Lily of The Valley II Aemond Targaryen

𝐈

⟶  𝓛𝓲𝓵𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓥𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓮𝔂 𝐈

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

: : ̗̀➛ 𝔉orlornly, you looked into the tired eyes of your own reflection, ignoring the wild turmoil raging all around you-flexing and releasing your bare toes- feeling the warmed-up wood of the small podest you stood upon, tall mirror sprawling out in front of you, a wide-set window just behind it. Early rays of copper sunlight were flooding the room, kissing the parts of your skin that lay exposed, specks of dust dancing in the cones where it fell through the only half-heartedly opened drapes.
Yawning, lazily covering your opened mouth with the back of one of your hands, you blinked at yourself.
Dozens of hands tugged and pulled away at your still tired body, and just behind you, you could overhear a muffled, but quite heated, argument between two young maids; the fiery discussion about which colour was more befitting for the occasion they were dressing you for.
Nothing more than a tiring journey, that was- with your newly betrothed and promised-one waiting at the end of it.
Aemond Targaryen.
Aemond One-Eye Targaryen.
Silver-haired and witty, with a tongue as sharp as the sword he wields.
He was the second son; the Kings brother. And you, a daughter of House Arryn, was to be his wife.
Only recently tied to each other- you two had never met- and how could you?
In your eighteen years of life, you had never been to Kings Landing- never been to the Red Keep.
You knew your future husband by name, had heard fantastic tales of him, the half of them probably just that and not the bare truth- or that, you hoped. Sly tongues liked to call the Princeling brazen, cruel. Cold-hearted.
That, you believed- as word had traveled fast that he had sent his own nephew to the Strangers side. And that man- that mere boy- that brute you had to marry, had to spent the rest of your waking life with.
A quiet sigh escaped your throat as you hauled yourself out of your thoughts, gaze shifting from the delicately framed mirror to the window beyond under which the vale sprawled out to the horizon, quiet and erie, laying smothered by a thick blanket of fog.
Ever since you could think, the Eyrie had been your home, your safe haven, your castle high up in the skies.
And after today, it would be nothing more than a cherished memory- a fading one, ever more blurring as the years rushed past.
You already dreaded the moment where you could not remember the exact beauty of it, the homely feeling. The sunrise before your window, the flowers growing inside the gardens.
The faces would fade, too, you knew. And that, you dreaded the most.
Turning as you heard the wooden door creak, as you heard someone enter, you turned- shily wiping away a tear which had sheepishly made its way into the corner of your eyes.
In came a woman thrice your years, frail, the hair upon her head already strewn a silvery white.
In her aged hands, she held a bundle of fabric, you noticed- green fabric.
Looking at you, she said: „Your dress, My Lady."

That whole charade had ended for you on the floorboards of your chambers- the very floorboards you had thrown yourself upon in blind rage, kicking and screaming and clawing at the carpet like you were some feral cat, fending off everyone who had tried to get to you. Tears had coloured the scleras of your eyes and the skin of your cheeks a scarlet red by the time the Lady Arryn herself attempted to soothe you, her daughter, as a bunch of maids and one Septa had already tried out their luck and utterly failed it.
Latter, you had bitten as the old hag had tried to drag you out by the hair.
So with a soft tongue and tender words, the Lady had knelt beside you, her raging child- gently stroking your gleaming brow as you had screamed the life out of your lungs, as you had howled your throat coarse and bloody.
You had threatened your own starvation, that you would throw yourself out of the Eyries Moon Door if they would make you leave, if you would have to marry that one-eyed brute.
And as soft tongues and tender words proved to be everything but enough, your Lord father- Lord Arryn himself- had to be the one to end your wild-raged rebellion.
The Lordling had marched into his youngest chambers like he was riding into battle, hounds and soldiers on his heels, and had just plucked you off the floorboards like you were some delicate and lone flower on a field; stem frail and weak.
He had thrown you over one of his shoulders without much effort, even as you had bucked against his roughened hands and bitt him, too, yet the Lord did not do much but quietly wince at it.
He had carried you down the many stairs, unwavering, quiet.
Still, you were crying.
Still, you were screaming.
And by the time you both had reached the courtyard, you had just hung about your father's shoulders like dead meat, wailing like a beaten dog, snot and spittle and tears dripping from your face as blood pooled in your head.
You had looked pathetic, and felt even worse.
And as soon as you was sat inside the carriage, you closed your swollen eyes- swallowing hard, your throat tight and hurting.
It felt like your heart had been ripped out of the cage your ribs and jumped upon, only put back inside your chest as if it was just a gored mess.
„I will write you letters, my love. So many of them, that the ravens will tire out carrying them."
Your mother, standing before the still open door.
Hearing her voice was like a sword digging into your gut, so you turned away from the sound of it- eyes still closed.
And then, you wept again.
Nestling yourself into the coaches corner, nails digging into the seats upholstery, you only faintly heard how the small door fell into its lock- the highborn Lady's voice a mere whisper as she bid her youngest daughter a last farewell.
Then, the Carriage began to roll- its wooden wheels rattling over the uneven ground as mounted soldiers followed, proudly carrying your family's banners.
In all your life, you had never prayed to be taken to the Strangers side- but now, you did.
As sobs shook your body and robbed you of air, you folded your hands.