¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

xii: what never was

✧˖° 🌑 ೄྀ࿐
━ [ SONG OF SORROWS ] ༉‧₊˚✧
x. act one... the dragon's daughter
what never was ━ ✩・*。

— AUTUM, 112 A.C
DRAGONSTONE

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JAGGED formations of rock jutted from the dewey earth, veiled by the thick, unyielding fog that engulfed all it touched, with fingers of gray mist, a sinner's cover, pierced by teeth of stone. Lain atop the highest hill sat the castle, hewn of dark gray stone, a fortress of unmeasurable size, imposing upon the crest of the earth, sticking out like a sore thumb. Once, many years ago, it was considered a second home to many of House Targaryen. Now, it resided as a haunting reminder to all those who looked upon it, a skeleton of its former glory, weathered by time and forgotten by most. A snake den, housing the blackest of hearts within the Seven Kingdoms, a fox den; Otto Hightower had unwittingly found himself within the shadow of the castle, stood before the very fox.

    Words of poison and false threats had been spat, unrelenting resentment boiling in the air, sparking like building lightning. A long woven thread of green and black, frayed and marred by years of torment on both sides, the tether of forced acquaintanceship having long since run its course. Dragons destroyed towers, they did not heed them.

    It was a truly foolish display of unbending arrogance by  two men, challenged masculinity fracturing under the weight of steel-toed boots; both parties had something to prove, though it seemed only one had much to lose. The tales of the Rogue Prince did not rightly capture his lust for chaos; a sooted-scaled dragon, jet black heart weeping tears of blood, fingertips stained a gruesome crimson. Dormant acrimony lay in his soul, years of suffering at the hand of fate, overlooked and insufficient in all ways that mattered. A Prince with no crown, a King of his own making, sat atop a throne littered of corpses and ill-will, falsities conjured in his scorned mind that he was the heir, not his guileless niece.

    And oh his niece, his little dragon, a spit-fire from the moment she vacated her mother's womb. A fracture in the structure of tradition, fashioned into a rigid princess, so good and young and pure, untouched by the intruding hands of fate, unmarked by the trials of life. Her very existence was a defiant challenge to the Gods, daring to infringe upon eons of tradition, chin raised to those who would belittle her importance to the realm. For how much he resented her for stealing away his birthright, it was grace she held it with in her little hands.

Poets spent years with their eyes upturned to the heavens, focus towards the stars that hung like lanterns in the endless expanse, and yet they managed to miss the most beautiful one of all; The moon's envy, a million constellations captured within a small form: his niece that was both the recipient of both his indignation and his desire. As if millions of stars had gone out in supernova, bursting within her the seems of her crystalline eyes. Sparks of starlight, a soft touch from the moon, dazzled within her being, a reflection of himself. In every way she represented what he wanted; his throne would not be lost to her.

With the Hightower cunt's vicious insistence for him to surrender, kneel at his feet like a dutiful lap dog, Daemon grew infuriated. Carefully woven falsehoods to illicit the ever-lacking attention of his brother, fabricated stories fell from his lips like second nature, delighting in the red flush that took Otto's face with fervor, the pursuer now becoming the pursued.