Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The putrid, rotten stench of bloodied and burned flesh assaulted their nostrils. Each footfall led them farther into the dim cells underneath the Red Keep, the wails for mercy guiding them like a siren's call to weary sailors. Jaehaera's eyes followed the men bound to wooden tables, their heads submerged in icy water until the last second, when the Stranger's hollow fingertips grasped at their souls, they were yanked back into physical realm to begin the cycle anew.
"This is no place for a princess. Your mother would not be pleased." Ser Criston's grimace was overwhelming even in the faint, orange glow of the oil lamp.
Presented to her was a ballet of butchery—a dance of death, a chorus of chaos. Mutilated bodies accused of rape, treason, thievery. Justice isn't pretty, she knew. But it was well served.
"It's always about my mother," she answered, fetching a disappointed but unsurprised sigh. In the sketchbook of Jaehaera Targaryen's dreams, Alicent was drawn in overwhelming black shadows, conquering the parchment with the motto:" duty bound' ' italicized in blood, dyeing the page scarlet. Whose blood and when? Ominous, half-understood harbingers in the cobwebbed chambers of her enigmatic mind, where her father's feeble, Milk of the Poppy rants went to rot. However, in those brief moments of wakefulness, where she lay drenched in cold sweat and her rib cage thundering, the agonizing ache of an unknown, untold sacrifice lacerated her tender heart.
Like melted chocolate, the furnace behind Ser Criston's eyes roared." Her wishes are to be respected and obeyed. She is the most important woman in the Seven Kingdoms."
Cherish and honor thy mother, she remembered the Septons preaching in OldTown every morning and evening. And at every meal time.
Jaehaera's brows gathered over sullen eyes like the thunderous clouds of an emerging tempest. A morose frown contorted her lips as if someone were controlling them with string." So I keep hearing."
Before the knight could respond, their footsteps slowed to a halt at the final cell on the row. Criston stepped forth with the oil lamp, peering inside to gauge the traitor's position. He nodded and the iron-studded door opened with a metallic scream.
" I bring two options, traitor," her voice had grown firm and regal.
The man with the irises crafted from jade answered, " Death by a blade of black, or a frost of white mayhaps?" A bitter cackle erupted from his lips, her silence acting as confirmation to his theory. "Not much of a choice, I admit. Yet, they still call you the fair one. . . what a jest."
Criston spat through clenched teeth,"Mind your tongue or lose it, traitor."
The prisoner's sentences were clear and coated with the sanity to peer through the walls folding in on him. He knew of the false options and the venomous hisses of the Lord Confessor. Each word, each promise, each threat led to the Crown's ultimate goal—his death. Like annihilating the useless, disgusting leeches so as to not disturb the opulent, vibrant flowers.
