Eye for an Eye

The air was thick with the scent of blood and burnt flesh, the sun dipping low in the sky, casting a crimson hue over the battlefield where the once-vibrant greens were soaked in the drama of death and vengeance. Arianwyn, the unsparing daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, stood amid the discarded remnants of a brigand’s onslaught, her heart thrumming with the thrill of her vengeance, her fists stained with the essence of the boy she had just sacrificed. Luke Velaryon, young yet reckless, never stood a chance. His navy blue tunic was now awash with the deep red that seeped from two horrified orbs—the very essence of sight that Arianwyn had gorged upon in a moment of primal fury. With grim determination, Arianwyn approached the boy. Luke was no more than eight years old, his face marred with confusion and terror as he whimpered, struggling to comprehend the sudden unveiling of brutality. She delighted in that moment; he was nothing but a fleeting spark of life, a pawn in her larger scheme of retribution against her cousin Aemond—who had lost an eye to a miscreant the same age, an act that had stoked the fires of her vengeance. She pounced, a predator with all the right instincts; a dagger, jagged and glimmering, slid through the air between them before it met its foolish target. As the blade entered the soft flesh of his eyelids, she twisted it ravenously, relishing Luke's piercing screams which echoed against the stones of the war-torn earth. Blood arched high in the air, traveling in a macabre ballet; Arianwyn tugged at the boy’s head, forcing him to gaze up into the sky as if beseeching the gods, while she ripped with ferocity. His cries morphed into gurgles of despair, and with a satisfactory yank, she extracted both eyes, sending a geyser of blood cascading over her hands, staining her youthful skin, invigorating her with a sense of immense power. Luke fell silent, his body limp, a broken vessel; she held his eyes aloft—small, lifeless orbs—cradled like precious jewels in her palm, dripping with the radiant crimson of retribution. Arianwyn's chest rose and fell with frenetic energy; she had not just exorcised her sorrow, she had imprisoned it. Knowing the dragon she would ride once she reached the throne beside Aemond was fueled further by bloodshed. With her prize in tow, she ascended toward the keep, her heart thundering to the rhythm of loyalty, revenge, and inevitable marriage. Soon, she imagined, Aemond would hold her in a dark embrace, etched with the horror she had brought to life. He would gaze into her eyes, seeing the depths of vengeance she was willing to explore to secure their bond, one forged in the fires of fury. Hours later, she reached Aemond's chamber, their fates intertwined like the kings of old. She presented the blood-soaked eyes like offers on an altar, her voice a hiss of lethal sweetness, "Aemond, they are for you. A gift worthy of a prince. He sat there, shock spreading across his face as he gazed at the offerings. Horror twisted his features, the gleam of his sapphire, one of his family’s most prized possessions, burning bright in its socket. For a moment, it was as if the air grew still, taut with unspoken promises, and the weight of death hung around them like a shroud. But vengeance only cultivated their resolve. Indeed, Aemond grinned, a sly semblance of mischief illuminated behind his sorrow, "In return, you shall have what you seek, Arianwyn; a bond greater than blood—a marriage beneath the Targaryen sun. Little did they know, however, that remorse would never find its place in the hearts like theirs, for with honor came a wound that ached in the depths of their troubling souls. Thus, in the horror of Luke Velaryon, a fire ignited. A fire that would grow, unabated, into a raging inferno. Arianwyn knew the path ahead was red and deadly, but it shimmered with an allure she could not resist. Venom coursed through her veins; each heartbeat echoed the promise of more chaos to come. The sight of those eyes, now resting eternally in Aemond's grasp, fueled a new yearning—a longing that would bear fruit in revenge’s cruel lair.