༻♕༺
𝕬𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝕿𝐇𝐄 𝕯𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 || 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆
𝟔ᵗʰ 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 || 𝟏𝟐𝟎 𝐀𝐂
༻ •𖢻• ༺
𝕿𝐡𝐞 𝖘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝖔𝐟 𝖍𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝖈𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝖔𝐧 𝖙𝐡𝐞 𝖌𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 resonates across the streets of King's Landing. The southerners began to recognize the banner held by many of the knights. Their bronze armor glinting with the steel winking as they ride past the people of the capital. The sigil of the House Royce gleaming underneath the sunlight of the midday sky.
Mounted atop a dark brown stallion whilst she rides alongside Ser Gerold at the front of the party with only a pair of knights before them, is Lady Maelera Royce.
Gloomy eyes of melted amethysts, having lost their glitter of childlike innocence, flutter about the capital surrounding her, a frown, seemingly permanently, dragging her lips down.
King's Landing stunk, Maelera deemed ever since she rode through the Dragon Gate, one of the seven gates built into the looming red walls that stood in defense of the capital of Westeros. Built packed together were hundreds if not thousands of red-roofed buildings, holding numerous purposes within, with broad roads built of grey cobblestone that shimmered under the sunlight between them lined with trees, branching alleys and bridges.
Through the rare spaces between the buildings, the young Royce would mange to catch few glimpses of the three tall hills she had remembered were named for Aegon and his sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya.
Beams from the sun perched at it's peek high above the ground would glare at Maelera whenever she were granted a look at the three sister hills. Aegon's High Hill were surmounted by the daunting Red Keep, itself, the tallest castle in the entirety of Westeros built from blood and brick, overlooking the Blackwater Bay that glitters beneath the sunlight beyond, whilst Visenya's Hill is crowned by the marble-walled Grand Sept, its seven crystal towers glimmering. It were the most beautiful building Maelera Royce had yet to see. And the Hill of Rhaenys, capped by the infamous Dragonpit.
The home of fearsome dragons every child feared to venture near.
Not every child.
The commonfolk halt in their mundane tasks to gaze upon the Royces riding past them, some even gawk at the girl mounted atop a horse far too large for her smaller stature.
That brunette hair with silver streaks, those purple eyes. . . she is the blood of Old Valyria indeed, all those whom caught the spectacular sight of Maelera Royce thought to themselves.
Upon noticing the wonder struck eyes all focused on herself, young Maelera felt all too much like an object on display, and felt the sudden urge to glare at these mere commons, but. . . she were too exhausted.
For the claws of grief still latched deeply onto her heart.
The silence looming over the Royces' party were overcome with the distant echo of an all too familiar screech. In the next moment, a winged shadow had eclipsed the sun, and the sound of those wings were like the clap of thunder, and all heard him.
The Black Dread.
All the common and nobility swiftly turned to land sights upon the thunderous beating of wings with fear in their eyes and dread eating away at their hearts.
Maelera Stormborn casually titled her head to look up at her dreaded dragon. Then, for the first time since the day she rode Balerion the Dread, Maelera smiles a pearly white smile. Smiles at the sight of Balerion.
Her sole companion since birth until death. The reason for that faint beat of heart in that place between her heart and soul. The other side to the coin she and he were. Fire and Death.
Balerion the Dread dove from the clouds and released a booming roar that shook the thousands of buildings within the cramped capital and quaked the earth beneath him as he flew overhead them all. The common and nobility began to scream in terror and fled for the safety of their homes. Shoving one another aside with fear-driven hast as the Black Dread, himself, a dragon not seen in the south since the days of the Conqueror, soared above their heads.
Amidst the chaos, Ser Gerold Royce looks to the girl riding beside him and where she once sat with an air of forlorn, now, Maelera Stormborn sat with her back straightened and a proud shine illuminating her beautiful features. A smirk lifts the corners of her lips as her Black Dread's songs echo from the distance as Balerion flies to the south-eastern corner of the city, where the Red Keep stands.
Standing upon a balcony jutting out from the red bricks that make up the vast majority of the Red Keep's exterior, is a young Targaryen prince, lips agape as he beholds the largest dragon in the world he had only ever read stories about.
He finds himself wondering what brought the Black Dread to the south, why did he return to Westeros after all these years. Moreso, whom for did he return.
༻ •𖢻• ༺
𝔄s dusk settles over the land, casting Westeros in brilliant hues of sunset orange and yellowish-red, a jubilant feast is held within the Great Hall of the Red Keep some hours after the Black Dread's return to the capital. Buoyant sounds of laughter flowing along with the tunes played by bards echo through the halls of the keep even as the wolf's moon arose from the horizon line.
Behind the great oak-and-bronze doors, a thousand lords with their lady wives fill the cavernous hall, having traveled north and south in celebration of the union between the Houses Targaryen and Velaryon, the last of the Valyrians, moreso the marriage between Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon.
The Great Hall were decorated in a befitting manor for a wedding celebration with four trestle tables, two to each side of the central aisle, stretching the length of the grand doors to the well known Iron Throne, itself. The smooth and shiny surfaces blanketed with silver platters of numerous dishes those who lived in Flea Bottom only dreamt of.
And seated at one of those tables, is Ser Gerold with his cousin beside him.
Behind the aged man, donning his House's bronze armor, hundreds of those lords and ladies spun in the sea of dancers, and among them, the bride-to-be with her future husband. The white fabric of the Realm's Delight's dress shimmers in the flickering candle-and-torch light as the many rubies in her silver-gold hair sparkle with her every graceful move.
But Ser Gerold's resentful gaze were not upon the bride-to-be, no, instead, they glared up at the Rouge Prince sat with the Royal Family and the members of the Small Council upon a raised platform before the looming Iron Throne.
Prince Daemon Targaryen, the father of Maelera Stormborn. With the glittering rubies encrusted into the leather of his tunic twinkling at those below like the stars from beyond the narrow windows, the Prince sat ignorant to the Royce's glare as his plum eyes settle on the Realm's Delight, calloused fingers twirling a bone between them.
It were an anomalous day, indeed, for the capital.
The Houses Targaryen and Velaryon were to be united in marriage, as they should've been since the Doom of Old Valyria, the Black Dread had returned after more than a century away living only the gods know where then the Vale, only to be followed by the Rouge Prince's return after his second exile from the Crownlands.
"In the Vale, men are made to answer for their crimes." An aged voice thick with the common accent of the Valemen disrupts the silence of the Rouge Prince's mind. "Even Targaryens."
Prince Daemon's eyes the shade of melted amethysts turn away from his beautiful niece and unto whomever the voice belonged to. A Valeman wearing that bronze armor that filled the Prince with such dread stood below him.
"Who are you?"
"Ser Gerold Royce of Runestone."
The Prince's white brows raise expectantly as his eyes shine with boredom, the bone once between his fingers now falling unto his silver plate with a clink. "And?"
This Ser Gerold of Runestone climbs the steps of the Royals' platform that stand between the prince and knight, now standing to meet the familiar eyes' of the most ruthless Targaryen without straining his neck.
"I am cousin to your late lady wife."
A spark of recognition ignites within the Prince's eyes, interested with the conversation for the moment, "Ahh, yes, terrible thing." His shoulders fall with a sigh meant to be one of somber. "Such a tragic accident, I'm positively bereft."
Lowering the tone of his voice, the Royce Knight releases words that may border along treason yet he cares not, needing justice for his beloved Lady Liege, "You know better than anyone, it was no accident."
"Are you confessing some guilt, Ser Gerold?"
"I am making an accusation." The words were spoken like a growl through clenched teeth.
By now, the prince and knight's conversation had reached the Peaceful King and the Queen's ears, whom now observe with curious eyes and attuned ears as the brother of the King responds, "In King's Landing, men are made to answer for their slanders. Even old bronze cunts like you."
Ser Gerold scoffs at the Rouge Prince's sheer audacity to speak in such ill-manners, Targaryen and Prince of the Realm or not. Though, before the Royce could respond, Daemon continues, "The truth is, I'm glad you've come. I wish to speak to you about my inheritance."
The dark brows dotted with white hairs of age furrow above Ser Gerold's hazel eyes narrowed in confusion, it seems the Rouge Prince truly knew nothing of the Stormborn's existence, "What inheritance?"
"Lady Rhea and I had no heirs. As her husband, whatever she was due now passes to me. She stood to inherit all of Runestone.. did she not?"
The smirk that tilts the corners of the Royce's lips nearly overtaken with his grey beard with tendrils of brunette streaks sparks a sense incertitude within Daemon Targaryen.
Ser Gerold turns to look at the young girl still sat at the table beneath the platform, jutting his chin in a gesture for her to come to his side and the young girl stands. The eyes of the King and Queen's settle on the little girl they guess is no older than seven as she goes to stand before Ser Gerold, his hands resting on her shoulders.
"You and Lady Rhea do have an heir, Prince. This is your daughter, Lady Maelera Royce. I grieve that you have not made the effort to meet her before this day."
Maelera Royce lifts her eyes from her father's leather boots and for the first time in all her seven summers of life upon Westeros, her dragon eyes meet her father's.
This man before her is her father, the man Maelera had never met nor hardly knew anything about.
His short hair were the shade of the beams of starlight in her brunette locks, or she supposes the silver of her hair were the same to his.
Her eyes were his.
King Viserys the Peaceful were fuming from where he sat at the center of the table, before the Iron Throne as a king should, if he were a dragon, smoke would emit from his flared nostrils, his knuckles clenching in contained rage.
Viserys I Targaryen knew of the Lady Rhea's child, he knew his brother finally sired a babe within her womb, but it seems his ever rouge brother never knew of his child's, his daughter's, existence.
Though what ignited the Targaryen King's ire like the embers of a great flame was the sight of his brother, a father now, standing from his seat as his chest rumbled with a low "mm" of disinterest before he trekked down the few stairs of the platform and morphed within the crowd, disappearing from sight.
Mayhaps if the Rouge Prince had known the child before him, his daughter, were bonded with Balerion the Black Dread he would have taken the child in, but alas. . . Prince Daemon Targaryen left the girl behind, unwanted.
Hundreds of thoughts swarmed through Maelera's mind all at once. Hundreds of feelings. The prominent of those feelings being despair, rejection, then a sense of desolation. Her father, her father, the man whom planted her seed within her mother's womb, a man she only ever dreamt of meeting, someone she hoped to lean on, to learn from. . . walked away from her.
With one look upon her, Daemon Targaryen deemed her unworthy of his attention, of his love, and left.
A tear slid down the girl's cheek, yet her heart bled a million tears not even the largest ocean in the world could hold and the night shook with the cries of dragons.
From her seat beside the King, Queen Alicent Hightower looks upon the little girl, Maelera Royce. A redness circles around her eyes, her pale cheeks puffy. Alicent's dark brows bend in sorrow as her heart clenches at the sight before her.
If the Green Queen did not like the Rouge Prince before, now. . . oh, she resented him with all the hate her kind soul possessed.
The lovely Green Queen looks upon Maelera Royce and her green eyes sparkle with a thought; She would not allow this beautiful girl to wallow in grief alone.
For Alicent Hightower knew what it was to loose a mother. Knew what it was for a father to ignore her wants, and needs.
"Ser Gerold."
The knight turns around to face the Queen, hands still rested on his cousin's slumped shoulders, thumbs soothingly stroking the fabric of her dress in a silent reassurance. "Your Grace?"
A kind smile lifts Alicent Hightower's beautiful features. "Lady Maelera should be with the remaining family she has. She shall remain here in King's Landing should you allow it, and will be well treated and loved for, you have my word, good Ser."
The Royce stares at the Queen with his mouth agape in incredulity, his hazel eyes wide at the most generous proposal for his beloved cousin shrouded in grief. With a slight stutter to his words, he responds with a deep bow of his head, "Yes, my Queen, that would.. that would be most excellent. If it is of no concern, Your Grace?" His eyes shift to the King.
King Viserys' kind face only lifts with a grin, purple eyes crinkling at the sides as his soft irises glance to the girl, his niece, who seems too lost within her own mind to listen to the conversation about her. "My wife is right. She should be with her family. Princess Maelera Targaryen will live here in the capital as the Queen's ward."
A smile blooms across Alicent's lips. "Excellent. Now, sweet Maela, come."
As the Queen in her green dress waves for one of the numerous servants circling throughout the Great Hall that night and asks the serving girl to grab a chair for the young Targaryen, Maelera lifts her eyes, where sorrow roams, from the panels of the royals' wooden platform with a sniffle. Her lashes flutter.
The Queen wished for her, a mere motherless child with only a small keep to her name, to sit with her at the table meant for royalty.
With the solace of her cousin's hand still resting atop her shoulder, the little girl strains her neck to look into his familiar eyes for guidance. Maelera did not know what to do.
Ser Gerold offers Maelera a stern nod with a slight tilt lifting his lips. "Go on." And she does so, trusting his judgment.
Walking around the dark-oak table, every step she took that brought her closer to the beaming Queen felt like forever in a moment. Three steps away, Maelera's chest tightened. She were nervous. Two steps away, her breath caught in her throat.
One step away, a smile blooms across Alicent Hightower's poppy-pink lips, her beautiful features radiating with rays of warmth that trickle throughout Maelera. Her chest loosened, and her breath steadied.
Maelera Targaryen took her seat beside Alicent Hightower.
From the high seat on the royals' platform, Maelera could see the entirety of the Great Hall. Above them were a decorative hanging with vines interweaving between one another with numerous flowers of snow white, molten gold, and lavender purple that blended together beautifully. Black-steel chandeliers dangled from the high ceiling, connected by thick black chains, flickering with blazing candles and illuminating the hall as night settled over Westeros. Hundreds of nobility danced gracefully below them; puppets on strings held by a godess of festivals. Lively tunes echo from the stage the bards were sat upon in one of the corners of the hall, plucking from their instruments; harps, violins, drums, Maelera couldn't keep count.
The Great Hall, even the halls of the Red Keep, itself, she discovered, smelt far more pleasant than the city beneath the towering castle. The fragrant scent of rich perfumes, freshly baked bread, and all of the hundreds of roasted meats and delectably sweets, making her mouth water, with even the smell of the wines all sailed in from the Arbor, Casterly Rock, and Dorne wafting through her nose and filling her senses.
A crimson red envelopes her vision and Maelera blinks. A serving girl lays a silver plate, with the most intricate design of a dragon coiled around the edges, topped with silverware then a goblet before her atop the table. Her lashes flutter, looking to the young girl. "Thank you."
The servant blinked, her young features morphing into an expression of shock. Aside from her lovely and kind Queen, and very few of the other nobility, none ever expressed gratitude to the servants. The girl just gave Maelera a polite grin then bowed her head before wondering away to attend to the other lords and ladies fluttering about the Great Hall demanding to be feed like starving hounds.
Young Maelera always found it completely absurd that many of those from royal blood never once gave their servants, even a taste of, gratitude.
Her mother always thanked the servants of Runestone for even the most mundane of things. The Lady Rhea even befriended her maidens. Few of the many reasons all of them loved their late lady so dearly.
Rhea told Maelera that without servants, a castle and it's people within would fall into ruin, therefore, it was only customary, and polite, to thank them. . . and protect them.
From beside her, Alicent Hightower fondly observes the young girl as her eyes, the most beautiful she had ever seen, besides her darling daughter's of course, flutter about the hundreds, it felt like, silver platters blanketing the royals' table, filled with even more meats, soups, and sweets.
She notices Maelera's eyes lingering upon the platter of lemon cakes the longest.
But hesitation crept into her wondrous irises and she notices the girl's fingers twitch where they lay atop her lap. As if wanting reach out and grab one. Alicent just gently giggles, "Go on, sweet girl. Eat your fill as you wish tonight."
Maelera's wide eyes look up at her, the gleam of needing approval sparkling within them, and Alicent slides the platter of lemon cakes toward them, plucking a few from it to lay on Maelera's plate.
Although it takes a moment before she convinces herself to do so, Maelera reaches out for one of the lemon cakes and takes a tentative bite.
The sour yet sweet juices flood across her tongue and her eyes widen in ecstasy. Maelera shoves the rest into her mouth, unbothered of the crumbs sticking to the sides of her lips and cheeks even. Alicent laughs, and Maelera thought it were the sound of bell chimes, as she reaches for her napkin and, with the tenderness only a mother possess, wipes away the crumbs.
The look in Maelera Targaryen's youthful eyes as she did so, Alicent Hightower would remember until the Stranger took her.
The look of a young girl whose just lost her mother and father gazing upon her savior, that light within a treacherous storm.
"Well, go on, have more, sweetling."
Without wasting another moment, Maelera stuffs her plate with, nearly, the entire platter as a servant fills her goblet with rich cider shipped in from Oldtown; The Queen's ancestral home.
Satisfied with the amount of lemon cakes before her, Maelera begins to devour them, licking her fingers of the delicious sweet syrup layered over them. Alicent just giggles, "Not too fast, sweetling, or you'll get hiccups."
With a shy grin, Maelera heeds the Queen's words and slows down, taking a sip of the cider that sizzles on her tongue all the way down her throat. "Mother would only let me eat my sweets after I'd eaten all my proper food."
"Tonight can be an exception, then, sweet girl."
Maelera softly smiles, eagerly nodding in agreement as she consumes another lemon cake.
"I have a son and a daughter, both quite close to your age, I believe. Mayhaps you would like to meet them on the morrow?"
Whilst shoving another lemon cake into her mouth, Maelera looks at Alicent and, eagerly, nods. Aside from Alyssa, Maelera'd never truly had any real childhood friends her age, it sounded nice.
The dragon within the girl was lonely, bound by the chains of grief and despair, it craved the freedom only someone with the fiery blood of it's kin could gift to it.
A comfortable silence overcame queen and princess as the young girl finishes the remainder of the lemon cakes on her plate, savoring the sweet syrup as she licks the last of it off her fingers.
A few moments, filled with the lively tunes of the bards and the laughter of nobility, pass when Alicent glances down at Maelera and takes notice to the look in her eyes as she stares at the dancing lords with their lady wives. Near longingly.
"Come, sweetling."
The girl's long lashes flutter, youthful eyes still so new to the world around her looking up at the Queen, glancing between her offered hand and Alicent's bright green eyes that seem to mirror the shade of her green dress. Looking to the sea of dancers, Maelera, then, lays her small hand within Alicent's.
Descending the wooden stairs of the royals' platform before the daunting Iron Throne, the young girl finds herself thinking of her father. The man she'd known for only the breath of a moment before he'd abandoned her to grief and melancholy; Such an easy trap for a dragon to fall into, it seems.
Maelera Targaryen hopes deep within that her father is not still within the crowd of dancing nobility. She did not believe she had the courage to face him again; She wishes Balerion could fit within the Great Hall, for he was her strength, the embers to her fire.
Whenever Balerion the Black Dread was within her presence, Maelera Stormborn felt taller than the world.
Within a blink, young Maelera were engulfed amidst a sea of swirling colours and twirling nobility, all whom tower over her smaller stature. Not wanting to become lost within the crowd, Maelera tucks herself into the Queen's side.
Settling within a break amongst the crowd in the center of the Great Hall, Alicent gently guides Maelera away from her side so they stand facing one another. Weaving her fingers through Maelera's own, her skin like silk against the Queen's, Alicent leads them into a box dance, remaining within the break of the crowd.
At first, the young girl's eyes warily fluttered about those around herself and the Queen, hoping she'd not bump into them, and her feet, also hoping she'd not trip over them. This were Maelera Targaryen's first time dancing after all.
Life within the Vale was as rough as it's mountainous terrain. The Lady Rhea had never deemed it a necessity for her daughter to learn how to sew cloth or dance all to appeal to her suitors. No. Maelera Stormborn was the blood of the sturdy Valemen and the golden blood of old Valyria, the babe the Black Dread, himself, had chosen before Lady Rhea even brought her darling daughter into the world. Rhea believed lords and their sons would have to appeal to Maelera, not the other way around.
"Just follow my lead, sweetling. Two steps forward, one step back."
Young Maelera mirrors the Queen's movements, repeating the process of taking two steps forward then one step back until she needn't look at her feet nor felt the need to glance around herself any longer. And her purple irises are met with a smile blooming across the Queen's beautiful face, flooding her with warmth. "There you go, Maelera."
Maelera matches Alicent's smile, giving forth a giggle for the first time that night and it awakens something within Alicent Hightower. A tendril of love that strokes her heartstrings like a musician on his harp only her children could pluck the music too.
Or, so she thought until that moment.
The queen and princess become lost within the joy flooding their hearts, dancing their troubles away as the young girl begins to hop and twirl like a hare in snow. With the smile stretching her lips to the point it pains her cheeks, Alicent plucks Maelera from the tiled floors and into her arms, dipping Maela as she squeals a buoyant bout of laughter, seeing the Great Hall from upside down for a moment before she is returned to her feet that ache yet her joy shoves the pain aside.
From where he sits at the center of the royals' table, Viserys Targaryen's purple eyes find his wife and niece within the crowd of dancing nobility. A soft grin lifts the corners of his lips at the delicate sight before him.
Throughout his reign, Viserys I never truly felt the dormant dragon within him awaken until that night as the Seven Kingdoms celebrated the union of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon. When his ever rouge brother acknowledged his child, his own blood, his daughter's existence with apathy; Walking away from the child he'd finally sired within his "Bronze Bitch."
The dragon within had awoken, spitting a pummel of fire, igniting the Peaceful King's ire like nothing before ever had, or could.
Viserys were mere seconds away from finding his brother amidst the crowd and dragging him back to young Maelera, himself, or ordering he spend the night within the Black Cells, but, then, his queen broke the tense silence and proposed the most judicious proposition.
Gifting the young girl a place within the glorious Red Keep, as well as, a position among royal court as the Queen's ward. And thus, King Viserys named the Lady Maelera Royce a Princess of the Realm with her father's name; Targaryen.
For his own sake, Daemon Targaryen better find wisdom within himself and claim Maelera Targaryen as his own before royal court and love her like a father should. . . like the motherless child deserves.
The kind eyes of the King's watch his Queen and the newly named Princess from afar, softly grinning. The lovely Alicent were the painting of a perfect queen come to life. Noble, gentle, and good.
Alicent Hightower were the kind of queen whom tucked a motherless child whose father left her alone in the world beneath her green wing and gifted her with the love every child desires. She loved Maelera Targaryen as if she were her own.
A scream ripples throughout the Great Hall, and more echo the horrified sound.
Mayhem ensues as the crowd below fades from nobles dancing with swan-like grace into a frenzy of terror-filled people, screaming or gasping in shock as they push and shove past one another. Some trying to flee the madness whilst others circle around a pair of grappling knights.
"What in Seven Hells is going on?" The King bellows as he stands from his regal seat, purple eyes frantically looking about for his daughter, wife, and niece amidst the chaos.
Within the pandemonium spreading across the vast Great Hall, upon pure instinct, the Queen had rushed to pull a confused and frightened Maelera towards her and wrapped an arm around the girl so she would not loose her in the crowd.
Hiding her small body as much as she could within the Queen's green dress as she stood with her back against the Queen's front, Maelera's heart pounds so widly within her chest she thinks it might escape the cage of ribs that enclose it, her chest heaving with panicked breaths.
Her mind becomes as jumbled as the crowd as a thousand thoughts run rapidly within it's depths.
What's happening?
Where's Ser Gerold?
Balerion. . . Balerion. . . Balerion. . .
Balerion!
The screams escalate in pitch to the point ears began to ring when a booming roar like the sound of thunder common in the Stormlands echoes across the entirety of the Crownlands. The red walls shake and dust falls from the trembling ceiling as Balerion the Black Dread lands upon the roof of the Great Hall, roaring so fierce those celebrating within the city streets below all flee in terror for the safety of their homes.
As if bricks and stones would protect them from dragonfire.
Flames dance across the Black Dread's teeth before a pummel of red on black fire spews forth from his great maw, illuminating the night sky beyond the hall's slim windows.
Maelera called. Balerion came.
The heart of the Daughter of Death's quells itself of the terror once rippling through it, her heavy breaths settling into a steady rhythm.
With Balerion the Black Dread, named for the Valyrian God of Death, with her, Maelera Targaryen felt invulnerable. . . taller than the world.
Amidst the screams, Maelera hears the sound of an iron fist breaking through delicate flesh, over and over, and only when there was a breakage in the tight crowd before her, did Maelera see the knights whom had caused the ruckus.
A knight donning the silver armour of the Kingsguard, with a heap of black hair accenting his Dornish skin, atop another man whose tunic of pale blue silks with gold swishes and swirls and hair kissed by fire were both painted in blood. The Kingsguard's fist punches the pale man's face over and over. Ceaselessly. Relentlessly.
The young girl had never seen such a thirst for blood and violence within the depths of someone's eyes until that night.
It did not make fear swell within her heart. . . as it should have for a mere girl of seven summers.
It seems as though hours pass when the Kingsguard finally ceases his attack; His thirst for blood fulfilled. The Dornish man stands with slick and warm blood streaked across his face, chest heaving.
Ser Criston Cole did not spare the nobility a glance as he turned and left the Great Hall. A noble man he was no longer.
The cries of a lover rung throughout the Great Hall as the nobility began to scatter away from the thick blood pooling around the corpse of Ser Joffrey Lonmouth.
When the crowd dispersed enough for her to see the carnage left behind by Ser Criston Cole, lovely Alicent's perfectly sculpted lips parted in silent horror.
The sight was not for the faint of heart.
"Don't look, Maelera." She whispers, lifting her hand to cover the young girl's eyes.
Though, just before the Queen had stole away her vision with her ringed hand, Maelera caught a glimpse of the pale man's face. The entire left side bashed in by a mere iron fist of a single man.
But instead of crying, or screaming, Maelera Targaryen merely blinked, then, walked, blindly, alongside the Queen out of the Great Hall.
༻ •𖢻• ༺
ℌaving been led across the drawbridge, the only thing connecting Maegor's Holdfast to the remainder of the Red Keep, Maelera had been shown to the room she'd sleep within for the night until proper chambers were prepared for her by the Queen, who, after ordering a servant to prepare the Princess a bath and fetch some of the old dresses her daughter no longer wore for the young girl, had left Maelera to attend to dire matters. Though, promised she would return.
In that time, Maelera had cleansed herself of the stench of horse and sweat within the bathing chamber connected to the room then decided upon one of the many beautiful dresses laid out on the bed.
Now, Maelera occupies one of the armchairs before the blazing hearth the servant had lit for her, kicking the cool air warmed by the fire as her bare feet dangle over the carpet blanketing the cold floor.
A knock disrupts her thoughts.
"Come."
Her cousin, Ser Gerold, is the one to enter the room. Upon seeing him, Maelera jumps off of the chair and rushes towards him, throwing her arms around his waist. Gerold huffs a breathy chuckle, patting her shoulders in reassurance.
"You weren't harmed during the ruckus, were you, Maelera?"
The young girl backs away from the embrace, gawking up at her cousin. "Me? I'd thought you'd been harmed! I couldn't see you in the crowd!"
With a huff of mock disbelief, Gerold holds a hand to his heart, feigning offense at her words, "Me? Harmed by unarmed nobility? My dear cousin, you wound me."
Lifting her purple eyes into a roll, Maelera scoffs, then, shoves his arm. Gerold gruffly chuckles and ruffles her brunette locks streaked with the famed Targaryen silver, the ends still dripping with water. She huffs, blowing away silver tendrils from her eyes, although, a giggle slips past her traitorously smiling lips.
"Let us sit, Princess." He wiggles his brows dotted with white hairs of age with a playful smirk tilting his lips and Maelera huffs a chuckle. Princess. She likes the sound of it.
What child wouldn't?
The Royces sit themselves upon the armchairs sat side-by-side before the hearth.
"Do you know what it is to become someones ward, Maelera?" Ser Gerold asks, leaning against the back of the armchair with his arms laid across the armrests, looking at Maelera with a knowing smirk.
The young girl shakes her head, feet dangling over the floor, once again, as her hands grasp the edges of the seat, gently swaying her bare feet. "No."
"The Queen has offered to name you her ward; To become your guardian, your protector while you grow into a young woman, should you chose to remain here in King's Landing until you come of age to take your place as Lady of Runestone."
Maelera's lashes flutter. The Queen has offered to become her guardian? The Queen has offered to take in a motherless child with only a small keep housing an even smaller army to her name?
"Why would the Queen propose this? I'm... just a little girl with hardly anything to her name."
"You are much more than just some little girl, Maelera Stormborn. Alicent Hightower is a good queen with a kind heart. She and your mother had that in common. She is the queen this Realm needs. And I would entrust none better than her to raise you into the strong woman your mother knew you could become.. as do I."
The little girl with the Black Dread, himself, and ties to the Vale, itself, to her name blinks away tears. She swallows the lump in her throat, "I will make her proud, cousin. And you."
Ser Gerold smirks, bowing his head in a low nod. "I know you will, Maelera Stormborn." His shoulders rise with an intake of breath, expelling it swiftly, "So, will you stay here in King's Landing? You can always say no, Maelera."
Her cousin spoke the latter to assure her that she does have a choice in this, that none of this would be thrust unto her shoulders without her consent.
Not that anyone could make Maelera Stormborn do something she did not want to do. Not even the King, himself.
A line forms between the dark brows of Maelera's as they furrow in thought, faraway gaze lost within the flames. She has a choice; Remain in King's Landing with the family she'd never known, or return to Runestone with her cousin.
Should she return to Runestone, what awaits her there? Only hours where she lingers with pain in her heart as the memories of her mother relentlessly fill her delicate mind. Maelera Targaryen were still chained by grief, even if she stood strong.
With a grieving heart, young Maelera does not wish to be around the things that would remind her of her late mother, to live within the home that would only bring pain to her sore heart.
But if she stays in King's Landing when Gerold, and the other Royces whom traveled with them, return to Runestone, oh, the mere possibilities were endless to her.
When the young girl had discovered she shared the blood of the last Dragonlords in the known world, she had only ever desired to know everything she could about that side of her ancestry.
Runestone's library were limited of the Valyrian knowledge, the only things Maelera knew, she would soon learn, were the mere common knowledge of the Valyrians. But here, in the Red Keep, she knew it would hold a vast expanse of knowledge on the Valyrian history.
Not only that, but Maelera Stormborn was wild. A dragon within human flesh. She would never be content to sit within a castle all her life.
Maelera wished to see the world upon Balerion's shoulders. She wished to discover the uncharted lands of this world; Sothoryos and Ulthos, whatever was west of Westeros beyond the Sunset Sea. And who knows, maybe Balerion will fly her to old Valyria one day?
Runestone only offered her pain, but King's Landing offered her new discoveries and endless possibilities of the always so uncertain future awaiting her.
Maelera Stormborn straightens her shoulders, she has decided.
Turning her eyes, sharp as Valyrian steel, unto her cousin, she informs him, "I will remain here in King's Landing as the Queen's ward."
Ser Gerold, once again, bows his head in a low nod, "A wise decision, Princess Maelera." There it is again. Princess. "I will assure Runestone does not fall into ruin in your absence."
Princess. Princess. Princess.
"Gerold." Her eyes do not meet her cousin's. "What does it mean to be a Princess?"
A long stretch of silence, only filled with the crackling of the hearth, passes over the Royces whilst the older decides upon his response, then, his shoulders rise with an intake of breath as he begins, "With the title Princess, or Prince, of the Realm to their name, many have taken with it and done what they will. Abusing their powers, or bringing peace to Westeros." Another breath. "Like your great-uncle, Maegor the Cruel, and your grandfather, Jaehaerys the Wise. The Cruel King only used the power his royal title gave him for his own selfish gains. Usurping the throne after killing his half-brother, Aenys, with his dragon, Darksmoke. But the Wise King used the power he had for good; Bringing peace to Westeros after the tyrannical Cruel King's end."
The Princess' dark brows softly crease. "I don't want to be like Maegor the Cruel." Her cousin grins, a gleam of pride within his aged eyes. But she continues before he could respond. "But I don't want to be like Jaehaerys, either."
"Who will you be like, then?"
When the young Princess spoke, the dragon within her filled those purple eyes and Ser Gerold could hear the fire behind her breath, the royalty burning within her, "I will be Princess Maelera Stormborn, Rider of Balerion the Black Dread."
A silence overcomes the Royces, though, before another word is spoken between them, the wooden door creaks open.
The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, lovely Alicent Hightower. Having returned as promised.
Ser Gerold rises to his feet upon the sight of the Queen and bows his upper-body in respect. "Your Grace."
A soft grin blooms across Alicent's beautiful face. "Ser Gerold. I hope I am not interrupting?"
"Of course not, Your Grace. I'll take my leave." He turns his softened hazel eyes unto his young cousin. "I shall see you on the morrow, my Princess."
Ser Gerold, then, takes his leave, closing the wooden door behind him.
When the graceful Queen's bright green eyes that remind young Maelera of the vast plains surrounding Runestone look to her, her young heart flutters. She swears she saw the Queen's eyes soften when they looked upon her.
"How are you, sweetling?"
Crossing the ankles of her swaying feet beneath her, the young girl almost shyly tucks her head between her shoulders. "I'm alright, Your Grace."
"Please, just Alicent, sweet girl."
The Queen's emerald green dress with embroiderings that resemble the leaves of the heart tree shimmers in the moonlight as Alicent wonders over to the vanity and grabs one of the hairbrushes. Walking over to stand behind the armchair the young girl, her ward now, occupies, Alicent takes ahold of Maelera's wondrous locks.
Gently combing the brush through Maelera's damp hair with curled ends dripping with droplets of cold water, Alicent admires the soft tendrils gliding through her fingers. She'd never seen hair like young Maelera's. Brunette like many of the Valemens', yet with streaks of the Targaryen silver she'd become so accustomed to over the years living within the castle of Targaryens; Like starlight beaming through the brunette locks.
"Your hair is very beautiful, Maelera."
Shyly tucking her head between her shoulders, a bright grin like the stars shimmering above lifts the young girl's lips. "Thank you, Your–Alicent. I think yours is beautiful, too."
A laugh like bell chimes drifts through her ears and Maelera's chest warms as if a drop of sunlight seeped into it. "Thank you, sweetling."
A silence overcomes the queen and princess only filled with the crackling hearth and the distant trilling of the Black Dread as he floats above Blackwater Bay. Then, soft humming begins to fill the tranquil silence.
Alicent began to hum a tune she remembers her mother would sing to her whenever they were sewing together within her chambers in the Hightower in Oldtown. She wept the day she forgot the words, but her heart never forgot the hymn. Her lips lift into a grin, fondness shimmering within her eyes as she looks at the girl before her; Her ward. The girl she'd decided to take under her protection.
A decision Alicent Hightower would never come to regret.
Alicent misses the way her mother would brush her hair before bed and style it before a day at court. She misses having midday teas with her while sneaking in sweets before suppers. Alicent's only daughter never truly liked it whenever she tried to do stuff like that with her. She had two sons but one were too busy following around the knights whilst her youngest had only just seen three summers. She wonders, and deep down hopes, that Maelera will mayhaps have an interest in those things.
Setting the brush aside on the table between the pair of armchairs, Alicent, then, gathers Maelera's hair to weave into a single braid that runs down her back.
With the Queen's languid motions whilst braiding her hair, Maelera's eyes flutter shut. She were nearly asleep when Alicent finished the braid, letting it fall over her shoulder.
Upon noticing the fatigue settling into the young girl, whose had quite the day to put it lightly, a soft giggle falls from Alicent's lips. She lifts the girl into her arms then carries her over to the bed and lays her under the sheets. Alicent tucks the covers around young Maelera, who only watches her through half-lidded eyes, the blissful ignorance of oblivion minutes away from taking her into the world of dreams and bliss.
Far from the brutal and tragic waking world.
The Queen, her guardian now, presses her soft lips against her head. "Sweet dreams, sweetling." Alicent blows out the candle on the bedside table, then, leaves the room with quiet footsteps. Though, just before she closes the door behind her, she looks back at the little girl, and her heart flutters with warmth only her children could awaken within her.
Just before sleep claimed her, Maelera Stormborn lifts her eyes towards the window with pale curtains gently swaying in the nightly breeze. She calls out to Balerion through the bond that tethers their blood, heart, and soul as one until death.
A bellowing roar echoes across the breeze. He answered. As always.
The Daughter of Death's lips lift into a lopsided grin, before she looses the battle against sleep and falls into the world of dreams in the comfort of her new home.
__________༻♕༺___________
༻ Author's Note ༺
Chapter Two is here!! Honestly, I didn't expect for it to be so long LOL 😆 The beginning is probably one of my most favorite parts of this entire book 😜
I hope I did the heartbreaking scene where Daemon abandons my sweet girl okay 🙃 I feel like it fits his character, but idk 🥴
Balerion and Maela's bond is everything to me!! 🥰 As we can see, he's very, very, protective over his little rider ( it's so sweet, I'm crying ༎ຶٹ༎ຶ )
Next chapter is where the fun truly begins 😈 I think we can all guess why???? ( I'll give a hint; two little princes and their dreamer sister 😉😉 )
Anyways, I hope you lovely readers enjoyed and just know the journey hasn't even begun yet!! ( This is honestly one of my favorite books to date ◕◡◕ )