AEMON

Aemon lay in his bed, the tension leaving his muscles. It had been a long and trying day and there was little more that he could do besides lay down and let sleep overcome him with Myriah in his arms. With his eyes closed he allowed himself to be soothed by the presence of the woman beside him, enjoying the smell of her, the feel of her slow breathing, and the warmth of her stomach under his hands. There were few things as sweet, few things that gave him such peace.

She stirred slightly in the darkness. "Aemon?"

"Hmmmm."

"Are you awake?"

"Hmmmm."

Myriah turned around, pressing herself against him so that they were face to face. "Tomorrow after the jousts….there is to be a feast, is there not?"

"Aye," Aemon yawned. "It's one of several yet to come."

There was a pause. "My sisters will be there. So will my mother."

Aemon frowned at the uncertainty and worry in his lover's voice. "You needn't speak to them." he assured her. "They don't even have to come near us if you don't want."

Her fingers traced patterns on his chest, and she gave a resigned noise. "She's your aunt, daughter of King Maekar Targaryen. You can't keep her away."

"If it comes to that then I'll seat her as far away from you as possible." He kissed her nose. "It matters little where she sits in the end; no is stealing you away from me."

Myriah giggled at his affections. "You're a charmer when you want to be."

"My one skill," he replied with a tired laugh. "But only beautiful maidens bring it out of me."

The first day of the tourney dawned bright and clear. Aemon sat up high in a place of honour in the viewing stands, Myriah at his side. It did not escape his notice that several of the lords who had travelled to Summerhall had reframed from competing purely to seat themselves near him in an attempt to curry favour. Though he was more than a little irritated by the way they looked at Myriah. They better get used to it, he thought bitterly. Or they'll find my favour to be all the more elusive…

His aunt Daella sat a few rows below him, along with his two cousins and a collection of other minor Dornish lords. He caught the younger of the two sisters sneaking glances at him, and realized with a small throb of annoyance that he had completely forgotten their names. Myriah seemed to tense beside him, her breathing growing uneasy. He slid his hand through hers and smiled out at the crowded meadow before him and the knights as they readied themselves for the jousts.

Aemon could hear the murmur of excitement in the crowd as the first competitors appeared one by one at the south end of the lists. Heralds boomed out the name of each knight in turn. They paused before the stand to dip their lances in salute and Aemon graced them with a smile. There was a collection of favourites, Luthor Tyrell, Jon Massey, Petyr Westerling, Tion Lannister, Oswell Frey and Edric Baratheon, all of whom saluted and then circled to the north end of the field to select their opponents. The Lord of Highgarden struck the shield of Frey, while the heir of Lannisport called out Westerling. The young knight of Massey was brave enough to tap the black and gold stag shield of Edric Baratheon.

The challengers trotted back to the south end of the lists to await their foes: Ser Tion in gold, a roaring lion on his shield, Luthor Tyrell wearing a striped green and gold cloak clasped with bronze roses at each shoulder, Jon Massey shinning in silver, with red, green and blue spirals painted onto a white shield. They pointed their twelve-foot lances skyward, the gusty winds snapping and tugging at the pennons.

At the north end of the field, squires held brightly barded destriers for the challenged to mount. They donned their helms and took up lance and shield, in splendour the equal of their foes: The Twins of Frey on billowing silver silks, Ser Petyr's white shells, Edric in his cloth of gold, with a black stag on breast and shield and a rack of iron antlers on his helm. Each of the competitors had a wisp of silk knotted about an arm, a favour of some lady they had chosen to wear into the event; on Edric's was a scarlet piece from Rhaelle. Aemon could tell that his good-brother was drawing strength from the tiny piece of silk, much the same way he drew strength from Myriah's hand within his own. We all need something…

As the challenged trotted into position, the fields, the sprawling mass of onlookers, all grew as still as was possible. Then a horn sounded, and that stillness was shattered as a thousand voices began to scream and shout whilst the six great warhorses set off, their riders' lances dipped and aimed. The field almost shook as the challengers and their opponents came rushing together in a clash of wood and steel. Aemon half expected time to slow as the blows met, as it had felt to have done during his own times at the fields, yet to his outsiders eye they were beyond each other in an instant, wheeling about for another pass. Frey reeled in his saddle but managed to just barely keep his seat. A great roar went up for the commons for the skill of the competitors.

Squires ran over to hand fresh lances to the jousters and once more the spurs dug deep. Even from his seat up on high, Aemon could still feel the shake of the ground as the riders flew past. Edric passed nearest and Aemon saw the point of his lance kiss Massey's shield and slide off to slam into his chest, even as Massey's own lance burst into splinters against Baratheon's breastplate. Both jousters lost their saddles, only to rise together to fight on, sword against sword. Finally a battered Jon Massey admitted defeat.

Myriah laughed softly. "Your goodbrother is quite skilled."

"Yes," Aemon replied with a frown. "He is."

"Then why do you sound so anxious?"

Aemon shook his head. "Because now he'll want to celebrate with me."


"Another!"

The big man slammed his horn of ale into the table just as Aemon grudgingly swallowed the last of his own. He was already feeling terribly light headed and the couples dancing before him were beginning to blur together in the candlelight.

"Aemon my friend," Edric said as he threw an arm over his shoulder. "You need to get back into the game; it's been a while since I've had a half decent challenge on the field."

The prince shook his head with a half-smile. "I've been out of practice for too long, its Duncan you'd want to go up against these days."

"Bah," Baratheon dismissed the thought with a wave of his big hand. "Duncan's a good man but he's nowhere near as practical as you are."

"Practical?" Aemon considered the word. "I do believe that is the first time anyone has ever called me practical before."

Edric nodded enthusiastically. "But it's true! Duncan's a kind man, but he isn't considerate. He hurt your brother and sister quite a bit when he passed the crown on. I may just be a Stormlord and not a king, but I find that to be selfish. Jaehaerys will do well, don't get me wrong….but it's another burden he didn't need."

"None of us asked to be born Targaryens," Aemon argued.

"Aye, but that's what duty is all about." Despite the flush of his cheeks the Baratheon's eyes grew serious. "We must all do our duty, great or small. Duncan may have loved Jenny but she is not the only person in Westeros." He looked about before speaking next. "Your sister gets worried about it, especially the toll it takes on Jaehaerys."

Aemon nodded sadly. He knew exactly how Rhaelle felt in that regard. Why would the gods be so cruel as to put that on him of all of us? "Jaehaerys is the smartest man I know, but even the greatest men have been taken by the pressures of ruling."

"Rhaelle always talks about how bloody smart he is," Edric grinned before taking another mouthful and slamming his ale down again. "Duncan has the strength, Jaehaerys the brains. And you…heh, well she doesn't really talk about you like that."

"Don't worry," Aemon assured him with a laugh. "She's not holding out on you, it's just that I'm not really an interesting topic of discussion."

Edric looked taken aback, and watched him unsurely. "I didn't mean she doesn't talk about you at all, because she does talk about you, a good deal in fact. You worry her sometimes, her sad little brother."

"Is that how she thinks of me?" Aemon bristled at that. "Jaehaerys is so smart, Duncan so strong but Aemon? Oh he's so sad and pathetic and-"

"-That's not how it is." Baratheon's voice was soft, and his gaze clear. "She doesn't think of you the same way she does the other two, but that is more a reflection on her than you. You're eleven years younger than her, born when things were a little bit rougher. Even Jaehaerys for all his frailty was old enough and clever enough to look after himself during those final few Blackfyre uprisings. You were a babe and your mother and father was king and queen, one brother was the heir and the other constantly at your father's side. Everyone had their role…Rhaelle always felt she had to pay more attention to you, even when I first met her you were always on her mind."

Well, he thought. She has always looked out for me when I've needed it. "Why does she still worry? She has you and Steffon and Storm's End to manage, she shouldn't be getting sick with worry over me. I'm a grown man, and Prince of Summerhall."

Edric smiled. "A little brother will always be a little brother, no matter how old he gets."

"You know Edric, you're a lot smarter than you seem."

The big man gave a booming laugh and slapped Aemon on the back. "I'll try and take that as a compliment."

They sat in content silence for a time, trying to match each other cup for cup and laughing like idiots. Steffon happened to walk by in that moment and his father pulled him into an embrace while the squirming boy struggled to break free of his father's massive arms. "Lemme go!"

"Ha! Lad, are you going to go over and ask that pretty Westerlands girl for a dance?" He grinned down at his son. "I've seen you make eyes at her all night."

The boy's face flushed red as his father continued to tease him. "Father you're drunk, you don't know what you're talking about…"

"Of course I'm drunk, lad," he messed the boy's coal black hair. "That's because I'm happy. Now go over there and make me proud!"

Steffon frowned. "I'm not going to just…go over there. I'm not even that good of a dancer."

Aemon pushed back from the table, standing shakily but standing nonetheless. "Don't worry about it; it's not about how well you dance, but how well you seem to be enjoying it. You just need to impress her first."

"How would I do that?" the boy looked at him dubiously.

"You just need to find someone to dance with first, to get her attention." He clapped his hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Don't worry, I've an idea."

They made their way over towards several of the more highborn ladies on the other side of the great hall. Or rather, Steffon walked over and Aemon leaned on the boy for support and made several drunken comments. When he saw Myriah standing off to the side, making small talk with Rhaelle he directed the boy over to them.

"My lady," he said with a slight slur. "Would do a grand gesture and take my nephew for a dance?"

Myriah raised a brow, and studied Aemon for a solid minute before turning to Steffon and gifting him with a brilliant smile. "I think I have one more dance left in me."

Aemon smiled as he watched them walk over to the other dancers, before turning to his sister. He gave a deep bow and extended his hand. "Would you do me the honour of allowing a poor fool such as myself this next dance?"