Chapter Text
Cerenna
She had been here before.
Of course she had.
Still, Casterly Rock nearly took her breath away.
At dusk it seemed aflame - a mountain of molten gold and burning orange, the stone smoldering as though the dying sun had poured its last breath into it. Behind the carved windows sprawled hollowed chambers and corridors that twisted into halls vast enough to swallow lesser keeps whole. Below, dark caves yawned where once the Casterlys hid their treasure.
That was, before the Lannisters had claimed both gold and den.
Cerenna set her hand against the gilded latch and pushed open the carriage door. As the only child of Ser Tyland Lannister and his late lady wife, she’d been born here. Her earliest days were spent chasing cousins through sunlit galleries and listening to stories at her grandsire’s knee.
When Lord Tymond was laid in the ground, the great seat had passed to her uncle. She had always thought his passing had cleaved time in two, for life had truly been splendid until then. So splendid the rains dared not touch them, and the sky itself seemed to brim with song. She had been cherished so wholly, so fiercely, that her laughter rang like silver bells and tears were but a fable, never known to her own eyes.
At least, that was how Cerenna had chosen to remember it, though memory was a fickle beast, and grief a cruel sculptor.
The septons had warned them that once the Stranger sets his hand upon a household, others soon feel his touch.
And so it proved true.
Her grandsire’s bones had barely cooled before her mother followed, and Tyland deemed it proper that his only living child be fostered with bannermen loyal to the Rock. House Crakehall had welcomed Cerenna with the highest honor, yet true joy never sat within her breast; it lingered always just beyond reach, like sunlight glimpsed through cloud. Still, she had been treated fairly well there, she supposed. She was a Lannister - with all the admiration that brought.
House Crakehall would be present for the tourney, as well, but as a daughter of the Rock - it was only proper that she arrive first. With her followed her most trusted lady, Alysanne. The tall, broad-shouldered girl was the only daughter of Lord Crakehall, named for the Good Queen herself. She climbed from the carriage, squinting her blue eyes against the pale light.
“It is magnificent,” Alysanne breathed.
Cerenna tossed her golden hair back, a small, private pride stirring. “I know.”
“It must be as tall as the Wall!”
“Taller,” the Lannister girl corrected.
Not that she had ever seen the Wall. But then again, neither had Alysanne Crakehall.
“Do you think Prince Aegon is already here?”
“The prince would never be the first to arrive,” Cerenna said with a shrug. “It would be humiliating.”
“Would it?”
“But of course.”
It was only protocol.
First, the relatives of the host would arrive, then the other houses, and finally, the king himself. Though based on the rumors regarding King Viserys' health, Cerenna doubted very much that he'd come. Still, Lord Jason had spared no expense, for this tourney was House Lannister's very own name day present to Prince Aegon.
What finer proof of our loyalty than to parade our wealth, she thought, a small, smug curl at her lips as she stepped through the golden gate. The Targaryens and their dragons might rule as gods, but not even they commanded the wealth her family possessed. The thought was a small, stubborn comfort.
The summer night brushed against her, yet she tugged her cloak tighter. From the Sunset Sea below rose the scent of salt, but sweet, sweet as the green gleam that shimmered upon its surface, sharp and alluring as glass. The breeze carried it up to her in a rush, tugging strands of her hair loose.
She imagined the king and queen walking across these courtyards, eyes wide with wonder and hearts secretly aching with envy. She wanted them to see it all - and then leave, carrying with them a wish that perhaps their little keep could be exchanged for this.
Cerenna was pleased to note that she was welcomed with all the grace owed a daughter of the Rock, as though she were some long-lost jewel returned to its setting. Lord Jason took her hand, pressing his lips to it with a flourish and praising aloud the beauty she had grown into.
As if anyone needed to tell her that.
Beauty was no rare currency among their kin, and Cerenna quickly noted that her cousins were rich in it. Cerelle, her equal in years, was a willowy, soft-featured maiden, dark-haired like her mother but with those unmistakable green eyes that marked their blood. Tyshara and Loreon, the boy scarcely five, bore the golden curls of their house, hair that caught the firelight and seemed to blaze like crowns.
Their mother, Lady Johanna, drew her close with a mother’s warmth, brushing a chaste kiss against her lips and declaring that prayers had been whispered for her safe return.
Cerenna was swiftly returned to her old chambers - walls of warm orange stone, a lion’s pelt sprawled before the hearth with its jaws agape, a massive bed draped in red and gold silk. It felt good to be home. So good, in fact, that when her eyes wandered to the window and the sea beyond, she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of annoyance that she was not of the main branch.
If only Father had been born first, she thought, her gaze drifting across her chamber. To come into the world mere minutes after his twin - what cruel jest of the gods was that?
Her uncle was older than her lord father by a heartbeat, and had ever been the brighter flame - golden-haired and green-eyed, his laugh quick and his manner bold. Tyland shared his twin’s beauty, but not his fire. The likeness of face had always been uncanny, yet in spirit they were as divided as day from dusk.
As if coming second in the womb had condemned her lord father’s temper for life.
Cerenna shed her dusty traveling garb for a pink gown with long silken sleeves. It was not her finest dress, but the color suited her hair, and its softness was welcome after a day spent jostling in a carriage.
Besides, today was not the day she would set eyes upon her future husband. No, he would surely come on the morrow, or in the days that followed. Cerenna found herself wondering who he might be. What young man would prove handsome enough, clever enough, and of high enough station to be judged worthy of her hand?
She pondered this while Alysanne drew a brush gently through her hair. The young maid had soft fingers. Feather-light and delicate, almost a surprise given the strength she possessed. When their gazes met in the mirror, Cerenna found that her mind wandered, somewhat unwillingly, to her lady in waiting’s elder brother.
Heat rose to her cheeks, betraying thoughts she would rather not entertain.
Ser Lambert Crakehall had been knighted scarcely a year past, yet his sand-colored hair and striking blue eyes lingered in her mind. His features lacked the polish of classical beauty, perhaps, but his height and sheer strength outmatched any man she had ever known. None could beat him at the melee or on horseback. Some part of her, the shameful, unambitious part, longed for her lord father to simply betroth her to him and be done with it.
Heir of a loyal vassal house, daughter of a second-born Lannister son - it would not have been a dishonorable match.
And yet… was that truly the best she could hope for? Cerenna straightened in her chair.
She cared nothing for that Crakehall boy!
Nevertheless, the thought of Lambert’s gaze wandering elsewhere made her stomach twist. Worse still, she sometimes feared he saw her only somewhat of a sister, as he did Alysanne. They had grown up together; it would hardly be strange. Not that she truly hoped for anything to come of it - gods forbid - but still, there was a certain satisfaction in being wanted.
Besides, how could any man not want her? Cerenna studied her reflection in the mirror, cheeks flushed the color of summer wine.
She was not blind to her charms. Hair the shade of dark gold, features fine and delicate as porcelain, a smile her lord father once allowed might soften even the sternest heart. Her septa had often rebuked her for vanity, lecturing her about modesty and the perils of pride, but Cerenna had long since decided that was naught but envy.
What else could it be?
A withered woman in drab robes, fated to watch as prettier girls were draped in silk by gallant men who would never think to bend their gaze her way.
Jealousy, Cerenna told herself, banishing the word from her mind with a toss of her hair.
“When is your brother coming?” she asked at last, striving for a flat, unremarkable tone.
“In a few days, I presume,” Alysanne answered, stepping back. “Did you see all the tents already raised? Father would never have let me come so soon, either, had I not been allowed to stay with you. I wager Lambert is green with envy that I glimpsed Casterly Rock before him.”
The girl laughed, light and bubbling, but Cerenna’s thoughts drifted elsewhere.
She had told Alysanne nothing of it, yet in the secret corners of her heart, she had hoped that he might ride with them. Not seated within their carriage, of course - that would have been utterly absurd - but on horseback, where she could tilt her head just so and glimpse him through the window.
The weary chains of protocol decreed otherwise: she was to come first, always first. And though she savored the sweet sting of superiority, there was still a hollow in her breast at the thought of his absence. It would have been amusing, after all, to watch him train in the yard, to sweep past in silk and ribbons and feel the shift of his gaze. Such things fed her more than bread or wine ever could.
She concluded that perhaps Lambert’s later arrival would be for the best. The fewer distractions he presented, the more she could focus on the men of higher worth who awaited her.
Still, it would have pleased her to see him ride.
Once she had been dressed and made ready for supper, Cerenna dismissed Alysanne and bent over one of the chests brought from Crakehall. Most were crammed with gowns and jewelry, yet among them she had secreted away her golden-stringed harp, a handful of favored books, and a letter from her lord father.
She had not seen Tyland in over a year, though his hand reached her from time to time. When he could not attend her name day in person, he would send a present instead; a careful selection of books he thought she ought to read, bound together with a note in his fine script.
This letter had been unusual in the sence that it seemingly came out of nowhere. Cerenna unfolded it, eyes flickering over the parchment for a second time.
My dearest daughter,
By now you will have heard of my brother’s tourney, which summons to the lists not only the young princes of the realm, but the eyes of all who would weigh their fortunes upon them. Where princes ride, their mother attends. To be seen in Her Grace’s company and thought well of by her is worth more than any garland a knight might claim in the lists.
I trust you will show yourself as I have taught you - with courtesy that leaves no room for reproach, and with a wit that does not go unnoticed.
Your father,
Tyland Lannister
At first, she had wondered what he meant.
Her uncle’s tourney was held in honor of Prince Aegon; it was only proper that his mother and royal brothers should attend. Princess Rhaenyra, meanwhile, held court at Dragonstone, and her presence was far less certain. Yet her father had seen fit to stress that she ought to remain close to the queen…
Cerenna chewed the insides of her cheeks as she neatly folded the parchment and slipped it among her books. Words like these were never idle. Her father had served King Viserys as Master of Ships for more than a decade, the Red Keep his home for as long as she could remember. Cerenna had been there, but she recalled little of King’s Landing, nor its princes and princesses. She had visited as a child, far too young to care for such matters.
A shame, she thought, with a faint prickle of regret. Had she cared, she might have sought to befriend the eldest princeling, hoping he might remember her later. But he was married to his sister, as was their custom, and King Viserys had decreed it was not his son, but his daughter who would inherit the throne.
A shame, indeed.
Cerenna had always thought she would make a fine queen.
Aemond
Aemond loathed tourneys. Loathed them with a passion that could scorch stone.
All those puffed-up knights, strutting about like overfed roosters who had never even smelled blood. All those simpering women, drowning in their pastel monstrosities, clapping like half-wits at every broken lance. And worst of all, he loathed the expectation that he should appear among them, as though his presence was necessary for their foolish pageantry.
Truth be told, he would not have given a damn had it not been for his lady mother and her expectations. Sadly, it mattered to her, and therefore it became his duty. Besides, a slight to Lord Lannister here would reach King’s Landing, where his twin warmed a chair on Viserys’ council.
As if lions could ever judge a dragon.
If the king’s health had been anything better than wretched, the old fool might have dragged himself here to wheeze and nod through the spectacle. But, mercifully, some festering wound kept him abed, leaving the honor of royal attention to Aemond and his brothers.
They had ordered the dragons to be stabled below the hillside, near the grassy dunes set aside for the tents and pavilions. A full carriage of armed dragonriders had followed them on the road, and with them had they brought chains and spikes, as if they meant to shackle gods. Vhagar needed no chains. She was older than the Seven Kingdoms themselves, and so immense she could sleep through them all.
Four bannermen rode before them, the three-headed dragon of their house catching the wind and seemingly soaring above them. Aegon had taken the central place in their little formation, of course - eldest by accident of birth and utterly unworthy of it. Aemond would never have allowed such an insult to order, but their lady mother had insisted, and so here he rode, forced to flank his drunken, sodden brother like some loyal hound.
Behind them rolled the silver carriage, draped with both Hightower and Targaryen colors, carrying their mother and sister, along with a parade of maids and servants who would eat and chatter and clap their way through the coming fortnight. On each side of the gilded contraption rode Cole, Thorne, and the Cargyll brothers.
As if they mattered.
No man of flesh and blood could so much as spit in either Alicent or Helaena’s direction without being burned to ash before the spittle left his lips. Still, even Aemond was forced to concede that Cole’s presence brought some measure of relief. If not for the steel at his side, then at least for the comfort of company possessing more wit than a wooden spoon.
The three princes urged their mounts no faster than a lazy trot as they drew near the ancestral seat of House Lannister. Aemond swept his eye over the spectacle. The mountain was impressive, no doubt, shimmering in the sun like the molten arrogance it was. Still, a gilded cage was just a cage.
Behind them, the dragons stirred restlessly, the deep, ancient rumble of Vhagar near enough to rattle the marrow in lesser men’s bones. The smallfolk had broken into a cheer as the beasts descended. Most of them had likely never seen more than a falcon overhead, let alone four dragons in flight. Their terror and awe had nearly made this tiresome trip worthwhile. At least it reminded these peasants who the true princes of the realm were, while his whore of a half-sister cowered on Dragonstone, clutching her bastards.
The plains stretched wide beneath the sun, dotted with tents and pavilions of every shape and color. Some looked as though they had been here for days, trampled into the earth by boots and hooves; others gleamed freshly, canvas taut and banners snapping in the wind. The larger houses had arrived but yesterday, judging by the immaculate state of their encampments. Filthier men scuttled among shining armor and polished steel, hedge knights mostly, clattering about like frightened hens the moment the Targaryen banner unfurled.
That brought a quiet smirk to Aemond’s lips.
Cowards, all of them.
He noticed the women, too. Some were daughters of lords, no doubt straining to catch a glance from some simple-minded suitor or win the useless title of Love and Beauty. Others were less refined, with daring cleavages and mouths half-opened.
Aemond’s fingers tightened around the reins, his jaw stiffening. He had never cared for whores. Never understood the fascination, though he supposed he had little reason to, having kept his distance. His brother, however, had not. Aegon’s head swiveled, eyes bright and greedy, as one shamelessly blew them a kiss.
“Pretty thing, that one,” he remarked.
Aegon wore a plain black tunic, a golden cloak dragging behind him like some gaudy reminder of the beast he’d claimed. For about a year, the fool had taken the golden dragon as his personal sigil, as if someone as worthless as him could ever require a banner of his own. This tourney might be held in his honor, but Aemond was certain his brother would never distinguish himself on any sort of battlefield.
“What an impressive castle,” Daeron said at his side, voice bright, eyes alight with unguarded wonder. “Taller even than the Hightower.”
The youngest brother sprawled a red cloak over dark blue leathers, silver hair tugged by the wind like threads of sunlight.
“I think,” he continued, almost cheerfully, “the Casterlies were brilliant when they built this. A castle set in stone seems far more secure than a mere keep, wouldn’t you say?”
Aemond snorted, lips curling into something between a sneer and a shadow of amusement. “It may not burn, but the people inside would.”
He thought of Harren the Black, so certain that stone could keep him safe. The fool had baked alive in his own fortress, screaming like a pig on a spit while fire licked the walls he’d trusted. The prince could scarcely imagine a more fitting punishment for unwarranted arrogance.
“I'd forgotten how joyful you are, dear brother,” Daeron laughed, riding easy at his side.
“Oh, he keeps his mouth shut whenever Mother’s near,” their elder brother drawled, smirking over his shoulder.
“Someone must mind her honor, since you clearly won’t.”
Aegon’s eyes pinched at that, a flicker of discomfort - or was it irritation? - passing across his features.
Good.
Even if he could barely stand upright under the weight of his own incompetence, he always seemed to stiffen when Mother’s voice fell upon him. Or afterward. As the eldest son and heir apparent in every eye save their useless father’s and that of their delusional half-sister, he was meant to act with grace and wit. But Aegon… Aegon had no such taste for duty, lacking even the faintest understanding of discipline. The realm would soon have a king to drink himself blind and call it rule, while the worthy went uncelebrated.
Aemond could only sneer at the thought.
When they reached the royal campsite, the one-eyed prince dismounted his horse before his brother had so much as stirred in their saddles. He removed his leathery gloves, observing how a servant rushed inside with a stack of fresh linen in her hands. Black as night, with the red dragon licking its flame along the edges, the pavilion seemed almost a keep in its own right.
This was far more suitable than skulking about a stranger’s hall.
His lady mother had called it outrageous, this refusal of the Lannisters’ hospitality. Helaena needed a proper chamber, she had said, a place where the walls did not shift with the wind. Yet Aemond knew it was Alicent herself who longed for a warm hearth, a steaming bath, the trappings of domesticity she could never quite surrender. He did not begrudge her. Still, the thought of sleeping beneath another lord’s roof soured him - like drinking from a cup already touched by too many mouths.
Besides, this solution allowed them to stay closer to the dragons. Not that he feared for Vhagar. The very notion was laughable. Yet always, always, the prickle at the nape of his neck remained: the sense that his uncle might descend from the clouds when they least expected it, raining fire upon them while they slept like fools in borrowed beds.
Aemond would not give voice to such suspicions, but he had lived with war at his shoulder since the moment Luke Strong had taken his eye. Every feast that had followed after that, every hunt, every hollow declaration of kinship: he had seen through it all, known it for the fragile illusion it was.
Besides, he suspected Daemon Targaryen thought along lines not wholly unlike his own.
If fortune ever made Rhaenyra and her bastards holed up behind some estranged stone wall, their dragons tethered too far to save them… well. To make another Harrenhal of wherever they hid and roast them all alive would have repaid that wretched bastard’s debt in full.
Cerenna
They had come on dragonback.
Cerenna had spied them first from the balcony of her chamber, dark shapes wheeling above the Sunset Sea, scales glimmering like molten jewels against the jade waters below.
She could not say which sight had struck her most - the polished brilliance of Prince Aegon’s mount - gold as if hammered by the smiths of Lannisport, or the immensity of Vhagar, the beast Queen Visenya herself once rode. Vast as a mountain she was, so colossal her shadow swallowed the sun, and when she descended, the stones beneath Cerenna’s feet had quivered.
Conflicted feelings had gnawed at her ever since.
It irked her that in an instant, all eyes had abandoned Casterly Rock to gaze upon the dragons, as though Lannister glory counted for naught.
Nevertheless, she too had stared until her neck ached.
How could she not?
One dragon would have been honor enough, yet four had come. That was no coincidence. They would never have bestowed such a spectacle upon some paltry house, she was certain of it.
Three days had passed since her arrival, three days in which the Rock had transformed before her eyes.
Pavilions rose like a field of bright-colored mushrooms after rain. The tourney lists had been measured, set, and fortified. Golden lions snarled beside the fire blazing three-headed dragon on every wall.
The Crakehalls had come, too.
That arrival had set her heart to fluttering near as much as the dragons, though she would never dare confess it aloud. Even to herself it felt shameful.
Yet here she was, hurrying between pavilions, lordlings and knights, Alysanne at her side and a guardsman close at heel.
Ser Arlan Lefford was her lady mother’s kin, son to one of her uncles, and he strode behind them with all the gravity of a sworn protector.
It pleased her, being watched over by such a man.
Ser Arlan had served in her household since her tenth name day, a constant presence clad in red leathers and silvery steel.
His yellow hair caught the sun to spill gold across his shoulders, his pale eyes reflecting her mother’s own. He cut a marvelous figure in his armor, which, by extension, only made Cerenna’s radiance shine the brighter.
Not that she required any such embellishment, but considering the state of certain other ladies - dragged about by knights of unimpressive stature, armor ill-kept or ill-fitting - she supposed she had been dealt the far luckier hand.
Cerenna relished the looks she drew as she passed the stands. Men had been glancing her way since she was ten and three or so, but it still pleased her every time.
Their gazes were respectful, of course - how could they not be? Her gown and jewels proclaimed her allegiance well enough. Her skirts burned crimson while the bodice clung close to her frame. From her shoulders, heavy silken sleeves cascaded in rich folds, every thread glimmering faintly with the careful work of cloth-of-gold. A lion’s head of beaten gold, large as a clenched fist, rested proudly in the hollow of her throat.
As they approached the white silks, Cerenna smoothed her skirts and quickened her pace.
“Not so fast, my lady,” Alysanne panted behind her.
“Don’t you wish to see your dear brother again? You have grown quite homesick, after all,” Cerenna lied smoothly.
“Homesick? I thought you wished to-”
“Quiet!” the Lannister girl snapped, heat prickling at her ears beneath her cascading hair.
What did her lady think she was about, wandering about and speaking so carelessly?
Cerenna threw her a sharp glance.
Alysanne’s brown hair had slipped loose from her crowned braid, cheeks flushed pink from walking too quickly.
In truth, she had not considered Alysanne’s wishes at all.
This was her desire, and hers alone.
That Ser Lambert happened to be Alysanne’s kin made for a convenient excuse, nothing more.
The Mother taught that all mistresses must cherish and tend their ladies, and Cerenna did care for hers - in her fashion, at least. But Seven help her, the girl’s endless inability to keep certain things unsaid was maddening.
As they neared the pavilion, Cerenna turned to Ser Arlan.
“You may wait here, ser.”
The knight inclined his head. “As you wish, my lady.”
A black and white-striped boar on a brown field marked the banners of House Crakehall.
It was not the comeliest of sigils, Cerenna thought – no doubt unworthy of her, that much was certain.
Yet the moment the drapes stirred and Ser Lambert emerged, she forgot her disdain entirely.
He was just as tall and broad-shouldered as she remembered, sand-colored curls tumbling over eyes the color of the summer sky. None So Fierce were his house words, and he looked every inch of them.
To her delight, his face broke into a smile the instant his gaze found hers.
“Lady Cerenna,” he greeted, before turning to Alysanne. “Sweet sister. How good it is to see you here.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Cerenna cut in swiftly, drowning out whatever her lady might have replied. She flung out an arm toward the Rock glittering above them. “Marvelous, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed.”
The linen at his throat was damp from sparring, the laces of his leather vest tugged half-loose as though haste had driven him here.
“Will you joust on the morrow?” Alysanne asked, girlish delight sparking in her voice.
“Wouldn’t be here if not,” Lambert replied with a chuckle.
“Be careful,” the girl pressed. “They say Borros Baratheon thunders down the lists as fierce as the stormlands themselves. And he shows no mercy!”
“Oh, do stop,” Cerenna dismissed, flicking her hand as if brushing crumbs from silk. “Your brother is twice the man that illiterate old stag could ever dream of being.”
“What if someone heard you!” Alysanne gasped.
“This is my home,” Cerenna straightened at once, her chin high. “I am a Lannister. What harm could he possibly do me here?”
“You Lannisters truly are as proud as you are radiant.”
Lambert shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the dagger’s hilt at his hip catching the light with a sly gleam.
Had anyone else spoken so to her, she would have sent the scoundrel from her sight without a second thought.
One did simply not tell a lioness that she was too proud - it would not do!
And yet, despite herself, a shameful little flutter stirred in her chest.
Radiant, he had said.
Cerenna knew she was beautiful, she did not need his pitiful hints to confirm it, but the words pleased her more than she cared to admit all the same.
Folding her hands behind her back, she discreetly brushed away the sweat that lingered in her palms - utterly unladylike, and utterly beyond her.
“I speak only the truth, ser. I do not believe there is a man alive who could best you in the lists. Maester Forley claims you are half-horse, and I am inclined to believe him.”
“Mayhaps I should convince my lord father to change our sigil, then.”
They both laughed.
As she tossed her head, the golden bells woven into her hair chimed softly.
“Is our father here?” Alysanne wondered.
“Yes, inside. Please.”
Lambert gestured to the pavilion’s open flap.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Alysanne asked her.
“No,” Cerenna said quickly.
In fact, I'd rather mind it if you stayed.
She supposed she ought to greet Lord Roland Crakehall as well.
He had ever been courteous, never pressing beyond what dignity required, which was more than could be said for many lords.
Still, her thoughts lingered on Lambert, not his sire. She twisted one of the rings upon her fingers, the metal warm from the sun.
“It is a beautiful day,” she said at last.
Foolish words. Of course it was beautiful - high summer on the cliffs of Casterly Rock, the Sunset Sea spread in all its green-blue vastness, smiths ringing their forges like songbirds nearby while knights laughed at coarse jests.
She bit her cheek, cross with herself.
“Aye,” Lambert said, running a hand through his hair.
Did he swallow? Cerenna thought she saw the apple of his throat shift in that nervous way men had, and the thought steadied her. She lifted her chin.
“I am truly pleased to see you,” she said. “The opening feast tonight will be quite something.”
“I believe you.” His smile was gentle. “You Lannisters never do anything by halves.”
That won a smile from her too, despite herself.
“My uncle has summoned the finest musicians in the world. Even troubadours from Braavos.”
“Truly?”
“Oh, yes. Have you ever met a Braavosi before?”
“I have not.”
Neither had she, but she was not about to confess such a thing. “Well, I hope they impress you.”
“They might…” He lowered his gaze. “Yet I doubt any of them could impress me more than you. Will you sing tonight?”
Her cheeks prickled hot.
She schooled her features into calm, refusing to grin like some milkmaid for a lordling’s flattery. A prince’s words might warrant such a reaction, but not if they came from a son of a vassal house.
Still, she felt her lips betray her with a broad, unbidden smile.
He thought her a fine singer!
Of course she was, she knew it well enough - but hearing it from him made her palms damp and her heart pound like some smiths’ hammers.
“Yes,” she said softly, “I believe I shall.”
“Almost a pity,” Lambert murmured.
“Why so?”
“How can I dance with you then? When you sing, even the birds fall silent to listen. I can scarce imagine a lord alive who will not beg for your hand after that.”
Aemond
Aemond let his eye wander lazily over the great hall, though the brightness of it irked him.
Carved in what had to be the center of Casterly Rock, he had expected shadows and solemnity - the weight of stone pressing down.
Instead, it gleamed.
The Lannisters had gilded every inch, creating the illusion that even their walls bled gold.
To the prince, it was more vulgarity than splendor, this endless parade of polished opulence.
Even the banner of the golden lion seemed to disappear amidst all the glory.
It hung from the high archways and trailed behind every laden table, gaudy as a child parading trinkets.
Only the high table bore the black and red of House Targaryen, the dark colors a comfort to the eye.
At the center sat his lady mother, her place undisputed now when the king was not present. To her left, Aegon slouched as ever, though Helaena beside him softened the sight with her puffed sleeves and easy laugh. To Alicent’s right sat the two younger brothers.
Golden wine filled their cups - of course it was golden - and the table bent beneath the weight of fruits and meats brought forth by eager servants.
Impressive, he supposed, in its excess. Even Aemond could not deny that the scale was worthy of a king’s.
If only it did not reek of celebration. Name days, feasts, hollow toasts - he had no patience for any of it. A lesser man might have found it pleasant.
Enjoyable, even.
But fun was not a word that belonged to the one-eyed prince, and his jaw tightened at the mere thought of something so pitiful.
He cast a glance toward his mother.
Alicent sat composed, hands folded on the table before her. Upon her auburn curls rested the golden crown, catching the candlelight so it seemed to burn against the shadows.
Her gown was deep green, the shade of pine forests after rain. That had been her color since before he was born, and though her wardrobe boasted silvers, blacks, and jewel tones enough to shame any merchant, Aemond had long observed the pattern.
Whenever the hall brimmed with more eyes than the Red Keep’s daily court, she clad herself in that respectable hue.
Aemond’s own attire was of Targaryen black, as it had always been. He needed nothing so paltry as a dyed tunic to scream his loyalties.
His broken face was declaration enough, and they all knew it.
Every last sniveling lord and whispering lady knew that Luke Strong - the little shit - had gouged out his eye with a dagger he could barely hold straight.
They also knew that he and his brothers were bastards in all but name, mongrels dressed up in Velaryon silks.
And yet, no outrage!
They feasted and laughed, bent the knee to whoresons, pretending not to see the stain of treachery as it stared them in the face. Thank the gods the bastards and their whore mother were too craven to face him. His temper tonight was black enough to kill.
Aemond’s mouth twitched in something too sharp to be a smile.
“I wonder who the best challengers here are,” Daeron chattered beside him, bright as a sparrow. He tossed a grape carelessly into his mouth, his deep blue tunic drinking in the light until it appeared almost black. “I, for one, hope to challenge Lord Borros. I hear he has a strong arm. Although Fossoway’s eldest son is said to be quite agile on horseback.”
“Hmm.”
Tourneys were for simpering fools. Men who liked to dress themselves and pretend at war. He would not debase himself with such games. Let the idiots break their lances and their bones, all for the hollow cheer of a crowd.
He had no patience for pretense, least of all when the occasion was Aegon’s name day. As if that unworthy, sulking drunkard warranted such spectacle.
Truly, the gods had a cruel humor in granting his brother the first cry in the cradle.
Aegon, who could hardly lift a lance without embarrassing them all. Aegon, who disgraced his name and mother alike with every breath...
“Your Graces.” Jason Lannister’s voice oozed across the table.
The man bowed low, nearly bent in half, his tunic a peacock display of color. He was obviously twin of Tyland Lannister, but gaudier, as though gold thread could elevate him above mediocrity.
“Casterly Rock is honored to host you. And especially you, my prince,” he bent again, lower still, before Aegon. “May your name day bring you all the fortune in this world.”
“Thank you,” the unworthy prince mumbled, leaning back in his chair.
He dragged a hand through his cropped hair.
“My husband, His Grace the King, sends his regards,” Alicent said smoothly. “He wished me to deliver his personal assurance that he shall attend at the next possible occasion.”
As if, Aemond thought, his mouth curving faintly. If his mother’s gods were any good, Lord Lannister would next lay eyes upon Viserys when the pyre’s flames licked the last flesh from his bones.
“This is a fine establishment, Lord Jason,” Helaena interjected lightly, her voice a soft bell beside the clamor. “I visited once, with the queen, but it was years ago. My memory did not do it justice.”
Jason Lannister swelled like a wineskin filled too fast, all pride and vanity. Of course Helaena had said the perfect thing. She always did. And worse - she meant it. Aemond could hardly believe such guileless sincerity still existed in the world.
It was almost offensive.
“If I may,” Jason flourished an arm clad in velvet red, summoning a small flock forward. “My lady wife, Johanna of House Westerling.”
A dark-haired woman with a stern face dipped a curtsey.
“My daughters, Cerelle and Tyshara.”
One dark, the other fair - they bent beside their mother. The golden-haired one muttered something that made her sister smile. Both sets of eyes lifted toward the princes, bright with girlish amusement, before they dissolved into giggles.
Aemond’s eye narrowed.
Simpering fools, like every other maiden.
“My son, Loreon.”
A child with a mane of yellow, not much older than little Jaehaerys, fumbled his way through a bow.
“How gallant,” Helaena cooed, her encouragement so genuine it made Aemond’s teeth clench.
“And my niece, Lady Cerenna, daughter of my dear brother.”
The girl was molten from head to hem, as though someone had poured gold down her frame until it hardened into gown and hair alike. The effect was more garish than grand, and Aemond found himself repulsed by it.
She looked less a maiden than an ornament, another glittering piece to decorate this overstuffed hall. Her eyes, however, were a striking green, bright as glass in sunlight - and annoyingly alive when they caught his.
And that was that. The hosts slunk back to their seats, and the evening’s farce of entertainment began.
First came a dreary ballad of King Jaehaerys and his Good Queen -dutiful, reverent, and dull enough to sour the wine. Then a troupe of dwarves tumbled in, juggling like trained monkeys. Helaena clapped her hands in delight, her laughter soft and unguarded.
Aemond glanced sidelong at Aegon and, to his private satisfaction, found his brother looking every bit as miserable as he felt. Misery suited his older brother, as it was the only honest expression he ever wore.
At the corner of his eye, he noticed someone rise from the gilded table beside them.
Cerenna Lannister, all gleam and gaud, as though the gold had seeped into her veins and stiffened her spine into something intolerable. Even the harp she bore glittered like some mined vein of the caves below.
Gods, must everything of theirs shine so obscenely? Must every button, every stitch, every possession of theirs be a mockery of the sun until the eye ached and watered?
Aemond’s gaze followed her not for any loveliness in her step - there was none - but for the sheer impudence of it: the demand that all eyes turn and worship.
She dipped her head once, neatly.
“Your Graces.”
And again, deeper, softer, her lashes lowered like a supplicant before an altar. “Prince Aegon.”
When a servant wordlessly brought forth a chair, she lowered herself with the poise of someone long accustomed to being watched. Aemond noted that her underskirts were black, concealed beneath all that garish gilt.
As if even gold knew the need of shadow.
As if she were mocking them all.
Then her fingers found the harp. And she began to sing.
Aemond had been methodically peeling a pomegranate, seed by seed, when the first note cleaved the air. He stilled. Around him, the murmur of lords and the scrape of knives against plates fell silent as well.
She sang of a lion who had lost its roar; of roads long and cold; of proud beasts undone not by sword nor spear but by the weight of their own faltering steps.
She did not weave dragons into her tale, and for that, he should have laughed, should have scorned the omission, but the sound in her throat left no space for such comforts.
He had not prepared himself. He had not thought he needed it.
Music had always been to him a woman’s vanity, a pathetic indulgence, a thin glaze to hide rot. Yet here it was, splitting him open without leave, ringing inside his skull until even the blood at his temple seemed to falter and listen.
He did not know why the song clawed at him so; he cared nothing for lions or any other forest creature, for that matter. But her voice - her voice - it was too bright, too relentless against the golden weight of her haughty gown. It was the voice of his mother’s old stories, the ones she whispered at night when the seas raged and the waves swallowed whole ships, when krakens reached up from the dark and mermaids sang with honeyed voices only to drag sailors down into the depths.
Sweet, sweet, and cruel.
And he loathed her for it. For reminding him of the years he had spent alone in his bed. And for reminding him of that small boy trembling beneath the blankets, his mother’s hand warm on his shoulder.
How dared she, this Cerenna Lannister, to summon those memories with nothing but her voice.
When the last note withered in the vaults and silence held the hall in its teeth, the storm broke: clapping, shouting, the raucous approval of drunken men. Daeron’s hands struck eagerly beside him.
Aemond’s hands twitched too, traitorously, before sense slammed its fist down.
He forced his jaw shut, grounding the ridiculous impulse into powder. He would not join the rabble. He would not be led like some hound to her shining leash.
Gods, what a hollow little creature she was.
First the blinding gown, then the glimmering harp and sorrowful song, now the curtsies and coy smiles, feasting on the worship of fools. Yes, there was skill in her, that he would not deny - but to flaunt it so brazenly, to wield it as bait for every gaping mouth in the hall?
Utterly disgusting.