¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

ix. freedom's death

✧˖° 🌑 ೄྀ࿐
━ [ SONG OF SORROWS ] ༉‧₊˚✧
x. act one... the dragon's daughter
freedom's death ━ ✩・*。

— 112 A.C
RED KEEP, KING'S LANDING

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. * 　　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚
. * 　　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .
. 　 　 ⁺ ⁺

THE sunrise marked the scorching of the permafrost. It burned.

Ignorance truly was bliss, the gentle caress of oblivion taking up residence in one's brain, shielding them from the horrors or otherwise unfortunate happenings that darkened the world. Valerys Targaryen wished she could live a life devoted to nescience, wrapped tightly in the coddling blanket of safety. Regretfully, with the life she lead, one of rigid duty and expected standards, that fantasy was swiftly shattered by the intruding fingers of reality.

    Pain struck every cord, every cell, bouncing carelessly on each and every nerve within Valerys' body, ripping her apart. It felt as if her heart had been clawed from her chest, left to rot on the ground in front of her. It was to be a joyous day, they said, one that shattered the realm's expectations and brought forth the coming of a new dawn, a new age that would see a woman — a gender so scorned by the traditions of her world — sit atop the Iron Throne. The Golden Princess, the beacon of hope shining in the midst of a foggy night, the figurehead of a new order, and now their heir. For Valerys was a rejection of unwritten law, but she did not feel like it; she felt like a false savior, and all the hope they had unblinkingly placed in her was — as all things Targaryen's touched — to eventually go up in flames.

    Valerys did not want to rule. The Iron Throne represented the fragmentation of her childhood, ripped so carelessly from her young hands that she never had time to mourn it, before she was fashioned into a princess the realm — and her parents — could be proud of. By all rights, Valerys was fit to rule; she knew every mannerism, every little quirk a good ruler had, but she did not want it. The Iron Throne had taken everything from her — her father's love, her youth, her mother, and now, her freedom, for the shackles of queenship were to be locked around her ankles in a few short hours.

    Gazing at herself in the mirror, it felt as though an entirely different girl looked back. No longer was she the bright, starry-eyed princess that wished for nothing but a dashing lord to sweep her off her feet, to find her true love and meld a family around that love. No, that light that extinguished long ago, left to die by the crushing foot of fate. The girl — or woman, she supposed — who stared back at her was straight with rehearsed regality, eyes cold and blank; pale, starry skin was marred with long-wiped away tear stains, the tracks a bitter reminder of her dampened resolve. She did not like crying, but it seemed that was all she ever did nowadays.

    Beautiful was not a word many used to describe Valerys; she was pretty, undoubtedly, but beautiful was a stretch. Many said her nose was too long, too narrow for her face. Her eyes, now haunted by deep swirls of purple, were too round, doe-like but never in the pretty way, not according to the whispers of court. Round and plush was her face, the residual baby-fat still softening her cheeks. It was a mocking image in her mind: so much faith placed into the palms of a child.

    Much to her chagrin, Valerys' hair had been done up in a tight bound of braids, golden clasps bearing the sigils of each major house wrapped carefully around the weaves of hair. With her hair pulled carefully away from her face, it made Valerys all the more insecure. The realm would see her, truly see her, the child in the skin of a princess, marked by the years of precise and dutiful teachings of the Septas, a reborn heir. The binding of her hair was just as she felt — trapped and utterly helpless; changed in a way she never wanted, nor liked.