Chapter Text
The day following Aemond and Cecily’s wedding boasts a grand tourney. It boasts the attendance of many of the realm’s noble houses, much of them coming from the Reach given their fondness for tourney, and given too that the union celebrated is that of their future wardeness.
Aemond rises in his bedchambers long before Cecily awakes, lifting the blanket and nodding in satisfaction at the specks of blood that stain the sheets. They have done their duty, and with any luck it will take right away and he will not need to put either of them through this again. He glances to Cecily’s sleeping face. Her hair – still half-braided as it was for the wedding – is a mess around her, and she sleeps with her mouth open ever so slightly. Still, she is beautiful. Even now. He cannot deny that, not a man alive could deny that.
He looks away, huffing softly to himself and standing. While he cannot deny she’s a work of art to look upon, he also cannot let himself be fooled by it. Weaker men are slaves to their desire. Aemond is not.
He dresses and leaves before she has even stirred, making his way from the Red Keep and toward the tourney grounds. He denies the offer of a litter, but accepts the escort of a gold cloak, knowing his mother will worry if he doesn't. It is not as though he could not protect himself from smallfolk if provoked, but he is not so arrogant as to think he will notice every little pickpocket that scurries the streets.
He reaches the tourney grounds with no issue, seeing a number of tents pitched bearing the sigils of many great houses. He pauses outside of one tent, gazing up at the insignia of a white tower for a moment. He clenches his jaw, glancing away before moving on and ducking into the tent emblazoned with the Three-Headed Dragon.
It is empty, of course. He is the only Targaryen to fight today, though he does not wish it so. Someone must. Aegon is no doubt being dragged from some pleasure house, Daeron is too young. And his uncle, along with Rhaenyra and her bastards have not even bothered to come. Aemond does not know if they were even invited, though he cannot say he blames them if they were. He would not go were he offered an invite to any of their weddings.
Aemond is left to represent his house, represent his half of the marriage. He huffs as a squire ducks into the tent, wide brown eyes meeting the prince. He wears a green and gold shirt, and Aemond clenches his jaw to hold back a sigh.
Another Tyrell. No doubt another of Cecily's cousins. Another benefit afforded to the Tyrells through this union, he’s sure. What else have they been given in this? How heavily they benefit from this marriage, and what does Aemond get? Perhaps the Greens have gotten security, have gotten Cecily's dowry and the likely promise of support when the issue of succession inevitably arises. But Aemond? What has he gotten? He has gotten nothing from this, nothing but humiliation and shame.
He glares at the boy as he approaches, flexing his hand before holding it up. He does not need to be dressed in his armour yet, he’s not going to waste his time. “Fetch my grandsire. I wish to speak to him.”
The boy pauses in his footsteps, mouth dropping open. Aemond supposes he’s frightened of him. Or just a fool.
“The Hand of the King, boy,” he snaps. “Lord Otto Hightower. Go.”
The boy nods, bowing clumsily before rushing out of the tent and leaving Aemond alone once again. He takes a seat by the table, fingers flexing as he awaits his grandsire’s presence. He respects him, of course, but he cannot help but want to chew the man out for organising this, and all but forcing him to participate.
(Though in truth Otto did not force him, but it’s his own wedding tourney, what kind of man would not participate in his own celebration? To let other men fight for his own wife would be all but declaring himself a weakling and a cuckold.)
Otto arrives soon after, and Aemond stands to greet him with a scowl, an all too comfortable expression. “Grandsire,” he says before the man can say anything. “This tourney is a farce.”
“I am glad you think so,” says Lord Otto, amusem*nt on his face. “And yet you participate?”
“Well, I must, mustn’t I? But I should not have to, this should not be happening. She is blind, grandsire. She cannot even watch the proceedings.”
“No, but she is from the Reach. Her house and their banners would not be pleased if we stole from them an opportunity to show their support for her by way of their favourite tradition.”
Aemond’s jaw clenches for he knows his words are true. “Was her opinion on the matter considered?”
“We did not ask her. Her father agreed.”
Aemond laughs bitterly. At least they are equal in that regard. It is a sobering reminder that this marriage is not theirs but rather their parents’. Their names are joined but not their souls.
Otto tilts his head at his grandson. “There was no obligation for you to participate,” he reminds him. “I am well aware of your disdain for tourney. I would not have asked this of you.”
“That is not what this is about. It is a humiliation, like this marriage is.”
Otto sighs, approaching the tense prince. “This is what must be done to secure the safety of our house, Aemond. We must all make sacrifices, and this is yours. Marrying a comely, clever young woman is not exactly the heaviest of sacrifices.”
Comely, he knows. She is beautiful, and for prayers to the old gods and the new he cannot get her smiling face out of his head. Clever, he doubts. She has not spoken anything particularly shrewd or insightful to him yet.
(He ignores the voice that tells him he has not given her the chance to. If she were truly clever, she would have shown it without needing to be asked.)
“Do you wish to withdraw from the joust?”
“No!” Aemond snaps, not even making the Hand flinch. “I will not add to my growing pile of humiliations. I will fight today. And I will win.”
Otto chuckles dryly. “Do so with honour,” he reminds. “The Reach likes chivalry. They will like you better if you show it.”
Aemond says no more, watching Otto duck out of the tent and considering his words a moment. He is right, of course. He does need the Reach to like him, whether he wishes it or not. Aemond was not planning to fight without honour, but he decides then that he will be chivalrous. Whatever that f*cking means.
Some hours later Aemonds rides out onto the tourney ground on a horse the colour of Arbour gold, thankful for his helmet so that the crowds cannot see his frown. He turns his eyes to the king’s box, urging the horse toward it. He has but little care for the horse beneath him as anything more than a vessel, though he knows men of the Reach treat their horses like an extension of themselves.
He cannot imagine troubling himself with such a fickle beast when he has a dragon. This farce would certainly be over faster were he able to ride in on Vhagar.
He spots Cecily easily in the box, seated between his mother and Flora. She wears a structured blue gown draped and lined with pearls, and her dark hair is pulled back and similarly secured with a winding string of pearls.
When Aemond approaches and lifts the visor of his helmet, Flora gently coaxes her to stand, and Aemond can see the upset and concern on Cecily’s face as she approaches the balcony with a ring of white flowers clutched in her hands. “Lord husband?” She calls over the balcony, leaning forward as though she might be able to see him.
“Yes, my lady,” he calls back, trying to force the annoyance out of his voice. Why else would Flora have guided her to him? “I hoped I might be so lucky as to earn my wife’s favour.”
He wonders if the words sound as ridiculous to Cecily as they do to him. He lifts his lance to rest against the balcony, sparing Cecily of the need of trying to throw it. She gently grabs the end of it, carefully lacing the ring of flowers over it and letting it fall down toward Aemond.
“Fight well,” she calls to him, offering him a smile. “Be careful.”
He hums, though he knows she can’t hear it at this distance. His gaze shifts to Flora, who grants him an apologetic smile.
“Many apologies, my prince!” She calls. “I have promised my favour to my brother, Ser Leo. You understand, of course.”
Aemond supposes he does. He would not accept her favour regardless. Flora is not his wife, as much as he might prefer it.
Flora offers him a big smile, leaning forward. “He is set to join the Kingsguard! Is that not exciting?”
She certainly seems excited enough, though Aemond cannot much see why. He glances back to Cecily, who is smiling more now and seems at ease with the idea. Ah, he realises. Flora is naive not to notice what he and, evidently, Cecily have. Promising Ser Leo to the Kingsguard removes him from the line of succession to Highgarden. He is a threat to Cecily’s ascension, but swearing the white will have him neutralised. A fine enough idea on Lord Martyn’s part–
“‘Twas Cecily’s idea!” Flora declares proudly.
Aemond fails to hide the surprise on his face when he turns his eyes to Cecily. Despite himself, he finds himself inching closer to the willingness to admit she is clever indeed.
“Good luck, lord husband,” Cecily says, all but dismissing him.
Aemond nods, lowering his visor and riding off. He hopes this is over with soon. Were he weaker, he’d throw it and knock himself out of the running in the first round, but this is his wedding. And they’re already underestimating him, he knows it. They think because of his halved vision he will be weak, incapable of the joust. They are wrong.
He will prove them wrong and crown his wife the queen of love and beauty in the process.
And prove them wrong he does, reaching the final joist with little trouble. His last opponent is Leo Tyrell himself, with Flora’s favour still settled on his lance. His face is uncovered so that he might shoot his handsome smiles toward the crowd, and Aemond rolls his eye. There is not yet a Tyrell he’s met that he can stand. Even Flora has begun to bother him. Weak, naive, narcissists that he is now bound to by marriage.
At least he can knock one from his horse now.
He spares a glance toward the stands to see his wife, who has Flora whispering into her ear and a worried expression on her face. No doubt Flora is commentating the entire event for her, though she does not seem to be enjoying the proceedings. Does she worry for him, or for her cousin?
He huffs, putting her out of his mind and instead waiting for the bell to ring so he might knock Leo off his horse, and hopefully knock some sense into him in the process.
The bell rings, and Aemond urges his horse forward, lance poised for Leo’s shield. He grits his teeth as he goes forward, but instead of knocking his opponent from his mount, Leo’s lance hits his shield. He feels every bone in his body rattle upon impact, but he manages to keep his seat, riding past Leo and taking a deep breath in to settle the rattling in his skull.
They’re doubting you, Aemond, he says to himself. Prove them wrong.
When he surges forward again, he refuses to be humiliated. This time the lance strikes Leo, sending the young knight toppling off the back of his speckled mare. Aemond lets out a shout, allowing himself to smile since he knows no one can see it.
But by the time he returns to Leo and lifts his visor his face is trained back into his practised neutrality. Leo stands to meet him, smiling jovially as he bows his head to Aemond.
“Well done, good-cousin!” says Leo, offering a hand to Aemond. Aemond hesitates, but joins his hand with Leo’s in his best attempt at chivalry. Good-cousin. Gods, he despises that. Still, Leo does not seem the least bit bothered by his loss. Aemond cannot find it in himself to understand how that is– but perhaps when one has not been doubted all his life he does not fear the threat of second place.
“You were a worthy opponent, Ser Leo,” Aemond says. It sounds wrong on his tongue, but he hears his grandsire’s voice echo in his head. The Reach will like him better if he’s chivalrous. This is as good as they’ll get.
He leads his horse away and takes a crown of yellow and white roses from his squire. He turns it over in his hand slowly before he rides toward the box. There is no other choice in his mind, and he does not quite realise he never even considered another woman.
Though he will tell himself he wishes he were wed to Flora, his gaze finds only Cecily. He calls out to her, “Lady Cecily!”
She rises, and Flora gently guides her to the small stairway that leads down to the grounds so that she might be face to face with him. He does not quite realise it, but he is smiling as she greets him.
“My lady,” he greets, reaching out to her with the crown in his hands. “Hold up your hands?”
She does so with some hesitation, a conflicted smile on her face. He places the crown in her hands and gently guides it onto her head. “The realm may never see a queen of love and beauty more deserving of the title.”
“Thank you, lord husband,” she says, gently adjusting the crown so it sits securely over her dark hair. “It is an honour.”
“The honour is mine,” he tells her, and though he can scarcely believe this, he means it.
Once Aemond is back in his tent and freed of his armour, he is about ready to dismiss his new squire for the day when a familiar voice calls inside the tent.
“May I come in?” says Lady Cecily, her silhouette illuminated against the closed flap of the entryway.
Aemond nods to the squire and he rushes to the entrance, opening it for Cecily. The boy greets her politely and gently leads her in by the arm. She looks radiant this close, this intimate. Before, the eyes of the realm shrouded them in their shadow, now it is just them and the squire that Cecily is speaking gently to.
“Thank you, sweet cousin,” she says to the boy, giving him a warm smile. “You did very well today. I am most proud. Leave us for a moment?”
The squire rushes from the tent, and Aemond and Cecily are alone again, as they had been last night. Suddenly Aemond feels the thorny vines of insecurity wrap around his ribcage. No one is expecting them to lie together, not here so close to other ears. But part of Aemond fears that is why she is here.
Cecily stands before him in silence for a moment, hands clasped together as she picks at her nails.
“You need not have fought today,” she says after a long bout of silence. “I know this is not an opinion shared by any of my peers but I find tourney to be a dangerous and ridiculous pastime. Perhaps it is because I cannot see it, but I–”
She stops, taking a steadying breath and lifting her head, as though to look right at him. “It is a brazen display of pride, but it goeth before the fall.” Aemond fails to hide the surprise on his face. She would quote the Seven-pointed star at him? “You do not need to prove your bravery to me, lord husband.”
Aemond steps forward, placing one hand over both of hers, putting a stop to her fidgeting. “I did not fight today to prove anything to you or myself. This is your wedding tourney as much as it is mine. I could not let it pass with some other woman named the queen of love and beauty. Nor could I allow another man to give you the title.” He glances down at her hands and guides one of them to the lace on the cuff of her sleeve. He trails a gloved thumb over her nail beds, wanting to tell her off but instead only speaking gently to her. “Wear your embroidery. Fidgeting with it is not ladylike but it suits you far better than harming yourself.”
Cecily’s lips part in surprise as she takes in Aemond’s words, a soft ‘oh’ escaping her. “I see,” she says, beginning to play with the lace on her sleeve. “Well… that is very kind of you. Thank you.”
Aemond nods, hand still touching hers. He longs once more for the intoxicating heat of her bare skin touching his, cheeks heating at the memory of last night. He glances down at her lips, never more thankful that she cannot see it. Though he cannot delude himself into thinking she has not heard the rattling breath that escapes him.
I am not a slave to my desire, he reminds himself. But in doing so, he can no longer deny that he desires her. He cannot help it, to desire a woman so beautiful and smart so carnally. But he will not fall victim to his urges. That will make him no better than his brother. He clears his throat, dropping his hand and settling it behind his back, clasped with the other.
“If that is all, Lady Cecily,” he says, seeming to break her from her own reverie. “I will see you tonight.”
Cecily steps back and nods, smoothing her hands over her dress. “Yes, of course,” she says, voice softer than usual. She calls gently for her cousin, and Aemond watches as the boy leads her out. A traitorous image forces its way into Aemond’s head, of Cecily on her knees taking him from behind. He inhales sharply, looking away and clenching his fists.
Damn it.
