Led By Fiery Passion (currently being revised)

Part 63

Nightmares of what she believed to be Lucerys final moments tormented her throughout that night. She stirred awake before the first light of dawn, the room still shrouded in darkness. A glance to her side revealed Aemond, lost in peaceful slumber. She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, her thumb caressing his cheek softly, relishing the warmth he radiated before slipping quietly from the bed.

Wrapping a robe around her for comfort, she cast one last lingering look at him before tiptoeing out, hoping to remain unseen. Her feet seemed to instinctively lead her down the corridor toward Lucerys room. As she neared, a powerful thought seized her; if she dared to open the door, he might be there. The mere possibility ignited a flicker of hope within her. After a moment's hesitation, her hand found the doorknob. With a trembling breath, she turned it slowly, the door creaking open as if it mirrored the sorrow swelling in her chest. The room lay in darkness and chill, devoid of any flickering lights or warmth from his presence, yet his scent enveloped her like a comforting shroud.

Luke.

Large, anguished tears slipped down Aenyra's cheeks, each one striking the cold stone floor like the tolling of a bell for the dead. The chamber felt colder without him, emptier, as though even the air had been stolen away. Her fingertips brushed across the dresser, then the desk—where his belongings sat in quiet defiance of time. Untouched, waiting, yet forever abandoned. It felt as though his ghost lingered here, heavy and suffocating, watching her fall apart.

When she reached his bed, her knees buckled. With shaking hands, she clutched the neatly folded blanket to her chest and pulled it around her shoulders, desperate for some echo of his warmth. Crawling onto the mattress, she pressed her face into his pillow, inhaling the faint trace of him. The familiar scent struck like a dagger, and she broke—silent sobs wracking her body as memories rose like phantoms. She saw him grinning with boyish pride atop Arrax, his laughter ringing in the sky, his face illuminated by joy. That memory was so sharp, so alive, it shattered her heart anew—mocking her with the cruel truth that his laughter would never be heard again.

Night blurred into dawn. She had not slept, only lay hollowed out by grief, a shadow of herself. When Aemond's frantic voice rang down the corridor, echoing her name with desperation, she forced herself to move. Drawn by his calls as though pulled from the abyss, she slipped out of Luke's room.

The instant their eyes met, Aemond was upon her, his relief as raw as an open wound. He seized her in his arms, holding her tightly, as if he could bind her spirit back to her body. "Thank the gods," he whispered hoarsely, breath trembling. "When I woke and you were gone, I thought—I thought you had gone to confront Aegon."

Aenyra pressed her face to his chest, her brow furrowing, for the thought had crossed her mind more than once. She swallowed the knot in her throat, whispering, "I'm okay, Aemond. I promise I won't act rashly." But her hands clung to him with desperate force, betraying the lie. She wanted to dissolve into him, to let his warmth burn away the coldness hollowing her out, yet another part of her wanted only to sink into the void where nothing could hurt anymore.

"Please... don't do that again," he begged, his voice breaking softly as he drew her tighter. He pulled back just enough to search her face, and what he saw nearly undid him—the vacant glassiness of her eyes, as if the fire that once burned there had been extinguished, leaving only ash.

Her lips parted weakly. "I... I think I'll go lie down." she whispered, her voice fragile as brittle glass.

Without hesitation, Aemond scooped her up, his arms curling around her with a ferocity born of fear. The dread gripped him like iron—fear that if he let her slip from his sight, her grief might consume her completely. He carried her back to their chamber, each step heavy with the weight of his own unspoken terror.