❝With one eye a Targaryen violet and the other silver as the moon, she watched all and knew more. All of which she immortalised in bleeding black ink to be studied by the naive people of tomorrow.❞
Princess Rhaella, daughter of King Viserys I and Qu...
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AEMOND TARGARYEN SULKED on a green velvet seat — most often occupied by his mother — beside the roaring fire, staring bitterly at the beguiling, dancing flames of burnt orange. His elder siblings, Aegon and Helaena, were too entranced with separate things to pay his childish mannerisms any mind. A youthful maid of midnight tresses attempted to brighten his dreary mood using a new book brought from Oldtown by his grandsire, Ser Otto Hightower, alas it was no use — Aemond was a mule on a narrow track; all stubbornness and refusal — and Aegon, eldest son of King Viserys, found twisted pleasure in tormenting her with wandering hands and callous words. Helaena, however, knelt in the corner of the stone room lit by a dozen candles enticing a spider to her pale palms.
The nameday of a Targaryen Prince was supposed to be a celebration of him, not anyone else. Queen Alicent going into labour ensured the day was not solely Aemond's. Morning had begun well: his father, the King, remained absent from breakfast, Queen Alicent showered her son with attention, Aegon made limited jests at him, and Helaena offered an enormous cockroach as a kind gift, which Aemond turned down politely. It was prior to lunch when Alicent's face screwed in discomfort and her spine curved in pain. Upon being told of his mother's labour, the youngest Prince crossed his arms, huffed and sunk down into the pleasant seat he now found himself even now the sun had sunk far below the horizon.
Since discovering his mother was with child some moons ago, the pale-haired child toyed around with the possibility of having a younger sibling. Up until this point, he was the youngest sibling, the baby Targaryen. Perhaps Aegon would tease the little one more than he did Aemond or it would grow to be even more monstrous. Time would tell. Bells rang out deafeningly from all across the town — the babe was born — cheers were heard from the small folk in the streets rejoicing at the thought of yet another light-haired Targaryen of purple eyes.
Swinging open the heavy oak door, Otto Hightower, father of the Queen, former Hand of the King, entered gracefully. Respect was once commanded by Otto, he since fell out of favour yet held himself as if he were the most important man in every room. Tall and imposing; cold and calculated. The maid was the only one to acknowledge him, bowing deeply, his own grandchildren spared him no glance until he spoke in a clear, firm tone: "The Queen has given birth to a Princess. His grace visited her moments ago but she has asked to see you," unable to finish Aegon, the ever assuming boy, rose to his feet to swagger away only the halt once Otto sharply finished his words, "Aemond."
Perplexed as he was at the request, Aemond clambered to his feet and followed behind to his Mother's chamber, wobbling during the short distance as he was still young. Ser Criston Cole — a knight distinguished by his coal black hair and pale green eyes, once sworn to the Princess Rhaenyra — bowed his head at the Prince, though offered no smile as his limbs ached from not moving since Her grace began her delivery hours ago. Mere glimpses when King Viserys entered and exited soon after were all he had seen of the babe.
