CHAPTER TWO.
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We took you right from your mother's womb,
Our temple, your tomb.

THE WOLF, FEVER RAY
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               "YOUR GRACE," SHE GREETS and falls to her knees.

     "Kneeling won't save you," Joffrey says. "You're here to answer for your sister's latest crimes."

     "Whatever she has done, I had no part. I beg you, please —"

     "I believe you. Truly," he mocks, smiling wickedly. "But you are here and she is not."

     Horror coils cold hands around Helaena's throat. She is quivering on the cold marble floor, a chill taking hold of her as he sits before her high on his throne, sharp voice echoing around the cavernous Throne room. When news of Daenarys' three dragons had arrived at Westeros' shores, Helaena had paid the price in blood and bruises. Yet wouldn't she let Joffrey beat her bloody for a single moment with her siblings, for a glimpse of Daenerys' smile, for the feeling of Viserys in her arms, pressed to her chest, alive? Oh, yes. She would let them flood the mines of the West in her blood, she would let them drown her in the Trident, she would let them shatter her bones in the moutains of the Eyrie.

     They do, in her dreams, yet they do not return. Helaena is left only with hatred and fear, some hollow in her head, the place where her memories are stored. Some hollow in her very heart, the place where she holds love, unfathomable and thick as honey, for her family — Rhaenys and Aegon, Rhaegar and Viserys, the memory of Mother. Overflowing, it was, and now it's empty, honey leaked through a crack left by Lannister blades. No matter that Helaena had never truly known them and that they fade with time: their voices, their smiles, their faces. Only impressions are left, simple phrases, colours and emotions.

     What she would do to see them. She had been so young when they were taken from her that she can no longer remember the exact planes of their faces. They are nothing more than a wispy memory that time has dulled, like sand eroding inch by inch from the line of a shore.

Helaena has never met Daenerys and she had been a child of two namedays the last time she saw Viserys. Still, with them by her side she would not be alone any longer. We would be three against the world, she thinks wistfully, like Aegon and his sisters.

     "The dragon cunt has taken control of Yunkai," Joffrey finally tells her.

     She tries to imagine what it would feel like, to straddle a dragon's neck and soar high into the air. She could rise above the clouds and fly far, far away. It is only a dream, but a sweet one all the same.

     "You have nothing to say?" asks Joffrey.

     "I live only to serve the king," Helaena answers automatically, looking firmly ahead. She knows the words by rote.

He laughs, and the echoing response of the Kingsguard rings in Helaena's ears and leaves her dizzy, cold leaking into her skin where she slumps on her knees before them. If Ser Jaime were here, no one would dare put their hands on me, Helaena is certain. It had been him who saved her all these years ago when his father's army took the city and ever since, he'd treated her with cool curtsey in public but gifted her kind smiles in secret. No harm besides cruel words had come her way when he still resided in the castle. Even Robert, however much he had wanted her dead, coudn't kill her in the aftermath of the war so as not to lose his honour. But Ser Jaime is lost to the Seven Kingdoms. Dead, she wagers.

"I'd kill you, but Mother says we could have use of you later. But she said nothing about punishing you. We'll see how your sister fancies that. Meryn," he orders, his childish voice bubbling with glee.

The back of her gown is torn open with a single yank, the laces in tatters as her free hand clutched the front of it against her chest in a desperate attempt to maintain some modesty. Helaena listens to the strained laughter of the nobles filling the throne room. They laugh because it is expected of them but even they cannot find any joy in this. Her face is burning, tears pooling in her eyes and head bowed as an attempt to shield her face from the mocking stares of the gathered nobles.

Don't cry, you foolish girl, she thinks. You are the blood of the dragon. Every beast bows to the dragon, not the other way around.

Ser Meryn slams a mailed fist into Helaena's stomache, driving the air out of her. When she doubles over, the knight grabs her hair and draws his sword, and for one hideous instant she is certain that he means to open her throat. Then, he smacks the blade across her thighs. Again, and again, and again. And again. Helaena screams.

     Blood stains the edges of the torn brocade, sluggishly leaking from the wounds left by the flat of Ser Meryn blade. Seconds trickle by, slow like a lifetime. Seconds turn into minutes, and Helaena is convinced dozens must have passed, but no. It's the pain, toying with her.

     Helaena shivers, warm blood from her own wounds contrasting sharply with the cool air of the throne room. She closes her eyes, and breathes deep. She does not cry. She is quite wrung dry of tears.

When she opens her eyes again, she is still whole. She is still living. She is still here.

     Please, she prays, in a haze of unspeakable grief and fury at the gods who would leave her alive to bear this pain alone. You have had your blood of me. Help me now, I beg you.

The gods do not respond. But the dawn is blood red with warning the day Oberyn Martell arrives in King's Landing.