❝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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››dedication
I knock three times and I wait, as Alenis told me to do. The wooden door in front of me, thick and heavy in all its secrecy, leaves no space for any doubts about what it conceals.
It is the Street of Silk, with all its infamous glory.
As I wait, a pinch of guilt hits me in my guts. I could have done something about it, I could have asked for her as my handmaiden, instead of waiting for one to be appointed to me. I could have vouched for her and found her a place down in the kitchens.
Yet, I did not do anything, I let her down.
The door opens, revealing a woman with chestnut hair and a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes, the sign of the times not affecting her beauty at all.
"How can I serve you?" She mewls, leaning against the half-opened door, as if she had to lure me inside.
"I am just paving a visit to an old friend of mine, if I may... I'll be paying regardless..." I manage to assure under the confused gaze of the woman in front of me.
"An old friend of yours, I see..." She mutters raising her brows, "Come in, then." I follow her inside without saying further words, I catch a glimpse of suspicion in how she acts. The inside is nothing more than pinkish sheer curtains hanging down the ceilings and couches with a mighty wooden staircase splitting the room in half, I admit it looks far more lavish than I thought.
"May I know the name of said friend?" The woman asks, I do not know the reason behind such an accusatory tone, but that is not why I am here.
"Tabby." Her brows arch as soon as she heard that name.
"I'll lead the way, but I must warn you...commoners are not her thing..." She teases as I follow her through the stairs. "But I get the feeling that won't be a problem for you." I give her a frown in response, biting my tongue the best I can. Moans and grunts echo behind each door we pass, and what the lady said to me does not ease my nerves. Honor does not depend on a coat of arms.
"There," She says, knocking on the nearest door. "Tabby, a guest for you!" She calls, before looking at me one last time and disappearing down the stairs. I step inside the room without waiting for an answer, I missed her company from time to time, and I can not hold my enthusiasm back when I catch her sitting on the windowsill, brushing her hair absentmindedly.
"Tabby!" I let out, perhaps a bit too bashfully.
"Lady—" She giggles, shaking her head. "I meant... Princess Ayla." She is fairly different from the last time I saw her, her long red hair runs freely down her back, and the sheer silk in which she is wrapped definitely shows more skin than her work attire back at the Dreadfort.
"Just Ayla, you don't work for me anymore... not that you had to address me in that way." I recall her reluctance just to call me by my name. Tabby smiles with a confidence I remember she lacked, gesturing to join her sitting by the sunlight.
