Love Will Bury Us | aemond targaryen

Chapter 6

NOT YET CORPSES
STILL, WE ROT

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The fires have spoken

And the price has been paid

With blood magic

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Her ears still pulsated with the tune of the Bronze Fury's roar; song of three-headed dragon not yet swept off from lips, remaining a circling, subdued echo on the tip of her tongue. She still felt the steep, rugged path under the soles of her shoes, the ground beneath continually appearing to shake, though already stable. Her body still trembled from the long gone heat of Vermithor's blistering fire that had nearly come close enough to her skin to melt it. There had been so much warmth, she remembered—almost too much to bear. And then, like a candle, it had been blown out; fallen in a battle with a vicious frostbite. Now, she was no longer hidden in the comforting darkness of the cave; no longer bathing in the scorching innocence of blissful ignorance. Eradicated was the place for humane purity. Because blood had been mercilessly spilled once more, and this time it was too much. Because now, fire was replaced, an in its stead came grim, freezing cold and crimson the shade of pure chaos.

And the red tears taken with rotten barbarity were now pooled at their feet, assembled in a plaintive form of three names:

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

It only took a few short moments of watching Rhaenyra Targaryen's face twist in despair and fury so palpable it burned for Alyssa to wonder how many losses it took to have someone die of a heartbreak. If there were grounds to fall for, to crumble completely, to irrevocably shatter—it had to be this. Minds and sanity had been lost for less; people had collapsed for fewer reasons. And yet Queen Rhaenyra remained stood in one spot, eyes ablaze, tips of her fingers white from the pressure put into her palms. Her tremulous hands, Alyssa noticed, were now covered in blood as well—her nails sank deep enough to scar.

Viserys, Visenya, Lucerys.

The third strike was a nail to the coffin; a wildfire breaking out from its confinement within walls; a realm turning into ashes in just one blow. It was a devilish whisper that promised eternal, nauseating violence. It was a starting point to gluttonous bloodshed; a battle for power, justice, revenge. A voracious war of succession that would surely be the ruination for all of them.

Lucerys Targaryen was dead—gone forever, slain and erased from existence so brutally, pressurised into a fight that had had no touch of fairness nor clemency in it. Just a boy, Alyssa thought, a child. Before departing, he had made a promise to his mother, pledged to only travel as a messenger, swore to never strike first. He wouldn't—Alyssa knew this—because he had been good; because his soul had been pure and had carried no wrath that sought bloodshed. He had been good, young, and scared, and this, in turn, led him to demise. He had wanted to make the Queen proud. He had wished to remain determined and strong. Now, all that was left behind was a bittersweet memory of his laughter, kind smile, gentle words; the childhood they had shared, and the love that had gone extinct.

It was so unexpected, people whispered. It was so, so cruel. And yet, frozen somewhere within the clutches of time that had halted, Alyssa could not manifest bewilderment. She still remembered the vile, malicious nature of colour green—the deep-rooted, inherent toxin in their spirit. Was it truly unforeseen, when the slaughter had begun so long ago, crafted with utmost care to only now be openly exhibited?