The Blue Princess ☆☽ Aemond Targaryen

CHAPTER EIGHT

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

"Ashes linger when dreams burn bright, yet the heart holds what hands cannot."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

❀ 122 AC ❀

Morning light seeped softly through the thin curtains, casting a soft, golden light that filled the room. It illuminated the tangle of sheets that wrapped around Aemond and Naerys, nestled close together in bed, limbs delicately intertwined as they lay deeply asleep. His arm lay protectively around her waist, fingers resting at the small of her back as if holding her in place even in sleep. Her head was tucked beneath his chin, one hand resting gently against his chest, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his tunic, as though anchoring herself to him.

Aemond's slow, steady breaths created a lullaby against Naerys's cheek, his warmth a shelter against the cool morning air. Beneath the sheets, their legs were entwined, her calf resting along his in a natural gesture of closeness. The soft linen around them and his solid presence created a cocoon, each beat of his heart a steady rhythm that kept her nestled in the space between waking and dreaming.

As sunlight climbed higher, it brushed across Aemond's face, gradually drawing him toward wakefulness. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the gentle light that highlighted Naerys's sleeping face. His arm instinctively tightened around her, fingers pressing lightly against her back, reassuring him that she was still here beside him. In the hazy morning light, he let his gaze drift over her, drinking in the delicate curve of her lips, the soft warmth of her cheeks where the sun touched. For a fleeting moment, he wished he could hold her like this forever, free from the burdens and regrets of waking life.

Aemond's hand moved along her waist, tracing the shape of her with a touch so light it was barely there. The motion stirred Naerys from sleep, and she shifted closer to him, pressing her head more firmly against his chest. Her breath, warm and slow, was a soft sigh against his skin, and her fingers unconsciously tightened on his shoulder, grounding herself in his nearness.

Her leg brushed softly against his beneath the sheets and a familiar warmth began to unfurl within him. His breath caught, a subtle hitch that betrayed his surprise at the feeling—a stirring desire that both thrilled and ashamed him. He shifted his legs slightly, hoping the small movement might dispel the warmth spreading through his body. He didn't want to feel this way. He shouldn't feel this way. Not now—not with her resting so trustingly beside him.

Aemond's hand drifted away from her waist, fingers grazing the soft fabric of her nightgown as he traced the gentle curve of her side. His touch was featherlight, almost hesitant, as though he feared breaking the fragile peace between them. Slowly, his hand traveled up along her arm, the cool silk of her sleeve smooth beneath his fingertips until he reached her wrist. He paused, his thumb brushing lightly over the faint bruises on her delicate skin. His breath caught, and he pulled back just slightly, a fleeting look of guilt shadowing his gaze. Beneath his touch, she shifted, wincing at the contact. Her small reaction tore through him—a reminder, sharp as a blade, of the moments his anger had scarred her. She had never deserved his harshness, and each trace of a bruise seemed to weigh on him as heavily as a confession.

As his hand continued up her arm, he felt the warmth of her skin seep through the thin fabric, a reminder of her closeness and trust. His touch grew more tentative as he moved to her neck, resting his hand lightly against the soft hollow just beneath her jaw. Her heartbeat pulsed gently beneath his palm, a steady reassurance of her presence, her trust, despite the marks he had left. His fingers traced along the line of her jaw, brushing over the faint shadows of bruises there, and his heart clenched, a quiet ache that filled the silence between them. His hand lingered, as if his touch alone could somehow smooth away the reminders of his past mistakes. A sigh escaped him, soft and weighted, a release of the regret he couldn't voice.