⋆˚˖° ❝ 𝕱𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝚰𝐓𝐄 𝓒𝐑𝚰𝐌𝐄,
╰── ➣ house of dragon 🕯️༉‧₊˚.
: « ⁺ ₊ ▃▃▃▃ ⋆ﾟ⛧ ❪ 𝙳𝙰𝙴𝙼𝙾𝙽 ﹠ 𝙴𝙻𝙰𝙴𝚁𝚈𝚂 ❫
▌ ˖ִ ࣪ she loved with all the more 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 because she loved with 𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆. she did not know whether it w...
𝒐. 𝗙𝗔𝗩𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗘 𝗖𝗥𝗜𝗠𝗘. 𝑺cream my 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚, and all will 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧.
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❛ I lost my childhood the day I had a child, for my life became about building a future for them, not living my own. ❜
—— 𝗘𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗝𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗥𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗻𝘆𝗿𝗮, dated the year 117 AC.
༒
𝟳𝘁𝗵 𝗔𝘂𝗴𝘂𝘀𝘁, 𝟭𝟭𝟱 𝗔𝗖.
The Red Keep groaned under the suffocating embrace of summer. The sky, a merciless shade of blue, poured down its relentless light, flooding the halls with a blinding radiance that crushed the shadows beneath its invisible weight. Below, the gardens burned with almost garish colors under the sun's glare—a cascade of reds, oranges, and yellows that seemed too vivid, too desperate for attention. The flowers, regal yet fragile, bowed their heads beneath the stifling heat, their petals trembling, overwhelmed by a summer that refused to relent. Even the birds, usually quick to fill the air with their carefree songs, had retreated into an uneasy silence, daring only a few hesitant murmurs, as if afraid to disturb the tension hanging thick in the air.
Yet within Rhaenyra Targaryen's chamber, another world took shape. A world smaller, closed in, laced with a pain so deep it clawed at the soul. The princess lay on her bed, her features drawn with exhaustion and suffering. She was no longer just an heir, no longer merely a woman—she was a martyr, a body offered to the inevitability of blood that always demanded more. Her breath was erratic, labored. Her silver hair, damp with sweat, clung to her burning skin. Her wide eyes, fever-bright, latched onto some distant point, caught between the past and the future. Her pale, trembling fingers clutched the sheets with desperate strength, searching for an anchor in a world that was tilting around her.
The omnipresent heat only fed her torment, an unyielding, inescapable force. It clung to her skin, seeped into her bones, layered itself atop the agony tearing through her body. And yet, despite the pain, despite the crushing weight of time stretched unbearably thin, she could not let go. There was something in her—an ember that refused to die, a silent certainty. The child. The life she carried. A hope. A sentence.
Beside her, Ellyn, her faithful maid, kept vigil. She had attended births before, but never under the weight of something so inevitable. The young woman, her brow furrowed with worry, pressed a cool cloth to Rhaenyra's burning skin, offering a fleeting reprieve to a fever that would not break. Her gaze flickered toward the princess, trying to gauge how much more she could endure.
