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CHAPTER EIGHT duty
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nesmyra.
⠀ ⠀
THE DAYS HAD COME AND GONE IN A BLUR, and Nesmyra Hightower had been permitted to see very few people in that time.
The betrothal had been announced almost immediately, under a veil of supposed 'attraction since childhood' and 'sparks during dances'. It had been made out to be Aegon's choice, as expected, and he had been painted out to be so enamoured with her he'd begged his father for her hand. The Peaceful King Viserys, loving to his son and his wife's niece, had been nothing but compliant.
The few people Nesmyra had seen had complimented her, congratulated her, and wished her good fortune. Some of the Ladies at Court had asked her what Aegon was like, and Myra had never famed herself as good an actress as she did when she'd smiled and giggled and twirled her hair as if the Prince had made her blush countless times.
She saw Aegon scarcely. And when she did see him, they were never alone, so they'd never directly engaged in conversation. She was thankful for that. She would not even know what to say. The only words they spoke to one another were silent, though Aegon's carefully hidden glares were hard to miss.
It was the day of the wedding before the moon turned, and as far as Nesmyra could see, not a single soul found the haste of it strange. The Crown had glossed the truth of it over with such precision Myra nearly laughed whenever she heard word of her and Aegon's supposed romance. Stolen glances, sweet smiles, prolonged dances.
She always wondered whether the news had already reached Colin, but no letter ever came from him or Dragonstone. She doubted the blacks had been invited to the wedding.
The Queen herself had overseen most of the ritual before the binding, and her own bedmaid had brushed Nesmyra's hair and curled it until it fell in auburn ringlets down her back. The hair at the top of her head had been twirled and twisted into two small horns, mimicking those of dragons: a dragon bride for a dragon prince.
