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━ [ SONG OF SORROWS ] ༉‧₊˚✧
x. act one... the dragon's daughter
arsonist's kiss ━ ✩・*。
— AUTUM, 112 A.C
RED KEEP, KING'S LANDING
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ALE, the color of cognac, sloshed around in a goblet as Valerys turned it in her palm, the pungent liquid filling every one of her senses. In front of her, Alistair Stark shifted in his seat, bringing his own cup to his lips as he decided on what to say first. He never really expected Valerys Targaryen to come barging into his temporary chambers at this time, nor ever, if he thought about it, but he was glad she did. The day had been a long one, rife with betrayals and broken trust, the floor below Valerys littered with droplets of blood from where her heart had been cleaved from her chest.
How foolish she had been to presume her father would further honor her mother's memory, finding solace in solitude, refraining from further damaging Valerys little faith in him. When she had been called to a Small Council meeting not long after her arrival to King's Landing — and by extension, her arrival into the angry clutches of her father — Valerys had expected anything other than what had transpired.
Unlike her younger sister, Valerys had no desire to watch her father wed another; it mattered not that it was to strengthen his line, protect their flimsy house from destruction. In her eyes, it was a stake in the dead heart of her mother, spit resting upon her grave. No matter what words he flung her way, reassurance that she was his heir, Valerys could not help but feel the sting of future supplanting. To make the matter even worse, Viserys had announced his intention to marry Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra's closest and most dear friend. Valerys could not blame her sister for storming out of the meeting.
And so, with a soul cleaved bare for all to see, tear tracks marring her face with an angry red blush, Valerys yearned for the council of her own dear friend, Alistair. A friend that could not betray her by marrying her father; it seemed, at times, Alistair was the only person who actually saw Valerys for what she was. In his presence, she was not the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, nor the heir to the Iron Throne, titles such as the Golden Princess and Dragonmother were lost around him. With Alistair, she was simply Valerys Targaryen, a young girl in need of a friend.
"I must admit," drawled Alistair, rapping his ringed fingers against the wood of the table separating them, "I was not expecting your presence this night, Princess."
Shifting her jaw, Valerys looked up from her goblet. "We have been close long enough for you to cease calling me Princess," chortled Valerys, rewarding him with a genuine smile. Alistair returned it, leaning forward in his chair. After a beat, Valerys spoke again, "my father has inclined to take another wife."
Second-hand sadness flashed in Alistair's eyes like a bolt of lightning. "Who might the lucky lady be?"
"I would scarcely call her lucky," sneered Valerys, skin flushing at the warm lick of the fire resting upon the near hearth. "She is wedding a man who will never value her as he did his first wife."
Obsidian eyes captured her snarky expression. "And this pleases you?"
Tapping her fingers against the golden goblet, Valerys allowed her words to quiet. She had done her fair share of screaming and making a mess of her own chambers following the encounter at Small Council, the only comfort she found was within her own grieving sister, patently perturbed at the stark turn of events. Rhaenyra had always taken more kindly to the knowledge that their father was expected to remarry, for she saw past her own selfish agendas. Valerys could not uphold that same sentiment; it was her father's duty, yes, but an unwelcome one. Alicent would never be Aemma.
"While I would say no, to save myself from sounding like a clowning child," began Valerys, "it would be a plain-faced lie."
Thinning his lips, Alistair took Valerys hand, the contact sending a galvanizing jolt through her nerves, alit with wildfire at his touch. "You needn't apologize for having emotions," consoled Alistair. "It's normal to feel upset about these things."
Withdrawing her hand, Valerys pulled it down her face. "I can only imagine how Rhaenyra is fairing."
"Why aren't you with her?" It wasn't accusatory, but it sent Valerys into a defensive position.
"She left on Syrax not long after the news broke," explained Valerys, a sharp bite in her voice. If her sister was here, there was little doubt that she'd be with her; alas, she was not, and sent Valerys into the arms of Alistair Stark. "Where she went, I do not know. I worry for her; she's always been prone to finding herself in... troubling situations."
Valerys needn't divulge the secrets that encased her sister like an iron maiden. Not long ago had she found her, adorned in impoverished male clothes, trading kisses for cakes with a servant-boy. Even worse, she came to notice her younger sister's longing stares directed at her sworn shield, Criston Cole; Valerys hadn't the chance to scold her sister for such a wistful fantasy, one that could never come to fruition without dire consequences. While she yearned to allow her sister to enjoy her youth, reveling in the freedom she'd had been stolen away from, Valerys knew good and well what exports such as her own yielded, and they were never good.
"Rhaenyra is young," said Alistair with a wave, swallowing down another mouthful of ale. "In time she will learn. Allow her the decency of a childhood."
Spurned by his words, Valerys narrowed her eyes. "You mightn't know the truth of living as a woman, but I do," snapped Valerys, taking Alistair aback with the intensity of her words. "We cannot afford the scandals of such childish dalliances."
Frowning, Alistair dropped his cup to the table, leaning his elbows upon the garnished wood. "I didn't mean to offend, Valerys," he murmured softly, a gentle summer breeze. Reigning herself, Valerys mentally scolded her need to resort to defense. Alistair was not the court; he did not view her as a criminal. "You know how much I revere you and your strength. Many would crumble under the pressure you endure daily, yet here you stand."
Biting back the sorrow that sank in her stomach, Valerys looked away and towards the fire. "I am a dragon," she spoke easily, though the words were foreign to even herself. Dragons do not live in cages. "Steadfastness is my virtue."
With a chuckle rumbling his chest, Alistair quirked his lips. "Rigid to the bone, I see," he assessed, reveling in the heat that backed Valerys' eyes of lapis. "Your rehearsed responses are not needed with me. I only wish you were more open with me."
"That would be unbecoming," responded Valerys, well aware of the fact that being alone with a man could be cause for gossip amongst the court. She needn't another scandal arise in her name, one that could send ripples of her supposed lost virtue to further diminish her credibility as heir.
Alistair hummed softly. "Perhaps," he ceded, tapping the golden goblet. The clinks reverberated in Valerys' brain like gunshots, each one serving as another alarm in her mind. "Though it is you who sought me out, Princess."
"You are the only one who does not view me as a useless child," reminded Valerys, voice sharp as dragonglass. "Your council means much to me."
Alistair's chair squealed as he arose, maneuvering around the table to crouch at her side. Surprise and a flicker of intrigue alit her features, allowing her gaze to regard him with measured curiosity. With a hand, he clasped her own, and with the fire before them, she left as if flames were eating her alive. Nerves bounced around in her skin, teeth worrying her lip as she avoided his piercing gaze. Something about him reduced her to a guileless girl.
The rough pad of his finger traced the back of her hand, running along her knuckles with unabashed affection. It only served to further detach Valerys heart from her head.
"I only wish I meant much to you," confessed Alistair, voice a gentle caress. Valerys squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the black that followed would consume her whole. "You are the most fearless woman I have ever met, everything about you —"
"I do not wish to marry," was Valerys harsh interjection, ignoring the question that dancing across Alistair's face like a lit flame.
"Val —"
Despite her emotions jumbled like a ball of yarn, Valerys grappled Alistair's face in her warm hands. "I am sorry, Alistair. Truly. But I have little desire to marry anyone at the current." Her voice came out rough and unpleasant, the nails in her throat piercing her gummy flesh. "I have seen what marriage yields. I do not wish to fight a battle for the rest of my life."
In a clear effort to shove down his hurt, Alistair blinked recurrently. "I do not follow."
"The moment I marry, I will become an extension of that man, property, like a broodmare sold to the highest bidder." Heart constricting in her chest, thorn-touched vines digging into the wounded muscle, Valerys willed herself to continue. "My father claimed to love my mother more than anything, and yet forsook her life for the prospect of a son. I will not submit myself to the same fate. I will not fight for freedom, of which I have very little left."
Fire of sorrow engulfed Alistair, and for a moment — a moment in which Valerys could have taken back everything — he looked at her. A polarizing stare, one a ironic amalgamation of pity and contempt, love and hatred. Duty was not something anyone could outrun, but Valerys new the path of evasion well. Alistair would be a fine match, a fine husband, perhaps even a fine father. But when Valerys imagined herself happy, it was never with a man at her side. Men served as shackles to women's lives, forever damning them to a life of thoughtless obedience. Valerys would not be able to live that life, regardless of who her husband was. She would never bend to the will of a man.
Unable to bear looking upon Alistair's face any longer, for fear that she would retract all of her statements to avoid hurting him — and therefore severing their relationship — Valerys stood from her seat, toppling over the goblet of ale in the process. It clattered against the tile flooring with a resounding clang, droplets of amber liquid projecting unto the both, the spare alcohol seeping out into the cracks of the floor, bathing it in flame-reflected liquid. Mortified at the stark turn of events, Valerys fled the room.
She did not feel her tears, she only tasted them, a salty reminder of all she had forsaken this day. Of all she had lost. Her father had claimed he had loved Aemma, yet found it within himself to take another wife. How could he stomach the thought of baring more children, none of which had her distinct, beautiful features? How could you claim love when it is so easily toppled, built on foundations of straw? Marriage appeared to be a happy thing, some cause of uproarious celebration, yet Valerys could not see it so. It was a life sentence, a writing off of all happiness.
If Viserys could so easily discard Aemma, who's to say Valerys would be any exception? The grandest example of love, so easily replaced. Unfathomable and utterly disgusting, a mockery of her late mother. Valerys would not become a victim of her husband and his whims.
She was the heir to the greatest dynasty in the history of Westeros. The future first ruling Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. An aversion of tradition in flesh. If Valerys would ever commit to a lover, it would be the Iron Throne itself, and the union would be a long one.