AEMMA I

AEMMA. Do I embarrass you?
ALYSANNE. Embarrass me? Aemma, you are my pride and joy. I could never be ashamed of you.

The servants' quarters had never been quiet― or calm, for that matter. Handmaids always bustled around, taking moments of peace when they could. Each day, maesters and cooks and squires darted in and out, asking favors or delivering items.

A soft, erratic tapping broke through the din. One of the tables had been set aside by the window, and there sat a young girl. She kicked her legs, too small to reach the floor, and her shoes on the wooden table leg created a tap-tap-tap.

"Again."

Aemma Waters looked up and huffed, blowing strands of blonde hair out of her eyes. "Must I?"

Septa Maris only smiled and sat in the rickety wooden chair across from her. She had a stout frame and a round face lined with age. Her hair, which she kept beneath her hood, had gone gray, and she had piercing blue eyes that silenced even the most obnoxious of serving boys.

Aemma liked her greatly, even if she spoke too much about the gods and how to act like a proper lady. Because, for all her piety, she would occasionally slip her pupil a honeycake from the pockets of her septa's robes with a wink and a smile.

"Your mother goes to great lengths to ensure that you are educated, Aemma," Septa Maris said, wagging a finger at her.

"But―"

"Start the passage again."

With a huff, Aemma bent over the book in front of her. She caught Septa Maris's eye, then straightened up, declaring, "I don't want to read Before the Dragons. We have dragons here, in King's Landing."

"Would you prefer a selection from The Seven-Pointed Star, then?" Septa Maris asked.

"Oh, alright," she grumbled.

She could read perfectly fine, she thought. Septa Maris had been relentless in teaching her how to spell, and how the letters she scribbled down turned to words, and how those words formed sentences, and so on. Aemma liked to read, but she hated being told what to read, and when, and for how long.

Worst of all, Septa Maris believed that she held a quill the wrong way. Aemma loathed their writing lessons, because it meant she would have to contort her fist into the "proper" way, according to her instructor.

She glanced to her left, where sunlight streamed in through the half-open doors to their quarters. Oh, how she wished she could turn into a dragon and soar away from her lessons!

She giggled at the thought. Aemma Waters, morphing into a dragon― white-gold, to match her curly hair, and with bright indigo eyes. And she would breathe fire, and torch the libraries until she never had to have lessons again...

"Aemma."

Septa Maris's finger tapped the pages of the book, bringing her once more to reality. "What could possibly be distracting you this badly?"

"Nothing," she mumbled. "I'm tired, that's all."

"And you expect me to believe that?" Septa Maris asked, laughing. "You haven't stopped kicking the table in the half-hour we've been reading."

Aemma mustered up a faint smile. "I'm tired of reading. I want to play."

"You couldn't play even if you didn't have lessons. You have your duties, as I have mine."

"Even my duties are more exciting than this."

Septa Maris only shook her head and told her to start reading from the top of the page. Aemma kicked the table in protest, but she began reciting the passage once more.

When she had read a sufficient amount in the eyes of her instructor, Septa Maris nodded and left to fetch herself some water. A reprieve, if only for a handful of minutes. And Aemma did not intend to waste the time she had been given.

She put her head down, shutting her eyes and listening to the sounds of handmaids bustling about. Septa Maris would never let her fall asleep during a lesson, but she could certainly try.

"Aemma. Aemma!"

Aemma shot up, her curls flying about her face as she turned in her chair. Then her eyes fell upon the door, and she broke into a wide grin.

There stood Prince Jacaerys, peeking into the servants' quarters through the crack in the door. He beckoned her forwards, and she had just moved to hop out of her seat when she faltered.

"I'll get in trouble, Jace," she whispered.

"Not if you're with me," he replied. "Come on... Please?"

She could never deny the prince for long. With a quick glance around to ensure that Septa Maris didn't materialize out of thin air, she clambered out of her chair and dashed out of the room, leaving nothing but the ruffled pages of her book in her wake.

They ran through the halls of the palace, giggling to themselves. Jace held her hand as he pulled her along, along the path they had taken so often― down to the training yard, where they could watch the knights spar.

As brave as they may have acted, they never dared get too close to the edge of the training yard. Jace kept them out of sight, tucked behind a rack of sparring swords.

"Wait!"

The pair whipped around to see a young girl running their way. She hiked her skirts up to crouch beside them, her silver hair coming free of the braid that fell down her back.

"Elaena!" Jace nudged her. "You shouldn't be here."

"I wanted to watch!" The girl, Elaena, retorted.

"You don't want to watch this―"

"You don't know that!"

"Well, I say that she can stay and watch," Aemma remarked. "I'm the oldest, anyway."

Jace huffed. "By three moons!"

She grinned and began to scuffle with him, mussing up his dark hair and wrestling him to the cool dirt. Elaena giggled and jeered in the back, declaring that Jace would be bested in combat by a girl before he ever held a sparring sword.

They parted once Aemma had successfully pinned Jace to the ground, and he pushed her off of him― but he smiled afterwards, and she knew he didn't really mind.

In the training yard, Ser Criston Cole had handed sparring swords to two white-haired boys― Targaryen princes, both of them. Aegon, the elder of the two, promptly began to hack away at one of the straw dummies. Aemond, the younger, chose to wait for Ser Criston to instruct him.

"I want to be a knight," Aemma murmured. "That would be fun. More fun than being a handmaid, I'll bet."

"You would be fearsome," Jace agreed. "Ser Aemma Waters, vassal to House Targaryen."

"Velaryon," she corrected him. "I'd be your sworn protector."

"And when I'm King, you'll be in my Kingsguard."

"Only if you let me ride Vermax."

They shared a grin and crept further into the training yard. Ser Criston had been instructing the young Aemond on how to strike with his sword, but he paid Jace no mind. Aegon, however, flagged them down.

"Come on," he said, and held out a sparring sword. "It's about time you learned."

Right as Jace reached out, and his fingers brushed the hilt of the sword, Aegon yanked it away. Jace stumbled forwards as the prince's laughter echoed throughout the training yard.

"And what good are you with a sword?" Aemma piped up.

Aegon looked back and shrugged. "It was a joke."

Jace had gotten to his feet, and he took the sparring sword that Aegon handed him, hefting it in his hands. He meandered over to Ser Criston, who had begun showing the young Aemond how to hold his sword.

Aemma and Elaena linked arms and walked to one of the booths set up around the training yard. Ser Harwin Strong sat in one of them, polishing a piece of armor with a rag. He smiled at the sight of them, bowed his head, and stood.

"Princess." He glanced at Aemma and added, "My lady."

She giggled. "I'm not a lady, Ser Harwin."

Elaena took the seat Ser Harwin had vacated, but Aemma poked around the booth. She asked a number of questions, ranging from the type of armor Ser Harwin wore to the sort of duties he had as Commander of the City Watch.

"Can a lady become a knight, Ser Harwin?" She asked, prodding at a dented chestplate in the corner of the booth.

Ser Harwin glanced her way. "Are you planning to join the City Watch, my lady?"

"The Kingsguard. Jace said he'd make me his sworn protector."

He chuckled and glanced out at the training yard, where Jace and Aemond were sparring. Ser Criston barked instructions from a distance, but he did step in once to separate the two princes when they seemed ready to trade swords for fists.

As they readied themselves again, Ser Harwin said, "I'm sure Prince Jacaerys will teach you all he knows."

"He'd better," she replied, and tore her eyes away from the princes. "How can I protect him if I can't swing a sword?"

Ser Harwin laughed again. Aemma turned her attention to Jace, who had stopped his training to speak with Aegon. She frowned and stepped out of the booth, inching closer to the princes.

She did not like Aegon. He had never been outwardly cruel to her, but he treated her as though she were a gnat, a passing nuisance. And yet, Jace liked to spend time with him, because he was double their age and did not filter himself in the company of his nephew.

When she approached the princes, Aegon frowned. "What are you doing?"

"I want to play," Aemma said.

"We're not playing, we're training."

"I want to train, then."

"You can't. You're not a prince."

"Jace says he'll make me his sworn protector one day," she said. "So I have to know how to fight."

Aegon began to laugh then, and he glanced at Jace. "Really? A bastard girl, your sworn protector?"

"I'm not a bastard," Aemma snapped.

"You don't have a father," he replied, poking her in the chest with the tip of his sparring sword. "That makes you a bastard."

"It does not!"

"Of course it does. You don't even know who he is."

She frowned and said, "My mother says he's a blacksmith, from the Street of Steel."

Aegon grinned. "The Street of Silk, more like."

Aemma kicked him. Or, rather, she kicked dirt and pebbles in his general direction, before Jace stepped between them and tried to herd her towards the edge of the training yard.

She didn't even know what Aegon meant when he called her a bastard. All she knew was that it was a bad word, one that people only uttered in hushed whispers when they thought nobody could hear. If people thought she was a bastard, did that make her bad? Would she be lesser-than, in their eyes?

And what of Aegon? Did he speak the truth? Did he know something that she didn't? Why was it that he could insult her without receiving a punishment? Did his royal blood protect him from justice?

A large, heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. Whirling around, she saw Ser Harwin standing beside her, smiling faintly.

"You've an audience, little lady," he said.

She glanced behind her to see Princess Rhaenyra standing at the edge of the training yard. Elaena had joined her mother, holding onto her arm as she watched their exchange. And behind the princesses stood Septa Maris, who raised a brow.

"I should have known you'd be here," she said, and took her pupil by the arm. "For that stunt, we'll be doing arithmetic this afternoon."

Aemma's complaints may have fallen on deaf ears as Septa Maris dragged her back to the servants' quarters, but they echoed off the walls of the Red Keep for all to hear.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Viserys Targaryen looked regal as he walked the halls of the Red Keep, clad in Targaryen red and black, with a knight of the Kingsguard trailing behind him. The title of "King" befit him, Aemma thought, even when he did not wear the crown or sit on the throne.

He was not speaking to a lord, she noted. And for that reason alone, she scampered over to him, ducking past the Kingsguard and materializing at his side.

"Good morrow, Your Grace," she said, curtsying just as her mother had taught her.

The King stopped and chuckled at the sight of her. "Hello, Aemma."

"Might I walk with you?"

He glanced around, waved his Kingsguard on with a smile. "Well, that would please me greatly."

And so they began to walk the halls of the Keep, up to the small council's chambers. The King listened as Aemma told him about the events of the day, from her lessons to her time in the training yard. She was careful to omit the altercation with Aegon when she recounted her story.

When they entered the small council's chambers, The King sat in his chair and motioned for her to sit, as well. She did, her little legs swinging where they could not touch the floor, her fingers drumming on the wooden armrests of her chair.

"Could you tell me a story, Your Grace?" She asked. "One of my mother?"

He chuckled. "Did I tell you about the time I pushed her into a lake in the kingswood?"

The very thought made Aemma giggle, and she listened eagerly to his tale. There had been a hunt for Prince Daemon's tenth nameday, and her mother had gone along as the princes' handmaiden. When they ran off into the godswood, she had no choice but to follow them. She and the King settled on a rock shelf by a lake, talking and tossing stones into the waters below. He claimed that she wouldn't have fallen in if Prince Daemon hadn't caused a panic by running up to them with a fat, hairy spider in his hands.

"I never meant to push her," the King added. "Even now she refuses to believe it, nearly thirty years later."

"Was she angry with you?" Aemma asked, still grinning at the thought.

"Oh, no." He laughed and said, "She pulled me in right after."

She tried to imagine her mother as a young woman. Without the lines in her face, without the dark circles under her eyes. A girl with blonde hair, just like hers, running through the kingswood with two silver-haired princes.

Then she tried to imagine her mother being so carefree. Her mother loved her duties and she had been a faithful servant to the crown for most of her life, but she hardly laughed and rarely had a moment to rest. The only times she smiled seemed to be at night, when she said her prayers with Aemma before bed. The idea that her mother was once bold enough to pull the crown prince into the lake after her was laughable at best.

That was why she always pestered the King for stories of his youth with her mother. She wanted to imagine a time when her mother was fun, even in fleeting moments from decades past. She did not want to think that her mother's happiness had been lost to time.

"Was she always so anxious?" She asked.

The King paused for a moment. Then he said, "Your mother has always been quick to worry, Aemma. Even when we were young."

"She scolds me a lot," she mused, tracing the engravings on the arm of her chair. "I don't like it."

"She is only stern because she loves you," he replied. "You must learn to give her grace."

Give her mother grace. Aemma did try, but she resented the fact that her mother was strict with her. Sometimes she invited punishment, doing the foolish things she did, but not always. It frustrated her that her mother was not nearly as nice to be around as the King, who was not even supposed to be seen with her.

"I wish you were my father, Your Grace," she said, and sighed, laying her head on the table. "Then I would be a princess, and ride a dragon, and I would never have to serve anyone ever again."

The King paused, then laughed softly. "The life of a princess is not as extraordinary as you think, Aemma."

"I would have dragons!" She protested. "And gold! And pretty dresses, and jewelry, and―"

"And a great many duties, as well."

"But if I were a princess, I could have a prince for a husband."

He gave her a knowing smile. "That is where the smallfolk differ from princesses. They may wed whoever they'd like. Very rarely do princesses have that freedom."

Aemma grumbled something along the lines of, "Well, I would rather wed a prince than a common boy."

The door opened then, and she twisted around to see her mother entering the small council's chambers. She pulled up short when she saw Aemma sitting at the table, and her eyes flickered over to the King.

Then she looked back to her daughter and said, "Out with you."

Aemma huffed and hopped out of her chair. She bowed her head to the King and began to trudge towards the door, then turned back to her mother. "Mama, wait!"

Her mother sighed. "Yes, Aemma?"

"Could I help you?" She asked.

She pointed towards the small table that stood to the side of the small council's chambers, bearing a pitcher of wine. Her mother glanced at it, then at her daughter, and sighed again.

"Aemma..."

Behind her, the King said, "She can stay, Alysanne."

Alysanne. She heard it nearly every day, but it always took Aemma by surprise when someone referred to her mother as "Alysanne." To her, she was always "Mama," never anything else.

Her mother paused, glanced at the King once more, and nodded. "Very well. But you'll stay with me."

Aemma broke into a wide smile. She began to follow her mother over to the table, but she stopped by the King's chair to murmur, "Thank you, Your Grace."

The lords that sat upon the small council had begun to trickle in and take their seats. Aemma looked back to the seat she had vacated and smiled to herself. To think that she, a handmaid, had sat where the Grand Maester did!

"I'll pour the wine for now," her mother said, lifting the pitcher. "Go ask the king if he'd like wine."

She did just that, skipping over to the King's chair and waiting until he'd finished speaking to ask her question. When he nodded his assent, she beamed at him and stepped out of the way so her mother could fill his cup.

He said something to her mother then, in a language she didn't recognize. Her mother stiffened, turned halfway to face him, and replied in the same odd language. Aemma, standing by the Grand Maester's chair, frowned. Had her mother always spoken other tongues?

"What was that?" She asked, whipping her head around. "What did you say, Mama?"

"It was nothing," her mother replied quickly. "Go on."

"But―"

Her mother nudged her with the toe of her shoe. "I believe the Grand Maester is waiting for wine, Aemma."

Aemma did not dare question her mother further, after catching the note of danger in her tone. She made her way around the table, asking if each of the lords on the small council would like wine. Some, like the Grand Maester and Lyonel Strong, smiled at her. Others, like Jasper Wylde and Tyland Lannister, grimaced as they gave their answers.

When she had attended to every lord, her mother guided her back to the small table to refill the pitcher of wine and wait until the lords had drained their cups to offer more.

"Septa Maris told me you ran away from your lessons today," she whispered.

Aemma blushed. "Only because Jace wanted to play with me."

"And now you've taken an audience with the King," she continued, shaking her head. "You know how I feel about that, Aemma."

"I know, Mama," she mumbled.

Her mother had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was not to speak with the King― and she was especially not allowed to seek him out. No, she could only answer to him when called upon.

Well, Aemma thought, that was unfair. If he liked speaking to her so much, who was she to deny the King an audience with his subject?

Her mother laid a hand on her head, stroking her hair. When Aemma turned to look at her, she saw that she was smiling, albeit faintly. Perhaps she wouldn't be deprived of a treat before bed, after all.

The lords carried on with their conversations, talking of the Stepstones and tourneys in the Westerlands. Aemma listened eagerly, imagining pirates battling in the Narrow Sea, or knights clashing swords before an audience of highborn lords. Her mind wandered from there, weaving stories of herself on dragonback, flying high above King's Landing.

Her gaze settled on the King again. In her eyes, he was infallible as he sat on the Iron Throne, with his sword in his hand and the crown of Jaehaerys on his head. Even as he spoke to his council, she marveled at how he commanded the discussion. Or perhaps that was because he was the King, and his word was law―

"Aemma." Her mother had taken the pitcher in hand again. "Would you ask the council if they'd care for more wine?"

She nodded. "Can I pour the wine, Mama?"

After a brief pause, her mother said, "Be very careful."

Nodding again, she hefted the pitcher. It was heavy, but she told herself that the weight would lessen the more that she filled the cups of the councilmen.

She made her rounds, but fewer lords asked for wine. Her arms began to wobble with the weight of the pitcher halfway around the table, but she was nothing if not determined. With gritted teeth and furrowed brows, she approached Jasper Wylde's seat.

"Lord Jasper," she began, "would you like more wine?"

He nodded and slid his cup closer to her. With a shaking breath, she willed herself to lift the pitcher, to pour just enough wine, and perhaps a little more than usual, so the pitcher would not be so heavy―

The pitcher slipped in her hands, and while she caught it, it knocked his cup over. Wine splashed onto the table, staining the papers Tyland Lannister had been poring over and dripping onto the stone floor.

Silence blanketed the small council's chambers. All discussion stopped as every lord turned to look at her, and Lord Tyland snatched up his papers.

Aemma felt her lower lip trembling. Then she locked eyes with the King and promptly burst into tears.

Her mother was quick to act, righting the cup and mopping up the wine on the table with a rag she'd taken from her apron. She nudged Aemma out of the way, apologizing to Lord Tyland and all the other men of the small council.

Aemma stayed back, still clutching the pitcher of wine in her arms, tears streaming down her face. Grand Maester Mellos gave her a half-smile from across the table, and she began to cry harder.

Her mother straightened up, took the pitcher from her hands, and began to steer her towards the door. "Wait for me in the hall."

She nodded, sniffling. Before she slipped out of the small council's chambers, she heard her mother apologizing profusely to the King yet again. And then the Kingsguard shut the doors behind her, and she found herself in the silent corridor, utterly alone.

She had half a mind to run away. She could find an alcove to hide in, or return to her quarters and cry herself to sleep, or seek out Jace and tell him what had happened. But she knew better than to disobey her mother for a third time that day.

Instead, she curled up into a ball on the floor and put her head in her hands. Nobody passed through the hall, to her relief. She didn't know what she would do if Aegon found her in such a state.

Her mother found her sitting against the wall, her knees to her chest, staring at the floor with bloodshot eyes. She did not look up when her mother sat beside her.

"Forgive me, Aemma," she murmured. "I should have known the pitcher would be too heavy for you to carry."

"I wanted to be useful," Aemma mumbled, and took a deep, shuddering gasp of air.

"You were a great help, my darling."

"Until I ruined it."

Her mother sighed and stroked her hair. "These things happen."

"Did they laugh at me?" She asked, lifting her head.

"No. No, I'm sure they understood it was an accident." Her mother kissed the top of her head. "Lord Lyonel has daughters of his own, you know. As does the King. And any man good enough to be on the small council would never laugh at you."

Aemma nodded and let her mother wipe her tears away with a handkerchief. As she dabbed at her runny nose, she thought, how would she ever be the woman her mother was?

Her mother could stay calm. Her mother had been a faithful servant to the crown for thirty years. She knew just what to say, or when to hold her tongue. But most importantly, people liked her.

Aemma felt that people only liked her because she was young. She couldn't hold her tongue, and she had a dreadful temper. What would happen when she was a woman grown, like her mother? What would people think of her when she couldn't hide behind youthful naivety?

"Would you like to be a great help, Aemma?" Her mother asked.

She nodded. If she couldn't be a cupbearer, she could certainly help her mother in other ways, couldn't she?

"Lord Tyland's sister will be coming to court in a matter of days," she continued. "Her chambers need readying. They're right beside Lord Tyland's."

Aemma had scrambled to her feet before her mother had finished speaking. Pressing a kiss to her cheek, she nodded and darted off down the hall. She hadn't done anything right that day, but she hoped that she could make a bed without ruining it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Aemma had been happy to waste her afternoon in the empty chambers meant for a Lannister girl, chatting with one of the older handmaids. Marilda was a nice girl, and pretty, and she had a great deal of information on the other handmaids that worked with them.

According to Marilda, more lords and ladies had affairs than she could ever imagine, the twin girls that worked in the kitchens liked to swap places without telling anyone, and Septa Maris was in love with the Grand Maester. Aemma knew that she had to ask Septa Maris about that during their next writing lesson.

She had been sitting on the bed, giggling as Marilda fluffed pillows and spun stories, when her mother entered the room.

"And what are you doing, sitting on a lady's bed?" She chided her daughter, but she was smiling. "Come, Aemma. It's suppertime."

Aemma nodded and scooted her way off the bed, smoothing down the rumpled patch of the bedcovers where she had been sitting. Marilda waved as she left, a tiny grin playing on her lips.

They ate a meager supper of fish and parsnips. Her mother slid a portion of her meal onto Aemma's plate. When Aemma protested, she merely shook her head and motioned for her to eat more.

When a long stretch of silence had passed between them, Aemma said, "Do I embarrass you?"

"Embarrass me?" Her mother frowned. When Aemma nodded, she dropped her voice and said, "Aemma, you are my pride and joy. I could never be ashamed of you."

"Even when―"

"Even when you spilled a cup of wine on Jasper Wylde today."

She smiled and poked some fish around on her plate. After another minute, she said, "What did you say to the King today?"

"I've said a great many things to His Grace today," her mother replied. "Namely, I reminded him that he should not be seen talking to a serving girl."

Aemma huffed. "At the meeting. After you poured his wine."

"It was... In a different tongue, my darling."

"I know. But what did he say?"

"Nothing of consequence," her mother said. "The King was speaking in High Valyrian, the language of his house."

"How come you know it, then?" She shot back. "You're no Targaryen."

She smiled. "Well, he took the liberty of teaching me when we were young."

"It's not fair."

"No?"

"No," Aemma declared. "You can say what you'd like to him, and I can't understand it."

Her mother poked her, saying, "If you wish to learn the language of dragons, you ought to pester Prince Jacaerys for a lesson, as I did with the King in our youth."

She laughed, but she did not forget that. High Valyrian, the language of dragons. She should ask Jace for a lesson, and perhaps she could speak to him the way that he spoke to Vermax on the few occasions that they journeyed to the Dragonpit together.

They could have secret conversations, she realized. And nobody would know! ...Then she felt jilted once more, infuriated to think that her mother could speak freely with the King and she couldn't understand a word they said to one another.

Something gnawed at her, ate at her from the inside out. She could still hear Aegon's taunts rattling around her mind, and they had been doing so for hours.

"Am I a bastard?" She asked, glancing up from her plate.

Her mother froze, then sighed, her shoulders sagging. The lines in her face seemed more pronounced as she glanced away, her eyes fixed on the door to the kitchens.

Quietly, she said, "Yes, Aemma. You are a bastard. But it's not so bad."

"Aegon says it is," she muttered.

"Aegon is not a bastard. He does not know the lives we live."

"What's a bastard, anyway?"

"It means your parents were not wed when you were born." With a thin smile, she said, "It is not so bad to be a bastard, despite the weight that the word carries."

Aemma shook her head. "Aegon says otherwise."

Her mother huffed and cupped the side of her face, saying, "You are a bastard, yes. But you were born of love, not obligation to the realm, like his children will be."

That made her smile, and she ducked her head to shovel more fish into her mouth. She would tell that to Aegon, the next time they spoke. Love. She was born of love. Her parents loved her, and loved each other enough to have a child together.

Her smile faltered, and she said, "What was my father like?"

Her mother's face grew gaunt again, and she fell silent for some time. Just as Aemma thought that she ought to take it all back, her mother cleared her throat.

"Your father was a lovely man," she said, stroking Aemma's hair. "He was a blacksmith, and I often passed his shop on the Street of Steel when I ran my errands."

"Was he handsome? And kind? And strong?"

"Yes, yes. All those things and more."

"Did you love him?" Aemma asked.

"I did." Her mother paused, and a faint smile crept onto her lips. "I do."

They went to the kitchens then, to clean their plates, but Aemma could not take her mind off of the idea of her father. The man she pictured had her indigo eyes and blond hair, with strong, calloused hands from years spent in a forge. He had a hearty laugh, and a kind smile, and in her mind's eye, she pictured him with her mother, talking by the hearth in his home.

At night, after they'd said their prayers, her mother climbed into bed with her, and Aemma pestered her for more stories of her father. The longer they spoke, the more her mother's smile became a genuine one, the more she threw her head back and laughed, and the more a certain tenderness crept into her voice.

Aemma did not need to ask to know that her mother loved her father.

Before she fell asleep, she rolled over, curled herself into her mother's side, and murmured, "Do you like it here?"

"I should be asking you how you like your life here," her mother replied, smiling. "But yes, I do."

"Will you always be here?"

She felt her mother's hand freeze where it had been rubbing her back. "I suppose so. As long as I am welcome here, I'll stay."

"With the King," Aemma said, her voice muffled. "And the babes."

Her mother laughed quietly. "Yes, the babes."

"I want to be a midwife, like you," she whispered. "You make it seem so... So easy..."

She yawned then, and nuzzled her face against her mother's warm shoulder. She fell asleep soon after, comforted by the thought that she would be just like her mother one day. A midwife, a friend to the crown, and a good, honorable woman.

birdie's comments!

guys do NOT listen to lucy dacus if you're writing about motherhood!!1!1! i cried real tears over this chapter. aemma and alysanne waters i love you so much.

baby aemma will never not be funny to me. she went around saying "jace made me his sworn protector!" even though SHE gave herself that title 😭

i was giggling picturing her running around the small council table going DO YOU WANT WINE :))) and HEY MAMA WHY ARE YOU SPEAKING IN TONGUES at max volume. alysanne i'm sorry that you try so hard to keep aemma protected at court and she routinely negates all of your hard work

y'all ever write some dialogue and hear it in your mind? bc that was me with aegon's lines and viserys going "well, that would please me greatly :)" idk idk

also, the next chapter will come out MUCH faster because i had half of it written and then i decided to completely change up the entire structure and timeline of this fic. and credit to val for the discussion with aemma and viserys !! i yanked it right from our dms #slay