Helaena dreams of dragons and storms.
She dreams of vengeful laughter that echoes in the midst of a violent storm and even the loud claps and clashes of thunder are ill to disguise the bloodthirst within the laughing.
A dream of verdant scales as dark as the green of the house of her mother that shine emerald underneath the sun's light, above the clashing of the storm clouds below — a false sense of security for a beast remains dwelling within the violent clashes of rainclouds rippled by the emergence of lightning. The heavens above may provide brief respite from the violence blow, but Helaena has always known of the beast below.
An emergence of pale scales that are gleaming opal in the gentle light, accompanied by a head of dark, fluffed tresses — a mere boy of ten and four with fear awash over his youthful features.
She offers a raise of her hand, but that is foolish, she has long come to know — the futility of intervention in fates that do not belong to her and inability of others to peer into her dreams. But here is a mere child who knows not the wrath of men and the compassion within her heart overrides her knowledge.
"Nephew!" A cry of desperation that is entirely futile, a noise that is merely heard within her dreams and her dreams alone — for she can merely view the wrath of her brother, she cannot soothe it in her dreams nor can she save her nephew with the bravest of hearts.
Teeth as sharp as Valyrian steel and that glisten blindingly white despite the dragon aging hundreds of years are what claim the pale, slender neck of the dragon named Arrax and the disappearance of her sweet nephew in a blur of scarlet and the turquoise of his clothing.
The yells of death will forever cling to her ears, the anguish entangled in hear heart as Lucerys's terrified screeches as silenced with the hands of death and a jaw enclosed around him.
"Why?" The blur of tears within her vision and she is just able to discern the verdant visage of Vhagar, the rider atop of her taken with terror and regret far too late. "Why must I dream of these horrors?"
Fingers enclose around her ears in shielding against the sounds of her dreams that are incessant and hostile to her, her body folding in on itself as she allows herself the release of screams that could pierce even the highest of the heavens, such screams laced with her pain that it would bring the harshest members of House Bolton to tears.
Her dreams are no gifts — they are curses, she has been cursed to be a dreamer just as Daenys had been cursed to foresee the doom of their homeland.
Even so, reality would not allow her the privilege of the passionate expression of her pain and her anguish — she is the sweet portrait of Queen Alicent's only daughter and that is the role that she shall play. Little talk of her dreams save for her occasional statements that provide warning or advice for those within her family — but it is a rarity that there is an ear to listen to her.
Her lady mother will whisper sweet nothings into her hair, her elder brother and husband will wave her off with jeweled fingers, and Aemond . . . Aemond will draw her into his arms, tender kiss placed atop of her head, and yet none of them listen.
So her tears are kept within her dreams, her mourning of tragedies that will unfold done alone and unknown to all, they'll not see an emotion behind her all too clear eyes.
Her wails draw to a close and hands part away from her ears in revelation of a sight of a sea whose waves shine pure azure beneath a sky long clear of the storms and darkness — as if there had not been a storm to occupy the area in the first place. Within the waters lay the broken pieces of a deceased dragon, bloodied and shredded beyond comprehension, and further detailed by the shreds of a cape — turquoise and red and black for both the Velaryons and the Targaryens. Death had long claimed the boy and his dragon, but the proof is a sight entirely horrific to her.
"I-I'm sorry. . . my nephew." Compassion spills from weary lips and she's well aware of the salty streams that stain the curves of her cheeks, a pale hand reaching for the remains of a boy so innocent now awashed within the sea's claims. "I . . I wish I had dreamt sooner."
But would Aemond have listened to her? Especially if the dream had concerned the boy who had stolen his eye in a fight that had been tinged by the grief of a loss of a mother and a boy eager to demonstrate his heritage as a Targaryen? Her dreams merely show her the truth of events in choice, they do not reveal all to her.
Even if there had been a singular person to lend their ear to her.
The azure waves dissipate into a flood of dark nothingness that soon overtakes all in her vision, awareness washing over her that her vision has come to an end and that her body is awakening.
There is a tease of light just above her eyelids and the moistness of sweat that touches the back of her neck and upon the skin beneath her nightgown that draw her to the pale gray light of morning that peers through the windows.
Her dream may have dissipated with the departure of night, but the tragedy is forever ingrained within her mind and within her memories, to be coupled with countless other tragedies that her dreams have laden her with.
Her expression of nothingness, a gown of her favored pastel pink, and the white gold of her hair worn loosely and crowned with a braid — it is the simplicity of her routine that eases her into a state of awakening after the vision of tragedy that plagues her thoughts. She'll not see her lady mother nor the vipers in the vipers' nest that have crowned Aegon king and pit siblings against siblings.
No — it is Jaehaera and Jaehaerys that bring her any semblance of peace, their cherubic faces with their blossom soft cheeks and tender smiles that are the cure for her anguish.
She is not alone in her visitation of her dear, lovely twins whose hands find fascination with little stuffed toys and her ruffled pink skirts as her body is bent to their level.
A blur of blackness is in her vision, smelling of rain and stained by the splattering of blood from a tragedy that had taken place in the hours before. Coolness washes over her, heart frozen by the remembrance of his crime — whether an intentional crime upon his part or not.
It is her choice not to greet him with the grace of her smile nor the warmth of her hug as she always has done so before.
"Helaena. . ." Merely her name spoken from the strain of his throat, desperation playing anote in his tone — as if he possesses awareness that she somehow must know of the tragedy involving his actions.
Her watchful gaze pours over her two rosy little twins as they play at her skirts before she raises her gaze to her brother — no to the kinslayer that has wrought tragedy on these lands.
Arms are protective around the two little ones as they are brought safely into her arms, her embrace rewarded with the little squeals and high pitched laughter that would have warmed her heart were it not for his presence. No — she'll not surrender into the weakness that his expression brings — an expression of terror, one of anguish and heatbreak at her seeming rejection.
Gentle and sweet her mother may describe her soul, but she is a mother herself, and mothers protect their children from tragedy.
"The seahorse drowns in the sea." Her murmurs are harsh in nature, not quite the tone of scolding but it is not the gentleness that she uses for Aemond.
"The waters are scarlet and the seahorse has been sliced open." Perhaps she snaps too harshly but she cares little at the moment as the expression of her brother breaks into a flinch and there's a stumble of his confidence wearing feet.
"It was an accident — truly. I meant merely to avenge myself, the boy was not to be killed." Desperation lines his features, words falling over one another in continuous desperate justification — the mark of his guilt that Helaena needs to see. His jaw is shaken and his fingers wander about themselves under the coolness of Helaena's stare — it is not the Aemond that she knows.
"The seahorse would have paid his price but the dragon always desires more." Helaena has now drawn herself to her feet, chilled in her tone as she speaks to her brother but soft in the way that she cradles her twins that are her light — the comforts of her life. "The dragon always desires more."
The sight of Lucerys's body bloodied and hacked into pieces by the jaws of ancient Vhagar never parts her mind — nor does the sight of her little Jaehaerys bloodied and without his head clear her vision. Helaena never would have considered cruelty even of the blacks but the loss of a son will turn Rhaenyra cruel and grief driven — and Rhaenyra is a dragon.
Lucerys had paid the price for an eye, and Helaena knows that a child of hers will be wanted to pay for the price of Lucerys's eye.
"Please, Helaena." Her brother now speaks with the croaks of a man wreaked by grief and weakness, hsi one eyes blurred by the visage of his own tears that go unshed. "You must believe me. Mother does not believe me, the kingdom will follow in her stead. . . Aegon celebrates me as a hero. But you . . . "
The tenderness of his touch of his hand upon her shoulder once had delivered her so much happiness and so much warmth now delivers her the venom of a snake and harsh as ice. She tears herself away from him in a fleeting moment, white gold curls following as she does so.
"The dragons always desire more." A repetition of her words in what feels like a half yell for her, arms now tightly holding the twins to the warmth of her body and protective from all things to come. "What a dragon loses must be paid."
There is the sound of crashing upon the cool flooring of the nursery and in her departure from the rooms there is a pause in her step and once more she looks upon her brother. The long graceful length of his body is slumped upon the floor, his once beautiful hair matted and dirtied with the splatter of blood and battle, his face is hidden within the palms of his hands, and he's curled himself just as Helaena had curled into herself within her dreams — grief stricken and devastated. His body is claimed by shaken violence of sobs that do not quite make sounds and perhaps Helaena does feel sympathy.
Would her brother listen to her now? Now that's all been said and done?
"Dragons do not forgive."
An explanation in the most simplistic of terms, no longing wearing the hostile words of argument, but wearied words of a mother fearful for her children and of the war that is to come. A war that is to plague the world with revenge and blood, of cruelty and the deaths of innocents that do not have a say in their fates — she has seen her son counted among those innocents because there has not been a person to heed her words.
Does she blame Aemond in truth? There are many at fault and there is blame to be placed upon many heads, including that of Aemond even if he swears it to be an accident. A seeming accident that will guide their enemies to war and wrought destruction on their land.
"Dragons do not forgive the losses of their children — and I am a dragon."