Slaughterhouse ━━ Aemond Targaryen

𝖎𝖎. A Childlike Rage

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Chapter Two:
A Childlike Rage

(112 A.C.)

     There is something strange about Elyana Vaele's demeanor when she reads the letter. She, who is often relatively even-tempered, is pacing around the Great Room, paper shaking in her thin and bony fingers. This alone is enough to make Vevienne anxious; she has rarely ever seen her mother so perturbed.

     She watches her mother's face for a hint of emotion; the slightest quiver of her lip, a glint in her eye, any sort of tell. Elyana Vaele hides her nervousness well beneath her cool demeanor, though her hands still tremble. Vevienne's own leg is bouncing uncontrollably, and her teeth are ripping the skin off her fingers to keep calm.

     An hour has passed since the raven arrived. Vevienne can only imagine the horrible things the message contains. Her father is dead. Her brother is dead. Her uncles and cousins are dead. They lost the war, and the monstrous Crabfeeder will undertake their home. Everyone in Darkhill will die. They'll steal Altair and the other horses, perhaps they'll kill them too. Vevienne will be killed and thrown into the river Vergremar. They can't decide if they should behead her or slit her throat.

     No. They'll eat her heart, just as her forebears did to their enemies— a final insult upon the name of House Vaele as it becomes extinct.

      Ceria puts a cold hand on Vevienne's own, squeezing it gently. They watch Vevienne's mother with urgency, as if something terrible would happen if they took their eyes off her. Even with Ceria beside her, Vevienne's thoughts are racing and refuse to be silenced. But then her mother sighs. One simple exhale of relief from Elyana Vaele, and the world is no longer crumbling before them.

     She smiles as if nothing happened.

     "What is it, mama?" Avya asks, pawing at her mother's wool skirts.

     "Never you mind, sweetling," answers her mother warmly, taking the young girl into her arms. "Vevienne, will you ask Miss Adrya what's taking her so long? I'm quite famished."

     Vevienne nods. The smell of Miss Adrya's cooking is so strong that Vevienne walks into the kitchen with her eyes closed, letting her nose guide her. When she opens her eyes, she sees Miss Adrya on a stool bent over a pot half her size, stirring it with a wooden spoon that looks more like a wizard's staff. She doesn't hear Vevienne enter— a testament to her deep concentration, as Vevienne is extremely heavy-footed.

     There are no other servants in the kitchen today, though Vevienne isn't surprised. It only takes two people at most to cook the meals made for her mother, sister, Ceria, and herself. Miss Adrya was the best cook in the Seven Kingdoms, her father would often tell her. He's known her since he was a boy; she, however, had always been an old woman. Miss Adrya is short and stout, with hands blessed by every god there is.

    Vevienne is in awe watching her cook. Her eyes follow Miss Adrya as she sprinkles herbs and spices of every colour into the pot. Bright reds, greens, even purple— all likely hailing from Dorne or further south. The air is so hearty and fragrant that simply breathing it in makes Vevienne feel like she's already eating.

     Her mouth waters and her stomach growls, and she grows impatient. Vevienne clears her throat before speaking, careful not to startle the old woman, "Miss Adrya, when will the meal be ready?"

     Miss Adrya is still startled despite the warning. She jumps a bit, then holds a wrinkly hand over her heart and exhales sharply. "Gods, child, you frightened me."