[ by the first rounds of the tournament, alicent has three favours (from aemond, hawk, and homelander). it seems appropriate, given her role, much like rewarding homelander for his loyalty.
and the effects start small: a phantom skid against her knees, when hawk slides across the court. a slight bruise upon her arm, where a blow glances off aemond.
and then homelander faces alina, light bursting from her hands. a searing warmth in alicentβs chest in turn. ]
Aemond, can you Are you in a match? If you are, youneednβt I think I require some air
[ he's in between matches, which means he catches the soft noise the glass device makes when a message from his mother is received. he's learned how to assign particular noises for particular persons β a great and clever function β and aemond wastes no time in reading through it.
it's quick work to step away from the court, turn over his gear momentarily; if he doesn't get back in time for the next match, then that's just how it will be. his mother is more important than tokens and trophies.
finding alicent is, at least, not so difficult. the tourney is richly designed but does not have the grand scope of the ones he's used to back in king's landing; the township is far smaller, the paths more straightforward, and many of the billets and camps are so clearly marked. when he comes to his mother he is armed, a stolen tourney knife tucked into his belt β blunt though the edges may be, aemond has trust in his ability to harm for the quality of the edge not to matter. ]
Your Grace? [ she is yet crowned, and he has been called upon. whatever discord lies between them at the moment, aemond will not disrespect her standing publicly. ] Are you harmed?
[ even knowing that he was the only one she would call, alicent still finds herself surprised that he would come to her. her boy, still, after all this time. aemond finds her just as she slips from the makeshift stands, into the corridor that leads back to the faire, one hand splayed against the wall to steady herself. it feels like burning. she imagines dragonfire. men, cooking in their armour. aegon, moaning in pain. her face crumples, briefly, but she forces herself to recover. you have known worse pain than this. and aemond should not see her so weak. ]
I don't know. [ her other hand drops to clutch her stomach, but she jerks it away just as quickly, the skin tender against the drag of fabric. ] There have been β pangs. [ shaking her head. ] I could not say why, when I have been naught but decorative this day.
Here. [ leaning against the wall, she plucks at the button of her sleeve, fingers uncharacteristically clumsy. alicent means to show him a bruise (one that likely matches a freshly acquired injury of his own). ] I know I did not do this. [ with audible frustration, ] I know it.
[ there is a flash of alarm on aemond's face when alicent begins to unbutton her sleeve; there are lines he can never cross as her son, and to see her laid bare in any way is high among these lines. that he had witnessed her bare limbs earlier had sent him to near-panic, as is. here in the privacy of her billet he feels it worse, and aemond turns his head to his blind side on instinct.
it's her voice that draws him back, however. her frustration is clear, not just in her voice but in the way she's moving - pacing, like she used to do in the red keep, like she would when things are getting under her skin in a way she cannot control.
he turns to his mother with utmost care, and inspects the bruise she present to him. the placement of it β why does it seem familiar? ]
This is not a common place for you to bruise. You are untrained, but you are not careless. [ it is not a bruising by hand; too long, too narrow, more akin to the bruising made by a pole orβ ] You have not walked into a barre, or a list?
[ alicent pulls her sleeve up her forearm, velvet scrunching. as aemond inspects the mark, she breathes a sigh of relief. the mark is real, and aemond seems as perplexed as she does. she shakes her head in abrupt answer his ridiculous question, curls bouncing. ]
I have not strayed from my place, Aemond. [ strained, ] It is not my doing, I swear it.
[ her hand darts out to seize his arm, balancing as another blow knocks into her knees, and she grits through it. ]
Though it feels as though I have somehow, even as I stand before you.
And if anyone has dared to harm even a hair on your head, it is known that I would not hesitate to rain fire upon them. Few would challenge me so brazenly.
[ the words rush out of him, her concern palpable. it clings to the edges of aemond's own worry β who would dare to harm a targaryen, when their line has shown true force so recently? is it retaliation, then? a threat to their unity?
this is not daemon's doing. aemond would know well if it had been his hand, having trained with the man since he'd returned from the stranger's embrace. daemon does not strike to incapacitate; he strikes to kill, and his strikes aim true. his mother would suffer more than bruises if he had found a way to attack without being seen.
but now she doubles over in seeming pain from an assailant unseen, and it worsens aemond's uncoiling alarm. a dragon raises its head and rears to spit fire β at what? the tent is empty save for them.
witchery, then? he's heard of witches here. again: who would dare? aemond has one of the stronger witches in the keep to call upon, even if his mother doesn't know it yet. she is protected; pierce would never lie about it.
so whoβ whatβ? a bruise forms out of nowhere right before their eyes, and aemond grips her at the elbow; it would be ungentle if not for his practiced ease in ushering both mother and sister around the red keep without needing a firm touch.
he recognises this bruising. he's grown up with it all his life. this livid purple that surfaces quick on the inner forearm, sloping from the curve of the elbow down to the wrist like a comet. he knows it would hurt deeply, for something seemingly small, the pain of it digging deep into the muscle.
a bowstring bruise. ]
This is not yours. [ impossible as the thought may be β doesn't aemond himself see through vhagar? is it not possible, by some magic of this place, that his mother might have borrowed in their strange ways even for a moment? the tourney is in her honour and one other. she is elevated, ascended. what of her perceptions? it would not surprise if her gifts extended to her abilities. ]
This is an archer's bruise, Mother. Has anyone touched you that has joined the challenges? Anyone who might have reason to entwine his bearings with yours?
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@hightower, mid-tourney.
and the effects start small: a phantom skid against her knees, when hawk slides across the court. a slight bruise upon her arm, where a blow glances off aemond.
and then homelander faces alina, light bursting from her hands. a searing warmth in alicentβs chest in turn. ]
Aemond, can you
Are you in a match? If you are, youneednβt
I think I require some air
no subject
[ he's in between matches, which means he catches the soft noise the glass device makes when a message from his mother is received. he's learned how to assign particular noises for particular persons β a great and clever function β and aemond wastes no time in reading through it.
it's quick work to step away from the court, turn over his gear momentarily; if he doesn't get back in time for the next match, then that's just how it will be. his mother is more important than tokens and trophies.
finding alicent is, at least, not so difficult. the tourney is richly designed but does not have the grand scope of the ones he's used to back in king's landing; the township is far smaller, the paths more straightforward, and many of the billets and camps are so clearly marked. when he comes to his mother he is armed, a stolen tourney knife tucked into his belt β blunt though the edges may be, aemond has trust in his ability to harm for the quality of the edge not to matter. ]
Your Grace? [ she is yet crowned, and he has been called upon. whatever discord lies between them at the moment, aemond will not disrespect her standing publicly. ] Are you harmed?
no subject
I don't know. [ her other hand drops to clutch her stomach, but she jerks it away just as quickly, the skin tender against the drag of fabric. ] There have been β pangs. [ shaking her head. ] I could not say why, when I have been naught but decorative this day.
Here. [ leaning against the wall, she plucks at the button of her sleeve, fingers uncharacteristically clumsy. alicent means to show him a bruise (one that likely matches a freshly acquired injury of his own). ] I know I did not do this. [ with audible frustration, ] I know it.
no subject
it's her voice that draws him back, however. her frustration is clear, not just in her voice but in the way she's moving - pacing, like she used to do in the red keep, like she would when things are getting under her skin in a way she cannot control.
he turns to his mother with utmost care, and inspects the bruise she present to him. the placement of it β why does it seem familiar? ]
This is not a common place for you to bruise. You are untrained, but you are not careless. [ it is not a bruising by hand; too long, too narrow, more akin to the bruising made by a pole orβ ] You have not walked into a barre, or a list?
no subject
I have not strayed from my place, Aemond. [ strained, ] It is not my doing, I swear it.
[ her hand darts out to seize his arm, balancing as another blow knocks into her knees, and she grits through it. ]
Though it feels as though I have somehow, even as I stand before you.
girl idk i had a lot to say apparently
[ the words rush out of him, her concern palpable. it clings to the edges of aemond's own worry β who would dare to harm a targaryen, when their line has shown true force so recently? is it retaliation, then? a threat to their unity?
this is not daemon's doing. aemond would know well if it had been his hand, having trained with the man since he'd returned from the stranger's embrace. daemon does not strike to incapacitate; he strikes to kill, and his strikes aim true. his mother would suffer more than bruises if he had found a way to attack without being seen.
but now she doubles over in seeming pain from an assailant unseen, and it worsens aemond's uncoiling alarm. a dragon raises its head and rears to spit fire β at what? the tent is empty save for them.
witchery, then? he's heard of witches here. again: who would dare? aemond has one of the stronger witches in the keep to call upon, even if his mother doesn't know it yet. she is protected; pierce would never lie about it.
so whoβ whatβ? a bruise forms out of nowhere right before their eyes, and aemond grips her at the elbow; it would be ungentle if not for his practiced ease in ushering both mother and sister around the red keep without needing a firm touch.
he recognises this bruising. he's grown up with it all his life. this livid purple that surfaces quick on the inner forearm, sloping from the curve of the elbow down to the wrist like a comet. he knows it would hurt deeply, for something seemingly small, the pain of it digging deep into the muscle.
a bowstring bruise. ]
This is not yours. [ impossible as the thought may be β doesn't aemond himself see through vhagar? is it not possible, by some magic of this place, that his mother might have borrowed in their strange ways even for a moment? the tourney is in her honour and one other. she is elevated, ascended. what of her perceptions? it would not surprise if her gifts extended to her abilities. ]
This is an archer's bruise, Mother. Has anyone touched you that has joined the challenges? Anyone who might have reason to entwine his bearings with yours?