Aella Targaryen wed on the anniversary of her father's death. To her cousin, nonetheless, continuing the long-standing tradition of her family to marry their relatives. It was a day that was meant to bring joy and overshadow the sorrow that had purs...
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You still live in The silences Between My thoughts
– d.j
°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°
There was not a moment before in the life of Aella Targaryen that she had felt so still, so tense, so in disbelief as that day. Tension forced her muscles to bunch up, to freeze, to keep her still and silent. And all she could do was stare. At the alarming amount of still-warm and still-liquid blood on the sheets of Queen Aemma's bed. At her own hand still clutched in her friend's deathly pale hand. At the petrified look that was stuck on the dead Queen's face, showing what she felt in the very last moments she breathed. Aemma's gut-wrenching screams of pain played over and over again in her mind, as if she was still screaming, still begging for Viserys to stop, still crying out that she was afraid.
It did not feel like Aella was breathing, and when she forced herself to inhale, to feel her lungs expanding, it felt as if someone had plunged a knife straight between her ribs. It would be best if they did. She would gladly bleed out now beside the only true friend she had left than to live even one more moment without her.
As the metaphorical blade twisted inside of her, Aella slowly looked over to where Viserys was. The babe that had been torn from Aemma's body was wrapped in swaddling, rested in his arms and still crying. A babe born of blood and suffering, of a man's greed for a son. Aella wanted to move, but her limbs were frozen. She wanted to get up and march over to Viserys, rip that child from his arms like he had ripped Aemma from her life, damn the consequences, and push him out of the window he was standing by.
She could not think about herself. Only of the justice that Aemma deserved. The mother, the wife, the cousin, the closest friend. The kindest and sweetest woman Aella had ever known. The one who could listen to her for hours without saying a word herself and only when she was done would she give her own advise, advise that was sincere and heartfelt and truly meant to help.
Such a wonderful woman was lying dead now, torn open at her husband's command as if she meant nothing at all. Aemma's life had been, from the moment she was wed to Viserys, only about birthing heirs. It would seem that she died for that as well, despite her own unwillingness to bear more children. For it was the King's command, and in the end he would always choose himself over even his wife.
Tears were hot against Aella's cheeks, and it was all she could focus on for a few moments as her mind grasped for something to focus on. A sob tore from her throat so violently that it hurt her chest. She wept for Aemma and her tenderness, for Rhaenyra, the girl who never got to say goodbye to her mother, for the boy in Viserys' arms who would never know the woman who carried him. For herself, because Aemma was the last part of Aella that could cling to a long lost girlhood, to a time where things weren't so awful and tiring and outright agonising.
