Beyond the Veil

The world outside was still dark. The storm had long since passed, leaving only the faint patter of rain as it dripped from the high stone eaves of the Red Keep. The air smelled of damp stone and soot from the torches lining the hallways.

But inside the room, it was warm.

The fire had burned low, faint embers glowing soft red-orange in the hearth. Shadows flickered on the walls, long and stretching, like ghosts retreating into the corners.

Aemond blinked slowly, his eye adjusting to the dim light. He felt the familiar weight of exhaustion, the pull of sleep still clinging to his mind like fog. His gaze shifted downward, and he saw her.

Celeste.

Her head rested on his shoulder, her body leaning against his side as she slept. Her breathing was slow and even, her eyes closed, her dark lashes resting softly on her cheeks. Her face looked peaceful. Her features, which were usually sharp with wit and quiet determination, were softened by sleep. Her lips were slightly parted, and a strand of hair had fallen across her face.

Aemond’s breath hitched quietly in his chest. He didn’t want to move.

Her warmth pressed against him, her body curled lightly against his side. She’d fallen asleep like that, leaning into him after hours of quiet conversation and unspoken understanding. And somehow, without meaning to, he’d done the same.

He glanced down at her, watching the way her breath made her chest rise and fall in slow, steady movements. She was so still. So calm.

His gaze lingered on her face.

She’s beautiful. The thought was sharp, sudden, and unwelcome. But it was also true.

His jaw clenched, and he forced himself to look away. No, not now. Not her.

But his gaze was drawn back to her like a ship drawn to the shore. He studied her quietly, his eye tracing the delicate lines of her face—the sharp curve of her cheekbone, the faint dip of her brow, and the subtle curl of her lips.

How had he not noticed it before?

Her eyes, sharp and knowing, had always held his attention. But like this, with her guard down, she seemed… different. Less guarded. More real.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. He didn’t deserve this moment. Not after everything he’d done. Not after Lucerys.

Lucerys.

His breath slowed, his chest tightening. His eye flicked to the fire, the glow catching on his cheek. He could still hear the storm. The wind. The rain. The scream.

His heart squeezed painfully, his fingers twitching at his sides. He hadn’t meant to do it. It had been an accident. A mistake. But it didn’t matter. The world would never see it that way. No one would see it that way.

Except her.

His eye flicked back to Celeste, his gaze softening for just a moment. She believed him.

Her voice echoed in his mind. "It wasn’t your fault, Aemond."

Her words had been gentle but firm, the kind of words he hadn't realized he'd needed to hear. She hadn’t blamed him. She hadn’t questioned him. She had believed him. Completely.

His jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a firm line.

She shouldn’t trust me. The thought struck him harder than expected, sharper than a blade. No one should.

He glanced down at her again, his eye scanning her sleeping face. Her head had tilted just slightly, her breath soft and slow. Her hand still rested lightly against his arm, her fingers barely curled.

He knew he should move. He should have left already. The council would be called soon. His mother would expect him.

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Instead, he sat there for just a moment longer, letting himself feel the warmth of her pressed against his side. Letting himself feel... human.

He tilted his head back slightly, exhaling slowly through his nose. Don’t get used to it. He closed his eye, his breath steady but slow. This isn’t for you.

But his gaze flicked back to her one last time, his eye softening despite himself.

One more moment.

He shifted slowly, careful not to wake her as he untangled himself from her. Her warmth left him too quickly. His chest felt colder the second she leaned away.

Her brow furrowed in her sleep, and he froze. Don’t wake her. Don’t wake her.

But she only shifted, her head tilting slightly to the side, her breath slow and steady once more.

Good.

He stood slowly, his movements careful, deliberate. Every step precise. Every breath quiet. His eyes flicked to her one last time, taking in the sight of her curled against the arm of the chair, her legs tucked beneath her. Her hair was a wild mess, strands falling over her face.

She’d hate that if she knew.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. It was gone in an instant.

Aemond’s gaze lingered just a moment longer. Longer than it should have.

Then he turned away. His steps were quiet, his breathing steady.

The door creaked softly as he opened it, letting in the cold air from the hallway. His gaze flicked back to her, one last glance, one final moment before he left.

She looked so small in the chair. Small but unyielding. Even in sleep, she didn’t seem fragile. Just… still.

His heart ached with something unfamiliar, something he wasn’t sure he liked. Softness.

His fingers tightened around the doorframe, his nails pressing lightly against the wood. He swallowed the ache down, burying it somewhere deep, somewhere no one could reach.

His gaze lingered on her for one more breath.

Then he turned away. His footsteps echoed softly down the stone corridor. His boots struck the ground in sharp, steady beats. Every step felt heavier than the last.

He moved with purpose now, his mind slipping back into the sharp clarity of duty. The council awaited him. His mother. His brother. Otto. They would all be there, watching him, waiting for him to act.

His back straightened, his posture rigid as his hands slipped behind his back. No one would see him falter. Not today. Not ever.

The cold seeped back into his bones. The warmth he'd felt with her was gone, left behind in that little room with the quiet glow of the dying fire.

But he didn’t need warmth.

Not anymore.

He only needed control.

And control meant leaving that warmth behind.

His jaw set as he turned the corner, his steps echoing louder now. The Red Keep felt darker somehow. His breath fogged faintly in front of him, and his fingers flexed at his sides.

The sound of rain dripping from the high eaves echoed softly, a quiet rhythm that filled the halls like distant footsteps. The storm had passed, but the cold remained.

He felt it in his bones.

He felt it in his heart.

His gaze flicked back once. Just once. He glanced over his shoulder, his eye sharp as he stared down the long, empty hallway behind him.

He could still see the faint glow from under her door.

A flicker of warmth. Small. Faint. But it was there. It hadn’t gone out.

His lips pressed together, his chest tightening painfully for reasons he didn’t want to name.

Then he turned away, his footsteps firm, sharp, deliberate. He didn’t look back again.

The sound of the storm was gone, but the echoes of it remained in his mind.

The cold air of the Small Council chamber pressed against Aemond’s skin as he entered, his steps sharp and deliberate. The room smelled of old parchment, burning candles, and damp stone. The faint sound of the rain outside echoed softly from the high, narrow windows.

The council was already gathered. His mother, Queen Alicent, sat near the head of the table, her brow furrowed, her fingers folded neatly in front of her. Opposite her sat Otto Hightower, his face as sharp and unyielding as the edge of a blade.

Ser Tyland Lannister sat to Otto's left, his gaze flickering with disinterest as he spun a gold ring around his finger. Grand Maester Orwyle adjusted his robes as he muttered something to himself, his quill scratching at parchment. Aegon, however, leaned lazily in his chair, one leg draped over the armrest, a goblet of wine in his hand, his smirk as wide as ever.

They all turned to him when he entered. Their eyes followed him like hawks tracking prey.

“Aemond,” Alicent said, her tone calm but firm, her eyes narrowing slightly as she sat straighter in her chair. “You’re late.”

He didn’t apologize. He never did.

“I was delayed,” Aemond replied coolly, his gaze flicking to Otto, then to Aegon, before settling on his mother. His hands clasped behind his back, his spine straight, his gaze sharp and steady. The image of control.

Otto’s eyes narrowed at him, the familiar flicker of disapproval flashing across his face. “Then speak quickly,” his grandfather said, his voice as cold as winter steel. “We’ve little time to waste.”

Aemond’s gaze shifted to him, his violet eye narrowing just slightly, but he held his tongue. Not yet.

“I have done as you requestedt,” Aemond said, his voice steady but firm, the weight of it drawing all eyes to him. He stepped forward slowly, his gaze never wavering. “I have secured a betrothal.”

The room went still.

Aegon raised a brow, his smirk widening as he sat up straighter, interest flickering in his eyes. “Well, that’s unexpected. I didn’t think you had it in you.” He tilted his head, his grin sharp as a knife. “Finally taking a bride, little brother?”

“Not for me,” Aemond replied smoothly, his gaze locked on Otto now. “For Daeron.”

Silence.

The quiet was sharp, heavy as a falling axe. All eyes snapped to him.

Alicent’s lips parted in shock, her eyes narrowing sharply. “What did you say?”

“You heard me, Mother,” Aemond said, his gaze calm but unwavering. “I have secured a betrothal for Daeron.” He stepped forward, his hands still clasped behind his back, his head held high. “He will marry Floris Baratheon.”

The air grew tense. Tighter. Sharper.

Alicent’s fingers curled on the table, her eyes blazing as she sat forward. “That betrothal was meant for you, Aemond.” Her voice was low but dangerous. “You were meant to secure the Baratheon alliance, not Daeron.”

Otto’s face was stone, but his eyes were sharp as flint. “This was not your decision to make, boy,” he said coldly, his voice like frost on glass. “You’ve overstepped.”

Aemond’s eye flicked to him, his jaw tightening. “I acted in the best interest of our house.”

“Did you?” Otto leaned forward slowly, his eyes narrowing like a hawk eyeing prey. “Or did you act in your own interest?”

The tension in the room was palpable, thick as a thundercloud ready to burst. Aemond didn’t flinch. His breath was slow, his heart steady, his gaze as sharp as Valyrian steel.

“Lord Borros Baratheon wanted a strong match,” Aemond said coolly, his words slow and deliberate, each one cutting the air like a blade. “He didn’t want a maimed prince.”

The words hit like a hammer. Sharp. Hard. Final.

Alicent’s face shifted, her eyes flickering with shock and something else—pain.

Aegon snorted, his laughter breaking the silence. He threw his head back, one hand tapping the side of his goblet. “Oh, that’s rich,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “The mighty Aemond One-Eye, selfless in his sacrifice.” He leaned forward, his grin turning into something more wicked. “Or is that not the real reason, hm?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched.

Aegon leaned further forward, his eyes locking on his brother like a predator watching prey. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain lady, would it?” he asked, his grin sharp, his tone mocking. “I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Silence. Furious, deadly silence.

Alicent’s eyes flicked to Aemond now, her gaze sharp, her brow raised in quiet suspicion. “Is that true, Aemond?” Her voice was measured but sharp as a dagger.

Otto leaned back, his eyes scanning Aemond with calculating precision. “This is no time for foolish distractions,” he said softly, his voice like poison dripping into a glass. “Have you compromised our position for a girl?”

Aemond’s breath was slow. Measured. Deliberate. He glanced to Aegon, his brother still grinning like a wolf with fresh prey.

Don’t give them the truth. Never give them the truth.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze calm, controlled, his voice cold as frost. “No.”

Otto raised a brow, his gaze sharp as ever.

Aemond lifted his chin, his eye flicking between them all, letting them see the resolve in his face. “Floris Baratheon would never accept a maimed prince,” he repeated, his voice slow, steady, and firm as iron. “She would see me as weak. I would never be seen as weak.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate.

Otto’s eyes flickered. Belief. Disapproval. Calculation.

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze shifting to her hands on the table. She was thinking. Good. Let her think. Let her believe it.

Aegon snorted softly, his grin returning as he leaned back in his chair, tilting his head back to drink from his goblet. “Well played, little brother,” he muttered. “Well played.”

Aemond didn’t glance at him. His gaze stayed on Otto.

“I have strengthened our house,” Aemond said, his voice sharp and steady. “The Baratheons will support Daeron, and we will have a stronger hand in the Stormlands.”

Otto’s eyes met his, cold and calculating. They stared at each other in silence.

Finally, Otto leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Very well,” he said softly, his gaze still locked on Aemond. “But you will answer for it if this alliance fails.”

Alicent glanced at Aemond, her lips pressed into a thin, strained smile. “This should have been you,” she said softly, her eyes filled with something deeper than disappointment. “It was meant to be you.”

Aemond turned to her, his gaze steady but cold. “It never was.”

Her eyes flickered with pain, but she said nothing more.

He glanced at the others—Aegon’s grin, Otto’s cold calculation, Alicent’s quiet disappointment. He saw it all.

“There is something else,” Aemond announced, his voice smooth as silk but heavy as iron. His gaze was firm, his eye sweeping over them, meeting each of theirs one by one. He didn't look away.

Otto raised an eyebrow, his fingers stilling as he leaned forward just slightly. “Speak, then.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his breath slow, steady. Every step of this had to be precise. Every word had to be deliberate.

He tilted his head just slightly, his silver hair falling over his shoulder, catching the soft glow of the lanterns.

“Lucerys Velaryon is dead.”

Silence.

Total, crushing silence.

Alicent gasped, her eyes going wide as her hands flew to her mouth. Her breath caught like she’d been struck.

Otto’s fingers curled against the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. His eyes didn’t blink. Not once.

Tyland Lannister shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze flicking between Otto and Aemond. Grand Maester Orwyle's quill stopped mid-scratch.

Aegon’s grin faded slowly, his brows lifting in genuine surprise. He sat forward now, his gaze no longer lazy but sharp, focused.

“How?” Alicent whispered, her voice small and fragile as she lowered her hands slowly. “How did this happen?”

Aemond's eye flicked to his mother. Her face was pale, her eyes filled with something too close to fear.

Don't falter. Not now.

He squared his shoulders, his hands still clasped behind his back. His jaw set, his gaze unwavering. He could feel every eye on him. Every breath. Every flicker of doubt.

He wouldn't give them the truth. Not all of it. Not like it happened.

His gaze shifted slowly, locking on Otto first. His voice was steady as steel. No hesitation. No cracks.

“While at Storm's End,” Aemond began slowly, his words deliberate, slow as the pull of a blade from its sheath, “Lucerys provoked me.”

Otto’s brow furrowed. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His gaze said everything.

“Provoked you?” Alicent repeated, her tone tight, strained. “What did he do, Aemond?”

Aemond turned to face her, his eye meeting hers directly. His breath was steady, his face still as stone. This was the lie that would carry him. This was the lie that would make him untouchable.

“Words,” Aemond said, his voice as cold as the sea. “Cowardly words from a boy who thought himself untouchable under Borros Baratheon’s roof.”

His gaze shifted to Aegon next, watching his brother’s expression shift from amusement to something far more serious. He needed them to believe it.

“But outside,” Aemond continued, his voice sharp now, his breath slow and controlled. “There was no roof. No lord to shield him.”

Alicent's eyes widened, her face draining of colour. Her hands pressed flat on the table as she leaned forward. “Aemond. Tell me you didn’t—”

“He challenged me, Mother.” Aemond’s voice was firm, unshakable. His gaze didn’t waver. “He thought his little dragon could outfly Vhagar.” His lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “He was wrong.”

His words hung in the air, cold as frost on steel.

He could feel them all watching him now. Weighing him. Judging him.

He waited a moment longer, his breath slow, his gaze even sharper. Then, finally, he spoke the words they needed to hear.

“The boy is dead.”

It was not an apology. It was not a confession. It was a statement. Final. Irrefutable.

Aegon let out a slow breath, his grin curling back onto his face. “Well, well, little brother,” he drawled, his eyes flicking to Alicent. “Look at you. Finally acting like a dragon.”

Alicent’s breath was sharp, her hands curling into tight fists. “You were supposed to keep the peace,” she hissed, her eyes burning with fury. “Not ignite war!”

Aemond’s gaze flicked to her, sharp as steel. “Peace was never an option, Mother.”

Otto’s eyes flicked up sharply at that. He leaned back slowly in his chair, his lips curling into the faintest smirk.

“You’re not wrong,” Otto muttered quietly, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Tyland Lannister shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze darting toward Alicent, then back to Aemond. “They will call it kinslaying.” His voice was quieter now. “The False Queen will call it murder.”

“They can call it whatever they like,” Aemond replied coldly, his gaze flicking to Tyland as if he were nothing more than a fly. “They won’t call it justice, but justice it is.”

The words were heavy. They hit like falling stone.

Grand Maester Orwyle slowly set down his quill, his eyes darting between the lords and Alicent. He said nothing. He knew better.

Alicent’s eyes filled with something raw, something too close to grief. She shook her head, her voice strained. “You’ve made us vulnerable, Aemond.” Her voice cracked, her fingers trembling against the edge of the table. “You’ve made us vulnerable to Rhaenyra’s wrath.”

“Let her come,” Aemond said, his gaze sharp, unyielding. “She’ll find me ready.”

Otto’s eyes flicked up to meet Aemond’s, and for the first time, there was something in them other than disdain. Approval. Calculation. Respect.

“Bold,” Otto murmured, his lips curling into something resembling a grin. “But boldness wins wars.”

Alicent's breath shook, her eyes locking onto Aemond’s face. “You’re not a monster,” she whispered, her voice raw and desperate. “Don’t become one.”

Her words hit something deep, something hidden. He felt it. But he didn’t show it.

“I do what must be done,” Aemond replied softly, his gaze as cold as the sea in winter. “That’s what you raised me to do.”

Alicent’s face crumpled, her eyes closing briefly. She didn’t deny it.

“If that is all,” Aemond said, turning his back to them, his hands still clasped behind him, his steps slow but deliberate. “I have other matters to attend to.”

He strode from the council chamber, his breaths steady, his steps sharp. He didn’t look back.

But as he walked down the long, cold corridors of the Red Keep, his chest felt heavier than ever. The air smelled of rain. Wet stone. Blood.

His fingers flexed at his sides, his jaw tight as the memory of Lucerys’s scream echoed in his mind.

The waves. The storm. The fall.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

But no matter how sharp his steps were, how hard he breathed, he still heard it.

He still heard the crunch of bone as Vhagar tore through dragon and rider. And it made him shiver in horror.