The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts.
She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches...
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When I was young, I asked my uncle: 'What made us different from our subjects? Why do we live in castles, and them in squalors?' - he smiled at me, finding my inquisitive nature like his own. I sat on his lap, holding a book of our history. 'Our dragons' he replied. 'But we are mortals like them - we live and die like them' I stated, and he petted my hair - listening to my explanation like I was an expert proficient on the topic.
He chuckled, paying no mind to my explanation.
He told me that I was right. We were mortals like our subjects - akin to them in the same way that a dragon was akin to a lizard. They had the same scales - and the same look, but dragons were greater than lizards.
What was a dragon without fire?
Saera. Me.
For they have taken my uncle - my fire.
Mysaria combed through my hair gently, careful to not anger me. Tears have been flowing down my eyes for the past hour. I wanted to kill myself. I wanted to lock myself inside my chambers and never come out - unless of course, Daemon was knocking.
"You must pretend that you killed me, so I can run away from this place." I sobbed, feeling my lungs release all its air.
My grip on the Valyrian necklace tightened - it was the only thing I had that reminded me of my uncle. 'He'll be there for the bedding ceremony.' Lancel Hightower's voice rang through my skull, my vision almost darkened. My kepus, my lover - will he have to see me in that way?
"Aōha kepus iksis daor iā traditional vala, dārilaros. (Your uncle is not a traditional man, princess.)" Mysaria tried to comfort me, attempting to speak in Valyrian so that the other handmaidens wouldn't be able to listen in our little conversation.
"Iksā zūgagon bona kessa dōrī jorrāelagon ao, lo iksā married. (You are afraid that he won't love you if you are married.)" Mysaria states, continuing to braid my hair. It wasn't a traditional braid for a westrosi bride. It was a hairstyle for a Khaleesi - highlighting the wars that her love has won. My braid was one inspired by Stepstones. "Kessa iēdrosa jorrāelagon ao. Kessa iēdrosa bāne ao. (He will still visit you. He will still warm your bed.)" Mysaria explained, and more tears fell from my eyes.
I stare at myself through the vanity - my face was even rounder and swollen than before. "Yn kesan daor sagon zȳhon! (But I will not be his!)" I argued, my grip around the necklace tightened - creating marks upon my fingers. "Ao sytilībagon naejot aōla - daor naejot Daemon. (You belong to yourself - not to Daemon.)" Mysaria tried to comfort me, taking her sweet time in arranging my hair.
I was thankful to her - as she was trying to buy more time. I closed my eyes, wiping the tears away from my apple cheeks. If Daemon were able to hear me - I could only pray that he knows to make Caraxes ride faster.
