Act III of Devotion: Liberty
Chapter VI: Love In The Eyes
'Upon my return to the Citadel that year, the blossoming of both life and death weigh heavy on my shoulders. I could not help but recall the tears I had shed and the count of my laughter at those happiest moments. Most believe us Targaryens to be above the life of men and women. Like gods who could restart the game and play it again, untouchable and fearless. But we are not any of those things. We are no gods. We are creatures of flesh and bone, the same echo of blood streaming through each pour of our veins. We are slaves to the march of time and to the cruelty of mortality. Of love and grief. Of death and sorrow. Of happiness and laughter. We are all the slaves of gods and mortality. We are even slaves to our own power, to our golden crowns and golden shrouds.
I cannot say for certain that truly allowed ourselves to live each moment as though it was the last. As though it was the memory that will triumph among the others. But as dragons had for centuries before, we Targaryens had found ourselves feeling each moment deeply. Intensely, maddening. Every different emotion is a category of madness. The moment of memory may be forgotten, but the smell, the taste. The feeling, the sound. Even the texture. We remember it all too well. We remember with yearning and sorrowful love in our eyes. Especially when we had found out the occupation and burning of Lannisport.
The screams of my grief-stricken mother as my sorrowful father held her back from getting close to the funeral pyre was fresh upon my mind. Aegon's anger and his grief, even his regret mounted upon him, his grief only shaken at the touch of Laila Connington's hand. Standing beside Rhaenys, her heart was taken from her. A part of all of us died when Visenya died. But Rhaenys was burnt with her that day, blaming herself for bot being strong enough. Not being steong enough to convince Visenya to come with her. Tears pouring, unable to find a way to become sober, her eyes were without light. Even Daemon and Rhaenyra were in deep grief at the loss of our dear sister. Nothing had ever been the same, nothing would be the same. All of us, we yearned for revenge. We yearned for retribution. I had wanted to remove the maester's chain and abandon it for a sword. To fight. To bring justice, to have meaning to Visenya's loss. To Eleanora's loss.
The crown prince's banquet had been cancelled that year, instead of revelry - Dragonstone summoned it. Preparations for war commenced within the week of the funeral. The queen Leila Lannister had commanded her eldest sons to bring justice and peace ro the realm. And so they shall. For when Targaryen blood is spilt, there is only fire.'
- Maester Maekar; Chapter VI of The White Queen
CHESTNUT GLISTEN FOUND ITSELF IN THE HEAT OF THE DRAGONSTONE'S KITCHENS. The watchful eyes of the kitchen maids and servants were upon her within the kitchen's intense heat. Laila moved her head slightly, playing with her fingers nervously as she waited. She was not certain if the flour had been enough or if the amount of sugar had been plentiful and kind. The young Connington lady knew that there would not be another chance at this venture, not when the time for it was so desperately needed.
For a moment, she bowed her head whispering a frantic prayer to the gods. Hoping that the batter would rise, that there would be beauty in the crust of the delight's edges. She knew that he would be most happy, as she would be. He deserved to be happy, Laila argued to the gods. After all he has been through and all he goes through, Laila thinks that prince Aegon deserves to be able to smile — most especially on his name-day. That is why she begs, she cries to the gods for reprieve, that this small gift would make him smile. All the gods have to do is bless the batter and let it rise to perfection.
Six moons had passed since prince Aegon had moved his retinue from King's Landing and back to his seat at Dragonstone. The opportunity came at a perfect time, after he was needed to deal with the fiscal management of his keep. The crown prince had decided that he would return to his beloved Dragonstone and renounce the office of being Hand to his father. A reprieve on the prince's part, his mother had advised him to do so for the sake of his health.
The decision had been tough on the prince, he did not want to hurt the realm with his sudden departure. But he knew that his mother was right. He needed to pace himself once again and rest. Hence he did so without another word and did so honorably. Her father had become hand to king Rhaegar in his place, which Aegon wholeheartedly agreed with. However it did not help that the court was full of vain and brutish people, who continued to gossip about the matter they did not know of.
How he was running away, his tail behind his back as though like a coward who cannot face his responsibility. How he could not even decide upon finding a bride, how he was perhaps a cutsleeve. They had whispered about his younger brother prince Daemon who had become wedded and bedded — with a child on the way. Laila could only wonder if the prince Daemon had been responsible for fanning such rumors at court. He would have the heart to do so, her gut tells her. He does not like his eldest brother just as much as prince Jacaerys himself.
Laila too was certain that the princess Rhaenyra too was aiding her elder brother, collecting a circle of like-minded people to undermine the crown prince's hold on power. Aegon had told her that this was not something she should concern herself with, that such troubles at court were nothing to him. He was, after all, hailed as heir the moment he was born and the moment he was crowned as such. However, the young doe eyed woman could not help but feel worry for how this will affect support for Aegon at court. After all, there were many opportunists who would want to take advantage of his absence. They already have.
Her chestnut hair swelled against her head as she wondered what they would get out of fanning such rumors at court. Such descent is not helpful. Rather, they bring more poisonous vipers that would feast upon the weakness of the family. A weakness the queen had spent all her life trying to remove upon the family through her labors and her control on the throne from behind the iron rust.
They all whisper about the prince Daemon now looking to be the more attractive princely heir when he had decided to settle upon his debauchery to be a husband and father. Yet none of them even knew the truth of who prince Daemon is, how it had taken much from the queen to ensure the image to remove the stain on his name. Even as they set foot upon his own ship, the whispers continued below the deck of his own ship. She had become enthralled with how eager people had become to stab him in the back, to want to hurt him.
Laila Connington had decided that all of them had been cowards. Such people could not even come forward and tell such offensive lies to his face. All because they were jealous. Eager to ruin him because he is what they wish they were. Laila had known that many envied the power he wields. The life of the prince seemed so easy in the exterior, in the revelry and the awe he displayed for all to see. She had seen his truth in all these many moons, at times finding him still awake from hours of labor in the neatly rolled parchment surrounding him. The scent of candle wax and ink upon his body was evident, even his warm words of reassurance whirled echoes of weariness in each word pronounced. He puts his soul into his work, his duty in this performance of prince.
Yet all had been a performance, a performance he surrendered himself upon. The young silver prince had not been fond of the eyes of his, the words of others are not something that is easy for him to escape. If one sees what he has gone through as she had, they would understand him more. They would seize all ill words and rumors of him. Laila Connington could not help but want to wrap her arms around him and shield him from the world, to protect him – to embrace him.
'He has surrendered himself to all, to be their servant.' Laila thinks mournfully. 'And this is what they do to him. How ungrateful can they be?'
For a moment though, she felt herself breathing in relief knowing that they were at least far from troubles. That the prince could have a moment to be himself. Because he is in his own home. Within the spaces that did not haunt him, spaces where there are people who are staunchly loyal to him. Many of the servants within Dragonstone had been hand chosen by him personally when he was invested as the island's prince. Others had been here when his mother was the princess consort. Aegon had said as much to her that these people were more family to him than anything else. They had not shown anything else but that to him and Laila is inclined to believe him, having spent much time with them as well.
"M'lady, I don't think it's wise for you to remain here for long." The elder kitchen wench, Wylla, whispers to her, pointing to the stove. "It's too hot in here!"
Laila shifts, smiling nervously. "No, it is alright. I need to wait for it. Or it will burn."
"That's what the kitchen wench is for, m'lady!" Jerold the cook added with a snark on his lips as he pointed to the open heat. "She'll come and fetch ya if the kaka rises."
"But still–"
"We will take care of it, m'lady." The younger kitchen maid Hera says, smiling softly as she wiped her hand against a clean cloth. "You shouldn't worry your head about it or your youth will fly out the windows."
The older one smiled, grinning. "Besides, m'lady, won't the prince be looking for you at this hour?"
"His prayers at the dragon caverns would be over, no?"
Laila's eyes grew wide as she bowed to curtsy. "Prince Maekar!"
He shook his head, sitting down on one of the stools. "No longer a prince, girl. Very unseemly for a noble girl to bow to a twice chained maester."
Wylla glared at the younger Targaryen. "Then this old maid wishes the foolish maester to stop eating the dishes before they're even ready!"
Boisterous prince Maekar enters with a grin, grabbing another roll of bread from the table as he is shooed away. "Now, why should I do that? Food is for sustenance should it not?"
"You are as insolent as you were when you were a boy." Wylla cries, taking the bread basket away from the table with a displeased huff. "Thank the gods you are now the Citadel's problem."
Mischief rolls his eyes playfully. "Oh just say the truth as you must, dear Wylla. You miss me!"
"As if, boy. You relieve Dragonstone with your departure."
The second son of Leila Lannister gleaned with pleasure as he took another lucious bite of the bread. Many had whispered about his inherited charm, his wit in conversation. Laila had found herself affronted by the truth of these whispers. He stood tall and proud at each turn, not minding the displeasure of people about him. The prince had been due to return to Oldtown moons ago and for many moons the prince had put off the trip. He claimed that his family needed him more, to entertain them.
Prince Maekar had claimed that since he had left, his family had become a stiff bunch who bore the court to death. His successor Prince Daemon had found himself offended by such a thing, only being held back by his twin brother Aemon from throwing the first punch. The elder prince merely laughed and continued his presence at court—until he decided to sail for Dragonstone three moons before to seek his brother out.
Aegon had welcomed his brother with open arms, delighted to see his company at their childhood home. The daughter of Griffin's Roost trailed behind them as they enjoyed a small conversation each day at the mouth of Dragonstone's bridge. Yet that changed when the prince received missives from the Citadel, requesting Maekar's return. The reasoning behind Maekar's nomadic breath had been his desire to put off his earning of his maester's chain. Aegon had wondered if it had been his regrets relinquishing his position, reading the missives from his mother at court.
But there is no regret that filled Maekar, the prince of Dragonstone made sure to tell her that his brother was not that type of person. The former prince of Duskendale was worried, as he always has been Aegon echoes. Most of all for his eldest brother. The brother whom he promised to protect for as long as he lived. Maekar Targaryen meant it, she thinks. Whatever happens, Maekar would do anything for his elder brother. Laila could not help thinking that the prince loved three things in his life — his family, his freedom and his elder brother. He has no qualms about abandoning everything else.
Laila shifted slightly as she walked towards the Targaryen scion. "My prince,"
Maekar turned to her, a quizzical gaze accompanying his attention. "Yes, my lady?"
"I would like to ask....if the prince will be passing through soon?"
"Oh?" The prince grins once more, his look intensifying with mischief. "You have a surprise for my brother? A romantic gift, mayhaps?"
"T-that is not what it is for–"
"Now do not be shy, my lady. The realm's ladies are passionate with love for my dearest brother. I do not think you dissimilar—"
Wylla wacks him in the head with a ladle, the prince groans and Laila jumps. "Do not scare the child off, ye scoundrel!"
"I am not a scoundrel, you witch!" Maekar cries as he pouts, nursing his head. "Can I not tease the lady?"
"She worked hard to learn the recipe, my prince." Hera sighs as she takes a wooden bowl away to the side, filled with seasoned salmon. "The poor girl was distressed at failing the first time."
Maekar's purple eyes widened slightly, gazing at Laila who was as red as her dressage. "Oh, you like my brother that much?"
"It is not that, my prince." Laila stutters, feeling her palms wet from unfathomable feelings. "I...I merely want to thank him. For all he's done."
Laila pursed her lips, unsettled eyes turning away unable to return the learned prince – who is trying to figure out what she meant by such a thing. Somehow, there is a gap to even those closest to the prince in terms of appreciation. Laila understood why, she really did. Yet her heart tightened in unspeakable sorrow at the thought that none had ever expressed it deeply. Ever truthfully, with all the warmth they could muster from within them — that they appreciate all that he does. That they see all his strength amid the putrid storms that he faces. That they see the truth in him. The true prince Aegon. No, she corrects herself. The man beneath the cloak, Aegon himself.
"I have heard whispers of him in my own halls." She admits to the prince, though she feels her heart accelerate at the thought of others hearing it too. She felt like she would faint as she spoke, her voice shaking at her truths. "And those whispers were all I knew for a long time. But now...I know and I see—"
"You see what, my lady?" The hard accentuation of those words made out the melody of one man. Laila Connington felt like she was burning, the heat of her body was placid scarlet against the pale cosmetic of her skin. She felt alone as the rest of those within the kitchen returned to their stations in haste, as though naughty children caught in the act of doing something that warrants disapproval.
Stood in a plain white tunic against a sable colored cloak entrenched in gold sequins, Aegon Targaryen's features were captured in a questioning gaze, a proud man of knowledge perplexed at something he does not know. Laila could not help but look away, fearing that the prince would capture her gaze at him, fearing that he would notice how her eyes made the measure of his princely countenance. She could not even gaze at her own brother Edrick who stood beside the prince as loyally as he always has, with a gaze just as perplexed as the prince he serves.
"You always know how to make an entrance, my dearest brother." Prince Maekar broke the silence, a strained smile upon his lips. Lifting his hand where the bread rests, he inquired; "Are you about to break your fast?"
"I am not famished yet, mayhaps...." His green seafoam gaze never leaves the chestnut haired griffin. "Mayhaps later."
"Well, prayers in front of a massive dragon skull can warrant such a thing." The second son mumbles as he munches upon the bread. "Who did you pray to today?"
"Aelyx." The elder brother responds absentmindedly as he gazes at Laila, who turned and started to aid Hera with chopping potatoes in quiet mumbles. "I prayed for good health for the family."
"Uh-huh." Maekar says as he stood from the stool he was sitting on and stood in front of his brother, which managed to put him out of the trance. "Are you alright, dearest brother?"
"Oh. Yes. I am. I am just....minding my prayers once again."
"Had I been someone else, you would be dead." Maekar points out, poking at his brother's temple. Aegon releases a stiff huff of breath as Maekar grinned. "Ah, this is why I pity Visenya! Her work must knock her down to sleep after dark."
"I told you, I was minding my prayers." The elder prince whispers back, removing his brother's finger. "And I would never do that to our sister. She speaks her mind too well against anything she does not like. She would not keep quiet like a sheep."
"I suppose so." Maekar laughs, clapping his hands together as though a child. "But one should hope she returns from Casterly Rock soon."
The prince raises a brow as his brother wraps an arm on his shoulder, taking him back to the doorway. He tries to stop his brother, but Maekar grins as he tightens his grip on him and forces him to walk with him.
"And why is that?"
"Because someone needs to watch you closely." Maekar says outlandishly as they depart, Edrick following closely. Laila turns and thinks she can see his grin from afar. His voice echoes with boisterous loudness, "You cause more trouble than you think!"
The rest of them could hear the prince laugh even harder.
Laila Connington stops what she was doing to linger at the doorway.
Her heart skipped a beat as she caught a shine of fondness in his features.
'He is even more marvelous when he smiles so freely like that.'
HIS MOTHER REGALED THE DAY HE MET DAENERYS. When the late queen Rhaella had passed in childbirth, a young prince Viserys and the babe Daenerys were presented to the young queen. They had looked lost, Viserys more so being the elder child. They were orphans now, in need of someone to care for them. Leila had done her part for Viserys, though he had become a difficult child. His mad father had isolated him from everyone but himself. Yet the young queen had felt enamored with the girl babe. Jon could not remember it at all but his mother whispered in that voice he cherished, that warm soft tone, that he and Daenerys seemed to fit each other like a glove, as though they were twins. As though they belonged together.
The queen had placed the young princess upon the same space as him, his cot being spacious enough till they could find another for the young princess. But when she had looked upon the cradle on a stormy night, it had been Daenerys who held his small hand to soothe the storm out of his cries. Dany had been called the Stormborn, the girl who had commanded the waves to heel and the thunder-filled sky to bow to her. The girl babe cried as though a conquering warrior and fought off the thunder for him.
When she had squeezed his baby fist, he had found comfort in it and had stopped crying. When he had first heard such a thing from his mother, Jon had thought about life in its fullest. For all his life, Daenerys was there and they were one the same. Alone in the struggles that came with the legacy of the people who sired them. Jon had to live as a bastard babe born by a woman who lived with mad prophecy. Dany had to live as a reminder, a born sire of a mad king who revelled in his madness. Together, they were outcasts. Together, they comforted one another. Together they faced the world, holding each other's hands. He swore to protect her, just as she had sworn to protect him.
Still, they could not escape the world. The realm delighted its venom upon the young children they were, sinking their fangs upon them with poison. Jon had always been protective of Dany, of what they said about her. About just like her brothers, she too will go mad like her father. The bastard sire of the king was certainly not a fool. The queen was the only reason why the realm has not fallen apart on itself, why remains a dragon upon the Iron Throne. Whispers of the coin falling on madness, they claim so loudly behind their backs. That she would cause much trouble for the royal family as Viserys - who previously had rebelled against his brother unsuccessfully. It was in her blood, they whispered. Such was a plain thing in sight. After all, it was Viserys who was charged with raising the princess. Charged with making her a dragon.
As a boy, Jon had remembered weeping in his mother's arms when Dany was put into a wheelhouse and returned in her brutish brother's arms. His mother was as devastated as him, but he knew that she wrapped her arms around him unfailingly, putting aside her own grief to put his own first. The queen had fought the king about the matter. Dany belonged with them, she cried. The children had grown fond of her, Jacaerys had grown fond of her. She should stay here, with them. Safe and sound.
Those words he remembered echoing through the halls of the queen's chambers, unfailing with anguish and strength. Yet they did not get their wish. Queen Rhaella had made it so, had charged Viserys and Daenerys to be raised together as her dying wish. And for all his failings to protect her, Rhaegar Targaryen thought that this would correct all his failings. When tearful Dany was sent off with her septa and her entourage, he recalled mother coldly shunning his father for moons. She had even refused to take his letters with her own response, journeying to Winterfell with Jon himself to take him to his uncle for warding. In the journey, his mother had sworn to him that Dany would return to them. That he would settle his winter warmth upon her lilac eyes once more. The queen said that they belonged together and she will make it so. He believed his mother, he always had good faith in her.
As the silver haired girl softly released her essence to the world, eyes closed and her silver halo resting upon his knee, he knew that his mother had fulfilled her promise. A small content smile pierced through his stern Northern features as he watched her be at peace for the first time in a long while. Even in the North, the young boy heard whispers latch onto him like a vice in the cold winter nights. The cruelty that he exhibits in Summerhall reminded others of his late father, the same shade of purple glistened with a vexatious grin that one can claim to be mad.
Though at court, Viserys Targaryen often wore a mask. Even at the tourneys they came upon as boys, his uncle had always been an enigma. He drank often and was often harsh upon those poor lady wenches at the kitchens. There had been a night where he had found his mother holding onto a weeping servant girl, her hair disheveled and her eyes frozen in fear of the younger scion of Aerys. The sound of his uncle's fury was as hot as burning fire in the spit. She had accused him of hurting her with his cruel touch. The king had reprimanded his brother for his actions, with his weary eyes and his exhausted soul — that night had turned into a whole day of his uncle absolving himself to his brother, to prove his innocence. His mother had the last word though, putting to right the wrong that had been made that night. But for a long time, Jon could only wonder if such a thing had been happening in Summerhall, if it had been worse.
The pit of his stomach turned foul at the memory of the poor girl and turned to Dany. he thought of it, of her being full of bruises and her hair tamed with cruelty. The kisses of fist and the wooing of brutish kicks. He was no fool. In the silence of her slumber, the free wrist had shown what the long cut of rich silk sleeves had hidden. Mother had noticed much earlier than he did, but she spoke no words. Not wishing to shame Viserys in the eye of the court. That would give the court more reason to undermine the already precarious position of the family in the eyes of the realm. Lest of all her hesitate to touch had been plain to see for all, rejecting the offers of the eligible bachelors of the realm to enjoy the revelry of dance and music in the ring of festive motion.
There were nights that she wept, haunted by dreams she did not long for. Haunted by the ghosts that roam around her head from the cruelty that she had endured for all her young life. The young boy had woken to hold her at one point, and had rushed to her side. The way she had crawled to the corner of her chambers broke his heart, the cruelty she put herself into as her nails marked her own flesh with bleeding wounds. He had called out her name, had called to her to wake her from her nightmare. He was uncertain of how long he had called her.
But when she had woken, she gasped for air as though she was a fish returning to water and gazed at him, as though a child seeking the arms of a protector. Hesitantly, he slowly came to her space and placed his arms around her. Her soft tears pierced his own body and her yearnings, her hopes for someone's warmth were beheld for the first time in a long time. In that moment, as he allowed his arms to shield her from the world – he knew that he could not do it any longer. He cannot restrain himself. Jon Snow wanted to protect her. He wanted to be Jacaerys, Jacaerys Targaryen. To wield power so that she would never be afraid again.
'I would do anything.' He thinks to himself. 'I would do anything for her.'
"You have that face again." Her whisper beckoned him out of his thoughts. He could not help but return her soft smile, even if his own was the essence of rough winter snow. " You think too much for your sake, Jacaerys."
"One must think to live, Dany." He whispers back to her. "Or one will perish to nothingness."
Dany sighs, sprawling her halo of silver locks as she sits up. "Then you burden yourself willingly?"
"Hm," He nods, taking her hand into his. "But then I think of good things. Happy things. So it is no burden."
Dany seems intrigued. "Oh? What good things? What happy things?"
'You' He wants to tell her. 'Everything about you can make me happy.'
"Our family being together, such good things come from it." Jon tells her solemnly, earning a softened gaze from her. "You being here makes the family happier."
She squeezes his hand, her smile turning wider. As though the crescent moon beaming at him, he feels his chest enraptured completely. Dany had been such a wonder, a good soul upon this earth none could match. His mother was right, he and Dany were inseparable. They belonged together. They fit together as gloves do. He could never leave her now. Not when he feels complete when she smiles at him. When she laughs with him. When her warmth melts the cold within him. He exhales a breath, awaiting her words.
"I am glad to be with you, Jacaerys." Dany mumbles to him, quietly. Only for his ears to hear with tender abandon. "To be home."
Jon Snow had always wondered what home felt like.
He had always thought he had needed to latch onto a place, to a feeling. To something.
As he ate the meal of her warmth, he realizes in that moment what home truly is.
His home is in the smiles of Daenerys Targaryen.
LAILA CONNINGTON WONDERED IF SHE'LL EVER BE USED TO THE SIGHT OF ASHY MORNINGS. Yet it was the way his purple eyes glistened blissfully bright at the shine of morning dew had made morning beautiful to her. Even more beautiful than the bright skies of Griffin's Roost. The thought of seeking the morning sun blissfully sitting beside him in her solar made her feel alive. She had never found a more beautiful sight than Aegon Targaryen, slowly taking in the morning light with a small smile upon his handsome face. He does not sleep very well, she knew. Too many things haunt him, she knew. Much too much guilt plagues him, she observes.
The dead yearn for him, as though he was the one who had harmed them. As though, they yearn to be alive again and the only way to do so was in the warmth that makes up the dragon flesh of his. And so he rouses awake and weeps, breathing through weary lungs in the hour of the wolf as howls whisper. Alone in the lord's tower and lonelier in his heart. She felt pity for him when she discovered him among the flames of the covered hearth. Aegon had been silent, gazing into the space of nothingness. As though the void would capture him, would soothe him of too much he can never erase. She had stood there, watching him kneel in defeaning silence, her heart grieving for his hurt. Grieving for the noise that loudly beckons to him in the silence.
When Laila found his eyes red from dried tears, all she could do was kneel beside the lonely prince. She did not touch the prince, letting the silence build a house of three. Though, it was then that she realized that the fire had gone and the cold draft from battering winds across the sea enter. Laila had come and decided to light the fire oncr more, but the prince merely took her hands and told her not to leave. His seafoam green were wide in the high of grief, recalling those he could not save among the fire of his grandfather's madness. He said fire, he does not need. Her warmth was better, he told her. That was enough. Laila had felt her body light up in scarlet gleam, but in the dark he did not notice. In the dark, they sat awaiting the prince's relief.
Days turned into weeks and soon, she was often called to calm the prince down from shock and grief when he woke. None else was allowed to see him like this. Only her. Only she could comfort him. Laila would send the guards away and lock the chambers, taking him in her arms for hours. At times she would whispered soft comforts in his ear, the calm of her body waking him to reality. Laila promised to be there with her. She placed soft plump hands upon her own warrior's hands, squeezing it kindly. She did not leave him, not even when morning light came. She sat still, singing and whispering kindness upon his soul. Aegon in truth found peace in her arms, in the way he could never do anywhere else. In thr company of others. She did not ask him questions nor did she fear him in such a state of pain. No, she just held him. Nursed him back to sense. Unfailingly and ever so loyally. Her devotion had made his heart fill with things he thought he had shunned from his heart a long time ago.
Since then, the young lady was welcomed by the prince as an essential person of his retinue. Aegon had promoted her in his household, earning her supremacy and unquestioning desposition at his side. A postion of Steward to the Prince was held by a woman, during Aegon the Conqueror's time. Such was a title that allowed them close affinity with a royal body and person. Even allowed the ability to eat at his own table and accompany him through his activities and duties. But most of all, a Steward must ensure the well-being of the prince at all costs. Laila was honored at such promotion in rank and was delighted at the trust of the prince upon her. She took to her task with all of her. T
hough it had earned her teasing from the kitchen wenches. Ever since the time she had presented the prince her own hand at baked goods, they had teased her to no end. Some had made gambling bets on her relationship with the crown prince. And it did not help that the prince had grown fond of her handicraft at the kitchens, often asking the cooks for her dishes when she languished time in the kitchens.
They sat upon his solar, speaking for hours until the sun rose to greet them. Laila had not known the use of the solars in Dragonstone, it had always been completely covered in heat and mist. At times, there was no point in looking for the sun. Not unless you were atop on dragonback. But Aegon had insisted that she did not choose where to look from. Laila had learned much from the prince who eagerly taught her all he knew, even sharing memories of his youth growing up upon the beaches. Hoe happy he was here he had said. But when Laila said that he could be happy again, he only smiled and agreed. When he said those words, Laila knew he meant it. Almost like a promise uttered into manifeststion.
Gazing across Dragonstone from his solar is what had made the prince happiest. The glistening morning sun directly hit the open space, the gleam hitting the ruby stones that were cast against the stoney gargoyles that watched over the sides of the solar's breech. He talked for hours about the history of each and every inch, etched from joyous memories. In those moments, Laila sees the child that had bteen hidden inside. The youth that had been scarred the desires of those with wanting. In those moments, she sae the truest him. The closest to him she could probably ever get. And he was beautiful, as beautiful as halo of bright palates of summertime. Even in gloomy grey as this place beams, the sun shines in his presence. In his wonder. And she wanted it. Laila Connington had known greed to be sin and yet she could not help it. The truth bursts, like a dove released from its gilded cage.
In that moment she realizes it, the truth she had surpressed for so long.
Laila Connington loved him.
And she knew she wanted all of him.
She wanted him to feel the same as she does.
Her heart rejoices in truth, jumping for joy.
"A stag coin for your thoughts?" Laila heard the grogginess in her prince's voice lingering to her as she sat beside him. Laila observed his tall figure and that charming smile. Aegon shook his head. "I disappear one moment and you drown in such heavy thoughts."
"The skies are foul with heavy clouds." She mumbles softly, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. "I must think of heavy things too."
"How witty this morning, my lady." He snorts, causing her to shake her head playfully.
"How about our dear prince?" She questions, a grin on her features. "What does he think of?"
"You." He answers, as he sat back down upon his chair.
"Oh?" She responds, her heart pouding even harsher. "Then do tell, dear prince. What do you think of me?"
The prince shifted in his seat once more, his body positioning nearer to her.His loose white long sleeves training shirt tight against his body and his long dark trousers loose around his footing and yet with his upper body, it was kept in place by a leather belt. Blackened boots were upon his feet, not an ounce of dirt upon them, even when he used them for his rounds among the muddy acres beyond the Dragonmont. Their faces were nearer to one another, to the point that Laila could smell of lemon scented candles perfuming him and the blossom of parchment and ink upon his person. How odd, to have become so fond of such scents.
"I am caged by you." Aegon whispers to her, his glistening jade eyes not leaving her own mahogany haze. His long slender fingers trail her soft ebony hair. A lump forms at the back of her throat. "Morning, noon, day and night. I wonder about you and I could not help myself."
"You seem as though you are jesting my prince." She whispers to him, lips shaking in anxious thought. "You had only known me. And I...I am your servant."
He shakes his head, a small smile graces his handsome features. He draws a short breath, s though grasping for courage. As though for the longest of times, he waited to have such courage to whisper these words she had been wanting to him. The words he had wanted to say to her.
"I do not jest, my lady. You....you sustain me. In these hard days. Such voids had appeared in my life and such nightmares haunt me. And yet....yet you hold me with such warm touch and warm words."
"My prince-"
"Maekar was right." He says tenderly, smiling at the thought of his brother's advice. "I cannot hold to the past for the rest of my life. To chase ghosts, its foolish. I....I need to move forward. And I could only think of one person who could ever make me feel at ease, to be at my side in these painful moments."
She shook her head, a tint of joyful tears pouring. "Oh dear prince, you..."
"Aegon." He cuts her off, taking her free hand onto his and letting his lips press a small embrace upon the palm. "I had yearned to hear you say it. Please, my lady. Let no distance be between us."
Laila Connington could not feel her breath relase from her as love emits from her eyes at the sight of his sincerity. She takes his hand and presses her lips and her warmth upon it - as though blowing a new life upon his body. Aegon Targaryen smiles widely, eyes dancing in joy.
"If I will call you Aegon, then you must call me by my name." She mumbles softly, smiling shyly at him. "Let me hear it from your lips, my prince. Please."
"Laila," He says with all his heart. "Oh dear Laila."
Laila Connington smiles, contented. "Aegon, my prince."
When he heard his name from her lips, he thought of a new life.
A new life where there is a chance for his affections to grow even more.
His love was never determined by three words, not even in the triumph of his love for her.
But Aegon the Sixth wishes he had said those words to her, those three words, even once.
For when the gods play games, none is spared.
SHE NEVER THOUGHT SHE WOULD HATE THE SOUND OF STEEL. Yet as she stood firm, the pouring of bitter blood against her lips, she couldn't help but blame herself. There was no time to worry about the ugly flesh that tore for everyone to see. The wind blew hard among the salt of the Sunset Sea in a glowering sundown. Visenya Targaryen found herself detesting the thought of a hero's death, one that she drunkenly whispered as her preference of departure to the Crone.
Laughing bitterly as she twisted her sword hand and rippled the blade through the sycophant, she rammed through mortal flesh one after another. The panic yearned for chaos, watching as one foolish prey swirled through the sea in pieces. The poor bloke was fed to his sea god, guts first as he hurled from the ship's railing and onto the salty sea. Visenya had never thought that she could inflict tragic deaths yet there were no regrets, no time to feel guilt.
As she felt the tightening of an elbow on her throat, she could not help but urge herself to be an animal. Adrenaline pumped through her in a mania, seductive like a lady's kiss. Biting hard against human flesh, she heard a gasp of pain in ripples and as she kicked his leg, she stabbed him outright as she cried in victory like a lion would in killing its prey. One after another, there was no break. Not since the Ironborn had rammed all the vessels across the port and jumped upon them, to attack and to conquer like the brutes they were. The moment Visenya saw the flames spread like wildfire, the brutes of the sea closed any form of escape. It was to bend the knee subjugation or suffer the pains of death.
Visenya Targafyen was like her name-sake, though.
As she unseathed her steel, she smiled at them.
She was a dragon, fire was her blood and steel was her flesh.
Jumping through, she fought her way and had gotten herself injured.
Yet she kept herself fighting, one man to another chucked to sea with her pouring blood.
The eldest daughter of the queen could hear one of the arches upon the sails creaking, near the collapse from the fire engulfing all around her. Bells rang loudly from across the port was loud and clear. She could see the small blemish of colors blending as they rushed against the wind. the scream of those in other ships as they were cut down by raiders screaming victory for their drowned god. Visenya Targaryen hissed as the wound cried out for relief, blood dripping from open flesh. She had not expected this to happen, thinking the day would be like all days in the Westerlands. In blissful peace, in the arms of their grandsire's protection. The Lion of the West stood as the shield of Lannisport, making the sheep across the realm cower to their feet.
That morning, they broke their fast in the promenade across the bay. Each visit had always been fondly remembered, their grandsire often arranging the very best of the Westerlands to offer him the scion of his lion's blood. The sun shone like never before, glistening like a beacon of wonder through the vibrant life within the golden cliffs. Cousin Rohanne had led them through the bustling streets, dressed in red and gold, she greeted everyone she knew with her vibrant smile. There was none of her father that day, ser Jaime had warranted spending the day with his son and heir - dancing with their steel against that of the household guard. Visenya had wished to join them that morning. But they would go home before the blue hour settled. She must enjoy what remained of her time remembering her youth in the streets of her mother's city. As she had always done.
Joanna Baratheon had eagerly bought gifts for her husband and her young babes for her return to Winterfell. The young woman pranced from stall to stall, giggling throughout. Her ardent protectors followed the sight of her glistening blue silks as quickly as they are able, as though ducklings searching for their mother. Rhaenyra grinned, fixing her bright scarlet pleats on vibrant black as she praised the beautiful minstrels play as the handsome singers sung their ballads aloud. Rhaenys glimmered in joy at the sight of bright fabrics rolled in the corner, merchants egging her on to their business. Her twin sister had spent as much as she could heckling the merchants to lower their price on a beautiful roll of golden Myrish lace, begging them as if it was to be her mother's gift upon her return. Visenya had laughed hard at her sister's mischief, but it reminded her of their youth. Her silence often met with boisterous beams from the younger twin. Today had been memorable, as all days were.
Eleanora Dayne gripped her hand with a bright beam on her face, tracing constellations of her love upon her flesh. Her bright purple eyes spoke of so much love, of ardent desire. A promise of eternity was written in the way she laced her fingers to her own. It had not been Visenya's plan to fall in love. Love had forced its way into her heart like the brutal fight of winter and summer, there had been much resistance on her part to do so. She had rejected the thought, had thought it abnormal, to find no liking for men. To have no interest in the fawning of women across the courtyard, raising their flower crowns upon knight's lances and shields as a token of favors. She felt her heart pounce with fear at the thought of her mother's rejection, of her father's lack of understanding. Visenya feared to say anything at all. That this was who she was. For what would others say? What would her grandsire Tywin say? What would mother think? What would Aegon think of her? What would Rhaenys do?
Her elder brother had been the one to catch her and Eleanora, compromised in an embrace. She had been distraught at seeing him there, guilt and fear and horror had made her sick. She could not even talk to Aegon, could not even find herself to look him in the face at dinners. Yet when Aegon confronted her, he took her hand and smiled. He placed his hand upon her own, pouring his love for her upon his gaze and whispered those words to her.
'You have nothing to be ashamed of, sister.' Aegon tells her, weeping in his arms. Like a child again, lost with nowhere to go. 'You are who you are. Loved by me, just as before.'
Her elder brother had encouraged her use of swords in their youth, had even surrendered his own sword and his own master at arms to hold sessions with her. To teach her and to indulge her wish to learn, to be what her name-sake had been. A warrior. Aegon had embraced who she had been and who she could be and in return, she swore her sword to him and her honor to fight for his own. Her brother had gifted her his rare smiles, the echoes of safety he gave her in that moment. Placing his cloak upon her own and honoring her. That short moment when she raised her chin and their eyes met. There was only pride in his eyes, pride for living her truth. For being who she wanted to be.
'This is the closest I can do in knighting you.' He had told her, tightening the cloak to her fit. 'Rise, Visenya of house Targaryen. And honor me, by being my sword.'
And so, she did. Proudly, she had become his sword. His might. His shield. His strength.
Her mother had taken her to Dorne soon after, though she had been uncertain. She could not leave Aegon alone, not without her to keep him safe. But Maekar had smiled at her and told her not to worry, that he would be there. For a moment, the back of his eyes told her. That he knew. Though he never spoke a word of it, he never treated her any differently. He smiled as he always did, reassuringly bright. And so she left, having come into her mother's touch of her nomadic life. They had traveled all around Dorne, on routes her uncle Oberyn showed her mother years before. Mother had spoken to her of history and life. Of beauty and of freedom. Eleanora had teased her about it, about gaining her mother's attention. Leila Lannister had made sure that there was no lacking in her love for her children - in words and in action. Yet that trip together, it had been different.
In Dorne, no one thought anything of it. Dorne had no limitation on the soul. On the beholder's wandering gaze, where their eye lands upon the courting of love. Such thoughts didn't matter. Visenya had not spoken of it to her mother. She could not bear to speak any words that could hurt her mother. To cause her any shame. But at the touch of her hand and the warmth in her bright green orbs, Visenya realized she knew. She knew the way her own purple haze wallowed her affection towards the daughter of house Dayne. She knew of the struggle that she buried deep inside, her fears and her sorrows. Her mother did not utter a word, only embracing her eldest daughter with all of her warmth. Soon after, her mother had named her heir to Sunfyre. Aegon advocated such a move at court as Hand. Visenya felt like she belonged, she felt accepted. For the first time in her life, someone knew and someone understood her truth. Finally, Finally, there was relief, reassurance. A new beginning. She finally felt free.
'You will be safe here.' Her mother's touch transcribed upon Visenya. 'You may love her here. No one will harm you here. This is how I protect you.'
As she slumped against the steps of the deck, she could feel herself feeling faint. She threw her sword away, finding no more use for it as the Ironborn retreated back to their barren isles. She coughed, a stain of blood fell through her chapped lips. Relief passes through her body, praying thanks to the gods for their mercy. For a moment, he thought of Rhaenys, of her sister's tearful gasp as she refused to part from her as the Ironborn started to raid the ships.
Visenya had never liked living with Rhaenys alone, they were never supposed to be apart. They were born together and they were raised together. Parting is a foreign word. Yet, Visenya knew that she would never let her sister be in any danger. Not when she could keep her safe. She did not hesitate pushing her in ser Xander Uller's arms, feeling her own tears get the best of her. It was better this way, she reassures herself. This was the way it should be, that one of them lives on. There was no other way. Indecision would have killed them. One must act for the better of all. Visenya felt a heave of laughter press on her lungs briefly, caughing once more.
''Losses can be filled.' Visenya thinks to herself. 'Rhaenys and the rest have gotten away safe. Tears dry. They'll discover that soon.'
Even more blood poured out of her and soon enough, she could feel herself struggling to grasp for air. The ship would collapse soon, she judges as the heavy sails creaked against the wind and the flames, engulfing itself with heat and merciless pursuit. She purses her lips, turning to her side as the drying blood on Eleanora's cold corpse revealed herself before her. Her breathing labored as she broke into a stifled sob, velvet reds pouring through each cry she releases. Dawn rested upon her lover's side, smiling back at her owner with glorious shine.
Visenya pulled her body forward, grunting in pain as she laid herself down in the pool of her lover's blood. Letting her fingers trace against the cold flesh of the woman she loved, she etched a promise. A promise of her love, of her loyalty. Of her devotion. A small smile passes through her lips, beckoning sorrow and sadness upon her features. The heir of Sunfyre sighed, feeling her sight dwindle slowly into darkness. As she felt her eyes be burdened by the heavy weight, she slowly allows her hand to grasp for Eleanora's hand in one last embrace.
"You stupid girl." Visenya whispers softly, a ghostly smile on her lips. "This is what you get for picking me."
A soft sigh releases from her.
She closes her eyes completely.
She grips Eleanora's hand tighter.
"Choose me next time again, silly girl." She whispers one final time. "As I would you."
The ship creaked against the flames and soon succumbed to a dragon's pyre.
As Lannisport burned through and through, a black raven flies.
War has been written out from the salt of the sea, with the blood of fire spilt.
The gods have found themselves entertained.
HELLOOOOOOOO im still alive!!! i wanna apologize for taking so long to update but uni life has been crazy. can you believe ive been writing this story a year before i got into college??? C R A Z Y!!!!
anyway i hope you are having a grest holiday season, please do rest and avoid getting sick, its easy to catch a cold nowdays so drink vitamins and hydrate!!!
safe to say we are in the climax of the story~ greyjoy rebellion means wars and this means a lot is gonna change. ofc theon is gonna appear next chapter and we're gonna end the story near the war of the five kings. im still deciding on sequel, epilogue or make the story in exrra chapters. in any case, please tell me what you think!!!
happy new year everyone!!! see you soon ~
xoxoxoxo author