Aemma Velaryon was the spitting image of her mother; she had pale silver hair, fair skin, and dazzling blue eyes. She was a Targaryen in all sense but her last name which she bore from her father Laenor Velaryon. She was the younger twin of Lucerys...
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Aemma knocked on the door of Cregan's solar, smoothing back invisible stray hairs from her braid. She was dressed in her riding leathers with a fur cloak fastened around her neck. Today was the day Aemma returned to Kings Landing, and she was nervous to see what awaited her.
"Come!" Cregan called out from behind the thick wooden door. Aemma tentatively pushed it open to see Cregan hunched over stacks and stacks of papers, a quill in hand. "Who is it?" He asked, not bothering to look up as he signed one paper after another.
"I had hoped to receive a warmer farewell than that." Aemma resisted the urge to chuckle as Cregan stiffened at the sound of her voice, his eyes wide. He paused for a brief moment before standing and bowing his head.
"I apologize, Princess. I've been rather wrapped up in my work, I hope I didn't offend you." Cregan looked ashamed at his poor manners toward her.
"I am delightfully unoffended." Aemma took a few steps toward him. "We are leaving within the hour. I thought it best come bid you farewell."
"I would have expected you to leave later, the sun has only just come up." Cregan glanced to the window. "I suppose it is a long flight back down South."
"It is, though I prefer it over the weeks of travel it took to get me here." Aemma clasped her hands together. "I must tell you that I have enjoyed my time here, Cregan. The North never ceases to amaze me with its beauty."
"It has been a pleasure and an honor to have you stay here, and I do pray you come back for a better reason." Cregan took a small step toward Aemma. "And I find that you and the North are similar in that sense."
"You flatter me." Aemma shook her head softly, her cheeks flushed. "I am little more than a pawn in this war, I assure you they will sing no songs about my beauty."
"I shall instruct them to sing songs on your battles then. They shall sing them from Last Hearth to the shores of Dorne." Cregan's lips twitched as if he were struggling to keep himself from smiling. "I have something for you." He returned to his desk, fumbling through the stacks of paper before he found a small leather-bound book. "Maester Medwyn has been working on this collection for some time now, and I only thought it proper that I bestow this onto you, as a token of our friendship." He held out the book, silently holding his breath as Aemma took it and flipped through the pages.
It was a book of pressed flowers, some pages so old they had begun to yellow. Each flower was perfectly preserved with their names written underneath. On the last used page was a freshly pressed winter rose.
"You continue to surprise me, Cregan." Aemma smiled and lightly ran her fingers over the page. "I had thought you disliked me for the majority of my stay."
"Truly?" He asked. "I apologize if I seem... stoic at times. It seems that we aren't as expressive in the North. I can assure you, I bear no ill will toward you."
"I think the cold simply freezes your face so that it cannot show expression." Aemma shrugged. "Your words gladden me, and I shall cherish this gift. Perhaps one day you will show me how to press a flower?"
"All you need to do is ask." Cregan smiled softly, happy that Aemma had assumed they would see each other again. "I trust you have enough provisions for your journey?"
"More than enough." Aemma nodded, slightly saddened that their conversation took on a more serious tone once more. "And I must thank you for sparing men to assist Ser Olyvar and Ser Erryk on their journey back. It may have been a foolish request but I only want to ensure their safety."
"It was no foolish ask, I watched the boy train the other day and I could have sworn the dummy started to dodge his blows." Cregan laughed, a booming, hearty sound that Aemma found surprisingly pleasant.
Aemma looked out the window and knew they would all need to depart soon. Cregan noticed the small frown on her face and internally sighed, knowing she would be leaving.
"I shall pray for your success in all your future battles, Princess." Cregan extended his hand.
"Aemma." She corrected him before shaking his hand. His thumb seemed to unconsciously brush over her burned skin, but she did not feel embarrassed at the gesture. "It's odd, I know."
"No! I did not mean to--" Cregan moved to pull his hand away, but Aemma grabbed his wrist with her other hand, holding it firmly in place.
"You did not offend me, Cregan. Many are curious, I suppose it is only natural. Do you know how I received these burns?" She asked.
"I have heard the stories, yes." Cregan looked down at her hand and back up at her face, silently asking for permission. Aemma nodded, and he ran his warm fingers across the back of her hand, intrigued by the feeling.
"Stories? There is only one; my father was murdered by a man named Ser Qarl and his body was thrown into a hearth. I was the one who found him, and I tried to pull him out. I did pull him out, actually." Aemma missed her father; if he was still alive Daemon wouldn't have been able to marry her mother and this war wouldn't have had its instigator.
"And the scar on your left hand?" Cregan asked, dropping Aemma's right hand and gently taking her left.
"Luke did that, albeit unintentionally. He was trying to cut out Aemond's eye and I tried to stop him." Aemma frowned. "I did not succeed, obviously."
"Ah, I had heard that story. You're a very selfless person." Cregan stopped his examination of her hand, but he did not let go. He wished he was a selfish man with no honor so that he may grace her lips with a kiss, but he knew he would never do that. He could not dishonor the Princess nor anger Jace. He was very reluctant to admit it, but he had grown rather fond of the Princess during her time in Winterfell, listening to her talk for hours and climbing through snowbanks to bring her flowers. If his father was alive, he would laugh about how lovesick his son was. The Lord of Winterfell, giving away his army to the fierce Princess of Driftmark.
"You are quite the flatterer, Cregan." Aemma smiled and shook her head. "You should have been a bard."
"I think my songs would get rather repetitive." Cregan finally allowed her hand to drop back down to her side, and his hand felt empty without hers in it. "I shouldn't keep you any longer."
"Duty awaits." Aemma sighed. "Thank you, Cregan. For everything."
"Anything for you, Aemma." Cregan wanted to sweep her into his arms and march her down to the Godswood, where they may say their vows in front of the Heart Tree and be joined as one. He wanted to go into battle beside her, win castles for her, win this war for her. His father must be rolling in his stone coffin down in the crypts.
Aemma paused at the door to spare one last look at Cregan, who simply watched her with sad eyes. "Farewell." She called out.
"Farewell." Cregan nodded, and Aemma shut the door behind her on her way out.
"Are you ready?" Aemond asked. Aemma simply kept walking, acting as if he did not speak. He trailed after her like a kicked puppy, fearing the verbal lashing he would receive if he angered her again.
Aemma and Aemond walked silently, side by side until they reached the gates of Winterfell. All three dragons could have fit in the courtyard if Cregan didn't mind losing a few trees, but Aemma had decided not to risk it.
Daeron was already waiting for them, saddled on Tessarion and ready to go, which he had no problem vocalizing.
"You do realize we still haven't left the ground yet, right?" He called out. Aemma simply shrugged, resisting the urge to turn Terrax on Vhagar and rip her to shreds. She hated that old, decrepit she-dragon with all of her being.
Aemma climbed into the saddle with ease and urged Terrax into the air, not waiting for Daeron or Aemond to join her.
