SEE HOW IT SHINES

VII.

It would be a lie to say he does not think of her.

How can he not? Viserra Velaryon is everywhere. In one week, she has managed to take complete and utter ownership of the Red Keep, and the home that Aemond once loved for its lack of her has been conquered, ransacked, and burned. Everywhere he turns, Viserra is already there: a flash of white curls and blue skirts on the edge of his vision; an echo of melodic laughter down an empty corridor; a cloud of foreign fragrance lingering in the middle of a room. He cannot escape her. He sees her and hears her and hears about her every waking moment of his days.

Everyone at court seems to have fallen ill, consumed with some airborne madness that makes them enamored of her. Lordlings lust after her openly, trading lewd comments about her figure with guards and knights. Ladies clamor to spend their afternoons with her, begging to host her for tea or gossip sessions over needlepoint. And now that she has weaseled her way into the small council meetings, it's even worse: every power-hungry courtier in the castle wants to get closer to her, to have the ear of the girl who has the ear of the king. It's nauseating to watch. He can't remember ever seeing a woman fawned over thus, even the Realm's Delight herself. How has all the world fallen to insanity over one girl?

He tries, desperately, to remain immune. But it proves much, much harder to accomplish than when they were children, which infuriates him to no end. She was charming then, or so every witless lickspittle in the Red Keep seemed to think—now, however, she has far surpassed charming, and is utterly enthralling. Or so they say. Aemond really does try not to slip into the same madness the rest of them suffer from. He ignores her as thoroughly as he can, keeps to himself as much as possible, and avoids the places she might be or the people who might be with her.

But he is just a man, and he is not foolish nor entirely blind. So it would be a lie to say he does not think of her, though he truly hates that he does.

He can see plainly that her looks are worthy of the praise they receive. He can hear clearly the clever conversations she carries with her adoring little court, and the fine tone of her voice when she sings and plays her harp. He can note objectively that she dances with surpassing grace, and flies with even more agility than she dances. He can admit all of this—to himself, at least; he'd never speak it aloud—but what he still doesn't understand is why she must be so...present.

Could she not be beautiful elsewhere? On Dragonstone, or Driftmark, or beyond the fucking Wall? Could she not be witty and gregarious in Highgarden, or Tyrosh, or the farthest corners of Asshai? Why must she do it here, take his home out from under his feet? King's Landing was his these last eight years, blissfully devoid of her after a lifetime of sharing, and now he's not certain he can stomach to share it again. She takes everything, greedy and unapologetic, with no satisfaction in sight. Was it not enough to take his nameday and his father's love? He hates her, that vain, grasping, vicious little bi—

Gods. Perhaps he has gone mad, after all. He draws a tired hand over his face and tries to steady his breathing, his heart racing and hot from the anger in his lungs whenever he thinks of her. With a gruff sigh, he snaps his book shut, finally giving up after reading the same page six times in a row. In his hateful delirium, he'd failed to notice that the morning's rain had cleared, leaving a bright midday sun streaking in through the library's tall windows. Now, he's no longer limited to remaining inside the castle, where the likelihood of happening upon her is always higher. The maesters all believe that fresh air can improve almost any ailment, and Aemond hopes desperately that the same is true about whatever is plaguing him.

He stands, stretching his arms towards the vaulted ceiling, then gathers his books and strewn papers and makes his way to the library's exit. He passes row after row of tall shelves lined with hundreds of tomes, the scent of old wood and leather and paper swimming around him. Normally, the library comforts him greatly, smells and privacy alike. Today, it seems to only make him nauseous and anger him further. He walks faster, suddenly desperate to be out of doors, weaving through the shelves and tables, passing maesters and courtiers without sparing them the slightest glances. Over his shoulder, he hears that damned, familiar laughter—but when he whips his head around to find the source, eye roaming wildly around the room, he sees only an empty chair.