The Passion of a Thousand Suns | Aemond Targaryen

Eleven: dearly departed

KING'S LANDING 

127 AC

Father, the puppet is weak but the strings grow taut, whilst the master sits on the dais. There is more green than red in the keep.

Hira rolled the scroll tightly and passed it to the maester, who attached it to the leg of a raven. She watched keenly as the messenger bird flew to the direction of Dragonstone, before thanking the maester and leaving the rookery.

Her fingers fiddled with the obsidian dragon ring, as she crossed the halls of the Keep to the royal apartments to escort Helaena for their trip outside the palace walls.

A little more than a year has passed since she left Dragonstone. Every other month she sends a raven to Daemon, updating him on courtly news and the ascension of Hightower power, whilst the Targaryen hold dwindled.

Over the months Hira had witnessed the peaceful king turn frail, barely catching a glimpse of him during the day, always locked inside his chambers with the Grand Maester and healers. It was rare for him to attend council meetings, the queen and her father ruling the throne in his absence.

"A green old snake waits in the grass," Raki rasped from beside her. His throat had been injured during a brawl when he was a teen, making his voice rough and throaty.

Raki was her youngest Sapphire Guard, only twenty and one, yet was the height of six foot five already, with a year or two to grow even taller.

Hira hummed in acknowledgment. It does her well to always have a guard next to her, to alert her of anything she misses.

Her fingers traced the tapestry of a dragon coupling with a silver haired man. She turned to the tapestry that depicted the maiden of the Faith of the Seven, scoffing at the irony. More and more Targaryen tapestries went missing, replaced by the Faith and its ideals.

"Targaryen art. Queer, is it not?"

Just as Raki warned, Otto Hightower appeared from the side-lines. They rarely spoke, Hira having nothing to do with the man besides supper when the king requested her presence. The Hand's dislike of her was obvious, making her wonder why he would seek her out now.

Hira clasped her hands behind her back. "That's one word to describe it."

"Am I to assume Leng shares a similar taste?" At her raised brow, Otto added. "The lack of modesty and disregard of decorum."

Today, Hira wore a piece that showed off her midriff, with thin straps to hold the dress together, accentuating her chest quite nicely. The outfit was modest by Lengii standards.

Otto's eyes briefly flicked down to her attire, though he tried to maintain an air of indifference. Hira noticed the slight movement, her lips curling into a faint smile. She let the silence linger just long enough to make him uncomfortable before responding.

"The customs of Leng are older than you can imagine, Lord Hightower. Perhaps it's the rest of the world that has forgotten what true decorum is." 

Raki stood a little taller beside her, eyes fixed on Otto with quiet intensity. The old snake in the grass, indeed. 

Hira felt the tension rising between them, an invisible thread tightening the air. She could sense Otto's displeasure at her unyielding defiance, but it wasn't his anger that made her wary—it was his calculating nature. He was a man who struck when unseen, his tongue sharper than any blade.

Hira tilted her head. "Leng is far more debauch. Your poor, withered heart would fail at the sight of it. Although that would do me a great deal of favour."