The One-Eyed Prince
Celeste groaned as she was roused by her fellow maids, rising from the small, lumpy cot with a grimace. Dawn had barely broken, and the last time Celeste could recall willingly getting up this early was when Draco begged her to cheer him on at his Quidditch practice. At least she was able to sit and ogle the Slytherin Keeper, Miles Bletchley, who she thought was rather easy on the eyes.
Despite the early hour, the Red Keep was already alive with activity as servants bustled around her, their hurried footsteps echoing off the stone walls as she made her ways to the kitchen, holding back several yawns.
The clang of pots echoed around the kitchens of the Red Keep as Celeste scrubbed furiously at a soot-blackened cauldron, a task which reminded her of the many detentions she’d served with Snape. Her hands, now raw and blistered from the fortnight of menial labour, trembled with frustration. She hated this—hated hiding, hated waiting. Sirius was so close, yet the barrier of court politics and her lowly status kept them worlds apart.
Her head buzzed with frustration as she finished her task and was handed another: delivering firewood to the royal wing’s upper levels. She swallowed her irritation, gathered the heavy basket of split logs, and began the long trek up the winding servant stairwell.
Balancing the basket in her arms, Celeste navigated the winding hallways with care, the two gruelling weeks of work not being enough time for her to confidently recall everywhere in the Keep just yet. Her thoughts wandered as she walked, rehearsing what she might say if she stumbled across Sirius. What would he look like now, after all this time? Would he recognize her? The ache in her chest threatened to overwhelm her, but she pushed it aside. Focus on the task. One step at a time.
Her distraction proved to be her undoing.
Turning a corner too quickly, she collided hard with something—or rather, someone. The force sent her reeling, the basket tipping and scattering logs across the floor. Celeste caught herself against the wall, her heart sinking as she looked up to see who she had run into.
He was tall, imposing, and dressed in dark, finely tailored clothes that marked him as someone of importance. His hair, pale as moonlight, was tied back neatly, and his sharp features were marred by a long scar that peeked out of the dark, leather eyepatch which hid his left eye and lent him an air of danger. His remaining eye, a vivid, bright blue, fixed on her with cold disdain.
Prince Aemond Targaryen.
“You’re either blind or clumsy,” he said coolly, his voice low and sharp. “Though I suppose the latter is more likely, given your station.”
Celeste bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from snapping back. She quickly dropped her gaze, knowing better than to meet the eyes of royalty. “Forgive me, my prince,” she murmured, bending to gather the scattered logs. Her hands shook slightly as she worked, but she kept her expression calm and her tone neutral.
Aemond didn’t move to help, of course. Instead, he watched her with an amused expression, tilting his head as though studying an insect under glass. “And here I thought the scullery maids of the Red Keep were chosen for their competence.”
Celeste’s jaw tightened, but she remained silent, carefully stacking the logs back into the basket. She knew better than to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, especially here, where servants disappeared for far less.
Aemond’s lips twitched into a faint smirk at her lack of response. “You’re awfully quiet,” he said. “Most would trip over themselves to beg for forgiveness. Or perhaps you think silence will spare you?”
“I only wish not to offend, my prince,” she said evenly, her voice soft but steady. “It is not my place to speak out of turn.”
Aemond raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by her measured reply. He stepped closer, and for a moment, Celeste’s pulse quickened. He loomed over her, his gaze lingering on her bowed head.
“Not your place,” he echoed, his tone mocking. “A rare quality in this castle.”
Celeste kept her head down, clenching her fists to keep her anger in check. She reminded herself why she was here—why she couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself. She didn’t need this arrogant prince’s ire, no matter how much she wanted to put him in his place.
After a long moment, Aemond let out a soft, derisive chuckle. “Run along, then, little maid. You’ve spilled enough of my time.”
Celeste gathered the last of the logs and straightened, bowing her head slightly. “Yes, my prince.” Without another word, she turned and hurried away, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t look back, though she could feel his gaze on her as she retreated.
Once she was safely out of sight, Celeste paused to catch her breath, leaning against the cool stone wall. Her hands tightened around the basket handle as she replayed the encounter in her mind. The prince was insufferable, with his sharp tongue and haughty demeanor, but she had managed to avoid drawing suspicion.
Still, there was something unnerving about him. His gaze had been sharp, almost too perceptive, as if he had seen through her feigned meekness. She couldn’t afford to let that happen again.
As she continued down the corridor, she allowed herself one small, satisfying thought: If he only knew who he was speaking to, he wouldn’t be so smug.
But for now, she had to stay invisible. Her reunion with Sirius—and her true purpose—was far more important than trading barbs with a Targaryen prince.
The kitchens of the Red Keep were bustling as usual when Celeste returned, her arms still sore from hauling the firewood up the endless staircases. She carefully placed the empty basket on a clutter counter, keeping her head down as the head cook barked orders to the other servants.
The rest of her day passed in a haze of menial tasks and whispered gossip. The servants spoke of the prince with equal parts awe and fear. Aemond Targaryen, they said, was a man of few words but great ambition. He had a temper to match his family’s reputation, and though he was not the heir to the throne, his intellect and skill in battle made him a force to be reckoned with.
Celeste tried to ignore the whispers, but she couldn’t help replaying their brief encounter in her mind. His smirk, his cold gaze, the way he had dismissed her so easily—it all grated on her nerves. Yet, she knew better than to let her frustration show. Her position in the keep was precarious enough as it was.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, she was back in the kitchens, scrubbing the remnants of the evening feast from pots and pans. Lyra passed by, dropping a bucket of dirty rags at her feet.
“You’ve got an interesting look about you,” Lyra said, her tone light but curious. “You’d do well to keep your head down. The likes of him don’t take kindly to servants who stand out.”
Celeste nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She didn’t need Lyra’s warning to know that Aemond was dangerous. She’d seen it in his eye—the kind of cold, calculating intelligence that could unravel someone like her with ease.
Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that their paths would cross again. And the next time, she might not be able to hold her tongue.