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CHAPTER FIVE. ━━━━━━━━━ She wears strenght and darkness equally well, the girl has always been half goddess, half hell. ━━━━━━━━━
ASTORIA KNOWS THE KING TO be mad. It is no secret in the Red Keep though no one would dare talk about it — not even in private, for walls can talk and spiders are always listening in this castle.
Even when she is alone with Elia, whose health has greatly improved due to the master belitteling her for a whole moon, does she not whisper of how Aerys Targaryen looks sicker by the day. As does his sister-wife. The queen bares the purple marks and bloody bruises on her pale skin as if they are naught but lovers kisses and Astoria believes that no woman stronger than Rhaella exists in the Seven Kingdoms. Enduring both the pain and humiliation caused by Aerys is something the Pentoshi could not dream of surviving.
At the first burning of a prisoner, her silvery hair is coiffured into an elaborate hairdo held together with pearl combs as she stands at her husband's side. It shines like melted silver in the sun that falls through the countless windows of the crown room. The King has ordered the court to be present that morning, the reason unbeknownst to the high lords and ladies that are now standing in neat rows before the Iron Throne Aerys sits upon.
The words still echo in her head. "Should the gods deem you free of any sin, then I shall reward you with amounts of gold you cannot dream of. Your innocence may be proven by fighting against the dragon himself," he had snickered.The man's eyes had widened with naked fear, his stuttering spilling from his lips but the king had not listened anymore, drowned in his madness.
Let him burn!
Let him burn!
Let him burn!
The man shrieks and screams and calls for mercy, from the gods or from Aerys, Astoria is not certain. She stands beside Elia and Ashara, her sleeves slashed with blue and green, her bodice of cloth of gold, tight against her breasts, and she says nothing, bites her tongue until her teeth are stained red. It takes mere seconds for the air to be filled with the smell of burning flesh and blackened bones, reeking of death and despair.
I am in the dragon's pit, she thinks. I must do as the Targaryens do.
She can sense Arthur looking at her. He stays silent, but from the corner of her eyes, Astoria sees the muscles of his jaw tighten, sees his throat flex, and she is begging, silently, desperately — do something. Please, Arthur. Anything.
But he must do his duty. She doesn't hold it against him though it fills her with cold dread.
The king, the Mad King, Astoria thinks spitefully, holds open his arms, face canted towards the terrible light of the flames, the shadow of the man's writhing body flickering over the king's pale face. His legacy will be one of fire and blood, as if the dragon banners hanging from the grey walls can foresee the future. Astoria has never been more frightened in her life.
Gods be good, she thinks, why would any man ever want to be king?
THE TREES OF THE GARDENS are heavy with blossom. Astoria watches, fascinated, as the drifts fall in white and pink around her, catching in her hair, her gown, her smile. Around them the world is all noise: lords and ladies chatter, the birds chirp and sing, centurions bark, legates gloom. This forest of blossom is quiet, though, in the crimson spill of dusk, and Astoria watches Elia as the woman's eyes close fleetingly.
"Imagine," she starts after some time, replaying the horrors of the morning in her head and trying her hardest to bury them. "Imagine if I had stayed in Sunspear, having fallen in love with a Dornish lord or no man at all. Imagine you marrying Oberyn. I would've liked that very much."
The two women look to each other, eyes bright with curiosity, bodies tense with anticipation that talking about such things always beckons.
Astoria looks down as she stirs the fallen blossoms in her lap with her fingertips. "If R'hollor had been kind, that's the life he would have given to us," she sighs. "But he is a god. It is not in his nature to be kind." For a mere second, she thinks of Arthur Dayne in the golden armour of the Kingsguard.
R'hollor, have I sinned?
Elia's frown remains and she crushes a handful of blossom. "The lords and ladies of the court see me merely as a broodmare, as a Dornish whore that can be gotten rid of, if necessary. Even to my own mother was I never more than a piece in the game, an asset for winning the crown's favour and binding the future king to Sunspear. And to Oberyn, my heart bleeds so much for I miss him, I have only ever been the sickly sister he must protect. I was portrayed as much, but never as a person," she says, voice low. "We are all just songs in the end. If we are lucky."
Astoria's smile grows but little. She looks off to the sunset dappled beyond the drifts of blossom, the boughs of trees. The smell of burning bones still lingers, though it's hours away already. "The singers make much of ladies who turn into queens." Her eyes change, though she tries hard to hide them. "But your life is worth more than a song."
Tears, Elia realises suddenly, Her friendis crying... almost unthinkable. But her green eyes are damp and when she blinks her eyelashes sweep up spiked with diamonds.
R'hollor, have I sinned?
"You've been many things to me, as well," murmurs Astoria. The woman's eyes and voice cloud wistfully. "A stranger, a companion, a teacher and tutor —"
"A friend," says Elia, her voice soft. "You have been the dearest and most trusted friend to me."
"We must hold fast to each other now," Astoria whispers. "Bad days are ahead."
