Aemon stood in the smoky haze of the Long Thorn Rose, observing the mystical sight of a woman with two faces, one dead and distorted, the other hidden and all too mundane. A budding sense of pressure and dread weighed down upon him as drunken laughter and indecent murmurs filled the air. His heart raced. He pried his eyes away.
It took an effort of will to smile as Oberyn handed him a crystal glass. A gauche display of wealth that would make Aemon roll his eyes any other time.
He sipped from his glass, its spicy contents barely registering on his tongue. Dornish red. Of course. He looked back towards the object of his observation. Gone. He carefully did not look around, instead he turned to his friend. Who was already chatting up a middle-aged woman. The madam?
"My lord, would you like some company?," a voice purred beside him. The accent was local, a mix of seduction and concealed hope.
Aemon's grip tightened around his cup as the Faceless Man from before stood next to him, her lips curling into a practiced smile. Both faces smiled. She was as poised as before, but now, in the flickering candlelight, there was something about her that unnerved him. He forced a grin, adopting the easy charm he'd been taught by his uncle.
"Company sounds grand, my dear." Aemon replied smoothly, though he could feel sweat prickling at the back of his neck. He stared at the sheer fabric barely covering her breasts to keep from looking at that disconcerting dual visage "Unfortunately, I told my friend he could arrange my companion for the night, and he'll hold me to it I'm sure."
The woman ran a hand through silky black hair, and Aemon's gaze flickered back to her face. just for an instant, and Aemon couldn't shake the sensation that she was peeling away every layer of his facade. The dead face laughed, "I would not have you quarrel with the Red Viper on my account."
Aemon forced a soft chuckle and leaned back. Perhaps, another time?"
The dead face, the one bound to the living with thread of blood, laughed as if Aemon was the cleverest man alive. The living face studied him, her expression blank. Their eyes locked. She was searching for something. Something ancient and dreadful increased the pressure in the room. For a moment, it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on Aemon, like a distant tide of bloody murder threatening to sweep him under. He was a deer before a lion, the condemned facing the headsman. He did not flinch.
The Silent Stone seared in his pocket, it vibrated violently, a subtle ward beyond his learning.
Then, just as quickly as she had appeared at Aemon's side, the woman's eyes flicked past him, her interest fading like mist in the morning sun. With a quick 'by your leave', she turned and floated back into the depths of the brothel, disappearing as though she had never existed. Aemon blinked.
Aside from the ghastly glamour and the overlapping appearances, there had been nothing unusual about her outward appearance—scantily clad like any other professional in the establishment. She seamlessly blended into her environment, but when their eyes had met, it was as if a veil had briefly been lifted. For a heartbeat, something ancient had brushed against his soul, cold and impersonal.
For a long moment, Aemon sat frozen, his breath slow and measured. He had never been a coward, but this was different. This was a game he could not win by sword or smile. He patted the now cool Silent Stone in his pocket, and thanked the fate that brought it to him.
Determined to act as if nothing untoward happened, he took up his revelry.
Though the encounter haunted his thoughts for days, Aemon made no move to seek out any further information about the Faceless Man. He had seen enough to know one thing: discretion was the better part of valor. The knowledge that he could, at least for a brief moment, peer through the illusion of their glamour was undoubtedly valuable, but it was a secret he kept locked tight in his heart. If it was known, no doubt the secretive assassins would hunt him to the corners of the world.
Aemon did not allow the moment to distract him for long. He was growing up now, leaving behind the trappings of boyhood. There would always be enemies. Only a fool would let them dominate their thoughts. His days remained ruled by a strict and determined routine. The nights were spent in establishments like the Long Thorn Rose, where he indulged in pleasures that demanded nothing of him but gold. In the company of whores, he found solace—a place where desire was simple, uncomplicated by politics or marriage. Here, he could enjoy himself to his heart's content.
He did not catch sight or whisper of the Faceless Man thereafter.
As the time for Visenya's wedding drew near, Aemon threw himself into final preparations. King Aerys spared no expense as host of the event. The Red Keep would soon overflow with nobility from all across the Seven Kingdoms, eager to witness the marriage of the Crown prince, and to see the reunification of two disparate Targaryen lines. Moreover, there were tales about the Red Priests of R'hllor insinuating themselves into the King's court. No doubt many a lord wanted to see the sovereign's conduct with their own eyes.
Regarding wedding gifts, Aemon spared no expense, using his Uncle Tywin's vast network of contacts to procure gifts fit for a queen and a future king. For Visenya, he found a Valyrian Steel rapier, a blade as deadly as it was beautiful, sharp and sleek, with an intricately carved hilt adorned with gold and sunstones. For Prince Rhaegar, Aemon secured a rare tome, an in-depth analysis of the reigns of three great Targaryen kings Aegon, Viserys, and Jaehaerys filled with clear and concise scholarly commentary. It was a gem that Aemon read thrice over.
The day finally came when Aemon and his retinue departed Oldtown for King's Landing. He greatly valued his time and studies here, but the thought of being reunited with his kin brought about a smile that would not fade.
They traveled via the Roseroad, their procession growing larger as it wound its way through the Reach. Ser Baelor Hightower led the party, acting as the voice of his father, Lord Leyton. By Aemon's side rode Gregor Clegane, Lyle Crakehall, Oberyn Martell, and Garth Hightower, a company both dangerous and formidable.
At every stop along the way, Aemon found himself at the center of attention. His handsome, almost ethereal appearance, combined with his natural appeal, drew the eyes of men and women alike. When he wasn't drinking or hunting with the likes of Mace Tyrell, he sparred with knights who found themselves shocked by the young Targaryen's prowess. He danced with noble ladies, their faces flushed with excitement, and when he sang, even the rowdiest tavern fell silent to listen. Now that he'd matured, his voice was a deep baritone, some artfully described as honey poured over thunder.
Whispers followed him—of his height and build, his skill with both sword and quill, and his ease with the nobility. Some might have grown jealous, but Aemon disarmed even the most hardened knights with his wit and good humor. Besides, to challenge a Targaryen, especially one so well-liked, would be foolish indeed. And so, as the days passed, Aemon forged new friendships, growing ever closer to the nobles of the Reach. Randyll Tarly joined their party, and there was much celebration. Long gone was the bullied lad, now a hard young man stood in his place.
As they traveled, many tales and rumors swelled, but their noble hosts spoke frequently of an event in far off Volantis. An empress was crowned by the Triarchs of the First Daughter. Some called her a sorceress or a seductress, a courtesan that enchanted her way into power. Every account via raven said there was no record of the new Volantene Empress' history, as if she just appeared out of thin air.
But, such foreign news was a mere curiosity. Aemon wondered how it would affect Westeros and the Sunset Bank. The negotiations he sealed between the Bank of Oldtown and Lord Tywin were still brand new. Any chaos might abort such a tenuous bond.
After nearly a month of travel, they finally reached King's Landing. The capital buzzed with excitement, the streets alive with music and laughter as the realm's greatest houses gathered for the grand occasion. The towering Red Keep loomed ahead, its red stone reflecting the dying light of the sun.
Aemon slowed his horse as they approached the gates, his jade eyes narrowing as he considered the road ahead. The tournament, thought to be the grandest in living memory, was set to begin soon. Aemon's mind churned with possibilities—he was expected to enter the Squire's Melee and prove his skill among his peers. But a part of him, the part that longed for something greater, whispered of another path. He could don the armor of a mystery knight, concealing his identity, and face the greatest warriors of the realm in the grand tourney itself.
It was a tempting thought, and the decision weighed on him as the gates of the Red Keep loomed ever closer.
[] Squire Melee (Aemon will have a very good shot at winning.)
[] Mystery Knight (Aemon will have his work cut out to attain glory) Choose a sigil to ride under as a subvote:
-[] Black Lion rampant on white background
-[] White Maiden inside a golden sun
-[] Green tree inside white ring
-[] Write-in
