𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗖𝗥𝗢𝗪𝗡 I AEMOND TARGARYEN

̶(̶ ̶0̶2̶ ̶)̶

K I N G S    L A N D I N G

Rose Flowers.

Rose Flowers, they called her.

A strange name as she found. Like in those fairy tales for children, but it didn't have a nice meaning. At least not the last one, even if the name itself was the epitome of beauty. But it publicly marked she for what she was. A bastard.

Flowers was a name given to bastards. A mishap, a sin, something that should not exist and yet was there. A disgrace that was also marked as such. 

Just as in the North every bastard was called Snow, or in the Riverland Rivers, the bastards of the Reach were called Flowers.

Rose had to admit that although she found the name beautiful, she secretly loathed it, for it revealed her for what she really was.

While bastards were considered a disgrace throughout the realm, the only land that that saw it differently was Dorne. Not infrequently, she had wished to be born in Dorne. She had heard of its beauty and had often longed not to be treated as what she now unfortunately was. A bastard.

If you belonged around Smallfolk, the high lords looked down on you. But if you were additionally a bastard, even the Smallfolk looked down on you.

Rose was used to it. She knew it no other way. She had resigned herself to her fate, accepted it for what it was. She couldn't change it, and any thought of it was a waste of her time.

She remembered how her mother had always braided flowers into her hair.

Rose had loved it until she realized the ambiguity.

She didn't believe her mother had meant to shame her. She had been a good woman. A little bit cold and distant but still a good woman. She had lacked maternal warmth, but Rose did not want to be ungrateful. Still, the other children had enjoyed teasing her about her status as a bastard. Even her mother had called her a bastard in an argument. Rose had always had the feeling that her mother saw her as a duty, as something she had to endure.

She had never held her or done anything that a loving mother would do with her children. No kisses or a sweet embrace. For Rose, living together was sometimes more like being with a stranger than being with her mother.

Rose bore no resemblance to her mother. Neither in character nor outwardly. While her mother was broadly built and tall, Rose was of a petite nature. They had also not resembled each other in the face, which is why Rose assumed that she must resemble her father. A man she would probably never meet. Her mother had never talked about him and every question about him she had left unanswered.

"Did you bring yourself a little playmate, brother?"

A laugh could be heard.

Rose mind was brought back. She was often caught up in her own thoughts. A characteristic that was already her downfall several times.

Rose did not know how she had imagined the king, or what expectations she had of him. What she did not expect, however, was to be received with such shameful words.

The king was sitting on the iron throne she had heard so much about. Light blond hair, blue eyes and fair skin. The typical appearance of a Targaryen. A young man with a handsome face and eyes too red. He looked tired.

She had heard about the impressive sight of the throne, adorned with the swords of the enemies of the kingdom, but having it right in front of her eyes gave her a completely different picture of the power of the Targaryens.