✧˖° 🌑 ೄྀ࿐
━ [ SONG OF SORROWS ] ༉‧₊˚✧
x. act one... the dragon's daughter
the gift of life ━ ✩・*。
— WINTER, 96 A.C
RED KEEP, KING'S LANDING
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DISAPPOINTMENT was a feeling not uncommon to Aemma Arryn. Each time the wretched, cold nerves shot down her back, erecting her spine and effectively sagging her shoulders, it almost felt common — entirely too common for a lady, who, at the beckon of her weary hand, could have anything brought to her. Disappointment was not the life she signed up for when she became wife of the prince. And yet, it hugged to her like a second skin; a shadow following her every move, nipping at her heels like the first frost of winter.
When she had been borne in this world, kicking and screaming, there alit a light inside of her soul. A light untained by the strains and horrors of the world that encroached in upon her like a darkening fog, a light that — as she came into womanhood, but to her chagrin, never motherhood — became sullied, tainted, and a flickering imposter of what it once was. With each babe lost in term, each child she watched heave a breath, never to twitch again, the light only dulled. Her soul had become fractured, heart fossilized to the arduous feeling of loss.
She was not unaware of the disappointed glint in Viserys eyes each time a babe was lost, whether before or after it left its mother. In time, she had become the embodiment of the very notion she came to hate; she was disappointment. To her father, who looked on her with angry eyes, an unsaid but oh-so obvious disdain for his youngest, a shadow of thought that she had killed her mother ( even by just coming into being, no fault of hers in truth ). To her husband, who looked on her with sad and downhearted sympathy with each new babe lost to time or a force outside of her command. Aemma no longer wrought disappointment, she was disappointment.
Time and life had been cruel to Aemma. No child she carried to term had yet seen their first name day, let alone the break of dawn. And those she did not, the ones who perished in the dark of her womb, those hurt more. They never even saw life, she never looked upon their face, got to name them. They were shadows, gone as soon as they came.
And so, as she laid, back against the childbed, she resigned to the familiar feeling of disappointment when the babe she had pushed from her womb did not emit a single cry, a breath, nor a twitch to indicate it ever saw life. Her body, battered and weakened, could not even allow the feeling of shock to enter her drowning mind. It was all too common, perhaps she was never meant to see motherhood. Perhaps it were the Gods curse to her, after she had inadvertently killed her mother by way of being born.
The midwife, still cradling the unresponsive babe, gave a dreary sigh. For years, she had served Aemma dutifully, guiding her through motherhood ( or, lack thereof ). It was not the first time she had seen the melancholic anger creep up her fair face, blushing her cheeks red as she once again failed in her duty of providing her husband a viable heir, and she very much doubted it would be the last.
Gentle fingers pressed against the babe's soft skin, right above what she would presume to be a still heart. That was not what she found. Despite the child's evident lack of movement, there, under it's porcelain flesh, she could feel the dull, yet ever-steady beat of the babe's heart. With widened eyes, she immediately began to strike the child, hoping that it would respond to pain, if nothing else.
Aemma let out an awful cry, as if her own skin had been seared with the blow. Though when she went to move forward, her body betrayed her, and she thumped back against the bed.
"The babe's heart still beats, my lady!" the midwife cried, her fingers now pushing ever-gently on the child's chest.
The initial anger and persistent anger dissolved into elation. She found it within herself to sit up, letting out a cry of her husband's name, who had been confined to the corridor after his shadow-like movements had been far too distracting for the midwife to bear. Aemma had ordered only her midwife, Lysa, be allowed to remain at her side during the birth. The presence of others was suffocating, she had said.
A loud knock came from the front of the room, and not a moment later, Viserys was seen bounding in, his white-blond hair knotted and tangled, no doubt from his incessant tugging at it. When he saw the predicament, it seemed as though he deflated. Another disappointment, he bitterly thought.
Never had he once blamed Aemma, for he knew it was no fault of hers that the children would not live. Still, the acidic taste never fled his throat at each new child he had to mourn. Each potential heir he cried for. It was only a matter of time, he would tell himself. If Aemma could bear him nothing but girls, then so be it; he would love them indiscriminately, crown them without a second thought. As long as they were hers.
"The babe yet lives," the queen informed her disheveled husband, who's wild eyes raked over the child. He stalked over, level with Lysa, who, with a glance to Aemma, placed it within the arms of the father.
Then, all of Aemma's insecurity and fear at once again failing her beloved husband disappeared. A cry split the air, and while normally it was enough to make one cover their ears with hinderance, it did nothing but make tears well within Aemma's eyes.
"She cried!" Aemma screeched, and while her body lain too weak for use, she still yearned for the touch of her baby. "Viserys, she cried!"
The knowledge seemed to dawn on Viserys then, and with a large finger he began to gently trace lines across the babe's face, as if taking each feature into memory. Her nose, perfectly sculpted, resembled her mother's, rigid and pronounced. Her skin was fair, speckled with freckles, blood still dotting her soft face. When she cried once more, this time, softer, Viserys broke out into a happy smile.
"That she did." Without ever looking up from his newborn, Viserys took careful steps over to his wife, who longed for the touch of her child. When she was laid in Aemma's chest, she felt the withered flower of her heart come alive. She'd held her babe's before, felt their skin with trepidatious fingers, always a spark of fear alighting in her heart, new allowing her to fully indulge in parental love, as she had the knowledge that they may not live to see a day past their birth.
This was different. When she laid a hand on her, stroking her nearly-hairless head, she could feel in her quivering bones that this time was different. This baby would be different. She would not be thrust on the pile of Aemma's disappointment, she would not be another child she parents had to bury.
It seemed news traveled fast, as within mere minutes of the arrival of their new children, the family was storming the room, all clamoring to peer at the newest addition. At the forefront of the pack stood Queen Alysanne, her rigid visage as sovereign dissolving immediately as she stared upon her great-grandchild. Held close to her mother's chest, treated like a porcelain statue laid the babe, coddled in a blood-stained white robe. The queen strode forward, laying a hand on Viserys' back.
"You did well, Aemma," she commended, and though an air of doubt hung heavy in her mind, cognizant of how many children that lay dead at the woman's feet, she held a different regard of his baby.
Only then did Aemma look up from her baby, a lovesick look enrapturing her soft features. "Thank you, my queen. She is beautiful, is she not?"
"As beautiful as her mother," replied Queen Alysanne, gently holding the little girl in her gaze. No doubt a Targaryen, with little wisps of silver hair sprouting from her skull.
A shuffle within the room caught the attention of the mother, who's eyes peered past Alysanne, and towards her husband and husband's father, Baelon. They both had wide grins taking purchase on their faces, and Baelon strode forward to give his son a congratulatory pat on the back.
"A daughter," he said, but there was a sadness to his words as she looked upon Aemma cradling her child. A ghost of remembrance on his lips, reflecting in his eyes of solid blue. "I wish your mother were here to see this."
That made a frown sprout on Viserys' lips. The memory of his mother was a painful one. Her death had fractured his heart, a gaping hole remaining. Forevermore would he weep for his mother, crippled by the very affliction his wife was, lain to rest after the strain of childbirth had taken her, her son she bore — Viserys' younger brother — dying not even a few months later. Life was cruel, so be came to discover. The very thing she died giving life to had not lived long enough to witness his first name day.
"She is," responded Viserys in a small voice. He wished dearly to change to topic, to revel in the happiness of having a child, but the memory of his mother was not one easily forgotten.
When another figure shuffled to the forefront, imposing figure held in rigid stance, hands clasped behind his back, all eyes in the room came to his form. King Jaehaerys looked down on the child with fascination. Even with thirteen children, nine of which came into adulthood unscathed, he was still intrigued by them. When he came to Aemma's side, reaching a wandering hand to lay on the babe, she allowed him with no hesitance. The king broke into a grin when the baby cooed at his touch, wrapping a minute hand around his ring-clad finger.
"Beautiful," commented the king, withdrawing after another moment to take in the baby's form.
Baelon gave a brief nod. "I agree, father." He turned then to his eldest son, a look of question on his angular face. "Have you and Aemma decided upon a name?"
"Valerys," came Aemma's raspy voice, drawing the attentions of those around her. She quivered under there piercing gaze.
At the acknowledgment of the babe's name, Baelon visibly deflated.
Queen Alysanne did not look so troubled. "A strong name for a strong woman."
"I agree," Jaehaerys added, placing an arm around his wife's midsection. He could recall quite well when she was in Aemma's place. His sympathy extended to her; he had felt the crippling loss of a child more than once. "She will grow to be a fine warrior. A woman House Targaryen can be proud of."
"Your words warm me," chuckled Viserys, drawing his hands to his front. "I shall hope she grows to be as wise as you, grandmother."
Alysanne held her grandson in a gentle regard. "I have a feeling she will be wiser. My heart sings it so."
There was a short breath of amusement from her husband. "Then it must be true," said the king, beginning to recognize Viserys' desire to be alone with his wife and newborn daughter.
"Aye," Baelon murmured. "This family is proud to welcome her. Speaking of... where might your brother be, Viserys?"
At the mention of his wildcard brother, Viserys heaved a sigh. Daemon was as untamable as a wildfire, reckless and brazen even at the age of eight. There was scarcely a moment this whirlwind life slowed enough for him to grasp his reality, to pay attention to anything. In his own words, Daemon was a second son, responsibility passed him by. Long days he spent on dragon-back, the clouds a cold blanket, ever-chilling his heart. Viserys held love for his brother, but he worried greatly for him. There was always a storm cloud following the boy, one that alit with lightning. Eventually, Viserys was certain it would come to strike him.
"Your wonder is the same as mine own," said Viserys, exasperated. It shouldn't have surprised him that he missed the birth of his first niece, but in a sad way, it did.
Taking notice of the crestfallen nature of her grandson, Alysanne ran a hand along his back. "He will come. That you must put your faith in. He is a wild boy, but even he can be tamed by the love of his family."
It showed in his face that Viserys did not hold the same sentiment.
Disappointment was also familiar to Viserys, and not just his wife's lack of luck in childbirth. Disappointment was ghost, ever present on his back as he wove through life; disappointment was his brother, always seeming so near, but at mind, miles away. Daemon was a good warrior, a proud man, but in a way, a shell of a brother. He held no kinship, none to clasp onto, to relate to. He was young still, and yet, his heart had already taken to freezing those around him out. It saddened Viserys, to have someone to go through life with, but who did all in his power to stray away from that tether.
Those around him always claimed Daemon's heart would settled as he became older, seasoned in life, acquainted with the world around him and not just simply seeking fleeting pleasures. Viserys, for all his estrangement, felt otherwise. Daemon held no responsibilities other than simply being, and so, there was little doubt in his mind Daemon would ever grow into the mind of someone truly grounded.
As swiftly as his frown came, said disappointment walked through the door.
The stench of dragon and underlying amber came with him into the room, feet astride in swift movements. Eyes fell upon him in decently rehearsed shock, taking in Daemon Targaryen as he wove through them like a hard-flowing river. His white-blond hair was done away from his face, gathered in a simple, silver and gold clasp at the back of his head. Stoney eyes fell upon the babe resting against Aemma's chest, now gently sleeping.
Upon striding closer to inspect his newfound kin, the babe's eyes came to open, obviously startled by the new presence and smell. They regarded each other with the same curiosity one would see in a feline approached its brethren. Daemon gave a careful glance to Aemma, who only nodded once in confirmation of his silent question.
With a hand, he ghosted over the child's face, who's wide, blue eyes looked upon it with an unblinking stare. She gurgled, reaching out a hand to grab hold of the extended digit.
"Brother..." breathed Viserys, patently surprised by his unanticipated intrusion.
Daemon did not acknowledge his brother, instead craning his head to glance at Aemma. "So, it is a girl?"
"Indeed."
As the babe continued to play with his hand, he asked, "her name?"
"Valerys," responded Aemma, watching Daemon interestedly. She'd never seen him so involved with anything... other than himself.
"Congratulations," was all he said, looming over her bedside, still watching Valerys.
Something strange, unsettling sparked in Aemma's chest. The slimy feeling crept up her spine until it set goosebumps like flames down her body. Daemon had always been a disquieting force in her life; the second son with a penchant for chaos. She'd seen the way he treated those around him, absconding from his duties and neglecting his brother who'd done nothing but attempt to connect with him.
Watching him interact with her daughter, an unwitting intrigue capturing his features, soft eyes glancing over Valerys, she felt uneasy. Daemon had never shown interest in his family before, so why now? She wrote it off as maternal instinct, after all, Daemon was her uncle.
And yet, even after he, and all of the family evicted themselves from the room, leaving only Viserys and her daughter remaining, that unease never settled.