The blood of Old Valyria lives on still in both the Targaryens and Velaryons, and another who fits in neither category. Saerra Salt is a bastard, born out of wedlock as a result of Lord Corlys's drunken night on the Street of Silk. He takes care of...
Saerra stands with her head down and hands clasped together as she's being reprimanded in her own chambers as her father stands before her.
" I'm sor--"
" What if someone saw you?! What if someone took you?!"
" Not like you would care," She mumbles.
Lord Corlys stands his ground as he takes a deep breath.
" You are not to leave these castle walls unless I say so," He states, " Am I understood?"
" Yes, ser," Saerra utters, head still tilted down so she doesn't have to meet his gaze.
The Lord of the Tides exits with a huff as he slams the door, which makes Saerra jump. Only once he's gone does she finally lift her head. She takes herself to bed with no handmaidens or servants at her disposal, for she is viewed to be no better than the help. She curls up under the covers with her head on the pillow, eyes brimming with tears as her heart begs to be anywhere else. She doesn't wish to be locked up in a castle, but rather out in the city or in the middle of the sea. She finds no peace in a castle, it gives her no sense of home or belonging.
Westeros is soon painted with the golden colors of the sun as the entire realm prepares for the birth of a new heir, while the Realm's Delight steps off her beloved dragon Syrax, then steps into a carriage with her live-long best friend Alicent to head back to the Keep where the Queen awaits.
" This discomfort is how we serve the realm."
" I'd rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory."
From the Queen to the King she goes, though she is late for her duties as cupbearer, of which she is reminded then promptly ignored as the Lords of the Realm continue their meeting.
" Shall we discuss the Heir's Tournament, Your Grace?"
" I would be delighted," The King smiles, "Will the maester's name day prediction hold, Mellos?"
" You must understand that these things are mere estimations, my King, but we have all been poring over the moon charts, and we feel that our forecast is as accurate as it can be," Lord Mellos responds.
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" The cost of the tournament is not negligible. Perhaps we might delay until the child is in hand?" Lord Beesbury suggests.
" Ugh, most of the lords and knights are certainly on their way to King's Landing already. To turn them back now..." Lord Strong trails.
" The tourney will take the better part of a week," Viserys interjects, "Before the games are over, my son will be born, and the whole realm will celebrate."
" We have no way of predicting the sex of the child," The maester adds.
" Of course, no maester is capable of rendering an opinion free of conditions, now are they?" The King jests, " There's a boy in the Queen's belly... I know it."
