banshee's lament - aemond targaryen.

chapter 8.

It was slowly nearing half a year since Shera and Cregan arrived at King's Landing– she still hadn't gotten used to the heat but she had finally, somehow, begun to adjust to the people, the looks, the whispers and sneers.

She, albeit slowly, was losing care in such things. She had been spending more and more time with the people she cared about– the ones who made her happy. She still visited Helaena and the children once a day and sometimes would even stay overnight and giggle under the covers with the princess like they would when they were children.

Her mornings started by watching Aemond spar with Ser Cole. She didn't hide from it anymore– as she felt... somewhat liberated from showing her eye to him. She couldn't exactly explain, to herself, much less anyone else, why she felt warmer than usual when watching him clash swords with his mentor. Sweat dripping from his face, the little sneer he plastered on when he was particularly concentrating. It felt like butterflies were trapped in her stomach, beating against her skin to get out. It was unfamiliar at first, the feeling– but now it's become a recognized acquaintance, even if she couldn't exactly name it.

Aemond, as well, had taken it upon himself to make more effort to spend time with Shera. His days before she returned to King's Landing were very structured, very planned and scheduled. He would wake up, spar with Cole from morning light until lunch with his mother, then back to sparring until early evening when he would wind down by reading in his chambers, eat dinner, and then go to bed. 'Going to bed' didn't really indicate sleeping, however. He didn't need much of it to function and found the dreams (and nightmares, to his chagrin) that came with sleep uncouth– so he laid, usually for hours, until his mind drifted into the lightest of sleep cycles. He valued organization and repetition– impromptu changes to such a rigid routine were unwelcome.

Except for Shera– a very impromptu change to his life on her own. Mayhaps unwelcome at first, his outward antagonistic behavior to her was improper and came from a place of, surprisingly, regret. Regret and self-loathing. Usually, he attributed the feeling of self-pity and self flagellation in association with his brother, who was in all rights, a pathetic example of a man (but still his brother and wouldn't tolerate such talk about him from anyone else) but when Shera came back, walking down that hall– she had looked so small, like she was a fragile heirloom on the verge of breaking at any moment. She could hardly walk without guidance and hid herself.

When his mother said she was returning, as vague as it was, he felt some sort of resentment bubbling up in his gut. What gave her the right to return now? He fully expected her to be the epitome of a Northern lady, hardy and strong, unyielding. The letters 'she' (unbeknownst to him at the time, the words were fabrications of Cregan) sent after Driftmark, painted the picture of someone who was fine, who was well adjusted, who didn't have to go through moons and moons of relearning how to be a person. The image of Shera he had concocted into his mind, and onto paper– an icy woman with fiery hair who would come to blows with someone rather than shed a tear– was not what he saw.

No, what he had seen in that hall, who he had seen– he didn't recognize her. Then, seeing the small curl of copper hair, the fur stole, the wolf. It struck him like a bolt of lightning, spurring every cell in his body into action, setting them on fire. Blood pumped in his ears and he could hardly hear her (whispering voice aside).

She was broken. Harsh, yes– but it was true. She was a shell, behest to the terrible experience they both suffered.

Regret flooded through him. She was this way because of him, because he dragged her along in the middle of the night to watch him claim Vhagar.

I should have killed them. I should have killed them.

And he retreated from her. He hardly remembers his words to her after she came out from his mother's chambers– they felt vile in his mouth, like spewing venom. The primal part of him, the dragon, was unruly and restless.