¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

xv. one final time

✧˖° 🌑 ೄྀ࿐
━ [   SONG OF SORROWS   ] ༉‧₊˚✧
x. act one... the dragon's daughter
one final time ━ ✩・*。

— SPRING, 113 A.C
THRONE ROOM, RED KEEP

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     WEDDING celebrations were in full effect. The throne room was brimming with people from all over Westeros, eager to catch a glimpse of the King's second wedding. Fire light casted a warm glow over the lords and ladies, extending heated fingers upon their forms. Each table was lined with people, adorned in lavish gowns and doublets alike, speaking amongst themselves with excitement. Boisterous laughter and conversation coalesced into a cacophony of formless sound, the clinking of cups brimmed with ale bells of warning within the mind of Valerys Targaryen.

Sat atop the stairs, her seat at the main table feeling more and more like a criminal's throne, she watched the festivities with no shared excitement. A hole resided where her heart had been, ribs broken and bent, jaw nearly fractured with how hard she clenched it. To her right, at the center of the table sat her father, hands wrung and eyes glancing occasionally towards the doors, awaiting the arrival of his bride with what Valerys saw was nervous joy. It churned her stomach, bile touching her tongue. This was a mockery, she had decided, and treated the ceremony with little regard.

Under the table, Rhaenyra held her sister's hand with such vigor Valerys was certain the bone in her fingers would snap. "Calm yourself," whispered Valerys, not inclining to face her sister as she spoke.

"This ordeal incited anything but calm within me," hissed back Rhaenyra, fixing her sister with a stark glare.

Finally allowing herself to look at Rhaenyra, dressed similarly to herself in a gown of black-and-red, Valerys raised a brow. "I am not who you are angry with," she reminded, pointed look quieting her sister's angry stare. "Remember that."

"I apologize," she said, casting a look upon the crowd. It curled a sneer on her face. "I am disquieted by this ceremony."

Righting her shoulders, Valerys nodded. "As am I."

Quiet settled upon the hall, once happy conversation falling into a respectful silence as the doors of the throne room opened, revealing the head snake himself. Otto Hightower's aging face was curled in a satisfactory smirk, the Lord Hand pin mocking Valerys from across the room. Vultures swooped ever closer to her father's throne, and Otto lead the pack. At his side, there stood the grand offender, Alicent, her hedonist gown eye-catching. Fabric the color of snow came around her body, intricate lacings near-invisible against the similarly-colored fabric. At her elbows, the sleeves fell away into a pool of crimson cloth, dragging against the floor with each step. A winged sigil resided at the breast of her gown, coming to her shoulders. Valerys had it within her to laugh; a sheep playing game at dressing as a dragon.

Furthermore, her grandiose headpiece, so akin to a crown, fanned from the bout of tied hair upon her head, beads of white and red tipping each spindle of gold. Her outfit screamed queen, yet her face told a different story. It was one of childlike softness, no rigid regality hardening her features. A girl of fifteen, same age as Rhaenyra, would never be a respected figure; she would be a extension of Viserys, and in the worst way possible.