Enigmas | Aemond Targaryen

THIRTY FOUR

The ground was hard and cold as a lake iced thickly over, the fabric of her ivory dress caressed it with a mournful rustle. "You are reading in the darkness again, Aerion." The woman sighed. With a quick snap of her fingers, the hundreds of long white candles strewn in the library came to life, their cool, sorrowful flames flickered. The light caught the blue sapphire choker clasped round her neck so that it flashed, like the night sea sparkling to the fairy moon with dazzling splendor.

"Mother." The silver-headed young man greeted, closing the calf-bound volume and rising to kiss her hand. Flares danced inside his strange yet ethereal eyes, one indigo, one pale lilac. The woman hummed, pale fingers running over the ancient, worn cover of the manuscript. "I see you still haven't given up on the thought yet."

"How could I, mother?" His words were spoken softly and quietly, like the merest whisper. "I want to make you happy."

"You are making me happy, my special little prince." The woman breathed out, tucking a silver tress behind his ear lovingly.

"Then I want to make you happier." He replied urgently, looking into her eyes for approval. The woman only sighed again. "You are young, Aerion. So young. You do not understand there's a giving for the taking. There is no conjuring something from nothing. Only—"

"Only death can pay for life. I know that, and I don't give a shit." He insisted. "I will kill them all if it means I can bring father back."

"Aerion." The woman looked as if she wanted to hold and comfort him, but the young man abruptly turned away, facing a glass-fronted case that held row upon row of leather-bound volumes, his shoulders shaking and so did his voice. "I am sick of it, mother. Watch everybody die and do nothing. Know that I possess the power to reshape the world and do nothing. The Undying Ones foretold that I would become the greatest warlock that has ever been born, did they not? But hither we dwell in this ruin of necropolis, like waning wraiths. You allow me to read and study the glyphs, runes, symbols, all the magical arts of our ancestors, but you won't let me use them. How am I supposed to fulfill my destiny if I continue like this?"

"The House of the Undying is built of bones and lies, my son." The woman said.

"I have power. The power of old Valyria flows through me." He insisted. "You know it as well as I." Pausing for a breath, he continued. "The Iron Throne is mine by rights."

"You sound just like your father." The woman shook her head. Her pale lit-from-within hair was so long it cascaded to the stone floor, pooling around her bare feet like a silver fountain. "Thriftless ambition has cost much of this family. Your sister—"

"But it is not my sister's blood that sits upon the throne now, is it? It's not even a Targaryen." He whirled around, a sneer clouding his otherworldly feature. "Our line ended years ago. You watched him die. You watched the spellbound weirwood arrow pierce through his heart and you stood idly by, when you could kill the three-eyed raven and turn the tides of the battle."

"The future has been determined, my child. It is our obligation not to interfere with the events about to happen." The woman answered solemnly. "Our House lives on and Lord Bloodraven is as much of a guardian of time as we are. Different means, the same end. No mere mortal can meddle with fate. It must occur. You know that."

"Are we really? Mortals?" He chortled bitterly. "Or living shadows?"

"Aerion." The woman's slender arms reached out to touch his cheeks with a gentleness, making all his rage and resent turn into sadness and melancholy. "I am sorry, mother. It's cruel and unseemly of me to speak to you like that. It is not the Iron Throne I want. Not truly. I know it robbed you of everything you have ever loved."