A/N - Hey guys...remember me? Sooooo basically I started this story a while ago, and well, life just got in the way. However, in the back of my mind, I knew I always wanted to finish it. I have decided to completely rewrite it from scratch. I doubt any of you would remember the previous story, but some of the chapters do echo the oringal, but have alterations and adjustments, as well as improvements (or so I would consider).
This story is a blend between the books and the TV show, however, I have really loved the way in which the show has chosen to portray certain elements, hence the need to rewrite in order to accommodate these aspects.
I am going to start off by posting the reworked chapters ever 2 -3 days, so that both old and new readers can familiarise themselves with the story. once I've caught up, I'll aim to post once a week.
Hope you guys are all still there? And are still interested in this story.
Please leave me your reviews and let me know what you think! Thank you! x
Wanderlust
Ezralaya
Valyria's first daughter lay thousands of leagues a way on the southernmost part of western Essos. Memories of Volantis now felt like dream that had been dreamt a long time ago, seen as contemplations of white sunshine and cloudless skies were quickly surpassed by the profane sticky air of Flea Bottom.
An entourage of 5 carriages swept through the squalor. The pitiful, yet disdainful glares of the destitute fell upon the extravagant gold gilt carriages, each pulled by four black stallions. Through the bronzed grates of the windows the dirtied faces of the wretches could be perceived. Filth tumbled from window tops, and splatted into puddles on the floor beneath, whilst mounds of human excretion were beginning to accrue in piles up the walls. Children, no more a year passed their fifth name day, perched naked on the steps of pot shops, spooning brown sludge into their toothless mouths. Whilst a family of ten cooked a skinned rat upon an open flame, twisting it via the skewer on which it was impaled
The labyrinth of alleys remained in constant shade, so narrow and population were its streets that the sun failed to seep down into the unruly cracks. Though the lack of sunshine came at no avail to the heat, seen as the shadows seemed only to cultivate humidity, allowing the stench of dying livestock and rotting bodies to thrive all the more profusely.
Ezralaya had been a waif nigh on 17 years – Westeros had been her home no longer than a day. Before having grace it's shores, she had always thought of Westeros with a wholesome sort of fondness. One that made her warm inside…
It was a highly troubling feeling, knowing that she, and her Ladies, we're acting in such a direct contradiction to themselves and their beliefs. Parading down poverty crippled streets flaunting ostentatious wealth truly felt to be a spectacle of hypocrisy. Especially given than Ezralaya and her Ladies had dedicated themselves in recent years to aiding the plight of the poor in pursuit of a society more bound by social equality and humanity justice.
That being said, the entourage was not her own, but had in fact been sent to greet her by Royal order. In entering a land that time had made foreign to her, meant that she felt unable to decline a King's kind gesture. In retrospect, she had begun to wish that she'd requested for the retinue to cross the threshold of the city in a way that would have enabled her to conceal her privileges. Though by the time they had passed the Iron Gate, they were already submerged into the entanglement of Flea Bottom, meaning that Ezralaya could do little other than hang her head and seethe in shame.
Ezralaya did not ordinarily regress from the poor, in fact she was quite the contrary. Heralded as the Saviour of the Free Cities, she was recognised by Western Essos as a Patron of the meek and lowly. Ever since she had acquired an immeasurable amount of wealth of her own creation, she had proceeded to dedicate her life to helping those of whom could not help themselves. For a time, her pursuit had lay in her desire to abolish slavery. However, the trading schemes were so far engrained into the minds of those of whom conveyed in slavers bay, that despite her wealth and influence, very few were willing to join her plight for parity. The slavers of Essos were far too dogmatic in their nature to allow a sixteen-year-old girl to eradicate a custom central to Eastern culture and ethos.
Many of the people back in her home of Volantis had told her than she was before her time, seen as so many were still blind to the brutality of enslavement. And it was Ezralaya's perceptions of Essos that continued to remind her of her Westerosi Roots, knowing that she could never truly assimilate to the Volantian way of life. Though in coming to King's Landing, and witnessing such deplorable conditions, Ezralaya could not help but wonder where her temperament had come from, seen as Westeros's treatment of its people appeared just as depraved as in Slaver's Bay.
Whilst in the capital, Ezralaya intended to immerse herself into the slum of Flea Bottom, in an attempt to use her own privilege as a way to ease the hardships of all that she saw around her. Ezralaya herself was not stranger to scarcity. There was a time when she too had lain in the gutter and made merry with vermin. She'd begged for scarped, and done anything for a few coppers. She had endured extreme paucity and all that went with it, including the throttling hands of starvation; memories of which still continued to her haunt her. All too well could she recall the agony that came with malnourishment. Even when her belly was full of rich meat and sweet beats, still, could see feel the phantom sensations of nauseating gripes contracting an empty stomach. A history shrouded by poverty acted as an enteral shadow upon her glorious form. In her heart, she knew she always be somewhat wretched seen as the scars of scarcity would never truly heal upon her mind. And in truth, she was glad of that, for she never wanted to forget the depths of which she had stooped to in order to preserve herself into the deliverance of a new day. It was these thoughts after all which had propelled her to grace Westerosi Shore with her pilgrimage of clemency.
Her journey had commenced in Volantis, in which she had done all she could do to help her own people. From there she'd head upwards into the northern lands of Essos, travelling up the western shore in her maiden Swan ship, visiting Tyrosh and Myr, navigating marginally south to Lys to grave the people there with her charity. Her entourage had the continued-on north to the Andalos, curving into the peak of the Free City of Braavos. Ezralaya left the secret city doing all that she had promised, proceeding to endeavour down the narrow seen, allowing the soft rippling waters to carry her to the land of her past.
It was on the final fragment of their passage, just as they were nearing the region of Dragon Stone, that a raven had arrived from the Crownlands. The message tied upon the scrawny foot of the black winged bird, was a personal invitation from Westeros' boy King. She had made no announcement of her coming, and was curious to know how the King had been made aware.
In her time in Braavos she'd heard the news of the late King's death. Some said his death had been so ghastly that the poison had caused his head to imploded in on itself, others had stipulated that the poison had melted his skin to the bone, leaving behind a skull upon a flesh covered body. Though Ezralaya had assumed those were just stories to scare the children, and assumed she would find out for herself the truth of the matter, upon her arrival. Even so, she could help the way in which she continued to listen to whispers of the citizens of Braavos. The traders brought with their merchandise tales of the wider world, soon enough, the reprehensible rumours ignited impassioned Braavosi's and so the heresy would spread like wildfire. It seemed fitting that a city borne out of mystery should become the pivot of world riddles.
The people of Braavos had educated her about the antiquity of her homeland; from the origins of the seven Kingdoms, tales of the children, stories of the First men, and the legends of the heroes. To the contemporary great houses, past and present, their allegiances and enemies as well as the great tragedies of days gone by. All things she had once known but time had whittled away.
Despite the pleasantries displayed in the notelet from King of the Seven, it was ultimately a summons which ordered her Gracious Presence, to submit itself to the Red command had been blandished as an invitation, inviting her, and her acquaintances, to the upcoming wedding between the king himself as some Tyrell girl. As flattering as it should have been to be called upon by the King, Ezralaya was far too astute to believe that it was nothing more than just courtesy. After all, the boy King had the blood of the Lannister's, or two, as the Braavosi's had whispered. And so, she had been warned from an early age to never trust a Lannister. As rich and as famous as her name was, she knew, as well as they, that there was no place for her at a Royal Wedding, and there hadn't been one for quite some time.
Her eldest, and dearest Lady; Boeenna, had beseeched her in all her earnest for her to decline the Kings request. Our journey is for the aid of the poor, not for the purpose of the rich, she had said. However, it was Ezralaya's naturally curious nature that in the end, led her to assent. She was no fool, and knew that the heartening words of King's request carried with them, underlying conspirital meanings. After all, Westeros was at war, a large monetary contribution, as well as a declaration of her allegiance, would indeed prove prosperous to the Lannister cause. Though Ezralaya knew she would not be swayed by the flutters of flattery, and would continue to remain impartial to the war, and undeclared to any war-waging house.
The carriages to continue to press on forward, heading into a central cobbled courtyard. Rhaenys' Hill perched behind them set within the region of the ruins of the Dragon's pit, whilst Visenya's hill lay ahead. Though the majestic nature of the formations was continually eclipsed by the lingering stench of Flea Bottom which somehow cast a putrid wavering haze upon the edifices.
The entourage proceeded to take a sharp left turn, and the city before them open up like a blooming flower. Sunlight was finally able to penetrate through, and proceeded to fill the carriage and reflect off the whitewashed ground. Ezralaya angled her head alongside the diamond cut grates of the carriage, and could still Aegon's hill standing might and proud, build upon the rocks of conqueror. The Red Keep towered atop with the sun behind its bearing, glorifying it's reality and casting a crimson shadow upon the city. The closer they drew, the thicker the shadow loomed.
One of her guards who walked alongside her carried, knocked the side of the carriage with the apex of his knuckle to supervene Ezralaya's wandering attentions.
"We're nearly there Princess" He spoke in a voice laced by the language of the Summer Isles. "We just passed the gate."
Ezralaya turned and found his eyes amidst the webbing of the bronze. Argo's eyes had always posed a bewitching aspect to her fascinations, seen as their azure glint propounded a stark contrast against his chestnut skin. She leaned forward and pulled open the slat in the grate to that she could see him more clearly.
"What does it look like?" she asked in anxious wonder.
"Big" he spoke, "and red" he added, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Are you sure about this Princess?" his voice was thick with apprehension.
"Not really." Ezralaya laughed lightly to which he raised a cautious eyebrow. "I'm sure all shall be fine."
"Only if you're sure." He spoke.
"We have come to help the poor and witness the wonders of Westeros have we not?" she questioned, to which he nodded, "Surely the King's palace is one of those wonders." His kind face could not help but smile at her justifications, seen as both knew that it was in fact mere curiosity and nosiness that had them all ambling up Aegon's hill.
"In truth I'd be happy to gaze at it from afar." He answered under a light breath.
"It's a great honor to be invited to a Royal Wedding." She stipulated matter-of-factly, curious to what reply he would offer.
He turned to her, his eyes widening incredulously; "Ah, Princess, you know my feelings all too well on that matter." She smile in answer to him, having heard numerous times of his distaste over the matter.
"Very true. Though ensure you continue to tell me of them, I need reminding every once in a while that I am not as smart as I think I am." Argo's lips curved up into a timid smile, one of which he attempted to repress, but in the end acquiesced.
After a few moments of bashful contemplation, in which she he proceeded to undergo his usual blushes, Argo eventually turned to look ahead of them; "Ah, ready yourself Princess, we're nearly there."
Ezralaya closed the grate, and he resumed to his chivalrous stature. She sat back upon the plush velvet seat, preparing herself for an imminent departure. They passed through the Iron brandished gates into the Outer Yard, the portcullis lay ahead protecting Maegors Keep; the King's private residences. Seven drum-towers, crowned with iron ramparts towered above them. Stony bridges connected tower to tower, in which chunks had been sculpted away in the sacrifice of art, as the stone had been carved into formations of twisting vines and delicately fashioned floras'. The heads of traitors were impaled on iron spikes behind her between the crenels at the gatehouse.
A distinct fortification which she knew from tales to be the Tower of the Hand, stood insight beyond the portcullis. It was a rather beautiful structure, with reddened bricks, and a slick slate roof, that glistened in the suns brilliance. Despites its aesthetic beauty, there was something ominous about the looming tower, as though the evil deeds and whispers shared within its confinements had seeped and tarnished the bricks, besmirching its presence. The walls within the imposing barbican knew the truth of the murdered Lannister Lord, yet they would remain silent for all eternity.
The blue sky aligned the magnificent edifices, as the radiance of the day heighted the intricate details of the castle, from the master carvings upon the balconies, to perfectly entwined vines embracing the lower walls. Ezralaya's eyes had been led astray, she was captivated by the world before her eyes as its sights entranced her vision. So charmed by the worldly blessings of the God's that Argo's hand of guidance reaching inside, to aid her leave of the carriage came as a shock to her system. All of a sudden she felt immensely unprepared, marginally incompetent and overawed with self-reservation.
I am not like them; I was never given the chance to be. She thought. They will never accept me; I will see their mendacity as clear as the day I witness.
"Is everything ok Princess?" Argo asked, his hand lingering in mid-air. "I am told there is an audience awaiting you."
Ezralaya sucked in a breath of sharp air. "I'm ready." She fortified, feeling a hearty shudder of re-emerging confidence seize her body. She reached for his hand, and bore down her weight upon it to take her leave. The white streaks of the noontime sun blinded her, as its earnest beams sought to caressed her exposed skin.
Her gown draped off her body like molten gold, meaning she looked every inch the Princess of Volantis; a name bestowed upon her by the beholden people of Volantis. The neckline of the gown dipped down low, exposing the soft swells of her breasts, whilst the main bodice was segmented down the sides, revealing her sun-kissed flesh. The golden fabric was entirely swathed in crème pearls and buttery diamonds, whiles the hem of the gown was trimmed by a thick band of closely woven embellishments. A length slit up the fabric of the skirt in two, allowing her toned leg to daringly peak through the gap, whilst showing her golden ribbon tied shoes. split was cut up the skirt of the gown, enabling her leg to peak through. A train of over a metre trailed behind her, moving like a golden ocean crawling up the sea shore. Three thick backs of solid gold wrapped around her arms, equally gapped apart.
Her long, golden hair hung down way beyond the lowermost point of her sculpted back, in thick, undulating tendrils. The side strands of her hair that framed her face were pulled back and fastened with glistening clips cut into the fashion of flower petals. A magnificent headdress unlike any other, balanced atop her head. It was a creation of spirals and swirls, complete with five golden arches, in which a golden diamond drooped and swayed, wavering gently. The design was a true work of art, and evidently like nothing the gawking Westerosi's had ever seen.
Crowds of the humbler Lords and Ladies, as well as a few stray common folk stood in crowds awaiting a glimpse of her. She could tell by their conflicting expressions that they were unsure how to receive her, even so she smiled sweetly unto them. She understood their trepidation, she was daring in her aspect, he carried a notorious name and her infamous disgraces and indignities were disseminated.
Ezralaya turned and saw all ten of her Ladies stood in the light of the burning sun, each dressed in simple garbs of finely spun gold. A modest gold band perched on their heads, whilst the rest of their hair was weaved in plaits and twirls to accommodate the clean-cut headpiece.
"Are we ready?" Ezralaya question, to which all their faces shone the shade of trepidation. None looked at all eager to enter the royal palace, apart from the bastard Moonsky twins, Lilia and Lalia, then again they were eight years old and still had the beauty of ignorance about then.
"Smile sweet girls, the King awaits." her voice resonated reassuringly. They all nodded gently, heartening a tender smile to thrive.
Ezralaya looked on ahead, the great doors were opened wide, yet a darkness loomed within. Two guards stood either side, their eyes beckoning her on forward. With a commanding stride, hereditary engrained within her, she progressed on forward. In pairs of five her ladies' footsteps pattered on behind. Her two most cherished ladies; Boeenna Vetusesapienes and Theodora O'Raya; stood at the front of the column of golden girls.
A grey shadow passed over her eyes, as she crossed the threshold. The Throne room was crammed, heaving with highborns, all dressed in silks and satins. Despite the already superfluous capacity, the spectators still parted way, offering direct passage to the Iron throne.
A guard thumped the butt of his spear onto the hard marble floor, and heralded; "Ezralaya Cosalario of Salazay" She took that as an indication to press on forward, pacing to the frantic rhythm of her heart. Unfazed by the glaring eyes of those around her, she ensured to maintain an unabashed swing in her stride. Her shoulders were pronounced, her back taunt, her head straight and focused, with her chin slightly tilted up into the air. She ensured not to look upon her spectators, but on the off chance she caught their gaze, she witnessed how the gold of her gown glistened in their envious eyes.
She strode passed the first of the great beige marble pillars, ornamented with black marbles verdures encasing the vast cylinder formation. Daylight streamed in through the colourfully stained windows, casting an angelic golden hue upon her gliding procession. The sun highlighted the seven-pointed star, symbolic of the old Gods, was lain across the windows. Religion had played little part in her life, Esso harboured so many religions that she could not say which she favoured nor which she'd choose. There were too many, and the fact that so many gods existed within the hearts of people, had a way of affirming her belief that there was no true God at all.
The woman who'd raised her; Roseney Cosalario, had once worshipped the seven, but after her birth and their retreat to the Isle of Salazay, her mother seemed to dispel all that she had once deemed holy. Ezralaya had not been brought up with religion, and saw no need to embrace one now. She drew nourishment from the world around her, and felt not the need to adopt some divine concept to cleanse the condition of her soul.
The boy King sat no more than a hundred feet away from her nearing presence. Even from afar, he looked uncomfortable, perched upon a grotesque structure that symbolised destruction and conquest. The throne, with its bards and spikes was in no way suited to a boy of around five and ten, a mere child was not mean to be impaled upon the Kingdom's behest.
He appeared a fair boy, blonde of hair and soft of face. He was marginally portly, but would most likely grow into himself as time passed. To his left, sat a woman with long golden hair twisted into two plaits that fell down to her waist. She wore a gown of black damask, with a golden broach fastened upon her bodice. The gown hung low off her shoulders, exposing her lean upper body and the acute curve of her neck. Crimson silk was slashed beneath the layers of her gown, harmonising with the interiors of her bell sleeves. A long golden pendant hung around her neck, and occupied the empty space of her chest.
As regal and as beautiful as she was to the overt eye, a dark imposing impiety emitted off her rigid posture. Queen Cersei, Ezralaya knew. She looked like stone, hard of face with sharp cheek bones and a chiselled jaw to match. The sour countenance upon her face did not cease nor lessen the closer Ezralaya progressed. Her lip was slightly curled, like she was being forced to repress a lionly snarl. I wonder, if she dared to smile would her face crack and crumble into dust?
The Queens eyes burned blisters into her skin as she beheld her image, dissecting every visible aspect of Ezralaya's bearing. Her head did not move once, only her censorious eyes which narrowed in scrutiny, which affirmed her perceptible condemnation. The whole throne room knew, just as well as Ezralaya herself did – that the Queen Regent did not approve of her presence.
Around the King, stood men adorned in the white cloak of the kings guard. Garbed in golden armour, with exquisite chainmail, and finely crafted shoulder plates, as well as robust breastplates fastened to their torso. Each was equipped with a sword concealed within a sheath. Supposedly, they were the finest knights in all the seven kingdoms, the bravest and the boldest, yet all Ezralaya saw was men dressed up in pompous costumes.
One guard in particular shined brighter than the others; like a block of bullion oppressed within a brick wall. His armour harmonised flawlessly with the golden glint that lay within his hair, complimented by a long tarnished gold hauberk, with mother-of-pearl scales chased with gold. He was stood higher upon the dais, closest to the King. He looked like a knight – a true knight; with an air of gallantry imbuing his demeanour. Like a knight from the sweet tales; charming in looks and chivalrous in deed. Or so she hoped – his golden hand plucked at her prudence, yet she could not extract the necessary knowledge to affirm his identity, nor could she ponder too long over the appellation of the golden knight as she was quickly approaching the Iron Throne.
A few other nobles and peers stood close to the Throne, faces of people that she had never seen before, nor could attach names to from stories she'd heard. Though she assumed that they must be somewhat important to be stood so distinguishably close to the King's presence. A young woman, with long, light brown hair, sat toward the left sign of the king, with a clad of scarlet Ladies stood around her. She assumed the comely damsel was the realms future Queen.
Ezralaya arrived before the fair-headed King, she swooped down low into an elegant curtsey, her body arched as her back curved, her arms swaying out as her head bowed low in sincere respect.
"Your Grace." Her voice was airy yet preserved, coalesced with an intriguing vibrancy. She kept her gaze low and forefended.
"You may rise." The child spoke, in the tones of simplicity. Her eyes flicked up first, followed by her unfurling body, rising upright. Her hands joined together, held low across her body. She smiled sweetly once their eyes connected from where he sat copious steps above her.
Evidently her captivating beam has winded him of words. For the boy had flushed pink, and a bashful grin was pulling at his lips, desperate to be worn upon his face. Though his mother's sharp glare of fierce stalactites ceased the Kings blushes, and a sheepish mien replaced his fleeting delight.
He took up his piece once again, though his eyes no longer lay in line with hers.
"I, King Tommen, of House Baratheon and Lannister, welcome you and your companions, on behalf of the Seven Kingdoms, to Westeros, and to Kings Landing." The poor child had clearly been forced to memorize the words off by heart, she could practically see his mind ticking away with every uttered word.
"We have long-awaited your presence here at the Red Keep, and in honour of your arrival, a small feast shall be thrown in your honour this nightfall" Heavens, they must truly want my devotion – or my gold. "My bride and I also dearly hope that you would attend our wedding breakfast on the morrow, and subsequently the wedding on the succeeding day." The bride of whom he'd spoken of shone her a sweet smile.
"In the meantime we have bestowed suitable apartments unto you and your companions, for however long you may stay." King or not, Ezralaya found herself feeling somewhat pitiful for him.
He looked so inapt; the throne too big, and his crown so heavy and large for his delicate head. or the circumference of his head, acting as a continual burden upon his neck, as though he was gradually but surely caving into himself. Ezralaya realised that she herself was only a year or so older than him, and yet still, he seemed way before their paralleled years.
"On behalf, my kingdom, my people, myself and my future Queen, we hope that your time in King's Landing brings your prosperity and enjoyment." His slight, uneasy smile signalled that his discourse had come to an end. Fortified by a subtle nod from his mother who had clearly been monitoring every word of his oration.
"Your Grace, I thank you sincerely for your kindness and warmth of which you have shown to me and my Ladies upon our arrival. Truly, the honour of standing in your presence has made my journey all the more worthy. Gladly, do we accept all your invitations of which you have so kindly honoured us with. I intend to do my best to demonstrate my thanks and show to you, your courtiers, and all your people, that the people of Westeros shall always have a friend in Volantis."
Truthfully, she wished or bore not evil toward the King, yet despite that, she still contined to feel a tautness within herself, whilst she offered her tidings of thanks. Indeed, her words of thanks, had been as empty as was the King's scripted pleasantries. It was all merely artificial gratitude. Though nessecary none the less.
"With your Grace's permission, in the future, I would very much like to speak with you about the ways that you may enable me to help the people of your city, as I am aware of how hard times can become during days of war. If, you permit, I wish to help the impoverished and deprived people of this great city and be given the chance to ease their hardship." She smiled kindly, "Also, I am having some Ceryneian-fruits shipped over from my Island of Salazay, to be given to your poor. The fruits are both nutritious and easily preserved, and so I hope that your docks may welcome my trading ships."
The boy had no answer for he has no more retentions left. Thus, he was incapable of assenting. He glanced coyly, but noticeably to his mother who had the definitive verdict. Barley, and begrudgingly, she nodded. After all, she could not deny charity to the poor before such a vast audience.
"Of course." The King spoke assertively, as though the decision had been solely his. Nonetheless Ezralaya beamed gratefully. "Your kindness is as unfailing as we had heard." The boy seemed rather proud that he had spoken of his own accord.
"I aim only to serve." once again, she shone her endearing smile.
Her kindness was how she hoped she would be remember. The Richest woman in the known world, The Most Beautiful, The Princess of the Volantis, The Saviour of the Free Cities, were all other names that she acquired upon her rise from the ashes. She hoped the people of King's Landing would accept her for what she had become, and not who she had been.
From the smiles, she saw upon her exit from the Throne room, the majority seemed willing to do that…all except one; Cersei Lannister. The Queen Regent's eyes bore down right into her core, and proceed to taunt her with the true tales of her sordid origins. The Queen seem able to reconstruct the figurative skin that Ezralaya had tirelessly tried to shed. Ezralaya knew that Cersei saw the girl that she had spent her life running from, as well as the name and deeds that would haunt her for all her days to come. To Cersei Lannister, Ezralaya, was, and always would be, the Whore of the Realm.
Next chapter coming soon! if I get enough reviews today/night, I maybe even post again tomorrow...
Thanks again to those still there, and for your patience x