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Aemond knocked before entering. He knew his niece would be in bed, arms crossed with a crinkled brow by candlelight. It was her usual pose; it had been for years since they achieved peace. Still, he waited for permission. When granted, he found the scene exactly as predicted, save the handmaiden folding spare bedsheets, glancing over her shoulder as if she might be next. It was the only time he recalled a servant’s face softening at the sight of him, adding a sweet smile when he dismissed her.
His niece, however, his darling Jaehaera, remained unmoved. Her lilac eyes darted toward him once (or toward the plate in his hands) before settling back on the darkness at the foot of her bed. The candle beside her wavered in the shifting air.
“I know you didn’t get to eat.”
She huffed.
Aemond approached and sat on the edge of the bed, next to where her knees poked out, defying her many blankets. She was growing so tall, thinning out with the same cloud of silver, brushed out curls he and his siblings wore at her age. When she was lost in her head, she was her mother. But since the end of the Dance, in these despondent or temperamental fits, he couldn’t decide if she was more like him or her father. He placed the warm plate on her lap.
Jaehaera looked down at the hefty portions of meat and vegetables, but did not reach out for the fork in his hand. “We’re not supposed to eat in bed.”
“Do you think I’d tell?”
“Grandmother will know I’m doing something wrong. She’ll feel it in the air.” Jaehaera shuffled upright and took the fork.
“You’re a princess. Your grandmother expects you to act like one.”
She chewed hard on the meat and rolled her eyes. “As if she would know.”
“I’m afraid it’s all she knows, dear.”
She shook her head, focusing again on stabbing her meal. The tips of her hair grazed the greasy top of her steamed carrots. Aemond reached out and pushed the strands over her shoulder, but they fell in front of her face again. He pulled the tie out of his own hair until her glare froze him. Jaehaera retracted, crossing her legs to balance the plate more comfortably.
“The boy will be fine, by the way.”
Jaehaera kept her mouth full, chomping on fatty bits.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“Did he try to hurt you?”
“He didn’t have time to try.” Her smirk fled the moment she saw his expression.
“I want to understand what made you do something so… uncharacteristic.”
“Uncharacteristic of me, or of a princess?”
“Jaehaera—”
“No.” Her plate clattered onto the bedside table, and she began counting on her fingers. “Aegon the Conqueror, Visenya, Baelon the Brave, Daemon, you.” Her voice sharpened. “All of you get praise for fighting. Father built statues of you and Uncle Daeron in the squares after we all came home. But when I pick up a sword, it’s blasphemy.”
“It’s not blasphemy. It’s… concerning.”
“It’s the way it’s always been.”
“That is not—”
“It is true,” she said through clenched teeth. “Jaehaerys did whatever he wanted. No matter what, he was ‘just like the Conciliator. His namesake reborn.’ They praised a six-year-old as if he had the wisdom of an old man. And Maelor swung sticks at trees since he could walk, and everyone called him ‘such a little warrior.’” Her head tilted mockingly with each syllable. “I pick up a sword, suddenly, Grandmother is scolding me like a crotchety septa.”
“Do not speak of her that way.”
She threw up her hands and fell back against the headboard.
“Jaehaerys and Maelor never cut a boy.”
“Because they’re dead!”
“Jaehaera Targaryen!”
“Do you think they’re not? You weren’t there when they cut off Jaehaerys’ head. You weren’t there when I learned what happened to Maelor. Weeks later, Lord Borros said that they tore him to pieces in the streets. And I was supposed to sit there and keep eating the sheep innards they served me. Like a proper princess.”
Aemond’s gaze fell to her abandoned plate, the stringy meat congealing around the tines. When he looked back, she wasn’t shaking as she had been when he’d found her in his own bed, crying so gently as blood and tears mixed down her face. Now, her tears were a stubborn shimmer in her eyes, refusing to spill over.
“When am I next?” She whispered, a rip in the veil. “That’s all I could think. Every night I slept there, and here. The Conciliator slew Ser Braxton Beesbury —”
“That was a trial by combat—”
“For his reputation. Not for Saera. I defend myself, by myself, and I am suddenly not like my namesake. Instead, I’m like Alyssa, eager to earn a crooked nose. Others have said it too. Not just that boy. Worse things. I will not take that. I will choose to live, no matter the cost.”
Choosing to live.
Aemond chose to live in that driftwood chair as his mother held his hand and the maester sewed his eye. Disappearing after such a humiliating defeat was out of the question. A dull, constant throb in his head was his motivation to keep that kind of pain from his family. But the power of a sword and a dragon… well, he lost focus.
Now, the pain needled the back of his eye, making Jaehaera a blur of pink and silver. He swallowed as he extended his hands. Hers met his, and Aemond found the patterned indentation of the sword hilt pressed into her palm.
“I’m sorry,” he said. His thumb pad stroked the pattern. “For everything. I would change it if I could.”
“Even killing Lucerys?” Her face came into view as a tear traced down his scar before falling to the sheets.
“Yes. That is regret. The wish to undo what you cannot.”
“I don’t regret the boy.”
“Because someone can undo it. You are young. You’ll learn its weight.” He squeezed her fingers. “But not with a sword. Not while I’m here.”
Her white brows lifted.
“I won’t scold you for picking up a sword, but there is merit in scolding for improper use.” Aemond leaned over to kiss his niece on the forehead before standing. “Get to bed. Training starts at the hour of the nightingale.”
“Wait, what?”
“I know you heard me.” He looked back to see her shimmying under the covers, bringing them up to her neck as she nestled in. She grinned at him, flashing all her growing, uneven teeth. “You are not your namesake, Jaehaera. I hope you never will be. This peacetime should allow you to forge your own path.”
“But I don’t know what my path is, Uncle.”
“Then we’ll learn together.”
Aemond blew out the candle.