¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

xxxvii. keyless prison

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

— WINTER, 115 A.C
RED KEEP, KING'S LANDING

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. * 　　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .
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MORN sung high upon the peaks of clouds, fingers of ocher light extended beyond the looming tips of spiraled towers and red-shingled rooftops. The crows above chimed like an out-of-tune bell, their foreboding calls disrupted by the clamor of two women within the godswood. This day, untouched by the grace of white snow, was as any other — except, within the shivering bones of Valerys Targaryen, she knew something was afoot. It was not the current pained grunts of Alicent Hightower that foretold of a new babe; it was not the wary faces of the midwives and Grand Maester as they laid down Alicent in the birthing bed, both a coddle and a grave, a cage for which she had no key.

    No, there was something that shifted in Valerys' burning chest, a dull pinch, an almost unrecognizable feeling, but a feeling all the same. Shadows of men moved around the room, tending to a child as she brought forth another into the world; none of those shadows belonged to her father, none stunk with abandonment, with disregard. Nor did they hold the pain of her sister's form, her shadow long since dissipated from Alicent Hightower's company. It would be a wonder if the Queen still knew the scent of her former lover, if she knew her touch... though perhaps it was a foolish thing to think such a love could be so simply forgotten; the ghost of burning fingers still arose goosebumps on her own flesh, the turn and twist of her gut a familiar feeling — a feeling Daemon awoke, a feeling he nurtured.

    No, Alicent Hightower knew well the touch of her lost love, just as she knew well the touch of childbirth. She clung to the memory of Rhaenyra, so it seemed — she was familiar, and death was not.

    As midwives passed between Valerys' vision, briefly flickering Alicent from view, she saw what she had not that day — the wrinkled fingers of greed curled around the steel hilt of a blade, the spurt of thick lifeblood from a rounded stomach, once that housed the promise of new life, now gushing from a deep incision. Valerys saw her father's face, marred with the sanguine stain of tears. She saw her mother's body, pallid and left to rot, once holding two heart beats, now none.

    At once Valerys stood from her chair at the bedside, the force of her ascent toppling the chair over as she rose. Hot wires lashed in her body, whilst cold, sharp fingers dug into her heart. She longed to beat on her chest — whether to stop her heart from moving so quickly, or to quiet it all together, she knew not. Air tasted sour, tasted thick, too thick to breathe... crumpled lungs seized in her chest until she was sure they snapped from their suspension and fell down to her stomach. Momentarily her struggle forced attention her way until she felt cornered; eyes, too many eyes, were looking at her, judging her, silently mocking the state of her. Valerys wanted to retch. She wanted to retch and run. She wanted to curl up and stay. She couldn't move.

    When she saw hands — hands lined with protruding veins risen from papery thin skin, hands graced with age — reach towards Alicent, Valerys felt her mind snap. Soft, young cheeks bled into high, sharp corners... sweat-slick brown hair froze a silvery white... Alicent became Aemma, before her life had been taken, before the Stranger reached out indiscriminate hands and coddled her and her babe. Everything in the room paused. Air stopped in Valerys' lungs — if in truth there was any within; the coaxing touches of midwives felt poisoned barbs on her skin and she shoved away their hands.