A Bond Between Dragons

the boy with the thorn in his side [021]

Vaella's heart drummed in her chest as she walked through the winding corridors of the Maegor's Holdfast.

Her arms were laden with fresh linens meant for the Prince's chambers. Vaella hadn't seen Aemond since the accident—since that fateful night where everything had changed for him, for her, and for all of them. And now, after all these years, she would stand in his presence once more, under circumstances she had never imagined for herself.

Her fingers gripped the linens tightly, knuckles white beneath the thin fabric. She could feel her pulse quicken with every step, each beat of her heart echoing louder in her ears. Her mind raced, bouncing from one frantic thought to the next: Remember your place. You are here as a servant. Nothing more. She adjusted the bonnet on her head, fingers trembling slightly as she tucked a few stray curls back underneath, making sure not a single hair escaped its confines. Her identity had to remain concealed; her every move had to be calculated. This wasn't a time for hesitation.

As she neared his chambers, her stomach twisted into knots. The familiar corridors suddenly felt foreign, every shadow, every flicker of light unsettling her further. Her breaths came shallow and quick, her focus darting between the task at hand and the memories she'd buried deep—memories of Aemond as a boy, proud and strong, before the accident. He's not the same, she reminded herself harshly. Neither are you.

The weight of the linens felt heavier the closer she got, her pace slowing as if her feet had suddenly grown leaden. She forced herself to remember the façade she wore—calm, composed, an ordinary servant with a simple task. Just get the linens to his chamber and leave. No need to linger. But her own thoughts betrayed her, the anxiety swirling in her chest refusing to settle. What would he look like now? Would he recognize her? Would she be able to hide the fear and guilt that had lingered ever since that night?

As she turned the final corner, his door loomed before her like a sentinel of the past, flanked by two guards. The massive oak door, worn yet imposing, stirred memories from the depths of Vaella's mind—memories of a time when she had stormed through those very doors without a second thought, her small hands pushing them wide open as she barreled into Aemond's chambers. She had never hesitated then. But now? Now her feet felt like they were sinking into the cold stone floor, the weight of her apprehension tethering her to the ground.

The guards' eyes snapped to her as she approached, their gazes sharp and impassive beneath their helmets, as if they could sense the fear bubbling just beneath her calm facade. She offered a small, polite smile—though it felt hollow, a mechanical action as if her lips had forgotten how to curve naturally. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, each beat echoing the dread gnawing at her chest. The girl who had once been fearless was now paralyzed, staring at the very doors she had once thrown open with reckless abandon. How was it that she could stand here, petrified by the mere thought of stepping into a room that had once been so familiar?

It wasn't just the door that felt like a barrier—it was time itself. The years that had passed between her last carefree intrusion and now stood as a chasm too wide to bridge. She was no longer a child running through these halls. She was here on a task, delivering fresh linens—nothing more, nothing less. But the weight of the memories pressed down on her, making it hard to breathe.

One of the knights, taller and broader than the other, chuckled softly, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen around her. His voice was gruff but not unkind, a strange juxtaposition against the oppressive atmosphere surrounding Aemond's chambers. "Don't worry," he said, his words laced with a casual air that felt misplaced. "Just get in and get out. He's fine as long as you don't look at him."

The words sent a shiver down Vaella's spine, the implications sinking into her skin like cold iron. Don't look at him. The simplicity of the statement carried a weight she wasn't prepared for. It wasn't just the physical act of averting her eyes from his face—it was a command to ignore the past, to pretend that the scar marring his features was something invisible, unacknowledged. But how could she ignore it? That scar was a part of her too, wasn't it? It was the living reminder of the fight they had as children, of the brutal consequences that had scarred them both in ways no one could fully understand.