It wasn't a raven or a messenger that told Queen Rhaenyra of her son's death.

It was her own sister.

Princess Vaemyra Targaryen had delivered the news once she arrived on Dragonstone, and it tore her sister apart.

Any chance of peace was long gone.

Even so, Rhaenyra could not be settled without proof, and so took Syrax to Storm's End in search of her son's remains, alone.

That is where she has been, while her sister and uncle are still in the castle, plotting her war.

Daemon is no fool, he knows that Vaemyra has larger ambitions than just seating her sister on the Iron Throne. He senses a hunger in her.

Princess Vaemyra Targaryen is a victim of the madness that plagues her bloodline. With her youngest son still in the hands of the Greens, she hesitates to burn down the city, no matter how loudly it calls to her.

She can't risk any harm befalling her son... or her husband.

And even if she gave in, Aemond and Vhagar guard King's Landing. The thought of her brother-husband, with his one good eye and his dragon that dwarfs all others, sends a shiver of both fear and longing through her. Their relationship is one of fire and of blood, a passionate and tumultuous bond that defies easy categorization.

Rhaenys patrols the open waters with Meleys, a grand and often tiring affair. Jaecerys is still North in Winterfell and the Wall, helping to gain the alliance of Lord Cregan Stark.

Meaning he hasn't yet hurt the news of his little brother.

Princess Vaemyra is yet to voice the letter she received from the lover she once had in her youth. Dorne is a powerful ally, but one she needs for herself if she is to place herself on the Iron Throne. It has nothing to do with tradition or the line of succession, otherwise she'd be content with Aegon or Rhaenyra sitting the Throne.

No... this is about destiny.

Or a twisted sense of words.

Vaemyra may think herself to be the Princess That Was Promised, but it doesn't make it true. The truth exists only within her own head.

Dragonstone is cloaked in an eerie silence as a thick fog drifts in from the sea, enshrouding the ancient castle in an otherworldly pallor. The waves crash violently against the jagged rocks below, sending up sprays of icy saltwater that sting the eyes and dampen the air with a perpetual, cold mist. The wind howls through the corridors, echoing like the mournful cries of lost souls, a symphony of the island's ancient, tragic history.

Inside the dimly lit halls, the torches flicker and cast long, grotesque shadows that dance upon the stone walls. The oppressive atmosphere is heavy with an ominous sense of foreboding, a reflection of the madness that has taken root within Princess Vaemyra Targaryen. Her presence is a palpable force that seems to distort reality itself, warping the air with the heat of her barely contained rage and ambition.

Vaemyra stalks through the corridors, her footsteps echoing with a menacing rhythm. Her platinum hair, damp from the mist, clings to her pale face, framing eyes that burn with an intense, unearthly light. Her lips, twisted into a cruel smile, betray the madness that simmers just beneath the surface. She is a creature of contrasts—beautiful and terrifying, regal and wild, a Targaryen dragon in human form.

Her gown, black as night and adorned with crimson embroidery, billows around her like the wings of a bat, whispering against the cold stone floor. The chill of the air does not seem to touch her; instead, a feverish heat radiates from her, a testament to the fire that courses through her veins. She pauses at a window, gazing out at the turbulent sea, her thoughts a storm of their own.

Servants and guards, unlucky enough to cross her path at the wrong moment, have fallen victim to her wrath. Their blood stains the stone floors, a grim reminder of her capacity for cruelty. She feels no remorse for their deaths; they were merely obstacles, annoyances that needed to be removed.

As Vaemyra makes her way through the shadowed halls of Dragonstone, the suffocating silence is broken only by the distant crashes of waves against the cliffs and the faint rustle of her gown. She feels a tingling along her spine, a sensation that is both exhilarating and disconcerting. It is as if the very air around her is alive, charged with the promise of violence and the specter of death.

Her hand, pale and elegant, trails along the cold, rough-hewn stone of the walls. The texture is a stark contrast to the smoothness of her skin, a reminder of the ancient strength of this place. Dragonstone has stood for centuries, a sentinel of Targaryen power and mystery. Now, it is a fortress of her own dark ambitions.

The corridor ahead is dimly lit by a series of torches, their flames flickering and casting eerie, elongated shadows that twist and writhe like serpents. The light plays tricks on her eyes, and for a moment, she imagines she sees figures lurking in the corners—spectral apparitions of her own making. She dismisses them with a shake of her head, though the shadows cling to her thoughts like a shroud.

As she turns a corner, Vaemyra is met with the sight of her chambers, the large wooden door ajar. She narrows her eyes, a spark of anger igniting within her. Her steps quicken, and she pushes the door open with a force that sends it slamming against the wall.

Inside, the room is a study in contrasts. The luxurious tapestries and rich furnishings speak of royalty and opulence, but the air is thick with an unsettling aura. The windows are barred, allowing only the dimmest light to filter through, creating a twilight haze that cloaks everything in an eerie glow.

Vaemyra's eyes fall upon the figure of a rat catcher, a scruffy, unkempt man who freezes in place as she enters. He is bent over, a small, pitiful creature in the act of setting a trap near the hearth. The intrusion into her space fills her with a sudden, uncontainable fury.

"What is the meaning of this?" She hisses, her voice low and dangerous.

The rat catcher flinches, his eyes wide with fear. He stammers out a response, but the words are lost to her. All she can see is the audacity of his presence, the insult to her sovereignty.

Her hand moves with the fluid grace of a serpent striking its prey. She unsheathes a slender, ornate dagger from her belt, the blade catching the faint light and glinting ominously. The rat catcher stumbles back, his hands raised in a futile gesture of defense.

"Please, princess, I meant no harm," He pleads, his voice trembling.

But Vaemyra's eyes are devoid of mercy. The madness that has taken root in her soul flares to life, consuming her reason.

Before he can utter another word, she lunges forward, the dagger slicing through the air with deadly precision. The blade finds its mark, plunging into the rat catcher's chest. His eyes widen in shock and pain as he crumples to the floor, blood pooling beneath him and soaking into the cracks of the stone.

Vaemyra stands over him, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The sight of the blood, the scent of it, fills her with a twisted sense of satisfaction. She feels the heat of her rage ebbing away, replaced by a cold, detached calm. This is her world, her dominion, and she will not tolerate any who dare to trespass.

She withdraws the dagger, wiping the blood from the blade with a silk handkerchief. The rat catcher's lifeless eyes stare up at her, a silent testament to her power and her madness. She feels no remorse, no guilt. In her mind, he was merely a sacrifice, an offering to the gods of blood and fire that she believes guide her destiny.

Vaemyra turns from the body, her eyes scanning the room with a critical gaze. She steps over the fallen man with a regal disdain, moving to the window and gazing out at the dark, turbulent sea. The waves crash against the cliffs with relentless fury, a reflection of the storm within her soul.

She thinks of her sister, Rhaenyra, and the grief that must be tearing at her heart. The news of Lucerys's death, delivered by Vaemyra's own hand, had shattered any hope of peace. Rhaenyra's quest for proof, her desperate journey to Storm's End, was a futile endeavor. The boy was gone, and with him, any semblance of mercy.

Vaemyra's thoughts drift to her own ambitions, the hunger that gnaws at her with an insatiable fervor. The Iron Throne, the symbol of ultimate power, calls to her. She can almost feel the cold metal beneath her hands, the weight of the crown upon her brow. It is a destiny she believes is hers by right, a destiny foretold by the ancient prophecies she holds dear.

The wind howls through the narrow window, a mournful wail that seems to echo the cries of the dead. Vaemyra closes her eyes, allowing the sound to wash over her.

As she turns from the window, she catches sight of her reflection in a gilded mirror. The woman who stares back at her is a stranger, a specter of the girl she once was. The innocence and kindness that once defined her have been consumed by the fire of her ambition, replaced by a cold, calculating gaze.

Vaemyra moves to a small table near the hearth, where a decanter of wine waits. She pours herself a glass, the dark liquid shimmering like blood in the dim light. She takes a sip, savoring the rich, heady taste. It is a reminder of the pleasures she once sought, the solace she found in the bottom of a cup.

But now, her focus is sharp, her mind clear. The world will burn, and from the ashes, she will rise as the true Queen of Westeros.

A large copper tub sits in the center of the room, filled with steaming water that beckons invitingly. Vaemyra can feel the tension in her muscles, the weight of her actions pressing down on her, and she knows she needs a moment of respite.

The chambermaids have prepared everything for her, as they always do, and the scent of lavender and rose petals fills the air, mingling with the steam that rises from the bath. Vaemyra undresses slowly, each piece of clothing discarded with a sense of detachment. Her gown, once a symbol of her regal status, now lies crumpled on the floor, a reminder of the blood that stains her soul. She steps into the tub, the hot water enveloping her like a lover's embrace, soothing her aching body and washing away the grime of the day.

As she sinks into the water, Vaemyra closes her eyes, allowing herself a moment of vulnerability. The heat seeps into her bones, loosening the knots of tension that have taken root in her muscles. She picks up a sponge, its rough texture a contrast to the softness of her skin, and begins to scrub the blood from her hands. The red stains swirl in the water, dissipating like smoke in the wind, but the memory remains, an indelible mark on her psyche.

Her hands tremble slightly as she scrubs, the motion both mechanical and therapeutic. The blood is stubborn, clinging to her skin as if it is a part of her, a testament to the violence that has become a part of her life. She scrubs harder, her movements growing more frantic, as if she can erase the memories along with the stains. The water sloshes around her, splashing over the sides of the tub, but she does not care.

She can still see the look on her sister's face, the anguish that had twisted her features, and it fills her with a sense of guilt that she cannot shake. Despite her ambitions, despite her desire for the throne, she loves her sister.

The sponge moves over her arms, her shoulders, her chest, the rough texture scraping away the grime and leaving her skin raw and pink. The water grows murky with the residue of the day, but Vaemyra continues, her movements almost hypnotic in their repetition. She feels the weight of her actions pressing down on her, the burden of her ambitions a constant presence in her mind. The madness that courses through her veins whispers insidiously, urging her on, but in this moment of vulnerability, she allows herself to feel the weight of her choices.

Her thoughts drift to her husband, Aemond, and the complicated relationship they share. Their bond is one of fire and blood, a tumultuous mix of passion and rivalry. She loves him, in her own way, but the madness that grips her often clouds her judgment, making her question her own feelings.

Vaemyra leans back in the tub, her head resting against the cool edge, and closes her eyes once more. The water laps gently at her skin, the heat seeping into her very soul. She feels the tears begin to well up, hot and unbidden, and she lets them fall, the salt mingling with the lavender-scented water. The tears are a release, a catharsis that she has denied herself for too long. They speak of her pain, her guilt, her longing, and her fear. They are a reminder that, beneath the facade of the Targaryen princess, she is still human, still vulnerable.

The memories of her youth flood back, unbidden and raw. Her first love with Laena Velaryon, the innocent and pure connection they shared, now tainted by the passage of time and the choices she has made. The unfortunate marriage to Arthur Baratheon, a union that had stripped her of her innocence and thrust her into a world of brutality and despair. The moment of liberation when she had taken his life, a fleeting taste of freedom that had quickly been overshadowed by the realities of her existence.

Vaemyra's fingers trace the scars on her body, invisible to the eye but deeply etched into her soul. The years she had lost herself in pleasure houses and wine, seeking solace in the arms of strangers and the bottom of a cup, only to find emptiness and regret. The letters she had written to Laena, letters that had gone unanswered because her Uncle Daemon had hidden them, a betrayal that had cut deeper than any blade.

She scrubs harder, the motion becoming almost violent, as if she can scrub away the years of pain and sorrow, the layers of trauma that have shaped her into the woman she is now. The water grows darker, the blood and grime mixing with her tears, a physical manifestation of her inner turmoil. She feels the madness whispering to her, a constant companion that she cannot escape, but in this moment, she allows herself to feel the full weight of her humanity.

Vaemyra's thoughts turn to her dragons, her children in all but blood. Drea the Dire Shadow, Freya the Snow Beast, and Rhaeyn the Crimson Fury. Each one a reflection of a different facet of her soul, each one a reminder of her power and her curse. Rhaeyn, her youngest, her baby boy, still locked away in the pit in King's Landing, a constant source of fear and longing. She cannot bring herself to burn the city, to risk his life, even though the desire to unleash her fury is almost overwhelming.

The sponge moves over her legs, her feet, scrubbing away the last remnants of blood and grime. The water is now a dark, murky red, the evidence of her violence swirling around her. Vaemyra takes a deep breath, the scent of lavender and roses filling her lungs, and allows herself a moment of stillness. The tears have stopped, leaving a sense of emptiness and calm in their wake.

Vaemyra rises from the tub, the water cascading off her body, she wraps herself in a soft, luxurious robe, the fabric a comforting weight against her skin, and steps out of the bath.

The room is still and silent, the shadows long and dark. Vaemyra moves to the window, gazing out at the turbulent sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs with relentless fury. She takes a deep breath, the cool night air filling her lungs, and allows herself a moment of reflection. The path ahead is uncertain, but she knows that she must face it with the strength and determination that have brought her this far.

The Dance of the Dragons has begun, and Vaemyra Targaryen, the mad princess, stands ready to embrace her destiny, whatever it may be. The Iron Throne calls to her, a siren's song that promises power and glory, and she will stop at nothing to claim it as her own.

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[ we're so back ]