Embers in the Sand || Book I

iii. Beneath the Surface

————————————"Why do you look at me with such hatred?" The queen's voice cut through the murmurs of the astonished nobles in the throne room. Her blunt question sent ripples of surprise through the gathered courtiers.

Lady Elia Martell did not flinch.
Her face remained stern, her brown eyes narrowing slightly, though her lips curled into a tight but elegant smile as she met the queen's gaze. With unwavering composure, she replied, "I do not understand your meaning, Your Grace."

Queen Rhaenys responded with a mocking smile, her violet eyes sweeping over Elia from head to toe. "I hear you are three-and-twenty. Quite old for someone still unmarried."

Elia's smile remained unchanged, though her eyes hardened. "Age and marital status do not define one's worth or sentiments, Your Grace. My gaze reflects only respect for the throne and its occupant."

Rhaenys's smile lingered, but her eyes sharpened. "Respect, you say? Yet I sense disapproval. Perhaps your respect is just a thin veneer masking something more... personal."

Elia met her gaze steadily. "If you sense disapproval, it is not toward you personally, but at the circumstances that have led us here. My concerns, as always, are with the realm and its future."

The queen's eyes narrowed, her amusement fading. "Very well. Ensure your concerns do not disrupt the harmony of this court.
Elia inclined her head. "Of course, Your Grace. I aim only to serve."

Rhaenys's expression remained inscrutable, but she seemed satisfied. With a wave of her hand, she ended the conversation, turning her attention elsewhere.

Elia took a deep breath.Though her words had been measured, the tension remained unresolved.

Sleep eluded her, as it often did. She was not surprised. How could she be, when even the walls of the keep were unfinished—poor reflections of the splendor Maegor had once envisioned? Stone and mortar were no barriers to the memories that haunted her, nor to the nightmares lurking in the dark.

She had foreseen the fall of her house, just as Aegon had foreseen the fall of mankind. How bitterly ironic that both prophecies had come to pass, but in ways neither of them had truly anticipated.

She had known, even then, not to laugh at the disappointment the descendants of Aegon and Rhaenys would become. Westeros, with its Andal cesspit, had ruined her house, stripping it of its Valyrian heritage.

The Seven had caused the Fourteen Flames to abandon the house of the dragon, sealing its downfall.

But Visenya would not let it end. She would not watch her legacy tarnished. Maegor would be born again—of that she was certain. Aegon's weak son and his spawn by that Velaryon wench could keep their wretched throne.

It was time for Visenya to break away. Aegon had stolen so much from her. She was the eldest, the better warrior. Dragonstone should have been hers by birthright.

Even Rhaenys should have been hers. But once again, Aegon had stolen from her the thing she loved most.

Before the dreams and visions, she would have sulked at the unfairness, reminding herself they were kin—siblings, husband and wife. But what was the point when, in the end, he had cast her aside? He had left her in darkness to mourn alone, as if he were the only one who had lost.

As if she hadn't also loved Rhaenys.

Visenya had hoped that with her intervention, Rhaenys would survive the battle. She had believed they would stand again as the heads of the dragon. And by the will of the gods, it had worked. Rhaenys lived, and there had been no need for sacrifice, nor was the balance of the world endangered.