Nefarious || Aemond Targaryen

28

Aemma emerged from the bath feeling lighter, as if the weight of the morning's journey had been washed away along with the dirt and cold. Her skin tingled pleasantly from the warmth, her body now loose and relaxed, free of the stiffness that had plagued her since she had dismounted her dragon. She wrapped herself in a thick, fur-lined robe, the fabric soft and comforting against her freshly warmed skin.

The cold air of Winterfell nipped at her cheeks as she stepped out of the bathing chamber, but it no longer felt quite as biting. She felt refreshed, her mind clearer than it had been all day, the lingering exhaustion now a distant hum rather than an oppressive burden. For a moment, she allowed herself to simply stand there, feeling the sensation of being clean, warm, and renewed.

The fire in the hearth had been stoked while she bathed, and the chamber glowed with a soft, welcoming warmth. She moved toward the fire, settling into a plush chair that had been placed nearby. Her limbs felt pleasantly heavy, the kind of relaxed fatigue that comes after being well cared for. She pulled the robe tighter around herself, letting the comfort of it sink in.

After dressing in a simple yet warm gown, Aemma reached for the fur cloak that had been left in her chambers. It was heavy and luxurious, its dark pelts soft beneath her fingers, and she immediately appreciated the thoughtfulness behind the gift. Winterfell's chill was unlike anything she had ever known, and the cloak would be her shield against the biting cold that seemed to seep into every corner of the ancient castle.

Fastening the clasp at her throat, Aemma pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders and left her chambers. She wandered through the dimly lit halls of Winterfell, her steps quiet on the stone floors. The castle felt vast and unfamiliar, yet there was a sense of history that thrummed through the very walls—a deep and powerful presence that made her feel like she was walking through the bones of the North itself. She passed a few guards and servants along the way, but they all kept to themselves, offering respectful nods as she went by.

It wasn't long before her curiosity led her further into the heart of Winterfell, her feet carrying her down a narrow staircase into a part of the castle that felt colder and quieter than the rest. As she descended, the air became denser, the light more scarce, and an eerie stillness settled over her. She wrapped her cloak more tightly around her, the fur brushing against her cheek as she finally realized where she was heading—the crypts.

The entrance was dark and unassuming, a yawning stone archway that led into the shadowy depths below the castle. Her breath misted in front of her as she stepped inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim light that filtered through the few scattered torches lining the walls. The crypt was a labyrinth of stone corridors and towering statues, each one standing vigil over the resting places of the Stark ancestors.

Aemma's footsteps echoed softly in the stillness, the only sound breaking the eerie quiet of the crypt. As she ventured deeper, she passed by the statues of long-dead lords and ladies, their stone faces carved with solemn expressions, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords or clutched around the edges of their cloaks. The weight of their legacies pressed down on her, and she couldn't help but feel like an intruder in this sacred place.

She stopped in front of one of the larger tombs, her eyes tracing the stern face of a Stark lord whose name she did not yet know. His wolf lay curled at his feet, and the sight of the stone creature reminded her of the direwolves that still roamed the wilds of the North—ancient and fierce, much like the family they represented.

She wasn't sure how long she stood there, lost in her thoughts, when the faint sound of footsteps behind her broke the silence. She turned, her heart skipping a beat as she realized she was no longer alone in the crypt.