the dragon must eat the serpent. the serpent will poison the dragon.
❪ blood moonlit ❫ in which lady taenysa of qarth is thrown to the maws of the great targaryen dragons, and she must fight if she is to survive.
⁺ warning : typ...
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TAENYSA HAD LITTLE DOUBT that her father's envoys had been given vast sums of gold to purely lie through their teeth, and to tell the Pureborn Council great tales that embellished the wonders of King's Landing.
The girl could only sit back wearily among the plush interior of the ornate carriage; her tired gaze fixed on the passing scenery beyond the window's gilded frame. Soft cushions of teal silk cradled her fatigued and travel-worn form, with the weariness settling deep within her bones after months of relentless sea-travel.
Across from her, propped up on a cushion of his own, lay her brother who had valiantly vowed to stay awake with her and keep her distracted from her nerves through witty repartee. He was sleeping soundly, tufts of choppy black hair puffing away from his deep breath.
As the carriage rolled steadily through what she could only assume where the outer districts of King's Landing, Taenysa could not shake the queasiness that had plagued her since dawn; the moment one of her father's ships had docked unsteadily in Blackwater Bay, allowing her to step on dry, steady land, with her entire household alongside her.
The jostling motion of the carriage on uneven cobblestones made her stomach churn, and oh! How the acrid scent of the city only exacerbated her immense discomfort.
Outside, the rough buildings loomed like weathered giants, with their facades bearing the scars of neglect and abject poverty, bricks of a dull-faded hue. And why, some houses stood with no bricks at all, but rather a jumbled amalgamation of fabrics and wooden beams for support.
Taenysa had envisioned King's Landing to be a gleaming, red jewel; a city of dragons soaring above towers of unparalleled beauty and divinity. Instead, she was greeted with alleys choked with the detritus of common life, much to her distaste.
As the noise of the bustling street reverberated, with harsh cries of tradesmen and the clatter of hooves, her thoughts could not help but drift back to the warm comforts of her home in Qarth, of her father's estate and the tranquil gardens, with the gentle trickle of water from silver fountains.
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SHE REMEMBERED THAT DAY when the ambassadors had arrived from Westeros, a group of spindly men sweltering in their thick velvet collars and plumed jackets, in varying shades of deep crimson, pine green and black.
Taenysa and her dear brother, Tycho, had furtively followed the embassy of visitors and watched as they disappeared into the Hall of a Thousand Thrones, for an audience with the Pureborn, their standards flowing behind them; with the customary Targaryen three-headed dragon embroidered beautifully.
Various ambassadors oft arrived in Qarth, with splendid gifts and pleasant words, only to be granted an audience with the Pureborn, the council that ruled the city-state. But never before had Taenysa ever recalled a ship arriving from King's Landing, with the correspondence with the continent in the West limited to small letters of polite platitudes.
