Salvation - Aemond Targaryen / Aegon Targaryen

A Prayer for Safety

A dozen trunks were packed heavy in the back of the large caravan due north. Six for Garmund and six for Jeyne. Their large wheelhouse sat with its golden wood and accents shimmering in the sun, a dozen men trilled about in Hightower green cloaks, golden hilted swords at their hips.

Garmund looked bored. He had dressed in a fine velvet doublet adorned with golden threat that complimented the warmth of his skin tone. At his breast the Seven-Pointed star sat embroidered in fine silk thread that was also used to trim the hemline and sleeve. Glittering emeralds had been set in a golden scapular that hung from his shoulders. He had their mother's eyes, a glittering green with shots of gold. Jeyne was jealous, if he had been a girl he would have been the prettiest in the realm. he picked at his nails, flicking away the dead skin that tainted his otherwise perfect cuticles.

Jeyne held her book tightly in her hands, worrying the stitching in between her forefinger and thumb. Try as she might to ignore it, her head swam with concern. The roads had gotten more dangerous as the King had retreated from the public eye. Though no one would dare to harm the relatives of the queen, Jeyne knew that those who bowed not to the crown or the heavens paid no mind to the punishments that threatened them.

Garmund's green eyes flickered from his nailbed to Jeyne. He rose a brow, frowning. "Don't tell me you're nervous."

"I can't help it." Jeyne frowned. She wiped her hand on the silk of her dress. "Oh, Garmund. The roads are dangerous, the sea even more so. Do you not fear?"

"The Smith will protect Martyn," Garmund shrugged his shoulder. His hand dropped to his sword. "If he does not, then our lord father shall have one less mouth to feed. As for you, sister. The gods need not worry, I shall protect you."

She felt the breeze shift as a figure covered the light with his shadow. It was Martyn who approached her from behind, dressed far less lavishly for his trip on their lord father's galley. His breeches were brown cotton, oiled leather boots on his small feet, a stark white blouse with billowing sleeves has been cinched at his wrist, surely to keep him from flying away with the lightest of breeze. "Until your poor swordsmanship leaves our sister at the mercy of the heretics on the Kingsroad."

"Then she shall do what she does best and pray to the Mother for mercy, yes?"

They often did that, Jeyne noted. They spoke to each other as if she were not there, mocked her faith. They still saw her as the young girl that gripped their mother's skirts in the sept and cowered beneath the gaze of the High Septon, not the woman grown who now headed north for marriage.

"When does your ship leave?"

"When your caravan does." Martyn eyed their escort—one hundred people in total, consisting of her brother's scribe, seven grooms, seven ladies in waiting, fifty soldiers and thirty six other men and women of their households—with disdain. "Large groups move slowly, I anticipate I shall make landfall in the Arbor before our sister even exits Highgarden."

"A shame the prince doesn't like her enough to fly her there."

"And have his beast devour her whole?"

"Could you both stop that?" Jeyne burst, anger on her face. Her brothers turned, frowning. "I am right here. Will you please stop talking about me being eaten by a dragon?"

"Does it make you nervous?" Garmund's brows wagged suggestively.

"It makes me annoyed!" Jeyne smacked his belly gently, still clutching her book to her chest. "It is a great honor for me to ride to the Keep and ward with our cousin. You are all just jealous."