~I think of how the mystics read by the light of their own bodies. What a world of darkness that must have been to read by the flaming hearts that turn into heaps of ash on the altar, how everything, in the end, is made equal by the wind.~
Daenys Ve...
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Year: 125 AC
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Evening had settled in the grand library of the Red Keep, draping the room in a cloak of stillness, and the air was filled with the faint scent of old parchment and wax. Candles, their flames flickering with a soft, golden glow, cast an eerie yet cozy ambiance, creating pools of light amidst the deep shadows. The space seemed to exist in a world of its own, separate from the chaos and demands of the outside world.
Aemond and Daenys sat at one of the long, polished tables, so close that the warmth of their bodies mingled, and his leg pressed gently against hers, a subtle but constant reminder of his presence. The prince, his head resting on his outstretched arm, had succumbed to sleep, and his face was turned towards her, illuminated in the dim light, each contour highlighted in the flickering candlelight.
The princess sat quietly, her gaze fixed on him. She marvelled at the ethereal beauty he possessed, a blend of strength and vulnerability that seemed almost otherworldly. In sleep, the stern lines of his face softened, and he looked peaceful, though the furrow in his brow remained, as if even in his dreams he was not free from the burdens he carried.
Between them lay a haphazard pile of scrap parchment, each sheet adorned with rudimentary sketches. They had been playing one of their old games, drawing and laughing together as they once did in their childhood. One piece depicted a crude sketch of a dragon, all jagged lines and awkward proportions, with a tiny stick figure labelled with his name. It was Daenys's sad attempt at drawing her friend and his fearsome mount, a testament to her lack of artistic skill.
As she watched him sleep, she felt a deep sense of gratitude for the warmth and comfort that surrounded them. It was a precious thing, this return to the friendly intimacy they had known as children, and despite the years and the distance that had grown between them, moments like this made her believe that the bond they shared was unbreakable.
Her eyes traced the shape of his face, lingering on the scar that peeked out from beneath his eyepatch. It was a harsh, permanent reminder of the pain and violence he had endured. Her fingers hovered in the air above his face, tracing the path of the scar without touching it, as if afraid to disturb him or the fragile peace of the moment. She would not remove his eyepatch; she would not breach his trust like that, but she could not help her curiosity and the sadness that accompanied it. The mark looked deep, a wound that had changed him forever, and she wondered if he had ever truly forgiven her for the part she had played in it. Even in times like this, when all seemed well, the past lingered in the shadows, just out of sight but never forgotten.
A stray strand of his silver hair had fallen across his face, and she reached out, her touch impossibly gentle, to brush it away. Her fingers lingered as she tucked it behind his ear, a tender gesture filled with unspoken emotions, and again she marvelled at the softness of his hair, the warmth of his skin, and the way his presence made her feel. He was truly her dearest friend, the one who understood her most. The companionship she shared was different from the caretaker position she assumed with her brothers, or even the gentle camaraderie she had with Helaena. He was her equal, and with him, she could be her truest self.
