Chapter Text
Plumes of black smoke, screaming smallfolk, and splatters of blood filled his vision. War was perpetually on Aemond’s mind, but at this moment the war he considered was not with his deceitful, greedy half-sister but rather with the House Martell of Dorne.
His fist clenched around the leather hilt of his dagger, the unyielding cowskin providing a source of comfort and familiarity to withstand the disgrace Prince Qoren was subjecting him to. A small part within Aemond was faintly amused by Qoren’s trick, in fact, Aemond might’ve done it himself to a lesser man, namely one of his insolent nephews, but alas the age for tricks had long passed him.
In support of his brother’s conquest—rightful ascension to the throne—Aemond had travelled to Dorne with Vhagar to seek the use of House Martell’s thousands of fleets and possible inventions for dragonslaying. Prince Qoren had first appeared apprehensive and suspicious of the Throne’s generous offer of coin and a position on the Small Council upon the squashing of the Black Queen’s uprising. Both Aemond and Qoren knew that such promises were likely to mean nothing if King’s Landing was burned to ash in the ensuing battles. In his dedication to his family and to the Throne, Aemond had done whatever was needed to secure House Martell’s efforts for themselves. An endeavour, Aemond wished he had the foresight to know, would cause him great humiliation and degradation.
Which brought him to his current predicament, facing his bride-to-be while Qoren smiled gleefully at his side, rubbing his palms together.
“This is my loveliest niece, Prince Aemond. She came to be under my care many years ago and it has been the privilege of my heart to watch her blossom into a young lady. I would’ve never imagined she may even be a lady worthy of a prince. It is my full belief that you will make the most charming match, Your Grace” Aemond’s jaw ticked as his temperament worsened at the unabashed mockery in Qoren’s voice. It would not do to rage at the Dornishman, not when his allegiance still remained strenuous.
Aemond did not wish to be unkind in his assessment of the lady before him but even with an impartial eye it was difficult to find anything redeeming in the appearance of his bride. To begin, she was pushed into the throne room on a type of contraption supported by wheels, not unlike the one which his father used in his later years. Aemond suspected the lady was severely ailing and pondered how many years his marriage may last. She wore a gauzy, silk dress the colour of rust in the Dornish style, the sweeping and fitted skirts accentuating rather than disguising a rotund belly and heavy breasts. Her head remained bowed and long dark curls loosely obscured by a matching veil fell forward to hide her gaze. She was adorned in the Dornish style, golden chains draped along her thickened arms and he noticed the glimmer of jewels in her hair. It was clear to Aemond that Qoren was foisting an invalid cripple upon him to test his and his family’s desperation for the Martell’s resources.
Aemond took a steadying breath to rouse his conviction towards his brother’s crown and his family’s survival before inclining his head towards the creature. “Does the lady have a name?”
“Meira Martell, Your Grace.” She rasped in a low tone with an oddly pleasant voice. Meira slowly raised her gaze and her eyes possessed a guardedness and intelligence that tempted Aemond to reassess his assumption of the invalid nature of his betrothed. In the pause after her response, Meira straightened her posture to level her gaze at Aemond, seemingly assessing him as he did her. Aemond resisted the urge to self-consciously adjust the leather strap keeping the cover over his scarred eye in place. Begrudgingly, he accepted that a cripple like her was a charming match for a deformed beast like him.
“Lady Meira possesses many talents, Your Grace. Painting, needlework, singing, even dancing in her own particular way.” Qoren’s jovial voice drew Aemond from his thoughts and he found himself suddenly weary and exhausted from his journey to Dorne.
“Good,” he replied tonelessly, his mind already straying to whether he can trust Vhagar to navigate them back to King’s Landing so he may take a short reprieve on the journey.
“Might we consider this a match and set a date for the marriage ceremony, Prince Aemond?” Qoren prodded. Aemond absentmindedly clenched his dagger in his grip before nodding curtly and turning to Meira.
“Very well. Lady Meira, I look forward to our ceremony and subsequent marriage. I shall leave the details of the affair in your hands, Prince Qoren.” Aemond took a few, short steps to stand over Meira and noted how very unpleasant it would be to kneel to meet her gaze each day. He reached his hand out and as she placed her surprisingly small, delicate one in his, he bent over and pressed a perfunctory kiss to her knuckles. A small breeze of Dornish air wafted the scent of jasmine from Meira’s hair as he remained bent over. Momentarily overwhelmed, Aemond abruptly stood to his full height and released his betrothed’s hand.
“As do I, Prince Aemond.” Meira softly replied as she stared into his eyes searching so deeply that, for a moment, Aemond wondered if she could peer through his leather covering and into the blue sapphire in his eye socket.
Aemond gave his polite farewell to his host—insulting trickster—and his future ladywife before exiting the Martell fort and embarking on Vhagar. Oddly invigorated, Aemond turned his thoughts towards the remaining great houses and what other sacrifices may be necessary to protect his family’s throne.