Who knew a feast could feel so torturous?

Your side of the family had never gotten along with Rhaenyra’s. The tension was as thick as ever, even more so now, wrapping around your throat and squeezing tight. The people. The music. The feeling of your own clothes against your skin. None of it was helping.

Aemond was a firm presence beside you, sharp eye trained to notice each of your ticks. Your hand tightly clutched a fork, skin stretched taught over your knuckles. Your shoulders were rigid and hunched, and a deep frown had made its home across your brow. Your own gaze was fixated on Jacaerys as he danced with your older sister, Helaena, right before Aegon. The audacity he had was a bit appalling, only adding to the suffocating air.

Aemond himself found his patience running thin — what little he had to begin with — but he tried to keep his anger controlled. If not for the sake of his own, then for you. He did not want the night to end in an outburst. Everyone knew how you got from time to time, feral and wild like some untamed beast. It was as if your thoughts and actions were not your own, your mind caged in madness. Aemond often blamed himself. It was not the guilt harbored by an older brother, but as a perpetrator. He blamed himself for your insanity, for the night on Driftmark where he lost his eye and you cracked your skull — taking with it whatever sense you had. Years later, you were not the same, and you never would be.

The evening dragged on, and even after Viserys had retired, the feast continued. The grip you had on your fork never faltered, the teeth digging into the wood of the table, and your food remained untouched. Aemond wasn't sure how much you truly remembered of the night you had lost your mind, but the glares you sent towards your nephews were telling enough. A firm hand found its way to your hand, fingers wrapping around the utensil to ease it from your grip. “You'll hurt yourself,” Aemond murmured, leaning closely so his voice was only audible to you. The fork landed on the table with a quiet clink, another noise amidst the storm of chatter and music. His fingers looped around your wrist, keeping your hand still and hoping his touch would keep you grounded. You were clearly on the brink of something.