—————————She was drowning, her throat and nose assaulted by the forceful invasion of the salty sea, along the limbs of sight burning from the sting. The cold, dark waters closed in around her, dragging her deeper into the abyss. As the darkness enveloped her, a part of her yearned to accept death once more. Although, she had endured as much as she could. This primal fear remained—not of death itself, but of what lay beyond it.In life, she had come to understand that time was never on her side, that the end was always inevitable. The shadow of death had loomed over her, a relentless stranger with a deadly scythe, ready to sever her soul from her body. Fear was always accompanied by a sense of wonder—what waited beyond that final breath?
Should one follow the beckoning light, that flicker of hope in the void, or should they turn back, returning to the familiar darkness from which they had come? It was in that darkness where she had swum for so long, suspended between worlds.
Her muscles twitch involuntarily, a final effort against the crushing waves. Her arms flailed, desperate to propel her back to the surface.
Once a proud princess, now a denizen of death.
She had faced it, felt it, lived it—only to become a wandering ghost, haunting the walls of the Red Keep, the burning sands of Dorne, and the frozen halls of the North.
She had committed no crime, yet she was the one cursed—not the men responsible for her brutal demise, not the woman who had taken everything from her. Her legacy lay in ashes and blood, while the Northern damsel's endured, stubborn and unyielding as a weed.
Elia had grown bitter, consumed by a fire that refused to be extinguished. She had become a ghost in every sense, refusing to move on, hunting those she blamed for her suffering.
She had appeared in the boy's dreams, her whispers soft but insidious, poisoning his mind with half-truths and lies.
Although,was it truly lying?
Perhaps not entirely. She was the one who had been married to Rhaegar Targaryen, who had sworn before the Seven that no one would tear them apart.
Now, she was cursed.
Jon was supposed to be her child, the third head of the dragon after her beloved Aegon.
As she roamed the lands of Westeros, watching the seasons change, observing life's cycles—from the sprouting of crops to their inevitable decay, from the birth of babes to the death of the old—she found herself trapped in a loop. Her anger, her thirst for vengeance, had dulled over time, leaving behind nothing but a hollow emptiness.
In the end, she surrendered. She let the pressure of the water choke her as she sank to the bottom, allowing the stranger to claim her at last.
It had been a few moons since Aegon had married Rhaenys, moons marked by loss.May it be of the heart or the soul it seems to aggravate him greatly.
His mother, Lady Valaena, had passed, her final breaths weak and frail as death claimed her. The grief over her husband's passing had taken its toll on her, her strength fading until she could fight no more. Aegon had buried her in the sea with all the honors due her, but the weight of his mother's death hung heavy on him.
Since then, Visenya had not spoken to him or Rhaenys. After learning of their secret marriage on the windswept beach, she had locked herself away in her chambers, refusing to see anyone. Visenya had always been one to hold onto her anger, and Aegon knew this would not be easily forgiven.She had taken the news with a cold, stony face, her eyes burning with a fury she did not bother to hide. Even now, when she finally emerged from her seclusion, her demeanor was distant and unforgiving, her gaze a constant reminder of her simmering resentment.
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Embers in the Sand || Book I
RomanceElia Nymeros Martell, once the vibrant heart of Dorne, now drifts through the realm as a shadow of her former self, cursed to wander as a ghostly specter. She has borne witness to the brutal deaths of her children, her beloved brothers, and the futu...