The Red castle — Late at Night
At this late hour, only the torches in the corridors of the Red castle were still burning.
Aemond's boots rang softly as he climbed the cold stone steps back toward Maegor's Holdfast. He had just returned from the Dragonpit; he and Vhagar had circled above the Gods Eye for two full hours.
The chill of the high air had long since sunk into his bones. Now the cold bit again, sharp as needles through the skin. His cheeks were taut, his fingers nearly numb, and every breath left his lips in a thin cloud of white mist.
At the stairwell entrance, two night guards spotted the prince and straightened at once.
Not far from his door stood Ser Criston Cole, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His grey-blue eyes followed Aemond as the prince approached and inclined his head slightly.
Aemond did not stop. He gave Cole a brief nod and pushed the door open.
The chamber was far warmer than the corridor outside; the fire in the hearth still burned. He was about to relax—when he froze.
His gaze fell upon the bed.
Slowly, Aemond approached it. His right hand settled at the dagger on his belt as his left pinched the corner of the coverlet and lifted it.
Moonlight streamed in unhindered, illuminating the figure on the bed.
Alice Hightower, eighteen, lay there with chestnut hair spread across the pillow, blue eyes wide and gleaming in the dark. She was naked, her pale skin glowing softly in the silver light. Rose petals were scattered across the headboard, their scent mingling with the warmth of the room.
She looked up at Aemond, lips parting as she spoke in a trembling, pleading voice.
"Your Highness… I—I was too cold, and I couldn't find my room…
May I… may I stay here for the night?"
Aemond looked at her in silence.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Then he smiled—a slow, thin curve of the lips.
"Cold?" he said softly.
"Yes, the nights in the Red Keep are cold. Especially for someone like you…"
His gaze passed over her with calm, unsettling detachment.
"…lying defenseless in my bed."
Alice's heart lurched.
This was not the reaction she had imagined. He did not shout. He did not rush toward her. He did not pretend to refuse.
That smile alone made the chill creep into her chest.
She tried to sit up, crossing her arms over herself, her posture shrinking, pitiful.
Aemond turned away.
"Cole," he said evenly, "this gift does not suit my tastes."
Criston Cole's brows drew together. "Does Your Highness wish me to deal with it?"
"Tell the guards on duty…" Aemond paused, glancing at Alice's suddenly bloodless face. His smile deepened.
"…that the prince has rewarded them."
"And remind them," he added lightly, "to be gentle. She is a young lady of House Hightower."
Cole fell silent.
"No!" Alice cried. She slid from the bed, hastily wrapping the sheets around herself as she crawled toward Aemond's feet, tears spilling freely.
"Your Highness! Please—please spare me! I was wrong!
I should never have entered your bed without permission—please, don't send me to the barracks!"
She sobbed uncontrollably.
"Did you consider the consequences before you came here?" Aemond asked coolly.
"I only wanted to be…" she choked. "To be your beloved. I meant no harm…"
"Oh?" Aemond crouched to her level. He lifted her chin with two fingers—not rough, but inescapable.
"Then answer me this, Alice Hightower."
She nodded frantically, tears sliding down her hands.
"Who instructed you?" His voice dropped so low that only she could hear it.
"The Queen? …Or House Hightower?"
"Tell me the truth."
She gasped. "I—it was my own idea! I only wanted someone to rely on, Your Highness!"
Aemond's eyes did not soften.
At last, she collapsed completely. "It was the Hand—Lord Otto.
He said you were difficult, that perhaps I could stay by your side and understand you…
I admire you, Your Highness—truly!"
She sobbed. "I swear it by the Seven."
Aemond studied her in silence for a long moment.
Then he released her.
He turned toward the hearth and stretched his hands toward the fire.
By the time the door closed behind her, Alice was already gone—fleeing like a startled rabbit.
After a while, Aemond spoke without turning.
"Ser Cole. Enter."
The door opened.
Criston Cole stepped inside, reading the tension in the room at once. He shut the door behind him and looked toward Aemond's back.
"Do you find it pitiful?" Aemond asked suddenly. "A beautiful young woman, eager and willing, offering herself so openly?"
Cole paused. "That is Your Highness's freedom."
"And you believe I would accept it?" Aemond stepped forward, moonlight cutting across half his face.
"More precisely—the one who arranged this expected me to."
"And you, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, allowed it."
"Without your consent, she could never have entered this room."
Cole swallowed. "Your Highness—"
He did not finish.
Aemond moved.
Too fast.
The dagger drove forward, stopping a hair's breadth from bone, pressing hard enough to break skin at the jaw. Cole did not resist. He only lowered his eyes to the prince standing inches from him.
"Ser Criston Cole," Aemond said calmly, "you irritate me."
The blade pressed closer. Blood welled and slid along the steel.
"My affairs—"
"—are decided by no one but me."
His voice dropped, cold and precise.
"You may hate Rhaenyra. That is your choice.
Your loyalty to the Greens is also your choice."
The dagger bit a fraction deeper.
"But understand this, Ser." Aemond met his eyes.
"I have the power to kill you."
Shock, anger, humiliation flashed across Cole's face—then something heavier, deeper, pressed them all down.
Aemond held him there a moment longer, then withdrew the blade. His movements were smooth, almost casual. He even brushed the blood from Cole's jaw with his thumb.
"Good," Aemond said, stepping back. "That will be all for tonight."
Most Targaryens were mad—Rhaenyra, Daemon… Aemond most of all.
"One more thing," Aemond added.
Cole answered at once. "Blood and Cheese have lowered their guard.
Gyles has arranged work for their families in the Red Keep.
They are content. Motivated."
He did not understand why the prince took such interest in two men like them.
"First," Aemond said quietly, "you give hope."
"And when you take it away?" he asked softly. "What remains?"
Cole did not answer.
He bowed, fist to chest, and left the room.
The door closed.
Firelight flickered across Aemond's profile—then dimmed, as if smothered.