SEE HOW IT SHINES

xiii

Aemond has never felt quite so aware of his body. His skin and the gooseflesh that erupts across it whenever his mind wanders to thoughts of her. His heart and the beat that quickens whenever she enters a room. His veins and the blood that warms within them whenever she speaks to someone else, laughs with someone else, touches someone else. Someone else, but never him. Not since the night beneath the weirwood tree. He'd felt more alive, more himself, than he had in years that night, moonlight making him bold—or mad—enough to press his fingers to the scar he'd left on her temple so long ago. He'd felt...purposeful, almost, as if he'd been born not to serve his family, but to serve her above all else.

But that was last week. Eight days and a handful of hours since they'd parted ways in the corridor. Eight days and a handful of hours since she'd spoken to him—really spoken to him, not just casual, cordial greetings when she's passed him in the halls or caught him staring at her from across the supper table. Eight days and a handful of hours, and not once has he been able to focus. It's enough to drive him to madness—to anger, white-hot and familiar, a flammable blend of envy and confusion and desire.

She's everywhere—everywhere but where he wants her, close and close and close to him. She's returning from a flight with her temperamental little beast when he's taking off with Vhagar. She's leaving the king's chambers just as he's entering with fresh salves for his father's eye. She's watching her brothers and sister train without so much as a glance at him on the other side of the yard. He doesn't understand it. Just last week, they'd felt closer than ever before, and it was strange and disquieting and impossible to understand, of course, but he'd almost liked the sense of chaos that flooded his body, more than he'd ever cared for a lack of order and structure in his life. He liked being near her, even if they bickered, even if she was utterly infuriating and captivating at the same time. Now, he'd take a full-blown screaming match if it meant hearing her voice for more than just a few pleasant, empty words at a time.

Why? Why did she grow so quiet? Why did she grow so distant? They live beneath the same roof, and yet she feels further away than when she was on Dragonstone; at least then he only thought of her once a year, and wasn't burdened with the awful weight of caring, of wondering why. He's driven himself to the brink of a migraine each time he's tried to decipher what could've happened to cause this new rift, just as they seemed to be mending the last.

Perhaps he scared her, or angered her, or said something foolish and wrong. Perhaps when he touched her scar and called her beautiful, she'd thought him to be mocking her. Idiot, he thinks, though he's not sure if he means her or himself. He'd meant it: she was heaven made human in the pearlescent glow of the moon, lips parted and chest heaving and gold glimmering in her eyes. Or perhaps it was the next day, when he asked her to sit beside him at supper. He should've known she'd sit between her brother and her Northern handmaiden; it was Luke's nameday, and she'd always choose the boy over him.

He kicks back his blankets and pushes himself out of his bed. It's unusually hot tonight, and he can't sleep anyway (nor does he want to, really; his dreams have been terribly unsettling recently, violent images of dragons clawing one another apart above a burning field or other images, dragons of flesh clawing at each other with far less sinister intentions). His thoughts will only continue like this all night unless he distracts himself. He finds a shirt from his wardrobe and pulls it over his head then tugs on his eyepatch, not bothering to comb his hair or shove the diamond into his scarred socket. His boots and swordbelt are by the door, and he grabs them as he leaves his chamber. He needs to hit something, to swing Blackfyre until she stops haunting him, ruining him.

He forces himself to think of anything but her on the walk down to the training yard. The halls are next to empty, with only the occasional soldier on guard or servant in the shadows. His mind should be empty, too, and he'd welcome the silence. Instead, his thoughts drift to the only other thing that's occupied him as much as his niece in the past week.