Chapter 3: Angry Gifts

By: DoublingDownOnRed

Lyra knew Aemond's habits, his routines, the way he moved through the city with a purpose that few others possessed. He was a creature of precision, driven by an inner fire that set him apart from the others in the royal family. She had studied him closely, understanding that his need for control extended beyond the battlefield and into every aspect of his life, including his dealings with the City Watch.

It was late afternoon when she made her way through the winding streets, her destination clear in her mind. She had overheard that Aemond would be meeting with some of the senior guards, ensuring that the city's defenses were in order. It was the perfect opportunity—one she couldn't afford to miss.

The streets were busy, but she moved with purpose, her steps quick and sure as she navigated the maze of alleys that would take her to the City Watch's headquarters. The building loomed ahead of her, an imposing structure that was always buzzing with activity. The guards were out in force today, their golden cloaks marking them as enforcers of the law, their expressions stern as they went about their duties.

Lyra slipped into the shadows, her presence unnoticed as she watched and waited. She knew she couldn't simply walk up to Aemond—he would recognize her immediately, and that would ruin everything. Instead, she would wait for the right moment, the precise moment when she could insert herself into his path without drawing too much attention.

It wasn't long before she spotted him, walking with that distinctive, purposeful stride, his cloak billowing behind him as he approached the headquarters. He was flanked by a few senior guards, men who were clearly deferential to the prince, nodding along to whatever he was saying. His expression was unreadable, his eye cold and calculating as he scanned the surroundings.

Lyra's heart pounded in her chest as she watched him, her mind racing through the plan she had carefully crafted. She knew where he would be, knew the exact path he would take as he made his way to the guardhouse. And she knew exactly how to catch his eye.

She waited until he was just a few paces away, then stepped out of the shadows, her hood drawn back to reveal her face. She moved with deliberate grace, her steps slow and measured, making sure she was directly in his line of sight. As she walked, she held a small bundle in her hands, wrapped in a simple cloth. It was a gift, but not for Aemond—at least, not directly.

Her target was a senior guard named Ser Jaron, a man known for his ruthlessness and his loyalty to those in power. He had been a thorn in the side of many in the city, using his position to intimidate and extort, and Lyra knew that he was one of the men Aemond would be meeting with today.

As she approached Ser Jaron, she made sure to keep her eyes downcast, her posture demure, playing the part of a humble citizen paying her respects. The bundle in her hands was small, nondescript, but she knew it would have the desired effect.

"Ser Jaron," she said softly, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the clamor of the street. She offered him the bundle, her hands trembling slightly as she did. "A gift, my lord, for your service."

Jaron barely glanced at her, his expression one of disdain as he took the bundle from her hands. He unwrapped it with little interest, but as soon as he saw what was inside, his eyes widened in surprise.

It was a finely crafted dagger, its hilt engraved with intricate designs, the blade sharp and gleaming in the afternoon light. It was a weapon fit for a lord, not a simple guard, and the message it carried was clear: someone with wealth and power had taken an interest in Ser Jaron.

Aemond's gaze flicked to the scene, his eye narrowing as he observed the exchange. He recognized Lyra immediately, and the sight of her interacting with one of the guards set his teeth on edge. There was something about her presence here, something about the way she moved, that stirred the dragon in him, making his blood boil with a mixture of anger and suspicion.

Jaron, oblivious to the tension building in the air, admired the dagger for a moment before looking up at Lyra with a sly smile. "You honor me, girl," he said, his tone oily and condescending. "Who sent you with this gift?"

Lyra didn't answer immediately, keeping her head bowed, her voice soft and submissive. "My mistress, you have been a great patron of our house. The girls sing many praise of you."

Jaron chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, as he tucked the dagger into his belt. "Wise whores, then. You may tell them that Ser Jaron appreciates their generosity and will return this evening to give his own generosity."

Lyra nodded, still not meeting his gaze, as she took a step back, her role in the charade complete. She could feel Aemond's eyes on her, could sense the tension radiating off him like heat from a fire. This was exactly what she had intended—to provoke him, to make him react.

As she turned to leave, she risked a glance in Aemond's direction, and what she saw sent a thrill of both fear and satisfaction through her. His expression was dark, his eye cold and furious, the dragon in him roaring to life at the sight of her giving attention to another man. She knew that look—knew that she had succeeded in provoking him in exactly the way she had planned.

But she also knew that she needed to leave before things escalated beyond her control.

She made her way down the street, her heart pounding in her chest as she walked away from the scene, knowing full well that Aemond's gaze was still locked on her. She had planted the seed, and now it was only a matter of time before it bore fruit.

As she disappeared into the crowd, she couldn't help but smile to herself, a small, triumphant smile. She had played her part perfectly, and Aemond would not forget her now.

Aemond's fists clenched at his sides as he watched Lyra disappear into the crowd. The sight of her, so calm, so composed, handing over that gift to Ser Jaron had ignited a fury within him that he could barely contain. She had no business here, no reason to be anywhere near the City Watch, and yet there she was, brazenly flaunting her presence in front of him. It was as if she was challenging him, daring him to react.

And react he would.

Ser Jaron, oblivious to the storm brewing in Aemond's chest, continued to admire the dagger, turning it over in his hands as if it were a priceless treasure. Aemond's gaze zeroed in on the man, his vision narrowing as he took in the smug expression on Jaron's face, the way he seemed so pleased with himself, so utterly unaware of the danger he was in.

Aemond's mind raced, his thoughts dark and violent as he considered his next move. He couldn't just let this slide—couldn't let the insult of that exchange go unanswered. The dragon in him roared for retribution, for blood, and Aemond was not one to deny its call.

He took a step forward, his presence immediately commanding the attention of those around him. The guards who had been standing with Ser Jaron straightened, their expressions wary as they sensed the shift in the prince's demeanor. Aemond's cold, piercing gaze fixed on Jaron, and the man finally seemed to realize that something was wrong.

"My lord?" Jaron ventured, his tone uncertain as he looked up at Aemond. The smugness was gone from his face, replaced by a flicker of fear as he saw the rage simmering just beneath the surface.

Aemond didn't answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch out, let the weight of his gaze crush Jaron's bravado. He could see the man's hands trembling slightly, the way his eyes darted nervously between the dagger and the prince.

"Where did she go?" Aemond's voice was low, dangerously calm, the kind of calm that preceded a storm.

Jaron blinked, clearly confused by the question. "She…she left, my lord. The woman who gave me the dagger? I didn't—"

"Did I ask what she gave you?" Aemond's voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. "I asked where she went."

Jaron swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he struggled to find his voice. "I—I don't know, my lord. She just walked away. I didn't think—"

"Of course you didn't," Aemond snapped, taking another step closer. The tension in the air was palpable, every guard in the vicinity watching with bated breath as the prince advanced on Jaron. "You didn't think, because you're a fool. A fool who doesn't deserve the privilege of serving in the City Watch."

Jaron's face paled, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Aemond's fury. "My lord, I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

But Aemond didn't let him finish. His hand shot out, grabbing Jaron by the throat with a grip that was iron-clad. The man's eyes bulged in shock and terror as Aemond lifted him off the ground, the strength of the dragonborn evident in the ease with which he held the man aloft.

"Do you think you can accept gifts from anyone who comes along?" Aemond hissed, his voice filled with cold malice. "Do you think you can be bought, swayed by a pretty face and a sharp blade?"

Jaron's hands clawed at Aemond's wrist, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps as he tried to free himself from the prince's hold. But it was useless—Aemond's grip was unyielding, his fury a force that could not be contained.

"My lord, please…her house…her mistress appreciates my patronage," Jaron wheezed, his voice barely a whisper as his vision began to blur, darkness creeping in at the edges.

Aemond's lip curled in disgust as he watched the man struggle. "You're a disgrace. And I do not tolerate disgrace in my presence."

With a swift, brutal motion, Aemond threw Jaron to the ground, the man landing in a heap at his feet. Jaron gasped for air, his hands clutching at his throat as he tried to regain his breath, his entire body trembling with fear.

Aemond stood over him, his expression cold and unforgiving. The other guards looked on, too afraid to intervene, too shocked to move. They had seen the prince's temper before, but never like this—never with such unbridled fury.

"Rise," Aemond ordered, his voice as sharp as the dagger Jaron had so carelessly accepted.

Jaron struggled to his feet, his legs shaking as he tried to stand. He looked up at Aemond, his eyes wide with terror, and the sight only fueled the dragon's fire within the prince.

Aemond's hand moved to the hilt of his sword, his fingers curling around the cool metal. He had given the man a chance to explain himself, to prove that he was worthy of his position. But Jaron had failed, and now he would pay the price.

He drew his sword with a fluid motion, the blade gleaming in the afternoon light. The sound of metal against leather sent a shiver down the spines of those who watched, and Jaron's eyes widened in horror as he realized what was about to happen.

"My lord, no—"

Aemond silenced him with a single, swift stroke of his blade. The sword sliced through the air with lethal precision, cutting off Jaron's pleas and ending his life in an instant. The man crumpled to the ground, his blood pooling around him, staining the cobblestones red.

Aemond stared down at the body, his chest heaving with the effort to control the dragon that roared within him. The guards around him were silent, their faces pale as they looked on in horror at what had just transpired.

For a long moment, Aemond stood there, his sword dripping with blood, his expression cold and unreadable. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sheathed his sword, turning away from the lifeless form of Ser Jaron.

"Clean this up," he ordered, his voice devoid of emotion. "And remember—this is what happens to those who fail me."

Without waiting for a response, Aemond strode away, his cloak billowing behind him as he left the scene. The anger still burned within him, but it was a cold, controlled rage now, the kind that would not be easily quenched.

He was going to find Lyra. Maybe it was her turn to feel his fury.

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Her lips parted slightly, her breath coming in soft, shallow bursts. "No, Aemond," she whispered, her voice steady despite the intensity of the moment. His name held a faint accent when she said it. Something foreign that had been bred out of her in the beds of her clients. "I don't want to control you."

The admission sent a jolt of something hot and dangerous through him, and before he could stop himself, Aemond closed the distance between them. His lips crashed against hers with a force that left no room for hesitation. The kiss was rough, hungry, a clash of power and need that had been building for far too long. His hand tightened around her neck, pulling her closer, and he could feel the heat of her body pressed against his.

Lyra responded in kind, her hands sliding up his chest to grip the fabric of his tunic as she kissed him back just as fiercely. Her mouth moved against his with a desperation that matched his own, and Aemond could feel the control he had been clinging to slipping away with every passing second. He deepened the kiss, his tongue parting her lips as he claimed her mouth with a need that bordered on feral.

His free hand moved to her waist, fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pulled her tighter against him. The feel of her body beneath his touch, the heat radiating from her skin, sent a rush of desire through him that he could no longer ignore.