The True and The Brave

𝔈𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱: 𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔉𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔖𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔢

Aemma had shaken those iron ones that had tied her to the ground. When Aegon visited her chambers she had been restraint. Locked into that pit of darkness and grief. Locked away in the dark. 

And when the light first hit the side of her face, she vowed to herself that she was born once again. A god amongst men, that deity and goddess of death that one did not fight but let it wreak chaos and destruction. She was a whirlwind of salt and blood as she brought Catspaw across a sea of throats that awaited for that sweet vengeance. 

She was long at last free. 

Free to feel everything. Free of those shackles that had led her to feel only anger. One anger that could consume her whole being. 

Her blood pounded beneath her veins, burning and coiling on her skin as it sizzled. A roar resounded through the skies, shaking the ground upon where she stood. A twin and mirror to that same emotion she had felt. Seafyre had too been shackled to Aemma's emotions. 

And just like her rider, the beast was waiting for her release. 

Dressed in that horrid wedding gown and covered in that sweet blood, Aemma was finally the dragon. A dragon could never be caged. A wolf could never be tamed. Her hands clanked with that shackled that had been broken but still tight around her wrist. A sudden grief swallowed her whole. 

She had broken the chains that her husband commanded her to... Even through whispers of dust in the sky, he still found her. He would always find her. Emma swallowed a sob as Seafyre perched her body around the castle, rattling the ground with unshed emotion. 

A retinue of guards amassed themselves in front of the King who stood in the great hall appalled at the bodies that the Queen had littered through the room. Her gown drenched in blood, yet in the eyes of her most beloved; a mirage of peace by her side. 

She was thin, her silver-golden hair much longer. Too long, even with the time apart. It nearly fell to her waist, most of it dark with caked blood. As if she'd run through a rain of it. 

Aemma halted at the edge of the hall. Her feet were bare, and the gown had revealed no major injuries, but the dagger had shone with a promise as Aemma lifted a single finger and pointed at the usurper. Death coiled around her, as if taunting her master. 

One finger, a curse and a damning.

A promise.

Aegon slightly paled at the movement outside of the window and even more at the roar that followed through in the skies. A flurry of guards clashed their swords with an enemy met outside the doors. It had been time to finally rescue their Queen. 

She didn't know what to do with it, that rage. It still burned and hunted her, still made her want to rip and roar and rend the world into pieces. She felt it all—too keenly, too sharply. Hated and cared and loved and dreaded, more than other people, she sometimes thought. 

And Aemma Velaryon had to utter one single word. 

Never again.  

Never again would she be weak. 

Never again would she be at someone's mercy.

Never again would she fail.

Never again, never again, never again.

"You sought not to destroy me, Aegon, but to control me. To cuckold me into your every whim. Now you see me, Aegon Hightower. You are no Targaryen. I once told you that you have power within yourself, but no power answers to rotten ambition and injustice. It answers to Gods. To me" Aemma uttered in her Valyrian, the temptress grief and hollowness of her voice bringing all men to their knees.