Aemond returned to camp in a jog, breathless but grinning, his violet eyes alight with triumph.
In his right hand, he carried a wooden walking stick—crooked and splintered at the end. The same cane once used by Larys Strong.
With a mischievous smirk, he glanced over his shoulder, as if half-expecting the man to hobble after him in protest.
"No wonder they call you 'Bentfoot,'" Aemond muttered with glee. "Your brain works just fine—but those legs of yours need retirement."
With an almost theatrical flourish, he tossed the walking stick into a campfire, watching it crackle and blaze. Sparks leapt upward like escaping secrets.
"Well done," he whispered to himself, clapping the dirt from his hands.
Just moments ago, he'd done something quite bold: kicked Larys Strong squarely in the good leg and stolen his walking stick.
The Lord of Whisperers had tried to lure him with honeyed words—urging him to lean into courtly chaos, to nudge Alicent aside, to feed the blooming tensions between her and Rhaenyra.
But Aemond saw the trap.
Larys was clever. Too clever. His suggestion that Alicent, "overlooked and isolated," could be used as a stepping stone to power was little more than poison wrapped in silk.
Aemond would not bite.
"Alicent is my friend," he muttered under his breath. "My sister in all but name."
He wouldn't let her become another pawn in Larys's endless game. He'd watched enough of the Red Keep to know what happened to pawns—they bled first, and died alone.
"Second sons," he scoffed. "Always scheming. Always desperate."
He was thankful, for once, to be an only child.
Still, he had to admit—the weasel had sparked something useful.
As Larys talked, trying to convince him to pick a side in the looming struggle between Black and Green, Aemond had found clarity.
The Blacks and the Greens didn't exist yet.
They were still seedlings. The parties hadn't fully formed. No war banners had been raised. No swords unsheathed.
Then why, Aemond thought, should I bind myself to anyone at all?
If the players hadn't stepped onto the board yet, then there was still time to change the shape of the game itself.
He smiled. "Before the dragons dance, maybe I can change the tune."
---
Not long after, Aemond found himself standing before Queen Alicent's tent.
Two Kingsguard stood posted at the entrance—identical twins, tall and armored in gleaming white. Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk Cargyll, stoic as statues.
"I'm here to see the Queen," Aemond said without hesitation.
Inside, a familiar voice called out, muffled but warm. "Is that Aemond? Let him in, ser knights."
The brothers exchanged a glance, and Ser Arryk stepped aside. "As you wish, Your Highness."
"Thank you, Ser Arryk," Aemond added with a sharp smile.
The knight blinked, surprised. Most couldn't tell them apart.
"I have good eyes," Aemond said with a wink. "Excellent for archery."
He lifted the flap and stepped inside.
---
The tent's interior was quiet, lit by soft lanternlight and perfumed with myrrh and sandalwood. Alicent knelt on a cushion, dabbing at her face with a silken cloth.
She looked up, startled, then quickly turned her head, wiping at her eyes.
"Aemond," she said, voice brittle but trying for warmth. "What brings you here?"
"You've been crying," he said, his expression dropping.
"No," she lied, too quickly.
"You have," he insisted.
He walked over without invitation and sat beside her on the carpet.
Alicent glanced away, ashamed to be caught so vulnerable. She had spent the day drowning in regret—regret over the scene with Rhaenyra, over the politics Otto forced her into, over the mask she wore every day as queen.
"I'm sorry, Aemond," she said softly. "I shouldn't have made Rhaenyra the target of my anger. And I shouldn't have dragged Daemon into it either."
Her voice cracked with guilt.
She didn't know what had come over her earlier. Perhaps it had been pride, perhaps jealousy. Perhaps years of suppressed anger finally slipping through her armor.
"You don't have to apologize," Aemond murmured, gently resting his head on her lap.
He closed his eyes, the contact comforting. "I know you didn't mean to hurt me. And I know you're not happy."
"I am," she whispered.
"No, you're not," he said, looking up. "You can lie to everyone else. But not to me. Not to yourself."
Alicent's breath hitched.
She stared into his violet eyes, young but wise. Eyes that saw more than they should. Eyes that reminded her of days long gone, when she could still dream freely—before her marriage, before Otto, before the crown crushed her shoulders.
Her composure crumbled. Tears slipped down her cheeks, trailing into her lap.
"I'm... I'm lonely," she confessed in a whisper. "So very lonely."
In the Red Keep, no one saw her as Alicent. She was Queen. A vessel. A figurehead for her father's ambition. Her husband saw her as duty fulfilled. Her children as means to an end.
Aemond, curled beside her like a boy seeking warmth, was the only one who looked at her and saw her.
They had grown up together under the reign of old King Jaehaerys, before politics ruined everything. They had shared books, dreams, quiet talks.
And now...
"Do you remember your dream?" Aemond asked suddenly.
She blinked. "My dream?"
"You once told me," he said, sitting upright, "that you wanted to find a quiet place. A little house away from the court, where no one could touch you. Where the people you loved could be safe."
Alicent's eyes widened.
She hadn't thought about that dream in years. She'd buried it beneath silks, beneath courtesies, beneath expectation. But yes—she had dreamed of a simple life. Of a garden. Of peace.
"I remember," she said, breath catching.
"Then believe me when I say," Aemond whispered, forehead touching hers, "you don't need to be a pawn. You can be the queen—not of their making, but your own."
"But my father... he—"
"He is not your master," Aemond said firmly. "He needs you. You don't need him."
She stared at him, trembling.
"Otto's time is ending," he continued. "The King will dismiss him. And when he does, you must rise. Not for him. Not for anyone else."
"For yourself."
A long silence followed.
Then she asked, voice small, "How?"
"You don't need to do anything," Aemond said with a smile.
Alicent's brow furrowed. "What?"
"You just need to be patient," he explained. "Let Otto fall. Then build something new."
She studied him closely.
And then, slowly, she understood.
Her father's downfall would not be hers. It would be her freedom.
"I see," she said at last.
Aemond blinked. "You do?"
She wiped her tears, a small smile curling at her lips. Her eyes gleamed—not with sorrow now, but something closer to determination.
She gently cupped his face. "Thank you, Aemond."
He flushed under her touch, but didn't move away.
Behind her smile, something darker stirred.
If you must fall, Father... let it be now. While I still have something left to protect.
From behind A
emond's shoulder, her gaze hardened.
"Forgive me," she whispered, though not to the boy beside her.
"Father. I'm sorry."
---------------------
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