SEE HOW IT SHINES

v

Aemond dreams of Viserra. He wakes with the coppery taste of rage in his mouth and storms out of his rooms before he's fully dressed, tugging a cloak over his shoulders in his haste to find Ser Criston. He needs to hit something, to rid his body of her. It's been years since he felt this particular brand of madness, and it sits uneasily amidst his bones, echoing in the thuds of his footsteps as he stomps down the halls of the Red Keep. Servants flinch and flatten themselves against walls as he passes; they know to fear this kind of bold and blustering anger in Aegon, not him–not the quieter, colder brother who's fury was as unassuming as it was deadly.

They know who he is. They all do; courtiers and servants and commoners on the city streets alike. Just last year, when Aemond was knighted for his actions in the Kingswood, the tale of his heroism spread like wildfire across the Crownlands in highly-embellished versions of the truth. Some said he killed twenty men with his bare hands; some said he killed none. He let them run with their stories. It isn't the worst thing, to be feared. And in truth, he'd rather they fear him based on a fabricated tale than know that he vomited after it was over, that he cried himself to sleep that night, that he still shudders to think of the sound of his knife in that man's throat.

He likes chaos. He always has. Fighting calms him, and bloodshed doesn't bother him. But to kill a man for the first time, to take a life... that is no small feat. He's tried, for the past year, to chase away the haunting sensation that's lingered in his lungs, like a long drink of water after a sip of firewine, but nothing has quite soothed him. And now, his blood is restless as ever. All because of her, her brother, her step-father. He needs to hit something.

Blackfyre glints in the early light of the training yard. After a year, the novelty of the sight of Valyrian steel in his own hand still has yet to wear off. He holds the blade that won the Dragon Westeros, the weapon that saw the last glory of Old Valyria. And it's his–his! Given alongside the title of Ser for his bravery by a king who claimed it would be far more useful in the hands of his valiant son. It was an honor beyond imagination; but the sword that turned seven kingdoms into one now sees only training yard spars, not real war. He supposes it's better this way. There will be a time, perhaps, for him to truly earn his spurs on the battlefield, to drive Blackfyre into hearts and throats and bellies alike, to win more honor or territories for the crown.

Ser Criston is nowhere to be found, leaving Aemond without a worthy opponent. He's a greater swordsman by far than any of the green boys that haunt the yard, better even than the older knights that still hang around, chasing glory in their autumn years. He groans to himself and settles on over-eager Leron Hayford, who will never be half the fighter he is but takes his beatings in stride.

As they spar, Aemond's mind whirls. Stupid fucking Lucerys Strong. The boy had the audacity to laugh in his face last night, the long-dead Pink Dread brought back to life on the table between them. He would've smashed the bastard's teeth in if not for Daemon–Daemon, with that infuriating cock of his head as he'd stepped between his nephew and step-son, that belittling look that said, didn't you see what happened to Vaemond Velaryon? I could assign his fate to you as easily as I breathe. He growls and swings at the Hayford boy fiercely. I'll show you I'm no summer child, uncle. Give me one good reason, and I'll show you why I carry a Conqueror's blade, just like you. But worse than Daemon, worse than Luke–

Viserra, Viserra, lovely Viserra, self-righteous and cruel. He'd always known there was a viper hiding beneath her golden mask. She hid it well as a girl, he can't deny her that. Perhaps she no longer cares to play the part of the innocent, coy, honey-sweet little princess, and now wears her true nature with pride. She certainly has an abundance of pride. Rage flares in him anew at the thought of her words: remember your place. Gods, but she's a spoiled cunt. He charges at Leron, but it's her face that he sees swimming in his vision. He could kill the boy, if only to be rid of her.