Leila Lannister was the devoted child, the one who surrendered youth for a life she didn't wanted and joy for all the heartache in the world. How will she survive her devotion?
'Upon my return to the Citadel that year, the blossoming of both life and death weigh heavy on my shoulders. I could not help but recall the tears I had shed and the count of my laughter at those happiest moments. Most believe us Targaryens to be above the life of men and women. Like gods who could restart the game and play it again, untouchable and fearless. But we are not any of those things. We are no gods. We are creatures of flesh and bone, the same echo of blood streaming through each pour of our veins. We are slaves to the march of time and to the cruelty of mortality. Of love and grief. Of death and sorrow. Of happiness and laughter. We are all the slaves of gods and mortality. We are even slaves to our own power, to our golden crowns and golden shrouds.
I cannot say for certain that truly allowed ourselves to live each moment as though it was the last. As though it was the memory that will triumph among the others. But as dragons had for centuries before, we Targaryens had found ourselves feeling each moment deeply. Intensely, maddening. Every different emotion is a category of madness. The moment of memory may be forgotten, but the smell, the taste. The feeling, the sound. Even the texture. We remember it all too well. We remember with yearning and sorrowful love in our eyes. Especially when we had found out the occupation and burning of Lannisport.
The screams of my grief-stricken mother as my sorrowful father held her back from getting close to the funeral pyre was fresh upon my mind. Aegon's anger and his grief, even his regret mounted upon him, his grief only shaken at the touch of Laila Connington's hand. Standing beside Rhaenys, her heart was taken from her. A part of all of us died when Visenya died. But Rhaenys was burnt with her that day, blaming herself for bot being strong enough. Not being steong enough to convince Visenya to come with her. Tears pouring, unable to find a way to become sober, her eyes were without light. Even Daemon and Rhaenyra were in deep grief at the loss of our dear sister. Nothing had ever been the same, nothing would be the same. All of us, we yearned for revenge. We yearned for retribution. I had wanted to remove the maester's chain and abandon it for a sword. To fight. To bring justice, to have meaning to Visenya's loss. To Eleanora's loss.
The crown prince's banquet had been cancelled that year, instead of revelry - Dragonstone summoned it. Preparations for war commenced within the week of the funeral. The queen Leila Lannister had commanded her eldest sons to bring justice and peace ro the realm. And so they shall. For when Targaryen blood is spilt, there is only fire.'
- Maester Maekar; Chapter VI of The White Queen
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CHESTNUT GLISTEN FOUND ITSELF IN THE HEAT OF THE DRAGONSTONE'S KITCHENS. The watchful eyes of the kitchen maids and servants were upon her within the kitchen's intense heat. Laila moved her head slightly, playing with her fingers nervously as she waited. She was not certain if the flour had been enough or if the amount of sugar had been plentiful and kind. The young Connington lady knew that there would not be another chance at this venture, not when the time for it was so desperately needed.
