Tainted Crown | Aemond Targaryen

XVII

"Silver scales stained crimson."

__

The icy wind of Winterfell whipped at Jacaerys Velaryon's cloak as he stumbled from the raven's roost, the parchment clutched in his hand a stark counterpoint to the vibrant tapestry of the setting sun. News, cold and hard as the winter frost, had arrived on fragile wings, shattering the fragile peace of the North.

Lucerys, his younger brother, his bright-eyed companion, was gone. No longer would his laughter echo through the halls of Dragonstone, no longer would his cocky grin challenge Jacaerys to food fights at breakfast. The playful prince, swallowed by the sea's cold embrace, leaving only a gnawing emptiness in his wake.

And Viserra, his eldest sister, once a fiery comet streaking across the Targaryen sky, had crashed to earth in a pyre of her own making. King's Landing, reduced to smouldering embers, was the grim testament to her descent into madness. Disinherited, cast out from the warmth of the family, she was now a chilling spectre haunting Dragonston's shadows.

"News from Dragonstone?" a deep voice spoke from behind the prince.

Cregan Stark's silver eyes examined the prince's tensed body, he frowned at the sight of Jace's clenched fist that seemed to be curled over a piece of parchment.

Tears burned the Velaryon prince's eyes, "Luke is dead."

The weight of these losses settled upon Jacaerys like a mantle of winter's ice. He, the dutiful son, the ever-responsible heir, was now alone. The playful banter of siblings, the comforting presence of family, replaced by a cavernous silence broken only by the howl of the north wind.

Cregan reached out and hesitantly placed his hand on Jacaery's shoulder, a small but comforting notion.

The grief was sickening, Jacaerys felt as though he had been winded. Yet, amidst the grief, a flicker of steel ignited in Jacaerys' eyes. Lucerys' laughter, though silenced, echoed in his heart, urging him forward. Viserra's fall, a grim lesson etched in ash, served as a stark reminder of the burden he now bore. He was the last ember, the flickering torch in the dying light of House Velaryon.

He straightened his shoulders, the wind whipping at his dark hair, and met the gaze of the Lord of Winterfell. "Tell the Queen," he commanded, his voice ringing clear through the biting air, "that her son, the new heir, will mourn his brother and fight for his birth right. Winterfell may be cold, but the fire in a Velaryon's heart burns ever bright."

And with that, Jacaerys turned, the setting sun casting long shadows across the snow-covered landscape. He had a kingdom to mourn, a brother to avenge, and a throne to claim for his mother.

__

The streets of King's Landing, still smouldering from Viserra's fiery vengeance days later, bore witness to a different kind of fire- the smouldering resentment of the smallfolk. In darkened doorways and smoky taverns, whispers coalesced into action, whispered threats giving way to the clatter of hammers and the hiss of torn silk.

The smallfolk, consumed by grief and anger, turned their wrath on any image or likeness of the fallen princess. They tore down tapestries and portraits, their faces contorted with rage as they defaced the once-revered monarch.

Sounds of their fury echoed within the streets of Kings Landing, as they obliterated every trace of Viserra Velaryon's existence, determined to erase her from their memories.

Gone were the vibrant tapestries once depicting the Siren of Dragonstone's youthful elegance, replaced by bare stone or hastily hung depictions of other, less tainted, faces. Statues that captured her playful grace now lay in shattered heaps, trampled beneath the righteous anger of those who had lost loved ones, roofs, and livelihoods in the mad princess's inferno.