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Chapter Text

Helaena has always been the most interesting part of Aemond’s world.

He is five years old to her six, following her around with stumbling steps and grabby fingers. She has already taken an interest toward insects, even back then, and he helps her gather them into her emptied-out jewelry box.

He doesn’t know a lot about jewelry or bugs, but he knows their mother. “Will Mother be angry?”

“A dragon in her lap, daydreaming,” Helaena says. “Mother was happy, then.”

Sometimes, Mother will gather Aegon and Aemond together and tell them to be careful with Helaena. Her brain doesn’t work the way that theirs does, she tells them, and not just because she is a girl and they are boys. Mother says to be patient because it is not Helaena’s fault that she speaks in riddles.

Aemond has always known that Helaena is different. He has never needed the reminder to be good to his sister. He quite likes her, even.

“But not since?” Aemond asks, curious, wondering when Mother had her own dragon. He sure would like one, too.

“Not since,” Helaena agrees. “If she is angry, it is just because she is scared.”

Of the bugs? Of making Helaena upset? The answer is good enough for Aemond regardless, so he scoops up a blue beetle and puts it in the jewelry box.

When he is ten, he understands.

When Mother has spoken of Helaena, her brain and her riddles, she always makes it seem like there is something that Helaena lacks. That Aemond and Aegon must be respectful of the fact that she is not as quick as them, not as observant. It has always agitated Aemond, just a little, but he hasn’t really been able to explain why. 

It is true that Helaena does not understand things that come easy to him, such as when to give platitudes and how to address lords and ladies. But Helaena has a wealth of knowledge all on her own, of concepts that others could not fathom. Aemond spends many nights lying awake, trying to figure out what her words mean.

When they are at Driftmark, after the funeral for Laena Valaryon has ceased, Aemond goes to check in on Helaena. She had not known their aunt any better than him, but she has always been sensitive to the emotions of others. Too many stern words at the dinner table can make her cry.

But when he goes to see her, she’s grinning. It’s so infectious that he offers her a lopsided smile. It is hard to act pleasant these days, but Helaena does make it easier.

“Are you alright?” he asks, though her demeanor has given him the answer. “There’s a large crowd, I know you don’t like those.”

Sometimes in crowds like this, Helaena bunches her fingers in her hair and rocks back and forth. Or sometimes, she’ll just flee, shoes clacking against the floor as she goes to her chambers or the garden or wherever else she can be alone.

But she’s all smiles now. “Big day today,” she says. “The biggest!”

“I suppose you’re right,” he says, sitting down next to her. Helaena likes physical touch best when it's on her terms, so he sits an arm’s length from her. He expects to continue like that, not touching, but her foot reaches out to rest against his ankle. He likes it, likes that she touches him more than anyone else. It’s nice to be chosen for something.

“The wind moves today,” she tells him, growing serious. “It moves towards you. You will have to be ready.”

Aemond understands the warning for what it is. This is a peaceful gathering in honor of his aunt, but it would be foolish to think anyone here enjoyed each other’s company. “I will be,” he says. If the mood turns dark, he will fight. He will protect her.

“I know,” she says, pleased. “You always did have the strongest grip. Remember that fruit tart you squeezed so tight that it exploded?”

Aemond remembers. A blackberry had hit Mother’s dress and she had cursed and scolded him. Aegon had laughed, called him names, but Helaena had flapped her arms and given him half her tart.

“Not my finest moment,” he says. If anyone else had brought it up, he wouldn’t have liked it, but he knows Helaena does not mean it to be insulting. If anything, he thinks she’s complimenting him.

“Oh, I disagree,” Helaena replies. “I will remember so fondly back when both your eyes were open. But I promise not to flinch; I truly do not mind.”

He doesn’t know what she means, and she never elaborates much on her riddles. So he offers her another smile and leaves her there, with her riddles and her spiders.

It is only after, once his eye has been stitched and he is alone in bed, that he thinks back upon his conversation with his sister. She had mentioned his eyes, how she would miss when both of his eyes were open. And it wasn’t even the first time that she had mentioned them — what was it that she had said, during his conversation with Mother? He’ll have to close an eye?

He considers what else she had said during the conversation, from the big day comment to the strongest grip. It all adds up, doesn’t it?

Aemond has never agreed with his parents and his brother, who think that Helaena’s riddles are evidence of a simple mind. Up until this point, he has considered it a mind sickness, that her mind was trapped within itself, with only her true thoughts coming out on occasion. Now, he realizes that they’d all been incorrect.

Helaena is not dumb or mad, but a dreamer, the same way Daenys Targaryen had been. According to the books that all three siblings have been forced to read, Daenys had predicted the fall of Valyria and had saved the Targaryens from an early death. It is not a far reach to assume that Helaena could see similar events. Aemond allows himself a moment to daydream — him on the throne, with Helaena as his most trusted advisor. She could protect him with words the same way he will protect her with swords. 

No, Aemond thinks. If I were king, she would not be just an advisor. She would be my wife.

He thinks back to his conversation with Aegon, who would rather fuck countless whores than go anywhere near Helaena. It’s nonsensical to Aemond. What whore could ever be better than Helaena? How come no one realizes the power she holds, the gift she’s received?

It is hard to think about Aegon and Helaena in the same sentence without reflecting on how much better Aemond would be to her. Aemond doubts that he is capable of romantic love, not the way that Father speaks of his first wife, but he would treat Helaena with a respect that Aegon does not possess. He would keep her safe.

If he were the one betrothed to her, he would do right by her. But they aren’t betrothed, and it’s a hopeless line of thinking. Best not to think about it.

Two years after the loss of his eye and the gain of a dragon, Mother decides to throw a ball for all of Westeros to join. She tells Aemond that there will be many young girls there, and that he should tell her if any of them are appealing. “Perhaps you would be interested in one of the young Tyrell ladies,” his mother says. “I believe they would be a lovely match for you.”

Aemond will dance with whoever his mother commands and will be civil to any girl thrown in his direction. It is not their fault that he has no interest in them, nor is it their fault that they are being used as leverage in someone else’s game. Surely they have no interest in him as a person, and more the power that he could bring to their families.

It is all the same to him.

Helaena dislikes the idea even more than him. She likes being around people but dislikes crowds, and never has she been asked to dance. Lords do not want to step on Aegon’s toes, so to speak, and Aegon would never be caught dancing with her.

At Mother’s request, they all meet with the tailor together, and Helaena is put into her gown first for the fitting. Her face is kept neutral, but Aemond can see her trembling from across the room. The tailor snaps at her when she rocks back and forth, and once she is done, she bolts from the room as if it were on fire. Mother frowns but says nothing.

Aegon is supposed to be next, but Aemond cannot imagine being in this room any longer than necessary. “Fit me next,” he instructs the tailor, who sighs and shrugs. 

“I did not know you were so enthusiastic about formalwear, dear brother,” Aegon says. “I would be pleased to offer you my old clothes, should you want them.”

It is a snide remark masked as a polite offer. “You are too kind, brother,” Aemond replies stiffly, before he lets himself be spun around in the name of fashion.

He leaves as soon as he is done being manhandled, set on a quest to locate Helaena. He checks her chambers first, but the room is empty. Even the servants must have already cleaned up, since the bed is made up and the vanity mirror is polished. Not here, then.

Next, he finds Grand Maester Orwyle. Sometimes Helaena likes to shadow him, asking him questions about medicines and creatures. When Aemond finds him, he is bottling up herbs and writing on parchment.

“I have not seen the princess, Prince Aemond,” Orwyle says, not sparing him a glance. Aemond feels some shame at being figured out so easily, but does not articulate as much. “Perhaps she is resting in her chambers, which would not necessitate interruption.”

Aemond is not foolish enough to announce that he has already been there, so he bids Orwyle a curt gratitude before leaving the man alone.

He finds Helaena in the godswood, sitting underneath the heart tree. Her knees are tucked into her chest as she shakes and cries, loud whimpers that he can hear from several paces away.

He wants to grab her, lift her up, remind her that this is not a safe place to be emotional. The trees may not have ears, but the figures that loom in the shadows are not usually kind to little girls.

But Helaena does not like touch, and Aemond has never been good at making Helaena do things that she dislikes. So instead, he sits next to her, far enough away that he knows she won’t shrink away. He knows that sometimes these meltdowns consume her, so he speaks just to let her know that he’s there.

“It’s Aemond,” he says. He tries not to look at her because he knows that makes her uncomfortable sometimes, too. Instead, he stares back out at the Red Keep, at the castle he daydreams of both controlling and abandoning.

For a few minutes, they sit together in silence, but eventually Helaena’s cries fade and her rocking becomes less violent. Aemond spends a few minutes waiting for her to speak next, but after the silence becomes too agitated for him, he asks, “Was it that stupid tailor?”

“I do not like to be yelled at,” Helaena replies. Aemond could point out that it was barely yelling, not compared to what he’s been subjected to, but he will not. He can handle yelling and cussing and even being thrown around. Helaena can’t. 

It’s not her fault, he reminds himself. It's not her fault that he has expectations he can’t meet. It’s not her fault that the world is simultaneously crueler and kinder to her on the basis of gender.

“And I hate that dress,” she continues. “It’s itchy and scratchy and it’s just not right, not at all.”

“Perhaps if you told Mother, she would help you find something more agreeable,” he suggests, finally risking a glance at her. She is not looking at him, but she is also not shaking anymore. It’s a victory in its own right.

Helaena shakes her head. “Remember the ceremony last year, when we had to wear new clothes? It burnt my skin. Mother made me wear it anyway.”

Aemond remembers. Her skin had peeled as if she had fallen asleep in the sun, and the maesters had given her a cream for weeks. Mother had apologized for the discomfort, but had not revoked her stance.

It’s an upsetting memory. He rises to his feet and turns to extend a hand to her. She takes it, stumbling to her feet with his help. “Let’s burn it,” he tells her. “Tonight, when the tailor won’t be working on it. Let’s take it — the new dress, and the one that burned you — and throw it in the fire.”

She beams at him the way she had that day in Driftmark. This time, he offers her another grin in return. “You are the candle in my window,” she tells him, and though he cannot make sense of the words’ meaning, the excitement in her voice lets him know that it’s a good thing.

Aemond is no fool — he knows that Father does not love them the way that he loves Rhaenyra, nor does he care for them nearly as much. Even beyond refusing to name Aegon heir, that much is clear. Aemond knows that as surely as he knows the color of the sky.

He also knows that Father does not love Mother the way he loved the wife he had before. The bards only praise one of the romances, and it is certainly not the one involving Aemond’s mother. 

(Once, when Aemond had been too young to understand that Father barely tolerated him, he had even asked him about Rhaenyra’s mother.

“She was a part of me, similar to a limb or soul,” Father said. “She was the only wife I ever wanted, the only partner I needed.”

“Until Mother,” Aemond corrected, assuming the slip of Father’s tongue was accidental.

“Oh, I do have love for Alicent,” Father said. “But Aemma was a true guiding light.”)

It is Father’s love of Aemma Targaryen that Aemond remembers when he and Helaena are sneaking into the tailor’s workspace late at night. Helaena is a meek thing, capable of stealth, but either unable or unwilling to commit to it for long. So she lingers by the doorway, holding the dress from last year’s ceremony, while Aemond removes the new dress from the workstation.

In the light of the fire, which crackles and moans as it consumes the two dresses, Helaena’s face is tinted orange. Aemond cannot help but stare at her as she looks into the flames. There is a glint in her eye that speaks of knowledge and snark and humor — a glint that none of their relatives see.

But Aemond sees it. He always has.

The only wife I ever wanted, he thinks, and that’s when he knows.

Chapter Text

After realizing the nature of his feelings for her, Aemond avoids Helaena for three weeks.

He spends more time than ever in the training yard, luring Ser Criston into countless spars. Sometimes, he makes Aegon come fight with him, but his brother tends to either storm off in frustration or sneak away towards the serving girls. Aemond has no time for frustration, no time to think about anything, so he fights until his hands have bleeding blisters and his head spins from a lack of sustenance.

He gets knocked down a dozen times, but Ser Criston pulls him back up each time. Eventually, when Aemond drops, Ser Criston refuses to pull him back up until they agree to cease their combat. “You are not getting any better,” the knight tells him, not unkindly. “I am doing you a disservice by continuing to spar with you.”

“You will do as I bloody say, Cole,” Aemond says, spitting on the ground. Cowards do not deserve their titles, so he will not say Criston’s until they are at arms once more.

“It is your mother that I respond to,” Ser Criston reminds him. “She has noticed your increased attention toward sword fighting and is concerned for you. She asked me to limit our sparring today.”

“Do you always follow the orders of women?” Aemond asks, agitated. He gets himself off the ground, a motion that almost makes him lose balance. Now that they are stationary, he is beginning to feel the effects of his continuous fighting. When did he eat last? Did he break his fast with his family this morning, or was that yesterday?

“Your mother is not just any woman,” Ser Criston says. “I am sworn to her. Someday, if you’re lucky, you might find a woman you take orders from, too.”

If Helaena ordered me around, perhaps I’d—

No. He cannot think about it. If he thinks about it, the self-loathing will swallow him whole. 

“Just once more,” Aemond says, knowing that he will say it over and over until Criston drags him into the castle. “Just once more, and we’ll end.”

Criston rolls his eyes and readies his blade.

After a moon of solitude, Helaena stops tolerating his absence.

He walks into his chambers and finds her there, sitting patiently on his couch. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, an abandoned embroidery project to her side. The sun is shining from the window behind her and she looks like a dream.

She is not your dream to have, he reminds himself. The thought makes him so nauseous that he snaps. “What are you doing here?”

If she is upset by his tone, she does not show it. “You have been avoiding me,” she says, as if describing the weather.

He has made no attempt at discretion, but the fact that she has noticed still troubles him. “No, I haven’t,” he lies, so flat that he winces at his own lack of conviction.

Her eyes narrow. When was the last time that she had been angry with him, truly angry? He finds that he does not like the way it feels. “Yes, you have,” she replies, curt. “Ever since we burned those dresses. You only come to the Great Hall when Mother forces you, and you leave as soon as you are done eating. As soon as I enter a room, you leave it.”

Aemond’s embarrassment burns red into anger. “So what? Why shouldn’t I come and go as I please? I have more business to attend to then collecting your stupid bugs with you!”

She flinches. It’s something she does regularly, but almost never because of him. The anger turns into ash in his mouth and he has to bite his tongue to keep from apologizing. “I just–” she starts. Her voice cracks. Aemond wonders when he last felt so distressed. Perhaps it was the same time that she was last angry with him. “I just wanted to know what I did wrong,” she says, and it is so characteristic of her to take others’ wrongdoings and internalize them, to wonder if she missed a cue or spoke too blunt. Aemond has caused it, this time. “I didn’t know if you had gotten in trouble for the dresses. I never would have — I didn’t want… ”

He hadn’t gotten in trouble for the dresses. The tailor had apologized profusely to their mother, stating that he simply did not have enough time to make another one. It is a fireable offense, and Aemond had not come to his defense, not with the way he had spoken to Helaena. She had gotten to wear one of her comfortable blue dresses instead, one that she liked to run her fingers through. Aemond had been pleased about that, at least.

She rises from the couch, taking a step away from it only to turn back around and grab her embroidery. Aemond sees now what the project contains: a dragon, cool in color and sharp of eye. It’s Vhagar. She must have been planning on giving it to him.

I am a fool, he thinks, not for the first or last time. “Helaena —” he begins, not knowing how to apologize but not wanting her to be upset any longer. He reaches for her and she squirms away towards the door. Is it possible to drown with no water? His lungs are barely working.

“The vultures are circling,” Helaena says. He recognizes it for what it is — not words of her own, but words that force themselves out of her mouth, a waking dream. She sounds panicked, stressed, and Aemond doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t know how to fix any of it.

She lingers in the doorway, just for a moment. “I will not bother you any longer,” she says. “Just stop killing yourself.” Then she disappears, out his door and down the hall. 

Aemond stays standing there a long time, not knowing how to proceed. The guilt rises and ebbs like the ocean’s tide, and then anger takes its place once more. He does not need to apologize to any woman, even Helaena. It would be unbecoming of a prince who will one day not need to explain himself for anything. He refuses to grovel at her feet like a dog when he has just been trying to keep her safe. Perhaps it is for the best that she leaves him alone, anyway. It will give him the space and time required to get over this foolish heartache.

That line of thinking lasts about three hours.

Aemond spends forever staring at his ceiling. He has been having trouble sleeping ever since seeing Helaena in the firelight, kept conscious by thoughts of her soft skin and rosy lips. Then, as the weeks passed, kept conscious by his own self-disgust.

How could he do this to her? Fall for her and then become angry with her for it? She has not done anything wrong. It is his fault for corrupting their relationship, for taking everything she has given him and turning it into something perverse. She has trusted him with her time and attention and he has ruined everything, the way he always does.

But is it truly any better, leaving Helaena alone? It is not as though she has much other company besides Mother who underestimates her and Aegon who loathes her. Aemond trusts his own self-control, knows that he won’t touch her if she doesn’t want it, but he doesn’t trust anyone else with her.

The thought is jarring enough to get him out of bed. A stupid twat is what Aegon would call him if Aegon cared at all about Helaena. No one knows her the way that Aemond does, no one can love her the way that he can, and he’d abandoned her for four weeks. A fool, he thinks again, the words a religious chant in his head at this point. She would be within her rights to cast him away, to refuse any attempts at reconciliation.

I’ll just go knock on her door, Aemond reasons, telling himself he will accept her decision if she does not let him in. The guards won’t be patrolling in this wing at this time of night, so he should have little trouble. As heir, Aegon receives the most diligent guards outside his door, though Aemond suspects he pays them off to go fuck whores or serving girls. Or perhaps they just don’t care and let him leave.

Aemond keeps his footsteps light down the hall anyway. It’s not uncommon for Mother to stay awake until the hour of the ghosts, either restless from Father’s sickness or fear of the future. She would surely not like him going to Helaena’s door in the middle of the night, especially not since Helaena is already three-and-ten. She is barely a little girl anymore, to be married in the next handful of years.

The reminder that her marriage to Aegon is fastly approaching makes his feet move faster. If only he could only stop it, but the effort would just be him against the whole court. With Vhagar, maybe I could.

He knocks on her door once, twice, three times. After a few moments of silence, he considers either barging in or going back to his room, but then he hears the shuffling sounds of moving fabric. So he waits there with bated breath, trying and failing to distinguish the noises behind the door for the actions that she takes.

He expects Helaena to look surprised when she opens the door, but her expression remains neutral when she sees him. How come his sensitive, sweet sister is so rarely surprised?  “Aemond,” she greets before stepping back to let him into her room, a vision in her sapphire nightgown.

Her room is bigger than his, but not by much. Her collection of insects sits pretty on her dresser, with custom-built wooden enclosures instead of the old repurposed jewelry boxes. Aemond takes a few steps inside before realizing he has no idea what to say. His pride is all he has and he has no wish of losing it.

“I do not think your bugs are stupid,” is what he settles on. “I do not think that at all.”

She is smiling but does not immediately accept his unspoken apology the way he wishes her to. “I know,” she says. 

He both wants her forgiveness to be easier to achieve and harder to obtain. Helaena is not one to hold grudges, not even against Aegon or Mother for betrothing her to him. It’s a trait that has worked to Aemond’s advantage more than once, yet it would do her good not to let others walk over her.

Overcome by his own regret and with a lack of ways to express it, he kneels at her feet. Now she looks pleasantly surprised, her smile broadening with her shining eyes, and Aemond consumes the expression hungrily. To give Helaena what she deserves but never receives is better than any sweet or sword fight. 

“I was avoiding you,” he admits. Perhaps his pride is best left in Helaena’s hands anyway. She is so careful with her creatures and her stitches, surely she will be careful with his heart as well.

“I know,” she says again. She kneels down to meet him, her bare knees on the stone floor as her nightgown bunches around her. “Why?”

Aemond finds himself unable to lie to her or even mince his words, not when her face is so close to his. “You are the only person I am sure I truly love,” he tells her, and then feels embarrassed by his own honesty. If she understands his exact definition of love, she does not say it. “I do not like the way that makes me feel.” It scares me, he thinks, but would never be caught dead speaking it.

Her eyes are wet but she does not seem sad. She hugs him something fierce, a gesture he returns without thought. They do not embrace often, not since when they were little children getting scrapes, and certainly not in the public eye. It is not proper anymore, and Helaena rarely enjoys or initiates physical touch anyway.

Aemond could not give less of a shit about propriety right now, not with his nose in her citrus-scented hair and her warm hands on his back. The fact that she has chosen to reach for him, to press him against her neck, leaves his skin with a warm buzz like from taking a sip of Aegon’s honeywine. For once, he allows himself a moment of vulnerability, lets himself feel safe in her arms.

In his ear, she whispers, “My days are happier when you’re in them.”

The words I’m sorry refuse to leave his throat. Instead, he swears, “I will never leave you again.”

He does not need to see her face to know that his words have pleased her. “Lit by the blood moon,” she hums, her breath tickling his ear.

Tomorrow, Aemond will relearn his nature of a proper dutiful boy, one that does not dream of marrying his sister. He will learn to interact with Helaena without his secrets seeping out of his pores. He will learn to share a room with her without being tempted to flee or, worse, reach for her. He will learn to make his peace with his status as the second son, never to be king or have a queen.

But that’s tomorrow. For tonight, he will let himself be loved back. Just this once.

On the day Aemond turns three-and-ten, the family holds a large morning feast to celebrate. There are oat cereals and strawberry tarts, Dornish plums and pomegranates, bacon and peppered boars. The bards play happy songs, love songs and songs about battles won, and the rhythms make Helaena bounce in her seat. Mother and Father look pleased with the success of the occasion, and even Aegon does not give him so hard of a time.

The lords come to the main table and give him their well wishes of good food eaten and quality presents received. The ones with young daughters, hoping for a betrothal, give him the best gifts: ornate blades and rare history books. Aemond has made quite the name for himself around the keep, it seems. Aegon may be heir, but there are no disputes about who the better scholar is, the better fighter. He expects to be met with his brother’s snide remarks and finds that there are none. Aemond cannot help hoping that maybe now he is finally old enough to be equal to Aegon.

His hopes increase tenfold when Aegon finds him after the feast. “You’re a man now, you know,” his brother says, slapping Aemond on the back. (He puts great effort into not wincing.) “How about you and I spend time together this evening, huh? Maybe it’s about time we acted as brothers ought to.”

Aemond has been angry with his brother more times than not. They have bickered every day for years and spat on each other’s shoes and meals. They have gone too far in the training yard, cutting each other’s skin when there was no need to. Yet, even with all these past experiences, Aemond finds himself buzzing with pride at finally being recognized by his brother. Was this all he needed to do, turn three-and-ten? He suspects there are aspects of their lives that they will never have in common, but it would be pleasant to have a mutual respect between them.

“I would like that,” Aemond agrees. “When and where should I meet you?”

Aegon names his time and place, and Aemond leaves before the conversation can go badly. It is a skill he has grown proficient at –– taking advantage of Aegon’s good moods and departing before they can turn sour. 

He finds Helaena next, who has not strayed far from the Great Hall. She is in the corridor, looking fondly at the sculptures that Aemond has grown used to over the years. He is keen to speak with her, so he begins talking with little pleasantry.

“Aegon is spending time with me for my name-day,” Aemond tells her, his tone betraying his own excitement. She turns to him, but instead of being excited with him, she looks concerned. At her lack of positive response, he adds, “I think he’s warming up to me.” He finds himself desperate for Helaena to be partial to their brother now that he is being less hostile. Aegon has not ridiculed him all day, not even a remark about how much he ate at breakfast. He did not make any comments about Helaena, either, making Aemond even more hopeful that Aegon’s behavior is changing for the better.

“The vultures are circling,” she reminds him. The circling vultures have been her primary waking dream for months now. Aemond had first heard it the night they had reconciled, but it has been a regular occurrence ever since. Even Mother, who hesitates to believe Helaena’s dreams have merit, is beginning to grow nervous. No doubt, Queen Alicent views it as a promise of Princess Rhaenyra’s hostility, but Aemond is not so sure.

“I’ll be careful,” he promises. He suspects that Aegon will take him dragon riding, and that in itself has inherent danger. High off the good day and the promise of riding Vhagar later, he finds himself unwilling to keep himself from her. “Can I visit you when I return? Will you be in your chambers?”

“Perhaps we could walk the godswood,” she suggests eagerly, and he smiles at the tone of her voice. It will be a pleasant end to a good day.

“I look forward to it,” he replies, bidding her goodbye before he can do something stupid like call her beautiful.

He meets Aegon outside of the Red Keep right after the sun begins to lower in the sky. Aegon looks bored to death against the oranges of the city, but he comes to life when he notices Aemond. “Come on,” he says, gesturing to begin walking as soon as Aemond is close enough. “It’s a trek from here.”

They’re heading northwest. The direction of the Dragonpit, Aemond recognizes. He had been right that they would be riding together. They have done so before, but never just the two of them, never with the promise of a harmless, fun outing. He is still tingling with excitement, ready to feel the wind in his face with Vhagar moving beneath him.

Except Aegon walks straight past the route to the Dragonpit, heading further north. Aemond falters as they pass the turn. “The Dragonpit’s that way,” he says, in case Aegon has simply forgotten.

However, his brother rolls his eyes at the suggestion, laughing sharply. “We’re doing something much better than riding, little brother,” he says, the condescending edge to his tone returning once more.

Aemond hates its return, finding himself desperate to have the undertone of annoyance gone again. “Very well,” he says, though now he is more nervous than excited. He and Aegon do not exactly have common interests. He has no interest in getting so drunk that he cannot remember the outing, much less his intentions to meet with Helaena in the evening.

It is when they truly delve into the city, the parts that Aemond has never been to before, that he begins to wish he hadn’t come. He considers voicing such wishes to Aegon but knows that line of conversation would end well. Perhaps it is best to tolerate Aegon for a few hours as he drinks, try not to drink too much no matter what gets handed to him, and slip out early.

He does not recognize the purpose of the street that they are walking until he notices the citizens strolling alongside them. A man older than Father and drunker than Aemond’s ever seen stumbles through the pathway, clinging to the stone walls as he disappears around a corner. A girl not too much older than Helaena giggling in conversation, cloth wrapped around her body but keeping her breasts exposed.

Aemond understands all at once. “Aegon,” he warns, halting his movements. He has no interest in brothels and certainly no interest in utilizing one’s services.

Aegon’s hand finds his back and pushes him towards the nearest open door. There is a woman lingering at the threshold, ready to welcome him in. His older brother turns to him, grin looking feral in the glint of the sun. “Time to get it wet, little brother,” he says, and then he pushes Aemond inside.

Aemond walks back to the Keep alone, calling himself a fool once again.

Of course Aegon is not truly changing his behavior. Aemond is an idiot for ever thinking any differently. He will not make the same mistake, expecting others to go against their true nature.

His surroundings blur as he walks through the Street of Silk, his view of the citizens melting into the architecture behind them. He is not wearing any disguise, but if anybody recognizes him, they do not approach him. He doesn’t know how to get home, not really, but his legs carry him through anyway. It must not be the same route that Aegon had taken him on because it feels eons longer, but eventually he makes his way back towards the Dragonpit, back towards home.

Aemond arrives at Maegor’s Holdfast seemingly undetected, or at least uninterrupted. He has not forgotten his promise to walk the godswood with Helaena, but knows he cannot meet with her like this. He needs to go to his chambers, change his clothes, and figure out how to pretend that the last few hours never happened.

He never gets the chance. Helaena is leaving her rooms down the hall at the moment he is about to enter his. For a moment, he considers entering his room anyway, but then she brightens at the sight of him so drastically that he knows he cannot ignore her. She heads straight for him, her positive expression freezing when she realizes the state that he is in.

“Aemond?” she questions, her hand reaching out to hold his arm. Unthinking, he jerks back from her touch, stumbling backwards. Her expression falls.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, horrified by his own behavior. He does not cower and definitely not from Helaena. He should be soaking in every last bit of affection that he can receive from her, and here he is, dismissing it on instinct. Her eyes drop from his face to his torso and beyond. Aemond looks down to realize that his trousers are still unlaced and hastens to lace them. His fingers seem to have forgotten how to perform such a task, too busy shaking to answer his will. It is embarrassing to do such a thing in front of Helaena, but he cannot tolerate the idea of giving her any more time to connect the dots.

Beyond just lacing his trousers, he is finding it difficult to be in Helaena’s vicinity in general. He worries that his filth will reach across the room and strangle her, inflicting her with the perverted world that he has now been subjected to. Helaena is perhaps the only person in Westeros with pure intentions. Even Mother has her own agenda, or she would have never betrothed Helaena and Aegon in the first place. Aemond will not be the one to ruin her innocence, will not be the one to dirty Helaena the way he has been dirtied.

“The vultures,” she whispers, as if her worst fears have been confirmed true. He had expected disgust from her, perhaps a comparison of his behavior to Aegon’s, but she does not seem upset. Instead, she radiates empathy.

Aemond does not know if the brothel whores are the vultures she has been referring to this whole time — doubts it, even — but he finds himself nodding. “Yes,” he replies, just as quietly. Suddenly he worries that she will offer to cancel their planned stroll, and he loathes the concept of her thinking he does not want her around. “I have not forgotten our godswood walk, but would you—“ He swallows, bites his cheek, debates his phrasing. “Would you mind if I took some time to … prepare?”

“Of course,” Helaena agrees. She does not press the matter and he finds himself thankful. She pushes where others falter, falters where others push. “I will take some time to myself, as well, and then I will meet you there?”

“Yes, that would be agreeable,” he says, and at her nod, enters his room and closes the door behind him. For a moment, he lingers by his closed door, cursing himself for showing such weakness in front of anyone. His secrets will be safe with Helaena, but she should not have to see him like this, not when he should be the one protecting her.

He dreads turning to look in the mirror, but does it anyway, needing to know what she just saw. His hair is messy, pulled out of the ties that had been keeping it in place. He barely recognizes himself, not when he’s so pale like this, so small. His body had betrayed him today, and now it does not even feel like his at all.

This is the last day you feel like this, he tells himself. I will be no one’s victim any longer.

Helaena is already in the godswood when he arrives, lingering by the entrance, waiting for him. Aemond is still remembering how to act like a human being when she notices him, turning with a smile. It is then that he notices something in her hands, an embroidery circle with the design facing her.

He cannot deny the surge of affection that runs through his bones at the sight of the gift, but he shakes his head anyway. “You did not need to make me anything, Helaena. Spending time with me is enough.”

“So you don’t want it?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. She has that glint in her eye again, the type that makes his heartbeat ring through his ears.

“No, no, I want it,” Aemond replies, and it’s only when she grins that he realizes he has fallen for her trap. “Ha-ha, very funny.”

“Tell me if you like it,” she says softly, quest to tease him forgotten, and hands it to him. He turns the circle over to reveal a blue beetle with purple undertones. Helaena's stitching has increased in quality over the years, and he finds himself admiring the neat stitches. The design is well-done, and he enjoys it, but it takes him a moment to remember the significance.

When he does, he smiles. “You remember,” he says, pleased. How young they had both been back then, back when he followed her everywhere. He helped her collect bugs and kept guard against Aegon, who would try and stomp them before Helaena could study them properly. 

“So do you,” she replies, still beaming. “You always have been on my side, haven’t you?”

Aemond almost says that there are no sides, not with their family, but he knows it's a lie. He cannot lie to her, not when she has given him such a lovely gift. He traces over the stitches with his fingers as he confirms: “Yes.”

“Lit by the blood moon,” she says, delighted. Gently, she raises her arm into the air, towards him. This time, he does not flinch. He offers his arm, lets her wrap her hand around it. It cannot forgive the insolence he had shown earlier, wincing from her, but hopefully it is a good start. They begin their walk through the godswood, taking slow, purposeful steps. Aemond knows he is doing so to elongate such an experience with her, to memorize the feeling of her skin against his tunic, but he could not guess why she does the same. Perhaps just to follow his lead.

They do not speak for the first long while. Aemond does not know what to say, and Helaena has always been comfortable with silences anyway. All his energy is devoted to keeping himself together, as if he will crumble at any moment.

(He wonders if this is how Helaena feels all the time — as if one gust of wind will make her fall apart. How exhausting her world must be.)

Aemond will recover from his own foolishness and will not be so easily tricked next time. For Helaena, however, trust is her nature. She does not want to believe that others would intentionally hurt her. How suddenly she will find out, once Mother forces the marriage to Aegon. The thought fills his throat with bile.

“I do not wish for you to marry him,” Aemond says, the words rising out of his throat without his consent. He winces — what was it with Helaena that had him constantly forgetting himself, who he was supposed to be? Now that the words have been spoken, he finds himself uninterested in taking them back. “Aegon, I mean,” he adds, as if it could have been anyone else. He keeps his eye straight ahead as they walk, unable to look her in the eye.

Helaena takes a moment to respond to that, as if considering her options. Eventually, she says, “I do not think Mother will ever change her mind.”

“Maybe she would,” he says. Mother loves Helaena the most and Aemond does not blame her. The idea of leaving Helaena to her marriage with Aegon is now unthinkable, not now that he knows intimately how Aegon spends his time. You cannot count on him to change, he thinks, and knows Heleana will be disrespected for the rest of her life if she marries him. Perhaps it is time to start taking what he wants. “Maybe she would betroth you to me, instead.”

Helaena’s hand slips from his arm, and he turns, expecting to see her upset. Instead, she is flapping her arms, the way she does when he makes a funny joke or gives her a compliment. Aemond comes to the dizzying realization that he is being chosen. “And you would find that agreeable?” she asks.

The smile in her tone is contagious. “Yes,” he replies, laughing despite himself. He allows himself to forget about the day’s earlier happenings in favor of living in this moment with her. “Very much so.”

“So would I,” she breathes, and then she grabs his arm again so quickly as if embarrassed to have dropped it in the first place. “I do not think Mother would take the idea very well, though. The vultures are circling.”

“You’re right,” he says. “Perhaps the tension will settle soon, and we could mention it to her then.”

“You do not have to court me,” Helaena blurts. She is getting ahead of herself, but Aemond could not care less about the breach in courtly behavior. Instead, he lets himself daydream about the future: giving her flowers and other gifts. He knows she did not mean for this embroidery to be a courting gift, but he knows its his turn next regardless. He does not believe that her excitement is confirmation that she feels the same love he does, but whatever it is, it is more than he ever imagined. “I would not wish for you to go through the trouble.”

“Would you wish for that?” he asks, having a strong guess for the answer. Helaena likes to be given attention the way any girl would and Aemond is happy to play the other role. “More gifts and outings like these?”

“Yes, but-“

“Then I will do it for you,” he interrupts, finding validation in the look on her face, as if he has gone beyond her expectations. It makes him want to kiss her, and for a moment the thought fills him with warmth. Then, it makes him nauseous. The weight of the day’s earlier events settles on his shoulders, and he again feels as though Helaena is being ruined by being in his vicinity.

It is too much. He knows, objectively, that he is better than Aegon, but he does not feel that way at the moment. Instead, he feels as though if Helaena looks at him for long enough, she will know his true nature and not like it. She will reject his offer, prefer to marry Aegon instead, Aegon who, who—

“I am glad we had time together today,” Aemond says. He is still holding the embroidery circle with the arm Helaena is not attached to. He is careful to word his exit kindly, not wanting to shatter this delicate new dynamic. “I think I will rest now. Could I walk you back to your chambers?”

“I would quite like that, I think,” she says, so on they walk.