Love Will Bury Us | aemond targaryen

Chapter 7

TO SCARE MYSELF
WITH MY OWN
DESERT PLACES

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Alyssa had been aware of her father's presence long before he spoke.

Her chambers had allowed silence to descend upon them, a place turned desolate but for the lone figure now constantly surrounded by unnatural darkness, and so they had subsided into the stillness that did little to calm Alyssa's disorganised soul. The room was suspended in a pristine state, chaotic and peaceful both, and the only mess indicating anyone's residence was visible on the bed she had not left for a long time. She was tired—so tired—yet she dared not let her eyes fall shut. Whatever nightmares would plague her, they were surely more foreboding than the troubling fatigue.

For three nights, she'd remained awake.

In the rare moments weariness had managed to successfully shatter her defences, the images she saw were ones of eternal horrors and emerald flames. And blood—an endless flow of it—both her own and of those she loved. It would fall in heavy drops on her skin and sink inside, somewhere underneath it; steal away both sight and smell, destroy the last of her senses, and push her to her knees. She would stay like this, trapped and unable to move, robbed of ways to escape. A laughter would reach her earshot—always the same, and one she knew well. Cold hands would come to her throat and mercilessly choke; squeeze harder and harder, enough for the sensation to become real. Only when the last of breath left her lungs would she awaken.

A premonition of imminent disaster; a prophecy of suffering. The nightmares were heavy with a message Alyssa understood and wanted to forget, and although she was no dreamer and could not foresee the future, she'd kept fighting against sleep.

No one but Inid had come to her chambers since her return to Dragonstone. All of the residents, she suspected, remained within the confines of their rooms, struggling with demons of their own. She was not ready to face her family, and so the sense of solitude was welcomed with silent gratitude. Alyssa had no desire to once more watch Rhaenyra crumble under the weight of loss; Rhaena give into darkness. Staying away from reality was easier. Escaping the pain was less complicated.

Here, in her bed, forgetting about what had happened was relatively simple—if such thing as simplicity existed anymore. Halls and corridors were too suffocating, still carrying the remains of Luke's memory. It was as though he'd never truly left—as though he remained trapped in a phantom form, a prisoner to the castle, a haunting reminder of grief. And Visenya, her little sister who had never been allowed her first breath—she, too, stayed within the walls, her soft cries that had never come now echoing through stairwells. With every step came agony; with every move, a striking shame of failure. Because Alyssa had failed—had lost the most significant of all battles. The tip of her dagger had sank into skin deep enough to draw blood; she had been ready.

And still, instead of slicing his throat, she had allowed the once more victorious Aemond Targaryen to live.

Foolish girl and her traitorous mind, and will weakened by affections of her heart.

The defeat felt all the more real with her father inside the chambers. There were not many things in the realm Alyssa cared much for; she'd never been the one to allow others' opinions trouble her mind and poison thoughts with weakness. But her father—the first person she'd come to love, the one she always sought to have swelling with unmasked pride. . . to let him down felt like a knife to the chest. If she had told him of her utter failure, would he have looked at her with palpable repugnance? Would his displeasure have taken the form of ice-cold gaze, chilling to the bone and stripping her off of any last semblance of comfort? Would it, instead, have come as a burning flame of rage? If her guilt was admitted—confessed to him alone, here, where they could not be overheard—would he come to regret the fondness he'd given?