𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 | 𝐚𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧.

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋

«I don't have much time anymore, so let it be the finish. The last chapter, the last lesson. I wanted to write something inspiring. Be not the rose, but its thorns. Or something along that. But... No. Let me say one thing, and you promise to recognise it by heart.

Fuck them. Fuck all of them.»

— From Drusilla Tyrell's memoirs.

•

'I am so sorry... I am so terribly sorry. I... I swear to God, you were the last person that should have died. Truly. You saved me. In more way than one. You saved me, and despite everything, you were kind to me. Thank you. And....I am sorry, that I killed you. I am so, so, sorry.'

Apologies leave the dry lips, being caught by the wind, raising them in air, hitting the gravestone.

Irellea, it is written on it.

'...Do you expect me to say this?' A little laugh escape the woman as she shakes her head. 'Oh, falling off the window, absolutely helpless, body smashing in the street made of stone, blood and mess everywhere. Must have been a terrible picture for your brother. Not exactly how I intended you to die.'

Drusilla hums, swiping dust off the stone. There is a smile on her face as she continues:

'If anyone should be grateful, it is you, sweet Silla-Silla. I saved you by pushing down. What would you become if not me? Dumb, idiotic wife of no less dumb lord, who would chain you to the little castle, leaving to squeeze babies out of you until you die. That is what you wanted to have? Well, suck it up. I made your life better. I made your life just great.'

Truly, she had never felt aggression or hatred towards her mistress; Drusilla, for her own good, was just an average kid. Lazy, infant, finding beautiful in anything. She didn't know what evil meant, and if she somehow survived the fall, she would probably forgive her for that, or think that it was the accident.

But, well... She didn't survive.

Gladly.

'Thanks to me, your name would be in history. Thanks to me, your birth actually has some meaning.' Drusilla spit on the grave, raising at her feet, closing her eyes; such a sharp movement making her sway unsurely. 'Rest well, dear friend. Shall we never met again.'

Drusilla fixes her dress.

At her thirty-seven—thirty-nine, technically, but it doesn't matter now—she hardly looks healthy. Always petite, bones showing through transparent skin, she got worse after giving the birth to two amazing kids. Her underweight and some incompletely healed injuries—final gift from Irellea—showing throughout her pregnancy. And her hips are too narrow, the pain making her regularly pass out, during the childbirth.

Not kids anymore, they decided with Aemond. But the fatal harm was already done.

It had been sixteen years after giving birth to their second kid, their son, and Drusilla can say she doesn't have much time left. Gladly, Aemond's reign is finishing this week, Aegon the Third taking the crown to himself soon. She will be at peace, knowing that.

'Mom, have you finished?'

Drusilla turns around to see her family, waiting for her.

Aemond looks at her, brows slightly raised—with years passing, Drusilla can say he gets more and more similar to his not-so-favourite uncle Daemon, bless his soul, whatever he rests now—still oblivious with reasons why they are here.

Estelle, her firstborn, a mighty girl with round, gentle features of hers, whose white hair could be only taken from her father, violet eyes curiously looking around, stays not so far from her father; always his favourite.