Blood of Old Valryia (Aemond Targaryen FF)

Chapter Fifty Three

Aesira lounged on her chair before the hearth, absorbed in a book about the history of Westeros.

The words and illustrations had the tendency to transport her to a different era, an effect that made reading all the more fun.

As she turned the page, she was struck with the sudden smell of a familiar scent, a blend of lavender and vanilla. The same blend of scents used by Rhaena, the scent on the pages could only mean that her cousin had been the last to read this book.

Thinking of Rhaena filled her with dread.

In the two weeks since she'd been imprisoned in her chambers, neither Rhaena nor Baela had been to see her or even tried to. Aesira doubted that Ser Loreth and Ser Adrian, the Queensguard assigned to keep her imprisoned, would have stopped them if they had tried. Their edict, since Jace's return, had been to confine Aesira, not to keep the world out.

Aesira shut the book and sighed as she glanced over at the fire, her mind flooded with thoughts of Rhaena. She knew that her cousin harbored feelings of resentment against Aemond for what happened, and how Aesira still seemed to be in support of his actions. As far as Rhaena was concerned, Aemond had robbed her of the chance to claim her mother's dragon, and then he'd robbed her of her betrothed as well.

Aesira definitely felt a measure of guilt for the role she played in all of it. But any chance of earning Rhaena's forgiveness had been wiped away when the news of Aesira's marriage to Aemond was brought to light.

Two knocks sounded and then Gwyn strode in with two rolls of parchment paper. Aesira glanced towards the small table, where she'd laid the two rolls she'd written on. In an attempt to stave away the insanity of her isolation, Aesira had taken to recording everything she recalled, everything she'd been taught about their heritage from her father. From recording enough phrases to rebuild the High Valyrian language if it were ever lost to transcribing, to everything Vaegon had dug up about the Old Religion.

"Have they told you why it's being checked?" Aesira asked the Lady's Maid. She'd sent the rolls with Gwyn to be sent to the Citadel, through Maester Norren. The maester had chosen to uproot his life in King's Landing and take up residence in Oldtown, for fear of being caught in the crossfire of the war.

Gwyn shook her head, "As you know, my Lady, I am not privy to most conversations. Why your rolls are checked is one of them."

Aesira slumped in the chair as Gwyn switched out the blank parchment for the written-on set. She'd barely picked them up when Jace barrelled into the Chambers.

"Thank you, Gwyn." Jace dismissed the Lady's Maid with a nod of his head then turned to Ser Loreth and Ser Adrian, who'd been stationed outside the doors, "No one is to so much as loiter in the passageway until I leave."

Aesira pushed out of her chair, her expression perturbed as she gazed at the Prince of Dragonstone. "What is it?"

Jace took her by the arm and led her closer to the Hearth—away from the doors and windows, she realised—before taking a deep breath and lowering his voice to say, "I should have accepted your offer to teach me High Valyrian when we were younger."

Aesira wanted to remind him that they were still young, they were still children. She'd only just started to teach him when their world had crumbled. Instead, she held her tongue. Their days of mindless banter had ended somewhere between Luke's death and Jace all but calling her a monster.

Aesira waited with bated breath as she watched Jace struggle with something internal. They were sitting close enough to the fire that its warmth turned her cheeks a rosy pink. After a some time passed---enough time, she supposed---Jace sighed and pulled a stack of letters from within his tunic. Without looking at her, he held the letters out to her. Aesira's brow furrowed as she took the letters and opened the top one.