The True and The Brave

𝔗𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢: 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔉𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 ℭ𝔦𝔱𝔶

[AN: Brace yourselves, dear readers... This progression of events was deff a very fun one to write, but I kept changing and changing it until I hoped that I got the very essence of my character correct. I won't do anything that is not true to Aemma or my rendition of my characters and their arc. I would love to see your opinion about this take. I really hope you like it!] [idk why I even cried while writing this, so yes, I do advise you to have some tissues near, and (if you are of age) a cup of well-deserved wine, Aperol. negroni or beer works too hahaha]

Their home of a bustling array of men, tents, and fear. Drenched in silver, black, and blue, the armors clanged with each minute move of hands or legs. It did smell, that same coppery tang that she was used to. The men looked up at her as she passed through the tents, a man crying out that the Queen was there. That she was passing through the lowborn soldier's tent, the King in tow. 

And she had nearly forgotten that stench. The one so foul that you almost see it. The rot. The backhanded taste of war— or what could be a victory if everything went accordingly. It was an impenetrable and tense air that swiveled through in whorls, almost digging her own armor apart from the outside. 

These were people. People that fought for her cause. People who got stuck in a petty squabble that was created. And now she was the symbol for them to fight, to give e their life for. And she did not know if she liked it or perhaps reveled in it just as her mother had. 

"The Queen has come. The King is here to preserve us"

Aemma shuddered at the hope. Upon the casting of tense fear, there still was one thing they clung to— Hope. One that she was giving as she strode towards the tent in the upper part of the house. 

"General, I thank you for the safe garrison of my troops and very discrete at that. Has anyone used the manse itself?", she asked, the man paused, watching the beautiful arcs that covered the main entrance. 

"No, your grace. Your grandfather has left us strict orders. I can have one of my soldiers accommodate you into the—"

"There is no need, General. We'll set up camp here. We fight tomorrow. I doubt there will be any sleep. Take a rest, General. And I thank you for all of it". 

Aemma watched as the general retreated. Her sigh was audible. Aemond placed a stiff hand on her shoulder, being too, plagued with the memories of war. He did not have pleasant ones from when he decided to follow Aemma as a footsoldier. He just wreaked havoc from above, but seven preserve him, there was a certain daunting that came from fighting that close to where you die, to the very ground your ashes would fall. 

"Fireheart...", he started. 

"They need hope, Aemond. To know their efforts will not go in vain. To know that somehow we will win. That somehow everything they have been put through will mean something. I can't tell them that they will march to their deaths tomorrow. I can't tell them we will win—"

"Together then, my love. We will do it together. I will be with you until the end. Even if that means at the end of whatever this existence has for us. That is where I want to be". 

And then Aemma clenched her eyes. Hope. It was something she could not give Aemond too. Her cards had already been dealt, and the hand that had been played to her was so very cruel, but then has it ever been any gentle?

She pressed her forehead against his a trembling breath came from her mouth, "I need you in the Sept of Baelor, Aemond. I need you to raise the masses. It can never be enough. I do not plan for luck, I plan to be certain there will be a tomorrow for us. It has to be like that. They see me already, Aemond, but they need to see you".