𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫 - 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 ᵉᵈⁱᵗᵉᵈ

30 - 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖀𝖘

𓆰𓆪

The winds outside the Red Keep screamed like wounded things, but inside the chamber, there was only silence. Aemond stood near the window, gloved hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid as ever. Moonlight poured over his silver hair, painting him in cold light.

The door creaked.

Alicendria entered slowly, her footsteps soft against the carved stone floor. She no longer wore the soft dresses of her youth; her gown was dark velvet, embroidered with the crest of her house. She looked older—not in body, but in spirit. Too many years, too many battles, too much breaking.

Aemond turned, his eye narrowing slightly.
"Alicendria," he greeted, voice guarded. "You sent for me?"

She nodded once. Her throat tightened as she studied him—her husband of more than three years, the father of her five children, the man she had once sworn to love even past death. She had held him through victories and through nightmares. She had stood beside him in war. She had forgiven, again and again.

But not this.

Not Floris Baratheon.
Not the betrayal while blood still soaked the lands they fought to reclaim.
Not when she needed him most.

Alicendria drew in a steadying breath. "Aemond," she said softly, "our marriage has come to an end."

Aemond stilled completely. For the first time in years, his face slipped—shock, confusion, even something like fear flashing beneath the mask.

"What?" His voice was barely a whisper. "Alicendria... no. We can—"

"No." She raised a hand, stopping him. "Please. Let me speak."

Aemond closed his mouth and clenched his jaw.

Alicendria stepped forward, every word slicing through the air.

"I wish to end it. To end my suffering. My heartache." Her voice wavered, but she forced herself steady. "I cannot forgive you. Whatever you do, however you try... I cannot. Even if I wished to. Even if I tore myself open trying."

He inhaled sharply, shoulders tensing.
"Alicendria, I told you—I regret what happened. I was a fool. I was—"

"You were not mine," she said, and the truth of it broke something inside the room. "Not then. Not for years before that. But this... what you did with Floris... that was the wound I cannot bind."

Her hands trembled; she hid them in her sleeves.

Aemond took a step toward her. "We have five children. They will be shattered."

"They will understand," she replied, though her heart screamed otherwise. "They have seen us pretend for too long. They know the distance between us—they grew up feeling it."

Aemond's breath shook, barely noticeable unless one knew him as she did. "And what would you have me do? Cast aside Five years? Break the vows that bound us before gods and men?"

"You broke them first," she whispered, and for the first time, tears filled her eyes. "You did. In a moment when we were surrounded by death, by fire, when I feared you would not return. You broke us."

Aemond faltered. His voice lost its sharpness.
"I never stopped loving you."

"But you stopped choosing me."

The silence that followed was heavier than steel armor.

Alicendria stepped back. "I am asking for our marriage to be annulled—a peaceful one, for the sake of our children. I am asking you to let me go."

Aemond closed his eye, jaw trembling as he swallowed pain he refused to show. His voice cracked when he finally spoke.

"You truly wish to end us?"

Her heart cried No.
Her soul whispered Yes.

"Yes," she breathed. "I do."

Aemond turned away, pressing a hand against the window stone as though its cold weight could anchor him. His shoulders rose and fell with shuddered breaths—silent, restrained, but devastated.

After a long moment, he spoke, voice hoarse.

"Very well... Alicendria. If ending our marriage will end your suffering... I will grant you what you ask."

Her breath hitched—not in relief, but in mourning.

Aemond did not turn to face her again.

Alicendria bowed her head, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. "Thank you," she whispered.

She left the solar. The door closed behind her with a soft, final click—gentler than the breaking of vows, quieter than betrayal, but in that sound lay the truth:

Some endings are not made of fire.
Some are made of silence.

And this was the quiet severing of a love that had survived everything but the man who held it.