a maid's folly - aemond targaryen.

chapter 5.

Rosemary was a gentle soul— she knew that much about herself. She oftentimes found it hard to control her emotions, feeling everything in overabundance. Her mother and Jeyne said it was because her heart was too big, that she cared too much, and that it wasn't a bad thing.

She vehemently disagreed. It was an entirely horrible thing to be beholden to your own mind, unable to stop yourself from crying at tiny things. She felt too much, all of the time— she sorrowed too much, she angered too much, she loved too much.

Despite their short time together, she found comfort in Aemond. His moods were tumultuous like her own— she could not fault him for it entirely. The incident with the fish, and snapping at her after questioning him about his betrothed. Her heart strangely ached when he dismissed her so callously, all but telling her to get lost.

Mayhaps she deserved it in some way, what was her place to question him? She can't understand nor explain entirely how she felt about the prince, besides the fact that he simultaneously frightened her and also gave her a semblance of solace.

Staring into his eye as he cornered her in the Godswood, she felt like a sheep befallen by a dragon— she didn't wholly mind. A spark of unease mingling with elation bubbled in her as he focused on her, the look in his eye feral, his pupil blown out that she could hardly see the beautiful violet hue.

The desperation in his words, his pleading to understand what he was feeling— he was beholden to his emotions, just as she. He looked angry on the outside, but peering into his sole eye, she could see the edges of fear and confusion within him. He was at war with himself, at war with what he knows and what he feels.

I understand you, I do— it's unexplainable but I do. I know you are frightened, she thought to herself, her gaze softening for a moment while he looked away.

But she did not say it. To say it would be to breathe life into it, to stoke his molten blood while her own was exposed. It would feel like she was offering her soft underbelly to him, to rip into and consume as he liked, until she was nothing but bones and a memory.

Instead, she went into defense, calling him obsessive— mayhaps to thwart him off or scare him away with her harshness. Mayhaps he would feel a similar ache in his chest like she did when he snapped at her earlier that day.

The whole altercation was over so quickly that she wondered if it even happened— until he spoke his farewell, "Stay safe, little lamb."

She blinked, standing against that tree for forty minutes after he left, sliding down and sitting on her bottom. Her legs came up to her chest, arms wrapping around them. Her mind felt like sheep fleece and fog, the noises of the Godswood merely just echoes in her brain.

The logical part of her was frightened that she piqued the interest of a prince— one so scary and hard to read— it felt like being chased. Then, the illogical, uncontrollable part of her brain reveled in it, she wanted him to chase her. She wanted to be wanted. Life is so terribly short and unfair, she reasoned, what would be the harm in being coveted by someone? Especially a handsome prince.

The next morning, she reported to Aemond's chambers with a new view, and an open heart. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to indulge his obsession— maybe it would feel nice. She was particularly sprightly this morn, slipping into his chamber silently.

He was already awake, looking like he had been for hours. His eyepatch was placed haphazardly on his face, his hair a mess, draped over his bare shoulders. He glanced at her ever so slightly, the white of his eye bloodshot.

"Your grace," she murmured softly, walking towards him. She didn't feel any sense of fear or inhibition holding her back, "Are you alright?"

He cracked his knuckles, each bone in his hand and fingers audibly popping— it was a sickening sound. "No. I am not alright."