Salvation - Aemond Targaryen / Aegon Targaryen

Unimpeachable

Jeyne was pulled from her bed to the sound of bells.

Men clad in Lannister red cloaks and golden armor held her by the biceps, dragging her in her chemise sleep gown along the corridors passed noblemen and servants alike.

"Let go of me!" Jeyne screamed, struggling against them. "Do you know who I am?"

"We don't answer to you," the one on her left spat.

Her lady mother's words flashed in her head. Do not go with grace. "My lord husband will have your head for this." She seethed. Jeyne tried to pull her arm from his grasp, succeeding only in feeling his fingers curl deeper into the bruising meat of her arm.

"Not before my lord has yours."

"The King himself gave credence to our union." The Lannister knight paid her no mind, looking over her head to his companion. Both men were grizzled, near forty years in age. The one who had spoken to her so brazenly she knew was Ser Mikean, a son of a minor lordling in the Westerlands. His lord, Jeyne also knew, was Jason Lannister—her spurned betrothed. "Let go!"

Her protests went unheard. She felt increasing worry in her belly as they made the final turn to the throne room where, moons ago, Jeyne had sat at the foot of the Iron Throne delving between suitors. The men had all made back to their holdfasts—some with great fanfare and well wishes, others carted off in the night with whispers of curses and disapproval.

None were left, even the Karstark boy she befriended had gone back to Karhold. All that was left in the room was a sea of crimson cloaks, screaming toward the Lord Hand for justice—and further still, her lord Husband standing unarmed, dressed in his sleep clothes from the night before. His hair was wild, untamed. Next to Aemond, Prince Aegon rubbed sleep from his eyes. His own white sleep blouse was disheveled on his body, short hair knotted and spiked. Both brothers glared across the room, eyes focused on a form Jeyne had only come to notice as Martyn.

The crowd of Lannister men parted with more shouts toward their lord hand. Jeyne felt eyes on her as they dragged her forward.

Lord Otto Hightower, the younger brother to her lord grandfather, sat upon the Iron Throne. His ringed fingers gripped the steel of the swords that curved downward on its arm rest. The sharpness of the blades had been long since diminished, filed down to blunt edges when Maegor the Cruel sat the throne. He wore a long black tunic with green and gold stars across embroidered on the lapel, at his chest his dull silver pin brooded menacingly.

Next to him, Queen Alicent wore a simple gown of black, trimmed with gold thread at the high collar that kept her head parallel to the floor. Her long red hair shrouded her face and shoulders, smoothed and curled with a simple circlet of gold across her forehead. Her eyes were filled with betrayal.

"—my guards and I were too late. The fool had—"She could hear Martyn speak lowly. Her brother stood before the Hand, face red and brows singed from fire. In his hand, Jeyne could see he held scrapped white fabric—blackened with ash and dotted with blood. Her brother turned to her, his eyes narrowed. "My Lord Hand, what is this?"

"Grandfather—" Jeyne saw Aemond's eye widen, he moved toward her, only to be stopped by Aegon. "Wha—let go of me! Release her."

"I don't answer to you, either." Ser Mikean sneered, grip tightening on Jeyne's arm. She cried out, pain shooting through her arm to her chest. "Lord Hand—"

"Release her!" Martyn shouted, turning to face his lord. "Your grace—I've told it true. She had no part—"

"I'll have your head for this!" Aemond hissed, struggling against the force of his brother's resistance. The boys spoke all at once, protests drowned out in the sea of shouting from the western men. Each one called for her head.