Tales Of The Heart [Aemond Targaryen]

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Our grand-sire delivered a comprehensive lecture, but the essence of their words seemed lost on my dear siblings. They were not interested in whatever he was preaching.

Aegon, likely nursing the consequences of his late-night escapades, bore the burden of a throbbing head. While my sister has always been too busy with her mumbling to care enough about her surroundings.

On the other hand, the only thing I find myself to care about right now is her. The silver princess has once again taken hold of my thoughts.

Her cries are still loud and clear in my head...but it was her sudden shifts in her behavior that unsettled me.

There was an indefinable wrongness, an unease that lingered beneath the surface. Maenya appeared scared yet harboring an uncharacteristic anger. The desire to harm Cole—a sentiment alien to her—left me deeply troubled.

The princess I knew is a timid little girl, who loses her consciousness at every minor discomfort.

No wonder I felt her being a little different than the last time she was here. She not only matured into a beautiful lady, but she also seemed distant. It's been almost a fortnight since she first arrived in the castle and not once have I heard her laugh or chase after a silly animal.

Maybe a rabbit will make her happy?

Should I lend her my favorite literature books?

I immediately went towards the shelf and tried to find something heartwarming to read.

While searching through rows of books, I came across an unfamiliar book. It was Maenya's book of poems that fell out of her hand when I showed her the library.

I don't remember picking up the book after that day. Neither did she notice her book was missing.

Sinking into the chair, I analyzed the cover of the book. Thick black leather covering with nothing but a small writing at the right-hand corner.

Property of Maenya Velaryon.

Overcome by an irresistible impulse, I submitted to the urge to touch her name. My fingertips brushed lightly against the emboldened letters engraved into the leather, and in that simple contact, a warmth, something heartwarming, surged through me.

As I opened the cover, my eyes fell upon a drawing that seized my attention–a dragon depicted with remarkable detail. Its form was instantly recognizable, distinguished by the distinctive battle scar etched across one of its wings. I was Vhagar.

The outlines and details spoke for the skills of its artist. The initials at the end signed towards the silver princess...

M.Velaryon.

Flipping through the pages with a smile on my face, an array of poems unfolded before me, each a window into her thoughts and perhaps her soul. They appeared to be a blend of her creations and maybe verses plucked from different scriptures, creating a symphony of emotions and reflections.

Moving further I came across some scribbles in High Valyrian.

Daorys ñuho vēdro embro, Bēvumbagon kostas.
Tolvys drakaro pelro, Zālilaks.

In the darkness beyond the storm, shadows dance.
Amongst the embers of dragons, secrets lie.

The words and their translation were written messily, especially when compared to the previous texts. The translation didn't make any sense at all.

I flipped the page and saw the messy High Valyrian again, but this time with different text and a strange translation.

Ānogār ābrar se ossēnagon, kessa ōdrikon.
Se ānogār iderennagon, mērī ñuho syt ōdrikon.