121 AC, King's Landing
They removed all the mirrors in Aemond's room, by his mother's orders no doubt. Perhaps she thought to spare him the horror of his new face – that if he could not see the true extent of the angry red scar across his eye – that he might forget about it entirely. Or perhaps she merely thought it made him sad. But they were gone by the time he woke up from his latest trip with the Milk of the Poppy and she would not answer his questions about it.
Aemond could not say his mother was wrong.
He had never paid much attention to his face. He noticed his features, of course, but only so far as it took to notice anything. He knew he had all the makings of a Targaryen, the pallor of his skin and the blinding brightness of his hair and the deep purple of his eyes – eye - told him that well enough. But he had never given it much more thought than that.
But now he had begun to wonder.
And with his wonder came a new found self-consciousness that felt entirely foreign to him. Foreign in the way that made his stomach squirm. Foreign in the way that made him feel suddenly like he was not the same as his siblings. Foreign in the way made him long for the long, sunny days spent in Braavos. He was the only who missed that time apparently, for he had not heard hide nor hair from Ophaella, Daemon, or Laena for almost two months. He was trying not to be bitter about it, but that had grown difficult and his desire to see Ophaella again had begun to be tinged with something he did not recognize. With each day that passed without word from her – with each of his letters that went unanswered like the wind that carried them – he had begun to imagine that she was mad at him.
The whole nasty affair was his fault, after all.
It had been him that insisted on going into the city as much as a he had. It had been him that insisted on remaining tangled up with Jaqen and all his face. Perhaps she blamed him for the horror that was their final trip through Braavos. One terrible moment was all that was needed to destroy three years of happiness.
And he was all the more miserable for it.
Aemond hunkered down in his seat, tired already though his day had only just begun. His eye socket did not ache so early in the morning, but the skin itched something awful beneath the bandage and the desire to rip it off and scratch all the way down to bone nearly ate him alive. It was like something lived just beneath the surface, something living, and it was constantly trying to squirm.
He lifted the spoon, tilting it side to side to catch a glimpse of his distorted face in its reflection.
So much of his face still bore the signs of his time in Braavos – from the tan of his skin, to the intensity of his freckles, to the giant bandage. Soon it would all be wiped away and he would almost look like he did when he lived in King's Landing the first time. He could not say he cared for that reality.
Aemond dropped the spoon to the table and folded his arms across his stomach, appetite lost and mood suddenly foul.
"Does it hurt?"
Aemond looked at his younger brother Daeron, shaking his head though he was certainly lying to him. The boy smiled, cheeks turning pink. He had been meant to go to Oldtown, to live with their Uncle Gwayne, but the misadventure of Aemond had kept him in King's Landing longer than he should have been. Across the round table, Aegon watched them carefully, already painfully bored of the whole exchange. He was only there by mandate of their mother and he made his displeasure at that fact readily apparent. Beside him, Helaena pushed her mushy oats around on her plate, ignoring the other three just as she had done every morning. She was spacier than he remembered – less connected to the world around her and more prone to prolonged silences. All it took was a simple touch to the side of her arm for him to see it in full. He had not dared try again. Not after the first attempt and certainly not after she cried for near three days at the interaction.
He wished, for not the first time, that Helaena had been able to come with them.
"Can I see the scar?" Daeron asked, scooting just a little closer to Aemond. He was little more than a baby when Aemond left for Braavos, but he was now nearly the age Aemond had been when he left and his curiosity about the brother he knew so little about was nearly insatiable. He followed him whenever able, trailing around like a pale little duckling, peppering him with whatever question popped into his seven-year-old mind.
"Maybe later."
"Mother must believe it is quite a sight," Aegon said, tone falsely conversational. He poured himself another goblet of wine, starting his drinking early as he always did. He smirked at Aemond, clearly hoping to get some sort of response from him. Be it violent or nasty. He wanted for something and Aemond refused to give it to him. And so he continued to needle. "If mother has kept it covered up the way she has."
Aemond tried very hard to not fall for Aegon's very clear bait.
He wanted his anger.
He wanted his hurt.
Aemond so desperately wanted to give it to him.
It was little wonder at all that Aemond had thought he might miss his older brother. There had never been a time in his life that Aegon did anything a brother should, there had never been a moment where Aemond thought Aegon might love him as he should. The time in Braavos was clarifying in that regard.
Rather than giving Aegon any sort of satisfaction, Aemond instead pushed back from the stable and stood up.
"I will see you later, Daeron, and you Helaena," Aemond said, looking at his sister for a moment in the hopes that she might return his gaze. She tried, briefly, her pale purple meeting the deep of his, before she looked back down and continued to pick at her fingers. The motion was more hurried and frantic – a soothing sort of gesture that Aemond did not remember her relying on before he left.
Aemond tucked the spoon into his pocket as he turned away from his siblings, thankful and sad in equal measure about being alone once again.
He had done the same thing every morning since his mother allowed him out of his room for the second time. He woke up, waited for Orwyle to come and change his bandages, allowed the maids to pick something simple to wear for the day, before he went and joined his siblings to break his fast. The rest of the day was his, though he could not really spend it the way he would like, and so he had turned to more scholarly pursuits.
Out of desperation for something to do, more than true interest.
But there was at least some benefit in the new solitude, for his siblings mostly left him alone to wallow all he would like. They left him alone to return to their drinking and their sky gazing and their time spent with little wooden dragons. They left him alone when he crafted yet another letter to Ophaella that would likely go unanswered.
And they left him alone when he tried to process all the ways that that hurt.
Aemond walked to main library with his head down, mind set on returning to books on Aegon's Conquest that he had left half-read the day before. It was fatiguing, now, to read for hours on end, but it was the perfect sort of distraction he needed. At the very least, it would serve him well enough until he could sneak back out to the tiltyard.
Or the Dragonpit.
The doors were already open when Aemond arrived, indicating that the scribes and clerics and Maester's- to – be on loan from the Citadel had gotten an early start. He kept his head ducked as he walked past them. They knew to give him a wide berth, even if he had never demanded as such, and only spoke to him when he spoke first.
Such privileges had been forgotten to him while in Braavos.
He could not say he preferred it that way.
He missed his freedom, missed the illusion of control he had over his own choices.
He missed Ophaella.
Aemond walked to his corner of the library just a little bit faster, shaking his head to clear it of thoughts of her.
He found his books just as he left them, stacked tall enough that he needed a stool to reach the top, and relaxed just a touch. If the book today was interesting enough, it could carry him through to night time and he would be able to sleep that much sooner. He would do it all over again the next day, of course, but the days that he could spend not thinking of Ophaella and Daemon and Laena were the days that he enjoyed the most.
He dropped down into his cushioned chair and pulled the already open books towards his chest.
Dull though this activity might have been, he did find this particular book to be especially interesting. Much had been written about Aegon and his sisters, most aggrandizing and near unbelieving in its grandiosity, but very few accounts of the man himself still remained.
But here it was, left out perfectly in the open like he had been meant to find it.
Aemond had already read it through three times before it occurred to him that he might should be a little more alarmed by that, but he had enough to think about – enough to be miserable about – and he just did not have it in himself to care too much. Not when it was so deliciously intriguing, anyway. He pressed his fingers into the spine of the journal, forcing it open so that it would lay flat, and kicked his legs up onto the knotted table.
…The Six Kingdoms are content. Docile. The memory of the blood and fire seems too near for them to truly welcome us in the way Visenya believes that should. It appears thirty years as the dragons flies has not been enough to conquer hearts, though the lands remains peaceful enough. An accomplishment scarcely thought possible and yet I do not feel the same satisfaction that I once did.
Dorne remains hostile.
Visenya remains hostile, damnable woman. Aegonfort was meant to keep her occupied and yet her anger grows daily, like wildfire. Such fire had once been exciting…
Aemond flipped backwards, uninterested in Aegon's musing about his least favorite sister. If possible he would have filled books about his dislike of her. He was not a tolerant man, Aemond had gathered, and whatever love he might have once felt for Visenya had died many years before. If he ever held any for her at all. She was a tough woman – that much Aemond knew before he read the journal – but history had lost the true extent of her fury in the near eighty years since she passed. She was remembered as a warrior, fierce and stubborn and brutal, in all things. Her marriage suffered for it, though such things were also lost to far more favorable view of their conquest.
Aegon's preference for Rhaenys was only made clearer in his own words.
…Isle of Faces haunts me. To be so reminded of Rhaenys, to see her face carved from the white bark and remember all the years that she did not have. I have dreamed of ice and fire – dancing together and bringing about the ruin of all. I have dreamed of my dark and terrible path through the bodies of men and women and children. But it is only my dreams of her, of my dearest and beloved Rhaenys that haunt me…
Aemond flipped again.
…'sters fear that Maegor has inherited Visenya's gift. The boy feels no pain. Heat that would fell a dragon passes through him like water. Such a gift in a man so cruel, it is a wonder if I should have killed him in his crib…
Aemond did not have any of his own qualms about marrying within the family – for obvious reasons – but he had always felt that two sisters competing for the same affection of their brother was a disaster. The fact that Aegon had children by them both – sons that could not have been more opposite – only served to make the division within the marriage even more apparent. The lines in what should have been on family were apparent to even Aegon, though he did very little to quell such nasty feelings.
Instead he openly favored the son borne of Rhaenys and spurned the one borne of Visenya.
A family affliction.
A repeating prophecy, doomed to cycle through the generations again and again and again.
Aenys and Maegor. Rhaenyra and Aegon.
Aemond wondered if his father knew he had more in common with the Conqueror than just his one and only dragonmount. From what he read, it was the only similarity he could find. Where Aegon was strong and capable and certain in his ruling, his own father was weak and ineffective and uncertain in all but his love for Rhaenyra and her children. Aemond was not too young to see that and while he did not truly care the way his siblings did, it still stung that his father had not visited once since he returned.
Or maybe he had.
Maybe he could only stomach the sight of his second son when Aemond was sleeping.
At least Aegon did more than that. He acknowledged Maegor enough to write of his concern and dislike of the incoming cruelty. Aemond doubted his father even remembered him enough to have a dislike of him.
Aemond flipped forwards again, unconcerned with keeping a consistent timeline now that he had read through it thrice before. Keeping one hand on the journal, he dropped the other down to the pocket of his coat. His fingers dug around until he felt the cold metal of the spoon and pulled it back out.
Aemond shifted in his seat and held the spoon in front of his face.
He wanted his old face back.
He wanted the face that Ophaella had looked upon so fondly for so long.
He shifted the spoon to catch more of the candle light, desperately willing himself to not let his mind wander into the dark places it had already mapped out a thousand times over. Aemond shook his head, more forcefully than before, and turned back to the journal.
…The woman in red did not give me her name and I did not ask for it. I am too tired and her words weigh too heavily upon me to think of more. My actions have always carried weight. Such was my burden and my purpose, but what she spoke of was something greater than I could have scarcely comprehended. Scholars have always claimed our gifts were magic – something that was touched with the oldest blood – but I could not fathom the truth of it.
I woke it.
This creeping horror.
The waking of giants that are not ours to control.
A Targaryen must always sit the throne, if we are to wrest some of this growing malignancy back under our yoke. If not, I fear all will be lost.
And my dream will have turned into a nightmare.
A Targaryen must always sit the throne. A Targaryen borne with gifts – with magic in their blood and at the tips of their fingers – must never be allowed to give that gift away to a lesser blood.
I woke it.
I woke it.
The gods do not have enough mercy for us all should it be allowed to grow…
Aemond ripped the page from the journal without thought.
It was only on his fourth pass through did the words finally settle.
It was only now that he understood what might be coming. What this could mean for his siblings, for himself, for Ophaella. It was only now that Jaqen's words of warning about green witches and their attempts to take whatever power they could. A Targaryen must never be allowed to give their gifts away to a lesser blood. It had always been a perverse rule they all followed, but Aemond never could have imagined there was something more to it. Just as Aegon knew his son – his Unburnt, cruel, horror - should not marry outside their family and just as Jaqen knew to warn Aemond about a green witch grasping for him and his mind.
But he did not know what to do.
The person he would have told did not return his letters.
And the father he might have turned to had abandoned him long ago.
The man that might have filled that roll had left him too.
The mother he wanted and the mother he had were two different people and were of two entirely different minds and of two different concerns. Neither of which were him.
Aemond shoved the crumpled up page into his pocket, tucking it in with the spoon as he stood up. He grabbed the rest of the journal as well, though he doubted there was anything more remarkable tucked away in its pages.
A Targaryen must never be allowed to give their gifts away to a lesser blood.
His mind, like it always did, was on Ophaella. His thought of marrying her was a future hope – one that embarrassed him to think about too much – but he knew it was what he wanted. He knew he wanted her. Not for her blood or her gifts or the lands that she now held. But for her. Wholly and completely he wanted her.
He knew others would as well.
Lords Paramount. Lords of the Vale. Lords from all corners of Westeros and Essos would likely seek her hand. But they were of little concern when compared to the sudden and all-consuming panic he felt at the very idea of her marrying someone else of their bloodline.
They were nothing when compared to the thought of her marrying Jacaerys.
They were nothing when compared to the horror of her marrying Aegon.
"Can I help you find anything, my prince?"
The question and the asker caught him off guard. He nearly bowled into them, his panic nearly blinding him to all but his thoughts of returning to his room, to the quill and ink and raven meant for Ophaella. He would try again and again and again. Until she told him to stop.
Until there was nothing left.
Aemond looked up at the woman, only now registering that she was, in fact, a woman.
She was tall and slender, with hair that nearly reached her lower back and the greenest eyes he had ever seen. Aemond stepped back and looked at her more in full. From the plain fabric she wore to the way she did not avert her eyes when he looked at her face.
His eye wound ignited in pain.
He gasped and stepped back, ignoring the maid as she called after him. His hand clapped over the bandage as he resisted the urge to claw away at the fabric and snap the stiches. Oh how he wanted to scratch the skin. Oh how he wanted to reach down to the root and relieve whatever lingering itch. At least then he might feel something of her and the last part of him she touched.
He would settle for a letter.
And then he would hope that the Maester had dropped off more Milk of the Poppy to see him through to the next day.
122 AC, Runestone
"Aemond has not returned my letters."
Ophaella did not meant to sound so petulant about that fact, but she could not help.
Laena looked over at her, hand halfway down stroking her stomach. Across the table, Lord Laenor, looked up from his book, a pitying smile on his face.
He had been with them for nearly three months now, longer than Lady Rhaenys's two weeks, and their breakfast together were usually spent on much happier topics. She knew not why he felt the need to leave Dragonstone and his own children – knew not if it was something she should have even noticed – and did not dare push the subject. But he was a boy, old though he may be, and she thought he might know a little something of the stupidity of other boys.
"He received a serious injury," Laena tried, only to be cut off by Laenor's open scoffing.
"Nearly six months past, as the dragon flies."
"Thank you," Ophaella said, smiling at Laenor before shooting a look at Laena.
"It takes time, Ophaelly," Laena said, ignoring the way her brother and step-daughter rolled their eyes in tandem. "And you do not know what other challenges he faces."
"A letter would let me know." Ophaella hunkered down in her seat, only lifting her head enough to see as Rhaenys entered the room. She was the latest sleeper of the four and she always looked remarkably well-rested. Ophaella envied her tremendously for that fact.
She had not had a good night's sleep for six months.
How could she when her father had not returned home when he said he would? How could she when Aemond had not returned a single letter?
How could she when she still could not find the source of the all-consuming, soul shattering screaming that haunted every step she took?
"Good morning," Rhaenys greeted, pausing to place a kiss on Laena's head before she took her seat on her other side. At first Ophaella had wondered after their presence more than she wondered about anything else. But they made a good attempt at filling the cavernous void that was left behind by her father and Aemond and for that she was thankful.
And she could not complain about riding her dragon daily with Rhaenys and Laenor.
Just as she could not complain about all the time she had spent with Laena. In the vast library, out on the moors, sitting along the rocky coast where nothing but the ocean could hear what they said.
"Does he arrive today?" Rhaenys asked, holding out her hand to take the delicate cup of tea proffered to her by Paea, Ophaella's favorite maid.
"He does. Within the hour, the guards have said."
He being Yorent Royce.
He being the man who meant to take her land and her rightful place at its head.
She had given him until the end of the season to make his way to Runestone and he had openly flaunted her decree. She should have chased him down, but her father's absence had robbed her of that confidence. She had felt almost paralyzed when she thought of what she should do. She could not bring herself to act however and had instead allowed Yorent Royce and his great offence to continue to undermine her.
She might have to kill him for it now.
"What do you plan to do?" Rhaenys asked, blowing on her tea and watching Ophaella over the top of her cup. She was searching for a certain answer.
"I do not know. If my father were here, he m-"
"Daemon has left this task to you." Rhaenys took a long sip, holding Ophaella's gaze. Her eyes were darker than the rest of her family, more blue than purple, and stormy. Baratheon eyes painted in dragon violet. Ophaella sat up straighter, comforted by the presence of her father's favorite cousin rather than intimidated. Rhaenys's eyes moved on from her face and down to the formal leather armor Ophaella now wore. It had been made recently, a size too big to wear longer, and still squeaked with each movement she made.
"He said he would be back," Ophaella said, strongly resisting the urge to stand up and pace. Instead, she turned her eyes towards the other side of the large room, to the open doors and large number of crates being brought inside and set next to the stairs that led down to the kitchen. Runestone did not have a large enough staff to keep such things from their sight – not that Ophaella would have ever cared about such a thing – and her three Velaryon guests had had to adjust their expectations from the finery of the Red Keep and Driftmark. But they all seemed to have settled in well enough and their brocaded fabrics had been traded for plain blues and simple browns.
And it had all been so very relaxing.
If not for the screaming in Ophaella's head, the hurt in her heart, and the panic at the fact that by the end of the morning she might now longer be Ophaella Targaryen and instead be Ophaella Kinslayer.
"Where will you receive him?" Rhaenys asked, following Ophaella's gaze over to the staff before she looked back at the plate of food in front of her.
"In here."
"Without the Cannibal?" Laenor asked, shock coloring his words.
"She is the Lady of Runestone. She should not use her dragon," Laena said, reaching out her hand to grab hold of Ophaella's. She gave it a squeeze, running her finger over scarred skin of her palm.
"Indeed." Rhaenys gave her one final look, hard expression softening just a touch.
"My lady."
Ophaella squeezed Laena's hand even tighter, breathing in as much as she could without causing her whole body to shudder, before she dropped her hand and turned to face her Captain of the Guard, Yohnnen. He donned his ceremonial uniform, at her command, and had already replaced his rough cream cloak with one of threaded brown and bronze. He was a distant cousin of hers, one that no longer bore the name Royce, but he seemed loyal enough.
Loyal enough to follow the command of a twelve year old girl over that of the much older man that he could be loyal to.
Perhaps her dragon made that choice easier.
But she liked to think it was a lingering love for her mother and her leadership that brought Ophaella favor with her people.
"Ser Yorent has arrived."
"Alone?"
Ophaella stood up, dropping Laena's hand as she turned around to face Yohnnen.
"He brings his own detachment of guards, my lady."
"Do not allow him inside until the other guards return to their posts." Ophaella placed her hands behind her back, shielding the shaking in her fingers to all but Laena and Rhaenys. Yohnnen inclined his head and departed with a final 'my lady'. Ophaella immediately began to panic, throwing out her arms to relieve even a fraction of the nervous energy flowing through her.
"I do not want to do this," Ophaella said, voice wibbling like she would cry.
"No, it is a miserable affair," Rhaenys said, taking a final sip of her tea before she stood up. She was a very tall woman, tall as her father she thought, and towered over all but Laenor. But she bore it well and Ophaella found she was drawn to her strength in much she same way as she was drawn to her father's. "But there will never be an end to men and their audacity and if you do no assert your rightful claim, they will deprive you of air before you ever even take a breath."
As she had been.
Rhaenys said nothing else as she walked away, taking a scone with her to her seat, Laenor following quickly after her and after giving Ophaella an encouraging thumbs up.
"Take your seat. We will be here for you, but you must do this alone." Laena gave her a quick kiss to the side of her head, dropping her hand down to brush over the scars on her palm again – reminding her of who she was and what she was capable of - before she stepped back and went to join her mother and brother in their own seats at the other side of the room.
Ophaella let out a deep breath.
She did not bother sitting down and instead tried to stand up as straight as possible, though she might should have, for when the doors to her hall opened and she saw Yorent Royce for the first time, she felt very much like tipping over sideways and puking all at once.
He was a portly man, older than she thought he would, and flanked on either side by three knights of varying heights, ages, and musculature. Her own knights were placed around the room at a consistent interval, hands on the hilts of their swords though none dared draw them until she gave the command.
Not that she had ever done that before.
The only commands she had given had been domestic in nature.
How could she possible ask them to fight for her?
To kill for her?
"Ser Yorent Royce," Ophaella greeted, hoping that if she started with pleasantries she might buy herself enough time to figure the rest out.
Yorent came to a stop half the distance of the room from her. He looked her up and down, bright amber eyes – so like her own – narrowing ever so slightly.
"Ophaella, I have heard much about you."
"You will address me as My Lady or Lady Royce."
The guards spaced around the room tensed just as she did.
"Forgive me, I was under the impression that you had taken your father's name upon birth."
"I did. And I am proud of my Targaryen blood and my Targaryen name. But I am also Lady Royce as long as Runestone remains mine to protect and I am Lady Targaryen as long as my blood is spike with fire."
"So you would be both and none."
The pleasantries, brief and forced, withered and died in the gulf that existed between them.
But she would not let him deprive her of her air any more than she would let him deprive her of her title. One of the few things left to her by her mother. One of the few things that was wholly hers and not colored by the red of dragon blood.
"I would be both. I am both."
Yorent took a step towards her, knights flanking him following in tandem. But he made no move to draw the sword at his hip and the conversation remained calm for at least a moment longer.
"You are a child. What do you know of Runestone? What do you know of what it means to have the Blood of the First Men?" Yorent took another step towards her.
Ophaella stepped off the slight dais, ignoring the way Yohnnen crossed the small space to stand directly at her back. She continued forward, placing herself precariously close to Yorent despite the clear anxiety it caused both her family and the guards currently tasked with keeping her safe.
Butt her anger now guided her in ways it had not since she killed the boy in Braavos.
How dare he?
"My mother was your Lady and the first moment you could, you betrayed her. The tragedy of our family, the grief of the passing of my mother, was not yours. All you saw was opportunity and you took it, just as you took the family sword."
"Do you intend to wield it, child?"
"I will if I must, even if only strike you down."
Ophaella was just saying stuff at that point, anger guiding her words more than her brain. Her hand moved to the knife at her belt, fingers surprisingly steady as she grasped it and held it above her palm. "The Blood of the First Men flows just as strongly in my veins as it does in yours and I know what it means to be burdened by it better than you ever will."
To make her point, she drew the knife across her palm three times, connecting the cuts at the ends and forming a rune.
"Ophaella, no."
Ophaella ignored Laena as she moved the knife deeper.
Just a simple one.
Just enough to cut through the first layer of skin and fat.
Just enough to make her point.
The skin of his cheek burst, sending blood down his collar and over the shiny bronze of his armor.
Red and bronze. The blood splashed on her face and hair, staining the white a sickly pink.
"Will you bend the knee?"
Yorent grasped at his cheek, eyes blown wide as he looked from her bleeding palm and back to the blood dripping onto the floor at his feet. She thought for a moment that he might meet to her demand, that he might recognize that he had been bested. But he remained stubbornly quiet.
And then he shook his head.
His hand dropped to the sword at his waist and he made a motion like he meant to draw it.
Yohnnen stepped out behind her, sword drawn, as he pushed Ophaella to the side.
"Please," Ophaella pleaded, panic building at the hand he was trying to force. "We are family. Do not make me do this. Bend the knee."
"You sit there with your white hair and your great beast circling overhead and have the nerve to claim to know the stones better than I? I lived here longer than you have been alive and you would steal my home right out from under me? You? A little dragon bitch who is more Braavosi and Crowlander than of the Vale? Never."
Ophaella moved the knife again, causing Yorent's other cheek to burst with blood.
"Bend. The. Knee."
"Never."
"I will give you a choice, then." Ophaella tried to keep her voice steady as more guards moved forward. Outnumbering Yorent and his own detachment nearly threefold. "I am both and I am none. I and Royce and I am Targaryen, so I will give you the choice of how you will die. Rune or fire?"
"What? You cannot execute me. You have no right to dispense the King's justice without the King's decree."
A guard kicked the back of his leg, forcing him to his knees.
"You are in my home, you threaten my life. The King's justice demands your head. The fire would be kinder, the rune quicker. So which will it be?"
Yorent fought against the guards holding him in place.
"Take the sword."
"My lady," A guard said, hurrying to follow her command.
It was dizzying.
To have all this power and to have her words followed.
She hated it.
Just as she hated what she was about to do.
"My son will kill you for this."
"So be it. I welcome the opportunity to meet more family. Perhaps he will remember our words better than you have. Now, rune or fire; I will not ask again."
"You little cunt."
"Rune, then." Ophaella folded her arms across her stomach, knife dangling between her fingers as the blood dripped onto the floor. It landed heavy, nearly drowned out by the shouts and scuffled struggle of Yorent. "You were born by the rune and you will die by it. We are both Royces and We Remember."
Ophaella tucked the knife in her belt, turning to the guard closest to her not currently holding Yorent.
"Prepare the stones. He will be buried at dusk."
Ophaella watched as they pulled Yorent from the room, ignoring his screams and shouts. Her entire body relaxed when he was gone, releasing the tension that had seemed like to kill her.
And she promptly turned to the side and threw up.
Laena was at her side immediately, pulling her hair back as she continued to empty her guts. But it was a relief in some way, just as it was a relief to hear Rhaenys order the remaining guards to clear the room, leaving the four of them alone.
"You were brilliant, Ophaella," Laenor said, moving to stand on her other side. His hand touched her shoulder, rubbing soft circles against the part of her armor than was thinner. "Scary, but brilliant."
"Why did he make me do that?" Ophaella asked, reaching her hand around to grab her cloak. She wiped the rough fabric across her mouth, ignoring the scratch and the pull. She then used it to wipe the rest of the blood from her hand. She stood up, a little wobbly on her feet as she returned to her bearings, and desperately fought the urge to run to her room and spend the rest of the day crying into her pillow.
"Because he is a man. They will never accept a woman in charge without being forced to do so at the tip of the sword."
"Or by the fire of dragons," Laenor said, entirely too mirthful about this whole morbid affair. He gave her one final pat on the back before he turned to the large pile of crates, left half unloaded in all the sudden chaos. He dug around for a moment, setting aside various bottles and wheels of cheese, candles and bundles of wheat, clumps of fat for soap and bolts of fabric, until he found what he was looking for.
He produced a delicate green bottle with a tag tied to its neck, holding it aloft.
"For the Lady of Runestone. Fierce and capable that she is."
Ophaella's stomach turned at the very thought of eating or drinking something, let alone alcohol. She had barely even sipped on it before – being the perfectly acceptable and non-degenerate like Aegon that she was – and had not yet developed a taste for it. But Laenor looked so proud that she could not very well deny him, so she smiled and nodded her head, laughing a bit when Laena wrapped her arms around her and pulled her into a tight hug as she did.
"You did the right thing, though it does not feel like it now. Your father would be proud of you. Yorent would have killed you. Now or in the future, he would have killed you and stolen your seat," Rhaenys agreed, coming to stand next to the small grouping. "Though perhaps he would not have done so with so much…blood."
Rhaenys was looking at her palm.
And the bloody knife.
And any hope of keeping a secret from her in that regard was gone before Ophaella really had the chance to think about whether or not it was a good idea.
She had shown the whole room in fact.
"Oh."
The panic built again.
"I suppose one of you will care to explain at some point," Rhaenys said, looking first at Ophaella before Laena. She did not seem angry, though her face had hardened considerably since she first joined them for breakfast. "Though I am not surprised. There have always been rumors."
"The guards…"Ophaella started, turning around in place. "They saw."
"Rune magic," Laenor said, dismissing her concerns with a wave of his hand. "The boys would love to hear about this."
"You can't!"
"Who else knows?" Rhaenys asked, shooting her son a sidelong look as he popped the cork on the bottle. He gave it a sniff, seemingly satisfied with it, before he held it out in front of him.
"Her father, obviously. And I suspect the King does as well. Father learned something of it while he was visiting us in Braavos, but we did not dare divulge everything."
"And Aemond," Ophaella finished for Laena, sadness creeping in at his lack of communication once again. "Everyone saw."
"They saw you standing in front of Yorent with a knife. Nothing more," Laena said, sharing a look with her mother than Ophaella could not describe or identify. It was close to fear, if Rhaenys felt such a thing, and bordered on angry. As if she was mad at Laena for keeping such a thing to herself. As if she was mad that she had left her entire life behind in service of this and did not have the respect enough for her to tell her the truth.
"Your mother had these gifts," Rhaenys said, still looking at Laena though she was speaking to Ophaella again.
"She did."
"And you knew, Laena."
"I did."
"And so it all begins to make sense."
"A drink," Laenor said, cutting across the tension that was threatening to swallow them whole. "A toast, to the Lady of Runestone."
Laenor took a long sip, testing the alcohol for himself before he proffered it to Ophaella. She took the bottle, relaxing under his soft gaze. So many things had happened, so many complications and hardships and terribleness, but Laenor remained firmly the same, firmly one of her favorites. If there was any benefit to her father marrying Laena, and Ophaella was of the opinion that there were too many to count, having Laenor be her uncle by marriage might be one of the best.
She sniffed, scrunching up her nose at the strong smell.
She took the small sip possible, coughing almost immediately as the strong alcohol hit the back of her throat.
Laenor laughed, taking the bottle back so that he could take three more long sips.
Ophaella cleared her throat, smiling briefly at the three adults – comforted by their support and missing the presence of her father in equal measure. The alcohol buzzed through her, even with the small sip she took, and made her throat itch. Or perhaps that was the same feeling she always got when she had to act the part of the Lady of Runestone.
She cleared her throat again.
The bottle slipped from Laenor's hand as he stumbled backwards. He clawed at his throat, fingers pulling at the skin, nails digging deep enough to draw just a flash of blood. His face grew pale just as his eyes purpled.
Ophaella dropped to her knees stomach turning over and over.
Her hands splayed on the cool stone floor as she began to cough. It was small at first, like she was trying to clear her throat, before it began to grow violent. Hands touched her, pulling at her as voices began to shout. Ophaella pitched sideways, collapsing in a puddle of water that had not been there before.
Darkness fluttered at the edge of her vision.
Just as Laena stood over her, simple dress soaked with blood and water.
And Ophaella's last thought before she passed out was one of nothing but pure fear.