¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

xxv. the curse of the crown

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

— WINTER, 114 A.C
KING'S LANDING, CROWNLANDS

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     THE year of turmoil — or so Valerys Targaryen had so affectionately referred to it as — had died; winter snow had melted away under the harsh sunlight, revealing crumpled foliage and cracked pavement. Hands of a forthcoming spring had begun to sow the seeds of new growth, the birds returning from a long absence to perch once more upon the crests of houses, belting their melodic tunes to greet the morning. The air had lost its bite, slain by the returning sun, carrying with it a sweltering breeze and golden fingertips that richened the skin to a golden brown. While winter had died, turmoil most certainly had not.

    Parchment had lost its appealing smell to Valerys; where once it held the promise of long-awaited news regarding Daemon, it now served only to dampen the hopes of all who beheld the treacherous ink words. With each passing day, the situation in the Stepstones descended into severity. Thousands of men lay buried under the salty waves, a stream of blood and tears, marked by a war they had no hope of winning. There came a time Valerys had to prepare herself for the worst — for when news would come that Daemon, in his infinite egocentrism, had fallen victim to Fate's vicious machinations.

    More than once had she emptied her stomach at the image of her uncle's death-marked body, the conniving grin permanently shorn from his face, a haunting reminder that even the most skilled men were not Gods; that the Targaryen's were not Gods.

    When the damned smell of parchment wafted into the air of the Small Council chamber, a discomforting coil wound tight in Valerys' stomach, tearing a knife through her heart as her father carefully uncovered the words hidden within. Breathing became a near impossible task as Viserys' face twined in some negative emotion — anger or sadness, she could not tell. In fact, she was certain her eyes failed her when her father smiled.

     "Your Grace?" came the intruding inquiry of Otto Hightower. His piety-filled voice made Valerys ill, as did his emotionless face. "What news comes from the Stepstones?"

    A moment of tense silence wove between the council members, thick as morning fog; Viserys thumbed over the inscribed words as though when he swiped over them, they would magically change. "Nothing good," he recounted dully, sounding as tired as he looked; it pained Valerys to witness her father's decline first hand, just as she'd seen her mother's. The curse of the crown, so it were. "Near five thousand men have been slaughtered at the hands of the Triarchy; half of our armies remain. Efforts to slay the Crabfeeder have failed, as it seems the war is."

    Slimy fear crept up the column of Valerys' spine. "What is our standing?" she asked, turning the obsidian ball before her it its holding.

    Viserys adjusted in his seat. "Five thousand soldiers, even less maritime troops."

     "This war has gone as well as we expected, Your Grace," Lord Beesbury sighed. "There is little else we can do."

    That did not please Valerys. Years of unfortunate time spent within this chamber had taught her one thing: men did not enjoy being wrong, and they disliked being proven wrong even more. Valerys held both slights in her palm at the current. They had, in fact, not done all they could do. Aid came in the form of few soldiers and even fewer tender; The Velaryon fleets could not outmatch that of the Free Cities, and in that realm, they were outnumbered. Had it been purely a foot-fight, it would not have mattered — victory would have been a surety. But the seas were just as much a battlefield in this war, and there... there was their weakness. A soft spot on their armor, a bruised piece of flesh easy to grab and dig your thumb into.