The Mummer

The Voices

It stood looming over her. Like a monolith of a god. It was all imposing. All knowing. It seemed to stare into her soul with scrutiny, digging through every memory, every thought, every feeling. It consumed her very being, sucking at it, devouring it. A parasite, almost. Latched on to her, feeding from her. She knew it was impossible. She wasn't dumb. A fool. A half-wit. It was a bloody chair. It couldn't think, it couldn't move, it couldn't do. It had no soul, no heart, and certainly, no brain to make it living. But it still didn't shake the subtle fear from her body, the anxiety that seemed to flow through her bloodstream like a river snaking through land, branching out into ponds and lakes and the sea. She kept telling herself it was just a throne, a throne she had seen so many times, for as long as she could remember. But it gnawed at her. Like that feeling of knowing you are being watched. She knew it was watching her, breathing in rhythm with her, their hearts syncing together. Dark purple eyes met the thousands of silver eyes staring back at her. She felt a smile churn on to its face.

"Vaelora..." It called out, called out to her. Its voice was mutilated, fragmented, into tens of other voices. She could pick them out, describe them even. Some were loud, others quiet. Some were soft, others rough. Some were high, others low. But despite her being able to grasp these individual voices, they still seemed to blend into one. One singular entity. Like a symphony that was so well conducted, instead of coming out of the dozens of mouths of singers, it came out of one mouth. The mouth of the Iron Throne. And the voice that came out of said mouth seemed to wrap around her, encasing her in a bone freezing cold. It was odd. It felt like a mother's hug, trying to console their daughter and keep her close to them, but at the same time, it seemed to choke her. Like the voice was hand, she could practically feel it wrapping around her neck and squeezing. She couldn't just feel it, she could picture it. She glanced down and saw the illusion of several hands grasping her neck. Panic rose in her chest, and she pushed erratically at the hands, but they didn't move. Instead, they started to pet at the skin on her neck, and soon, she seemed to find a strange sense of... comfort in the squeeze. A pleasant burn instead of a terrifying one.

She pulled her eyes away from the illusions to look around her. She had just been pulled into this... dream, this nightmare, this other universe, with no explanation. No warning. The Great Hall was dark. Not just dark, pitch black. The kind of black that snuffs out any and all light. To her right, she could not see more than a few feet. It was the same when she looked to her left. And if she looked over her shoulder to look behind her, a feeling of dread filled her. A chasm of darkness that seemed starving. If she stepped towards it, it would swallow her whole and that would be it. The end of Princess Vaelora Targaryen. Only ten years of age, taken so soon, so tragically, and with no explanation. She went to sleep, and never woke again. As if it were her own dreams that killed her.

The only source of light was in front of her. Except, the source was unexplained. There was no torch, no brazier, no beacon, no fire that clearly showed where the light came from. No, it just hovered around the Iron Throne, illuminating it. Vaelora imagined it would be the same way if a god descended down to the world. A glowing illumination with no source around them.

She supposed the Iron Throne was like a god. It dominated their life just the same. Men gave their life to it. Women bled for it. Nobles and smallfolk alike pitched themselves to their knees in front of it, begging to be saved, to be helped, to be guided from the power that chair of metal seemed to have. Cause it was not the king who held the power. It was not even the crown. It was the seat itself. Whoever placed themselves upon that thorny chair, controlled the realm, controlled the lands, controlled the people. So, was it really so different from a god? If people worshipped it? If it held all the power?

But she continued to examine it. For real. In detail. Since she had gained the ability to form memories, the Iron Throne had consumed them. Images of her father upon it flashed in front of her at quick speed, and a sense of jealousy rose inside of her, which was... unexpected... She remembered all the stories she had been raised upon. The defeated armies, the conquered kings, the abandoned swords, all thrown to Aegon's feet. The bending of the metal, the smelting of the metal, as dragon flames constructed the Iron Throne, just as it had constructed the Targaryen dynasty. She knew it all, she saw it all, she heard it all. The memories, the images, the stories, the myths. But this was different... it felt intimate. She didn't just know the story, or the kings who contributed to it, it was as if she knew the Iron Throne. As a being. Just like it had read her soul, it now seemed to speak its soul into her. And as it spoke, it contorted the throne.

The blades seemed sharper than normal. The years of decay from unuse seemed to fade, as if stretching back into time when it was new. Not only were the blades no longer dull, they were much shinier now. As if freshly polished. By what, she did not know. Blood, perhaps? If she was truly witnessing the throne at its creation, then that would be the truth. The blades were polished with the blood of the armies who had fought for Aegon, before those armies had overwhelmed their killers, and thus, those killers and their kings were forced to swear their swords to Aegon, and give their thrones and lands to him as well. That jealous feeling was gone, replaced with pride. The pride of knowing Aegon's blood rushed through hers. He was her ancestor, and she, his descendant.

"Vaelora..." the throne and the blades called out to her again. The voice was menacing now, but inviting. Like an enchantress, singing a hex to draw her in. The blades were asking her, begging her, welcoming her to stab herself upon their points. To place her hand, her chest, her skull over them and drive herself downward until she was impaled.

It happened without her thinking, without her brain even registering what was happening. But, when she realized, she didn't fight it. Her feet moved, picking themselves up and going towards the throne as it called for her, guided her. But this time, she heard the voice inside her, rather than around her. No, the Great Hall was silent and still. Even her feet made no noise. So quietly, she ascended the steps up to the Iron Throne at they stared at each other. She felt it smile... she felt herself smile. Her hand reached out, ready to grasp the armrest.

But then, the room filled with sound again. The rushing of water. She tried to turn, to look over her shoulder to see the water, but the hands gripped her head and forced her to keep staring at the chair. She heard the water slosh up the stairs. It sounded thick. Not like the water from her baths, or the sea, or water pouring into a chalice.

She felt it then. It was hot. It was sticky. It was at her ankles. She turned her head down, and the hands let her. It wasn't water.

It was, in fact, thicker than water. And redder. Far redder. She knew what it was. From the times she had scraped her knees after falling in the halls. From the few times she would watch the men in the training yard. From when her uncle would return to the Red Keep on late knights, covered in the liquid. From the time they had left the birthing chambers' door open on accident, and Vaelora saw it fall from her mother as she stood horrified in the hallway before being frantically ushered away. She was meant to have a sibling... all she got was a funeral.

Blood.

Panicked once again, Vaelora rose her head to look at the Iron Throne, as if she was hoping it would tell her it was alright. But it didn't. It's presence seemed to be gone, and now, it was just a chair. But as her eyes look up, a horrified expression crossed her face, and if she wasn't planted to the ground, she would have jumped back.

Heads. Impaled on the swords, decorating the Iron Throne. They were chopped at the neck, and the swords dug all the way through it to the top of the skull, where the tip peaked out. Like a flower blooming from the ground.

The heads all had their eyes gouged out, but they all seemed to be staring at her.

The blood was at her calves now.

She recognized some of the heads. Her own father's. Otto Hightower's. What looked like her sister if she was older. What looked like Alicent Hightower if she was dead. Rhaenys'.

The blood was at her thighs now.

She didn't recognize some of them, but there were telltale signs of who they could be. The silver hair that decorated her own head. Four heads with the silver hair were young adults, three male, one woman. One of the heads seemed badly burned. Three were of children, two boys, one girl. One of the boys', unlike all the other heads, was not chopped clean over at the neck, as if it had been cleanly done. It was mangled, as if someone had hacked at it. The other boy, his face was battered and bruised, and caved in. As if it had been crushed.

The blood was at her chest now.

She didn't recognize the other heads. Four men had dark hair. There were two young males as well, also with dark hair. And a boy, probably her age, with the same dark hair.

The blood kept coming. It was at her neck. It filled into her mouth. It covered her eyes. Finally, she was submerged. She drowned in it, unable to swim. She felt the blood filling her insides, her breathing stop, her heart fail, and finally, her eyes slipped shut. The last thing she saw the Iron Throne, still glowing, before darkness took her.