The Passion of a Thousand Suns | Aemond Targaryen

Nineteen: of twin flames

KING'S LANDING

"I dare," Hira hissed after a moment of suffocating silence, lips curling back in disgust. "You have no right to dictate this."

She would be damned if she allowed herself to be used as a pawn, a bridge to mend their grievances. She was no tool to be wielded for a king's mere fancy, or a dying man's wishes.

"I have every right, niece," Viserys rasped. Despite his grotesque appearance, the decay ravaging his body, his spirit burned fiercely. He looked frail, but in this moment, he was still the king, and he demanded obedience.

Jace lowered his sword, his hand trembling as he shifted on his feet. The fire in his eyes was extinguished, replaced by something akin to guilt. He glanced at Hira, his expression a mix of regret and helplessness, before turning toward his mother, searching for some kind of direction, some escape from the trap that had been sprung on them all.

Behind him, Shouta quietly slipped the dagger he had poised for the prince back behind his cloak, his keen eyes watching the room's every movement. His loyalty to Hira unwavering.

Rhaenyra, finding her bearings, stepped forward and attempted to reason with her father, her voice calm yet imploring. "Father," she began softly, "they are to marry in nine moons. Preparations must be made for a wedding that honours their stations. Hira's mother must be present—there are customs to be followed. It would not be right—"

"I care not!" Viserys thundered, his face contorting in rage, his breath ragged as he cut Rhaenyra off. His nostrils flared, and spittle flew from his mouth as he leaned forward. Rhaenyra recoiled, shocked by the sudden outburst.

"Far too long have our families been at each other's throats," Viserys continued, his voice raw with emotion. "This ends tonight. No more delays, no more petty quarrels. The wedding will happen, now."

Hira felt the walls closing in around her. Viserys' decree was final, and his desperation was laid bare for all to see.

Her eyes darted to Jace, then to Aemond. She could feel the weight of their gazes on her, but in this moment, she realized more than ever that her fate was not her own—it was being torn from her, shaped by the will of a desperate king. Yet every fibre of her being screamed in defiance. She was not a tool, and she would not submit without a fight.

"I don't give a damn about your House's plights!" Hira's voice rang out, sharp and unwavering, as she strode toward the king, her hands striking the table with a force that echoed. "I will not be used against my will, married to Jace simply because it pleases you! You think our union will magically repair the damage your wife and daughter and their children have inflicted on each other?"

The hands of two Kingsguards' stationed beside the walls crept to their hilts.

Hira continued, "This alliance was acknowledged solely by my mother and Princess Rhaenyra. House Targaryen would do well to respect and uphold it."

Viserys glared at her, his frail body tense with indignation. "I am king, and my word is law."

Hira met his gaze with unyielding resolve. No, she thought fiercely. Viserys wouldn't taint this union before it even began. Rhaenyra and Daemon had already deceived her; she wouldn't be fooled twice. She wouldn't risk her empire for a man who stood with a foot past death's door.

With a scoff, she gave the king a fevered stare. "You are no king of mine. Your law means nothing to me. I am Lengii, I am Han. There is already one slight against my empire; I will not allow a second."

"You hold that against me, even now?" Viserys shot back, incredulous.

The memories surged forth—the dribble of blood pouring from Jin's lips, his parting words as he was taken by the Dark Other; burning his body on foreign lands and soil; Jade, empty and withdrawn. The name Lyonel Hightower still provoked outrage among her people, even to this day.