"Who is that girl? the one with changing hair and violet eyes?"
"Megara Royce Targaryen...Your stepsister, my daughter, The Bronze Demon."
Megara Royce looked every bit of Targaryen with violet eyes and silver hair. She hated it, as a child she woul...
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"I don't wanna go!" screamed Megara in a fit of anger, angrily throwing her chair down to the floor. It had been a month since her mother died, and a month since Megara had become the lady of Runestone. "It's by order of the king," sighed Morana, lifting the chair before walking over to her young charge and gently caressing her face. "Remember, you're your mother's daughter. Be strong and tactful." Megara looked down at her feet, her face filled with shame. She felt guilty for putting the ginger-haired woman through so much.
"Being a princess means you were born into the Game of Thrones," Morana explained in a soothing tone, her soft hands playing with the girl's silver hair. Megara nodded softly in acknowledgment as Morana continued, "When you have enemies, it's better to keep them close rather than far away."
Megara had recently discovered that Morana was even more brilliant than she had previously thought. While Gerold acted as lord until Megara was of age, Morana had taken on the role of advisor. They had changed Megara's lessons and added many new things to prepare her for her future responsibilities. "I'll go," Megara conceded, her voice softening, "but only if I get something in return."
Megara's journey to King's Landing, at the king's command, weighed heavily on her small shoulders. She despised the pretense that shrouded her mother's murder, a deception Morana had painstakingly unveiled to her. The truth ignited a simmering anger in her young heart, a flame no child should ever have to endure.
Together, they stood before the towering doors that led to the throne room, the gateway to a confrontation with the King himself. Megara clutched Morana's hand with all her might, finding strength in the reassuring grip. She took her first step forward, her posture as regal as the bearing of a queen. Her hair meticulously arranged, her face a mask of emotionlessness, Megara had transformed. No longer could she be herself; she had become her mother's embodiment, a vessel for vengeance.
In this solemn moment, Megara was like a steel blade, honed to perfection, ready to cut through the veil of deceit and exact the retribution her mother's memory deserved.
As the duo entered the throne room, all eyes fell upon them, and a hushed tension swept through the court like a sudden gust of wind. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd as they beheld the young girl's hair, once as silver as the softest, floating snowflakes, now darkened by the weight of her grief. Daemon's absence did not go unnoticed. Megara had scanned every face in the room, her heart yearning for a glimpse of him, but she knew deep down that he wouldn't be there. His exile had been a harsh reality, yet some small part of her hoped that the king might have granted him a reprieve, allowing him to bear witness to her act of defiance and rebellion.
"Dearest niece!" King Viserys beamed with enthusiasm, his arms opening wide to welcome Megara. At the base of the grand throne, a woman with dark, curly hair wore a soft smile. Megara responded with a graceful bow and a carefully crafted smile that accentuated her doe-like eyes, a look she had nearly forgotten but was determined to resurrect. "Come closer, child, I've missed you," the king beckoned warmly. For a fleeting moment, Megara felt the allure of his apparent kindness, but she dared not trust another Targaryen, not after the betrayal she had witnessed. Her guard remained firmly in place.
