❝I am not a dragon, Aemond Targaryen. You may have claimed me as yours, but to think I'd bend that easily? That is beyond foolish.❞
⟼ Ayla Bolton & Aemond Targaryen: bound by marriage, strengthened by love, ignited by madness.
𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗺𝗼𝗼𝗻𝘆 |...
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››meeting your spouse-to-be
The cold breeze caressed my face, sharp as a knife. The North had never been an easy place to live, but I didn't care that much. I like it, it's my home and the place where I wish to rot. The Dreadfort might not be showered with gold and luxury, but the winters are cold, and it shelters me and my family far beyond perfection.
I only have one home, and it doesn't have stony walls to keep me warm nor a fireplace to lit when the cold it's unbearable. The forest, with all its gloomy glory, is the place I go whenever something bothers me, when my name and my house begin to drain the air out of me, and my lungs ache for it.
I still have to discover what is going to bother me today, yet my instinct made me wake up at the crack of dawn, grab my bow and come here, enjoying the birds' shy chirp as I alert all my senses, waiting for my prey to show up at the right time.
Patience is key, a virtue, I must admit, I lack. I am not the one who second thought before I speak, and I pay for my insolence without questions. Father can punish me as much as he wants, but I'd still hold my point. I won't be relevant when the time to rule will come.
I, Lady Ayla Bolton, am destined to live in the shadows of my ancestors' mistakes, many moons ago when they bent the knee to the Stark. Since then, the Bolton have been kept at bay with lands and gold, in spite of taming the riot fire that burns in us. And that is fine with me, as long as I have the forest to keep me safe from myself and the cold breeze to scratch my face, I can endure the hardest of the challenges.
Before I can resume my wander through the darkest of my thoughts, a sudden creak makes me grin slightly.
Time has come. Patience, is really key.
I look at the boar, grunting undisturbed, a couple of feet far from me. It is not that big, but will eventually do. I slowly raise my arm until it reaches the quiver I secured on my back this morning before leaving, careful enough not to make a single noise. My right arm is already outstretched, aiming at its ribs. It is just a matter of minutes, archery is about balancing time and nerves and rarely gives second chances. It is a matter of feelings, a good archer simply knows when it is time to shoot.
I let my gaze linger a bit more on the animal, sniffing around, I feel a pinch of guilt at the thought I am nothing but an intruder, and yet I am still taking its life in its own territory. But what is the difference, anyway? Men are murdered on their own land by intruders on a daily basis, blood would still be spilled on their beloved ground before they could even realize their time has come.
Conquer or be conquered. As easy as it sounds.
The arrow caresses the bowstring, my grip on the knocking point so firm and tight I can feel the tips of my fingers turning red.
A matter of time.
I suck a bit of air, holding my breath as I begin to release the string finger by finger.
