SEE HOW IT SHINES

ix

Viserra smiles to the knight in the white cloak as she approaches the door to the king's chambers. "Good morrow, Ser," she greets cheerfully.

Lorent Marbrand grins. "Princess Viserra. His Grace will be pleased to see you." He pushes open the heavy door and steps aside to let her pass, his kind eyes twinkling. The Kingsguard must be loyal to their king above all else, but other, smaller loyalties lie just beneath the smooth white surface of their armor. Where Ser Criston is openly devoted to Queen Alicent and her children, Ser Lorent has more fondness for Princess Rhaenyra and hers.

She steps into the antechamber and is immediately struck by the thick plumes of smoke swirling through the room, heavy with the scent of incense. Even with the censers posted all around her, the pervasive stench of sickness still remains. She buries her grimace beneath a smile and pushes into the next room. Grand Maester Orwyle stands at the king's bedside, applying a compress to her grandsire's brow. Behind him, another maester is busy preparing some sort of poultice in a small wooden bowl, while a third disposes of cloths stained with pus and blood. And on the king's opposite side, watching with a grim expression and murmuring questions to the grand maester, is—

Him. Viserra blinks. She had not expected to see him here this morning, and certainly not in such an attentive pose beside his father, concern obvious in his lone eye. Then again, she really shouldn't be surprised: Aemond is everywhere, a cold black storm front at the edges of her vision wherever she goes. In the past week, he has gone from an almost-present, half-formed figure to something much more conspicuous—which is exactly what she wanted, yet now that she sees him more often, she feels far more unsettled, too. They haven't spoken since the day in the courtyard, a fact that only seems to add to her nervousness; only long glances and short smiles are exchanged in passing, polite and impersonal, just enough to leave a flicker of hope in the pit of her stomach. She's not sure why she cares; he's just one man, one prince out of seven, one knight out of a thousand, one body out of nearly half a million in all of King's Landing. He should not strike such fear and fascination in her heart. And yet...

He notices her immediately, a sharp twitch of his head and that piercing eye is on her, almost accusatory, almost defensive. She resists the urge to take a step back, the intensity of his stare nearly enough to knock the breath from her lungs. His lip curls slightly. Her heart stops beating. In three long paces he crosses the room, an unmistakable blaze in his eye.

"What are you doing here?" He whispers only half-angrily as the space between them dwindles.

Viserra holds her ground—barely. She's not sure why he's upset. She's never sure. She's not sure if she cares at all. "I came to see my grandsire. Did I need your permission to enter?"

"You—"

"Princess," Orwyle turns, eyes darting briefly between Aemond and Viserra before he dips his head to her. "I'm afraid that this is not the best time for a visit. His Grace..."

She takes a steadying breath, unsure how her blood has turned so warm so fast. She only meant to visit a kindly old man, and now her entire day feels violently derailed—all because of him. How does he manage to do this to her, time and time again?

"Is abed, yes, I see," she nods. "I do not mean to disturb. I shall return later."

A weak moan floats up from the bed, and Viserra's heartbeat comes rushing back. Viserys manages to lift his head ever so slightly. "Rhaenyra?"

She picks up her skirts and pushes past both prince and grand maester. The smell of decay grows stronger as she grows nearer, and she notices the soft pink seep of fresh blood from beneath the new compress that covers most of the king's face. Her lower lip trembles. "It's Viserra, Grandsire."