Aemond found you after centuries of you running away, tricking him, hiding and making a fool of death itself. Your aging process stopped the moment you drank his blood from the goblet. The 16th century was a mess for Rome. And you shouldn’t have ever joined that brotherhood

He chased you through the cities, through the time and wars when he was the most busy.

In the begging of 20th century he finally caught you. In the church where it all started. Death could be cruel to some and kind to the others. Forgiving almost. Pitying some.

He did pity you. The moment he saw you in that church — young and beautiful like you the first time you slipped from his arms. He knew he had to do it; he had to finally take you after four hundred years of chasing after you. But he just couldn’t.

It was the first and the last time death hesitated.

It was weird what you were. What he made you into. Not a mortal being but also not a god or any other creature. A ghost perhaps? A soul wandering around? But you were weirdly present there, weirdly human even after he took it from you. Soul and flesh without humanity. It was no longer yours.

Humans could see you when you came for them but never other time, you were slipping through the time like a shadow. Or a secret of death itself. Of his.

Those who you came for were less afraid of you than him. You weren’t as terrifying as he was. They didn’t plead or beg when you knocked at their doors. Just a look back at what they’re leaving and gentle hold on your hand as you took them to afterlife.

He didn’t know why. But over the years he grew used to you. Lingering behind him in that black clothes of yours as if trying to mock him. Your careful gaze when you sat at the wooden construction that held the bell of the church he captured you in. Looking down at the meeting of brotherhood that once doomed you to this fate.

You sat there with your legs hanging off the log and he could feel the hatred filling you as the priest raised the same goblet you once drank from. He saw his little helper’s jaw clenching as you looked at the brotherhood. He stood next to you with his black cloak hanging low by his feet and hood over his silver hair, thinking how much sorrow, gore and hatred could feel the one that helped the Death itself.