⸻ ( Aemond Targaryen )
The blood on her lips tastes like religion, like a poem, like the way he looks at her. In the blissful night, with hands as gentle as rain, she will strangle him.
( house of the dragon ) • 2022
( editing in progress )
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THE ache inside him felt like zemblanity—like an unpleasant unsurprise. They had both known that this day would come yet disbelief still clouded their visions. The threads that bound them grew taut, betwixt their fates in irrevocable oath. Amethyst gazes fixed upon one another with bitter ardour, both yearning and despairing in their reunion. The hemlock and belladonna sang in the air, the sea rioting in anguish at both the grave robber and omen bringer.
Lysara trod forward with her feet laid bare, an image of a drowned lily with foam-dampened locks. Her white dress of gossamer and silk trailed across the bricked floor akin to wilting petals of a mourning veil. It reminded him of his late cousin's abode, the briny funerary rites and her watery grave—the disgust upon his lips at laying a dragon rider to rest upon the tides instead of the skies.
Yet here he stood on the lands of his ancestors out of place and time. Valyrian blood soaked the rocks and dirt underfoot, the same blood that flowed through their veins. Antiquated and corrupted, a foul imitation of what was once an unalloyed golden lineage. He dared to wonder if his house had the strength to take back the Free Cities if they wished, that cowardice was the only reason that stayed their hand.
Aemond approached her as she neared and he gazed into those familiar lilac eyes that burned with ancient flames that he thought had long been dead upon the Valyrian peninsula. "Sīr īlon rhaenagon arlī," he said. ( "So we meet again." )
A ghost of a smile graced her lips as her eyes flickered across his face. "Aōha Valyrīha iksis sȳrkta sir, ñuha byka dārilaros," she told him. ( "Your Valyrian is better now, my princeling." )
Something inside him stirred, budding forth slowly within his chest, an urge that throbbed from heart to throat. Her sweet countenance was lovely and somehow sad, like the Volantene paintings that lined the walls of his sister's chambers. And sometimes, in moments of clarity, she would recount the stories she read from the maester's library to him. Her favourite had always been of the Rhoynar princess who told tales for a thousand and one nights to a Ghiscari king to postpone her execution.
