𝙀𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙂𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙨 || Aemond Targaryen

04 | A Servant of the Faith

C H A P T E R   F O U R
A   S E R V A N T   O F   T H E   F A I T H

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Elaena would like to think she was startled to hear Prince Aemond's voice, but part of her knew it was bound to happen.

She turns her head and is at once met by his weighty gaze.

Not much has changed about him since they last met. In fact, the dimly lit lighting of the room seems similar to the one in the Royal Sept. She watches his silver hair that spills down his shoulders like goat milk, and his face that is more lovely than terrible, made up of sculpted bones and a single, hollow eye.

"Prince Aemond," she greets him warily, her face blooming into a tender smile, both practiced and earnest. She's not sure she can tell the difference anymore.

"Lady Elaena," he mumbles, tilting his head to the side. "Still doing the dirty work, I see."

At once, she feels an acrid sensation within herself. She has only spoken with the prince once and already his unpleasantness has become apparent. Even his drunkard brother, who is said to spend most of his time groping maids or blacked out on the streets of silk— seems to radiate a more alluring sense of self.

"I am only tidying things," she attempts, hastily.

"Tidying things? Is that all you ever do?"

"I do whatever is asked of me," she says, ignoring the feeling of chagrin that accompanies her words.

"So you're a servant?" he asks, his voice inclining with scorn.

Her gaze narrows at him.

"I'm not a servant."

"A servant to the faith, then?" he asks her, now leaning against the doorframe.

She does not answer him. In fact, she doesn't know what kind of answer he expects from her. Whatever her purpose among the faith is should be little of his concern.

"But you're not doing the septons bidding now, are you? You're with the Maesters," he continues, folding his arms across his chest. "Do you take interest in their work?"

Elaena hesitates, reevaluating his words in her head. She recollects the sights that had previously been displayed before her. Of the charred daggers cutting into the skin of a dying King. She shutters.

"Women are not allowed in the Citadel—" she begins.

"That's not what I asked."

She purses her lips, allowing her fingers to cling to each other behind her back.

"I am a woman of the faith, not a scholar," she says. "I place my fealty in the gods, not alchemy."

It is an unwieldy thing to utter and she can almost imagine her father's ghostly laugh along the walls.

He lifts an eyebrow. "Then why do you read of dynasties in old Valyria, and not the seven-pointed star?"

Her gaze falls back onto him, and immediately she recollects the wretched book she had gotten her hands on the day before. The one Prince Aemond had taken from her at the altar.