A War of Queens

The Mourning Queen: Part 21: Dayron and Thaerysa

His hands laid in his lap as he sat on the floor with his back against the glass wall, waiting for death to rid him of his torture. He had not known how long it had been since his sister put him in the chamber, yet it felt like a damned eternity. The High Priest claims it has been two months and a few weeks, yet that is if I am to believe the cunt. The priest had been coming in regularly, feeding him with the word of their Aethyrian gods, yet each time he read the texts out loud with his dramatic, preachy voice, the more he felt damned into a lonely end.

Of late, the prince of Solana had feelings of deep regret, yet more often than not had the thoughts of the past plagued him, and an endless river of words of ridicule knocking at the door of his heart. You are an abomination, you cannot even father a child. You uncommon creature. The gods have failed you. Why would the Fates deem this for you, you poor thing.

I am uncommon, I am a failed prince of the blood of gold, I am an abomination.

Those were the words he had told himself as he looked upon his distorted, depressing reflection on the surface of the glass walls and floors, yet it was when the damned, fat gaoler and the damned priest would enter into the chamber had he almost gone mad. Yes, the gaoler had supplied him with his meals and beverages, yes the priest had dealt him with words of the holy gods, yet he could see it in their eyes — the disdain, the scorn, the hatred towards him.

Why will you not die, you filthy abomination? Those eyes had told him, yet their mouths spoke another thing entirely. He wanted to die, wished to starve himself, to lay naked and let the sun bake him to a drying fruit, wished to chip the glass of the walls and end his life with a simple glide of the shard about the throbbing veins of his wrist or neck, had wished to fling himself from the windows. Yet through all the days of those dark thoughts, a voice would whisper into his ears, "No, Dayron. They will need you. They will need your light in the storm of darkness."

Some days it had been his mother who had spoken these words of comfort to him in his time of near demise, and on others it had been the lovely Amanda of Lakestown who would visit him in his dreams with her soft skin and sweet lavender scent. I wonder if she is happy in the Isles now, he'd often think, yearning to see her face again. I wish for her happiness above all else, and the happiness of my sweet Shooting Star.

The nights were much harder than the day, he had discovered to his dismay. Not because of the harsh punishment the gods had thrown at him when the sun was high in the heavens, nor because of the presence of the priest and his calls on him, but it was during the night when he heard the heart-wrenching cries of his beloved Goliath. The dragon knew where he had been, yet by the will of Dayron Helioserys he would not dare cause destruction to free him. Yet it becomes harder everyday. The Bronze Beast seeks me out with each passing day and night. He yearns for his master.

It had been high noon when the door opened and the gaoler entered with a few knights of the golden army behind him. The High Priest had entered as well with folded robes in his arms. The fat goaler did nothing more than smile and chirp as though he had been a bird. A fat oaf he is. What is all of this, I wonder?

"Prince Dayron," said the priest in his preachy voice again.

"Yes, High Priest? I assume you are either going to have me whipped in the streets, or sentencing me to death, because I cannot see why else you would want me to wear those commoner clothes."

"Don't be daft, you fool. The queen has returned to the city, praise the gods. She has requested your presence at once, and so we are here to deliver you as was her royal request."

Thaeyrsa wishes me back? Have the gods answered my calls?

"Where is Ser Brandon Wyvern or Ser Tyron Stone? Why do my men of the Bronze Military not accompany me?"