[1] SEVEN SINS, Aegon II Targaryen

[8] aemond

[8]
AEMOND

     Pride's gonna be the death of Maera. Of her and Alicent — of Alicent and her

     "Indeed, I believe the princess is most fitting to alleviate these conflicts."

     Alicent Hightower, clad in a green dress more greener than ever, exerted every might to uphold her tranquility with the council. It was maddening to see her father Otto, too emerged with the idea of rebuilding Princess Maera into a beacon of hope, passionately defending the girl she despised the most these days.

     "An escaped dragon accidentally burned down the orphanage," Maera said, sinking into her council seat. "These people know me. I must go to them." Her eyes wandered the table, only the three of them present in the meeting.

     With his customary nonchalance, as if weaving control through the air, Otto murmured his assent.

"The aftermath," he said quietly, "demands tender handling, stemming from the source,"

     He referred to House Targaryen, whose dragons bore the weight of their own legacy, thus shouldering the responsibility. "I agree with the princess."

     And still, Maera was no dragon rider.

     Yet, the blood of the dragon still dominated her bloodstreams.

     The queen's disdain dripped from her lips. "We speak of Prince Aemond's dragon, not a mere beast to be stirred by simple chatter of commoners. I won't have him tainted by whispers of recklessness or fury."

     Maera, though unable to deny the weight of her true words, replied with quiet resolve, "That is why I shall come down to make apologies, for your son will certainly refuse to do it for us."

     Did Alicent truly believed she could mend the shattered chains of Aemond, broken by his own fierce temper? Chains he managed to break due to his violent impulses, his dragon's fiery breath a weapon against a world he sought to shatter. Was that accident truly just a misstep? And did his mother really thought that Aemond, in the depth of his relentless drive, might care for the whispers of the crowd, for their fleeting judgments upon him?

     In response to Maera's countless questions, it was the hand himself, the keeper of truths, who answered. With a solemn voice, he revealed, "Prince Aemond, alas, is ill-suited to offer the tenderness the people so deeply yearn for."

     Two against one, Alicent was defeated. Her fury, a tempest raging within, threatened to engulf them with a fire fiercer than Vhagar's breath, poised to consume all in its searing path.

      The young princess clasped her hands tightly on the table, sensing the seething frustration radiating from her stepmother, feeling some kind of guilt for stripping her father's support from her.

With a sigh, she murmured, "They're protesting at our gates, those mindless fools." She shook her head slightly, hoping that the harsh statement would form some kind of common ground between her and Alicent.

     "I'll talk to Aemond." The queen said simply, dismissing the tension off the slate while still clinging to her own view.

     She departed the room, leaving the tension lingering like a fading whisper in the air.

     "Temper," the Hand muttered out of no where,

     "is the Queen's flaw, not one you should pity." His voice, cold and calculated, seeped into Maera's thoughts. She swallowed a clump of saliva, "I only sympathize with her blindness. Though, I cannot fault her entirely—Aemond is her dearest son."