Animae Mate — tenderness in your ink

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Prologue,

Occasional records could be found in every alphabetised culture of the known world, for the word of a soulmate came through written word.

Through her words he could almost see her, a caged, weeping creature of hardly sterner stuff. Soft spoken and gentle handed. And yet, there was steel underneath, seeping in between the ink of her words like the blood dripped between his own written hope.

He found there was sweetness in her stubbornness, and poison behind her teeth. He’d imagine starlight in her eyes and fire upon her tongue, chilling frost crowning her brown in winter glory.-

It changed nothing.

“A Stark of Winterfell, she claims,” the words tasted like sulfur on his tongue, smoke in his nostrils, “born ages ahead of now, the heir to Winterfell”.

He could claim right to Winterfell through her, once he was done with Cregan Stark and his army of greybeards. Yet, he would never lay eye on her, would never hold her hand or kiss her lips. He would settle there maybe, surround himself with her home in the feeble chance he might catch a glimpse of her through some reflecting glass, only to discover it was but a window on his soul.

He may speak to her, leaving haunting gifts around her childhood home for her to find, years from his death, and that would be as close as he would ever be to touch her. To feel her. He would wander like a lost soul around the soil of her home, of the cradle that would one day lull her to sleep; but he would never be found, for when she could finally set out to find him, he would be long dead and cold in his grave. She might leave flowers, he thought finding consolation and comfort in the futile, almost superficial sentiment, but they would die too, just like he would, before they could ever meet in the afterlife… though perhaps not even there, for she would not find him in any of heavens.

He looked outside as the mist covere the melted towers, bathing them like in a nightmare or in the memory of one, “I’m sorry,” he said at last. He would not write it, he would not burden her with it.

It changed nothing, the ache in his chest, or the sting behind his flesh.

I will never meet you and it will be the greatest tragedy of my life.

One, Driftmark

“Do not mourn me, mother” the prince said, “I have lost an eye but I have gained a dragon. It was a fair exchange” and thus the matter was closed and the king dismissed the court. Yet the prince never forgot and never forgave.

“Some milk of the poppy will make the pain bereable, Your Grace” the Maester claimed as he changed the paste upon his face and checked the wound, “the skin that gets infected must be cut every time it’s inflamed. It’s a painful process.”

The queen standing besides her lord father sobbed openly at the state of her son, and the prince almost demanded that he was given no milk of the poppy, that he would push through it. That it did not hurt.

It hurt so much he wanted to die.

The lord Hand, his lord grandfather, nodded to the Maester, “Do everything you can. If the eye cannot be saved that at least the scar heals fast and well” he commanded, “he’s a prince of the Realm. The insult and the wound he suffered have been more than enough, there’s no reason to inflict more needless pain on him”

“As you command, Lord Hand” the Maester left his side long enough to mix up the concoction of milk of the poppy and honey, and the prince relaxed on the chair just enough to feel his joints almost cracking with the tension relieved, and as soon as he relaxed his jaw as well the sting of pain hit him so fast and hard that he doubled over bringing a hand to his maimed face.

“Aemond!”, his mother exclaimed, falling to her knees before him and attempting to cup his face in her hands, but stopping when she noticed that he was so tender that even the gentlest of caresses could destroy him.

His teeth clicked as he pressed them together to try and push through the pain, hands arpooned around his own knees, white—knuckled and pink—nailed. Minutes later, which felt like hours, when the pain subsided some, he felt the warm grasp around his shoulder, and raised his gaze to see the Maester, “How do you feel, my prince?”, he asked.

What a stupid question to ask.

How was he supposed to feel, when his eye had been first slashed and then surgically cut out to save his life, and the wound had been stitched tight against his skull?, when his own father instead of singing out for blood had blamed him and his mother and had then resolved the matter as a play between children.

“Like I would if a nail had been hammered in my skull”, he admitted at last, though he regretted it as soon as he heard his mother sob again. She had taken the knife to the heir to the Iron throne, ready to claw her way to maim the heir to Driftmark in Driftmark, all for him. Aemond would not forget that. Ever.

“Good. It means everything is working as it should, young prince.”, the Maester said, before handing him the wooden cup filled to the brim with milk of the poppy and honey “drink and restore your strength. This ordeal has been more than enough, you need time to get back on your feet”

Aemond nodded and drank the liquid in one sip, then the Maester guided him to recline his head against the back of the chair, adjusting it so that he might inspect better the wound, small blades in his hand “Please don’t flinch, my prince” he said “this will hurt, but you must not move”

Aemond had laid still while the cut his eye out and stitched the wound closed, he could lay still whilst they cleaned the wound again, “It will hurt more now,” the Maester said, as if he had read his thoughts, “before you had the highs of the battle and the excitement of the flight keeping you up. Now you will crash down”.

The prince felt a prickle, but his hand was almost numb, now lax around the armrest, “Did you feel that?”, the Maester asked.

“That what?”, he asked around a yawn.

“Nothing, my prince. I need you to count back from ten to one, can you do that for me?”

Aemond thought the man must be stupid to ask such an inane question of him, yet he humoured him anyway, “Ten, nine… eight…se…ven,” he yawned again, “six…fi..ve,” and everything faded to black, as the dance of the ship over the waves lulled him to sleep.

He dreamed he was flying again, Vhagar big and imposing, and he might and powerful atop her back. There was laughter in the distance. A girl was laughing. Her laugher sounded like little armonies upon the high harp, and she seemed to be clapping her hands in time with her laugher.

He smiled. His face didn’t hurt anymore.

The Maester stopped mid-cut as the prince’s face relaxed in a smile, “Well, at least he’s having sweet dreams”, he said before he resumed cutting the inflamed skin around the stitches with surgical precision. The queen dried her cheeks, “Will he be alright?”, she asked.

The Maester observed the small prince’s face. He had been in the queen’s retinue for years, he had been the one to help her deliver her last son, prince Daeron, and whilst he found prince Aegon lacking in many ways — though now he was sitting near the table, refusing to leave his brother alone and holding his hand above the armrest, even though the prince was unawarly gripping his hand back fiercely — and princess Helaena an odd child, the prince Aemond had always been his favorite. He was slow to anger but slow also to forgiveness, fierce and demanding, but also careful and gentle with those he cared for. He always carried his brother’s favorite sweets in his pockets and he oft helped princess Helaena in her hunt for ants and insects.

He had cried when prince Daeron had been sent to Oldtown, barely as small as he had been when his brother had been born, though he had refused to let anyone see that weakness.

Perhaps of the all the queen’s children, prince Aemond had been his favorite. He was a diligent student and a clever, sharp mind. He was aware the child had heard the queen comment on the legitimacy of his nephews, yet he had been smart enough to blame his brother instead whom would have been warned off, but not hurt. He had chosen to protect his mother, both princes had.

“He’s a stubborn one,” the offered, “I doubt Vhagar would have chosen him if he wasn’t supposed to make it. He’s too stubborn to not make it”

Prince Aegon chuckled, and sombered when he was on the receiving end of his mother’s glare, “He is stubborn,” he offered, “Father taunted him about claiming a dragon and he went around and claimed Vhagar of all dragons. You can’t say he is not stubbornly devoted to prove everyone wrong, and if everyone expect him to fold… he will thrive”

It was nothing but a consolation, but the Maester found that when needed the prince Aegon could muster enough intelligence to be able to weave this kind of replies that sometimes left him baffled and sometimes left him amazed. And he never once let go of his brother’s hand.

He had seen it. Even on the training grounds the princes were aware of their roles, Aegon would speak up, Aemond would defend. Perhaps this ordeal would bring them closer, the prince Aegon had bonded with his nephews by teasing his brother, but he had been shocked and angered by their actions that evening, and the Maester doubted the prince would ever leave his brother again.

“The boy is right, Alicent,” the Lord Hand said and the Maester reapplied the pasture over the wound with utmost care and replaced the cloth over it, “your son is too stubborn and defiant to just die of a maimed eye”

“But he will carry that scar his whole life.”

“We are all scarred. His scar is out in the open, he might learn to live with it better than those whose scars are invisible to the eye” the lord Hand offered in a surprising moment of paternal affection as he pressed a kiss on the top of the queen’s head.

The prince was woken by the light filtering through the small window inside the cabin. He was roused by the light and the rocking of the ship almost lulled him back to sleep, but his mouth was dry and he needed to drink. He had some difficulties in sitting up straight for his head hurt as if a hammer had been slammed against his face, and it took him several minutes and deep breaths to regain his composure and balance.

It had surprised him, the way his balance had changed now that he had just one functioning eye.

His body had adapted quickly enough that after the guards had hoisted him up and carried him to the Maesters, because only through spite and rage he had been able to stand up on his feet and stride to his mother to comfort her. But later he had found that his feet were more uncertain than they had been since he had memory, as if he was walking on eggshells he could not see on the edge of a precipice that fell into the void.

He found that things that seemed close, once he set to reach them out, would prove to be too far to be grasped. Whereas once he had been able to navigate his chamber even in the dark, now he often bumped into the furniture or in the shoes abandoned on the floor of their shared cabin. His arms and rights were littered of bruises because of it, and he stumbled much more often than he ever had. He had also often hit his head against the headboard of the bed, because it would be on his blind side and he would not account for it.

It had surprised him though, that when they had left Driftmark and they had walked outside — as his grandfather had demanded he was to walk on his own to the ship to show the people he was strong — Aegon, instead of preceding him as his due and firstborn son of the king, had instead occupied his left side, his blind side, synchronising their steps so that they matched paces. It had touched him how Aegon had refused to also occupy his bed and instead insisted on sleeping on the chair he dragged every night at his bedside as Helaena slumbered peacefully on his cot.

They would reach the capital today and Aemond was sure that the court was already aware of what had transpired whilst they had been in Driftmark; they would all look out for the One-Eye.

He half dreaded, half expected the attention. He had hoped his claiming of Vhagar would not be marred by something more scandalous… but that had not been the ending that he had gotten. He had claimed the only Conqueror’s dragon left, and yet everyone would remember his lost eye instead of his feat.

He wobbled his way to the table instead of musing too much on his murky future. He had some trouble grasping the caraffe of water, and instead of using a cup — knowing well enough he would make a disaster of it — he brought the caraffe to his lips and took a sip.

The Maester had told him that before he was set to return to his training he needed a new training. A man needed both eyes to function properly, he had told him, but you can train yourself to function with just one… you will always carry a blind side, but you can learn to live around it, he had also asked him to perform actions that had been normal before. Like grabbing an object, and Aemond had discovered with dread that what had once come easy was now naught to impossible to perform.

“Do not loose spirit, my prince” the Maester had said, clapping him on his back “it will take time but you will adjust.”

Aemond needed to believe it, “If the Gods have made me such,” he had told himself, “it’s because I can overcome this. Had I had two eyes I would have been too powerful.”, Aegon had not laughed at that.

“Aye” his brother had replied instead, “they had told clip you out or you would have been more powerful than them”

He looked down to the little sticks the Maester had been training him with, his mother had been in despair that so soon after the wound Aemond had to train but he found it soothing, he found soothing everytime he saw he made an improvement. He sat in the silence, Helaena’ soft breathes as she slept and Aegon’s low snores calmed him as he took one of the sticks in his hand. The training consisted in using the stick in his hand to tuck it beneath the other one and balance it on it and up in the air.

He had yet to manage it completely.

He scratched at his right palm, and then begun his slow training, yet the itching was becoming slowly more insistent and hard to ignore. Yet he tried to keep concentrating on the task at hand, trying to reign in his frustration, but by the fifth time the stick rolled down almost to the edge of the table, Aemond was so frustrated with the itching and the failure that he grabbed at it, ready to break it in half, when he noticed it.

Noticed them.

The words slowly fading into existence under his very eye, becoming bolder and bolder as the neat handwriting became from imperceptible to impossible to ignore.

‘He can make me look, but he cannot make me see. He doesn’t have that power. He can kill me, but he cannot take my life.’

The itching across his palm became almost unbearable, the pain of his lost eye fading in the back of his mind, as he stared at the page. The history book had been laying open on his last mark since before the funeral of lady Laena, no one had dared to close it. It seemed like hope, the hope that he would return to it.

It was still open on the page that spoke about how queen Visenya slashed at king Aegon’s cheek to prove that he needed better guards, knights ready to die to protect him. The queen had chosen herself the first members of the kingsguard, and they had proven her right.

The left page of the book depicted Queen Visenya in chainmail with Dark Sister in her hand as she mounted Vhagar, and in the next page there was the passage of when she urged king Aenys to act, “…fly to Oldtown and make of this Starry sept a new Harrenhal, or give me leave and let me roast this pious fool for you”. Yet, all those quotes and words paled and faded when confronted with the blinking, bold, fresh ink upon the page.

Something about the phrase yet there as the ink dried touched him profoundly.

He could have stumbled upon something private, she could have wished to keep her thoughts private and did not know someone else was reading. He turned to look at Aegon. His brother had not spoken about his writings coming, and Aemond knew he had left his book of writings back home in the capital. What kind of soulmate would do that?, but… if Aegon had a soulmate that would explain his disdain in marrying Helaena.

Yet… his brother had not spoken of it.

Their mother and the king were soulmates. The king had defied his council and had stood firm upon his decision to marry their mother even in the face of a potential political crisis when he had refused to hand of lady Laena Velaryon; when the time had come for it, he had admitted that though a late bloomer he had a soulmate and that perhaps the Gods had not granted him a son and heir because he had married queen Aemma who had not been his soulmate. The bards sang of it, “I will not make the same mistake twice. I shall take the lady Alicent Hightower to wife, as the Gods decreed at the beginning of time” he had said and then he had proved his claim to be true when upon his book of writings his mother’s handwriting had appeared upon the eyes of their witnesses.

He wondered why Aegon would not speak of it, unless she was some kind of enemy or so far that he could not reach her, not even dragon back. Or if he was stupidly attempting to protect her from a court that would have swallowed her whole. Aemond did not know how he would feel, if he would be safe to bring his soulmate, if he had one, at court when he wasn’t sure he himself was safe, let alone someone who could be used as liability against them.

‘Father forgive me.’ She wrote and Aemond had the instinct to wake up his brother so that he might write back, console her, so he held out a hand, almost reaching out to his brother’s arm, hanging off his side on his chair not far behind.

Instead he found his palm curled around the goose feather.

Almost as if possessed he wrote back, ‘The Father is just and merciful. You will be forgiven’ , he wrote underneath the last sentence, slightly askew.

It was stupid.

She would not read it.

He should have woken Aegon. He would not hear the end of it. Ever. Though he could claim momentous madness because of the milk of the poppy. He could… he could return to bed and feign ignorance, maybe Aegon wrote back in drunken stupor and did not remember…

…yes that could be a solution.

He waited, staring at the page for several minutes, until his head started to hurt, the words started to swirl and became unreadable. Yes. He had been stupid.

Stupid and blind in his idiocy. He was too young to display a soulmate yet.

People needed to go through puberty first.

It certainly was Aegon’s. But why would she be so sad?, why would she thinks such sad thoughts, not only think them, but share them with her soulmate?

The words swirled and his head pained him.

He craned his head back and closed his eye inahiling long and sharp in hope something changed. In hope the pain would calm and the nerves would be soothed by some calm and quiet. When, suddenly what felt like hours later, a warm hand was upon his brow. Aemond blinked in surprise, suddenly on edge, but the cabin was yet in the soft light of dawn, Aegon soft snores grown louder and Helaena giving them their backs as she had covered her head with a pillow to keep slumbering.

The Maester’s dark eyes were on him as he studied his face and felt his temperature, “No fever,” he said “that’s good. You are strong”

And what was he supposed to reply to that?, Aemond wondered.

Not strong enough to awake his brother from his slumber to have him reply to his soulmate. Not strong enough to write stupid consolations she’d never get.

Aegon… he realised suddenly, his eye darting to the book, but unfocused yet that he could not see anything. He needed to distract the Maester. They could not know. If Aegon wished to keep this a secret Aemond had no right to expose it. If Aegon wished to keep this a secret Aemond would help him to.

“I wish to bathe,” he said “can you have the servants draw a bathe. I don’t want to show myself this way”

The Maester considered him, then eyed the goose feather hanging limply between his fingertips, “were you writing, my prince?”, the Maester asked. Aemond felt the panic curl in his insides as if iron squeezing his belly into a powerful bite.

“It’s…” he stammered, then suddenly he remembered he had claimed Vhagar, he was a prince of the Realm and he was the one in charge, “it’s private. Do as I bid you” he said at last. The Maester leaned back and studied him, “You cannot take a bath with that eye. But I will have the servants preparare a basin so you can clean yourself. I will help with your hair” he said.

Aemond remained stiff as he saw him back away and as soon as he had gone through the threshold, his voice muffled as he ordered the servants for the basin, the prince leaned forward on the table and tore the page from the book before slamming it shut as to avoid suspicions; then he found himself with the torn page between his fingertips, and without even looking at it, he folded it and hid it behind his back as the Maester retreated back inside with the basin and the servants.

“Do you need help standing up, my prince?”, the Maester asked.

Aemond considered the situation, “No.”, he said “and I wish to disrobe alone” he added.

The Maester eyed him, “You can’t” he replied.

“I will help him” Aegon’s voice suddenly sounded, clearly yet half asleep, “if he doesn’t want your help. I will help him”

Aemond looked in his purple eyes. If I keep your secret you will keep mine. The Maester nodded as Aegon went to wake Helaena, their sister with her braids mussled from sleep stood on wobbly feet, kissed Aegon’s cheek and squeezed his hand as she put on a robe and left for their mother’s cabin, escorted by ser Criston Cole.

Once the Maester had left as well Aemond could finally breath again.

Aegon took a sip of water, then eyed the closed book and raised a questioning silver gold brow in his direction, Aemond sighed. The folded paper felt like lead behind his back, “You are having trouble reading?”, Aegon asked instead.

How stupid must you be?, Aemond wondered thinking of how Aegon had not been careful knowing his soulmate could write in any moment, whomever she was. Instead of giving him the torn paper and coming clean though, Aemond asked “Where’s your book of writings?”

Aegon shrugged, “Back home.”, he said “it’s not use to carry around some empty book anyway” he scoffed. Aemond almost raged at him.

You don’t deserve a soulmate, you dimwit, so he carefully tucked the folded paper inside the pocked of his jerking before he started to blindly disrobe, Aegon sighed and went to help him. Aemond knew well enough that his brother would not check the pockets but that he needed to remember to transfer the page in another safe space as soon as possible, then… after Aegon had paid dearly for his superficiality he would give him the page.

Aegon helped him and as the servants brought in the basin, guiding him to the chair and helping him recline so he could help him with the hair, “the Maester said to avoid the steam to go close your eye,” he said “so turn around.”

Aemond complied and let his brother card his fingers through his scalp and hair to clean them and massage the back of his head, relieving some of the tension in his temples and black as well. “I’m sorry” Aegon said at one point, “I should have been with you. I will not fail you again, brother”

And Aemond felt like the worst brother in the world, looking back at the folded leather jerkin and tunic on the unmade bed. I will give it to him, he thought, as soon as we are done I will give it to him and apologise.

Yet he did not have the time for it, because their lord grandfather reached them before Aegon was done with his hair, asking them for a few moments of their time. To speak about what was coming.

Apparently, in fact, prince Laenor Velaryon had been found dead and half burned to the crisp and princess Rhaenyra had flown to Dragonstone with her children where she had married prince Daemon Targaryen without waiting the mourning period. Their lord father was upset and disappointed enough that he had told their lord grandfather that the princess and her husband were banned from leaving Dragonstone until further notice.

“This is a political move,” he said “granted, a stupid one but a political move all the same. And it all stems from you” he looked straight at Aemond as Aegon brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“Him?”, Aegon asked.

“Aye.”, their lord grandfather said “you are the firstborn son of the king, and your brother has claimed Vhagar the Queen of all dragons. Rhaenyra is not that stupid that she doesn’t know what that will mean to the lords”

Their lord grandfather stared at them hard, “This is an ugly game, this game of thrones. Your mother has played her hand that night, she has shown that we will not back down.”, he said “will you be of any less?”

Aegon scoffed “What kind of brother steals his sister’s birthright?”, he asked “she’s the heir, not I”

Aemond stared at him. Aegon had purposefully moved to his good eye side, a proof that he believed they were safe — in the streets he had flanked his blind side — and he stood back stiffed as he stared at their grandfather.

“She’s the heir based on what?,” their lord grandfather asked.

“A royal decree” Aegon replied without any hesitation.

Their lord grandfather stepped closer and Aemond grabbed Aegon by the fabric of the back of his jerkin, trying to force him to take a couple of steps back, “And do you believe a royal decree to carry more significance that the laws of Gods and Men alike?”

Aemond stopped midtrack and stared hard at their grandfather, “You think we should entice a war.”, he stated. Their lord grandfather looked back at him, “You’re intelligent, Aemond. You’ve won us the greatest weapon we could muster. Rhaenyra knows this, which is why she has scurried to secure Daemon’s support” he said “if she’s smart she will not give him sons and that will ensure he will back her bastards to the Iron throne”

“She’s the heir” Aegon repeated almost as if he could muster nothing else. But Aemond understood. What had transpired had shown that Rhaenyra and her bastards were not a good prospect for the Iron throne and how could they be when her sons were bastards and she was such an unfit heir?, Aegon wasn’t much better off, but he was male — as the Gods and Men ruled — he believed in the Faith of the Seven and would have the support of the Faith, he was the rightful heir. Even if one wanted to take in account Rhaenyra’s claim, once she was dead Aegon was her natural heir as her trueborn brother since her children were bastards and thus not entitled to the throne.

“Even if that were true,” he said “her sons are bastards.”

Aegon rolled his eyes “Did loosing an eye not teach you anything?”, he asked looking back at their grandfather “didn’t it teach you anything. He lost an eye, for speaking the truth! We will loose our lives if we keep on this track”

“And we will loose our lives anyway.” Aemond interjected, “see, even if you were to bend to Rhaenyra she could never let you live, especially if you had sons. Even if the Realm accepted her over you, once she was dead you would be her natural heir, as her children are bastards and without their mother to protect them they would not be able to press their claim to the Iron throne. Thisshowed exactly that. Rhaenyra could never let us live if she wants her son to succeed her”

“Mother,” he added “showed her we will retail. She knows we have the means to now. She won’t let the threat we are by breathing stand.”

Their lord grandfather was studying him quietly. Aegon slammed the brush on the table “You’re mad. The both of you”, the said at last before scurrying away in a hurry. And Aemond remained alone with his grandfather.

“You get it.”, he said after a long silence, stepping closer and Aemond had to look up to stare at him in the eyes, “you should have been born first. It’d be easier.”, he mused “your brother will have to come around to his fate. Will you help him?”

The folded paper seemed to almost call him from where it was yet hidden. Aemond looked straight back in the abyss of his grandfather’s eyes. “Yes.”

“Good. He will need you.”

The people of Kings Landing were waiting for them. Though Aemond could not ride in his condition yet, his mother the Queen opened the window of the wheelhouse so that they might see them. The king was tired and looked much older than he ought to yet he smiled and weaved to the crowd.

“Good health to the small prince!”, someone called from the crowd.

“Our prayers are with you and your small son, sweet queen.”, a woman said when the wheelhouse slowed up enough to let the people actually peek inside for more than a moment, she handed them what looked like a small loaf of bread shaped to look like a one eyed dragon, “he’s strong”

His mother smiled, “He is”, she confirmed nodding to ser Criston to accept the bread and grasping his hand and squeezing it. His father did not comment, save for “Be grateful son. This resolved itself. Treachery is less from the mouths of babe, and you have learned your lesson.”

“Good health to prince Aemond!”, someone else called and Aemond felt suddenly more seen that he had before as the wheelhouse returned inside the keep.

“They’re showing their appreciation and good wishes for your son, Viserys” his mother pointed out “you should be proud”

The king pinched the bridge of his nose, “My children exhaust me.”, he said at last and squeezed her hand, though his mother was stiff as a board, “I don’t know what I would do without you, my love.”, he admitted in a rare public display of affection that the king had avoided mostly to not insult the Vale that had seen their queen stripped of her role by their love and proof of them being soulmates clear in the birth of four children, three of which males.

“Rhaenyra will come around,” his mother promised, though it sounded insincere “and she will ask forgiveness for her errors”

The king kissed her hand, “Your faith gives me hope.”

Not enough apparently to do the right thing and name your son your heir and end up this stupid farce, Aemond thought darkly and wondered if the love shared between soulmates enabled his mother to forgive his father for such a terrible slight.

In response to Rhaenyra’s marriage — which the Faith went as far as to describe as oscenous and miscellaneous — Helaena and Aegon’s marriage was celebrated two moons later, after waiting the proper mourning period the court had chosen to show prince Laenor to quieten the scandal of princess Rhaenyra’ latest headtilt.

Until then Aemond had swung one conviction to another, going back and forth and not giving Aegon the torn page, yet he had not dared to read it either, knowing that he was doing nothing short of sacrilegious by keeping soulmates from one another, though he had convinced himself that maybe now that they were back home she had written to him in his book of writings and that perhaps she was too heartbroken as the day of the wedding grew closer.

Perhaps it would be better for Aegon too, he considered. He had trained his skills with depth perception without pause since returning home and though the scar was healing nicely, it was still hideous to gaze upon so he had taken to hide it with an eye-patch when he was in court so that the ladies might be scared of it.

Aegon was anxious and nervous, though he refused to show it.

Daeron had returned to court for the occasion and had brought with himself from Oldtown a sapphire. It was a gift from lord Hightower, “You can put it in your socket once the healing is done. Make precious something that they used to humiliate you”, their uncle Gwayne had told him when Daeron had handed him the sapphire. He was only sorry that he could not yet show it to everyone as the Maester was convinced the eye still needed time to heal before they set the stone in the empty socket.

The same Maester whom was now handing him a small wooden chest, “The sapphire is not the only thing that your brother brought back from Oldtown.”, he said “I have written to them in secret to get you this. I’d suppose it is time.”, he offered. Aemond peeled the cloth that covered the wooden chest away and then opened the lid, inside, sat snuggly on the velvet interior, was a small book.

Aemond retrieved it from the chest and inspected it. The cover was made of cool at the touch, blackstone — a precious gift from Oldtown he supposed — upon which was depicted the three headed dragon of House Targaryen, on the golden latch were incised prayers of the Seven and the sigil of House Hightower, “So you don’t forget you Light the Way as well,” the Maester said as Aemond fingered the lock.

The Maester smiled conspiratorially at him, “So you don’t have to carry spare paper in your pockets.”, he said in almost a teasing tone. Showing to him a small vial of ink and a small Valyrian steel nib attached to the book.

It was a Book of Writings.

Usually girls got theirs at around twelve. Boys got it around fourteen, though many received it at sixteen at their majority.

Aemond was ten.

“She might also appreciate that you keep everything related in the same place,” the Maester said showing to him a small loose-leaf hook in gold “so you don’t loose anything important”

Oh Gods. Aemond realised.

The man thought the writings he must have seen to be from his soulmate. If that were true Aemond might be the youngest people ever to receive the words of a soulmate… so he had gone to those lengths to ensure that he could have a Book of Writings.

Gods.

He had kept his secret. He considered the man for a long moment. Perhaps he would keep Aegon’s secret as well. “It’s not… I was stupid.”, he said and the man blinked at him expectantly, Aemond placed the book back in the chest “she’s not my soulmate.”, he said at last. Though he could not bring himself to admit that she was Aegon’s and that she must be heartbroken that he was marrying Helaena.

The man frowned, “Then…”, he asked “why did she write back?”

The world crumbled around him.

Why did she write back?

Why did she write back?

Why did she write back?

“… she didn’t?”, he said though it sounded more like a question.

The Maester arched a brow, “Didn’t she?”, he asked.

“She didn’t.”, he said “she didn’t.”, he repeated though his cheeks were heating. His right palm was itching like crazy all of sudden, though the stiff itching sensation had permaned since his return it had been bereable and he had believed it might have been some after effect of the milk of the poppy.

“Who are you trying to convince, my prince?”

“She didn’t,” he confirmed again, “she didn’t”

“Are you sure?”, the man asked gentler, “do the words still swirl, fade and get back into focus with difficulty as they did when you first lost your eye?”

“Some” Aemond replied without hesitation, “less.”, he amended.

The Maester rolled his eyes, “I see. And you have been avoiding staring too much at the books have you?”, he said “because it gives you headaches.”

“She. Didn’t. Reply.”, he hissed punctuating each word.

He would know if she had.

Wouldn’t he?

“I believe you, my prince” the Maester said bidding his retreat, then as he was about the leave his chamber “they wait for you for the royal procession.”, he said “but… do you believe yourself?”, then he was gone before Aemond could throw him something, though his aim was terrible as of late.

I won’t check it, he told himself, she didn’t reply. He was mistaken.

Yet he found the paper in his hand, trembling with his nerves and almost threw it in the fire; instead he unfolded it, and suddenly the words came into focus just beneath his askew writing.

‘You have beautiful letters.’

He almost fainted.

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