The Flames We Bear

Chaper 8 - Aemond

The hall was suffocating. Despite the vast space, the weight of the eyes upon me made the air feel thick. The murmurs of courtiers, the subtle shifts of the lords and ladies in their seats, and the heavy scent of incense made my skin prickle with irritation.

I stood tall at the front of the hall, my posture rigid as I gazed straight ahead. The grand Sept of King's Landing was filled to the brim, the highest lords of Westeros gathered to witness this union—a marriage that was as much a political performance as it was a personal one.

My marriage.

The thought gnawed at me, a bitter taste in my mouth. I hadn't wanted this. Not like this. But here I was, about to wed Visenya Velaryon—Rhaenyra's bastard daughter, the one whose very existence had been called into question more times than I cared to count.

My jaw clenched. Visenya. Until yesterday I hadn't seen her in years, not since that night in Driftmark when she had stood in front of her brothers, blood stained hands and fire in her eyes. She had always been different from the others—quieter, more composed but sharp with her wit. But there was still something that had grated on me, some reminder that she was part of them.

And now I was to marry her. Me, a Targaryen prince to marry a bastard of that whore Rhaenyra.

I could feel my mother's eyes on me from the front row, where she sat next to my grandfather, Otto Hightower, the man who saw life as a giant game of chess. Alicent's face was a carefully constructed mask of pride, but I knew better than anyone the emotions simmering beneath the surface. She despised this match as much as I did, but she had been persuaded—or rather, my grandfather had persuaded her—that this marriage was a necessary evil.

For the realm, they said. For power, they whispered. For the throne.

Otto's plans were always the same—subtle, manipulative, calculating. Marrying me to Visenya was just another move in his game of thrones, another step toward ensuring Aegon would sit on the Iron Throne. By joining our families, he'd secure our claim in ways even the Velaryon fleet could not. But more than that, by tethering me to Rhaenyra's eldest daughter, he believed he could control me and in doing so control her.

He was wrong.

I would never be controlled by anyone—least of all by the daughter of the woman who had caused so much chaos in our family. My hand flexed at my side, fingers brushing the hilt of my sword, Blackfyre, strapped to my waist in ceremonial fashion. It was a comfort, a reminder of the power I still held. The power that could not be taken from me, no matter how many alliances were forged.

I straightened my spine as the music began to play, the soft tones of the septon's choir filling the air. The heavy doors of the Sept creaked open, and the murmur of the crowd grew louder as they turned to see her—the bride.

Visenya.

She stepped into the hall, flanked by her brothers, Jace and Luke. Her gown was white, threaded with gold and deep red, the colors of her house, but there was no mistaking the true blood that ran through her veins. Strong blood. Her long brown curls tied into braids cascaded down her back, framing a face that had matured since the last time I'd seen her. Her skin, smooth and sun-kissed, caught the light of the torches as she walked, and her dark brown eyes—those eyes that reminded me far too much of a certain Knight—were fixed ahead, unreadable.

She looked... different. There was no denying she had grown into a beautiful maiden, but I shoved the thought away. It didn't matter. Beauty wouldn't mask her true nature. I had not forgotten who she was, and what her family represented. Her face was calm, as if she had resigned herself to the fate that awaited her, but there was no mistaking the defiance in the set of her jaw.

As she neared the altar, her eyes flicked toward me for just a moment. There was a brief flash of something in her gaze—was it hesitation? Fear? No. It was something sharper, more deliberate. She knew this marriage was a game, just as I did, and she was prepared to play her part.

I smirked, my gaze locking with hers for that brief moment before she looked away.

The septon began his words, but they blurred together in my mind. I knew the vows, the traditions, but they meant nothing to me. This wasn't a union of love or devotion—it was a transaction. A means to an end.

Visenya stood beside me now, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her body through the heavy fabric of her gown. Her face remained calm, a mask of neutrality as the septon droned on, though I could see the tightness in her jaw, the same tension that mirrored my own.

When it came time for the vows, her voice was steady as she recited the words, though I caught the slightest tremor in her hand when she held out her palm for the ceremonial binding. I allowed myself the smallest of smiles, wondering if she felt the same revulsion that I did.

"My prince," she said softly as I took her hand, the words almost lost in the noise of the hall. Visenya stood beside me now, her hand outstretched for the ceremonial binding. I took it, her fingers soft and warm against my skin, but her grip was as firm as mine a reminder of the unspoken power that lay between us. She may have been a dragon, but I had been forged in fire. We were not fools, either of us. 

The septon continued, and before long, it was over. The vows had been spoken, the binding completed, and the crowd erupted in applause. My mother's face was tight with barely concealed tension, while my grandfather's expression was one of quiet satisfaction.

When the septon instructed us to kiss and seal the union, I paused for a fraction of a second, feeling the eyes of the room bear down on us. I turned to her, seeing the same hesitation flicker across her face before it disappeared, replaced by something cold, distant.

I leaned forward, closing the space between us, my lips brushing against hers. There was no warmth, no softness in that kiss. It was a declaration of defiance, both of us refusing to bend to the wills of our families. Her lips pressed back against mine with the same force—no passion, only strength, a silent battle. I could feel her heart racing beneath her chest as our kiss deepened, a reminder of the tension that still simmered between us. A flash of memory struck me, of that night years ago when she had slashed my face to protect her brother.

Finally, we pulled away, and I smirked, though my stomach twisted with something unfamiliar.

I released her hand, turning to the crowd, but my thoughts were now elsewhere.

The first toast was made, and as the goblets were raised, I glanced at Visenya from the corner of my eye. She met my gaze, her brow slightly arched, daring me to speak first.

And I did.

"To my new wife," I said, lifting my goblet with a mocking smile. "May our union be as strong as the blood that flows through her veins."

The hall quieted for a moment, the weight of my words hanging in the air. I saw the flicker of anger in her eyes, though her face remained composed. She knew exactly what I meant—exactly what I was insinuating.

But to my surprise, she did not falter.

Visenya raised her own goblet, her smile sharp and cold. "To my new husband," she replied, her voice carrying through the hall with ease. "May our bond be as unshakeable as the Targaryen legacy, and as pure as the blood we both share."

Her words cut through the silence, and a few nervous chuckles echoed around us. But there was no mistaking the challenge in her tone. She had matched me blow for blow, and I felt a strange sense of satisfaction.

I blinked, caught off guard by her quick retort, but I recovered quickly, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. Perhaps this match would not be as dull as I'd imagined.

The crowd erupted into laughter and cheers, the tension easing slightly as the feast began. But even as the merriment resumed around us, I couldn't shake the feeling that this marriage was the beginning of something far more dangerous.

Something far more deadly.

And I was ready.