Aella Targaryen wed on the anniversary of her father's death. To her cousin, nonetheless, continuing the long-standing tradition of her family to marry their relatives. It was a day that was meant to bring joy and overshadow the sorrow that had purs...
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Ibeg you, eat me up want me down to the marrow
– Helene Cixous
°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°
One thing Brynden Blackwood, heir to Raventree Hall, had not been expecting, was a fist straight to the nose this early in the morning. At first, he did not even feel the pain. Only the force knocking his head back. He stumbled a bit but kept upright. Then the pain exploded through the centre of his face, and something hot ran from his nose. Instinctively, his hand shot to his nose.
"What the fuck, Aemon?" The words flew past his mouth before he could think. A collective gasp from the surrounding squires and knights told him he should've probably not said that. In hindsight, he really shouldn't have. Aemon's eyes blazed with anger, his jaw set so tightly he looked as though he were sculpted from stone, rather than made of flesh.
He turned to the other men in the courtyard. "Away, all of you." A beat, and when no one moved, he hissed through clenched teeth. "Do you not hear me? Your prince commands you." With that, the young squires scurried away on hasty feet, while the knights followed more slowly, turning their heads as though they wished to see more of whatever conflict would soon ensue.
Brynden took a couple of steps back, just in case Aemon wished to take another swing at him. Blood was now fully dripping from his nose, though he did not think it was broken. He'd once taken a sword's pommel to the face, heard a vicious crack, and felt a torrent of red metallic liquid running over his mouth and chin. This was not the same, only a few stray streams. Likely from a broken blood vessel rather than a bone.
The courtyard was soon strangely silent, save for the heavy puffs of air Aemon kept heaving from his lung. Brynden glared at him, now that they were alone and no one could truly reprimand him. Aemon was his friend first, and a prince second. That was how it had always been. They were on far more equal ground that way; no snivelling and bowing to the ground from Brynden. It was how he knew that Aemon was truly his friend. And that he was not just some goon he kept around to command.
Aemon walked over to the rack of training swords – dulled blades of steel, not sharp enough to maim but still capable of dealing out a cut or two. Bruises too, if the one on Brynden's side said anything. Amos Bracken's handiwork. Cunt, Brynden cursed him silently. When Aemon spun back towards him, he tossed a blade towards Brynden, another remaining tightly clenched in his fist. He caught it at the last second, clenching his teeth against the sharp tug of force caused to the ligaments of his wrist.
"Defend yourself," Aemon commanded.
"What?" Brynden didn't get a reply before the dark-haired, enraged prince swung at him. He managed to dodge with a loud, embarrassing squawk. "What in the seven hells is this about?" His question was answered by another swing. The singing of two blades connecting reasoned through the courtyard as Brynden parried, dancing away in quick and nimble feet. He racked his brain for all possible reasons for Aemon's anger. For him to punch him square in the face with no warning in front of dozens of noblemen, it had to be something horrid. Perhaps he'd done something earlier that week when they'd both been drunk in a tavern.
