SEE HOW IT SHINES

XII.

Aemond pushes a piece of lamb across his plate listlessly, deaf to the lively music and chatter around him. Daemon and Rhaenyra's hastily-assembled feast in Baela's honor is naught but a blur of sound and color. He would have been far happier to remain in his room all evening, but his mother barged in and forced him to attend, though his bath was warm and his mind was elsewhere.

He doesn't understand why he and his siblings have to sit through Baela's little feast. No one made nearly this much fuss when any of them first mounted their dragons—not Aegon with Sunfyre, nor Helaena with Dreamfyre, and when he claimed Vhagar, not a soul on Driftmark thought to congratulate him. But for Daemon's daughter, proud and bold, near half the court has been summoned: Ironrod and a handful of his children; Aegon's ale-drenched friends; Leron Hayford and his fair sister Lyra; a few of Daemon's former gold cloak underlings...even Otto and Lord Larys, two men who perhaps hate Rhaenyra and her family more than anyone else, have come to compliment the girl on her first flight.

He's done his part. He sat through a dozen toasts. He congratulated Baela, which seemed to surprise her as much as it surprised him—but it is not every day a new dragonrider is made, even if the dragon in question is as strange in appearance as Moondancer, all lizard-gill scales and bird-plume horns.

Now, he just wants to be alone.

He spears another piece of meat and brings it to his lips angrily. He is still smarting from the altercation with Luke earlier, and to see him now, laughing and jesting as though he's already forgotten what happened, only makes Aemond's mood darker. And it does not help that he feels the gold heat of a familiar gaze flick over him every thirty seconds. Viserra has spent the majority of the night nervously glancing between Aemond and Lucerys, like she's worried they might leap across the table and finish their fight on top of the roast goose. Oh, she hides it well, flashing a smile at her siblings and joining in the merriment earnestly whenever someone looks her way, but he can sense the worry in her, just beneath her surface. He only looks at her when he knows her gaze has left him—when it is safe to watch her.

Aemond feels his innards fluctuating. One lung is filled with fury, the other with amusement. She'd been so self-assured in her reprimand this morning, her cheeks alight with a haughty fire, but now she is reserved, almost regretful. He wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake until the fire catches again. There is something so gratifying about those rare moments when she allows her mask to slip, when the composed, perfect, saccharine Viserra ebbs and the defensive, passionate, willful Viserra flows. When she allows herself her anger. When she allows herself to act like...like him. Like a dragon.

So he waits, picking at his food, ignoring the words of the family at his table and the half-visible figures of courtiers at the tables below them. He pretends not to notice Viserra's ever-present gaze and pretends to know whether he likes it or hates it. And when the twins and Luke and Helaena eventually get up from their seats—to dance, to mingle, he knows and cares not—leaving only Aemond and Viserra at their end of the table, he attacks without a moment's consideration.

"Princess," he says quietly, directly, leaning forward to capture her attention before she follows after them.

She looks up in surprise, one bemused brow raised. Her eyes are oddly clear tonight, their lavender-blue hue lighter than usual, piercing, hard. He wonders if she can see through to his tormented innards. "He speaks."

"As does she. You have been unusually quiet this evening. Is anything the matter?"

"I find it hard to believe that you would care if it was," she replies. Her voice is soft but sharp. Aemond's heart flickers in excitement. She's still cross.

"Go on." He's goading her too plainly, but he cannot help it. "You can finish chastising me. I know you did not say all you wished to earlier today."

Viserra's lips part slightly. Full, self-righteous, petal lips, painted berry-red and prepared to berate him. He shifts in his seat. This is what he wants of her. Aegon had it wrong. He wants a fight, nothing more. It is the easiest, purest expression of himself—the only way of engaging another soul that comes to him naturally. And he knows she wants it, too. She delights in it just as he does, takes secret pleasure in it just as he does. He knows it. They are not so different.