Strings of Silk / Aemond Targaryen

The Court of Riddles

The passageway loomed like a great mouth.

It smelled of damp, as though we had descended deep into the earth. Broken plaster crumbled under my feet as I followed the flickering lantern, taking care to avoid Aemond's heels. I held my elbows, afraid to touch walls that were unseen to me, and yet occasionally I was forced to reach out my arm for balance.

We walked down a sloped corridor and I could hear the faint echo of dripping water. I felt as though he were leading me into some endless cave, that with the wrong turn, I would walk into a cloud of blistering smoke and meet a pair of reptilian eyes.

"There are some stairs here," Aemond said, stepping down and turning the lantern toward me. I descended carefully, but one last miscalculated step, a trick off the light, and I pitched forward.

His body broke my fall, and the lantern clattered to the ground, leaving us in darkness.

"I'm-" I whispered. I needed to apologize but far too aware of my face on his chest, my wrist against his shoulder to speak, or even blink.

Ghostlike hands grazed my shoulders. "Are you hurt?" His voice echoed. Hurt...hurt...hurt...

"No," I murmured, too alarmed to move. The darkness had heightened my senses, and I could hear the steady pulse of his heart and the stir of his breathing under the leather of his jacket.

"Good," he said, pushing me gently away. "I told you that nothing would hurt you, and I won't have you make a liar of me."

My hand went limp in his as he took it. "I know this passage so well that I forgot that it might be challenging. A few stairs here, and we'll be there."

I was weary of his herding, of the drag of his fingertips over my hand as he pulled, and yet too confused to truly resent it.

It was as he promised. Dusty pinpoints of sunlight broke through the walls as we stumbled into a narrow gallery, paneled with wood. The scent was warmer here. Aemond sat on a wooden bench and motioned me to follow.

"Look," he said, pointing to one of several peepholes in the wall.

I had heard so much of the Iron Throne, of the swords of conquered kings melted into its form with dragonfire, and now I saw it for myself. It was the symbol of Targaryen legitimacy, the seat that so many had sought, and the reason that so many innocents had burned. King Aegon sat upon it, regal in black, his chilly dark crown lined with rubies. His mother sat below at the foot of the throne, among the scattered blades of lesser knights.

Queen Alicent seemed far different on her regal perch. Gone was the mournful, hesitant woman of the evening council. A smile played on her curved lips and she looked on the gathering with kindly curiosity. Her father, Lord Otto, stood behind her chair, taking advantage of his full height to welcome each supplicant.

A handsome knight, dark featured and stern, stood beside them, his broadsword at the ready. It could only be Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He was beloved in the city, dreamed of by maidens and whores alike. He looked as a knight was supposed to, dashing and dressed in splendor, and the people loved him for it.

The throng of courtiers, merchants, and even the scattered common folk that gathered near the throne blazed with color, dressed in their finest and heavy with jewels. The hall echoed with conversation, laughter and the light plucking of a distant harp. Aegon's deerhounds gamboled about the room, sniffing for scraps. I was delighted to see it, something so out of a song, and yet equally pleased to not be among them.

I wondered why Aemond would not wish to join them when he had been so active in the council, when the Hand had turned to him for guidance.

He seemed to read my thoughts. "I do not always attend the summons to court. The information I gather in my supposed absence more useful to me. Of course, they know I will hear all in due course, but men's tongues loosen when I am not there to look on them".