ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʇɐᴚ ʇǝǝɹʇS ǝɥ⊥

♕. ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ suoıʇɐlǝʌǝᴚ

CHAPTER THREE | Imports And Exports

Sleep evades you, and upon her arrival, she slips from your grasp at the faintest of sounds. Most nights, your hand clenches the hilt of your dagger, your mind sure of his presence—a drunken lout the Kingdom calls a Prince. Often it's merely Ser Barlo eyeing your weariness from the door. The brief moment remains the same whether you wear a frantic, distraught, or hazy expression. He never voices his thoughts, offering nods reassuring your safety. You hear nothing from Aemond, nor do you seek him out. Remnants of your blue gown sit singed in the fireplace of soot and ash.

When a parchment arrives from Daltis with your travel arrangements set in a fortnight, you cling to the fourteen days as if it will rectify all that came before it. Standing in the mirror, you lace your pants and secure your dagger at your hip. You tie a heavy cloak around your shoulders, and the sun shines brightly through your window as you glance out. The many faces of the unknown fill the streets at a volume uncommon so close to the Red Keep.

Pulling at the door, you frown as your back stiffens. You press your ear to the door to find stillness on the other side. A soft ache radiates through your knuckles as you bang against the surface.

"Guard? I believe the door is stuck," Your shaky tone receives silence in response, recoiling from the door as though it sears your skin. You take several cautious steps back, hand hovering over your dagger. If Aegon's behind your captivity, you are confident of a singular fate—running for the entirety of your life or a future worse than death, the Prince's whore. The opening of the door rips you from your thoughts. Unsheathing your dagger, you move with expert precision.

"I have no time for your violent fervor. Would you or your resourceful associates have an inkling of the whereabouts of Aegon?" Aemond catches your wrist, spinning you away from him. You crash into his back as he pulls you in, speaking with an urgency lacing his calm. Something's wrong. His forearm rests loosely below your chin. Biting down, you duck back as he pulls away.

"Why am I locked in here?" You tilt your head taking note of Ser Cole lingering in the doorway. The morning guard stands with his hand on his sword, eyeing you both. Aemond inquires again of Aegon, clasping his hands behind his back, ignoring your grimace. "Damn you, Aemond! Why would I care to be privy to his proclivities? I will not sit in captivity like a good little prisone—!"

"Enough!" Squeezing your eyes shut, a loud ringing takes your ears. Aemond's grip on your cloak rigid as he yanks you forward before pressing you back swiftly into the wall. You open your eyes blinking profusely, a haze splintering your vision as you move your head languidly. He grabs your face turning you forward, swallowing thickly as your sights set ablaze, "My father is dead, and you may think yourself covert in your machinations of what comes next, but I have no time to deal with both you and my degenerate brother."

You lean your head against the wall, your nose crinkling at the tenderness. A breathy laugh leaves your lips, balling your fists to cover the trembling of your hands, "So I was right, and now you scramble with your family to usurp the throne. Making certain of the war I warned you of for years."

"(Y/n)," You slap away his hand as he reaches toward your face, a silence lingering between you both as he takes a step away from you. The clenching of his jaw falls slack as he studies your pointed stare. You turn your gaze to the window, ignoring the skin-crawling sensation of his eyes on your skin. A heavy fog of fatigue weighs on your eyes.