sunken sapphires [aemond targaryen]

chapter one, a worthy player

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...RHAELLA VELARYON was to be married, that much was infallibly, irrevocably and utterly certain. The King had declared it, her mother (albeit begrudgingly) had been made to agree to it, and a date set. House Velaryon's most precious pearl was finally to be bought and sold, like a common mare — offered up to the King's first son, Aegon, all in the name of some precarious semblance of peace.

Rhaella and her family had despised the idea since the very minute it had escaped her grandfather's lips all those years ago, for it put further power into the hands of their enemies — and, whenever time threw Viserys into his grave, would leave Rhaella captive to the usurping greens, forced to rule alongside him in her mother's stead. But alas, Viserys craved unity above all else, and had left them all little choice in the matter — disregarding the unwavering council of all his closest advisors and allies to craft the match, and leaving Rhaella with no other option but to marry the cruel Prince.

Whispers of his fresh depravity had not failed to reach Dragonstone, and upon hearing them, Rhaella knew that hers was not to be a happy marriage. She remembered very little of Aegon, her darting, childish, attentions captured solely by his brother, but that he'd been silver tongued and viscous, a usually quite intriguing combination that the years had evidently turned to rot. She did not want him, not in the way one should want a husband — but she would marry him nonetheless. It was her duty to do so, after all.

And so, as she stepped out into the Red Keep's desolate yard with a grim smile — she had wanted anything but to be there, for even the sun shined grey in Kings Landing, and her heart dwelled, miserably, in the pits of her stomach. She knew not what kind of welcome her and her family would receive there, but judging by the yards emptiness — she assumed that what her mother had told her was entirely true. Kings Landing was not safe for them, not anymore.

She trailed after her parents as they entered the grandesque keep, a sudden chill swallowing her whole as she journeyed ever further into the heart of that great beast — ultimately abandoning her family as she fled to the relative familiarity of her once chambers, where she had been instructed to stay until later that night when (much to her mothers' horror) a betrothal ceremony was to take place.

Maids came and went, each with nothing but kind words and skittish whispers of anxiously given advice — but it was not until just before sunset that Rhaella summoned a pair of them, one with a brush and the other with shaking finger tips, to tug and prod at her silvered hair.

They worked quickly, leaving behind a masterpiece in their wake — braids, what must've been tens of them, littered her scalp in the tradition of her great house, small pearls pinned into their each and every twist and turn, and rendering her hair a true work of art,

Soon enough, she donned her dress — a devastatingly beautiful creation that clung to her body like water, and that's black finish sent a far stronger message than just beauty. If the pearls hadn't been mournful enough, Rhaella's apparel made her appear like a tragic widow, grieving not the death of a loved one — but rather her youth, and most importantly, her freedom.