¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

viii. betrayal is bitter

"Sometimes," conceded Ser Loren, glancing over at Valerys. "Other times, I feel as though you are content to drown yourself in your own misery."

It hurt that he was right. "My burdens are my own to bear," responded Valerys tightly. How could everyone around her so easily discern an ailment she so desperately tried to hide? "It is unfair of me to expect council simply because I am a princess."

Shaking his head, Ser Loren lead them down what felt like the umpteenth winding hallway. "People don't care because your a princess, they care because they worry about you. Some battles are not meant to be fought alone."

Very quickly did Valerys become tired of the conversation. It was the same words regurgitated to her over and over, a sentiment beat into her head like a nail. There was scarcely a second of the day where someone was not urging her to voice her worries, to share her concerns so that they may be thought out. Being doted upon was nice, yes, but entirely unnecessary; Valerys did not require others to solve her problems for her, and it seemed all those she had spoken them to — save for Rhaenyra — did not truly have any concern for how she felt.

Just like Daemon.

"Thank you, Ser Loren," said Valerys rigidly, finally appearing in front of the large, wooden door that led to the cellars. Turning to face him, she saw a dash of surprise on his face. "You may leave me."

"Princess—"

Wood groaning with exertion cut him off, scraping against the stone floor as it wheeled open, revealing a descending staircase lined with torches suspended in the air. Without casting another look at her guard, Valerys began down the stairs, flinching when the door slammed closed, withered wood no doubt splintering from the force.

The small hallway was a war of cold and heat, the only comfort being her own, echoing footsteps. The walls ever so slightly caved in on her, a crushing pressure slumping her shoulders as she walked down. Pain at pushing away those who cared — and by extension, pulling close those who did not — was not what she intended. The path of anguish was not one she desired to tread alone, but she could not submit those around her to the fate she knew awaited her at the end of the line. Outwardly selfish, no doubt, but she hoped her intentions rang true.

Afflictions such as loneliness were not ones Valerys were unaccustomed to. The dreadful feeling clung to her like a second skin, entombing her in a endless cycle of self-torment, erecting stone walls around her heart. From the time she was a little girl, her eyes never failed to notice the despondency that sung in her father's eyes like a mourning tune, regretful that she had come into this world a woman. Even before he came into kingship, before she stood as his heir, she could tell his displeasure. A displeasure that extended into his later life, one that forced his hand to cleave open his wife's stomach, in search of the one thing he'd been denied.

That haunting image of her mother's body made bile bubble in Valerys' throat, burning her esophagus. What a cruel sight, one she would no doubt remember forever; the lengths men would go to, to get what they wanted. Precisely the reason she knew her place as heir would not long be supported. Men did not want a woman atop the throne.

Eventually, the staircase gave way to flat ground, spanning the lower floor of the cellar. Passing through the threshold of the hallway, Valerys stepped into a large room, circled with pillars of fashioned stone, though all of the intricate decorum did little to surpass the sheer beauty of the skull that rested just before the end of the room. Encircled by an alter of thousands of white candles, the wax of long used ones dripping over the side, frozen like icicles against the gray stone, was the enormous skull of Balerion; off-white bone illuminated by nothing but candlelight and the torches that hung off the pillars, such a grand yet fearsome sight. It was hard to believe that this skull was once the mighty Black Dread, a power so feared by Westeros, now hung above an alter.