TBOV: Chapter Two: Control (PT. II)

Chapter Two: Control (PT. II)

Rowenna caught the first glimpses of King’s Landing through the hazy glare of morning, the wind tearing at her hair as she and Vermithor descended toward the Hill of Rhaenys, the silhouette of the Dragonpit emerging into clarity. A second set of wings whirred close on her flank, red as fresh blood—Meleys, the Red Queen, bearing her rider.

She spared only a passing glance at the elder princess. Rhaenys the “Queen Who Never Was,” forced into submission by her Prince. The woman had scarcely spoken since Rowenna arrived at Driftmark with Aemond’s orders. Yet her silence, Rowenna thought, spoke as loud as any cry of defiance. She knew enough of House Velaryon’s plight to understand the bitterness that simmered behind Rhaenys’s stern gaze. They had all seen the illusions of power crumble during the war, and Aemond’s threats had proven more binding than any oaths.

In the end, however, Rowenna felt neither pity nor sympathy. Duty was what mattered. If Rhaenys begrudged their arrangement, that was her affair. Rowenna would complete her task as her prince had commanded: Escort Rhaenys to King’s Landing, supervise the yielding of Meleys to the Dragonpit, and remand the detained princess to the Red Keep. Everything else was noise.

The Dragonpit rose before them—a blackened dome of fused stone, pitted with age, brooding over the city below. There, upon the hill, the difference between their mounts could not have been more stark.

Vermithor came first, skittering on the slope, his claws scoring deep furrows in the earth. He gave a low, grumbling bellow as Rowenna slid down from his saddle. The old bronze, refusing to squeeze his bulk through the great arch, preferred instead to stalk into the pit on wing and clawed feet, ignoring the calls of the few dragonkeepers who mustered the nerve to approach him. Meleys, by contrast, needed no such pause. For formidable though she was, she was still the smaller of the two and could simply glide into without issue.

Rowenna straightened her riding leathers as she waited. She glimpsed Rhaenys dismounting from her mount inside the cavernous Pit. Even from where she stood, Rowenna could sense the princess’s tight expression, as though every muscle in her face was coiled to contain smoldering fury. Rhaenys did not speak as the dragonkeepers gingerly secured Meleys’s muzzle and chains. Rowenna took that as her cue to fetch the watch garrison outside, ensuring horses would be ready when the princess emerged.

 In light of the increased attacks by saboteurs from Braavos, the city watchmen had set up a small guardhouse near the Pit’s main gates. Men in polished halfhelms saluted Rowenna when she approached. Their expressions were wary but respectful; all in the Watch knew her by now, if only as the woman who rode the Bronze Fury. She instructed them to bring two horses and prepare a mounted escort. One vanished at a brisk trot, while the others looked on, curiosity in their eyes.

In short order, Rhaenys appeared from the depths of the Pit. The scowl etched on her features was all the greeting Rowenna got. She responded with stony indifference, gesturing for the horses. No courtesies. No attempts at conversation. Why bother? The princess was no friend of her prince, only a prisoner with the tenuous courtesy of high birth.

They rode down from the Hill under the watchful gaze of more Red Cloaks posted at intervals. All these men for a single city? Rowenna thought. Aemond will tolerate no meddling in his domain. She approved in her own silent way. Better too many guards than too few, when Faceless Men lurked in every rumor.

Soon, the city opened below them—a sprawl of stone dwellings, market stalls, and winding alleys. Rowenna glimpsed new watchtowers under construction, scaffolds covering half-finished turrets. She recalled Aemond’s words at the most recent Small Council meeting she had been ordered to witness: We must lock down King’s Landing if we are to maintain order against foreign infiltration. And so they had. Extra patrols strode the cobblestones, stopping suspicious folk, rummaging carts for contraband or signs of the dreaded Braavosi assassins.

At the Red Keep, Ser Criston Cole stood waiting in his white cloak, the sun’s reflection dancing along his polished pauldrons. He eyed Rhaenys with measured calm, then turned to Rowenna, who dismounted and dipped her head stiffly in acknowledgement.

“The princess is yours now,” she said, her tone steady, businesslike. She reiterated her prince’s orders that Rhaenys was to remain confined to the Keep, where she would receive every courtesy as long as she complied. Rhaenys shot her a look that might have withered a lesser soul, but Rowenna only shrugged. Ser Criston nodded and gestured two Kingsguard forward, who ushered the captive inside.

Rowenna turned to Criston, her tone unchanged. “Where is His Grace?”

He looked back to meet her gaze. They had known each other long enough to dispense with the usual pretenses. She bore no noble title, wore no spurs upon her boots, yet of late she gave commands that even the Lord Commander obeyed. Whether that made her his equal, or his better, or simply the favored mouthpiece of a mercurial prince, no one could say for certain—and Prince Aemond had taken care to keep the matter murky.

“I believe his Chambers?” Cole eventually said, uncertain. “I was heading there myself. Will you walk with me?”

“I see no issue with that,” Rowenna replied, stepping into stride beside him. They moved through the corridors, the banners of the Greens hanging overhead. Rowenna noted the smaller details—a fresh set of triple locks on certain doors, new guard posts at blind corners. The Red Keep had changed once again in the few days she was away.

They reached Aemond’s antechamber, from which wafted a faint, cloying scent of incense. Rowenna exchanged a glance with Cole—there was something off about the hush inside. Gently pushing open the door, they stepped in and sought out the prince.

Aemond lay half-submerged in a copper tub, the water steaming around his lean form. His silver hair caught the dim sunlight, and a platter of sliced melon rested on a narrow wooden platform beside the tub. By the platter was a leather bound volume upon which a brown, rubbery fabric was laid. From this where she stood, it appeared to Rowenna as a scrap of cured leather.

Her gaze drifted—and caught.

A girl knelt stiffly on the floor, half-shadowed beneath the bathing alcove. She was young, perhaps fifteen, with arms bound not by rope but by some cruel tension in her own muscles, as though her body warred against itself. At first glance she might have been a statue carved in haste, but there was nothing still about her save her posture. Anger was frozen on her delicate face, terror in her brown eyes. At her knees lay a blade—slender, bare, and waiting. And there it was—beneath the perfume of herbs and heated stone, beneath the sharp tang of oiled leather and steel; the odor of fear clung to the air like damp on old walls. Subtle, but unmistakable.

The room was quiet, save for the girl’s ragged breath. Aemond, seemingly oblivious, lifted his head and greeted them with a smile. “Ser Criston. Rowenna. You make a timely entrance.”

Rowenna’s gaze flickered—from the girl to her prince and back again. “My prince,” she said, forcing her gaze to return to Aemond. “Princess Rhaenys has been delivered to Ser Criston, as commanded.“

Aemond nodded and Rowenna continued.

“Reports from Dragonstone are favorable. The fortifications are near completion, and the fast ships sent to Driftmark have begun their patrols of the shipping lanes supplying the enemy fleet at Tyrosh. Also, Addam and Garren have received your command. They took wing this morning. If the winds hold, they should reach the Stepstones by nightfall.”

“Good.” Aemond said, taking a piece of melon between his fingers and biting into it. His face betrayed neither surprise nor urgency, though Rowenna could sense an undercurrent of satisfaction. He turned to Ser Criston, who offered a folded parchment. “A letter, from your lady at the Eyrie,” said the Kingsguard, voice carefully even.

“Ah.” Aemond scanned it, water sloshing as he shifted. “So, Jeyne arrived at her seat without trouble then?” The prince read some more. “Good… It seems the Eyrie’s stables near completion as well. Very good.” He gave a slight nod, as though the matter held little interest. “She wonders when I’ll bring Vhagar there, no doubt.”

Rowenna knew exactly what that meant. “When do you intend for us to leave?”

“In time,” Aemond replied without looking up. “I intend to settle the matter with Braavos’s fleet at Tyrosh first. There will be days enough to visit the Vale.”

Rising from the bath, Aemond let the water stream from his lithe frame, unconcerned by any watchers. Rowenna glanced aside only briefly, a faint warmth on her cheeks she refused to acknowledge. She had seen him unclothed many times before, but something in her chest tightened all the same.

“First,” he said, “I have business. A lesser matter.” He brushed aside his damp mane with one hand and, with the other, reached for the leathery fabric on the tome lying beside him. Only when he pressed it to the servant girl’s face did Rowenna grasp what it truly was—a mask, fashioned from flayed skin. Human, no doubt. The thing clung wetly to the girl’s features as Aemond smoothed it down with a meticulous hand, and before Rowenna’s eyes, the contours of her face shifted, reshaped by some enchantment or chemic craft until she resembled someone else entirely.

Rowenna did not ask who. She doubted she wished to know.

Before she could summon words, Aemond bent to retrieve the thin, hiltless blade from the floor. With no more ceremony than a man spearing fruit, he drove the point into the side of the girl’s skull. A strangled gasp escaped her. Her limbs convulsed, a ghastly shudder that broke the silence. Even Rowenna, who had seen men disemboweled before, flinched.

Aemond held the girl as she spasmed, arms steady, brow tucked to his side in a mockery of intimacy. He murmured something—too soft to hear—and only released her once the twitching ceased. Then, with the same calm he eternally bore, he angled her body forward, adjusting her weight so the blood would trickle into the bathwater rather than sully the marble floor.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then, as if nothing had happened, Aemond reached for a towel, wiping the blots of red off his hands and right thigh.

“I mean to see Wyl bond with the Grey Ghost,” the prince continued, tone as measured as though he had not just murdered someone. “The pale drake has roamed the wilds too long without a rider,” he said, “and I have use for every dragon we can muster.”

Rowenna blinked a few times, and the shock of the killing passed quickly. Bowing her head, she asked, “Shall I fetch him, my prince? Wyl.”

Aemond nodded, pulling the tunic over his damp shoulders. “Do so, and have Vermithor saddled—we fly at noon.” He paused, eyeing the motionless corpse by the tub, sprawled, pale and unmoving in a pool gone pink. “And have someone remove that, would you? Tell them to be careful about it—I’d rather not have blood tracked through my halls.”

Rowenna inclined her head. “Of course. As you command, my prince.”