¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

ii. scorned

✧˖° 🌑 ೄྀ࿐
━ [   SONG OF SORROWS   ] ༉‧₊˚✧
x. act one... the dragon's daughter
scorned ━ ✩・*。

— SPRING, 112 A.C
RED KEEP, KING'S LANDING

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    THERE was an ever-present beauty to the dawn sky. Fingertips of golden light extended past structures of stone dotting King's Landing, reaching towards the heavens and bathing all it touched in warm sunlight. The waking sun crept along the horizon like an ink spill, gracing the once dark sky with newfound light, the promise of a new day. Like each dawn before it, and the ones that would follow, there came a gentle rousing of townfolk and their sovereigns alike, united in the one thing they all equally shared amongst themselves — life.

    If there was ever a time Princess Valerys felt most alone, at ease and unburdened by the pressing demands of her family and court, it was now. When the world had yet to awake, silence sweeping over the land, allowing for a easy silence, even if it were only for a few fleeting moments.

    Elbows pressed against the railing, Valerys stood on the terrace of her chambers, the spanning city beyond the Red Keep the only sight for miles, until it ended, giving way to the tumultuous sea. A bird with clipped wings, she longed to see past the Narrow Sea, lay her own eyes on the distant lands she'd been fed stories of since she had the capacity to comprehend such tales.

    Unfortunately, her visions of a grander future, free to roam the world as she pleased, were dampened by the weight that remained shackled to her ankle, a ball and chain sticking her in place. Often, she loathed her position as first born of her father, for it placed her on a path that no one supported — well, other than her immediate family. A woman as heir to the Iron Throne, a seat of power that had only felt the touch of men since its creation. For all her parents' attempts at siring a son had failed, and while she remained in faith that her mother's most recent pregnancy would carry to term, a sting in her heart gave word that she would not soon be replaced as heir.

All her life, she had been at the forefront of every political debate. Every tongue lashing with displeasure that, as it currently stood, Valerys Targaryen was heir to the Iron Throne. Commonfolk and lords alike did little to hide their resentment, whispering in the veil of shadows about how a girl — no less a child — was a sore fit for a seat made and fashioned for kings. These decrepit vultures made no effort to obscure their glare, the disfavor-fueled curl of their lips; in their eyes, she was not their future queen, but a false effigy, a princess in name alone. Women were not fit to rule, they said, lips dripping with malice. Women were weak.

Valerys was not unknowing of the situation she found herself in. She did not fail to hear the lashings each passing tongue dealt, every quip at her station, every attempt to break her spirit feeling more and more like the crack of a whip against her bare back. In a society dominated by men, rooted in their tradition, viewing women as nothing more than vessels to carry their heirs and figures of pleasure, Valerys was not shocked at their vehement dislike of her. After all, what would come of the six kingdoms if a women commanded everything?

There was much to ponder. How would she rule a kingdom that resented her for simply being? How could she enact change if her seated on that very throne was the biggest change of all? How could she earn respect, when there was none to spare for her?