green lies, black hearts

XXX

a/n - I believe this may be the chapter you all have been waiting for ;)

- mint

~+~

Aemond

"But" —Shaera pulled away, if only to catch her breath— "w-what about Lady...Lady Cassandra?"

Aemond cupped her face like she was a precious gemstone—one that could only be found once in a lifetime, and he gingerly brushed his thumbs over her cheeks. He needed to touch her. Feel her. Hold her. He needed. He needed. He needed.

(Want. Sin. Desire.)

"I don't care about her," he whispered against her lips, his gaze tracing every crack of her skin. "Only you. It's only ever been you, Shaera." Her eyes were wide, dark brown, and he realized there was a slight unfocus to her left one—but he wasn't sure that mattered at the moment. He loved her eyes. That shade of brown that reminded him of northern tree bark. A shade of brown that rivaled only the darkness of her hair, which even in the rain, carried red highlights that shone beneath dim lighting. He reached for it. For her damp hair.

He coiled it around his fingers. Real. Wet, but real. He was actually holding her hair; it wasn't just a spectre that tumbled over ghostly shoulders and teased him when his haunted memory began to wander. When he thought her dead. When he thought he would never hold her again. When he thought she was nothing more than ash scattered on the wind.

(His faith in his Seven wavered for just a moment. There was nothing more divine in that moment than his beloved. Than the woman he loved. She was alive. Real. Breathing and warm against his body. Surely there could be nothing more holy than that?)

"You're...a-alive." His voice cracked on the statement. The understanding as he scoured her face. The blush on her round and freckled cheeks. The scrunch to her nose—a nose he once thought to be all too obviously Harwin Strong's. The pink vitality to her parted lips, lips he couldn't help but capture once more if only to breathe in her essence for a few more moments. The kindness that softened her beauty.

(A kindness he didn't deserve.)

"I'm alive," she whispered, gently reaching up to brush away a wet strand of silvery hair from his face. "I'm here. With you, uncle."

With you, uncle.

"Come with me," he begged. He would beg her. He would fall to his knees like he once had, only this time, it would not be apology spilling from his lips as he practically prostrated himself before this divine being. It would be a plea for marriage. He would grasp the very hem of her skirts and kiss the soles of her slippers if it meant she would accept. If it meant she would take him as he was and never leave. Never haunt him. Never leave him cold as she already had.

"Come with me, and we should be wed," he continued. Aemond had it solved: the matter of their wedding. When he landed Vhagar and slipped down her scarred neck, the first place he went was a small sept in Mistwood. Perhaps there was a hint of madness in his purple eye when he demanded the septon do as he was bid. Perhaps there was a rough hand on a trembling shoulder, or threats delivered because who would dare disagree with a Targaryen prince's demand? It didn't matter. He had a septon willing to wed he and Shaera. And he knew there was a Weirwood tree in the forest, just as Shaera once requested. "I have a septon. A Weirwood tree. The fucking cloak off my back if you so wish for one," he said. "Whatever it is you need to wed me, I shall deliver it at your feet."

(Shaera's brows knitted at the desperation in his voice. His broken voice. He clung to her like her own rain-soaked clothing, and she wasn't sure if she could ever peel him off. She didn't want to. But gods, something seemed...odd.