¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

xiii: arsonist's kiss

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

— AUTUM, 112 A.C
RED KEEP, KING'S LANDING

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     ALE, the color of cognac, sloshed around in a goblet as Valerys turned it in her palm, the pungent liquid filling every one of her senses. In front of her, Alistair Stark shifted in his seat, bringing his own cup to his lips as he decided on what to say first. He never really expected Valerys Targaryen to come barging into his temporary chambers at this time, nor ever, if he thought about it, but he was glad she did. The day had been a long one, rife with betrayals and broken trust, the floor below Valerys littered with droplets of blood from where her heart had been cleaved from her chest.

How foolish she had been to presume her father would further honor her mother's memory, finding solace in solitude, refraining from further damaging Valerys little faith in him. When she had been called to a Small Council meeting not long after her arrival to King's Landing — and by extension, her arrival into the angry clutches of her father — Valerys had expected anything other than what had transpired.

Unlike her younger sister, Valerys had no desire to watch her father wed another; it mattered not that it was to strengthen his line, protect their flimsy house from destruction. In her eyes, it was a stake in the dead heart of her mother, spit resting upon her grave. No matter what words he flung her way, reassurance that she was his heir, Valerys could not help but feel the sting of future supplanting. To make the matter even worse, Viserys had announced his intention to marry Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra's closest and most dear friend. Valerys could not blame her sister for storming out of the meeting.

    And so, with a soul cleaved bare for all to see, tear tracks marring her face with an angry red blush, Valerys yearned for the council of her own dear friend, Alistair. A friend that could not betray her by marrying her father; it seemed, at times, Alistair was the only person who actually saw Valerys for what she was. In his presence, she was not the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, nor the heir to the Iron Throne, titles such as the Golden Princess and Dragonmother were lost around him. With Alistair, she was simply Valerys Targaryen, a young girl in need of a friend.

"I must admit," drawled Alistair, rapping his ringed fingers against the wood of the table separating them, "I was not expecting your presence this night, Princess."

Shifting her jaw, Valerys looked up from her goblet. "We have been close long enough for you to cease calling me Princess," chortled Valerys, rewarding him with a genuine smile. Alistair returned it, leaning forward in his chair. After a beat, Valerys spoke again, "my father has inclined to take another wife."

Second-hand sadness flashed in Alistair's eyes like a bolt of lightning. "Who might the lucky lady be?"

"I would scarcely call her lucky," sneered Valerys, skin flushing at the warm lick of the fire resting upon the near hearth. "She is wedding a man who will never value her as he did his first wife."

Obsidian eyes captured her snarky expression. "And this pleases you?"

Tapping her fingers against the golden goblet, Valerys allowed her words to quiet. She had done her fair share of screaming and making a mess of her own chambers following the encounter at Small Council, the only comfort she found was within her own grieving sister, patently perturbed at the stark turn of events. Rhaenyra had always taken more kindly to the knowledge that their father was expected to remarry, for she saw past her own selfish agendas. Valerys could not uphold that same sentiment; it was her father's duty, yes, but an unwelcome one. Alicent would never be Aemma.