cruel gods [aemond targaryen]

XXIX

There is something so cruel in otherworldliness, it is something so craved. To be seen as a god amongst men, to be feared as well as loved. But whom could love something they feared? Delighted in the downfall of someone's demise, wishing, hoping, praying. There is something so cruel in otherworldliness.

And still, it reaps from the skin, like an infection eager to leave the body. You never know when infection has spread until you wake in the night, clutching your throat as your skin begins to burn. Burning. Burning. Burnt.

He could feel the heat from her blast, watching as the flames engulfed whatever lands he had spared. He did not even glance back at the place he left his wife, the need to kill etching up his body, infecting him once more. He reached up, touching one side of his face.

Good. he thought to himself as he felt his fingers run over his cheek. Not rotted yet. In a moment, he thought of his father, something he had not thought of since his demise. How his face sloped, his body a distant reminder of Viserys the peaceful.

Viserys the peaceful. Peace. War. Was Viserys peaceful? Or did he simply allow people to push him in whatever direction they pleased? Like a loyal hound. Aemond was no hound, no. He was the master, whipping the things as they submitted to him. Taking out each of their teeth until it turned them gentle. Kind. Obedient. His.

It seemed the saints were passed the pain of the gods, forced into a life of service, constantly obeying to those who rotted their teeth with the sweet promises of eternal peace. It is them that suffer, succumbing to the sickness of their own mind. Comforted by nothing but yearning as the nights turned bitter and blood coated them.

He sat atop of Vhagar, staring down at the lands he had offered mercy, not that they deserved it. He had control of each of them, they would be the one seeking comfort from his words, the honey spilling lies that hung from his tongue. A slight smirk on his face.

"Dracarys." He let out again, fighting back the urge to laugh as Vhagar did as he commanded. He patted her gently, giving the old girl the validation she needed. Or Aemond needed for that matter.

As the world whizzed around him, he had no choice but to focus his eyes on the flames that erupted from his rage. If he squinted his eyes enough, he could see his Maellery danced in between them, lit by the candle flame as she taught those around her moves her mother taught her.

It was only then that he turned, eager to return to the warmth of her skin. The fire had suddenly grown cold.

She stood watch at the window, eagerly waiting for his return. She watched as the lands turned into a flood of orange, it became harder for her to know which area was what. It was only when the view of vhagar clouded the sky that her legs decided to move.

She greeted him in the courtyard, his arms wrapped around her. For a moment in time, she forgot all, she dreamed they were somewhere else with their sons and their daughters running around them. She reached up, pulling the eyepatch from around his head.

If someone asked her, she would tell them she had no idea why she leaned up and gently placed a kiss on his scar. That the action was lost on her, even when she pulled back to see his grin. She could only tell them that her heart seemed to grow within her chest if that was even possible.

She did not even acknowledge his words, only realising when she spoke back to him, her brain felt mushy, like the mash they had feasted on at dinner days prior.

"You have a right, you are the king"

"I am not the king Mae, Aegon is the king" he spoke back, she remembered the conversation they had moons ago, it felt an eternity. It had seemed her body had died since then.