Salvation | HOTD

Prolouge

The King paced restlessly outside the thick wooden doors of the Queen's apartments, unable to escape the agonizing screams that penetrated through them. Impatience gnawed at him as he muttered, "How much longer?" His words were as much a growl to himself as they were to any bystander. It felt like an eternity, although in truth, the Queen had been in labor for only a few hours.

He had received the first notification of her pain and had stationed himself here ever since. In the corridor, he found himself praying fervently to any entity that might lend an ear, his silent plea echoing through the stone walls. All he wished for was a healthy, male heir, a hope that held his heart captive as he waited anxiously.

Many agonizing hours dragged on until the Queen's screams finally ceased. The King waited for a brief moment, his heart heavy with anticipation, before forcefully swinging open the doors to her chamber. There, on a bloodstained bed, the Queen lay, a blanket concealing her lower half as she gasped for air, her struggle reminiscent of a dying fish.

The Maester, with his back turned to the scene, was the first to be confronted by the King's urgent inquiry. "Well? What is it?" The King demanded, his presence filling the room.

The Maester turned slowly toward the King, his eyes heavy with sorrow. "A girl, your Grace."

"Is it alive?" The King's gaze remained fixed on the bloodied bundle of rags nestled in the Maester's arms.

With great care, the Maester unveiled the infant beneath the cloth, revealing a lifeless form covered in ashen scales, its wings enshrouding its swollen body, and a tail protruding from the fabric. It was a grotesque sight, a monstrous aberration.

"Burn it!" The King's frustration boiled over into anger, though the Maester needed no such command. This was not the first time one of the King's Queens had birthed such a cursed child.

Storming out of the room, consumed by his fury, the King vowed to sire an heir by any means necessary.

—

Upon the Iron Throne, the King sat, his fists clenched in his lap, unwavering eyes fixed on the chamber doors.

At long last, the doors creaked open, revealing the Queen flanked by her Queensguard. Merely a day had passed since her labor, and the toll was evident; she limped, her face etched with pain, and her abdomen remained swollen.

The King's face contorted in disgust.

With tears streaming down her cheeks, the Queen halted before the throne.

"Queen Floris Baratheon," The King's Hand, initiated, "You stand accused of treason through the act of infidelity, leading to the birth of a bastard child. How do you plead?"

Tears streamed down the Queen's face as she collapsed to her knees, her voice quivering with desperation. "That's not true, Your Grace! Please, I would never betray you. I've been faithful only to you."

"How dare you deceive me!" The King's fury erupted, propelling him to his feet. "I carry the blood of dragons. No offspring of mine could be so wretched, so abominable."

"Please, Your Grace!" The Queen's cries filled the room, her anguish palpable.

With a dismissive gesture, the King beckoned, and a chorus of "Guilty" echoed around him.

The Queen's screams of despair reverberated as she pressed her forehead to the ground, wailing inconsolably.

"Your Grace?" The Hand inquired, the ultimate verdict resting with him.

"Guilty," he snarled, his voice laced with venom.

"The penalty for treason is death," the King's Hand declared, his tone somber. "Guards, escort her to the courtyard."

The King sat back on the throne, his head to lifted towards the heavens.

With heart-wrenching sobs, the Queen was forcefully dragged through the courtyard, her pleas falling on deaf ears. Tears stained her cheeks as she stumbled toward her impending doom.

The execution platform, already tainted with the dark memories of past judgments, was a haunting sight. Bloodstains marred the wooden surface, serving as a grim reminder of previous sentences carried out in this grim place.

As the Queen was brought before the grim assembly, several lords and ladies of the court had gathered, their expressions a mix of anticipation and solemnity. It was as though they had foreseen this grim outcome in the council's decision.

With cold efficiency, the Queen was stripped of her regal necklaces and ornate hairpieces, the symbols of her former station falling to the ground, one by one.

Forced to her knees on the unforgiving wooden surface, the Queen's defiance had been shattered, replaced by a numbing resignation to her fate.

Her head was forcibly pressed against the hewn block of the headsman's, the rough texture biting into her skin.

In an unexpected moment of humanity, the headsman, wielding the sword of judgment, whispered a plea for forgiveness to the doomed Queen.

Silence descended upon the courtyard as the sword, gleaming menacingly in the sun, was raised high into the air. With a swift and brutal descent, it came down, severing the Queen's head from her body.

In the wake of the execution, the only sound that pierced the air was the eerie rolling of her severed head, a macabre punctuation to the tragic conclusion of her story.