TGW: Chapter Fifty: Coda (Pt. 1)

Chapter Fifty: Coda(Pt. 1)

Five Years Ago

The girl was fourteen the night her father sold her.

She had known it was coming. In the days leading up to it, his temper had grown shorter, his hands heavier, the smell of ale ever-present on his breath. He had lost again—at dice, at cards, at life—and when the men with hard eyes and harder fists came knocking, he had no coin to give them. Only her.

Rowenna had been quiet as they took her, as her father muttered something about debts and sacrifices and how she was old enough now to stop being a burden. She had not begged, nor wept, nor screamed. What would have been the point? His mind had been made up.

So she went without protest, though her heart pounded in her chest like a frightened bird trapped in a too-small cage.

The brothel was worse than she had imagined. It smelled of sweat and cheap perfume, of wine gone sour. The women there looked at her with pity, some with boredom, a few with something like resentment. The brothel master, a fat man with thin hair and a mouth that curled too easily into a sneer, appraised her with shrewd, hungry eyes.

“A pretty thing, at least. Men will pay well for a girl like you,” he had said, gripping her chin with fingers thick as sausages. “You’ll scream a little, and then you’ll learn.”

She did not scream. Not then.

Later, in the chamber where one of the friendlier whores bathed her and brushed her hair and painted rouge on her lips, she thought she might. But she swallowed it down. Incense burned in the corner, its heavy sweetness failing to mask the stink of desperation that clung to the walls. Rowenna sat curled on the edge of the narrow bed, her shift bunched around her knees, hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her nails dug into her palms. The woman had told her to be still and quiet. "No man likes a chattering whore," she had said. "Especially not a highborn lord, and you’ll have one tonight, girl. Count yourself lucky."

There was a knock at the door. Rowenna stiffened.

But it was not the young lord she had been promised. Instead, the brothel master himself appeared, sweat beading on his bald pate. Behind him came two men. One was slight and soft-faced, his gait careful, his expression unreadable. The other…

Silver hair, a sharp nose, a sculpted mouth. A noble face, pale and cold as carved ivory. He wore dark leathers and a green cloak clasped at his throat with a dragon-shaped brooch, but even without those, Rowenna would have known him. 

Prince Aemond Targaryen.

The hush in the room was thick as fog. Everyone in King’s Landing knew him—who could claim they did not know One-eye? Who could claim they did not know the one who had tamed Vhagar, the largest beast in the world. The one who slain Breakbones with but a shard of sharpened bone.

He stood in the doorway, his face a pale mask in the dim candlelight, his violet eye fixed on her. The sapphire in his other socket caught the light, glinting like ice.

The brothel master scuttled forward, his hands wringing together. “My prince,” he simpered, bowing low. “An honor, an honor. I did not know you were visiting us tonight.”

Aemond did not look at him. His eye did not leave her. Rowenna’s hands curled into fists in the silk sheets.

"This one," he said, his voice cutting through the brothel master’s nervous babbling. "How much?"

The brothel master chuckled nervously. “Aye, my prince, if it’s her maidenhead you want—”

“You mistake me,” Aemond said, annoyance bleeding into his tone. "I asked how much she is."

The brothel master stiffened, looking between Aemond and Rowenna, as if searching for some hidden jest. Finding none, he licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Fifty dragons, my prince."

Aemond tossed a pouch at him and turned to go.

The soft-faced man accompanying the prince cast her an unreadable glance before gesturing for her to follow. When she hesitated, the brothel master grabbed her by the wrist and shoved her forward. "Go on, girl."

Rowenna’s feet moved before she could think, carrying her out of the brothel and into the cool night air. Her mind still could not make sense of it. She had known her fate, had prepared herself for it, had steeled herself to endure. But this—this was not it.

The prince was waiting outside astride a black steed. When she stopped before him, he offered his hand. Long fingers, calloused but steady.

Rowenna stared at it, her breath shallow. Then, unsure why, she reached out and took it.

His grip was firm, his skin warm as he pulled her aloft. The streets were cold. The stars above were distant and uncaring. The Red Keep loomed ahead, dark and foreboding.

Rowenna did not know what awaited her there.

But for the first time in a long time, she thought she might not be afraid.