon held his arm firm for her.
The Hall of Lamps was aglow with color. Sat high in the sky, the sun shone perfectly through the yet finished dome and lit up the myriad of glass lamps strung up. Naerys turned her head left and right, drinking in the way the light and color bounced around. She wiggled her fingers through a beam, her lips curled in a thoughtless smile. Bathed in rainbows, she was the very image of an angel. Aemon could not have torn his eyes away even if the Father Above came down and ordered him to turn away.
The hall opened into the cavernous sept proper. Scaffolding stretched across the roof and supported the dome. Doves as pale as snow sat on the wooden rafters, cooing and fluttering about. Acolytes knelt by buckets of water scrubbing the birds' droppings from the polished marble. Few others milled about. A mother and a daughter knelt before the Warrior, their freshly lit candles making the flecks in the statue's red marble flash. A number of septas whispered prayers before the Maiden. A young girl knelt before them, her dark hair flowing down her back. A septa pushed her head down, quietly chiding the child for lacking proper deference.
Naerys stopped in front of the towering form of the Mother. All around her feet, candles burned and perfumed the air with the scent of sweet flowers and beeswax. The seven-pointed star Naerys always wore around her neck received a kiss. A long stick wiggled in her hand as the queen knelt and lit a candle of her own, her slender hand arching delicately over flames dancing below. She bowed her head, lips pressed against her folded hands.
The heavy silks of her gown pooled around her. Brocaded red dragons spit flames over a field of a black so deep, one could see their reflection in its sheen. Her tippet sleeves were edged with cloth-of-gold, embroidered with High Valyrian script. The red sleeves of her under kirtle were embroidered with black thread in the appearance of dragonscale. Her silk veil was neatly folded and pinned. The gold daffodil brooches Aemon gifted her sat over her temples, keeping her wimple in place. The grip he had on the pommel of Darksister tightened. A septon eyed him suspiciously.
When she turned her face to him, it took all his strength not to fall to his knees. Her large, violet eyes froze him in place. No matter how many hours he spent gazing into their depths, they never ceased pulling him under her spell. Distantly, he was aware her lips were moving. She was saying something to him, yet he heard not a sound. It wasn't until her face lit up in a titter that he snapped back to his senses.
"What?" he stuttered.
Naerys pressed her fingers to her lips and suppressed another bought of laughter. "I asked you kindly to come pray with me, ser. Do not force me to make it an order."
Aemon ducked his head to control his own smile. "Nary a need, Your Grace. 'Twould be my honor to pray beside you." He shifted his sword belt then knelt. Naerys handed him the candle lighter. Another flame yawned to life between them. Aemon took Naerys's offered hand, delicate and light enough in his own he worried about hurting her. She always laughed off his anxious fretting. The pair felt their cheeks warm. While Naerys had the benefit of a veil to shield her blush, Aemon's red ears were open for all to see.
Soft murmurs and the shuffle of feet were all the sounds in the sept. Smoke from censers poured out in thick clouds, stretching and dissipating before reaching the ground. Candlelight reflected off the polished statues and sunlight turned to beams of red and green and blue through the numerous crystals swaying in the breeze all around them.
Aemon remained as motionless as he could, afraid to break the holy stillness with the clinking of his armor. Although he kept it well-oiled, there was little he could do about the very nature of metal-on-metal. Beside him, Naerys beseeched the Mother to protect her two children, Daeron and Daenerys. The girl was still but a babe in arms, and Naerys fretted over her so. Even as she lay weak and dying, her thoughts were only for the young girl. Aemon recalled stewing in boiling rage as he stood in the Throne Room while his brother continued on as if his wife lay not but a breath away from death. Forcing himself to endure listening to his japes and boisterous laughter was a test in discipline.
Bells tinkled, announcing the procession of septons and septas making their way into the sept through the halls that spidered beyond the great cavernous room. Dressed in pure white, they set to restoring the benches and offering baskets for a new service.
Aemon sighed. "We best say a prayer for the king before we part." Naerys hummed in agreement. The thought of lighting a candle and asking for the gods to keep his brother well always brought a sour look to Aemon's face. Guilt twisted his gut, of course, yet he could not bring himself to feel anything but disdain. There were a number of men who deserved the Father's final judgment more than the mercy or protection of any other aspects, and Aegon was certainly among the top. "To whom shall we entreat?"
A thoughtful look came over Naerys. Her eyes were trained on the Mother's kind face. Silence stretched between them. Finally, Naerys said, "To whom else but one whose intervention would bring peace to the Realm?" Aemon quirked an eyebrow. "The Stranger."
Wide-eyed, Aemon looked over his shoulder. If anyone heard the queen, none made it known. His heart thudded against his chest. Beloved though she was by some, it was foolish to think she didn't have enemies who would rejoice to see her downfall. “Naerys…”
“Oh?” She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “What happened to ‘Your Grace’?” There was a playful curve to her lip.
The chuckles, themselves, were silent, but the way his body shook made the plates of his armor clink against each other. A septa threw them a tight-lipped glare. Naerys pressed her hands together in apology. She placed her hand over his and shushed him, though her own giggles made her voice shake.
Smallfolk climbed up the steps to the Great Sept for the hour’s service, some pausing to brush their hands over the feet of the statue of Baelor. They came to Naerys as soon as they noticed her, reaching out to touch her gown or asking for her blessing. She smiled at them all, returning their touches and offering her well-wishes and prayers. Golden dragons found their way into the hands of many. Tears streamed down the faces of tired mothers, thanking the queen for feeding their children.
Aemon parted the crowds with an outstretched arm and gentle words. Hands brushed over the queen, a crowd of voices mutterings a thousand things.
Standing at the bottom holding the reins of three white geldings was Ser Terrence. He held Naerys's horse steady while Aemon helped her into her saddle. His hands wrapped around her waist, barely needing to grip to lift her into her seat. He shifted his hands down to her hips, making sure she was safely sat. Their eyes met. “Are you comfortable, Your Grace?”
Pink dusted her pale cheeks. “Quite so,” she breathed. “I thank you, good ser.”
Aemon replaced his hands by his side. Naerys gasped at fingers tracing over her thighs. Her grip on the reins turned her knuckles white.
Aemon and Terrence swung up on their horses and donned their helms. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen atop Aemon’s helm glinted in the afternoon sun, a reminder to all it was the Dragonknight who stood between them and the queen.
They spurred their horses on.
The travel between the Great Sept and the Red Keep was greatly shortened by the crowds of smallfolk that ordinarily swelled the streets away in their service. The Prayers of the Commons was a rare time of tranquility in King’s Landing. Yet there were still vendors selling wares and mothers tending to children with suckling babes latched to the breast. They paid little mind to the passing party, or whispered amongst themselves if they did notice who rode past.
Before long, Aemon was once more sliding his hands around his sister and helping her from her high seat. Despite the general disrespect he gave Naerys, Aegon insisted she ride the tallest gelding the Realm had to offer, so that all may remember the Targaryens stood above them as gods; yet Aemon scarcely believed it to be more than another needle in her side. Being a fragile creature, Naerys stood closer to falling from her mount and dying upon impact. Naerys winced at his grip tightening. He muttered an apology.
“Return the horses to their master,” he said, handing the beasts over to Terrence, “then return to His Grace’s side. I shall escort the queen to her chambers.”
“Aye, Lord Commander.” Ser Terrence gave a stiff bow first to Aemon, then a deeper one to Naerys. She raised her hand in farewell, that same soft smile on her face. He shamefully flicked his eyes to Terrence to ensure he was not ogling her, but the man was already making his way back to the stables.
Naerys looped her arm through his.
The Keep was abuzz with post-tourney activity. Servants heaved long tables and mountain-tall piles of dishes across the courtyard. Spiced meat and honeyed sweets still scented the air with their mouth-watering aroma. Lords and ladies mingled amongst each other. Men replaced the simple doublets they wore beneath their armor for the finest material the law would permit: silks and velvets in brocade and damask, their House sigils embroidered with cloth-of-gold or silver, and expertly slashed to expose their silk shirts beneath. Bright colored strings tied their doublets to their hose, some particolored in contrasting colors to their doublets. The ladies, by comparison, wore less flashy attire, yet wealth still radiated off of them. Kirtles of all colors filled the space; a number of the wives and daughters of Great Lords wore heraldic gowns. Bombard sleeves lined with fur barely kissed the ground. Maidens wore their hair free and loose while their mothers and grandmothers adorned their heads with hennin that stood tall in the sky, or escoffin decorated heavy with gems and wiring that caught the light and made them dazzle. Others wore simple veils like the queen.
Conversations paused when the queen and Dragonknight’s presence was noted. Idle chit-chat was made, though most of it was focused on Aemon’s performance in the lists. “There must come a day when someone other than our lovely queen be named the Queen of Love and Beauty,” jested one man.
Aemon’s smile was polite; it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps when I am cold in the grave, my lord.” The responding laughter distracted the group from noticing the flush creeping up Naerys's neck.
Chatter faded into indiscernible noise behind them. Beyond the wide, open doors of the Throne Room, two kingsguard watched a half dozen men huff and puff as they tugged on ropes. Slowly, a large, black, snarling skull rose in the air. Clinging to the walls, their hands and feet tucked into gaps in the stone, another set of men guided the skull back against the wall and onto the large, thick nails they hammered into it. Naerys observed them with a small furrow between her brow. It had been years since the last dragon, Naerys's dragon, had died. She was small and sickly, so much like Naerys, Aemon feared it was an omen of her own fate. Perhaps, though, it would have been a mercy to have been spared marrying their older brother.
Aemon recoiled at his own thoughts. How could he think such a thing? Were anything to happen to Naerys, his life would end. ‘Joy’ was too meager a word to describe how he felt knowing he was blessed to breathe the same air she did. There was nothing anyone could say or do that Aemon couldn’t protect her from.
Almost anything, he bitterly thought.
Images of Naerys looking all but a corpse flashed through his mind. Her pale silver hair lay limp around her, yet she remained the most entrancing face he ever beheld. How many hours he spent by her side, he could not recall. Were it not for the obligations of his oath, he’d have remained her vigilant watchman her entire recovery. All the while, her husband, the knave who forced her to endure brutal and near-fatal childbirth, pretended as though she never existed. It shamed him that Daeron had to step in and remind Aemon to remain level-headed. Though a man grown, he was still but a boy. It should have been he who was mad with rage at seeing his mother left in such a sorry state.
The doors in the back of the Throne Room slammed open. Out poured the king and his sycophants. The days of Aegon making the whole court swoon were years behind them. Even with scented oils and perfumes slathered on, his reek could never be completely obfuscated. Fat filled his face and nearly covered his lilac eyes, rendering him clumsy and oafish, though Aemon suspected that to be a mere act for the sake of keeping the lords of the Realm’s guards down.
Naerys shivered. He covered the hand on his arm with his own. Cold metal was perhaps not on the top of the most comforting feelings, but Naerys calmed all the same. Aemon urged them onwards before Aegon spotted them. King and brother to them he may be, but neither wished to spend more time in his company than strictly necessary. Obnoxious laughter chased them up the stairs.
With the Red Keep busy preparing a post-tourney feast to put all others to shame, the upper floors were sparsely populated. Bit by bit, tension melted from Naerys's shoulders. The gentle quiet was a much-needed balm to her nerves. With no one around to perform for, the weight of her day made itself known. Her steps grew heavy and sluggish; she leaned on Aemon more and more. His heart beat harder against his chest.
Firm and still as a statue stood his brother of the kingsguard. His face was relaxed, but a look of complete focus was etched into every line. The man was nearly twenty years Aemon’s senior. He had already been a member of the kingsguard when Aemon made his vows, yet it was the Dragonknight, not he, who rose to Lord Commander. When another brother teased him over this whilst they were in their cups, the man snorted. “I am a man of service, ill-suited for leadership. No skin chaffed off my ass for heeding orders from a prince. Unless you take issue obeying the young Prince Daeron?”
Ser Elmar saluted them. Aemon made a passing comment approving his diligence and thanking him for his hard work. The only acknowledgment Elmar made was a softening of the eyes glimmering with pride.
Aemon gathered the train of Naerys's kirtle in one hand. On her feet she wore delicate, velvet slippers. Black diamonds encrusted on the toe formed the seven-pointed star. It was the small ways she honored the gods that warmed his heart the most. No matter what costumes Aegon forced her to wear, she would keep them close to her one way or another.
“At last,” Naerys sighed, “I may find some rest.” Weariness was her cloak since she was permitted to leave the tourney grounds.
“I did not see the ladies Roslyn or Gabrelle.”
“Yes, I bade them wait for me in my chambers.”
Aemon hummed. “I am certain they are anxious to be released.”
“You make them sound as though they are hounds waiting for their master’s return.”
“Nay,” Aemon said. “Anxious to get your leave to prowl for a suitable husband, perhaps…” Naerys shot him a withering look. “Temper, temper, Your Grace.”
“True they have more a mind to become wives than forge a life at Court, yet can we blame them? They are,” she chewed her lip, “sweet girls. Speak gently of them, or I shall have your silence, ser.” Her tone was light, playful, and she bore a faux-stern set to her jaw.
He halted their procession up the stairs. His fingers gripped her chin. “Give the order, and you shall have it most enthusiastically.”
Naerys hardly knew whether to continue staring wide-eyed up at him or turn her heated face away, though that was the last thing she wanted to do. “Aemon,” she said, her voice half a whisper.
Plum-colored eyes flickered to her parted lips. There was nothing he wanted more than to slip his fingers under her veil to tangle in her hair, and pull her into a deep kiss. How did she taste? What sound would she make when their lips touched? Where would she rest her hands, or would she, too, entangle her fingers in his hair?
A trembling hand pressed against his chest. “Not here.”
Aemon pulled back sharply. They blinked at each other. “Apologies…”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Were we…?”
Naerys shook her head. “All is quiet.”
“Good.” Aemon nodded absentmindedly. He stepped away. Shame filled his heart and coursed through his veins. To forget himself so easily where anyone could wander in and see….
Even after years had passed, the blow he took from Ser Morgil ached from time to time. It was a constant reminder of the delicate dance he and his sister found themselves in, and why it was so important the unsubstantiated rumors remained just that. Although he would be proud to call himself Daeron’s father, he inherited Aegon’s rugged looks rather than Aemon’s graceful beauty. However, despite the resemblance between father and son, and the gods deeming the queen innocent of all accusations, the whispers persisted. It made his teeth clench.
Silence stretched between them, tension thick and heavy. The tips of his fingers still buzzed from where her skin pressed against them. His fist clenched and unclenched. He looked everywhere but her eyes.
Off in the distance, steel clashed together. The kingsguard not on duty met after midday meal to train. Aemon made it a point to attend as many of these sessions as his duties permitted, refusing to allow the skill of the White Cloaks falter under his watch. In that hour, his brothers held nothing but contempt for him for he never gave anything less than his all. His hand moved to his sword. “You may go, if you wish,” Naerys said. “I know the way to my rooms.”
Aemon looked at her as though she sprouted two more heads. “Perish the thought. These stairs are treacherous, and your gown is burdensome.” The heavy train was once more collected in his grip. He was careful not to lift it higher than need be.
Naerys cupped his cheek. “I hardly deserve such gallantry.” Her smile was devastating.
Aemon seized her hand in his own. “Of all the fairness in this world, yours is the only worth protecting.” His gaze dropped to the ground between them. “In mine eyes, that is.”
A soft thumb brushed his cheekbone. “Nay, say you will defend my Daenerys above all else.” She lifted his eyes back to hers. “Including myself.”
Aemon inhaled sharply. Tears came unbidden to his eyes. He dropped to one knee--an awkward thing to do on the stairs, yet he would crawl naked over burning coals spitting noxious gasses for her. He pressed her hand against his forehead. “By the memory of our father, may the gods keep his soul, I do vow to place none above the princess. My life is at her disposal.” He looked up. “And yours, Your Grace.”
Mirth twinkled in her eyes. “Then I order you to live a long, fruitful life.” Her grip on his hand tightened. “Do not die and leave me alone. I beg you.”
Agonizing pain stabbed his heart. The tremble in her voice twisted the blade. Aemon was next to certain his shirt and doublet were slowly staining crimson. There was nothing he wished more than to promise her she will never part from him, never go a day without his presence by her side, yet he could not make a promise he was not certain to keep. The words clumped in his throat. It was hard to swallow. Instead, he took both her hands as he stood. “So long as I draw breath, never shall a day pass you do not smile.”
Naerys's lips wobbled. “That is not what I asked.”
“‘Tis what I can give.”
Naerys nodded. Aemon placed his hand on her head. They embraced. It was brief.
The queen’s apartments were flush with color. Light blues and rich purples dominated the color scheme, but none were left out--even black had its place amongst the vibrancy. Cones of incense burned in the corner of the room Naerys placed her personal altar. Statuettes of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone covered in carefully stringed flower wreaths crowded the marble. Candles of various sizes melted over the edges in thick drops. Strung on silver wire, crystals swayed over a small bowl of water. The Seven-Pointed Star sat open to one of Naerys's favorite passages.
Roslyn looked up from her embroidery. Gabrelle whipped around with her hands behind her back. A look of pure innocence was plastered on her face. The two ladies lifted their skirts and curtsied. “Your Grace,” they said in unison.
“You kept us waiting an age,” Gabrelle complained.
“Not,” interjected Roslyn, “that we mind waiting at your pleasure. We are but merely curious as to how your prayers went.”
“Peaceful, I thank you.” Her voice always grew kindly when speaking to her younger ladies-in-waiting.
“You’ll be wanting out of your clothes, yes?”
“Quite so. Thank you, Lady Gabrelle.”
“By your leave, I shall make my way to my brothers in the training yard.”
Naerys turned to him as his queen. “You have my blessing, ser. Do not exhaust your fellow knights.”
Aemon snorted. “And let the dogs get sloppy on us? I would sooner fall upon mine own blade.”
“Pray do not do that, either.”
Aemon schooled the smile that threatened to show itself in front of witnesses. “I means to avoid such a thing.” He bowed his head to the ladies in turn, then took Naerys's hand in his own. The kiss placed upon her knuckles was but a ghosting of the lips, yet it sent both their hearts racing. Not even the sound of his retreating steps drowned out the roaring in his ears.
★⋆★⋆★⋆★
He was doing it on purpose.
Not but five feet away, Aegon drunkenly whispered in a young filly’s ear. From demeanor alone, it was easy to tell she was from wealth, yet baseborn all the same. Her dull green eyes were glazed over, the drink haven gotten to her a cup or two ago. Even as Aegon exhaled hot breath against her face, she was sipping. A thin, red line ran down her chin. Aegon must have said something especially humorous because the wine came spewing out from her nose. The king threw himself back in his seat and roared with laughter while the poor girl sputtered and cried over the burning. Aegon shoved her from his lap.
Aemon refused to engage with his brother’s taunting game. Although his blood boiled at his flagrant disrespect for his wife and queen, a part of him was thankful Aegon was leaving Naerys alone. Gods knew the brute paid no mind to her delicate states, particularly after she endured a hard labor. In the time since Naerys gave him a daughter, Aegon bedded at least three other women. When Aemon happened upon a trembling servant girl shuffling her way towards Maegor’s Holdfast, bitterness coated his tongue as he realized Aegon meant to deflower her. He had no trouble lying to his brother why the girl was unworthy of his bed. Aegon eyed him suspiciously, but swallowed the fib all the same.
The girl wiped her nose, wincing at the sting. A hand came into view. Her eyes raised to see Aemon smiling warmly down at her. “Are you well, my lady?” Stars shone in her eyes. Her head bobbed up and down slowly. Aemon used his white cloak to wipe the wine not absorbed by her gown.
A man who must have been the girl’s father came rushing over. He bowed repeatedly, profuse apologies tumbling from his lips, yet his eyes spat daggers at Aegon. Whether the king noticed it, he made no indication. Aemon passed his dazed daughter’s hand to the man.
Just as father and daughter descended, another swept up to replace them. Aemon stepped between them, hand on the hilt of his sword, yet not an unkind look on his face. Aegon waved him off with a, “Down, boy.” This new girl was comelier. Her gray eyes were bright, and her flaxen hair fell in rivers down her back. Aegon’s tiny eyes roved over the generous curves of her body, lingering on her full cleavage half exposed. A fool could see what this girl’s father was trying to do; any at Court could inform him of the futility of it all. The king would lay with his daughter, then discard her the moment he grew bored of her, and him reaping no reward for whoring out his daughter. Guilt gnawed at Aemon’s core, his conscience screaming at him to prevent this, but the last time he tried to be so bold…
Aemon suppressed his shudder.
Accustomed to the drink though he may have been, even Aegon succumbed at some point. Today was a day of gluttonous indulgence, and the king had been without an empty cup since near he rose from bed. The splotchy red spots on his face spoke of drunkenness his practiced demeanor concealed. Gods be good enough, Aemon prayed, that the wretched fool passed out before she was even done unlacing her kirtle.
The hour dragged its feet. While Aegon spread spittle across the side of the girl’s face, his guests descended in their own inebriance. A fight broke out between two squires. Each reached for a sword that was not on their hip. Their confusion and spinning as they searched for where their blades fell made the kingsguard who arrived to break them up chuckle. By the time they sent them their separate ways, Aegon was stumbling his way from the pavilion. Aemon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. With a subtle flick of his head, two kingsguard stepped around him and made way to their king.
Still sat on the table he perched her on, the girl looked around confused. Aemon sent a third kingsguard to escort the king if he were so lost to the wind he forgot his latest conquest.
The poor thing jumped when Aemon placed a gauntleted hand on her shoulder. Fear colored her expression. “May I escort you back to your father, my lady?”
“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed. “‘m not a lady.”
“All maidens are ladies in the eyes of the gods.”
“‘m not a maiden eithers, milord.”
For a moment, his anger threatened to show. Innocence dripped off of her as though she only but emerged from a pool of water. It was her father, then, who pushed her into even that. Instead, his eyes softened. “No matter. You are as fair as any lady I have laid eyes on.” Her flustered giggles warmed his heart.
The unsteadiness on her feet was more likely from the nerves still buzzing beneath her skin rather than any of the wine she consumed. Her eyes were still alight with awareness. As they drew closer to where her father stood, her arm wrapped tighter around Aemon’s. The man did a double take upon their approach. “What is the meaning of this?”
“His Grace has retired for the evening. He thanks you for permitting your daughter to entertain him, and bade she return by her father’s side.”
The father was displeased. “Has she insulted His Grace in some way?”
“Nay.”
Now he seemed perplexed. “Does he find her unbecoming?”
“He said I had the teats of a dairy cow.” By the wide, wobbly smile on her face, she clearly took it as high praise.
“Be silent.”
“And he thinks me pretty as a lady.” She blushed as she pointed at Aemon.
Understanding came into the father’s eye. He nodded his head up and down. “Aye, you are, girl. Prettiest face in the Seven Kingdoms, I wager.” He stroked her cheek. “Bet even the Queen would seethe with envy.”
Aemon’s smile remained as though carved into stone. “None are so fair as the wife of our king and mother to our heir.”
The girl enthusiastically nodded. “Aye, Father! Though she be but a tiny thing, I coulds hardly tear me eyes away--”
“Silence, I said!” To Aemon, he spat, “Is she now? ‘Tis true she pushed a pale welp from her royal cunt,” Aemon’s eye twitched, “but if the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, how be it he lay across the orchard?”
The din of a feast petering to an end faded. Around them, the air dropped in temperature. The worn leather on Darksister’s hilt creaked under Aemon’s tightening grip. He closed the gap between them. The girl cowered behind her father, trembling at the cold fire burning in Aemon’s eyes. He regretted frightening her, yet he could not stand idly by while this creature spread such filth. “You will guard your tongue, or the hounds shall have it.”
A cocky grin masked the uncertainty in his eye. “What? No dragon to sic on me?”
Aemon’s returning smile was a shard of ice. “The only dragon I need stands before you now.” Darksister peeked out from her sheath. The man’s eyes dropped to it then back to Aemon.
A trembling voice cut through the suffocating tension. “Father…” The girl looked younger than she had a moment ago. She tugged on her father’s arm.
“Get home,” he barked. “Your mother is waiting for her medicine.”
Aemon watched them stalk off. Once his fury subsided, regret replaced it. Angering the man would only lead to further suffering for the girl. He should have controlled his temper. It wasn’t noble of him to put an innocent in harm’s way. Naerys always chided him for letting words rile him up so, but that wasn’t quite the case. The great and the small alike had plenty to say of the Targaryens--and they had a right to express such feelings. How many bitter remarks had he heard of Daeron, of Baelor, of his own father and brother, yet he kept a level-head. When it came to Naerys, however, it was as though he were but a foolish boy who was slave to his emotions rather than master of them. It was unfit for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Shame turned the tips of his ears red.
Clearing his throat, he returned to the heart of the fading celebrations. As the sun sank low in the sky, so did the energy that kept people going all day long. While guests yawned and called for their litters and carriages to be prepared, servants broke down tables and collected empty trays.
Ser Ermund and Ser Jarrad returned from the king’s apartments sometime during the cleaning process. Aemon stood on the high pavilion overseeing the work. Without needing to utter a word, he directed his brothers to escort the stragglers to their transportation.
The heat of the day broke at long last. Cool, evening winds offered a much-needed reprieve. Years of wearing full plate armor, whether it be Summer or Winter, made him more tolerant of the heat, as well the dragonblood that filled his veins, but even he reached a limit. Unfastening the straps around his wrists, he slipped the gauntlets off. He gave his hands a good flex.
“My lord?”
Roslyn curtsied. Her hair shone in the fading daylight. She changed her dress from a humble yellow kirtle to a deep blue silk damask, the rampaging unicorn of her House patterning the fabric. Even from where he stood, he could smell a bouquet of floral scents on her. A simple pearl necklace sat over her decolletage. “Your Grace reminds you ‘tis time for nightly prayers.”
His pulse hammered in his throat. “Indeed it is, thank you.” He scanned her once more. “Pray forgive the intrusion, but to whom do you plan to meet?”
Roslyn tittered nervously. “Am I so obvious?”
“Nay, you are subtle as a whisper. ‘Tis merely I know you so well.”
Roslyn blew out a breath. “Ah, a foolish thing. There be not a prayer we shall be more than love smitten fools. Still,” a smile came to her without her knowing, “he calls to me and I come running.”
Aemon understood that all too well. “Then I shan’t keep you a moment more. Be well, my lady, and take care.”
She waved her hand through the air. “Her Grace has a great many ladies at her beck and call, she shall hardly miss my presence.”
Aemon cocked his head. “On the contrary. She sings nothing but your praise.” Roslyn blinked. Had it never occurred to her how cherished she was? Or did she believe Naerys's geniality a facade of some sort? Aemon swatted the ungenerous thought away. “Whilst on the topic of those who would miss your presence…”
“Of course!” She curtsied again, clumsy this time. Her skirts whirled around her as she spun on her heel, weaving her way through the servants until she vanished from Aemon’s sight.
He looked to the Holdfast.
With Aegon abed and Daeron visiting Sunspear, the royal apartments were silent. The babe, Daenerys, slept soundly in her nursery just a few doors down from Naerys's chambers. The nurse hummed a lullaby from her home in the Stormlands. It was a deep, rumbly thing that remained in the lower register. Nothing put the girl to sleep faster.
Once assured of the princess’s well-being, he laid his eyes on the prize. Dragons twisted and snarled on the door, their eyes embedded with precious gems and teeth stained black. Valyrian sigils around the frame wrote out their family’s motto over and over, a mantra of who they were to their bones and sinew. He knocked lightly.
“Enter, please.”
Bells tinkled as the door swung open. They were fashioned of silver and gold, mostly, but there was a delicate one forged of Valyrian steel Aegon gifted her early in their marriage, back when he at least pretended to hold any softness towards her. Candles of various sizes burned across the room, casting warm light over the walls and furniture. Pelts of fierce beasts covered the stone floor, while the plush furs of less fearsome creatures warmed her bed. Crimson velvet bed curtains were tied to their posts with cords of gold. Once loosened, they would enshroud her in total darkness, just how she liked to sleep.
Naerys stood upon his entry. Gone were her vestments of state. She stood bare before him, clad only in her white, silken chemise. Thick, cascading waves of pure silver flowed over her shoulders and down her back, reaching her knees. It must have taken both Roslyn and Gabrelle brushing her tresses to reach such a sheen. In the candlelight, she was the moon and her piercing, violet eyes the stars. Her hand rested on The Seven-Pointed Star. Aemon swallowed thickly.
Naerys gestured for him to come to her. There was no power that could have kept him from her.
He fell to his knees before her, the pelt carpets softening the clang of his poleyns. His arms wrapped around her waist, his face buried in her belly. Her merciful arms held his head close. Even with him kneeling, she needn’t bend over much to place a kiss upon his head. He looked up at her. She cupped his face.
Whatever inside him maintained his control snapped with a bodily twang.
Surging to his feet, Aemon pulled Naerys into a deep kiss. Her spine bent backwards under the force; she sighed into his mouth. Hands roved all over her. Beneath his fingers, her skin was aflame. He followed the curve of her waist and rested on his slight hips. Naerys’s fingers traced over the nape of his neck, twirling the curls that lay there around and around.
A sweet tongue followed the seam of his lips. He parted them obediently. The taste of honeyed fruits still clung to her tongue, but the taste of her was overpowering. Aemon whimpered; Naerys smiled.
He moved his hands to the small of her back. She was flush against him. The coolness of his armor sapped the warmth from her body. She shivered. Aemon moved to pull away so that he could tear the wretched things off, but Naerys tightened her grip, unwilling to part with him. Instead, she clumsily fumbled with the straps of his pauldrons. Aemon set to work on the other side.
Bits of armor dropped to the floor. They fell with a dull thud. Their lips never left each other. If Aemon had to pull away to pull something off, Naerys kissed his face, his neck, his hand, wherever she could reach before they crashed back together.
Wood crackled and splintered in the hearth. The flames flared as their passion grew. Naerys popped the fasteners of his doublet open. Her hands slipped underneath. Aemon wouldn’t have held in his moan feeling her slender fingers trace over his chest through his shirt even if he could. The doubtlet joined his upper armor in their heap on the ground. Reaching behind him, he found the holy book and closed it.
Aemon grabbed her backside. Naerys had enough time to gasp before she was lifted in the air. Her legs circled his waist while her arms wrapped around his neck. They kissed until they were breathless. Heaving breaths had their chests rising and falling. The glow of fire all around the room formed a halo around her head. Tears welled in his eyes. “Mercy,” he pleaded.
Naerys tucked a stray curl behind his ear. “Beg of me on the morrow.”
Aemon exhaled a moan. Naerys sailed through the air and landed on the bed with a soft “oof,” then Aemon was on top of her and kissing her again. Hunger fueled him, made him grip the furs and blankets beneath her. Where before there was reverence, a desperate, clawing need took its place. His lips pressed hard against hers, and she pressed back equally firm. Their tongues wrapped around each other, ran over teeth, licked swollen lips. Aemon groaned throatily, feeling her teeth sink into his lower lip. While her hands tangled in his hair, his moved to her waist.
Aemon pulled away. Naerys protested with a whine. Her arms trembled from the effort she exerted to draw him close. Aemon allowed himself to sink back down, but when their mouths were a hair away from touching, he redirected to her cheek; her annoyed huff made him smile. He pressed another kiss against her jaw, then just under. Naerys tilted her head to the side, opening up her neck to him. Ever the pragmatist, he wasted no time.
Hot breaths preceded wet, open-mouthed kisses along the column of her neck. Every one of them elicited a moan that was music to his ears. He needed to hear more. His mouth trailed across her throat to the other side, ensuring no inch of skin was left unnoticed. Firm yet gentle fingers moved up and down the sides of her body. Running over the bumps of her ribs, he slid his hands over her breasts. No matter how often he held them, Aemon never got used to how they filled his palms perfectly. Under the chemise, her nipples stood erect. If her sounds and squirming were not indication enough of her pleasure, this was but confirmation.
As his mouth moved lower to her collar bone, his hands traveled down to her belly. It was still soft and rounded from the babes. They continued down over her hips, her thighs until his fingers wiggled under the hem of her shift. The first touch of her bare thighs against his fingers sent shocks through both of them. Up and up his touch creeped, sliding over supple flesh. Her legs parted. Wetness coated his fingers. They shuddered in unison.
Aemon knew to start slowly. He moved his middle finger up and down. Naerys twitched each time he ran over her swollen clit. She pressed a hand over her mouth to keep quiet. He was grateful her eyes were squeezed shut because he couldn’t tear his away. Every little reaction she had to his touch was noticed: her mouth popping open in silent cries of ecstasy, her legs squeezing together, her fingers clutching desperately to the blanket below, everything. When she mewled at how he pressed deep, slow circles into her, he repeated it until she had to push his hand away, a plea for mercy on her lips. Aemon, acquiescing, retrieved his hand from beneath her chemise. “No,” she whined.
“Patience,” he said, voice soft and low in her ear.
Naerys sat up on her elbows and watched him climb off the bed, then immediately knelt. He pulled her closer to the edge by the back of her knees. Her chemise shifted up beneath her, and Aemon finished the job, bunching the fabric beneath her breasts. The air was chilly against her heated flesh. A shiver ran down her spine and her legs closed on instinct. Aemon’s grip on her inner thighs to keep her open was likely to leave bruises. He didn’t even seem aware of his own strength, he was too focused on drinking in every inch of Naerys’s exposed body. Pale curls sat like a silver crown over her swollen, slick cunt. The scent of her desire and need for him left his head swimming. The whimper that escaped him was pathetic. He lifted his eyes to her, pleading for permission.
She nodded.
Aemon hooked her legs over his shoulders. His tongue flattened against her and licked a stripe from bottom to top. Hands flew into his hair and pulled hard on the strands. It drew out a low moan, his lips buzzing against her clit. Naerys sat nearly straight up, head thrown back in muted rapture. Lust fogged his mind and blew his pupils wide, leaving only a ring of plum in their wake. Wrapping his arms under her thighs, his hands held her hips down. Taking one last, ravenous look at her, he licked his lips and dove in.
Aemon long ago learned what Naerys liked. After he slew Ser Morgil, the two of them were so relieved the other had not perished they forgot themselves and succumbed to their desires. Guilt cloaked them, but regret was nowhere to be found. Since that day, they denied themselves the other no longer. It mattered not whether they controlled their urges or no, courtiers still whispered what they will. The gods, however, frowned upon adultery; though as luck would have it, only penetration constituted it. Naerys blushed and stumbled over her words when she offered to pleasure him with her mouth, but he would hear nothing of the sort. His only pleasure lay in hers. So long as he drew out those delicious sounds from her, there was not a thing he longed for more than to be exactly where he was.
His tongue slid side to side over her folds until he reached her clit, where he moved it in firm circles. His lips wrapped around it and he sucked hard. A string of Valyrian curses tumbled from Naerys’s mouth before she could slap her hand over it. His low chuckles didn’t help matters. He did it again, reveling in how sweet Naerys’s keening was. Covering his bottom lip with his tongue, he used his jaw to rub firmly into her. A mix of saliva and arousal coated his chin.
Naerys pulled her chemise over her breasts. Her hands squeezed them tightly. It was wrong of him to buck his hips at milk beading from her nipples. Her kneading only coaxed more out, though she hardly seemed aware of it. Her mouth hung open in heavy pants and choked off moans. Drool ran from the corner of her mouth. She thrashed her head side to side, fighting off the need for Aemon to hear what he did to her, how easily undone she was by him. When his eyes weren’t fluttering and rolling back, he was devouring her reactions. How sensitive she was to even the barest touch was his favorite thing about her.
One hand slipped down over her belly. Her fingers carded through silver-gold curls, utterly adoring to begin, then pushing him hard against her core. She lifted her head. Their gazes locked. Aemon bucked his hips again. Painful though his hardness pressing against his armor was, what was pain in the face of such decadence?
Naerys blinked and her knees were nearly by her ears. Aemon pushed down on the back of her thighs, pinning her to the mattress while his jaw moved rapidly up and down. He kissed her clit deeply, sucking on it hard each time he pulled away. He moved the tip of his tongue barely over the swell of her clit, urged on by the squeals and frantic twitching coming from his lover.
He moaned bodily against her as she held his head down and thrusted her hips into his mouth. He kept his tongue wide and flat for her, letting her use his mouth to chase her climax. Her feet kicked the air for purchase. Her voice rose higher and higher in pitch. A deep line formed between her brow. Every muscle in her body was taut.
“Oh, Aemon.”
Then the string snapped.
Naerys managed to turn her face into the thick blankets in time to muffle her cry of euphoria. Aemon slurped the excess of juices flowing from her, wiping the drops from his chin into his mouth, committed to not letting any go to waste. His head shook side to side, tongue pressing deeply onto her clit, milking as much pleasure for her as he could.
“You must--” Her voice was strained. “I cannot--” Naery’s fingers tightened in his hair. “It’s coming again!”
Aemon was a man starved.
Any restraint he had on his own sounds flew out the window and danced away in the wind. Greedy moans and intoxicated groans poured from him, the vibrations pushing Naerys closer and closer to madness. Her hips fruitlessly struggled under his grip, desperate for more friction, more suction, more, more, more.
“I love you,” he said, the words muffled by Naerys’s cunt in his mouth. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Even had she managed to shove a pillow over her face, there was no quieting the scream that tore from deep in her gut. Aemon watched her topple over the edge again with utter exultation. Never did she look so beautiful as when lost to mind-melting bliss. Aemon squeezed his eyes shut, his hips thrusting into open air seeking relief to his aching, throbbing need in futility.
There was no need, however. The instant his name fell from Naerys’s lips with the veneration she paid the gods, he was lost. A chorus of whimpers and whines spilled from him like the pathetic, desperate creature he was.
Labored breaths were all that could be heard for some time. Aemon’s hands slipped from Naerys’s thighs, letting her legs fall on either side of him. His forehead rested against her abdomen. It took some time for their vision to stop swimming.
Aemon stood, ignoring the ache in his knees and the cooling wetness in his breeches. Their lips found each other again. The kiss was clumsy, sloppy, and dripping with mutual adoration. It was everything they wanted to say, everything they needed to say, but couldn’t find the words. Looking into her eyes, their sweaty foreheads pressed together, Aemon swore he found the answers to all earthly mysteries.
Naerys shivered at the loss of his body heat. He pulled her chemise back over, averting his eyes as though he did not commit every mole and stretch mark to memory already. After removing a now damp fur (Naerys covered her burning face while Aemon beamed with pride), he pulled the layers over her. Swathed in thick blankets, she looked precious enough his heart nearly bursted at the seams.
She watched him don his armor. Flames danced across the dips and swells of the metal, warped by the yet-unmended dents acquired during the tourney. Though he did it alone, it didn’t take long for him to restore himself to his White Cloak glory. Night after night of practice had that effect.
With a flourish of his cloak, he knelt on one knee by her bedside. Her hand slithered from under the covers. He took it in his own, pouring all his love into the kiss he lay on her knuckles. “Rest well, my love. Dream of me, if you will.”
Naerys’s smile was sleepy. “By fall of night and light of day.”
“As well you should.” Her giggle was dampened by the furs. He kissed her forehead, lingering. His fingers brushed through her silky hair. “Sleep.” She managed a nod in reply.
By the time he blew out all the candles and ensured the hearth’s fire was contained, sweet snores drifted from her bed. Aemon untied the gold cords, paused to watch the rhythmic rise and fall of her covers, then let the bed curtains fall shut.