# Two Weeks Later - The Red Keep Gardens
The afternoon sun spilled through the oak leaves in shifting lattices of gold and green, painting the garden as though the gods themselves had commissioned a mural in light. A warm breeze rustled the branches overhead, and birdsong lilted on the air like fragments of forgotten hymns.
Princess Gael sat beneath her favored oak, skirts spread about her like a halo of pale silk, her face tilted slightly to the sun with that gentle air of melancholy that turned maids into poets and knights into would-be minstrels. Her silver-gold hair caught each stray shaft of sunlight until it seemed spun from starlight, and her violet eyes held that quiet, wounded kindness that bade men spill secrets and kneel without command.
At seventeen, she was beautiful in a way that was less conquest and more confession—beauty that made one want to lower one's sword, not raise it. And Aemon, sprawled upon a blanket beside her with the comfortable insolence of a boy who knew precisely how charming he looked in any light, was acutely aware of how dangerous such beauty could be when left unguarded.
"Tell me another story of dragons, little prince," Gael said, her voice soft as a song sung for no one's ears but her own. "When you speak of them, they are not beasts of fire and bone but living wonders, half dream and half star."
Aemon smirked faintly, propping himself on an elbow so the light struck his hair just so—because if one must play the part of dutiful nephew, one might as well play it in full. His muscled frame, impressive even at nearly two years old thanks to whatever cosmic joke the gods had played, shifted with predatory grace beneath his fine clothes. Pyrion, perched above on a low bough, rolled his eyes—or the draconic equivalent, which involved a slow, disdainful blink that managed to convey volumes.
"Pyrion tells me the stories," Aemon replied with the matter-of-fact weight of someone who had indeed heard his bedtime tales directly from the mouths of fire-breathing myth. His voice carried that peculiar blend of boyish enthusiasm and dangerous certainty that made grown men step back. "Of how the old dragons flew so high they kissed the edge of the heavens, and the stars themselves bowed low to light their wings."
*If she thinks me prone to fancies,* Pyrion's voice coiled through Aemon's mind, smooth and resonant, like velvet stretched across steel, *you may as well cast me in motley and call me fool. My words require no embellishment, I assure you.*
*She's charmed when I embellish,* Aemon thought back, hiding his grin. *It makes her smile. You ought to be grateful I'm making you sound romantic rather than insufferable.*
*I am never insufferable,* Pyrion replied with the sort of dry dignity that only a dragon—or perhaps a particularly self-important maester—could conjure. *Merely underappreciated by those with inadequate discernment.*
*Right, because comparing mortals to insects is peak charm,* Aemon shot back silently.
*I prefer the term 'perspective,'* Pyrion sniffed.
Meanwhile, Hestia's voice chimed in with the conversational awareness of someone discussing the weather: *Oh, dragons and stars, very nice. Though I reckon if dragons actually kissed stars, wouldn't that hurt? Stars are quite hot, aren't they? Like touching a kettle but worse. Probably why they don't do it anymore—occupational hazard.*
Aemon fought not to snort aloud. *Hestia, it's a metaphor.*
*Is it? Could be literal. Dragons are magic, aren't they? Maybe they had special star-kissing lips. Fire-proof. Very practical.*
The princess gave a wistful laugh, half disbelief, half yearning. "And did they truly? Or is that the embroidery you stitch upon Pyrion's words to please my ears?"
Aemon stretched lazily, turning his bright eyes back to Gael, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Pyrion says it is truth. And if you cannot trust the word of a dragon, whom can you trust?" He paused, cocking his head with theatrical consideration. "Besides me, of course. I'm devastatingly trustworthy."
"Devastatingly modest, too," Gael observed, though her smile took any sting from the words.
"Modesty is for people who have things to be modest about," Aemon replied cheerfully. "I, tragically, do not."
She tilted her head, considering him with that mixture of affection and mild reproach that older sisters—by blood or bond—so often reserve for younger brothers. "You are very certain of yourself, Aemon."
"Someone has to be," he said, rolling onto his back and folding his hands behind his head with the casual arrogance of a conqueror surveying his domain. "Otherwise, how would the world know what it's missing?"
*Your humility continues to inspire,* Pyrion observed dryly.
*I contain multitudes,* Aemon replied. *Humility just isn't one of them.*
*That's not how multitudes work,* Hestia added helpfully. *You can't have multitudes of things you don't have. That's like saying you have loads of purple when you've only got blue. Doesn't make sense, does it?*
*Hestia, I swear by all the gods—*
*Seven gods, old gods, or that fire one? Because that's quite a lot of swearing. Might want to be more specific.*
Gael laughed despite herself, the sound rich and warm, though tinged with a loneliness that Aemon's sharpened senses caught like a faint thread of smoke. The melancholy in it made something in his chest tighten with protective fury.
Pyrion, descending with unhurried grace, alit upon Gael's outstretched hand. His scales shimmered like black glass traced with veins of ember. He fixed her with that unsettling draconic gaze that seemed to strip away pretense until only truth remained.
"He likes me," Gael whispered, stroking along his jawline with a touch that was gentle but not tentative. "I can feel it. He is warm… softer than he looks."
Pyrion purred, a low rumble like thunder held in check. *Her reverence is sincere,* he observed privately. *No fear, no guile. Only respect. Rare among your kind.*
*She's always been rare,* Aemon replied silently, his gaze lingering on her small, hopeful smile. *And that is what makes her vulnerable. People will see that, and they'll carve pieces off her heart until there's nothing left.*
*Then we shall ensure they do not get the chance,* Pyrion said, and there was something quietly lethal in his mental voice.
*We will,* Aemon agreed, steel threading through his thoughts.
Aloud, he said with a grin, "See? He's already half in love with you. Careful, Aunt, or he'll start writing you poetry, and then where will we be?"
"I do not write poetry," Pyrion said aloud, his voice a low rumble of offended dignity. "I am a dragon, not a lovesick fool with a lute."
"You could try it," Aemon suggested innocently. "Something about scales and starlight. Very romantic."
"I will set you on fire."
"See? Passion already. You're a natural."
Gael's eyes flickered between them, amused despite the weight behind them. "I should not like to come between dragon and rider."
"You wouldn't," Aemon assured, leaning closer, his voice dropping to something softer, more earnest. The teasing fell away like a discarded mask, revealing something raw and honest beneath. "But I'd rather you stood beside us than behind."
Her breath caught, and for a moment, the melancholy in her eyes lifted, replaced by something brighter, more fragile: hope.
*Oh, that's lovely,* Hestia sighed in his mind. *Very sweet. Though I'm not sure about the standing arrangement. What if she wants to sit? Or lie down? People do that sometimes, you know. Not everyone's always standing about like they're posing for paintings.*
*It's metaphorical, Hestia.*
*Lots of metaphors today. Must be Tuesday.*
*It is Tuesday.*
*See? I'm getting quite good at this.*
Pyrion's tail flicked, sending a small swirl of dust across the grass. *Your charm, as ever, is weaponized to terrifying effect.*
*It's not charm when you mean it,* Aemon shot back. *It's strategy. With feelings.*
*An alarming combination,* Pyrion intoned, though there was the faintest ripple of approval beneath the words.
And beneath the oak, the sun painting them all in gold and shadow, Operation Save Princess Gael pressed quietly forward.
---
The business of intelligence gathering had proven far trickier than Prince Aemon had first anticipated. His network of informants (Septa Maegan) had produced gossip enough to fill entire volumes of scandal, but little that pointed toward the figure Aemon was hunting. Servants and guards had tongues sharp as whetstones, yet none had thought to keep account of wandering singers, fiddlers, or lutenists save to remark on who played prettiest, who drank hardest, and who slept in which kitchen maid's bed.
"The problem," Aemon had explained one evening, as he and Hestia conferred over bread rolls stolen from the kitchens, his voice carrying the frustrated edge of a general whose scouts had returned empty-handed, "is that I know the ending of the song but not the tune. I know there's a bard who will prey upon Gael, but I don't know his name, nor his face, nor even the color of his damned boots. It is like hunting a shadow cast by a fire not yet lit."
*You know,* Hestia had offered with the thoughtful air of someone contemplating a particularly difficult pudding recipe, *maybe the problem isn't that you don't know who he is. Maybe the problem is that you're trying to catch him before he's done anything wrong. Like arresting someone for stealing bread they haven't stolen yet. Very proactive, but probably illegal.*
*It's not illegal if I don't actually arrest him,* Aemon had replied. *It's preventative.*
*Right, like putting bandages on before you get hurt. Except with people instead of scraped knees. Though I suppose people can scrape their knees too. Everyone's got knees, haven't they? Except fish. Fish don't have knees.*
*Hestia, focus.*
*I am focused. Focused on knees. Very important, knees. Without them, you'd just sort of fold in half when you tried to walk.*
Pyrion's voice had rippled through his mind like silk drawn across steel: *The girl's peculiar talent lies in stripping matters of strategy down to their barest absurdities. A gift, perhaps, though not one I would seek in a battlefield adviser.*
*It makes sense to her,* Aemon had thought back, fighting a smile. *And if it makes sense to her, it'll make sense to Gael. That's half the battle.*
*I fail to see how discussions of fish anatomy advance our cause.*
*Trust the process.*
*What process? You appear to be making this up as you go along.*
*All the best plans are improvised.*
*That is not reassuring.*
Thus had been born "Princess Gael's afternoon concerts," a brilliant plan disguised as an innocent cultural pastime. Septa Maegan had been persuaded that nothing would so refine the young prince's soul as music, and that Princess Gael's gentle oversight would be the ideal complement. Within days, word had gone out: all minstrels, singers, and bards were welcome to perform at the Red Keep for coin and recognition.
In truth, it was a net flung wide, each performance a subtle interrogation, every smiling bow and plucked string watched with the care of generals examining enemy movements.
*It's like fishing,* Hestia had observed with satisfaction. *Except instead of fish, you're trying to catch bad singers. And instead of worms, you're using... well, I suppose you're using Gael as bait. That seems a bit mean, doesn't it? She's much nicer than a worm.*
*She's not bait,* Aemon had protested. *She's the prize they're after. There's a difference.*
*Is there? Both end up on hooks, don't they?*
*...That analogy needs work.*
*Most analogies do. Very tricky things, analogies. Like comparing things that aren't really the same but sort of are if you squint.*
---
"Uncle Daemon says bards are dangerous," Aemon said one afternoon, sprawled carelessly on a bench while Gael sat upright beside him, hands folded like a lady of solemn dignity. His tone was casual, but his words landed like dropped stones, each one calculated to ripple outward through still water.
Gael turned her violet gaze toward him, brows lifting with the sort of polite skepticism reserved for particularly outlandish tales. "Dangerous? They are but singers with lutes. What peril lies in a harp string?"
"Oh, loads of peril," Aemon replied, scratching Pyrion's chin as the dragonling coiled about his shoulders like a living necklace. "Uncle Daemon says their songs are daggers sharper than steel, because a steel dagger can only cut one man at a time, but a song..." He paused for effect, grinning when her attention sharpened. "A song can cut a thousand hearts with a single verse."
*Your uncle's poetic streak is showing,* Pyrion observed dryly. *Though I suppose the metaphor has merit. Words have toppled kingdoms before.*
*Daemon's got a point,* Aemon admitted silently. *And he's paranoid enough to be quotable.*
*Is that why you're using his words instead of your own?*
*His paranoia is expected. Mine would be suspicious.*
*Ah. Political camouflage. Clever.*
"That sounds rather like something from a song itself," Gael said, lips quirking with barely suppressed amusement. "Are you certain your Uncle Daemon didn't get that from a bard?"
Aemon blinked, then threw back his head and laughed—a rich, delighted sound that made several passing servants glance their way with indulgent smiles. "Seven hells, you're right! He probably did. Uncle Daemon, getting life advice from the very people he warns against. The irony is perfect."
*The student becomes the master,* Pyrion murmured approvingly. *She sees through rhetoric to logic. Excellent progress.*
*Also embarrassing for me, but yes, progress.*
Her lips parted slightly, thoughtful. "That is a cruel way to see beauty, regardless of where it came from. Must every gift be weighed as a weapon?"
"Maybe not every gift," Aemon said, cocking his head as if weighing her words with the gravity of a maester examining ancient texts, "but any gift may be turned to harm. The question isn't whether something can be beautiful—it's whether someone's using that beauty to make you forget to ask what they want in return."
*Oh, that's good,* Hestia chimed in. *Very philosophical. Though I reckon it's a bit pessimistic, isn't it? Like assuming every pretty flower's hiding a bee. Sometimes flowers are just flowers. And sometimes bees are just doing bee things and don't mean any harm. They're quite busy, bees. Always rushing about, very important bee business.*
*Not all metaphors need to be about insects,* Aemon replied silently.
*Don't they? Most things in nature eat other things. Very relevant to your point about trust. Circle of life and all that. Though I suppose it's more of a food chain than a circle. Chains are straighter.*
Pyrion added with aristocratic disdain: *The girl's capacity for tangential thinking is genuinely remarkable. She could derail a thought mid-formation.*
Gael's hands tightened slightly in her lap, her voice dropping to something softer, more uncertain. "You make it sound as though each smiling face hides a blade."
Aemon leaned back, folding his hands behind his head with lazy confidence, but his eyes remained sharp, watchful. "Not each. But enough that a wise princess should listen not only to the song but to the silences between the notes."
"The silences?"
"The things they don't say. The questions they don't ask. The stories they don't tell." His grin turned wolfish. "A man who only sings of love and never of loss? Who speaks of beauty but never of pain? Either he's lying, or he's lived a very boring life."
*And boring men don't seduce princesses,* Pyrion added silently.
*Exactly. If someone's interesting enough to catch Gael's attention, they're interesting enough to be dangerous.*
Gael was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on her skirt. When she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of someone testing new thoughts aloud. "I have noticed... some of the singers seem more interested in my thoughts than my preferences. They ask what I believe, not what I enjoy. What I hope for, not what I like."
Aemon's posture didn't change, but something predatory flickered behind his eyes. "And what do you make of that?"
"It feels..." She paused, searching for words. "Personal. Too personal, too quickly. As though they're not learning about me, but learning me. Does that make sense?"
*Perfect sense,* Pyrion purred, satisfaction rolling through his mental voice like smoke. *She begins to recognize the difference between interest and interrogation.*
*She's getting it,* Aemon thought, pride warming in his chest. *She's seeing the pattern.*
Aloud, he said, "It makes perfect sense. And it means you're paying attention to the right things." He sat up, leaning closer until his voice dropped to something conspiratorial, intimate. "Most people want to know about you. But some people want to know you. There's a difference. The first is curiosity. The second..."
"Is hunting," Gael finished softly.
"Is hunting," he agreed.
*Well, that's rather dramatic,* Hestia observed. *Though I suppose it's accurate. Hunting's got a bad reputation, but it's quite natural, isn't it? Everyone hunts something. Food, mostly. Sometimes other things. Like when you hunt for your stockings in the morning because you've forgotten where you put them. Not that stockings are dangerous, mind you. Unless they're very tight. Tight stockings can be quite uncomfortable.*
*We're not talking about stockings,* Aemon sighed mentally.
*No, but the principle's the same. Looking for something specific with intent to catch it. Very hunting-like behavior.*
*You're going to give me a headache.*
*That's very rude. Headaches come from tension, not from helpful observations about stockings.*
---
The following afternoon, the great solar smelled faintly of beeswax and roses, the scents mingling with the dust motes that danced in the afternoon light. Tapestries muffled the sound of the city beyond the walls, and the light of the lowering sun cast long fingers across the polished floor. A thin young man stood before them, lute cradled like a lover, his voice drifting into the hall on notes so sweet they clung to the air like honey.
He sang of doomed love, of noble vows and cruel fate, and though his fingers danced well upon the strings, Aemon found himself more interested in how the bard's eyes strayed to the princess than in the song itself. The man's gaze lingered a beat too long on her face, traced the line of her throat with the sort of attention that had nothing to do with musical appreciation.
*Predictable,* Pyrion observed with disdain. *Tragic romance to stir her sympathies, skilled execution to prove his worth, and wandering eyes to gauge her response. He might as well have followed a manual.*
*Maybe he did,* Aemon replied grimly. *'How to Seduce Lonely Princesses in Ten Easy Steps.'*
*Step eleven: avoid being incinerated by her nephew's dragon.*
*That should definitely be in the manual.*
Gael, seated in her carved oaken chair with Pyrion coiled like a living jewel upon the armrest, leaned nearer to Aemon. Her perfume was faint—something of lavender and parchment—and her whisper carried the low urgency of confession.
"He asked me yesterday whether you sup with the queen or with your guardsmen," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear. "Why should such things matter to a song?"
Aemon didn't answer at once. He studied her, violet eyes searching his face, earnest and unguarded. The question was innocent enough, but the fact that she was asking it at all meant some instinct was prickling at her. Good. He was teaching her to listen to those instincts.
Then he allowed a smile to curl at the edge of his mouth, tilting his head just enough for mischief to gleam there. "Depends on the song, doesn't it? A song about a prince who dines with soldiers might be very different from one about a prince who takes his meals with queens and courtiers."
"But why should that matter to him?"
"Maybe it doesn't," Aemon said, voice pitched low enough that the performing bard couldn't overhear. "Maybe he's just curious. Or maybe..." He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make her lean closer. "Maybe he wants to know when you're alone. And with whom."
Gael's eyes widened slightly, and Aemon saw the exact moment the implication landed. Her hand tightened on the arm of her chair.
*Ah,* Pyrion purred. *The penny drops. She begins to see the web being woven around her.*
*About time,* Aemon thought. *I was starting to worry I'd have to draw her a diagram.*
*I could provide illustrations,* Hestia offered helpfully. *Though I'm better at stick figures than proper drawings. Still, a stick figure web is very educational. You've got your spider, which is just a circle with lots of legs, and your fly, which is another circle but with wings...*
*Not that kind of web.*
*Oh. The metaphorical kind. Much harder to draw, metaphorical webs. How do you illustrate something that isn't there? Very philosophical question, that.*
"And what did you tell him?" Aemon asked aloud, his voice carefully neutral.
Gael's lips pressed together as though she were a girl reciting her lessons before a stern septa. "That you dine with your mother, as all boys should. And that you are yet too young to keep secrets worth the knowing."
Aemon chuckled, low and rich, a sound that earned them a sharp look from Septa Mordane across the hall. He ignored it, leaning back with lazy confidence that somehow managed to look both relaxed and ready to spring into motion at a moment's notice.
"A good answer," he said, approval warming his voice. "Half-truths and little lies—those are the mortar that keeps a wall from crumbling. Not stone, not steel. Mortar."
"Then you believe he sought more than a rhyme?"
Aemon shifted, leaning closer until his breath stirred a stray lock of her hair. His voice dropped low, conspiratorial, threaded with a sly intimacy that made her pulse flutter in the hollow of her throat.
"I believe men who ask after habits are not merely curious. They are seeking doors. And doors, once found, are meant to be opened."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Gael shivered, whether from the weight of his words or the nearness of his voice, even Aemon could not say. But he saw the way her breathing quickened, saw the flicker of something deeper than understanding in her eyes.
*Fear,* Pyrion observed with satisfaction. *Not of you, but of the truth you've shown her. She begins to realize how exposed she has been.*
*Good,* Aemon thought fiercely. *Let her be afraid. Fear will keep her alive.*
Pyrion gave a long, rolling purr, molten eyes narrowing with predatory satisfaction. *Her awareness sharpens. She begins to see beyond the veil of pretty words. You are teaching her to see the world as it is, not as she wishes it to be.*
*Someone has to,* Aemon replied grimly. *If she learns to weigh words as weapons, she'll not fall prey to the first bard who wields a song like a snare.*
*Or,* Hestia said suddenly, her voice cutting through the tension with all the subtlety of a mallet to glass, *he just wanted to know if you're a mummy's boy or a soldier's brat. Might've been looking to write a funny little song about it. Like, 'Oh look, the prince eats stew with mummy, ha ha.' People do like songs about food. Very popular topic, food. Everyone's got to eat, haven't they? Except dragons, maybe. Do dragons eat regular food, or just... people?*
*Dragons eat whatever they please,* Pyrion replied aloud, his voice carrying the sort of casual menace that made small children hide behind their mothers' skirts. *We are not particularly discriminating.*
*Right, good to know. I'll keep that in mind next time I'm around dragons. Which is now, actually. Hello, dragon.*
*Hello, strange voice in Aemon's head.*
*That's me! Though I prefer 'charming voice' or 'helpful voice' or perhaps 'voice with excellent taste in conversations.' But strange works too.*
Aemon pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. *Hestia, you have the gift of reducing espionage to cookpot humor. Truly, the realm is blessed.*
*I do know it,* Hestia interrupted with cheerful pride. *I'm very strategic. Like a pie. Looks silly, but it's got layers. Important layers. Crust, filling, sometimes more crust on top. Very complex, pies.*
*Her talent for absurdity is disarming,* Pyrion admitted grudgingly. *A mind trained to suspicion may overlook a truth delivered in jest. There is strategy in foolishness, whether she knows it or not.*
*She doesn't know it,* Aemon thought. *Which makes it even more effective.*
Gael bit her lip, glancing sidelong at Aemon with eyes that were softer now, less wounded. "Perhaps I am too quick to imagine daggers in every smile."
Aemon straightened, his expression shifting from play to seriousness in a heartbeat. He caught her gaze, held it with the intensity of someone delivering a battlefield report. His voice, when he spoke, carried that cadence Gael always thought of as belonging to older men, men who had already seen too much.
"Better to see daggers where there are none, Aunt, than to miss the one smile that hides the blade."
The words fell between them like stones dropped into still water, each ripple carrying weight. Gael drew in a breath, her hands twisting in her lap. For the first time, she did not dismiss his words as boyish cleverness or inherited paranoia. Instead, she nodded, slow and deliberate, her violet eyes shadowed with new thought.
"You're right," she said quietly. "I have been... trusting. Perhaps too trusting."
"Trust isn't the problem," Aemon said, his voice gentling. "Trust is a gift. The problem is giving that gift to people who haven't earned it."
*Nicely put,* Pyrion approved. *You acknowledge her nature while teaching her to guard it.*
*She needs to know she doesn't have to change who she is,* Aemon thought. *Just how she shows it to the world.*
The bard's song lingered in the air, sweet and tragic, but neither Aemon nor Gael was listening anymore. They were too busy learning the difference between melody and meaning, between performance and truth.
---
The change in Gael was not sudden, but steady, like a river carving stone. Where once she had met men with open trust and guileless faith, she now looked twice at their words, weighing intent against sound. She was beginning to recognize when flattery was bait, when sympathy was too rehearsed, when interest was only another kind of theft.
Most importantly, she was beginning to trust her own judgment.
"Aunt Gael," Aemon said one afternoon, lounging against her side with the kind of casual entitlement only a boy who knew everyone secretly adored him could manage. He plucked an apple from a silver bowl, bit into it with a crunch that seemed half an insult to the fruit, and spoke around the mouthful with the sort of disregard for etiquette that would have given Septa Maegan apoplexy. "Do you ever notice that some people try to make you feel special just so they can slip a hand into your purse?"
Gael blinked at him, her brows drawing together in confusion. "Do you mean that literally? Are you spending time with cutpurses?"
"No," he said, swallowing, "but thank you for immediately assuming I spend my afternoons with pickpockets and thieves. I was speaking in the more... metaphorical sense."
*Though to be fair,* Hestia chimed in, *cutpurses are probably more honest than most people. At least they're upfront about wanting your money. No pretending they're interested in your thoughts on... I don't know, what do princesses think about? Embroidery? The weather? Whether roses smell better than daisies?*
*Gael thinks about more than flowers,* Aemon replied silently.
*Right, but the point stands. Cutpurses are refreshingly direct. 'Hello, I'd like your money, please.' Much better than 'Oh, you're so interesting, tell me all your secrets while I figure out how to use them against you.'*
*That's... actually a fair point.*
*I have them sometimes. Fair points. Like hen's teeth, but they do happen.*
Gael could not quite suppress her smirk. "You could have led with that."
"I could have," Aemon agreed cheerfully, "but then I wouldn't have gotten to see that face you make when you're halfway between worried and furious. It's adorable. Like a kitten trying to roar."
*I must observe,* Pyrion drawled within his rider's mind, his voice rich as velvet dipped in disdain, *that your metaphors lack subtlety. Your comparison of the princess to a kitten borders on reckless. What happens when she begins to sharpen her claws?*
*She already has claws,* Aemon answered silently, watching as Gael's eyes narrowed with the sort of look that promised retribution. *She just needs to learn to use them.*
"Did you just compare me to a kitten?" Gael asked, her voice carrying the sort of dangerous sweetness that preceded either laughter or violence.
"A very fierce kitten," Aemon clarified, grinning in a way that somehow made the comment both more insulting and more charming. "The kind that would absolutely destroy a ball of yarn given the opportunity."
"I am going to push you into the fountain."
"See? Fierce."
Gael gave him a look that could have curdled milk, but her lips were twitching with suppressed laughter. After a moment, she settled back against the bench with a sigh that carried more weight than such a small sound should.
"Sometimes," she said at last, "people do act like that. As though they can make me feel... unique, or fascinating, or some great prize. But later I see they only wanted something. A favor. An answer. My attention."
Aemon's teasing expression sobered immediately, the shift so complete it was like watching a mask fall away. "Small things?" he asked softly.
"Yes. Small. But they add up." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Like drops of water wearing away stone. Each one harmless alone, but together..."
"Together they hollow you out," Aemon finished, and something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "That sounds lonely. Like they don't want you. Just what they can take."
Gael's lips parted, and for a moment her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Yes. Like that. Exactly like that."
*Perfect,* Pyrion purred, satisfaction rolling through his mental voice like smoke from a contented hearth. *She has not merely grasped the logic but felt it in her bones. Personal experience is a far sharper teacher than abstraction.*
*She shouldn't have to learn this way,* Aemon thought fiercely, protectiveness rising in his chest like a tide. *She shouldn't have to question every kindness, every compliment.*
*No,* Pyrion agreed, and there was steel beneath the silk of his mental voice. *But better she learn now than discover the lesson when the stakes are higher.*
"That must make you feel..." Aemon paused, searching for words that would acknowledge her pain without diminishing it. "Like you're a tool to them. Not a person."
She let out a trembling laugh, the sound caught somewhere between bitter and broken. "It does. And it frightens me, too. To wonder who actually sees me, and who only sees what they want from me."
The admission hung in the air between them, raw and vulnerable. Aemon felt something twist in his chest—not the calculating satisfaction of a plan working, but genuine ache for the girl beside him who had learned to doubt her own worth.
"Then know this," he said, leaning closer, lowering his voice like a knight swearing an oath, his words carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "I see you. Just you. And I happen to like you, even when you're scolding me for eating too fast."
Gael laughed again, brighter this time, and shoved his shoulder. "You're impossible."
"I'm inevitable," he corrected, flashing a grin so infuriatingly confident it bordered on obscene.
*Your methods are unorthodox,* Pyrion noted with aristocratic resignation. *Yet I cannot deny their efficacy. You disarm her with affection and mockery until she is at once vexed and comforted. It is… annoyingly effective.*
"It's a gift," Aemon muttered inwardly.
Hestia, who had been listening from inside his head, chose that exact moment to add her own wisdom in her trademark tone of baffled commentary. *So basically what you're saying is, all the blokes who've been writing her songs are less like proper lovers and more like, you know, dodgy salesmen trying to flog a bad horse with fresh paint.*
Aemon's eyes went wide, then he burst into helpless laughter. *Gods, Hestia!*
*It's true though,* Hestia insisted. *That bard yesterday—what was he called? Lyrin? Looked like he spent more time on his hair than on his rhymes. The man's idea of romance is probably comparing your eyes to cabbages. But expensive cabbages. From Dorne.*
Aemon snorted so hard he nearly choked on the apple. "Stop—stop, she'll never survive suitors now. And you've ruined cabbages for me forever."
"Gods save me," Aemon muttered out loud, shaking his head. Then, more quietly, he added, "I like being with you too, Aunt. You make cleverness feel like a gift instead of a curse. Most people act like my brain's a sword I shouldn't draw in public. You don't."
She touched his hand lightly. "Why would I? It is who you are."
*And therein lies the danger for your enemies,* Pyrion murmured, molten eyes gleaming in approval. *For every fool who flatters her, she will now weigh their words against yours. And she will find them wanting.*
Aemon's expression hardened, if only for a heartbeat. *Good. Let them try. When they fail, she'll know the difference between honey and venom. And if they push too far—*
*—then they'll meet fire*, Pyrion finished, a thread of smoke curling into the boy's mind.
The late sun slanted through the chamber, turning Gael's hair to bronze, her laughter to something fragile and golden. She looked younger than her years, and stronger too.
Operation Save Princess Gael, Aemon thought with grim satisfaction, was working better than he'd dared hope. Now all that remained was discovering which snake thought her heart was theirs for the plucking.
And cutting off its head.
---
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