Beyond the Veil

The night air in the Red Keep was cooler than usual, a sharp breeze cutting through the open corridors. Celeste stood at the edge of one of the long balconies that overlooked the Blackwater Bay, her eyes on the distant, rippling waves. The cool air was a welcome reprieve from the tension that seemed to choke every hallway, every chamber, every breath within the Red Keep.

Her thoughts wandered, though not far. She knew the royal family was gathered for a family dinner at King Viserys’s request. She had seen them all walking toward the dining hall earlier, their faces carrying varying degrees of unease. Alicent had smiled tightly as she walked beside Helaena, her gaze sharp and watchful. Rhaenyra had come in with her sons, their gazes steady but guarded. Aegon had sauntered in with his usual air of boredom, while Aemond moved with his usual precision, eyes darting over everyone like a hawk tracking prey.

Celeste hadn’t been invited, nor did she expect to be. This was a family affair, and though she had her place as Helaena’s lady-in-waiting, her presence was unnecessary for such an occasion. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder how it was unfolding. A room full of dragons and flames—what could possibly go wrong?

The answer came sooner than expected.

A loud crash echoed from within the Red Keep, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. Moments later, shouts followed. Celeste straightened, her heart quickening as she glanced toward the corridor leading to the hall.

No. Not tonight.

Her feet moved before her mind caught up, her steps quick but purposeful as she followed the sound of raised voices. As she neared the hall, a servant rushed past her, eyes wide with panic. Celeste stopped the woman with a hand on her arm.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice sharp but steady.

“Fight,” the servant gasped, barely glancing at her. “The princes—the boys—”

Celeste’s heart dropped. She released the servant, who ran off, and quickened her pace, her dress sweeping the stone floor behind her. The sounds of chaos grew louder as she approached the entrance to the dining hall.

She reached the door just as it burst open, and out strode Jacaerys Velaryon, his jaw set, his eyes blazing with barely controlled rage. Behind him followed Lucerys, his face pale but uninjured. Both boys walked with the rigid stiffness of pride wounded but not broken.

“Jace,” Celeste called as she stepped into their path. He turned to her, his eyes narrowing as he recognized her. His breathing was heavy, his fists still clenched at his sides.

“Not now, Lady Black,” Jace said, his voice tight with frustration. His face was a mask of barely controlled rage, his eyes forward, his gaze locked on the path ahead as if he intended to walk straight through the stone walls themselves.

“Jace,” Celeste called after him, stepping forward.

He didn’t slow. He didn’t turn. He didn’t even acknowledge her.

“Jace,” she said more firmly, her voice carrying a sharper edge.

Nothing. He stormed past her, his jaw clenched, his fists still balled at his sides. She saw it as he passed—the redness of his knuckles, the faint smudge of blood at the edge of his skin. Not his blood. Someone else's. Lucerys looked at her apologetically as he followed his brother.

Her eyes narrowed as she turned her head, watching him disappear down the corridor, his steps echoing like distant thunder.

Someone else’s blood. A fight.

She exhaled slowly, letting her gaze return to the doorway of the hall. Her eyes narrowed. If Jace was walking away like that, then there was only one person it could be.

Sure enough, not a moment later, Aemond Targaryen strode out of the same door, his footsteps quieter but no less deliberate.

His cheek was split. The blood was his. His silver hair, usually neat and smooth, was slightly disheveled, his gaze hard, sharp as a freshly forged blade, his single blue eye locked forward—until he saw her.

He stopped. He didn’t seem surprised. He never did.

“Another lively family gathering?” Celeste asked, her voice smooth and cool. She stayed where she was, her hands clasped lightly in front of her, her posture unthreatening but composed. Her gaze flicked to his cheek. “It seems you were the entertainment.”

Aemond didn’t respond immediately. He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into that slow, deliberate smirk she was beginning to recognize all too well.

“More lively than usual,” he said, his voice smooth as silk but laced with that quiet, cutting edge he always carried. “But I think I left them with something to remember.”

Her eyes darted to his cheek, the slow drip of blood running to his jawline. “It seems they left you with something to remember as well.”

He raised a hand, swiping the blood from his chin with his fingers, then glanced at it, as if appraising it like one would appraise a mark on fine porcelain. His lips twisted into something between a grin and a sneer.

“Memories are made in fire, Lady Black,” he said, flicking the blood from his fingers onto the stone floor. His eye lifted to meet hers. “Surely you, of all people, know that.”

Celeste tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Did he hit you first?”

Aemond’s smile didn’t falter, but the sharpness in his gaze deepened. He knew she’d ask. He knew she’d see it.

“Does it matter?” he asked, his tone light but with an undertone of mockery.

“Of course it matters,” she replied, her tone as sharp as his. “It matters to him. And it matters to you.”

He studied her for a moment, his gaze flicking over her face, measuring her. Looking for cracks.

When he found none, he exhaled softly through his nose, his smirk fading into something colder. “Yes,” he admitted. “He struck me first.”

Her brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across her face. He told the truth. She hadn’t expected that. Not from Aemond.

“And you didn’t strike back,” she said slowly, watching his face for a shift, for a tell.

His lips parted into that familiar sharp grin, and he took a slow step toward her. “Why would I need to?” he asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “I hit him harder by doing nothing.”

Her chest tightened at his words—not because she feared him, but because she understood. He wanted Jace to lose control. He wanted him to hit first. And Jace did.

“You baited him,” she said softly, her eyes fixed on his, unwavering. “And he took it.”

Aemond’s grin widened, his gaze burning with satisfaction. “He always will.”

Celeste’s eyes narrowed. “Not forever.”

That made him pause. His gaze flickered, his head tilting ever so slightly, his curiosity piqued. “You think you can teach him to resist me?”

“I am not getting involved in your petty squabbles,” she replied coolly, her eyes never leaving his. “But, boys grow into men. Lessons like these stay with them. He will learn from it.”

Aemond stepped closer, close enough that she could see the faint pulse of his heartbeat in his neck. His voice dropped lower, more dangerous, more intimate.

“Do you think men are so different from boys, Celeste?” he asked, his breath as cold as the night air. “Do you think they learn to stop chasing what taunts them?”

Her eyes didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. Not now. Not ever.

“They learn,” she replied, her voice soft but firm. “The question is, do you?”

Silence stretched between them, taut and electric. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to.

Aemond’s gaze lingered on hers, the intensity of his stare enough to make most people look away. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t.

He tilted his head again, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful, more calculating. “You’re not like the others,” he murmured, his voice more a thought than a statement. “You see too much.”

Her lips curled into a faint smile. “That’s because I watch. Closely.”

He chuckled, his eye never leaving hers. “Careful, Celeste. Watch too closely, and you’ll see things you wish you hadn’t.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” she replied, her eyes cold and sharp as steel. “And I’ve seen worse things than you.”

His grin widened at that, his eyes alight with something she couldn’t quite place. Interest, perhaps. Or recognition.

“Bold words,” Aemond said softly. “I wonder if you’ll still believe them when you’re standing at the edge of the fire.”

Her gaze flicked to his cheek, her eyes scanning the wound with the calm precision of someone accustomed to seeing blood. “You should let me clean that,” she said, her voice softer but firm.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly taken off guard. “Do you intend to nurse me back to health, Celeste?” he asked mockingly, his tone laced with dry amusement. “I didn’t realize I’d fallen so low.”

“Your pride will survive it, I’m sure,” she shot back smoothly. “But if you’d prefer to parade through the halls with blood on your face, be my guest.”

Aemond’s gaze lingered on her, his lips pursing as if considering the offer. He glanced down the hallway, his eyes flicking toward the direction Jace had gone, before turning his attention back to her.

“Fine,” he said, his voice clipped. “But if you leave a scar, you’ll owe me more than words.”

“Then I’ll make sure my work is flawless,” she replied, reaching one hand up to cup his face lightly. His skin was smooth, no trace of stubble and his jaw was as sharp as it looked.

She reached into the hidden pocket of her gown, pulling out a small silk handkerchief. It was finer than most, the silk smooth as water. At the corner of the fabric, embroidered in silver thread, was an ornate crest—a sleek, black heraldic shield with accents of emerald green. At its centre, a regal "M" was framed by intricate flourishes, two serpent-like dragons coiled with wings spread protecting the outside of the crest. Above the shield rested three spears, snake like vines twisting around the centre spear. Below the crest, a ribbon displays the Latin motto, "Sanctimonia Vincet Semper" which Narcissa had drilled the meaning of their family motto, "Purity Will Always Conquer". A motto she no longer believed in.

Aemond’s eyes flicked to the embroidery, his gaze sharpening with immediate curiosity. “That’s excellent craftsmanship.” he said, his tone low, thoughtful. His eye lifted to meet hers, suspicion flickering within it. “Where did you get it?”

Her fingers stilled for a moment, her eyes lifting to meet his. He had noticed. Of course he had. Aemond saw everything.

“It was a gift,” she replied smoothly, her face a mask of calm. “From someone I used to know.”

“Someone you used to know,” he repeated, his voice laced with interest. “And who might that be, Lady Black? A suitor?”

Her lips curled into a faint smile as she unfolded the cloth. “Jealous?” she teased, her gaze flicking to his cheek. “A woman. Someone who believed in refinement and tradition. She taught me the value of precision.”

“Sounds like a woman worth knowing,” Aemond mused, his eye still fixed on the handkerchief. “What house carries that sigil? It’s not one I recognize.”

Celeste dabbed at the blood on his cheek, her movements controlled and precise. “It’s from a land far from here,” she said vaguely, her tone gentle but firm, though Aemond could sense the sadness in her voice. “Far enough that it doesn’t matter now.”

Aemond’s brow lifted slightly, his gaze watching her more carefully now. He knew when someone was dodging a question.

“Curious,” he muttered, his eye flicking down to the handkerchief once more. “Most people don’t carry relics of the past with them.”

“Only the useful ones,” she replied, shifting the cloth to a clean section and pressing it lightly against the wound. Her fingers were steady, careful not to cause him pain. “Call it a habit.”

“More like a warning,” he remarked softly, his lips curling again into that familiar sharp grin. “People who carry the past with them tend to be ruled by it.”

Celeste’s eyes flicked up to his. His gaze was already waiting for hers.

“I’m not ruled by it,” she said calmly. “I learn from it.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. A test. A shift.

“Do you know what I see, Lady Black?” Aemond asked, his voice low and quiet, his words like smoke curling through the air. “I see someone with a past she won’t talk about. Secrets she guards too closely.” He leaned in, his gaze sharp but curious, like a blade examining its own edge. “Secrets are weaknesses. Everyone learns that eventually.”

Her eyes didn’t waver. Not now. Not ever.

“Secrets are power,” she replied softly, pressing the cloth against the last bit of blood on his jaw. Her voice was like a thread of silk pulled taut. “They only become weaknesses if you let someone else hold them.”

Silence. His smirk vanished.

He tilted his head just slightly, his eyes narrowing as if she had said something far more dangerous than she realized. But she had known exactly what she was doing.

“You speak like someone who's learned that the hard way,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. “Tell me, Celeste… did she teach you that too? This woman of refinement and precision?”

Her fingers pressed just a little harder than necessary against his cheek, and for once, he flinched.

“She taught me a great many things,” Celeste replied, pulling the handkerchief away and glancing at the faint stain of his blood on the silk. Her eyes met his once more. Sharp. Steady. Certain.

“And you’ve taught me one thing tonight,” she added, folding the handkerchief neatly, the Malfoy crest still visible on the corner. “That Aemond Targaryen speaks of power but prefers control. Control over himself, over others. And he doesn’t like it when someone sees past that.”

His eye flickered. Not with anger. With interest.

“Careful, Celeste,” he said, his voice smooth but deadly quiet. “People who see too much don’t last long in this court.”

Her lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile. Not sharp, not cutting. Just knowing.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to be very careful, my lord,” she said softly, tucking the silk cloth back into her pocket, the Malfoy crest hidden from view. “After all, I wouldn’t want you to lose sleep over me.”

Aemond’s grin returned, colder but more genuine now. Not an enemy’s grin. A rival’s.

“Sleep is a luxury I can do without,” he murmured, stepping back slowly, his gaze lingering on hers for a moment too long. “But you, Lady Black… I think I’ll watch very closely.”

Celeste didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. She had already won that game, and he knew it.

“Then I hope you’re paying attention, my Prince,” she replied, her eyes steady as steel. “Because I always am.”

He huffed a short, low laugh before turning away, his steps slow and deliberate. His silver hair swayed with every movement, a flicker of moonlight down the corridor.

As he walked away, her fingers brushed over the embroidered Malfoy crest, hidden once more in her pocket.

Secrets are power. And tonight, she had kept hers.