Salvation - Aemond Targaryen / Aegon Targaryen

The Dragon's Talons

The first of her family to arrive in King's Landing was Garmund. A boy of thirteen, he towered over her at a staggering six foot one, his dark hair had been finely oiled and slicked back, green eyes with streaks of gold glimmered with a certain charm she had missed so dearly.

With his retinue, Garmund had brought the Lord Garth, fresh father to a boy whom they named Lyonel—after Jeyne's elder brother and the future lord of Oldtown. Lady Macie and little master Lyonel remained behind at Highgarden, both too weak to journey so far.

Garmund arrived in a flurry of rose scented oil, tight hugs and refined smiles that had become a new development in his wardship. He told her of his time spent in the Reach: his mornings of swordfights and trainings, his afternoons of pouring over accounts and lording the castle in conjunction with his keeper, and of his evenings that filled with grand feasts and balls—each night more elaborate than the last.

Martyn arrived after, the twenty second day of the fifth moon with wild eyes and hair shaved to the skull, flocked by Lord Redwyne and his three daughters. His hair prickled with regrowth, he tunic filled with the smell of smoke and sea. He came with fantastical tales of his trip around the lower part of the continent—including through the war torn stepstones under a white sail, flags of westerosi loyalty hidden safely beneath the floorboard.

He proudly sported the brooches his sister got him, claiming they were the finest gifts he had ever received, and that he expected even more from the future Lady Lannister. Jeyne tried to hide her facial features, her disappointment at the notion. Martyn paid her no mind, greeting his brother like a long lost friend.

It was the three of them in the keep for a fortnight after, supping together in the night and praying in the septs in the morning. They were a heavenly distraction, truly a gift—to keep her mind off Aemond Targaryen, and the way he so casually offered to rid her of her betrothed.

The second day before her wedding, Lord Ormund Hightower's caravan arrived to the sound of musical fanfare, and a flurry of flames and screeches sourcing from the long, nimble Tessarion who flew circles in the air above her homeland.

Her lord father arrived with enough people to put his brother's and their lord's to shame—the Seven Pointed Star was high on the banners, higher than even her father's. A half hundred septons of the Most Devout, a hundred men at arms, fifty landed nights and a slew of dancers, magicians, musicians and fools trailed behind him and his wheelhouse that contained her Lady Mother Sam, and sweet Bethany.

Lord Ormund and Lyonel rode on horseback, overshadowed largely by Prince Daeron—four and ten years but the picture-perfect Prince. He rode Tessarion as if he was born to her, intricate saddle molded perfectly to his body.

The blue queen landed surefooted in the large courtyard where the royal family awaited, spitting large balls of fire into the air followed by melodious shrieks of joy and . The arrival of Jeyne's brothers was informal but this—this was a royal welcoming—bringing back into the fold of the family Prince Daeron Targaryen. That meant the ailing king had been wheeled, half out of his mind, back into the public eye.

Prince Daeron greeted his family first, bowing to his father and kissing his mother's hand. He gave Princess Helaena and her children tight hugs, shared rough handshakes with his brothers, and even bowed to his Lord Grandfather, the Hand. All before he came to her.

Prince Daeron allowed her to curtsy, eyes on her breasts as they always were. "My lady." He purred, taking her hand and kissing it. Jeyne nodded her head.

"Your grace," she smiled. "A pleasure to see you home again."

"I may call this castle home, sweet lady—" Daeron opened his arms wide, as if to show her off to the place she had been living in for months. "But Oldtown always will have my heart, as I'm sure it will have yours."