The Silver Dragon | Aemond Targaryen

Chapter 45: The Silence

Arianwyn woke with a smile.

While the bed she slept in at the Eyrie had been comfortable, it had been lonely and cold without Aemond to hold her and share his warmth. Now, she was back where she belonged, in her bed, with her husband holding her so tight it seemed he was trying to cleave them together, even in his sleep.

His legs were tangled with hers, their hips resting against each other, at once innocent and intimate. One of his long arms wrapped all the way around her waist, holding her flush to his chest, while the other encircled her shoulders with his hand cradling her head against his neck.

He was not just holding her. He was clinging to her.

For a brief moment, as Arianwyn looked at the soft light of the rising sun through the curtain of the tangled hair – belonging to both of them – that hung over her face, she clung onto him as well. They were only apart for three days, but she had missed him dearly, painfully.

Now, they were together again, and all would be well. Everything would be –

Then she was finally awake enough to identify the smell that filled her senses as she buried her face further into his skin – stale blood.

It reminded her that everything would not be alright. Far from it.

Aemond, or Vhagar, in trying to protect her rider, had killed Luke. And poor, nervous Arrax.

Ignoring the scent as best she could, Arianwyn pressed closer to him, squeezing her arms around his chest. He did not wake, but still returned her embrace as if it were as instinctual to him as breathing, letting out a small sigh of contentment.

If only they could stay in each other's arms like this forever. If only they could remain here, in this moment, where he was at peace, and the rest of the godsforsaken world would not disturb them.

But the real world would come for them, sooner or later. Likely in the form of Otto Hightower demanding answers about what happened at Storm's End. Even nature itself seemed intent on disturbing them. For when the morning breeze stilled as the last remnants of the previous night's storm faded away, another smell emerged, an unfamiliar acrid sweetness.

Moving carefully, Arianwyn untwined herself from her husband, stroking his hair and softly humming a lullaby each time he began to stir. Miraculously, he was still asleep when she finally slid out of bed, donning her night slippers as flimsy protection against the shattered glass still covering half the floor.

Now that the room was filled with light, Arianwyn could see exactly how Aemond had spent the hours he'd been waiting for her.

She wished it was still dark.

Several empty bottles of wine had been discarded in the corner opposite where he had been crouched, at least two of them thrown so hard they shattered.

How much had he drunk?

Too much – far too much, judging by the mostly dried sick on the floor near the door to the bathing room.

And the other small pool of it, just by the door to the solar – not as dry. Somehow, she had not stepped in it last night when stumbling around in the dark.

And the third, in the southeastern corner where she had found Aemond, just past the mirror shards – hardly dried at all.

That was the source of the smell, no doubt.

Arianwyn's heartbreak was far stronger than her disgust. Aemond, who always abhorred how wine and other spirits clouded the mind, had gotten so drunk that he made himself sick, and then continued to drink. Again, and then again.