Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, Lady of Runestone, was not born of love. Nor passion. Nor even a sense of duty. She was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royc...
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Aria collapsed.
Through his pain and increasingly blurred vision, her motionless body was all Aemond could see. Had Luke struck her, too? Did she bleed into the sand as he did? Was she even still alive? As the horrible thoughts raced through his mind, he began to scream again. Wordless, agonized, soul-rending screams.
He was vaguely aware of voices around him. Some of them seemed familiar – Ser Westerling, maybe? Or Cole? Armored hands lifted him, sending pain shooting through his veins. But he did not care.
All he cared about was Aria.
Hands bearing the shining gauntlets of the Kingsguard lifted her from the sand, and relief washed over Aemond like a great wave when he saw her chest rise and fall. She still bore the scratches she received from her half-sisters, and a bruise was already forming around her neck, but she was no longer bleeding, and her breathing was steady.
She would be all right.
It was only after the realization settled that he felt his own pain. The dull aches across his body were insignificant compared to the searing, excruciating pain he felt in his face.
He felt as though a venom-tipped fang of a Dornish viper was scraping across his brow.
He felt as though the skin of his cheek was being peeled off layer by layer.
He felt as though a dragon had dropped the heart of its burning fire in his eye, boiling and roasting every bit of flesh it touched.
Just an hour ago, he experienced a joy grander than anything he had ever felt.
Now, all he could ever remember feeling was pain.
-
As Aemond's screams began anew, Arianwyn woke. The sounds of his anguish awakened something deep within her, calling her to go to him, to be by his side. If only her body could obey, but her feet were not touching the ground.
Blearily, she recognized that she was being held by someone wearing armor – its clanking filled her ears as they ran. It was not until they emerged into the brighter torchlight of the castle proper that she finally recognized the face.
Ser Criston's warm brown skin had gone pallid, sweat beading at his furrowed brow as he rushed to keep up with Ser Westerling, who held Aemond in his arms.
A trail of blood followed them.
The salt in her tears stung the cuts crossing her face as she gathered her remaining strength to speak.
"Is he dead?" Her words seemed to break Cole from a trance. As he looked down at her, she realized the full depth of his concern. Tears were threatening to spill from his dark eyes.
He and Aemond had always been close, even beyond the training yard, where Cole gave him better instruction, more advice, and closer attention. Aemond had once confided in her that he wished the Kingsguard was his father rather than the king. Seeing the prince wounded like this, he must have felt as though he had failed. He needed to know how well Aemond had fought, how brave he'd been.
