Hi, everything Game Of Thrones related belongs to HBO and GRRM, only original characters and Illyria are mine. Special shout out goes to Shakespeare for quite a lot of my inspiration. Enjoy.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
- Richard II, William Shakespeare
She walked down a brightly lit corridor, the walls decorated with elaborate mosaics depicting glorious battles and fantastical legends. She walked with ease, knowing the route off by heart; she had walked it many times, in many dreams similar to this one. She outstretched her arm and let her hand trail against the wall, feeling the tiles beneath her fingers. This part was always the same, but how long it lasted often varied. Sometimes she would walk for what seemed like hours through corridor upon corridor, never hesitating as to which direction to take. In the end it always led to the same place.
At some point or another she arrived at a great door with gilded handles and the face of a bearded man upon its panels painted in gold. The man's stern face was encircled with golden vines and on those vines various animals hid behind the leaves. Some were beasts so unusual in appearance that it was almost impossible to put a name to them. Some weren't animals at all but were people; angelic faces too beautiful and otherworldly to be that of mere mortals. These faces peered out from behind the leaves, as if their purpose was to inspect those who wished to enter the room whose entry was prevented by this ornate barrier.
She reached out without hesitation and turned the polished handles, already knowing what she would see.
The room was large with cold stone floors and huge stain glassed windows with similar designs to the great door. Jewel coloured glimmers of light from the windows cast blurry shapes across the floor. Deep blue velvet curtains cascaded down the sides of the windows like rivers, their silver embroidery resembling fish. The room was beautiful and almost completely bare, apart from three thrones that sat at the very end of the room.
The middle throne was grand in size with two smaller seats beside it, less lavish in appearance. All three were made of gold, twirling designs and sparkling jewels decorating their surfaces. Apart from its size, the middle throne differed from the other two because residing just above the headrest was what looked like a halo with two winged figures flanking either side. This throne looked fit for a god.
Upon these thrones sat three figures dressed in robes with crowns upon their heads. Yet as our heroine stepped further into the room and thus closer towards them, they did not make a sound nor any movement to acknowledge her.
In the centre sat a man, handsome in appearance, his golden crown resting upon a head of ebony black hair. His eyes were a brilliant blue, his beard neat and regal looking. He had a distant, ghostly look about him; his face looked a little over thirty but his eyes seemed old before their time, holding secrets and tales of long ago. Yet this was not what made his appearance startling, for although he appeared fixed in time, unmoving, the colour of life still warmed his cheeks, despite the three arrows protruding from his chest.
The figure to the dead king's left was in a similar state; upon this throne state a beautiful young woman with hair the colour of wheat, eyes like turquoises and pearly white skin. Yet she too sat frozen, crimson droplets seeping down her elegant neck like rubies.
The last throne was an exception to the others. On it sat a small girl of maybe five or six, her hair as dark as midnight, her eyes bright like turquoises and her skin as white as snow. The little princess sat weeping; tears streaming down her face as her sobs echoed throughout the vast room.
But as the child's cries grew louder, the walls began to fade and the dream began to crumble as the waking world reached out its hand to rouse our sleeping heroine. The rising sun bid farewell to the curious dream; the girl's sobs ceased, the golden door closed and Luciana Vasari no longer walked the corridors of a place now only visited in her dreams.
Luce's eyes slowly opened only to be closed a second later as the summer sun proved too bright. She cautiously opened them once more and rubbed the remains of sleep from her eyes. An elderly woman stood at Luce's window, her wrinkled hand still resting on the worn fabric of the curtain. Old eyes met young ones as the woman turned and smiled kindly down at her.
"Sometimes I wonder what you dream of child; sleep doesn't seem to grant you the same peace it does others." She reached over and patted Luce's hand gently, her smile now sadder than it was before.
The truth was that the recurring dream that plagued Luciana's nights wasn't unknown to those around her. In fact her dream wasn't even her own imagining but a truth only whispered of behind shielded hands, never spoken out loud for fear that the wrong person should hear it. This truth was a violent, ugly one, filled with lies and ungodly actions against the divine right of kings.
Ten years prior to our story's start there was a raven-haired king by the name of Menelaus III who sat upon the throne of a kingdom named Illyria. He was a slight man, not built for the ravages of war that his kingdom was famed for. And it was this fault that evidently lost him his crown, and his life.
Although lacking in a warrior's constitution he was a very intelligent man who liked to play at invention rather than war. Yet Illyria, as it had always been, was a nation devoted to accumulating power, so to have a king so disinterested in a subject all his predecessors had relished was seen as a great embarrassment. However, even if such feelings were felt no action could be put in motion in favour of them. Whether he was suited for the role or not Menelaus Vasari was, by the divine right of the gods, king. Any action to depose him would be seen as treason and against the wishes of the gods, but feelings of resentment towards the king grew and out of these feelings sprung a magnitude of devious plots.
But the king had a cousin; Claudio Vasari was similar in age to his kingly cousin yet that was where their similarities ended. Where King Menelaus was gentle his cousin was brutal, a famed general of the Illyrian army. Claudio didn't appear often at court, preferring to fight than to dance. In the eyes of those opposed to their current ruler, Claudio seemed the ideal warrior king who would raise Illyria to new heights of power and prosperity.
Mathias Indigo, a key member of the Medeian Senate, the capital of Illyria, was a man who doubted his king's ability to rule. Being the most influential member of the Senate and one of the most powerful men in Illyria, Indigo was privy to everything of importance, from the army to the treasury. He had the power to make a dynasty soar to high heaven or crumble to dust. He was a charismatic man who could manipulate and control words in such a way that enabled him sway even the most steadfast man to his way of thinking. It was this trait that proved him to be an invaluable friend and feared enemy.
It was Indigo's belief that if Menelaus Vasari remained King, Illyria would plummet into depression, unable to defend its self due to the lack of funding put into training soldiers and developing weapons. Flying contraptions and new fangled machines were a waste of time in many of the senators' eyes; toys for the king didn't benefit the empire and certainly didn't prevent war.
So with Indigo's influence over key sectors of the Illyrian army a rebellion arose, led by the king's cousin Claudio Vasari. Like most hot-blooded Illyrians Claudio craved power and recognition, but such things came at a price. More often than not the search for power is paid in blood. This case was no different.
The rebels were nicknamed 'The Terror', annihilating all the King's loyal forces until they forced their way through to the royal palace in Medeia. They broke through the palace's defences, spilling blood wherever they went and stabbing and slicing through anything that stood in their way.
No one to this day knows who gave the order to kill the royal family. Some believed it to be Claudio, crazed with bloodlust, a decision he would come to regret and lose his mind over in years to come.
The young queen screamed as men shot arrows at her husband, piercing his heart. But she didn't scream for long as brutish man seized her and sliced her throat open with his dagger, letting the blood seep down into her silken robes. Only the little princess escaped them, hiding herself behind a velvet curtain, trying to hold in her frightened sobs.
She was found later, once the fighting was done, sitting beside her parents, their blood staining her clothes. Any attempt to remove her from her parents caused the child to cry out "They're not dead! They're just sleeping." That's all she'd say, over and over. They're not dead. They're just sleeping. They're not dead…
It had been ten years since the death of her parents on that fateful summers day. Ten years since Luciana's life had changed so drastically from princess to pauper. Her life had been spared but she could no longer remain at her home in Medeia, so she was sent far away to the Northern most part of Illyria.
It was a rocky, sparsely populated place, its main inhabitants dwelling in Adelfi, a small settlement upon a mountain ridge overlooking The Valley of Andros. For many years Luciana lived happily, having been adopted into the family of a poor goat herder under the guise of an orphaned niece.
She lived in a small thatched cottage made from the stone of the mountain, with a little garden round the back filled with lavender bushes and other herbs. Luce's new family consisted of an elderly couple and their two spinster daughters; their sons having left to live in Ianthe, a large market town down the eastern side of the mountain, famed for its dyed silks and woven carpets.
The arrival of Luciana came as a surprise; she was quite literally dumped on them with hardly any explanation at all. It had been a on a night when Theia, the Sky Goddess, was at her wildest; trees swayed to the sound of wild dogs howling in the night. It was as if the cloaked men who had delivered Luce had chosen the D'Rossi house at random, not caring where in particular she was sent, only that they had indeed delivered her to Adelfi as ordered.
That was the last time anyone ever heard of Luciana Vasari, the lost princess of Illyria. But she was never forgotten, stories like hers never are, even the usurper King, Claudio thought of her, the little girl he'd robbed a family and kingdom of.
The air was cool on Luce's face as she walked along the cobbled streets of Adelfi, humming an old song whose name she'd forgotten. The village was beautiful in the golden light of the morning sun; the only sound to be heard was the bleating of goats in the distance and the soft rumblings of insects. After a night of all too familiar dreams, Luciana would always pull on a pair of worn leather boots and set out to clear her head. She loved her home with its rustic beauty and simplicity but she could never shake off the feeling that she didn't belong. For as long as she could remember her life in Adelfi hadn't seemed quite her own, it was as if she was watching some other girl's life unfold, waiting for the inevitable to happen; for it all to be taken away. That was what feared her the most, that some day she wouldn't wake up to the sound of Bernardo taking the goats out, to Ursula drawing her curtains, to the sisters arguing over nothing.
But to dwell on such things would only cause this secret dread to worsen. So she locked those sad thoughts away along with her bad dreams and hoped for a happier day when she wasn't so scared. For although her short life had been filled with much sadness Luciana did not let her misfortunes become her; anger and revenge served no purpose in the life of a goat herder's niece.
Instead she smiled away her sorrows; they had happened so long ago. But she still remembers them holding her small hands and taking her about the palace garden, tucking pretty flowers behind her ears. Yet with time their faces began to fade, she has no pictures of them, no reminders. Besides those paintings have most likely been destroyed by now or locked in some vault never to be seen again, never to be looked at and admired ever again. Luce hopes the later; she hates to think of their finely drawn faces burning while Marcellus' men watch and laugh.
Sometimes on days when it's too wet to go walking and the rain soaks right through you, Luciana plans her adventures dreamily. One day she'll go back to Medeia and walk in the palace gardens like she did as a child, she'll travel east to Westeros and then further still to the Free Cities. She doesn't know how she'll get there yet; she'll save those thoughts for the next rainy day.
Luce meandered past the small stone cottages, the hem of her dress now dirty from trailing along the ground. Places like Westeros and Essos seemed so far away, even Medeia seemed out of her reach. But still she dreamed of those far off places, places she'd only read about in old dusty volumes, places she hadn't been to in so very long. Little did she know, she'd visit them far sooner than she ever expected.
I hope you liked it! Please review and tell me what you think. Thanks :)
