twin flames | daemon targaryen

fifty-seven

The North, Two Days After the Battle in the Skies of the Stormlands

A bank of clouds had rolled in sometime when Aemma and Silverwing were in the skies above the Riverlands, obscuring any drop of sunshine. The sky matched the dark and desolate landscape of the North below, so different compared to the Southern greenery and sunshine.

Cold winds blew through the skies of the North, just a hint of the harsh, frigid cold the lands north of the Neck were known for. The winds whipped through Aemma's long, white-golden curls, tugging them free of their careful braids. The harsh force of the winds rubbed Aemma's skin raw, causing her pale skin to begin to blister.

Targaryens weren't meant for the North, their bodies were designed for the warmth of their dragons and the heat of the Freehold their ancestors once called home. Yet, even as the wind whipped through her hair and caused her skin to blister, Aemma could not deny the sense of belonging that tugged deep in her heart as she flew in the clouds above the lands of old Kings of Winter.

Dragonstone and the North shared an ancient solitude that could only be borne from histories rich with myth and magic that went beyond the knowledge of ordinary men. Dragonstone, with the remnants of Old Valyria present in every step, with the magic of the dragonlords contained within every piece of spell-forged stone. The sun never shone much there either, the skies constantly thick with dragonsmoke and storm clouds.

The North...The North held the history of the First Men in every stone building that was impossibly built up from the frozen ground. The laughter of the Creatures of the Forest could be heard in every gentle breeze, the threat of the proclaimed coming winter looming with every light snowfall. The weight of the Old Gods was felt as heavily in the North as the Valyrian pantheon was on Dragonstone.

This foreign familiarity eased the worry tearing at Aemma's heart as she and Silverwing flew, soothing the fears that had crept up on her and weighed so heavily on her mind as the Targaryen and dragon journeyed northwards. Aemma could still hear the sounds of mice skittering across the stone floors of Maegor's tunnels so clearly. She could hear the sounds of her mother's heart-wrenching sobs as Robert lay hunched over in a pool of blood and whatever rot festered in the Black Cells of the Red Keep. When she closed her eyes, she saw her mother standing before the inhabitants of High Tide, Visenya's diadem resting proudly upon her golden curls as everyone knelt in reverence to their new Queen.

Aemma could still see Aemond, standing behind Aegon in the Dragonpit, his one violet eye staring at her apprehensively, worriedly, fearfully...angrily. Aemma had been unable to shake the feeling that Aemond knew about the crimes committed against Aemma and her family that horrible night in the Red Keep, that he was upset that they had made it out alive.

Silverwing let out a sudden happy shriek, causing a smile to grace Aemma's lips as all thoughts of Aemond and the horrors she endured disappeared from her mind.

Silverwing had been near joyous as the she-dragon and Aemma flew further and further North. The noble she-dragon shrieked and clicked as they flew, twirling and spinning again and again in the air as she enjoyed the feeling of the cool breeze of the North rushing against her scales. Aemma did not doubt that her beloved dragon was remembering all of her journeys with Alysanne, including her ones to the North. The only thing better would be if Vermithor was with them.

Silverwing and Vermithor shared a mated bond, one so deep and so consuming that it went beyond the knowledge of man, its origins going back to the Freehold. It only made sense for their riders to share a similar bond, though not one between mates but between twins, two souls who had joined the world together. It only made sense that Silverwing and Aemma would miss their other half more than anything else in the world.