¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

xxxiv. echoes

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

— WINTER, 115 A.C
KING'S LANDING, CROWNLANDS

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     A single, fine strand of near-translucent silver thread blew weightlessly in late-year wind, rousing the blackened spider that hung from its woven silk. Against the harsh backlight of the awakening city, the spider looked a great bit larger than it truly was. Suspended from the peak of an open window peering out to King's Landing, the fingertips of dawn stretching past the limits of the harshly-lined horizon, the spider spun midair, tittering its legs every once and a while. Its languorous movements spiked when, as if a hawk swooping down from on high, a chubby, pale hand swiped for the hanging arachnid.

    It scrambled the length of its silk, far past the reach of curious hands hoping to snag it from its resting place. Soft pale arms hauled back the owner of the curious hands, that of a little girl with stark white hair, mere wisps atop her pallid scalp. Fastened tightly against the rigid body of her captor, small legs parted to accustom her hip, the little girl grunted unhappily, clearly unamused with her failure to grab the little spider.

The woman who held her — a near carbon-copy of the girl, if only two decades her elder — sighed and wrapped her nimble fingers around the girl's wrist, thwarting her attempts to reach out once more. Long silver tresses came into the girl's hands and she tugged sharply, earning a pained grunt from the woman.

"Now, now," she cooed placatingly, untangling the little girl's fingers from her hair. Her angular face was inlaid with exhaustion, blue eyes reprimanding. "We don't pull hair, my little poppet."

Clearly displeased, the little girl grunted a deep-throated noise and began tracing her fingers along the woman's face. Shadows caught underneath well-carven cheeks bones, pallid skin pulled taut over the rounded protrusions. Red bloomed under her otherwise dull skin, carnations sprouted below the skin, bringing life to a graveyard countenance. Wide, lapis eyes were the only breakage of her polarizing face; where she looked sharp and otherworldly, her eyes spoke of an innocence that would not shake, of a deep-rooted desire to flee. Reflected upon the child's face were those same eyes — curious and wholly unaware of the reality that she lived within.

Valerys Targaryen never fancied herself a philosopher, but she thought it was perhaps the grand jest of the Gods that she have a sister so similar to herself — one she could not save from the cruelty she knew was to befall her. Where Rhaenyra wove through life with an uncaring disposition, never dwelling long upon things that did not have weight, Valerys existed as the very antithesis of the ideology; no rock was simply a rock for Valerys, and with her youngest sisters increasing intrigue in all things minute and useless, Valerys realized her soul had taken root within another body.

Young Helaena, a mere ten moons old, was perhaps the most interesting child Valerys had ever met — be that a small amount. Any glimpse of an insect, dangerous or otherwise, would send the girl into a untamable state. Why creatures with far too many legs and venom-laden fangs enraptured the girl was not something Valerys understood, nor did she ever think she would; the best she could do was allow Helaena a semblance of childhood innocence — something she was not allowed — even if that meant spending prolonged periods of time around creepy bugs.