✧˖° 🌑 ೄྀ࿐
━ [ SONG OF SORROWS ] ༉‧₊˚✧
x. act one... the dragon's daughter
the curse of the crown ━ ✩・*。
— WINTER, 114 A.C
KING'S LANDING, CROWNLANDS
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THE year of turmoil — or so Valerys Targaryen had so affectionately referred to it as — had died; winter snow had melted away under the harsh sunlight, revealing crumpled foliage and cracked pavement. Hands of a forthcoming spring had begun to sow the seeds of new growth, the birds returning from a long absence to perch once more upon the crests of houses, belting their melodic tunes to greet the morning. The air had lost its bite, slain by the returning sun, carrying with it a sweltering breeze and golden fingertips that richened the skin to a golden brown. While winter had died, turmoil most certainly had not.
Parchment had lost its appealing smell to Valerys; where once it held the promise of long-awaited news regarding Daemon, it now served only to dampen the hopes of all who beheld the treacherous ink words. With each passing day, the situation in the Stepstones descended into severity. Thousands of men lay buried under the salty waves, a stream of blood and tears, marked by a war they had no hope of winning. There came a time Valerys had to prepare herself for the worst — for when news would come that Daemon, in his infinite egocentrism, had fallen victim to Fate's vicious machinations.
More than once had she emptied her stomach at the image of her uncle's death-marked body, the conniving grin permanently shorn from his face, a haunting reminder that even the most skilled men were not Gods; that the Targaryen's were not Gods.
When the damned smell of parchment wafted into the air of the Small Council chamber, a discomforting coil wound tight in Valerys' stomach, tearing a knife through her heart as her father carefully uncovered the words hidden within. Breathing became a near impossible task as Viserys' face twined in some negative emotion — anger or sadness, she could not tell. In fact, she was certain her eyes failed her when her father smiled.
"Your Grace?" came the intruding inquiry of Otto Hightower. His piety-filled voice made Valerys ill, as did his emotionless face. "What news comes from the Stepstones?"
A moment of tense silence wove between the council members, thick as morning fog; Viserys thumbed over the inscribed words as though when he swiped over them, they would magically change. "Nothing good," he recounted dully, sounding as tired as he looked; it pained Valerys to witness her father's decline first hand, just as she'd seen her mother's. The curse of the crown, so it were. "Near five thousand men have been slaughtered at the hands of the Triarchy; half of our armies remain. Efforts to slay the Crabfeeder have failed, as it seems the war is."
Slimy fear crept up the column of Valerys' spine. "What is our standing?" she asked, turning the obsidian ball before her it its holding.
Viserys adjusted in his seat. "Five thousand soldiers, even less maritime troops."
"This war has gone as well as we expected, Your Grace," Lord Beesbury sighed. "There is little else we can do."
That did not please Valerys. Years of unfortunate time spent within this chamber had taught her one thing: men did not enjoy being wrong, and they disliked being proven wrong even more. Valerys held both slights in her palm at the current. They had, in fact, not done all they could do. Aid came in the form of few soldiers and even fewer tender; The Velaryon fleets could not outmatch that of the Free Cities, and in that realm, they were outnumbered. Had it been purely a foot-fight, it would not have mattered — victory would have been a surety. But the seas were just as much a battlefield in this war, and there... there was their weakness. A soft spot on their armor, a bruised piece of flesh easy to grab and dig your thumb into.
Fortification was needed, and Valerys seemed to be the only one willing to voice such an idea. If the war became lost, so then was Daemon; for all his prowess with a blade, he could not take on an entire army by his lonesome. If Valerys did not act to help him — a comical notion, her helping him — then he too would die, just as all his nameless soldiers had. He would be another burning body, another person to mourn. Valerys did not think she had room in her heart for another loss. Mourning him was not an option.
"Do you suggest we forsake our own?" questioned Valerys lowly, steely gaze turned on Lord Beesbury who shrunk slightly under her stare. "Lord Corlys is a good man, and a seasoned member of this council. Daemon is my uncle, your King's brother. To resign is to write their lives to the Stranger, an idea I am not particularly fond of."
It was Otto Hightower — because of course it was — who spoke up next, his voice a droning noise. "Princess," he began condescendingly, her title spat as if poison on his tongue, "we have done what we can; our coffers run bare from all the tender we have committed to this war. To continue now is a fool's errand — our presence has not changed the tides since entering, they will not change it now."
Slits became her eyes. "Your dislike for Prince Daemon is not an unknown fact to me, Otto," drawled Valerys, struggling to keep her voice flat. Beside her, Viserys shifted uncomfortably. "But to suggest we abandon him is a egregious insult to his family — of which I and the King are apart of. Tell me, would you so readily admit defeat if he were not leading the charge?"
"My resignation has nothing to do with Prince Daemon," Otto told her, but Valerys did not miss the tensing of his jaw, nor the side-long look he cast Viserys; clearly, he intended for the King's intervention. When it did not come, he continued, "we simply cannot continue to support a war we are destined to lose."
White engulfed Valerys knuckles as she clenched them into fists. "Lord Corlys's letter did not speak of losing," snapped Valery tersely. "It spoke of struggle. This war had raged for nigh on two years, yet defeat has not befallen us yet. He has asked for aid, not pity."
Grand Maester Mellos leaned forward, his staggered movement tearing Valerys' eyes away from Otto. Rage unfurled in her chest like a charred flower, specks of ash floating about her belly as her anger built. "You must see reason, Your Grace," he implored in that deep baritone; the same voice that had commanded her mother's death. "To further ourselves in helping against the Triarchy would incite threat for us all; soldiers and supplies are not an inexpensive supply."
Swiftly did Valerys realize she would find no help amongst those around the council table. As she had seen countless times before: dogmatic men were unmovable forces. Battles were fought by men, but victory was oft claimed by women. Perhaps not in a visible sense, but in a world carved by patriarchy, women learned to mend their own path to triumph; men did not listen, at least not to views they disagreed with, but there was always a soft spot, always a back door. No, these men would not declare for her, perhaps not today or ever, but she had one thing they did not — the unconditional love of Viserys Targaryen. Yes, men were stubborn beings, but with a little persuasion and love they became malleable things.
Rounding her eyes, Valerys turned away from the council to face her father. Clearly rife with conflict, Viserys looked around the many faces of his confidants before his eyes landed upon Valerys' own — his own. If there was one good thing concerning his continued insistence that she looked like her late mother, it was that he could never say no to her. That was his soft spot.
"Kepa," she murmured beseechingly, hoping she looked as pleading as she sounded. "Istia dohaeragon. Īlon henujagon zirȳla daor. Kostilus."
Father. You must help. We cannot leave him. Please.
The intimacy of their mother-tongue softened Viserys' face, closing them off to the rest of the Small Council, enwrapping them within a world where a daughter called upon her father for help. Lifting a hand that once took purchase on his chair arm, Viserys laid it atop her own and smiled. Valerys had to discard the devilry from her own at his resignation. Men fell weak to the whims of women, so it were. Valerys Targaryen knew good and well she could not bend men to her cause by reason, but there were other ways to make them listen.
"I will do what I can," he promised gently, voice loud and commanding, the final word in a speech. He may have been looking at Valerys, but he was speaking to all.
Outrage painted a comical picture across Otto Hightower's face, his mouth drawn agape. "Your Grace, surely —"
The look the King gave was sharper than any dagger. "This proceeding is at an end," he said cooly. "You are all dismissed."
Sparing one last grateful look to her father, Valerys arose from her seat and gently squeezed Viserys' hand before withdrawing it. Similarly, the council members took their council balls from their holdings and placed them at the center of the table, the groan of wood against tile accompanying their retreats. Warm relief graced Valerys' chest like sunlight, expelling the fear that shadowed her heart. It was not a thing she enjoyed, using fiendish means to ensure her wants were satisfied — especially when her father was a victim of her machinations, but there was little else she could do. Forsaking Daemon, nor Corlys, was simply not an option.
If anyone were to deserve the death of Daemon Targaryen, it was herself. Once the thrill excited her, pulsing down her bones with cavernous hunger. Once, she would have delighted in the chance to slay her uncle, ridding her life of his haunting presence once and for all. That prospect no longer tempted her — in fact, it sickened her. To imagine Daemon dead was something she wished her mind never conjured; though, she supposed, if anyone were to claim his life, she believed herself the only person worthy of such a prize. No one understood him as she did, no one bared the pain of his actions like she did, no one hated him like she did — and truthfully, no one cared for her like she did.
To toe on the edge of love and hate was a foolish game for most. Such lines became blurred under too much pressure.
Sweeping past the halls, Valerys intended in full to divulge this new triumph with Rhaenyra, but did not make if far past the threshold of the entrance hall before a hand wrenched her back and into a shadowed corner. The scent of mildew and rotted flowers upturned Valerys nose as the figure crowded her further into the alcove, shielding her from the prying eyes of court. Bemusement settled like lead in her stomach, before her eyes met her captor — then, it turned into blinding fury, swallowing her body in flames as she gazed upon Otto Hightower, his trademark sneer uglying his face more.
"Foolish girl," was his poisonous grunt, hand still hot on her wrist, clenching, squeezing, gripping as if she were some maid he could batter around as he wanted, and not the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. "The queer customs of your heritage have damned us once more. You have drawn us further into war for an uncle who appeases whores more than his own duties."
Something ugly licked up her spine. Daemon's... indulgences were not some mystery to Valerys, no more than they were to anyone at court, but the words stung all the same. "Such a high pedestal you've placed yourself upon, Lord Hand," purred Valerys, a grin slipping onto her face. "Though, it is you who have forgotten their place. I am the King's daughter, you are nothing."
"I have served your father for longer than you've lived, Princess," growled Otto, skeletal face carved out by the sparse torch light. "Lest you forget, I am the father of his wife; of the Queen."
A storm descended on Valerys' mind, obscuring decent thought. More than anger ignited in her now — no, this was murderous rage. This was the dragon-fire her ancestors were claimed to have been borne from. With her free hand, Valerys lifted it up to the Hand of the King pin that mocked her in the light, tracing over it with gentle fingers before she dug her thumb harshly into it, forcing it unceremoniously against his skin beneath. She delighted in the hiss of pain that followed.
"Yes... your lovely daughter, who you sent to seduce a grieving man all in the hopes your blood would one day sit the Iron Throne." Discarding any shred of decency remaining in her body, Valerys used her hand and forced her thumb into the soft flesh of his wrist that held her own. Once free, she grabbed his forearm and sunk in her nails — hard. "But know this: I am the heir of the Seven Kingdoms. And I will be Queen."
Despite his obvious pain at having nails dug into his flesh, Otto still managed a venomous smile. "I cannot help but wonder: what would your father think if I told him that his daughter used his love for her against him?"
"Tell him," she threatened, voice a deadly omen. "You are disposable. I am not."
After one last sharp clench to his skin, Valerys released him and turned on her heel. The hall felt all the more small, as if the walls had seen her crime and saw fit to punish her by way of suffocation. Beneath cages of cracked glass, her heart beat wildly, forgoing rhythm as she bounded down the halls. Otto's words clung to her mind like unshakable burrs, digging deeper and deeper with each attempt to shake them. Peeling back the veil revealed the epicenter of all her woes, the figure cast in shadow that had hung at her heels, awaiting his moment to topple her glass castle. Otto Hightower was an ink spill upon new parchment, a parasite clung to a greater beast, suckling the lifeblood from all he touched.
Above head, vultures swooped, closer and closer to her would-be throne, the head of the flock none other than the trusted Hand of the King; and a hand he was, forcibly molding situations to his liking, reminding Valerys that she had no friends at court, no friends among higher men. Her father could only do so much, and as long as Otto Hightower remained perched at his ear, his help would only extend so far. He was a disease; but through intervention, near all ailments could be treated.
Valerys Targaryen would not give herself to death until she forced his poisonous presence from her bloodstream.
If this was the Gods' way of mocking her, recompense for her years of devilment, then she would strike them down. Valerys was done being another piece upon the chessboard; even the Queen was not safe from unwanted movement. No, if this life was a wheel, a ladder, a game, she would break it, dismantle it, win it. Gone was the girl who trembled at the prospect of a crown, the girl who yearned for respect over all. If the Gods wanted to make an example of her, she would perform; she would be the example all cowered upon learning of.
She would be Queen.
Shoving open her chamber doors with the force of winter winds, Valerys advanced into her rooms, stopping short when a warm draft kissed her skin; a glance to the open window made her stomach churn. When had she opened it? Recalling correctly, she hadn't, and so with trepidatious steps, Valerys toed over to the window set ajar, further bemusement becoming her as she noticed a neatly rolled scroll of parchment set atop the windowsill. Before grabbing it, Valerys looked around the room, scouring the darkness, hoping to find — yet also dreading the possibility — of someone veiled in shadow.
It was not hard to imagine who she desired to find within them.
The scroll was slightly damaged, torn around the edges and stained with what looked to be rain — or perhaps tears. Long-dried wax held together the roll, a three-headed dragon engraved in red sparking within her newfound hope and excitement. Without thought, she broke the seal and haphazardly flattened the parchment, eyes roving over the ink-stained paper, sharp penmanship catering beautifully to the High Valyrian words.
My Little Dragon, I do incline to hope this letter finds you well. In fact, I hope all my letters have found you well, though with the lack of response I presume they have not.
If my heart is honest, I know not why I write you — many say expressing one's thoughts by way of quill releases worry. So little around me hold appetite for war, dampened by our inability to triumph, a sightless victory taken their spirits. Admitting defeat has never been my strength, and such hopelessness calls forth a dark rage within me; unfortunately, evasion of truth does not always yield more favorable outcomes. She comes by way of forcible show. And so here is my truth: this war is waning, though time is not why. Our troops have either forsaken us, or lay in nameless graves along the shore and sea. Pirates of the Triarchy are much like those ants you used to crush under your heel as a child. I only wish you were here to stomp them out now.
Perhaps this war will not end in my death, but the outlook is grim. If this letter finds you, and I find myself — a man who forgoes piety — praying to the Gods it does, know that these months have passed slowly without your presence. Oft I look skywards, hoping the shadow of Aegarax descends from on high to raze these Triarchy cunts to the ground. Court is a lonely place, as is a cage; I hope those vipers have not yet struck you.
Do you pray for me as I pray for you, my strong girl?
Determination set Valerys' face into a hard mask. Before the end of the war, more than just arrows would rain down from above; that, Valerys promised.
☆彡
WORDS were powerful tools, so Valerys came to realize. Actions were sure to bring forth obedience, to strip away any semblance of power from those who remained in opposition; as was the way of her forebear, Aegon the Conquerer, who carved his kingdom through fire and blood; of Maegor the Cruel, who hewed obeisance from blood; of nearly every great king and lord of the past who ever ruled. Yet, history, in its infinite forgetfulness, seemed to discard the fact that near all these men fell victim to their own pursuit of power. Bloodshed only got one so far, the wire can only be drawn so taut before it snaps.
No, history forwent the stories of Good Queen Alysanne who united the realms under words of kindness and compassion, who commanded reverence through persuasion and perseverance. Old King Jaehaerys, who's sword never lay wet with blood, even when those around him fell into a spell of disarray. Words cut far sharper than swords; words reached deeper than daggers.
If Valerys Targaryen intended to prove anything of her indomitable nature, it had to be by way of words. If she wanted anything to be done, her voice was all she needed. Swords and bows were pretty decorum on the arms of strong men, but a siren song sliced just as true. Swords killed, not swayed. Violence frightened, not commanded.
Candle light carved out the hollow shell of Viserys' face as he looked upon his firstborn, reclined lazily in his seat as his Maesters fussed over him with towels and maggots; the noise of millions of worms wriggling about her father's hand made Valerys recline further into herself as she awaited his answer.
"You have my ears, my girl," he told her, before waving a hand to cease the Maesters endless movements. "Leave us."
As soon as the King's chambers door closed, Valerys stepped forward, cupping her hands above her naval. Sweat beaded at her palms, heat starting up her body like fire as she tested her words on her tongue. Viserys had announced his support for her at the council, but how would he ever agree to this?
"Today at Small Council," she began, cursing the shake in her voice, "I meant it when I said we needed to act. While we may not have enough troops alone to successfully stave off the Triarchy, there is hope yet."
A bushy eyebrow raised at her words; Viserys' lips pouted. "Hope is an unshakable thing, in truth. Once life has been breathed into it, you cannot kill it." Ringed fingers rapped against the wooden arm of his chair. "Tell me, my heart, what is it you have in mind?"
For a second, Valerys' heart stuttered a beat. "You yourself said I was mature beyond my age," she said quietly, as if she truthfully did not want him to hear her. The idea of confrontation was so simplistic until it actually occurred. "You still believe that, yes?"
Clearly failing to see correlation, Viserys nodded. "I have always thought that of you. Wiseness of your kind is rarely seen."
"I did not suggest action without the intention of carrying it out myself," Valerys voiced finally, picking at her lip. Skin flaked away under her nails, leaving a sting in its wake. It provided a decent distraction from the curious look befalling her father's face. "As the situation in the Stepstones grows more dire, and as the crown flounders to provide suitable aid, I believe we must turn outwards for help."
Valerys fully expected her father to laugh; to disregard her words and send her out of his rooms. Instead, when her eyes cracked open, he had a gentle smile on his face. Pools of adoration blocked the blue rims of his eyes, crow's feet marking the flesh around them as he gazed at Valerys. The heat of his stare made her nearly shy away, unused to being the recipient of such pure love. Rarely now did he look at her with anything other than longing; longing for a woman she resembled, for a ghost of a memory that floated within the confines of her eyes. Perhaps the greatest gift the Gods bestowed upon her was her marked likeness to her mother.
With his free hand, Viserys reached outwards and grabbed her own; his fingers were cold against her own, immediately lulling her body as they merely looked at one another. No past tenseness, no hatred that once engulfed them, just love — love that she'd denied herself for so long.
"What did you have in mind?" asked Viserys, eyes never straying from her own.
Truth be told, Valerys wasn't entirely sure. Certainly there was a correct choice of action, but she never was good at discerning right from wrong. "The Great Houses remain under our rule," she spoke carefully, slowly, fabricating her own plan in her head as she talked. "Storm's End is not far from the Stepstones; other than the Velaryon's, they possess the grandest maritime fleet in Westeros. Where the Baratheon's go, the Tarth's follow, as will all of the Stormlands."
Intrigue alit on Viserys' face, and hope within Valerys' chest. He had not yet turned her down. "What makes you certain they will bend to our will?"
"They swore to ward me as their heir, and you their King," she reminded, fiddling with her father's fingers. "If it is the will of the crown, they will obey it."
A sad smile tugged on Viserys' lips. "Always so optimistic, my girl. The Baratheon's remain eternally proud; they will not bend to us simply because we ask it of them."
"Then I will treat with them myself," was Valerys' immediate response, dread curling in her belly at the prospect of failure. She couldn't fail Daemon, not after reading his letter. "Difficult to refuse a Princess in the flesh."
Hesitance showed on Viserys' face. "The Stepstones nearly cost your life, need I remind you." Once more did Valerys intestines wind about themselves, curling painfully at her father's cautious tone. "I will not lose you simply because you desire to save your firebrand uncle."
"I will be safe. Aegarax will be with me," she told him. And it was true; who better to protect her than the beast older than the Black Dread himself? "At the first sight of danger, I will turn back — I swear to you."
As if realizing he was fighting a losing battle, Viserys set his lips into a firm line. The Stepstones were a war yet to be won, but Valerys claimed yet another triumph. Life had a funny way of showing people who they truly were, and Valerys half-thanked her loss of self for rebuilding her into someone who found confidence in themself. To be a woman was to fight a battle in itself, and one must be well equipped with their most important weapon: their tongue.
Often did Keres speak in strange words to Valerys, telling her that womanhood was a gift — that men would kneel like dogs for a chance to lay with you. At first, Valerys did not know what Keres meant, and upon asking, was a bit mortified she did. For all her humiliation as Keres explained the art of... fucking as she so lovingly called it, it did come with a much-needed knowledge. As Keres had said, 'a man will do anything for you if you spread your lips or legs for him'.
Valerys was not given time to dwell upon Keres' crude words as she looked down at her father, who had yet to speak. A story of tragic love wrote a sorrowful ballad in his eyes, which rested on Valerys with so much affection she nearly turned away.
"What is it?" she asked him, confusion spreading as he simply smiled at her.
"Before, you would have run off to pursue your desires, likely without a word to me or anyone." Viserys squeezed her hand and drew her closer. "But you've come to me to ask for my blessing, even with the knowledge I may say no."
An eyebrow raised at that. "And you think that would stop me?"
Viserys let out a hearty chuckle. "No, but it gladdens me to see you grow, my heart. Your mother would be proud."
It was a sweet surprise that Valerys' heart did not ache at the mention of Aemma; no, his words did not hit like a poison-coated arrow, deflating her lungs and weaken the her knees. Instead, a great swell of remembrance, a memory untainted by ghosts, purified by her repaired love came forth. Grief did not bite her heart to remember Aemma anymore, but sadness remained, as it likely always would. The wound had finally closed, but had not yet begun to heal.
Briefly, Valerys thought about her brother — her little baby brother who never got to see the world before his life was stolen from him. She liked to think he resided with Aemma in the afterlife; Aemma who had reunited with her own mother, with all the babes she'd never gotten to meet or raise. That image soothed her soul, for it would mean her mother was not alone. In fact, Valerys recalled her want to once more be with those deceased children, and her wish had been granted. Valerys only hoped she was happy, content, free from the burden life had thrust upon her.
"I hope so," murmured Valerys.
"I know so," Viserys confirmed. "The last thing she asked of me was to take care of you — to tell you how much she loved you. If I did not allow you the chance to choose your own path, I feel as though she'd return to haunt me."
Smiling, Valerys shifted on the balls of her feet — she did not voice that her father would likely want his deceased wife to return to haunt him. "Does this mean I'm permitted to go?"
"Yes," he told her with a laugh, but his eyes turned serious. "Though, if you die, believe I will resurrect you to kill you once again."
"Understood."
With her father's blessing, Valerys slipped from his chambers like a shadow, ordering Ser Criston Cole to inform Rhaenyra of her impending departure. Ever the restless girl, Rhaenyra had taken to the skies early in the dawn, and had not yet returned. While her heart ached to kiss her sister goodbye, to promise her safety and hold her before she left for an uncertain amount of time, Fate had not willed it so. Time was not to be wasted, and if Valerys intended to turn to war in their favor, she needed to arrive to Storm's End on the morrow.
Salty air snaked up her nose as she came to stand before the precipice overlooking Blackwater Bay, the tumultuous turn of the sea brewing with an oncoming storm. Drawing the large coat taut against her form, a futile attempt to shield her from the wind that whipped around her with reckless abandon, Valerys turned her eyes skyward. Hung high in the cloudy expanse was the sun, shining with unending beauty that bestowed warmth upon the world. Valerys always envied the sun; it was needed by everyone, a beacon of hope and light, a promise of life.
Fingers of flame touched her bare cheek as she kept her eyes upturned, slowly closing them as she centered herself, raising her fingers to her lips and expelling a melodic whistle that travelled over the sound of crashing waves. In an instant, the light of the sun disappeared, shadow befalling her face as the warmth was stolen from her. Upon opening her eyes, Valerys saw the vast form of Aegarax swooping closer, silver membrane's see through by the backing of light.
A rumble passed through the earth like aftershocks as he landed, a deafening howl splitting the air. The molten gold of his eyes met her own, keeping contact as Valerys walked closer. Aegarax's enormous nose bumped into her lithe form, trilling happily when she leaned her forehead against his warm scales.
"War is coming," she told him, and by the rumble that resounded deep in his chest, she knew he understood. "Kesi ērinagon ziry lēda Perzys Ānogār."
We shall win it with fire and blood.