Seeing his nephew married, Aemond was eager, now more than ever, to take Aemma as his wife. He was restless and impatient — a trait he no doubt shared with his betrothed, who had voiced her frustration at waiting more than once.

However, Rhaenyra had been firm in her decision, determined to appropriate a reasonably lengthed engagement, as per the customs of Westeros. Still, this didn't deter the couple from spending their available time together, supervised or not.

"I have half a mind to sequester you off to Dragonstone and be done with it," the prince murmured.

Aemma gaped at her uncle, shocked at his indecorousness. "Aemond, we cannot elope — imagine the anger we'd be faced with once our family discovered it."

His remark was made in pure fun, but Aemond considered it more with each passing day that he could not have her. The one-eyed prince had waited so long already — his entire life, the moment he began to feel such a way for his niece.

"I cannot wait any longer," Aemond grasped her hand. "I have waited an eternity already."

"Impatient, aren't we," the princess mumbled.

"It's not as if you don't feel the same."

Aemma couldn't stop her smile from spreading as her uncle reached between them gently to brush his fingers through her hair.

"I do, and I am — impatient beyond measure," she assured him.

Aemond made a noise of understanding, nodding slightly as his head tilted down to get a better look at her — he was so much taller than his niece.

"My mother is praying that we conceive a child quickly," the one-eyed prince confessed.

Aemma felt her face flush, a tingle of warmth reaching her cheeks and stretching down her neck as he played with a strand of her hair. It took everything in her not to turn away from him in her sheer embarrassment — the idea of their guards being so nearby was enough to send the young woman into a tizzy.

"I'm afraid it's up to the Gods to decide whether we're blessed or not," she mused, grinning at his expression.

"We shall see," Aemond replied, tucking the strand of hair behind her ear. He ran his thumb along the soft skin of her earlobe before resting his hand against the gentle curve of her neck. "You're incredibly enticing, and I'm determined."

"Aemond Targaryen!" his betrothed exclaimed, thumping his chest in reproach. "I had not known you to be such a charmer."

Aemma watched his expression shift, the edges of Aemond's face softening as he slowly let out a breath — relieved that she wasn't cross with him for such mentionings. The tension in his neck and shoulders loosened, and he smiled.

"It shouldn't come as a surprise that I enjoy courting your affections, niece," he told her softly.

Aemond hadn't expected her lips to suddenly press against his at the admittance, a searing feeling like flames against flesh.

His niece reached up to catch her balance, grabbing the lapels of his jerkin and pulling him to her. Aemma kissed him without reservation — not caring if the guards or the whole kingdom could see.

The one-eyed prince chased the kiss, but she pulled away before he could manage it. Aemond let out a small sound of frustration, almost needy in its tone.

"I enjoy it as well," she whispered, loosening her grip on him and stepping away despite Aemond's hesitancy to allow it.

Aemma took his hand instead and gently led him from the garden back toward the keep. They walked along the outer walls, accompanied by their small entourage.

"You never fight fair," Aemond muttered.

At the mirthlessness in his tone, the princess huffed a laugh, smile growing as he trailed beside her — pouting at the loss of their kiss.

Aemma laced her fingers around Aemonds to soothe him, dragging him closer to her side. Instinctively, his fingers sought out the ring he'd given her for the engagement, pressing over it softly to confirm it was in place.

It was a small trinket but set with beautiful sapphire to match the one in place of his eye. The suggestion had come from his mother —  a woman who'd never been availed of such gestures.

"Just a little longer, my love, and then I shall be yours," his niece offered, finding the reserves deep within herself to tease him despite her own fluttering heart.

Aemond grimaced at her phrasing as though he'd tried to hold onto the last strand of decorum between them, and she'd taken a sword to it without a second thought or hesitation.

"Gods be good — why are you like this?" his jaw offset as he glanced sidelong at her, annoyed with her teasing.

The princess chuckled. "You'd best get used to it, Aemond — marriage is forever."

The one-eyed prince grinned — he wasn't upset with her, not really. 

Together, they ascended the stairs into the keep and made their way to the throne room. It was strange walking through a space usually packed with courtiers, but the Queen had desired some quiet.

After Jace and Baela's wedding, the nobles were released from court and returned to their respective lands till the next ceremony. This had given the family some time to themselves for a change — a reprieve they gladly welcomed.

However, in light of his waiting, Aemond wished they would return soon so he could finally marry his bride. It was an outcome the Targaryen prince desired above all others, and he wouldn't show restraint for much longer.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

"What news?" Aemond inquired.

Daemon had summoned the prince to his study — a dour look upon his face. Whatever the report, it had soured the mood, upsetting the rogue Targaryen.

"There have been sightings in Storm's End," he growled. "Otto Hightower claims asylum from Lord Baratheon."

Aemond's jaw clenched. "A traitor amongst traitors — somehow, I'm not surprised."

Borros Baratheon was nothing like his predecessor — not stoic, but temperamental and belligerent. He was ill-suited to be the lord of a great house and even less worthy of claiming kinship to the crown through the princess, Rhaenys.

"Something seems amiss," Daemon's fingers thrummed against the wood, deep in thought. "Few would risk such extremes for one man, let alone a traitor to the crown, unless —"

"What is it, uncle — what's wrong?"

The older prince glanced up. "What if everything is connected — the poisoning, the subterfuge? Perhaps Otto didn't act alone in his schemes but merely carried out those within his reach."

Aemond blinked. "You believe my grandsire is in league with Lord Borros — with others all seeking the same ends?"

"There's only one group militant enough to risk salvation against the Targaryen dynasty," Daemon murmured, a gleam in his eye.

"You're talking about the Faith," his nephew frowned. "I've heard the rumors — maesters influencing certain events within their assigned houses and beyond. You believe they're the ones behind my father's death?"

Maesters had been healers and teachers long before the Targaryens reached the shores of Westeros. They came into being when Aemond's ancestor, Peremore Hightower, gathered together learned men from the far reaches of the realm to understand how the world worked.

Since then, their power and affinity had grown — the Citadel being erected and their practices kept secret, only known amongst themselves.

"The Faith has always been against our magic — our ability to control the dragons," Daemon explained, putting the pieces together. "In a world where magic doesn't exist, they are a most powerful faction, but we possess the one thing that might destroy the order they seek to maintain."

"How does my grandsire play into this?"

"The maesters owe their entire existence to House Hightower," the older prince pointed out. "It stands to reason that Otto would be an accessory if the covenant truly exists."

"And Lord Borros?" Aemond asked.

"Another man known for his enmity toward the crown — he would prove to be a useful tool, would he not?"

Aemond shoved his chair aside and began to pace across the room, arms folded tightly behind his back. The one-eyed prince was reeling from the information — the idea his grandsire was part of such a conspiracy made him ill.

"There are many who would see their ancestors' legacies restored — a time before the Targaryens when the First Men ruled over Westeros," he murmured. "Many ancient houses governed their lands as ruling parties before Aegon I conquered them."

"Any one of them could offer aid, and with help from the Faith, we're talking about a skillful insurrection."

Aemond hummed, thoughtful. "We have more dragons now than Aegon and his sisters — we're a greater threat. Hence the shadowed coercion and manipulation behind the scenes, directing any obvious attention."

Indeed, the crown hadn't considered their maesters a threat — they were the aids, intelligent guidances that served the royal family. No one could've foreseen the shady circumstances the Targaryens were now facing.

Daemon grunted, agreeing with him. "But why kill Viserys when another Targaryen will simply take his place?"

"Otto has always wanted to put Aegon on the throne," Aemond explained. "He knew my brother was unfit to rule but strived for it regardless."

"Because he wanted more power."

The younger prince shook his head knowingly. "Securing the throne wasn't his goal — he only wished to create chaos and instability. By making Aegon king, my grandsire ensured a war between our two families."

Aemond imagined a war — the bloodiest war he could, one filled with dragons and fire. In the fight to assume power, the two halves of the Targaryen dynasty would've killed each other.

"Viscious cunt," Daemon hissed. "Otto planned for us to destroy ourselves — to sit back while he watched."

"We need proof," his nephew rubbed harshly at his good eye. "If the Citadel is behind this, there must be evidence to present."

Daemon nodded. "I will find proof."

"And what about my grandsire — should we go after him?"

The rogue prince thought for a moment, then sighed. "If we detain Otto now, we risk drawing attention to ourselves. They must believe they're ahead of us while we conduct our investigations. Besides, I doubt the people would thank us for burning Storm's End to the ground."

"Just say the word, uncle," Aemond smiled. "It's been too long since Vhagar set fire to something."

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The one-eyed prince was unnerved by what he had learned — his thoughts on the Faith darkening.

After speaking with his uncle, Aemond sought peace and sequestered in the library to gather his thoughts. The place had always been a retreat for him — a sanctuary from all else where he could exist in private.

However, Lucerys was already there, nose-deep in a book on High Valyrian that he didn't notice the prince's arrival. The young man's brow furrowed in concentration as he mumbled the excerpts, trying miserably to memorize the language.

"It gets easier," Aemond spoke after a moment.

Lucerys blinked, surprised by the sudden appearance. "Uncle, I thought you were still with Daemon."

The older prince nodded. "I've just left him — perhaps I needed a moment to compose myself."

His nephew frowned, concerned. "Are you alright, Aemond?"

"Yes, quite alright."

He couldn't tell Lucerys about his and Daemon's suspicions — couldn't tell anyone for fear of burdening them. And the rogue prince had made it clear — keeping it to themselves was the best course of action for the moment.

If Lucerys wished to press the issue, he didn't and returned his gaze to his parchment. "I don't think I'll ever understand High Valyrian. Daemon was strict in teaching his daughters — Rhaena speaks it fluently, but I was never given such a formal education."

"There's still time for you to learn," Aemond soothed.

The prince felt out of place comforting his nephew like this. Lucerys — the boy who took his eye, was looking up at him with such hope, and somehow, Aemond felt guilty.

Lucerys must've sensed his unease because he sighed. "I'm sorry, uncle — for everything."

His uncle tensed, then relaxed — he remembered his promise to Jacaerys. Aemond said he'd try to forgive and forget the unhappy past for the sake of their family.

"As am I," he replied.

"You needn't be sorry — it was our fault," Luke argued softly. "We drove you to claim Vhagar — my brother, Aegon, and me. Our constant teasing would've been too much for anyone to endure."

Aemond pursed his lips. "It was very disheartening at the time — I truly believed I would never have a dragon."

"And after all that, when you'd finally claimed one — I lashed out, leaving you without something else," the young prince continued bitterly, ashamed.

"That's over now, and everything has passed," Aemond touched the boy's shoulder lightly. "If you're willing, I want us to begin anew."

Silence — Lucerys's mouth fell slack as he stared at the older prince in surprise. He hadn't anticipated such an easy reconciliation — if anything, he thought it would take months, years.

"Are you certain, uncle?" the boy asked, hesitant. "I would understand if you need more time."

Aemond thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't want time but absolution. Aemma and I are to wed soon — the final union between our two families, and I would see us all happy."

"You really love my sister, don't you?"

Lucerys's new question caught the one-eyed prince off guard — he sounded genuinely curious.

"Yes, I do," Aemond replied.

"I am willing, uncle," the younger prince murmured. "I don't wish to be at odds any longer."

Those words were familiar, almost the exact words Aemma had spoken to Aemond the night his father had died. Not wanting to fight, no longer wishing to be at odds, they all wanted the same thing moving forward.

"Good, then it's settled," Aemond sat beside his nephew. "Now, show me what you're stuck on — perhaps I might be of assistance in this matter at least."

Lucerys eagerly pushed his book toward the older prince, pointing out the phrase that had caught his frustration.

"Yes, I can see where this would confuse you — the translation isn't exact."

"I'm planning to speak with my mother about assigning me an instructor," the boy glanced across the page. "Some of these scripts are too difficult to make out on my own, and if the translation is off, I won't get very far."

His uncle hummed. "I have someone I can recommend — the man who taught me was quite good and easy to get along with."

"Thank you, uncle," Lucerys looked pleased. "I shall mention it to my mother when next I see her."

They spoke well into the evening, hidden away in the library — the one-eyed prince teaching his nephew their native tongue. The tension from before had dissolved, and it felt like a weight had been lifted from Aemond's chest — like he could finally breathe again.