Stelsa, the girl crafted from the broken leftovers from the Gods, is far from the expectations of a normal lady. Her father, Aaeron Meryls, and her uncles sought to train her in the way of the blade. Many whisper about her origin - is she bastard li...
"And who had his wife been except a woman THAT SACRIFICED?"
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AAERON SWUNG HIS SWORD towards the wooden target, huffing as the cold poked at his exposed face. He had thought training in the North would be nicer in the cold climate than it was fighting in the Stepstones. Aaeron was wrong. It seemed his body was molten, trying its best to warm itself against the cold that surrounded him this morning. "Ser Aaeron, was it?" A voice called to him and forced him to look over his shoulder, watching as Lady Ilya moved with a grace through the empty training yard.
Her blue eyes looked him over, almost as though she were inspecting him. Aaeron straightened in his spot. "It is, my lady. How may I assist you this morning?" Aaeron bowed his head to the noble woman, doing his best to avoid staring at her for far too long.
The light gray cloak she wore clung to her frame, keeping her warm to the climate that surrounded them. While Aaeron fought the urge to shiver, Lady Ilya remained unmoving. Aaeron supposed she was used to it having lived here her whole life — or perhaps it was just in her blood to be accustomed to it. "I was hoping to hear how the Battle at the Stepstones went." Ilya took a few steps closer as she said this, coming to observe the dummy Aaeron had been working with.
"Pardon my assumption, but I thought the North did not partake in southern politics..." Aaeron kept his voice low, watching as Lady Ilya lifted her gloved hand to run along the blade marks.
"Most do not, but I have friends that are South. Friends that I wish to provide feasible solutions to when they write." Lady Ilya turned to look at Aaeron. "How am I to accomplish that when I know little of their politics?" She asked and all Aaeron could do was hum. "Perhaps we may speak more inside? Over some tea? You are shivering worse than a hairless dog."
Aaeron felt his cheeks warm at her jest. He meekly nodded as she giggled and held out his right arm to take. This made Lady Ilya quiet her laughter, looking over his arm before she wove her own with his. "If it is not too much of me, who are your friends in the South?" Aaeron pressed gently, glancing over at the woman who strode with confidence.
Her face remained neutral, not gesturing to any source of knowledge as Lady Ilya side-glanced at him. Those deep blue eyes forced Aaeron to look over himself, finding that blue shade examining his face. They seemed to be focused on the fresh scar he had received — still tinged pink. "Who else but the heir to the Iron Throne?" Lady Ilya threw back, watching his face closely for any reaction.
It had been the first time Aaeron had heard about Rhaenyra beyond the gossip shared between knights — which was done in hushed voices while Prince Daemon was away. Aaeron had never cared to engage in it. He did not care to listen to tales of beauty for the hundredth time. Those tales had morphed into something vastly different now. It was no longer tales of beauty but tales of treason that fell from the mouths of many men and women. Ones that had seeped into their veins from the poisonous snakes slithering about.
