𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓 [𝗥𝗼𝗯𝗯.𝗦]

31

DUSK TO DAWN

VISENYA glanced down at the pale white flower in her shuddering hands, she trembled under the weight of the stares of those that her uncle had once freed. There was no where, in any sense, where she could hide. The Targaryen was far too ashamed to stare into those cruelly disappointed eyes of theirs.

"My people!" Roared Cleon from his stand, his yellow robes blowing in the summer wind. "Today we are here to witness the death of the reign of the Targaryens! Daeron's council will die amongst the fires of our hearth, and we do not need a dragon for that!"

The man smirked as if it were the highest reach of achievement in his end. But the people did not laugh, nor did they smile.

Visenya gritted her teeth as she glanced at them cautiously, nothing was to be found in their eyes but grief. And in such a moment as that all she could do was hate.

Uncle Daeron for sending her away.

The father that had been a fool amongst snakes, an imbecile that had lost her the life of comfort and a warm hearth.

There was much she despised. But that was nothing compared to the man in his yellow robes as he bound the people of Astapor in chains once more. And through it all, there was nothing she could do.

"Bring the men out!" Ordered the King, baring his filthy yellow teeth as the rattling of chains began. Visenya hissed, her own fingers numb as she was led towards the man that had ruined her life. Her heart thundered in her breast, her teeth chattering in fear of the monster that stood before her. Her tongue bled as she bit on it with all that she could afford, the bitter taste panging in her mouth. Visenya could not shout, nor wail, for the first time she had done so the King had cut her brother's cheek open with a dagger in his firm piggy hands. Rickon, in all his trembling fear, was still recovering in the hands of the healers.

But Visenya would not forget. She could not.

She gagged as the King and his men cheered, her violet eyes watched helplessly as the bound men were thrown into the pit of fire. She choked as the savage scent of burnt flesh and cooked bones met her, Visenya clasped her hand tightly over pursed lips.

"Oh, no, my dear," laughed Cleon boisterously. Snatching her hands away from her lips, squeezing the pale flesh in his own with a strength that was sure to leave nothing behind but bruises. "You will watch and smile. These will be your people, after all."

His fat greasy lips pressed roughly against her forehead, she wanted nothing more than to cry. His very touch, his scent, was vile. A filth that had tainted her with his sweaty skin pressed against her own. Visenya's gaze met his with a burning ferocity, she with such surety that she would watch him burn from the fires of her dragons.

She would see to it. No matter the cost.

Visenya had nothing to say to the man. She swallowed her vicious words that rested on her tongue, white locks glowing in the summer sun as she stared out at the desolate people of Astapor. They gazed back, with little hope in down-trodden eyes. She wondered, and wondered, how could such a man as Cleon do this to the people he had lived with for years? He had grown up in these towering halls, with many who he had slaughtered callously. But there was no grief in his eyes, and nothing but victory as he stood up on the stand and told his people of the superiority which he possessed.