Ambers || Jacaerys Velaryon

10. Miara

"You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!"

King Viserys thunders, his voice shaking the Great Hall of High Tide. His face is twisted in rage, his eyes blazing as he glares at the Kingsguard, who stand in a solemn line before him, heads bowed in shame. Nearby, a maester works diligently, his hands steady but swift, as he sews the gash over one of Prince Aemond's eyes closed, the severed organ itself discarded on a nearby stool.

The hall is filled with onlookers--handmaidens, guards, nobles--all rigid with shock as they watch the silver-haired prince endure his treatment with an eerie stillness, numbed by the milk of the poppy. The only sounds are Aemond's occasional hisses of slight pain, the crackle of the hall's hearth, and Viserys' relentless questioning of how this could have happened.

Miara stands amidst all seven white cloaks, feeling their presence like an iron cage. Arryk had dragged her from the tunnels and thrust her before the freshly woken king, prioritizing his duty to the crown over their friendship. Erryk, who had been guarding the king during his slumber, could do nothing but watch it all with wide eyes.

Miara keeps her head high despite it all, refusing to cower under the weight of the hall's condemning stares, but it's growing more difficult by the second as she comes to terms with what's bound to happen.

"I'm very sorry, Your Grace. The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes," Ser Harrold says, his voice steady but laced with regret. He glances at Miara. "Or other children."

"That is no answer!" Viserys snaps, his anger undiminished. His gaze shifts to Miara, and for the first time, there is no kindness there-- only disdain, and more prominently, confusion.

From his perspective, his daughter's cupbearer has possibly committed an unforgivable act. The scene his men stumbled upon was damning: Miara, holding a blade and hands covered in blood, stood over an injured prince. No matter the chaos that had unfolded before between Aemond, his nephews, and their cousins, it was Miara who seemingly delivered the final, grievous blow. Only those fully present in the tunnels could say otherwise, but even then, it was five against one.

Aemond had come in screaming that it was Luke, but none were quick to believe him when Arryk handed the king Miara's knife. The blade was Luke's salvation, and Miara's possible end as Viserys ordered the whole of his guard to watch over her, keeping her separate from everyone else.

Across the hall, Luke and Jace stand together, their freckled faces bloodied and bruised. Their dark curls are tangled, and their eyes are filled with fearful uncertainty. Miara longs to go to them, to offer comfort, but Arryk's firm grip on her shoulder keeps her in place.

The memory of the past hour flashes in Miara's mind. The evening had been uneventful, with a few lingering funeral guests enjoying late refreshment as the sky darkened. After ensuring Ser Laenor ate before Ser Qarl took him to bed, Miara was about to retire herself when she overheard the frantic search for the younger princes and their cousins. They had slipped away as guards switched shifts, and more troubling, Prince Aemond had also been missing since sunset.

Determined to find them, Miara went off on her own, following a trail of fresh wax drips into High Tide's lower tunnels from the prince's guest chambers they shared with their cousins. There, in the underground network, she found the gruesome aftermath of a fight the princes had wrapped themselves up in.

Jace's broken, pleading voice as he whispered her name still haunts her. She saw the blade in Luke's hand, the one she had forgotten to retrieve, and knew the blame would fall heavily on him. Alicent would demand justice, and Miara feared what would happen if the king yielded to his wife's influence. Disinheritance, which was only a prolonged death for a young noble, or perhaps something worse awaited Luke if his role in the incident was exposed.