Strings of Silk / Aemond Targaryen

The Tourney, Part 1

A/N: I'm sorry for the late update, had two family members in the hospital in the past two weeks. Everyone is fine, but I was very stressed! Thanks so much for waiting. 

When reality came, I knew from experience that it would be cold, it would be direct, and that the nuances of a midnight dance would be long forgotten.

I cast a parting glance at the silver dress, crumpled over the chair, a mirror of the night before in its shimmering inconsistency. The diaphanous sleeve fell to the floor like a broken arm.

I shivered, though the day was balmy. The tourney was today, and I longed to walk onto the open field, to feel action and movement, to see something so fabled and yet so new. The lords' banners still seemed foreign and even ridiculous to me. A man was not a wolf or a lamb or stripes on a field.

But little by little I was losing my wariness, letting the spell of songs drone out my natural instincts. Perhaps I was merely being led to the slaughter, but I did nothing to stop the progression. I would take what joy I could, while I could.

But all seemed different in the new light of day, and I turned to the sept for relief. Dawn was quiet, and I took the same refuge in morning that I always had. The lords were still abed and the servants were as modest in their footfall as in their attire. I crossed the courtyard, inhaling the scent of cedar and foliage, and hurried up the Serpentine Steps.

A band of young squires jostled before the Warrior, asking his blessing for the tourney. The ghosts of smiles crept over their limbs and their bodies shook with nervous energy but they forced themselves to maintain decorum. They squawked and whispered as a team of knights shoved through them toward the altar, and only truly kept their composure when a greybeard of the Kingsguard shamed them with a glance.

I needed the crone, and her lantern. But she was too near the Warrior, and the growing crowd blocked her altar. I feared the men, with their chanting a note too boisterous for the sept and pleas for glory on their lips. Let the blade strike true...

So I held back, and sunk into the safety of the shadows, inching toward the now familiar altar of the Stranger, sinking below him with my taper and my thoughts.

They are seven gods, and one, I thought, looking cautiously up at the looming icon. Each god has an aspect of the other.

I tried to turn my mind to sedating chants, the prayers I learned as child, but they spiraled persistently back to the night before.

"I will have my luck...".

I did not know what Aemond considered lucky, what he wanted, but his luck could not be mine. I could no longer deny the ever-growing sanctity of his presence. But it was madness, and would pass.

I could know the majesty of a storm without expectation, I could revel in the rising wind and laugh in the salt air, but to try to grasp it would be little good.

Aemond was enclosed in a world of his own creation, beyond even his lofty position. He was caged somehow, vacillating between control and chaos within his binds. He had granted me momentary entry into that cage, but I could not remain, or I would wither under his elemental ferocity.

xxx

I left the sept, somehow lighter, and squinted in the mounting sunshine. Crowds had already gathered in the courtyard, calling for horses, and meeting their companions to travel to the tourney ground in wheelhouses and carts.

"I thought you might be here," said Lark, meeting me at the foot of the steps. His bald head shone as if polished. "It seems I am to escort you to tourney grounds. Ryker has more important matters."