اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
The moon cast an ethereal glow through the sheer curtains, painting silver stripes across the tangled sheets where Aemond and Viserra lay. The embers of the fireplace flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. Aemond traced his name on Viserra's bare shoulder, his touch sending shivers down her spine like the delicate caress of morning dew on a spiderweb – a sensation both cool and tingling.
"I don't think I can sleep yet," Viserra murmured, her voice a husky whisper against the silence of the room. A playful glint flickered in her eyes, a stark contrast to the melancholy clinging to them earlier.
A soft chuckle rumbled in Aemond's chest. "Oh, you will. But come sunrise, you'll be kicking me in the stomach when I try to rouse you, just like you used to when we were children."
Viserra's laughter, a melody that could bring sunshine to the gloomiest of days, filled the room. "I seem to have conveniently forgotten that particular incident. Surely, it's unbecoming of a husband to slander his wife so?"
"Conveniently forgotten, have you?" Aemond teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "The handmaidens used to tremble at the thought of waking you. None dared disturb the sleeping dragon."
Viserra let out another peal of laughter, the sound a balm to Aemond's soul. As she snuggled closer, resting her head on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat became a lullaby. She closed her eyes, a peaceful sigh escaping her lips.
"You're such a drama king, husband," she murmured.
(The word echoed in his mind, a sweet melody. Husband. Aemond savored it. He was hers, and hers alone. The one who held her heart, just as she held his.)
"Just stating the truth, my light," he replied softly in High Valyrian, his voice thick with affection.
Silence descended upon them, broken only by the soft crackle of the dying fire. Sleep, heavy and dream-laden, claimed them. Both dreamt of a life filled with laughter, a life that echoed with the joyous sounds of children – children that would forever remain a heartbreaking fantasy.
(Or perhaps, a cruel amusement played out by the Gods, who watched with detached interest as Viserra and Aemond sealed their fate by succumbing to the forbidden love that burned between them.)
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A rasping groan escaped the King's lips as his wife glided to his bedside. Her honey-blonde hair, usually meticulously braided, cascaded down her shoulders in a disarray that mirrored the chaos in his own heart. A ghost of a smile, more out of duty than cheer, played on her lips. Her hand, once smooth and cool, now bore the faint tremors of years spent holding a kingdom together, stretched out towards him. It was a silent plea, an unspoken question: Are you ready?
Viserys, his once booming voice reduced to a dry wheeze, managed a single word, "Aemma..." The effort sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through him, but it was a dull ache compared to the impending oblivion that awaited. He reached for her hand with one last dying groan.
