Aelora Targaryen, known as "The Golden Child," was born of secrets and trained as a hidden weapon. Raised amidst prophecies and held back by her family's ambition, fire, and blood, she lived a life shrouded in mystery. Across the realm, Benjicot Bla...
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ACT V: Chapter one
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The desperate cries for the truth, the truth of being bound to someone who loves you, the lies of being tied to someone who hates you, and the desperate cries of being tied and bound to the unknown.
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Days had passed since the tragic death of Rhaenyra's firstborn son and heir, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. The fortress of Dragonstone, once vibrant with life and the echo of dragon roars, now stood in somber silence. The sea winds, once bracing and breathing life into, now seemed to carry the whispers of sorrow and regret. The cold stone walls of the castle, usually alive with the clamor of activity, felt oppressive and heavy with grief.
Aelora Targaryen, who was the firstborn child but was sent away from birth had now been named heir in Jacaerys' place and was overwhelmed by the oppressive atmosphere of the fortress. Each night, the darkness brought with it a flood of tormenting dreams. She could see Verena's ghostly visage, her eyes filled with silent reproach. The sounds of Jacaerys' final moments—the frantic struggle to save him, the desperate cries—replayed endlessly in her mind. The sea, which had claimed their bodies, seemed to mock her with every wave that crashed against the shore, a constant reminder of her perceived failure.
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The chamber Aelora shared with Benjicot was dimly lit by flickering candlelight, casting long shadows that seemed to twist and writhe with her own grief. The cold of the night seeped through the heavy drapes and the chill of her nightmares clung to her skin like a second layer. Each night, she woke screaming, drenched in sweat, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. Benjicot, ever vigilant, would cradle her in his arms, his voice a soothing balm in the darkened room.
"You're safe, Aelora," he murmured, his hands warm against her cold trembling body. "It's just a nightmare, Lor. I'm here with you."
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Despite his reassurances, the nightmares were not merely dreams but manifestations of her guilt and grief. One night, after a particularly harrowing dream where Verena's accusing eyes and Jacaerys' lifeless face tormented her, Aelora turned to Benjicot. Her voice was choked with despair, and her eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue and sorrow.
"I can't keep doing this, Benji," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I can't keep seeing their faces, hearing their voices. It feels like I'm drowning in my guilt."
Benjicot held her close, his breath warm against her ear. "You didn't fail them, Aelora. You did everything you could. You're carrying too much weight on your shoulders. Let me help you bear it."
