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"The storm will be my comfort when I kill you, my dear"
𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝟏𝟐𝟏 𝐀𝐂.
In the darkest shade of the blue moonlight Aemma wished to be stronger, strong enough to know nothing. She wished for a veil stronger than her father's name to shroud her, to protect her from the bastardy that plagued her soul. In the deepest corners of the keep Aemma wished to be a tapestry, nothing to be expected yet looked in admiration and in her hearts of hearts she knew she just wished to be atop her dragon, escaping the vines that had trapped her here.
Yet nothing made her wish more to be dust than the ones who bared their jaws to eat her whole, hidden beneath their gold jewels and green robes. They were merciless in their taunts and japes of her forgotten lineage, rendering her to endless tears that Aemma willed her eyes to store. After all, her deepest woes were always only a mere faint voice amongst the poison that poured in her heart and in the court's ears.
There were half-shadows that whispered behind her back, murmuring in a farce of dignity Aemma desperately pretended to have. In all the corners of the great halls she walked in, they talked, sometimes mumbling, sometimes viciously piercing her with their eyes, raging at the gall of all the Velaryon she was not, of all the impurities of a birth that tied her naught to a house of pure descent.
The Red Keep had been her home since the times of Aemma's first wails that bellowed down her mother's chambers but she supposed it was the impurity in her that never made her call this den of vipers her solace. The night was never a comfort and the sun always escaped far too quickly from her here, never there to beam at her, never there for her with his light.
And even in the midst of her seemingly eternal turmoil ⏤ how could she forget the cruel court that raged and clawed its silent claws to dismantle the reign of her godless sinful mother. Aemma heard it all, saw it all, and spoke less of it, for perhaps it was an easier path having silver adorned on her head and violet mark her eyes than being just 'plainly featured'. That without any doubtful hesitation was the first lesson for the Iron Throne, she had learned, that the fear of being a bastard would not tear you apart; as long as you pretended to be a Valyrian in your ways.
The hand spun silver and violet that she was, made her to be of true Valyrian blood, worthy of seating on a throne made for her yet even that sometimes was a scarce jest for she was no man, forever being commanded of what her wishes could be. Perhaps it did get lonely when her blood was sullied in not being truly good, being nothing of the dark skin that her father was, nor the coiling silver tuft that adorned her aunt, Laena Velryon.
