Strings of Silk / Aemond Targaryen

The Crooked Script

"Marai," a burning hand reached for my throat.

I clutched the bedclothes, panicked. Beads of sweat dripped from my brow. The sun was downing, and I woke at sunset, I should know that by now. But I was not in my mother's room, not anywhere I had ever seen. Inky creatures darted over the walls, a patch of blood marked the floor, and a shadow loomed.

Aemond only smiled at me as I gasped, waiting for me to calm. The dark figures were mere intertwined dancers on a tapestry, the blood the dark orange cast of sunset, and he was the shadow. I was in a small chamber in the Red Keep.

"You do keep strange hours," he said, looking out at the courtyard. A faint breeze scattered the pliant leaves of the poplar at the window. "We'll have to remedy that."

I had been grateful for that tree after spending the whole night pacing. There had been little to do during the morning either but gaze out at the passing courtiers. A tray had come for me, with cold chicken, roast potatoes and mead, and not hungry, I had picked at it out of sheer boredom. The freedom of the hall had tempted me, but was too dangerous to risk.

I wondered if this might be the rest of my life, I wondered about a Dornish knight named Deziel and the distant land of Blackmont, if the strangers of their keep were as stiff as the stately figures that passed the window.

I pulled the blanket to my neck. I was only in my chemise, and though he had seen me in less, I felt undressed. He smiled at me, and averted his gaze.

"I do not mean to intrude, but I am responsible in some degree for your education."

"My education..." Lord Otto had wanted to change the way I spoke, though I was not sure how it was possible.

"Yes." The sunset cast streaks of red and pink over his face. "If you are to meet Ser Deziel, or any other suitor, you must be prepared. Marai?" he said, working his hand.

"Yes, Your Highness?" He had been so diligent in turning his eye, that I let the blanket drop.

"Do I frighten you so much?" He pursed his lips in profile.

"No," I lied.

The fingers curled. "Very well," he said quickly, turning to the door. "Dress yourself, and make haste. There is much to be done."

xxx

Maester Ryker was all the sterner for his youth. All I knew of Maesters was that my brother was to be one, that far across the land, over the flowery plains of the reach, he was poring over books and congregating with grey bearded men. He had left two years ago to study at the citadel, and seeing Ryker stand tall as he might under the considerable weight of his chain made me worry for him.

Maesters were only seen at keeps and manors, which made them figures of interest among the common people. Some said they practiced sorcery, or at the very least were capable of it. Others said they whispered falsehoods in their lord's ear and encouraged harsh taxes or cruel laws. I suspected if they offered a better show we would love them better, but with their grey robes and heavy chains, they were objects of suspicion.

Ryker looked capable of many evils, though of the smaller type. Most of all he seemed to view his relative youth as an embarrassment to be brushed off with time and a harsh tone. His spoke with a thick northern accent, and I wondered if I was supposed to emulate it. I hoped not.

"You may not love Ryker," said Aemond. "He is not the easiest man, but he knows more than many older men of his order. His normal task is looking after the birds in the rookery, and it is almost disturbing how well they obey him. But he spends most evenings in the library." He had simply opened the door of the solar and walked away, leaving me to the Maester's mercy.