↳ xiv. BUT, AT WHAT COST?

SEASON 1
EPISODE 8: THE LORDS OF THE TIDE
—HOUSE OF THE DRAGON—

HEAVY IS THE CROWN

———— ————

NEXT MORNING
KINGSLANDING

2 DAYS AFTER
KING VISERYS'S DEATH

|| A SHRILL ECHO OF A MOURNFUL CRY FILLED THE MORNING AIR; reaching the ears of young Vyselyra as she slowly emerged from the depths of nightly slumber. She knew, without a doubt, that the beastly wails belonged to her mother's dragon. But what troubled the Targaryen princess of the sea was not the sound of the dragon's cry—but the sorrow that echoed within it.

As she rose, the silken drapes of the chamber fluttering in the faint light, yet another restless night spent at her father's side—with occasional beckon for food. Vyselyra's heart clenched at the distressing noise that seeped through the windows. Outside, the once serene streets of Kingslanding were now filled with chaos and despair. The small folk, herded like sheep by the brutish guards, were being forced towards the dragonpit—faces etched with fear and resignation.

Feeling a surge of dread envelop her, Vyselyra muttered lightly before hearing the uttered voice—hurrying to the side of her father. Desmond's voice but a whisper as he beckoned for his youngest daughter to come closer.

With a heavy heart, Vyselyra knelt by his side, the scent of age and death clinging to the air around them. His eyes, clouded with pain and regret, met hers with a mixture of sorrow and love. "My dear Vyselyra," he rasped, his voice barely audible above the distant clamor of the city, "the time is coming."

As the weight of his words settled upon her shoulders, Vyselyra felt a sense of foreboding wash over her. Little did she know that the events set in motion by that mournful cry would test her courage, her loyalty, and her very identity in ways she could never have imagined.

Her slender fingers deftly wrung out the used towels, absorbing the sweat that clung to his fevered brow like a lingering mist. She merely brushed her father's words aside, chalking it up to nonsense because of the fever.

Yet, an oddity had made itself known in the hushed corridors of the keep—a palpable absence that weighed heavily on her heart.

The absence of Jacaerys, his presence that once yielded nothing but hate because of his mother—now left a void that seemed insurmountable. She couldn't shake the feeling of regret that gnawed at her, like a relentless monster clawing at the walls of her conscience.

Had she caused him hurt by offering Aemond to dance? The threads of jealousy and misunderstanding that now entwined their fates seemed to pull them further apart with each passing moment.

As she gazed upon her father's pallid face, a pang of guilt twisted her insides. Did Jace truly harbor feelings for Baela, the fair maiden whose laughter echoed through the halls like a melody? The mere thought of it planted a seed of doubt in Vyselyra's mind, blossoming into a thicket of thorns that pricked at her fragile heart. Was his kindness but a facade, a masquerade to conceal the true depths of his emotions?

Her thoughts drifted to fleeting moments shared with Jace days prior, their gazes lingering a second too long, their words laden with unspoken meanings. The ache within her grew, a silent yearning for a love that danced just beyond her reach. Perhaps, deep down, it was Vyselyra who longed for him to come to her, to bridge the chasm that now divided them. Or perhaps it was her wish for closure, for a final farewell that would release her from the grip of uncertainty.

She found herself lost in a labyrinth of emotions, navigating the uncharted territories of the heart where desires intertwined with fears, and secrets lay buried beneath layers of pretense. The tendrils of uncertainty wound around her thoughts like ethereal whispers, guiding her toward a truth she was so hesitant to confront.

Until there was a knock at the door, where an eerie silence invaded the room. Vyselyra furrowed a brow, only hearing the slight conversation between someone and the Manderly guard at the door. "Who is it?" The princess asked loudly, before the guard on the other side cleared his throat and uttered the very name of someone she didn't want to see. "It is the Queen Alicent m'lady."

Vyselyra closed her eyes tightly, trying to garner the strength to allow her in. "Come in..." she finally commanded, letting an exhausted sigh escape her lips. Whilst she hated the Queen, the Manderly had heard all the ruckus around—with the kingsguards rushing past and maids whispering in hushed tones. She wanted to know what was plaguing the castle.

Still sitting beside her father, Queen Alicent now stood before the princess and her ailing father. " I am not sure how to start this..." the Hightower began, her voice smooth as silk, " So I am truly sorry my dear.."each word spoken was carefully chosen for maximum impact. Vyselyra merely furrowed her brows, "What do you mean?"

Vyselyra could scarce believe the words that fell from the lips of Alicent, her fingers dancing nervously before her like a ghostly waltz. "Your uncle, the King Viserys," she started, her touch light as a feather upon her thumbs, "has passed from this world."

The young woman's chest tightened at the news, her mind reeling as if caught in a tempest. She pursed her lips in silent disbelief, a frown furrowing her brow as she struggled to comprehend the enormity of the loss. She knew the treachery that lurked within the heart of the green queen, yet the truth in Alicent's somber words cut through her like a sword.

As the reality of her uncle's passing sank in, Vyselyra felt a wave of anguish wash over her, her breath hitching in her throat. Her heart beat like a drum in her chest, each pulse echoing with the weight of her grief.

Amidst the heavy silence that filled the chamber, Lord Desmond, the ancient Manderly lord, stirred in his bed of death. His frail hand rose ever so slightly, as if grasping at some unseen specter, his lips parted as if on the brink of speaking.

"What do you mean?" Vyselyra implored, her voice barely above a whisper, the dread of the unknown tightening its grip around her heart.

Alicent, the Queen Dowager, offered a faint smile in response, her hands pressed together over her abdomen, a picture of serenity amidst the storm. "We all knew his time drew near," she remarked softly—-her gaze then flickering to the ailing Lord Desmond.

Vyselyra's gaze hardened as she studied the woman before her, searching for any hint of the turmoil that surely lay beneath the calm facade. Alicent's honeyed eyes held a sadness that spoke volumes, a sorrow that mirrored her own.

Yet, there's something more beneath the surface—in the way the Queen acts towards seeing lord Desmond. For a second, it seemed a wave of annoyance at him moving flashed across her smug facade. "Oh my. How is he fairing?" Alicent asks, stretching her neck slightly to get a better look at him. Vyselyra, for some reason, feels deception from the Hightower. She hesitates momentarily, "Fine, for the most part." She grumbles.

But Alicent's calmness faded for just a second, churning into a disdainful look. As if she wasn't the one who ordered the medicine for him—Vyselyra reasoned that perhaps it was because the concoction didn't work. But something just wasn't right—for when Alicent noticed the Manderly Princess staring a little too much—she mustered a meek smile. "Wonderful."

Vyselyra furrows a brow, "But my father is not the reason you are here though nor was telling me my uncle has passed."

Alicent's lips formed to a bright smile, a hint of smug satisfaction playing on her lips as she beheld the young princess before her. With a graceful gesture, she took a step closer, her every movement deliberate and hypnotic. "Well, yes and no."

Alicent swallows harshly, before nipping away at her nail. Vyselyra slowly exhales loudly, clenching her jaw tightly, " Well out with it then..." she grumbles distastefully.
"I've come to propose the union," the Queen finally murmured, her voice laced with honeyed sweetness. "A marriage between you and my son, Aemond."

At these words, Vyselyra's eyes widened in shock and disbelief. The audacity of her to ask such a question. She scoffs, " My uncle, the king, is dead, and this is what you ask of me? My father already said no. So why would I say yes to such a thing?"

The Hightower gazed to the floor for moment, with her lips slightly pursed. "Because, we both know your father isn't longed for this world, you will need someone to protect you when he is gone."

Vyselyra could not believe what she was hearing. Had the Queen truly lost her mind? Surely king Viserys would have never agreed to this. " What do you mean my father isn't longed for the world? How are you to know such things?" Vyselyra yelled, before standing to her feet. Surely it was just a fever, a sickness that would take time to clear up but not take him.

So why was the Queen so clear on him passing. Alicent struggles to form words, where lightened syllables escapes her lips. "Vyselyra, I did not mean to utter such hurtful words..."

"No, I refuse to believe this and what does rhaenrya say on this? As She's to be queen now." But Alicent cuts her words off, " No, it was king Viserys wish that Aegon ascend the throne."

Vyselyra is slightly taken back, her eyes fluttering fast—finding this hard to believe. King Viserys had always stuck to having his daughter ascend the throne. Though she didn't like Rhaenrya that much, it wasn't right for her to usurped. "I do not believe that imbecile would be named king for a second." She grumbled, balling her hands into tight fists. "Aegon is an idiot, who hurts the small folk... why would he be named king? He is not worthy of the name..."

Meanwhile, Lord Desmond grumbles loudly, trying once again to lift himself up—his hand pointing out towards Alicent. "No..." was all he mumbled before his head fell flat upon the pillows. Vyselyra was becoming more unhinged, and the Queen feeling the princess slipping from her grasp—knew she needed more to push her more.

So Alicent takes a step closer to the princess, " Now with Aegon taking the throne... and your father's ailing health... you must make a decision." Alicent's chest heaved, " I know Aemond is a difficult man, but I believe he holds a deep affection for you and you..."

Vyselyra scoffs loudly, throwing her hands up before slapping them down upon her sides, for the idea of marrying a man she hated, all for the sake of her father's health, was almost too much to bear.

"I will not marry that poor excuse for a man. Do you not remember that night on Driftmark?" Vyselyra remarked, her eyes narrowing at the Queen. " Aemond believes that having a big dragon, means he deserves everything else." Vyselyra says, taking a few steps closer to the Queen. "I like you, I have my own dynasty..."

Alicent appeared to see Vyselyra of White Harbor not as a long-lost member of the family, but rather a symbol of everything she abhorred: the free spirit, unbound by the court's haughty etiquette and expectations. "Oh my dear, if only the world we live in was like that. But without your father's protection... you have nothing, only to be owned by your future husband."

Vyselyra took her seat back upon the bed, her hand reaching to her father. The Manderly princess was a girl who was free like Alicent had once been, free to love whom she pleased and she hated her for it. " You only want to see me married so it makes you feel more secure and not like a failure. Because I am everything you wanted to be..." the girl mumbled under her breath.

"Hm." The Queen begins, twirling her fingers around another before her—perhaps the young Targaryen held some truth in her words. Vyselyra was everything Alicent never got to have; the very thing she hated rhaenyra for freedom...
Freedom to do what she pleased without having a nagging and suffocating father constantly controlling her actions.

"Perhaps you are right..." Alicent says softly beneath her breath where the once mighty Hightower now felt her grip on her anxiety slipping.

It was ever Ser Criston Cole appearing at the door, that rescued her—his gentle knocking that saved the Queen. She merely nodded her head in response, before turning her attention back to the princess. "Very well, the decision will been made..." was all Alicent said before quickly taking her leave. The creaking door swung shut with a begrudging sigh, foretelling of the clandestine events that would soon unfurl within.

The unsuspecting young princess stood frozen in her innocence as Alicent's scheme began to take root. Vyselyra leaned in to Desmond's side. There he whispered into her ear, " My dear it will be okay. Keep fighting, do not let them put chains on a dragon." A tear broke free from beyond her lashes, " Take your mother and Go to Rhaenrya, tell her what has happened."

Vyselyra shook her head slightly, " No I can't leave you here..." But Desmond slowly placed his shaking hand upon her tear stricken cheek. " You have to my dear, I do not have the strength. Isen will get you to safety."

With a choked sob, Vyselyra lowered her gaze, " Very well father.."  But as she uttered those words, there was a subtle click of the door handle being locked. Instantly, her sight fixed upon the double doors to the chamber. "No..." she hastily muttered under her breath before jumping up.

Upon leaving the Manderly lords chamber, Alicent hesitated a moment—biting away at her fingers. The idea of what Larys said and her father, Alicent had to act or else, Vyselyra and the might of house Manderly would slip through their grasp. So with nimble fingers, the Hightower turned the latch—veiling her movements from prying eyes.

The sound of the lock clicking sent a shiver down Vyselyra's spine. She raced over, trying to hold the hem of the dress as she ran. Her hands immediately went for the metal handles, trying to jolt them back but to no avail. The frame merely shook as the princess tugged violently upon it.

"Open the door!" She screamed loudly before taking a step back and body slamming herself into the wooden door. " Open the door now Alicent!" She commanded, having nearly knocking the wind out of herself. Only hearing silence, she began banging upon it with clenched fists.

Alicent, draped in a shroud of determination, dared to defy the wishes of the bewildered maiden. "Hush now, dear child," she cooed softly, a melody of conviction lacing her words. "Your destiny is woven with threads of greatness, not to be squandered on fleeting romance with a mere bastard."

The princess, her voice a crescendo of despair, beseeched for liberation, yearning to break free from the confines of Alicent's design. "This is for your own good. To save you from a path that Rhaenrya had walked..."

With a compassionate gaze that bespoke volumes of experience, Alicent continued her soliloquy—placing a hand upon the shaking door. "Fear not, sweet one, for this trial shall pass like the shifting of tides. Do not cry. This too shall pass. You will Return to your home and your family one day, and in time, you will come to see that bastard is not worth your tears. You will come to love Aemond just as I once did with Viserys."

With a loud sniffle, the Queen walked away from the door—tiring of hearing the Manderly princess's painful calls. The echoes of sorrow reverberated in the chamber, painting a poignant tableau of emotions entwined in fate's unyielding grasp.

"Damn you!" Vyselyra cursed the gods and lower, hoping to cast down Alicent where she stood. If she had Windermere with her, this would have never happened. "My dear..." lord Desmond called weakly, holding his shaky hand out as if to grasp.

Her father was slipping from this world and there was nothing she could do to stop it. And now the crown was forcing her into something she didn't want. As Alicent hastily made for her chambers, the hems of her dress grasped tightly in her hands—tears barely bridging over her eyes as she jogged. Knowing she had befallen the same fate upon the princess as her father had to her.

Pushing the door open, a loud sigh came from her lips—her hand reaching up to a heaving chest. What had she done? What fate had she fallen to the Targaryen? Alicent was no different than the very monster that made her marry an old king....

That's when Otto, the very devil, entered her chambers with a straightened look upon him. Crossing his hands in front of him, Otto glanced upon a tear stricken Alicent— " I presume you have done what was asked of you?" He asked  lowly, before the Queen subtly nodded. "Good..." he smiled, but the expression slowly fell from his lips once seeing his daughters distraught.

"Do not fret my child... You know as will as I do. She will learn to love Aemond as you had.."

" But I feel utter shame for what I have ordered." Alicent barks back, her chest feeling as if it's going to jump from her body. Otto sighs heavily, taking a few steps forward before placing a hand upon her shaking shoulder.

" Locking the girl up was the best thing you could have done for her. We could not let such a person as her be ruined by the stain of Rhaenrya's tainted son." But even hearing her father's calming words, it did nothing to satisfy her inner anguish. " And to keep her here as a great ally for
house Hightower..."

"But it does not make it any better..." Alicent pleas, holding a hand to her lips.

     Medrick had been searching for his father for hours whence he heard the scream or more like a curse filled cry upon the halls of ole. No other would command such words into a sentence like his sister could. Vyselyra... he thought.. Without much of a second thought, the son grasped his sword tightly and slipped away into the darkened corridors. The young man had heard the call of king Viserys's death and that Alicent had ordered the princess Rhaenys to be locked up. Little did he know, Naemera was as well.

Following the echoes of the calls down a large, darkened hall—a pair of large oak doors appeared. The calls had stopped a ways ago, yet Medrick was quite certain this was where the pleas came from. Though if this was true, he was quite bewildered as to where the Manderly guards went. The young ser knocked quietly upon the door—his eyes  quickly darting from side to side.

Vyselyra turned hesitantly to face the door, her silver strands of hair following just short of her sight. Her breath shaked before she uttered the words, " Who is it?" Believing the Queen had come back—to revile in her victory. Only for her anger to be temporarily relieved when the voice was soft spoken.

"It's me, your brother...." Medrick says, before going for the door handles—only to find them locked. He merely scoffs slightly, " Vyselyra what madness is this? Hogging father all to yourself now are we?" He playfully remarks whilst his hand struggled against the locked iron. It juggled freely, but won't move. Lord Desmond, upon hearing his son's voice, mutters softly under his voice. But Vyselyra couldn't make out what it was.

She immediately rushes to the door, nearly throwing herself at the mercy of it. "Medrick...oh thank the gods." The princess breathlessly says, placing her forehead upon the wood. All the while, he tries the handle again—believing she was the one whom locked it. "I did not lock it Medrick.." But his grunts of frustration were evident in the velocity of which they spilled out.

He even withdrew his sword and began using the tail end of the hilt to slam the handle off—but to no avail. There's a moment of silence where Vyselyra begins to get worried, her eyes darting back in forth before gently tapping her hand against the door. " Medrick? Are you still there?" She remarks with weariness.

The young man sighs heavily, sheathing his sword once more before speaking, " Come on now Why is the door truly  locked? Is it a jest?" Medrick mocks with a weary laugh as if he didn't know the real reason.

Vyselyra scoffs, " As if, use that damn brain of yours..." she remarks before he speaks again, " Well, Are you okay?" The princess grits her jaw, thinking of all she wanted to say—to curse the Queen to hell and back. But instead lets her forehead rest upon door once more, " No, the Hightower Queen has locked me and my father away... And I don't know where the guards have gone."

Medrick nips at his lower lip, fearing this may happen with the lost of king Viserys. Unlike him, Vyselyra was worth for more to the Hightowers. "Father is not well Medrick..." she says with a hint of sadness within her voice which made him realize it must have been bad—for she rarely showed such emotion.

"I fear Alicent has done something to him..." Vyselyra confesses, still holding her forehead against the door. Medrick furrows a brow, " How? What makes you think this?"

"There was a drink here when I came in.. it smelled odd.." Medrick takes a step back from the door, his index finger rubbing away at his chin as he pondered on thought. "You need to get someone to get us out of here Medrick...." Vyselyra pleaded of which the young man countered with, " I could get Arthur and..." but his words are immediately cut off when Vyselyra hears her father's advisors name.

"No!" She yells, " Not him... I fear he is in hands with the Hightowers..." Medrick sighs, knowing Arthur had made some very questionable decisions—but would he go as far this?

Suddenly, it clicks, "Dyana..." Vyselyra begins, bringing Medrick back to reality. "Go to her. She used to work here... I know she hates Aegon. And Ben, well, he's a kings guard and son to the commander of storm dancer.." the Manderly princess pauses once more, her lips parting every slightly as she thinks over the next words to say.

"Where can I find her?" Medrick says, hearing those words, the princess of white harbor drags her nails slowly down the wood grain—she was a dragon clipped of her wings and chained to a small stone. A slave to the higher ranks. "I do not know... perhaps Torrhen may know ." She uttered out between gasps. " I assume he is at the tavern.."

The world was now against her in every way, Alicent made sure to stripped everyone she cared about away from her—to make her bend. Pressing herself closer against the oak door, Vyselyra said the very words, " .."

Medrick's breath about lifted his chest hearing those words uttered from his sister— a task that could very well get him killed. "And what of the Prince Aemond?"

Vyselyra closed her eyes for a moment, uttering his name beneath her breath. "Just get Dyana and release me from this nightmare..." But as Medrick did think of the dangers, he needed to protect his sister and that of lady Baela. He takes a heavy breath, " I will be back little sis."

"Please be careful..." Vyselyra uttered, before hearing the young Manderly princes footsteps disappear into the stillness of day. Medrick covered himself with a brown cloak—making sure to keep the Manderly armor under wraps. So no one would suspect a thing, believing the boys had left already. Flaring the hoodie up, it barred his face and his reddish hair from prying ears.

Whilst it was easy in thought, in retrospect it was nerve wrecking—pushing past all the small folk whom were being gathered to witness history before them. Thankfully the tavern that Torrhen liked wasn't too far. 

The flickering sticks of flame casted eerie shadows on the narrow alleys as he made his way to the small tavern rumored to be Torrhen's haunt.

The ancient buildings loomed like silent sentinels, standing witness to centuries of intrigue and treachery. Medrick's heart pounded with anticipation and apprehension as he pushed open the heavy oak door of the tavern, the scent of stale ale and tobacco greeting him like old acquaintances.

The dimly lit interior was a haze of smoke from the fireplace, the patrons sitting huddled in their dark corners like conspirators in a clandestine plot. Medrick's keen eye scanned the room—searching for a familiar face among the sea of strangers.

At a corner table sat a figure leaned over, a glint of recognition in his eyes. Medrick stormed over, his eyes landing upon his drunken brother. A tankard of ale clutched in his grasp. His once proud stature now reduced to that of a drunken fool, Torrhen barely flinched as Medrick approached.

"Damn it, Torrhen," Medrick muttered through clenched teeth, his voice laced with frustration. With a sharp slap to Torrhen's shoulder, he tried to rouse him from his stupor, but the younger brother simply slumped further back into his seat.

"I'm looking for a young maid. Blonde..." Medrick's words trailed off as Torrhen sluggishly lifted his head, his brow furrowed in a cloud of intoxication.

"Ohh Dyana?" His slurred response echoed through the dimly lit room, punctuated by a belch that elicited a deep sigh from Medrick.

"Yes, you..." Medrick began, his patience waning, but he bit back his sharp retort—-realizing the futility of reasoning with his inebriated brother.

With a resigned shake of his head, Medrick followed Torrhen's wavering finger as it pointed towards a shadowed corner of the tavern. Amidst the gloom, a figure clad in a simple dress stood out—a young maid with cascading blonde locks, her gaze averted as if to shield herself from the unwanted attention.

It was Dyana, the elusive woman Medrick had been seeking. With cautious steps, be slowly approached her, the sound of his boots muffled by the worn carpet beneath his feet.

As Medrick's eyes met hers, a silent understanding passed between them—a knowing glance that spoke volumes of unspoken words.

Dyana looked down, her expression unreadable as she regarded the young man standing before her. Medrick cleared his throat, the weight of his mission pressing heavily on his shoulders.

"Good morning, it is Dyana I presume," he began, his voice steady despite the roiling uncertainty in his heart. "I come on urgent business, a matter of utmost importance that concerns us both."

Dyana's gaze never wavered as she listened to Medrick's tale, " Princess Vyselyra, my sister has been locked in her by the late Queen and you're the only one who can get her out." The young maiden's face was a mask of inscrutability. The flickering candlelight played across the lines of her weathered features—casting long shadows that danced like specters in the darkness.

After what seemed like an eternity, she finally spoke, her voice a low rumble that cut through the hushed tension of the tavern. "I will do what is needed of me. I owe a debt to the princess for sticking up for me."

"Be careful..." Medrick muttered lowly. With those final words, the young man grabbed his brother by the ear, raising from his seat before both exited. They slowly made for Storm Chaser—making sure none of the Hightower guards followed. There Captain Wyllam Snow waited, quite annoyed that is. His daughter Lyana was there as well—worried plastered across her usually soft features. Being close to the keep, she heard all the secrets and knew about Alicent ordering the princess's Rhaenys and Naemera to be locked up—in a futile attempt to get their help.

Then when it came to Vyselyra, Lyana was already one step ahead and had warned her brother whom was on his way to warn Ser Erryk.

Much to Medrick's satisfaction, Almund and Isen were already at the boat, along with the majority of the Manderly guards—having been asked by Arthur to remain at the boat instead. Medrick could not believe what he was hearing, why was the advisor ordering around to protect the ship instead of lord Manderly?

Dyana slowly snuck away to the back of the tavern, placing her brown cloak on with shaking hands. She never thought about stepping foot back into the very place where she was harmed. Closing her eyes, the young maid breaths in and out slowly in order to calm her nerves. Slowly, she slipped through the cracked door before sprinting—the brown and weathered cape billowing around like a cloak of shadows. Dyana felt the shiver run down her spine, a mixture of excitement and fear coursing through her veins.

The guards at front merely glanced to another in confusion before finally allowing Dyana to cross the threshold into
the red keep. As she walked those lonely halls of ole, her legs began to wobble, her hands shaking in fear as she passed by the very place where her nightmare had happened. Dyana whispered to herself all was well and it not befall her again if she continued.

However, when she barreled around the corner, her eyes laid upon one woman she didn't want too—Queen Alicent. Seeing her walking into the room that was the princess's Vyselyra, Dyana froze in her tracks. Her body began to shake before finding the sense to hide behind a statue.

The Hightower moved with haste into the Manderly room where lord Desmond lay in and out of consciousness. Vyselyra was not happy to her in the slightest, but Alicent rose a finger in a come-here-motion to someone behind her. Where two maids appeared with a dress laid out across their forearms. "I would like you to wear this."

Vyselyra took a step back, her silver curls cascading down her back as she looked upon the a vibrant green gown— the color of house Hightower. It was a shade that seemed to mock her, a symbol of submission and surrender.

The young princess felt her cheeks burning with anger as she glanced down at the emerald gown. One that Alicent confessed to have worn before when meeting with her late husband king Viserys.

I will not do that..." Vyselyra's voice was laced with defiance as she met the Queen's steely gaze, refusing to yield to the dictates of her.

Alicent chuckled softly, her icy blue eyes glinting with malice. "I am trying to make this easier for the both of
Us. The small folk will be more willing to bow if you are clad in the color of my house. It is a symbol."

"A symbol for leaning into a usurper. I will not bow to such tactics," Vyselyra spat, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

Alicent regarded the princess with a cold, calculating gaze. "You haven't a choice. When will you understand you are but a puppet in this game of thrones," she remarked, her words dripping with malice.

With a flick of her wrist, the Queen gestured for the chambermaids to assist the young princess into the gown. But as the Targaryen went to resist, the maids were ordered to use force in making sure the princess worn this dress and was made to wear her hair up.

As the maids worked, Alicent remained at the door, her mind racing with thoughts. Where her father's words and those uttered by Larys meandered through her mind—had she made the right choice? The right call? Her eyes landed upon the ailing lord, where her breathing quickened—had the choice she made, the right one?

Vyselyra found herself enveloped in a whirlwind as the sleeves were dragged upon her slender arms, the tightening of dresses midsection—her once free silver curls were tightly braided before being pinned to her head—much like her mother's. She never liked wearing it up, it felt like being caged, locked in. And the drape of a belt that adorned her waist felt like a shackle, binding her to a fate she had never chosen for herself.

This dress clung to her figure like a second skin. It was the green of House Hightower, chosen to be wear on the day of Aegon's coronation and for the impending wedding to Prince Aemond.

By that time Ben had come up from the darkness, his armor clanking loudly as he walked towards the young maid. At first he hadn't noticed her, but the flickering stick beside it caught a glimpse of the young maid. "Dyana?" He asked quietly, as though confused to see her once more. But she quickly placed her finger to her lips to hush him.

He raised a slight brow before Dyana pointed down the hall to see Alicent finally coming out of the room. Ben did a slight oh motion. "The door is locked..." she muttered softly—-her breath hatching as little strands of her hair floated against her forehead.

Ben bowed before the Queen as she walked past, with the two chambermaids following in suit. Once the footsteps have faded, only then Dyana removes herself from behind the statue. Approaching the door, Ben quickly wipes out a set of keys—of which Dyana was quite confused as to how he got them.

"I've got ways..." Ben's words echoed through the dimly lit hallway, his voice firm despite the fear that consumed him. On the other side, Vyselyra's heart ached at the realization that her father's time was running out. She looked into his weary eyes, searching for a way to alleviate the pain that etched his face, but found only determination staring back at her.

With a heavy heart, she knew what must be done. Unsheathing her father's sword, a blade as ancient as their lineage, Vyselyra steeled herself for the task ahead. The door creaked open, and in that moment of tension, Ben and Dyana entered the room, their presence both a comfort and a reminder of the urgency of their mission.

"Whoa whoa!" Ben's voice broke the silence, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. Vyselyra's grip on the sword tightened, her eyes betraying a mixture of fear and resolve. As Dyana's gaze fell upon the princess, clad in a familiar dress that belonged to Alicent, her curiosity demanded an explanation.

"Why are you dressed like that?" Dyana's question hung in the air, but before Vyselyra could respond, Ben interjected, his tone urgent and brimming with purpose.

"We do not have much time... we must go now..." Ben's words cut through the room, each syllable a reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the walls of Manderly Keep. Vyselyra's mind raced, torn between duty and love, between her father and the destiny that beckoned her.

"My mother? What of her?" Vyselyra's voice wavered, her concern for Lady Manderly a weight upon her shoulders. Ben's assurance of Ser Erryk's intervention offered a glimmer of hope, but it was short-lived as the realization of her father's fate sunk in.

"My father..." Vyselyra's words trembled as she turned towards Lord Manderly, his presence a beacon of strength and vulnerability. Her resolve faltered as she grappled with the decision that lay before her.

"We don't have a choice. We must leave now while the crowd and guards are focused on the coronation." Ben's urging was met with silence as Vyselyra sank onto the edge of her father's bed, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"I can not..." Vyselyra's voice was a whisper, a plea that reflected the agony of choosing between family and duty. Lord Manderly, weakened but unbowed, reached out to her, his touch a balm to her fractured soul.

"You must go..." Lord Manderly's words were a command, his gaze unwavering as he imparted his final wishes upon his daughter. Vyselyra's heart shattered at the realization that she must walk a path that only she could tread.

"You must lead now... you must walk this path only..." Lord Manderly's voice faded into a whisper, a hushed plea that resonated in the chamber. Vyselyra's tears fell freely now, her resolve solidifying as she vowed to honor her father's legacy.

Ben, however, didn't have the time to indulge in pleasantries or explanations. With a swift and firm grip, he seized her by the arm, his touch cold and unforgiving. Vyselyra's protests fell on deaf ears as Ben proceeded to lead her through the labyrinthine corridors of the ancient castle, his gait determined and unwavering.

"Unless you'd like to be the wife of a tyrant, we must leave," Ben declared, his voice a low murmur that carried a sense of urgency. Reluctantly, Vyselyra listened and allowed him to guide her through the maze of stone passageways. Most of the guards at the gates were still loyal to Prince Daemon and had known Vyselyra quite well. So they allowed her through without harm.

The city outside the castle gates was in a state of upheaval, the air thick with the scent of impending change. Many Hightower Guards scurried about, their attention consumed by the urgent task of assembling the townsfolk. Vyselyra clutched the clock close to her chest, its ornate hands ticking away the precious moments as she struggled to come to terms with the gravity of her situation.

As they emerged from the shadows of the castle, a magnificent sight greeted them—a majestic ship of darkened oak, its hull glistening in the fading light of dusk. Adorning the pristine white sails was the emblem of a merman, its ethereal beauty a stark contrast to the chaos that reigned on land. The symbol of House Manderly fluttered proudly in the evening breeze, a silent promise of sanctuary.

Almund stood at the ready, his demeanor poised and resolute as he oversaw the final preparations for their departure. Both Medrick and Lyana were there patiently awaiting her arrival. But the princess paused, turning back to face the fair maiden Dyana.

"Dyana... come with us..." She pleaded, extending a hand towards the young woman. But Dyana merely nodded her in disapproval, " I may be better off in White harbor, it is true but I fear I may prove more help here..." Vyselyra slowly withdrew her arm back to her side, for the woman held some truth to her words. "Farewell, till we meet again..." the princess muttered softly as Dyana bowed gently.

Vyselyra's gaze lingered on the looming silhouette of the castle, its towering spires casting long shadows over the land. A pang of guilt tugged at her heart, knowing that she was leaving her father behind to face the machinations of the court—a den of vipers waiting to strike.

With a silent prayer on her lips, Vyselyra took her first tentative steps towards the waiting ship, knowing this was the final time she'd ever planned to step foot in Kingslanding again. Frankly, it all too reminiscent of Laenor's departure. Slowly but steadily, Storm Dancer drifted away from the dock—with Vyselyra watching as the red keep became smaller.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE
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I'm so SORRY this chapter took forever

ALSO JACAERYS IS IN THE NEXT CHAPTER!! Might get a little something 👀