Chapter Text
Scorned
Chapter Nineteen: Marriage Minded
The news of the upcoming tourney was all over the court within moments of it being announced and the ravens flying to every corner of Westeros - but it was only within the bounds of the Small Council that the true purpose behind the event was known.
A fact that neither the Queen nor the Hand had any compunction with sharing with Aemond.
Aemond arched an incredulous brow at his grandsire as Ser Otto finished with a rather gloating recitation of the fact that Visenya would be selecting a husband at the tourney in two moon cycles following the turn of the year - and moreover, that it should be simple enough to “guide” her in the correct direction.
“Are you certain you’re thinking of the same Princess Visenya, father?”
Thankfully for Aemond’s purposes, his mother was often inline with his own thoughts, and asked the questions he wished answered without Aemond having to ruin the well-crafted perception the Hand had of him as a rather blunt instrument.
Otto spluttered a bit at his daughter’s skepticism.
“Of course, she may be…unorthodox, but she is still a young woman and easily swayed with the proper efforts.” He replied, somewhat offended by his daughter’s disbelief.
“Forgive me, father.” Alicent shot him a look. As if he had any idea of what women actually wanted - or cared. “But the woman who claimed one of the most dangerous dragons in the world in secret and then successfully faced off against Daemon Targaryen in open court, is not an average woman by any measure. Visenya does not seem to be a woman easily moved, or swayed.” She turned beseechingly towards her son, who had spent more time with the princess than anyone in King’s Landing - including her own father, Daemon. “Would you not agree, Aemond?”
“She is untraditional in the southron view.” Aemond agreed, choosing his words with precise care as he always attempted to do when faced with his grandsire. “That is plain. Not a woman easily impressed with charm, or the obvious rift between herself and her father would likely already be healed.”
Otto grumbled a bit, but couldn’t argue with that, sending a scathing look at the pair of mother-and-son now that they’d dismissed his idea of encouraging his eldest son, Gwayne, to woo the princess and wed her to the Hightower.
“And what would you suggest?” He asked dryly, demanding gaze locked on his daughter, as Aemond would ever support whatever scheme his mother proposed.
Alicent carefully kept from rolling her eyes at her father’s ill-humor.
An excellent member of court her father might be, learned and knowledgeable, a practiced politician, but when it came to women and understanding their minds and desires he was more ignorant than a farmhand.
In wordless answer, she merely turned and cast a meaningful look at her second son - her eligible, handsome, martially-skilled, royal, second son.
“Aemond?!” Ser Otto was nearly speechless in shock.
“And why not Aemond?” Alicent narrowed her gaze on her father, tone quiet and dangerous for it at the implied slight to her son. “Women - grown women, who know themselves and their desires as Visenya undoubtedly is - are not so easy to manipulate as you believe, father. So we must examine what we know about her and her wants, and present a candidate for her hand accordingly. The one stipulation to my understanding, the reason for a tourney and not other avenues to settle her marriage, is that she wishes for a warrior not a green boy or lazy lord. She was raised North - that makes her pragmatic and practical, a sense I’ve gotten from her style of dress and that she owns more weapons and training clothes and armor than fine dresses and jewels. Moreover: she’s Targaryen. And does not my son, a Prince of the Blood, not deserve a beautiful, powerful, royal bride of his own?”
“Aemond?” Otto asked after long moments of mulling over his daughter’s words. He would prefer a solid Hightower match for Aemond. Or barring that, one to House Baratheon or House Lannister to cement their allegiances. However, he could not deny that a dragon was worth an army, and one so large as the Cannibal was worth several as the Conqueror and his wives had proven.
All else aside, if Aemond was successful in such an endeavor - and he had doubts, but thus far he could not deny of all their family, the girl did seem to favor Aemond, though it was truly too soon to tell - then it would serve the most dire need their cause had at the moment: securing the Princess and her lethal companion, before Rhaenyra and Daemon could do so in their stead or somehow force her neutrality.
“I want her.” Aemond said plainly, keeping all his thoughts and feelings on the matter otherwise to himself. But with Otto, the less ambiguity he gave, the less room his grandsire had to wiggle around and find a loophole to Aemond’s - and given the matter under discussion, Visenya’s - detriment. “I was resigned to a political match to a Baratheon or perhaps a Lannister for the good of the family. She is a princess, I am a prince, and together our dragons would create an unstoppable force in the air.”
There was far more to it than that - but that was for him and perhaps Visenya to know, not Otto or even his mother.
Later that night, having gained the blessing of his mother and grandsire to officially pursue Visenya as his bride, Aemond stared out over the city below towards the tourney grounds with a victorious smile on his face.
Yes, he was frustrated that - as his mother had taken pains to point out - he would have to enter the tourney (he fucking hated tourneys, waste of time and blood, all pointless peacocking rather than an event of actual meaning) and compete for Visenya’s hand.
After all, the Queen had told him firmly, the motive behind the tourney was still a secret now but everyone knew it wouldn’t stay that way.
The “lords” of the Small Council often gossiped worse than fishwives.
By the time the attending lords and knights from the farthest-flung reaches of the realm arrived to compete, all of Westeros would know that Visenya’s hand was the not-so-secret prize to be awarded to a single competitor.
They were certain to be vicious as a result - a fact that appealed to him greatly.
If he was going to have to prance about the tourney field, at least he could vent his ire regarding the necessity on deserving targets.
He didn’t blame Visenya for her decision - it was a wise move to make to keep from being merely bartered off to a man old enough to be her father or worse, as had happened to his own mother.
That it also pacified both Viserys and Daemon was impressive.
Visenya had gained something other women never even dreamed of: choice, by making it seem as if the men were the ones truly in control by means of competition.
Still, Aemond had two moons to grow close to Visenya, and see if the fire she lit inside of him was returned in the way he thought - he hoped - it was.
She was often hard to read, even for Aemond who’d made a study of those around him from a young age.
And her motives…those were even more difficult to discern - other than that they weren’t likely what she presented them as.
That was no matter.
Thanks to her latest endeavors, he had time to learn her.
And, fuck it all, to practice at the lists.
Useless fucking pagentry.
But if it won him a princess, especially that princess, he’d dare say it was worth it.
The teasing he was like to face from Aegon and even Cole on the other hand…well, he was always ready to serve up a bit of retribution.
Though he hoped his half-sister and her litter would decamp soon for Dragonstone.
The sheer tension her presence caused in the Red Keep was intolerable.
And this was the woman who thought she should be Queen?
Her own potential courtiers couldn’t stand her, and her husband was little better than a rabid hound on a leash - and even that was up for debate given his attempt at committing murder in open court.
But oh yes: Rhaenyra was the rightful heir to the throne.
Bullocks.
Only in her mind and that of their wit-addled father or their sycophants.
Anyone of sense, knew otherwise.
…
“By the gods, Daemon!” Rhaenyra hissed, hands rubbing over her face once her husband returned from his meeting with his daughter with less than desirable results. “You were meant to begin fixing the break between you, not make it worse!”
Daemon shrugged nonchalantly to hide his deep discontent.
Visenya could have been something - someone - spectacular.
Instead she was a confused, broken thing more interested in returning to her ice and snow than taking her proper place as a princess of House Targaryen.
He hadn’t been a father to her at all, to be honest, so he wasn’t entirely certain what Rhaenyra thought would happen by trying to force a reconciliation, especially when Daemon’s blood was already up.
His wife could both be so very cunning - and so very stupid.
“She’ll never be a true ally to you, sweet niece.” Daemon told her bluntly. “Words alone cannot fix what has been utterly broken beyond repair. The best result now would be to marry her back North, and remove her and her dragon from the board entirely.”
Rhaenyra paused in her frantic pacing, hands lowering as she stared in confusion at her husband.
With how fierce Visenya had been in Court, facing off against her own father…
Did Daemon really have no wish to mend the breach?
She’d assumed…but.
Rhaenyra brightened at the potential of being rid of such a competitor from court. Sending her once more out of sight and out of mind. Yes… Yes, that would do perfectly.
“If she wants a warrior and her savage Northern barbarians, let her have them.” Rhaenyra agreed. “Will you send the ravens? If Father intends to allow her her choice,” Rhaenyra sneered at the hypocrisy. She’d been promised choice as well - only to have it denied and then snatched away entirely. “Then if we want her to leave, we’ll have to ensure she has options more appealing to her rough, uncultured tastes than whatever Hightower knight the Greens intended to shove at her - or worse, a Lannister.”
“I have contacts in Essos as well, still.” Daemon offered up, already mentally writing the ravens before they even flew. “I’m sure many of them would be willing to prance about a tourney field if the reward is the hand of a princess.”
However broken she might be.
…
The next morning, head filled with plans and his mother’s advice, Aemond found himself following the sound of humming across the tourney ground - ground that they were going to have to convince two massive dragons to un-inhabit for the next few moon cycles in order to have it freshened and repaired - towards the Cannibal’s side.
“You seem to have survived the night.” Aemond commented as he rounded the Cannibal’s shoulder and wings to find Visenya actually perched on the lower horns of the Cannibal’s head beside his jaw, humming and running her hands over the scales of his face. Lucky dragon. “Despite intentionally angering one of the most dangerous men alive and spiting both a princess and a king besides.”
“I’m a resilient creature, Aemond.” Visenya tilted her head up, smiling a little to see him - and noting the worry buried under the snark. “The King seems eager to rectify the neglect he and his brother carried out against me. Without her father’s support, the princess is actually rather powerless in any overt manner. And as for my father…” She trailed off with an exasperated sigh and an eyeroll. “True to form Daemon Targaryen has once more washed his hands of me, leaving me to my own devices.” She smirked a little, matching Aemond look for look. “Considering my opposition, I’d say thus far I’m winning, despite being new at these courtly games.”
“You’ve done well,” Aemond agreed with a slight nod. “For the most part.”
“Oh?” She cocked an eyebrow at the prince. “How so?”
“Well,” Aemond responded dryly. “I’d say flying the Velaryons out of immediate reach of Rhaenyra and her murderous husband wasn’t the most subtle way to handle the situation.”
Visenya shrugged a little, unable to deny his point.
“But it was the most efficient.”
Aemond huffed a little laugh, shaking his head at her retort.
She wasn’t wrong.
“Are you planning on making a habit of this?” Visenya asked several moments later, giving Nightfury one last pat and hopping down from her seat, wandering over to where Aemond was keeping a respectful distance from her companion.
Wise.
Nightfury seemed to tolerate Aemond thus far, but after needing him to fly several strangers to safety the day before, he was a bit tetchy about his space.
Hence Vhagar keeping to the far opposite side of the field, the old girl having no interest in dealing with his mood if Visenya understood the body language and huffs between the two correctly.
“Talking to you?” Aemond frowned a little. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Not that,” Visenya waved her hand, not yet understanding that despite his words, Aemond seeking her out for conversation was out of the ordinary. “Joining me with the dragons. Talking, flying,” she eyed the sword belt he always wore when he left the Red Keep. “Training, if you’re up to it.”
Aemond merely sent her a look.
He knew she wasn’t aware of his skill, but that was downright insulting.
Pulling his sword from its sheath, he took up a stance as Visenya beamed at him, quickly moving forward and matching his position and stance.
“And if I said yes?” He questioned as they started to circle each other. He knew she was quick. The entire Court had seen that. And her stopping Daemon’s strike was no easy feat, so even if she hadn’t told him how she’d spent the last few years he’d know she had training. A new partner, excellent.
“Then I’d say: good, I was starting to get bored.” Visenya grinned viciously before swiping out with a vicious - if testing - strike of Lamentation.
Aemond echoed her smile, and from there the only sound that came from the tourney grounds was that of playful jibes, steel-on-steel, and the huffs and groans of their draconic audience.
Aemond was a bit bemused the entire time.
It certainly wasn’t a tradition start to a courtship - nor did he think Visenya was even aware of his intentions - but one thing was certain:
He wouldn’t be bored.
…