“You have read that Muad'Dib had no playmates his own age on Caladan. The dangers were too great. But Muad'Dib did have wonderful companion-teachers. There was Gurney Halleck, the troubadour-warrior. You will sing some of Gurney's songs as you read along in this book. There was Thufir Hawat, the old Mentat Master of Assassins, who struck fear even into the heart of the Padishah Emperor. There were Duncan Idaho, the Swordmaster of the Ginaz; Dr. Wellington Yueh, a name black in treachery but bright in knowledge; the Lady Jessica, who guided her son in the Bene Gesserit Way, and--of course--the Duke Leto, whose qualities as a father have long been overlooked.”

―from "A Child's History of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan

…

Three years later.

The scratching of charcoal against parchment filled Aemond's chamber, a sound as steady and rhythmical as a horse’s trot. He hunched over his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue barely touching his upper lip. Before him, half a dozen sheets of vellum were spread haphazardly across the surface—sketches of a peculiar contraption that might have been mistaken for a saddle, though it seemed made for something far grander than a mere horse. Each line was painstakingly drawn, tracing the vague outlines of harnesses and supports, with angular marks that resembled talons more than stirrups. An observer might think the sketches were drawn by someone possessed, the mad ravings of a mind more interested in something unspoken than a boy's typical pursuits.

The young prince barely noticed the state of the room around him—disordered, as though a storm had swept through. Scraps of parchment littered the ground, curling around chair legs like autumn leaves. A small brazier glowed faintly by the bed, casting its feeble warmth into the air, which still carried the lingering scent of melted wax and burnt wood. By the window, a narrow strip of sunlight was struggling to break through the haze of clouds, dappling the stone floor in pallid shades of grey. Aemond moved the charcoal stick across the paper in a tight arc, breathing life into his schematics. The contraption—whatever it was—demanded all of his attention, his mind fully consumed with the delicate interplay between dream and design.

A knock rapped sharply on the door, breaking his focus. He looked up, the charcoal slipping from his fingers, leaving a smear across the edge of the parchment. Aemond blinked, his unnaturally blue eyes adjusting to the sudden shift in awareness, and he muttered a curse as he glanced at the interruption. Before he could bid entry, the door creaked open, revealing a young woman with a headscarf wound tightly around her hair. She peeked into the room with an air of casual familiarity, her face splitting into a smile when her eyes caught his.

"Prince Aemond," she said, voice warm, "Your mother sent me to fetch you. You know what day it is."

Aemond leaned back, the tension in his shoulders easing. He stretched, wincing as the motion coaxed a series of small cracks from his spine. He sighed, glancing at the clutter. "The small council meeting," he said with a resigned breath. "Of course."

The servant—Ellyn, her name was—nodded and took a small step into the room, her gaze wandering over the scattered papers and tools, her mouth quirking upward in a half-smile. “It looks like you’ve been keeping yourself busy.”

Aemond frowned. “Not busy enough, it seems. Help me put this away, will you?”

Ellyn laughed, a soft sound like the clink of glass in the kitchens. She moved towards the table, beginning to collect the stray scraps without question. There was an ease to her movements, a practised rhythm that suggested this wasn’t the first time Aemond had called upon her for such assistance. Her fingers danced deftly around his scattered tools—a pair of rusted callipers, some scraps of leather, a thin glass lens—placing them neatly aside as she hummed under her breath. Aemond glanced at her, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips, but he said nothing, instead focusing on tying back his loose hair, smoothing his tunic where it had bunched.

“You’re really going to the council today?” Ellyn asked, still gathering the mess. There was a note of curiosity, even teasing, in her tone. “A cupbearer, they say. Quite the elevation.”

“Quite,” Aemond muttered dryly, rolling his eyes. He caught the look she threw him—a raised brow, a faint smile—and he added, “My mother believes it is necessary to finally put my queer mind to good use. I am to learn, observe. An opportunity, she says.”

“And do you think so?” Ellyn asked, gathering the last of the scattered pages and stacking them into a rough pile. She looked at him, her expression as open as a summer sky.

Aemond paused, considering her question. For a moment, his gaze drifted back to the sketches on his desk, to the vague, half-formed idea of what it could become—some future unbidden, as yet unimagined. Finally, he shook his head, though a flicker of determination remained in his eye. “It will be whatever I make it, Ellyn.” He let the words hang there, like a promise, and then added more softly, “But it’s best not to keep the council waiting.”

She smiled, nodding her agreement, and together they worked swiftly, putting the room to rights. When at last Aemond turned toward the door, Ellyn was there to straighten the collar of his doublet, her hands brushing against the silver embroidery. “There,” she said, her eyes warm. “You look every bit the princeling now.”

Aemond gave her a measured look, but it softened almost instantly. He nodded in thanks, a gesture small but genuine. He stepped towards the door, hesitating a moment to look back at the cluttered desk, at the half-finished sketches and the secrets they promised. Then he shook his head, banishing the thought. There would be time enough later.

For now, he had other duties.

----------------------------------------

Aemond stepped through the carved doors of the council chamber, his boots barely making a sound on the cold stone floor. The room was large, echoing, warmed only by the many tapestries that hung from its walls and the faint glow of a hearth at the far end. The far wall bore the banner of the dragon—House Targaryen's three-headed beast roaring in black and red. Aemond paused, taking in the gathered lords, the polished oaken table around which they sat, and the heavy, stagnant air that seemed to hang over all of them like a thick fog. The scent of ink and parchment lingered in this air, mingling with the scent of old wood and iron.

Aemond moved carefully to his place by the side, the copper flagon of wine balanced in his hands. The eyes of the room, for a moment, turned to him—Rhaenyra's most of all, her gaze as sharp as Valyrian steel. Her lips curled slightly, curving downward into a frown.

"Why is he here?" she asked, her tone controlled but carrying a hint of scorn. "This is hardly a place for children."

Aemond ignored her, keeping his eyes lowered, focused on the goblets, on the dark, rich wine within the container. On the other hand, Queen Alicent raised her head from the scroll she was perusing, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she faced the princess. "The position of cupbearer was vacant," she replied, her voice honeyed with politeness but firm, each word deliberate, as though she were speaking to a particularly slow child. "Who better to fill than Aemond? He has always been the most scholarly and level-headed of the young princes."

Rhaenyra's nostrils flared, her eyes narrowing. Her words were on the cusp of her tongue—Aemond could see it, sense it—but before she could continue, King Viserys lifted a weary hand, his voice crackling like old parchment as he spoke. "It was my decision, Rhaenyra," he said, his eyes meeting hers, though they lacked any fire. "Aemond is here with my blessing. There will be no further debate."

For a moment, a taut silence fell across the room. Then, Rhaenyra inclined her head, her gaze never leaving Alicent's, and Aemond could feel the weight of her displeasure settle across his shoulders.

The council resumed, the voices of the lords merging together—Lord Beesbury’s quivering as he spoke of the latest reports from the Riverlands, of Brackens and Blackwoods slaughtering each other like wild dogs. Lord Lyonel Strong nodded gravely, his words firm and measured, proposing a royal envoy to bring peace. Aemond could see Ser Harrold Westerling’s resigned nod from the corner of his eye, a weary acceptance of another thankless duty.

He poured wine for Lord Jasper Wylde, his hands steady, his eyes flitting upwards just long enough to catch the dour set of the man’s face. The Master of Laws listened, his lips pursed, as Ser Tyland Lannister took up the topic of the Stepstones, his tone dripping with derision. "The Triarchy are at it again," Tyland said, his fingers drumming on the table in a show of impatience.

Aemond moved on, filling the goblet of the Grand Maester, who leaned forward, his mouth set in a frown as he pondered the troubling matter. "The Dornish alliance could end up a thorn in our side," Orwyle mused, eventually making his thoughts known. "We must tread carefully. Those Dornishmen hold grudges longer than any of us here."

Aemond watched, silent, unseen, as the council debated, every detail, every mannerism, his mind like a trap collecting it all. Alicent spoke some, but her words were most often chosen with care. In comparison, Rhaenyra spoke little, though what few words she uttered seemed aimed at countering the queen's points. It was a trying thing for his mother, Aemond noted.

The wine flagon grew lighter as the discussions wound on, shifting from the threat of the Triarchy to the coin needed for some important construction north of the city harbour. Lord Beesbury droned on, his voice full of frustration, while Tyland leaned back, a mocking smile tugging at his lips. Aemond knew that smile, knew it was a mask—a show for the council, what he was hiding, Aemond could yet tell.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The meeting dragged to its close, the lords standing, their voices dropping to murmurs as they spoke amongst themselves. Aemond caught his mother’s eye. She moved to his side, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, her touch warm, grounding him in the present moment.

“You did well,” she whispered, her lips barely moving. Her smile was faint, but her eyes held pride. “Now, go join your brother in the yard. Your father needs me."

Aemond nodded, though a flicker of irritation crossed his face. He had no desire to cross swords with Aegon today, not when there were much more important things to be done than dealing with the wastrel. But his mother’s gaze brooked no argument, and he bowed his head in acquiescence.

He left the council chamber, his steps measured, his mind already sorting through what he had heard, what he had seen. He could still feel Rhaenyra’s disapproval, could still hear the derision in Tyland’s voice, the cautious wisdom in Lord Lyonel’s. He remembered it all—each slight, each power play, each decision made for personal gain.

Outside, the castle corridors stretched before him, and somewhere beyond, the clatter of steel on steel echoed faintly. The training yard. Aegon would be there, and Aemond could already picture his brother’s lazy grin, the careless way he swung a sword. A tired sigh escaped him at the thought.

----------------------------------------

The courtyard of the Red Keep bustled with the early morning stirrings of training. The clanking of steel against steel, the barked orders of the knights, and the occasional laughter of stable boys created an atmosphere of orderly chaos. Aemond watched from a distance, his eyes narrowed as he observed his brother, Aegon, clumsily sparring with Ser Arryk. Aegon’s laughter rang out, carefree and indifferent, as if he had no sense of the weight pressing down on their family.

Aemond felt a deep scowl forming on his face, his lips thinning in irritation. Aegon’s antics were nothing new. He had always been the favoured son, born with the crown in sight, yet unable to grasp even the basic tenets of duty. There was an empty pleasure in his smiles, a shallowness that Aemond instinctively despised. How could anyone think the fool a prince, let alone a king?

“Prince Aemond.” The voice of Ser Criston Cole brought Aemond's attention back to the courtyard, breaking through the haze of his thoughts. The white cloak of the Kingsguard swayed in the breeze, and Criston’s stern face bore the marks of one who had grown tired of watching boys pretend at war. “You must focus. Take up the sword as if you mean it.”

Aemond picked up the practice sword, feeling the crude wood in his hands. It was heavy, unwieldy—a clumsy replica of the elegance he sought. He adjusted his grip, tightening his small fingers around the hilt. He could remember another time, another place, another life. A life where power was not a birthright but earned, fought for, claimed through force of will. He remembered the weight of a crysknife in his hands, the sands of Arrakis shifting beneath his feet, the breath of death in his blade.

“Good,” Ser Criston said, nodding as he watched the young prince practice. “It seems Ser Arryk had not been exaggerating when he said you were born to be a fighter. You learn faster than your brother, my prince.”

Aemond didn’t respond. He swung again, harder, his body moving instinctively, his mind adrift. Few of this world, he knew, could match even the weakest of the Harkonnen foot soldiers in skill. Fewer still—men like Ser Criston—could hope to best the average Atreides soldier in combat. None could even begin to fathom the lethality of your average Fremen, much less the formidable Fedaykin of his past.

This awareness brought to Aemond a certain concern. He was a boy barely ten summers aged who could not hope to match a grown man’s sheer strength, yet he knew even Ser Criston would fall to his blade should they come to blows. Was this the best Westeros had to offer?

Aegon’s laughter pulled him back. His older brother had abandoned his sparring session, stumbling towards the wine brought by a servant boy. Aegon grasped the pitcher, pouring himself a cup before lifting it in Aemond’s direction. “Care to join me, brother?” he called, his voice loud enough to draw the eyes of those nearby.

Aemond ignored him, focusing on the training dummy in front of him, his eyes narrowed. “Your brother’s invitation is not one that leads to strength,” Ser Criston murmured beside him, his gaze shifting briefly to Aegon’s antics before returning to Aemond.

Aemond nodded curtly. “Worry not, I have no interest in wine before midday.” He struck the dummy again, the wood splintering beneath his—

Aemond froze, feeling something cold splash his back and soak his garment. Red, and sweet-smelling. Wine.

“Are you deaf? Or did you not hear me speak?”

Aemond turned to see Aegon holding an empty pitcher of wine, a mocking smile on his face. With a quiet sigh, he turned to leave the courtyard but paused when he heard Aegon speak again.

“...Spineless,” the word hissed beneath the older prince’s breath.

A breath of silence. Another quiet sigh. Ser Criston turned his unreadable gaze to Aegon but did not move to intervene, seemingly content to let this play out. Expressionless, Aemond turned to face his brother again.

“Fetch your sword, Aegon,” he said as he removed his ruined garments.

“...And if I don’t?”

Aemond simply shrugged in response. “At least this time, no one can accuse me of beating up a defenceless child,” he said as he slowly closed the distance.

----------------------------------------

The fire in the brazier had burned low, and the light in the Queen’s chambers was dim, the flickering glow casting long shadows across the stone walls. The air felt close, thick with the remnants of a long, weary day. Alicent stood by the hearth, her fingers lightly grazing the mantle as she listened to Larys Strong speak, his voice soft and measured.

"...the builders and carpenters assigned to maintain the Keep's curtain wall seem to have been... misallocating resources," Larys was saying, his eyes fixed on her, watching her reaction. "Supplies meant for repairs have gone missing, and there are rumours that the materials are being sold in the city for profit."

Alicent frowned, her eyes drifting from the glowing embers. Corruption? The thought made her jaw tighten. “I want the perpetrators identified, and quietly dealt with,” she said, her demeanour cold but mildly disinterested. “No spectacle—just ensure they are replaced by loyal men.”

Larys nodded. “As you command, Your Grace. It shall be done discreetly.”

“However, there is also the matter of Maester Runciter's unexpected visit to Princess Rhaenyra’s chambers,” Larys continued, his voice dipping lower. “I have heard that the Princess has sought counsel from the maester outside of the King’s orders. She claims it is for her children's health, but there may be more to it. There are whispers that she is attempting to rally sympathy from the Citadel to put an end to those... rumours.”

“The Maester's order serves the King and his realm," Alicent said in that same disinterested tone. "Not the whims of his daughter. Ensure that Maester Runciter understands where his duties lie. He is to serve the King’s interest above all.”

“A gentle reminder will be given then, my Queen.”

Alicent gave a curt nod, her fingers tapping against the mantle. “What of the training yard incident?” she asked, her gaze shifting back to Larys. “Ser Criston informed me that Aegon and Aemond have come to blows again. This is becoming far too frequent, and Aemond seems to have started to lose his restraint.”

Larys tilted his head, a shadow of a smile touching his lips. “Prince Aegon seems prone to goading his brother. He speaks ill of his brother and deliberately taunts him. His friends among the young squires encourage this behaviour, it seems, despite how… detrimental it is for his well-being and reputation.”

Alicent exhaled slowly, visibly frustrated. “Then speak to Ser Criston. I want these 'friends' kept away from Aegon—find duties for them far from his side. It is unbefitting for princes—brothers—to treat one another in such a manner.”

“Of course, my Queen,” Larys said, bowing his head slightly. “It gladdens me to know you are a true defender of the realm’s propriety. One who upholds decency while others... falter.”

Alicent’s lips tightened, but she nodded. "It is not I alone," she said. "There are those who understand, who see clearly. Aemond..." She paused, her face softening as she thought of her second son. "He is diligent. A good son, Larys. He has always shown more care, more thought than Aegon ever has. I always wondered why his brother turned out the way he did."

Larys shifted his weight slightly, his head still bowed. “Prince Aemond is most astute, Your Grace,” he said, and she could hear an odd note in his voice, one that made her look up sharply.

“Has he spoken to you?” Alicent asked, her brows drawing together. Larys hesitated, just for a heartbeat, and then he nodded.

“A few days past, the prince came to me,” Larys said, his voice careful. “He spoke of... courtly matters. He expressed a desire to employ some of my services, discreetly."

Alicent blinked, surprise breaking through her weary composure. “Aemond approached you?” Her voice was incredulous, but Larys gave no sign of being unsettled.

“He was most thoughtful in his inquiries,” Larys replied, watching her closely. “But I felt it prudent to come to you before proceeding. I would not overstep, Your Grace.”

Alicent let out a breath, her fingers tightening on the mantle, her mind racing. Aemond. Her young son, so quiet, so determined. She had confided in him, yes, more often than she ought to perhaps, but she had never thought...

“I have spoken with Aemond,” she said slowly, her eyes narrowing as she searched Larys’s face, “but not of this. Not of our arrangements, our cooperation. I would not put him in such a position.”

“Of course, my Queen,” Larys said, bowing his head slightly. “It may be that the prince seeks to serve you, to assist in matters he feels are important. He is bright, and ambitious.”

Alicent's lips pressed into a thin line. Bright and ambitious. She knew Aemond was both, but the thought of him stepping into the murky depths of court intrigue so young made her uneasy. And yet, perhaps it was inevitable. He was a prince of the realm, and these were the games that would shape his life. She drew a breath, her gaze shifting back to Larys.

“Indulge him, then,” she said, her voice firm. “But only to a reasonable extent. Keep me informed of all that passes between you. He must not be drawn too far into these matters. Not yet.”

Larys bowed, his eyes flickering briefly to hers, that familiar inscrutable glint in them. “As you command, Your Grace.”

Alicent watched as he moved back, the clubfoot scraping softly on the stone floor as he made his way to the door. He paused, looking back at her. “Rest well, Your Grace,” he said, his voice quiet, and then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Alicent remained by the hearth, her thoughts swirling, her heart a knot of worry. Aemond, her clever boy, reaching for the shadows. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back, feeling the warmth of the dying fire on her face. Why couldn’t things ever be straightforward? She asked, despite knowing fully the answer to that question.

A knock echoed from behind her door then.

“Who?” she asked and Ser Criston entered.

“A message by raven, my Queen,” he said. “The Grand Maester says it's from Driftmark…”

“It seems urgent.”