Strings of Silk / Aemond Targaryen

The Midnight Council

The Red Keep was too massive to look upon.

I could see nothing but the staggering height of its walls as we entered through a creaking, gloomy gate. A few sour faced guards shuffled and stammered courtesies at our arrival, and I soon found myself at Aemond's heels in the bowels of the castle. It smelled of damp, cold and ancient. I wondered if the people who lived here were much like their surroundings.

Prince Aemond held a lantern, and the light caught in the crooks and cervices of the hallway. "I'm sorry that there was no honor guard," he jested. "We must move in secret."

He nudged me towards a small chamber with a small, crackling fire. "Here," he said, resting the lantern. I started as a figure turned towards me, but it was only my reflection. Aemond adjusted me before a grand mirror that towered over both of us. In the carved frame he looked like the Myrish paintings that dotted Mysaria's halls, a proud lord, ominous in his grandeur. His hands curled in their black gloves and his hair glowed white hot in the firelight.

Only I was not supposed to be there. I was a ghost, with wild eyes and olive skin blanched by the rain- and the dragon. My hair hung loose and wet at my cheeks, and several white braids had fallen from their coil at the top of my head. He sighed, and stepped backwards, sinking into a stout armchair. "I know I should have a serving girl to attend you. But you can tidy yourself, no?"

I nodded, and wondered if he would leave. But his eye glinted in the reflection, his face settled into an easy smile as he soaked in the fire. He had stripped me from all I knew and I hated him for his comfort.