⸻ ( 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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120 AC the thirteenth day of the tenth moon
WITHIN the darkness, destiny spun. Her mother spoke in riddles woven by sightless gods, their eyes plucked by birds of slaughter in black hunger. They whet their appetites on maiden flesh such as hers, milky white as the moon and cherry blood between the legs. The priestesses sang their hymns of worship, sweet rot on their lips as in their hearts festering. Exultation captured in their blissful screams of rapture, tearing at the fabric over their breasts.
Lysara sat beneath the eaves of the temple erdtree, its heavily laden boughs glowing gold in the night. She tucked her head between her knees, moonlit hair cascading to the dark grass beneath. The goddess whispered in her ears, of how she was beloved and chosen for their altar offerings. Her small frame shivered with trepidation as she pressed her palms over her ears. The priestesses trod forward with shadowy veils shrouding their faces over tenebrous robes.
"Come, child, the goddess awaits you," the matron spoke.
They said she was mad, cursed by black stars and malevolent ghosts. The woven rope bit into her wrists, marring her skin in crimson welts as the priestesses brought her across the cloisters. Her bare feet bled against the stone path and left a trail of bitter remorse in her wake. She could see her mother waiting at the entrance to the courtyard. The altar pyre stood tall before her, awaiting to pass divine judgement upon its trespassers.
Lysara held herself against the autumn wind, toes curling from the chill. Her lips trembled and she lifted her tear-stained face to the skies. "Mother, I'm scared. . ." she whispered weakly.
Her mother knelt before her, grasping her face between pale hands. "Hush, my little culver, everything will be alright," she soothed. "You will be reborn anew, a sweeting fresh and pure."
"The goddess chose her as her vessel," the matron spoke. "She will lead us into a new Golden Order."
Lysara clutched onto her mother pleadingly, fresh tears streaming down her face once more. "Please, mother, I don't want to do this!"
