The Lady of Asshai •Aemond Targaryen•

2. THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT

    Dragonstone was a monstrous jagged rock in the middle of nowhere. It was remote, cold and it's land was treacherous. During the day you could see dragons roaming the sky and at night you could here them sing to one another from across the island. Some were claimed, others were riderless, but some were so wild that they had never been tamed. Brass loved it. It was far from court, far from conspiring Lords and far from Driftmark. She would never admit it out loud, but the night her face was carved would haunt her forever. She would often feel phantom pains in her cheek where the blade had cut her and she would wake at night from dreams where the Hightower Queen ran at her with those mad eyes seeking revenge.

It had been four years since that night and in that time Princess Rhaenerya had taken Prince Daemon to husband. Brass and each of their children had been witnesses to the ceremony and in the years that followed Rhaenerya did her best to be there for Brass and the twins in the way that a mother would. Nothing could ever replace Laena, but Rhaenerya knew that. She was a patient ear to listen and a guiding hand to lead the girl's in their journey to adulthood.

Rhaenerya had displayed a great deal of gratitude towards the girl. Luke and Jace had told her the truth of what happened that night. Brass had saved the future heir to Driftmark from further public scrutiny. Her son and heart. It was the worst kept secret in Westeros that the Hightower's and their supporters plotted to plant Aegon II on the Iron Throne in Rhaenerya's place. Further foul rumours surrounding her boys on top of the doubts of their legitimacy would only earn the Princess more enemies and solidify the traitors' claims.

However, the Princess had taken great pains to ensure that her dear husband remained oblivious to the truth of what happened that night. If he knew the truth he would shout from the rooftops proclaiming Brass' innocence. He would save her from the shame of slanderous words and from the vengeance of the Hightower Queen. Vengeance that Rhaenerya was desperate to protect her son from. The children had sworn their secrecy to her in order to protect Luke. Even Baela and Rhaena at the behest of Brass.

She had said, "He is the brother of the future King of Westeros. We must protect him from slander, or it could mean his death. So long as they stay as the heirs I am safe under their protection."

Brass would find herself thinking of Laena often and how different her life would be if she were still alive. She would have never had to leave Pentos. She would never have stepped into the crossfire of that knife. She would have never earned the name she knew cruel Lords and Ladies called her.

Maelera "Sight Stealer" Syndor.

A cruel name whispered by cruel twats. If any of them had bore witness to what really happened that night they would have their thief.

When she thought about it for too long it would almost make her laugh. She had tried to stop the fight, but now she wished she had been the one to take the cunt's eye. At least maybe then when she thought about that night she wouldn't feel that agonising fear.

She thought about that Prince often. She would wonder if he was still the same entitled little shit he was that night. Most likely. People in power were fickle creatures that rarely ever changed. They didn't need to be good or kind. What use were feeble attributes if they ultimately didn't serve you?

She would think about his face. It was a sight the last time she saw him. A raw bloody mess of stitches and red aggravated skin. She would wonder if his face grew to match the envious monster he carried within. That boy was horrid in his middle and she found it hard to think that it wouldn't manifest on his outside as well. It would be the ultimate punishment for his sin that night. For what he did to her. He had sealed her fate in the minds of the court. It wouldn't have mattered if she had objected to his accusation. No one would have believed her word over the word of a Prince. No matter who's ward she was.