Haven't I Given Enough? (Always The Fool) - Aemond Targaryen

8: 'Till Death We Part

A night in the dungeons brought an untamable cold into Harlys' bones.

Robbed of her finery, she was left in nothing more than the home-spun wool dress typical of the kitchen servants, given nothing to replace the ornate shoes taken from her. Otto had even had the foresight to take the pins from her hair, the tresses loose and wild over her shoulders. She looked as mad as she felt.

She was a coward. After all that she had vowed to accomplish, after creating plans to ensure the downfall of Aegon and seat Rhaenyra upon the Iron Throne, her cowardice would ruin it all.

Because if she had any bravery left in her, any at all, she would tear her dress into a makeshift noose to rob Otto of his satisfaction of seeing her publicly hanged. At least if she died by her own hand, then she could not serve Otto Hightower's agenda.

But she could not do it.

Instead, she sat upon the floor of her damp cell, knees drawn to her chest and arms holding them tight to her. It was as if she thought that if she took up the least amount of space, if she became as small as she felt, then she would simply slip from existence. Otto would not be able to use her, she would not fail Viserys, fail Rhaenyra, fail her father and brother. She would not have to face Aemond while making her final walk to the gallows.

Coward, coward, coward.

It was in that position she sat for hours, curled in upon herself and wracked with guilt. It was the position in which she heard the rhythmic sound of a cane thumping, the drag of a useless foot across the stone.

Of all the people who she expected to visit her, he was not one.

"Sister," Larys' voice called from the eternal darkness of the dungeons, his torch illuminating the depressing cell she found herself entrapped in. She did not answer him, nor move from her position to even look at him. "King Aegon will have a meeting with the court to discuss your sentencing in the morning."

King Aegon, he claimed. The thought was nearly enough to get a reaction from her.

"I will be blunt with you, Harlys," Her brother spoke, and she drew even more in on herself at the sound of her name on his tongue. Their mother, passing in the weeks following her birth, had combined the names of her only brothers. It was said she would have the chivalry and bravery of Harwin and the cunningness of Larys. There was nothing she wished to inherit from her second brother. "The Lord Hand is intent on your execution. I have tried to reason with him and Lady Alicent to bargain for your release, but I am afraid I do not have much sway with the crown."

What would cause her brother to pretend as though he cared? When had been the last time she had spoken to Larys? In the days following the near-decimation of their House, he had only approached her once with sympathies. Harwin had always been her beloved brother, the one who would ensure the Strong name remained in good graces while Larys limped around, searching for crumbs of control.

It was madness, all of it. A world of insanity she would most certainly leave via the gallows before nightfall.

"It is important, dear sister, that you do not relinquish hope so soon." Larys reminded her, as if hope existed at all in the dungeons. The Mother, she knew, had long since stopped answering her prayers.

Without hearing a word from her, Larys turned and limped out the way he came, leaving his sole sister to rot amongst the rats and damp. She was neither surprised nor offended by his hasty departure; she needed the time to organize her thoughts.

What excuse would she give her father for failing him when she met him in the next life?

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