𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐄 ~ aemond targaryen (discontinued)

21 ~ Too late to Decline ~ 21

Aemond

The Stepstones...?

Khaelyra had been warring at the Stepstones all this time.

Khaelyra had been to war.

It was so blatantly obvious now that she had confirmed it and yet, just the day before, Aemond had only been able to imagine a dreadfully distinct image of Lyra's present life, cuddled up next to a husband of no face, happily making an effort to forge the man a family and birth him some heirs. It was painful to think of, even if Aemond despised the possession Lyra still held over him, though he was still in the effort of stomping down on his desire, with an awareness of how spoiled he was, he painted it to be only that - a desire for something he couldn't have. But now, he realised a different vision, truthful and not so bright. Her skin was tarnished with so many deep, mottled scars, including a particularly fresh and long marking engraved across the base of her throat signifying that someone had dared to threaten the withdrawal of her life blood. Aemond had initially concocted the idea that perhaps her husband had been hurting her, abusing her, bringing blades to draw upon flesh and fists to crash against her bones. It is why the Prince had been so insistent with his questioning of where she had been living just so he might gain some detail to gather an idea of who she had wed. But there was no ring encased around her finger. It remained pleasantly bare and inviting. Instead, two gleaming blades dangled from her round hips and Aemond had not forgotten the neat fit of that midnight black armour she had worn this morning upon arrival, during their duel.

This new woman who had landed  proudly upon the shores of the Crownlands six years since retreat had returned a warrior. Not a wife. Not a Mother. Not a pawn. But a War Lord.

Aemond knew not how to feel about it all. His emotions were muddled and tangling inside his chest and tugging in separate directions.

At first, he was amazed. It was difficult not to be when it came Lyra. But this was an awe deeper than he had held for anyone, even the old legends of his lineage. Lyra, the sweet yet witty little girl who had shrunk at the brandishing of her status and could only wish to touch a blade now knew how to swing one with such precision she had been to war and returned alive and was seemingly thriving although a little marred despite it. Her eyes shone the brightest they had ever before, so full with wonder and ambition. Lyra had transformed so elegantly that Aemond wished desperately he had been there to watch her grow.

And with that, his rich awe hardened like cooling magma, growing dark and edged. Khaelyra had been to war, fighting a battle that she had no involvement in for two princes who would likely discard her the moment they ascended to their chairs of power. Lyra had been stealing a legacy she was not owed, as a simple woman without credentials or knighthood or nobility. What business did she have in war? She had mentioned her plight to conquer the rogue lands. Was her intention to claim them for herself, beneath her own, insignificant name? She had no right. No right to do it alone. Who in her armies truly stood loyal to the bastard of King Viserys the First? Certainly not Corlys. Especially as he lay dying in his death bed, challenging the Stranger to take him to the next life. None of the true, loyal Kings men stood amongst her ranks. And to make matters worse, Aemond knew well enough of the alarming confirmation that the Triarchy was winning this war. If Khaelyra were to return to battle, Aemond knew well enough she would not step away from it again.

Aemond winced at this thought, for this to perhaps be the last time he shared ground with his old best friend. He clutched at his chest, over that space where his heart pumped hard and fierce and frightful with the realisation that he may never see her again, that he may be forced to cling to the memory of her voice and her face. He had already been subjected to this fate for years before this day, but to imagine it as something more permanent? To imagine treading an earth which Lyra did not live on? To stand beneath a moon she did not share?