𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 / / 𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

My dearest daughter,

We will arrive in Kings Landing within the week.

Daemon.

Her father's missives were never adorned with an abundance of words, yet the weight of each syllable bore a significance that compelled Visenya to peruse the parchment repeatedly. The raven, a bearer of news and familial entanglements, had graced her with its presence a few days earlier. Addressed solely to her, the missive told of the impending arrival of her family to petition for Luke's cause. However, the anticipation of their imminent arrival failed to evoke the warmth and excitement one might expect. Instead, a current of unease coursed through her, a novel emotion that Aemond discerned with an acuity born from familiarity. Observing her twirl a strand of hair around her finger, and noting the rhythmic chewing of her bottom lip, Aemond recognized these gestures as harbingers of her inner turmoil.

Seated at a table adjacent to the balcony, she wore nothing but a silk robe, an ethereal figure bathed in the soft glow filtering through the curtains. Aemond, entering his chambers, beheld her silent contemplation. Little had changed since he departed that morning to converse with Otto; she remained ensconced in her thoughts, her delicate fingers clutching the parchment, and a stray lock of white hair wound around the other.

The measured cadence of his boots echoed against the stone floor as he approached her. The tableau painted before him spoke of a woman wrestling with the shadows of her own mind. She neither moved nor acknowledged his presence, her focus unwavering on the letter from her father. The room, draped in an air of anticipation, hung between moments, as if time itself had deferred to the gravity of her internal struggle.

Aemond's hand found its place on her shoulder, a reassuring weight that she willingly leaned into, finding solace in the familiarity of his touch. His words, a balm to her unease, were accompanied by the subtle creak of the chair as he settled behind her.

"You need to stop worrying," he advised, his fingers gently kneading her shoulder.

"I am not worried," she replied, the edge in her tone belying a deeper complexity that she herself couldn't entirely articulate. "I'm just... I don't know."

Aemond continued his comforting gesture, a steady rhythm of assurance in the form of his touch. "It is okay to be concerned, Visenya."

The parchment, a vessel of unseen revelations and unanswered questions, bore the weight of her scrutiny. Finally, she placed it down, though her gaze remained fixated on its surface. "I think it's the unknown. I am used to being able to navigate situations blindfolded, but this is something different."

Aemond relinquished his hold on her shoulder, moving to take a seat beside her. The chair groaned under his weight, yet her eyes remained tethered to the paper before her. "You're a lover of chaos," he commented, a slight jest to his tone. "This shouldn't be an issue for you."

"The truth, yes," she concurred, the sound of her laughter carrying a hint of wistfulness. "I just wish I was the one in control of it all this time."

"Hm," he mused, an acknowledgment of the complexities that entangled them. "And what would you do if you were?"

For the first time, her gaze lifted to meet his. The weariness etched onto her features betrayed the toll of her contemplations. A fleeting quirk of her lips suggested a semblance of a smile, though its warmth failed to reach her eyes. "I'm honestly not sure," she confessed, leaving the room shrouded in the uncertainty that accompanied their ever evolving circumstances.

The weight of power, if placed in Visenya's hands, bore down on her shoulders like a heavy cloak of uncertainty. Could she, with the wave of her hand, dispel the impending storm that threatened to unravel years of carefully guarded secrets? For years, Viserys had dispelled the rumours of his daughter and grandchildren, claiming that anyone who spoke of such would be dealt with the consequences of treason, though now they teetered on the brink of exposure. His illness had rendered him incapable of sitting the throne or protecting his family from the storm that loomed. In a position of authority, could she avert the impending crisis, make it vanish into the shadows, erase the truth that clamored to resurface?