PART ONE: WHEN THE SMILES DIED III
Mid 282 AC: King's Landing
Daria Sand's P.O.V
With her husband missing, regions growing hostile, King's Landing taut with tension, and her own health slow to recover, Elia Nymeros Martell did what she did best. She played her part. It was one of the many things Daria had loved about the woman. She attended court, held tea in the gardens, embroidered blankets for the poor and played the act of perfect lady, a true Queen in waiting. Elia was regal. Elia was proper. Elia was elegant…
And Elia was plotting.
Behind this tranquil pool of civility and appropriateness, Elia organized her ladies, met in dappled corners of the Red Keep with the High Septon, bribed and bargained her way to information, and proceeded with Rhaenys's blessing in the Great Sept of Baelor as if there was not another single worry to be had. In fact, Daria thought, Elia had pursued the issue, the anointing of her youngest child, as if this was the sole and chief fear to be had by any and all. Elia doggedly ignored all advice on halting the ceremony until Rhaegar returned, she stubbornly abandoned most protocol that would lengthen the process, and she inflexibly pushed for the closest favoured day to proceed, even if more auspicious days, ones preferred by Queens and Kings to bless their children, were to be had if she waited a moon cycle.
Later, after Elia had died, tales of her ailment after Rhaenys's arduous birth would lead people to believe the Princess had been so fearful she would not live long enough to see her child blessed, that she had righteously fought for the single chance to witness such an act, even if it be the last thing Elia did. They would right poems about Daria's dear Elia. Sonnets of her piety. Lyrics of her faith. Carols of her virtue. Yet, Daria knew better. Elia was as much a viper as her brother, Oberyn. Only, she let the snake charmer believe he was in control.
Rhaenys Targaryen, rightful Princess, birthed from wedlock and vows, had been denied the official first meeting of her grandfather and grandmother, Queen Rhaella and King Aerys. A very significant milestone in the babes life. Elia had been given the news as soon as she had entered the Red Keep, still half bed-ridden, royal decree signed by the King himself. The orders were explicit, unwavering. Princess Rhaenys Targaryen would not be officially welcomed by neither the King nor Queen until she had been blessed in the Great Sept of Baelor like her ancestors.
With this, Elia was quick to understand where she stood, what she had to lose, and what price had to be paid. Daria, who had only enough education befit of her station, saw right through the Mad Kings ploy. The court did as well, as many Ladies and Lords, those who would have sung Elia praises earlier, became aloof towards her, reluctant to be seen next to her, let alone speaking. Daria felt like she was stuck somewhere between crying and laughing in those days. The very same highborn couples who idly stood by as the Queen appeared with fist shaped bruises, scratches and cuts, as they sat in their chairs and did nothing as the Mad King ranted and raved, listened as cries for help echoed out of the King's bedchamber as some poor soul was raped… And they had the gall to turn their noses up at Daria's mistress? The truth was Elia was becoming slowly excommunicated, exiled, sullied, and the first step in this front of attack had been, unfortunately, her daughter.
Conversation had reached King's Landing of the princess's birth, along with her health and attributes, her Dornish looks, long before Elia, babe and retinue had ridden in through the northern gates. Words and stories were faster than horse and wind, after all. Reports of Rhaegar's swift departure was also running rampant through the streets, lighting up taverns and brothels with hushed gossip. It was no secret that he had left his wife and infant on the King's road, hardly accompanied, deserted. The killing blow had come in the form of a rumour, spreading south from the North, iced and prickling. Lyanna Stark, the she-wolf, the very girl who Rhaegar had gifted the crown of Love and Beauty, had disappeared from her bedchambers not but two days prior to Elia's arrival into King's Landing.
One report alone was enough to cause trouble. Rhaenys's more Martell features, and Dornish skin, would ire the king with his irrefutable distaste for Elia's people. He had only agreed to their marriage, Elia's and Rhaegar's, because there had been no female Targaryen to wed his son to, a long-standing tradition in House Targaryen, and so he could dip into the deep coppers of the Martell treasury, to spend on his increasing interest and experimentations with wildfire. And, Daria was sure, it was also to snub his long-time friend, Tywin Lannister, by dismissing his daughter Cersei from Rhaegar's match.
However, if Rhaegar had been there, with his new child, where he should have been, the king would be trapped, left only to his revulsion and clawless scowls. Yet, the she-wolf was missing, her brother, Brandon Stark, according to a tavern wench, was riding for King's Landing this very moment, and with the subsequent parting of Rhaegar, his and the she-wolf's previous encounter, why her beloved brother Brandon was riding to the Red Keep and not to her earlier betrothed, it was not hard to put two and two together. Either Brandon Stark was marching because his sister was missing, Rhaegar was the suspect, and the Stark boy wanted retribution or the return of his sister, neither would be granted, for there was only one reason Rhaegar would take Lyanna Stark, to wed and bed, or, Rhaegar had secured a second wife through her older brother, and the two had been wed already, and Brandon was marching to bring the glorious news. Either way, Rhaegar had taken another woman, and this had given King Aerys all he needed.
No doubt, in his addled mind, Rhaegar was, to Aerys, looking to replace Elia with the northern girl. Perhaps Rhaegar was. It would not be the first time a Lord, or even a Prince, had bemoaned and tried to relinquish his wedding vows in hopes of finding more fertile ground to plant his seed. Furthermore, in ages past, it was not unheard for a Targaryen to take multiple wives, securing a prosperous dynastic line when the heir pool grew stagnant and thinning, even if this tradition had been dead for centuries, and even then, it was normally reserved for those with Targaryen blood only, which both Elia and the she-wolf obviously lacked. Nevertheless, whether Rhaegar wanted Elia gone or not mattered none, for Aerys did, and as more senile shark than dragon, he smelled blood in the waters.
If King Aerys stalled meeting the youngest princess, Rhaenys, long enough for Rhaegar to breed the Stark girl, or for Brandon to bring news that Rhaegar already had, Aerys could use the excuse of Rhaenys not being blessed, and the recent new marriage of his son, as just motive to excuse the babe from House Targaryen all together. In short, the one Dornish Targaryen, who Aerys likely viewed as too tainted by outsider blood, how else could she look so Dornish, Daria scoffed, would be wiped from the line of succession. Not being able to strike at Elia without knowing Rhaegar's full plans, Aerys was using her child to get to her, and subsequently, Dorne. He wanted them to know their place, Daria was sure. To be reminded that they, with their foreign ways, darker skin, who had never bent the knee to his ancestors, a sore spot amongst many families above the Red Mountains, would never be truly accepted by the crown. Oh, the Targaryens could fuck and breed their own brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, they could marry Baratheon's and Tyrells and Starks, they could burn cities to the ground and raze great Houses until their names were forgotten, but to have a Targaryen who looked like a Martell? Unfathomable. At least, to Aerys it was.
Worst of all, he was using a babe to send his message loud and clear. Elia's babe. Rhaenys wouldn't be a bastard. She wouldn't be a Targaryen either. She would be something other, lost, alone. She would be nothing. No prospects. No safety. Nothing. No respectable family would marry her, for she would not bring the Targaryen name, and might just bring their wrath. No court or hearth would house her, for what would she bring them? But as somebody who still retained royal blood, she would become an open target, a feast for vultures and troubled Lords who wished to strike at the King, but could not afford to, too cowardly, who would settle their anger on something, someone, defenceless. Utmost excruciatingly, the Mad King would never let Rhaenys go where she would be afforded protection, love, money and home. Dorne. He would keep her here, in this decayed ruin of morality, as a living message and leash to Dorne and the Martell's.
Nevertheless, Elia Nymeros Martell would not let her daughter, a Princess, be cast down so easily in the face of a mad-man's hatred. She bribed ladies and kitchen staff, with the last of her Dornish jewels from home, to tell her of the days his Grace would be, otherwise, indisposed. Fortuitously, or perhaps more accurately, cunningly, King Aerys would be very busy with small council meetings on the very day Elia chose to bless her daughter.
Queen Rhaella Targaryen, who had always been fond of Elia, soon began to appear in court without her rubied circlet, an item she had adorned since she was wed and crowned herself. Daria thought, well, it was no luck that the High Septon, who up until that point had outrightly refused to bless the child, in any compacity, until he had word from King Aerys, was equally seen with a new rubied necklace the very day Queen Rhaella was noted for missing her circlet. Upon the next meeting with the High Septon wearing his new necklace, Elia hoping for one last persuasion, found she needn't have tried. He, with a throat of dazzling cerise, was all too happy to agree to blessing on the very day Elia chose. That night, Elia had sent a banquet of freshly plucked crimson roses to the Queen's rooms. A single ruby was sent back, the last from the circlet, with a short, ever-telling note.
I look forward to meeting my granddaughter.
It was also no coincidence, Daria knew, that Ashara Dayne, a close friend to Elia, had rode in to King's Landing on the very day of Rhaenys's blessing, for a short three-day stay to, in her words, pay homage to his Grace for house Dayne in these troubling times. While the guards and personages were busy setting up Ashara and her men in Maegor's Holdfast, readying an authorised meeting between her and the King, Elia had the perfect chance to slip out and into the streets of King's Landing, making her way to the Great Sept of Baelor relatively unseen. Nothing, not even the wine someone chose to drink, was coincidence. Not in a place like King's Landing.
When the time finally came for Rhaenys's blessing, it was a quiet, minor affair. They could not afford to have a grand display, alike Elia's son Aegon's blessing, should they draw the eye of the Mad King from the small council chambers. No, it was simple, a small gathering of Dornish dignitaries making the majority, Queen Rhaella's own ladies and servants who she sent in her stead, the only way she could be present without garnering attention from Aerys, and some small House members from loyal families to play witnesses and sign the scroll dictating Rhaenys's welcoming into the light of the Seven.
Yet, it had been beautiful, nonetheless. The warm sun had made Visenya's hill, where the Great Sept of Baelor stood, glisten like jade. The surrounding plaza which enclosed the sept, bricked by slates of pure white marble, sparkled in the light, sprinkled in brilliant stardust and veins of silver hue. There, in the middle of the plaza, stood the statue of Baelor the Blessed, plainly robed and barefoot, as was Elia, in ritual for her daughters blessing. He stood tall and proud, wrought from the same silver white marble, serene upon his raised platform. Most said his face, elegantly chiselled, was a study in benevolence, but, with the sun shining just so, Daria thought he looked a bit impish.
The sept itself was a feat of architecture, added to and moulded by Targaryens throughout the generations. The lofty dome of the sept was made from gold and crystal, enchanted in its own majestic way, with seven crystal towers rising out from the bedded dome, hollowing out a seven-pointed star. When a King or Queen died, all towers would ring their bells, a cacophony of gonging that screamed their departure back to the Seven.
When Daria came back to King's Landing, upon seeing how far Aerys had fallen to lunacy, even through the short time Elia and her envoy were gone to birth Rhaenys at Dragonstone, Daria would sit at her mistress's window, look out at the murky shadows and pray, oh how she would pray, to hear just seven bells ringing. None ever did, but, frivolously, Daria wondered how many other servants, Lords, Ladies, perhaps the Queen herself, had given the same prayer that night. If the Gods were out there, in this very sept as the faithful claimed, they were not listening. Mayhap they never had and never will.
Through the prodigious arched doors was the Hall of lamps, a vaulted ceiling suspended with globes of coloured glass, crimson, mauve, jade, periwinkle, too many colours to count. Some Daria could not even name. Elia and her procession took their time walking the long Hall, entranced, and, a little, Daria was too. Not because of the beauty, for it was a beauty to behold, but because the colours lapping, swaying from ceiling, reminded, once again, Daria of home. In Sunspear, the sept was swept with fine silks, chiffon, painted samites, dip-dyed velvets, suspended on walls, fastened to ceiling, draped on floors until, when inside, the sun shone through and lit the colours to life and you were swept away in a soft sea of cloth. It wasn't as rich as King's Landing's elegant glasswork, pricey crystal, or extravagant gold, but it felt more… Personal. Intimate. Less magnificent demonstration and more private sanctuary.
Near the exit of the Hall of lamps and into the sept-proper, Elia, as was expected of her, had pulled her hood down, while balancing Rhaenys in her arms, Aegon toddling by her dusty feet. Turning around, Elia took to her nearest maid, who was holding a plain, oak box upon a plush blue cushion. Opening it, delving her hands in, Elia pulled free her own little glass lamp. Gently, Elia gave it to the Silent Sister awaiting by the doors.
It was not one of the largest lamps, nor one of the most intricately made, for Elia had to keep the creation of it secret from the ever-watchful eyes of the Red Keep, and therefore, had to cast and form it from her own hands, but it was lovely in its own misshapen, quant way. It was leaded, with remains of crimson and gold coloured glass, broken shards Elia had scavenged from smashing her own lamps, forming bursts of bright stars, jagged and scarred. Of course, Elia not being a craftsman, let alone a glassworker of any note, the little lamp had broken multiple times until, in the dead of night, out of the eye of her mistress, Daria had spelled the thing to hold itself together. It had been worth Elia's smile and shout of joy in the morning when she saw, finally, the lamp had held true during the night for the first time.
The Silent Sister bowed over the lamp in her hand, and in turn, gave Elia a fat little tallow candle, yellowed with age, oiled and slick. Mutedly, the Silent Sister retreated from the door, leaving way for the slight party to enter. By the end of the night, that little lamp, distorted and hastily scraped together by a mother's love, fastened by magic not of this world, would join its ancestors upon the glass sky of the ceiling, lit and bright. Laying in the dewed grass, huddled by a great tree, bleeding and dying, Daria would wonder if Rhaenys would ever get the chance to look upon this ceiling and see her own lamp staring back. She hoped so. It had given Daria comfort, in her last moments, to think that Rhaenys would get home, to see something shaped by her mother's devotion. But, then again, that was too far ahead, wasn't it? Yes. At the time, Daria had only been happy her spell had worked, she was never the best at magics, only really could perform the basics, and joyful that the little lamp would join the sky of its brethren.
Soon, their small party had been rushed through the double-doors and into the sept-proper. The room was white-marbled, a pulpit in the very middle for the High Septon to greet his congregation, with seven sided walls, each with a colossal window of coloured glass depicting one of the Seven. The golden, domed ceiling made it feel like the sun itself was baring down upon their heads, ever-watchful, ever-burning. In front of the windows were their respective statues and alters, offerings of food, incense, drink, flowers and trinkets flooding the ground at their feet, candles crammed into the little birdboxes of their pedestals. You could always tell the favoured gods, the Maiden and the Warrior, for their plinths were awash with fire, for each candle was a child blessed in their name. The small group amassed into the pulpit, descending the long stairs, but wondered no further. Daria, gently, took hold of Aegon's tiny hand, pulling him away from his mother. The boy startled but gave no cry. His mother must have told him what was to happen.
Elia, dusty and weary from the slog from the Red Keep to the Great Sept of Baelor, greeted the High Septon with a sluggish bow of her head. In return, the Septon bowed and, with a candle from his own hand, lit the one in Elia's. Now, here, was where things took a rather odd turn. As was customary, the High Septon began to recite the prayer of consecration, as the witnesses began, one by one, signing the scroll held aloft by a small table in the middle of the pulpit. Once that was done, it was up to Elia, Rhaegar if he had been present, to choose the patron god of her child, to place her candle in his compartmented dais, so he or she may watch over the child and keep the flame, a representation of their life, strong in the warmth of their shadow. Once that was done, from the brazier at the gods alter, Elia would pluck a pinch of ash to smear on the child's head, so the gods flame, in turn, would light their way and live within them.
Aegon had been blessed in the shadow of the Warrior, as was befitting a first-born Prince. Rhaegar had been blessed in the shadow of the Father. Queen Rhaella the Maiden. King Aerys the Father. Their parents had been blessed by the Mother and the Maiden respectively. Since strict records had begun, every Targaryen had been blessed in either the Mother, Father, Maiden or Warrior's ash. The Crone and the Smith both held hearty pools of blessed from the common folk too. So, when the signing and chanting had ended, as Elia began her journey to the most shaded area of the sept, alight by no candles, no flowers, trinkets or paper dolls given at empty alter, Daria Sand was not the only one present who became soundlessly alarmed.
Still, no on intervened as Elia Nymeros Martell, standing before the statue of The Stranger, the only one made from black marble, gently placed her daughters candle in his empty podium, directly underneath his feet. No one so much as uttered a gasp as Elia Nymeros Martell, dressed like a beggar, bent down, plucked up the dark ash from his bronze brazier and gently smeared it over a sleeping Rhaenys's forehead. No one gave a word of argument against the action, still shocked, when Elia marched back to the group, chin tilted just so in pride.
The Stranger, the face of death and the unknown, his statue veiled with black silk, with a crowned skull clasped between skeletal hands, only had one eye visible, bright and bejewelled in sunken socket, shaped like a star, watched on silently. Daria remembered staring up into that eye for a long, long while, still stunned at Elia's choice. Children simply weren't blessed with death as their protection. It seemed too contrary, a beg for disaster, and Daria wondered what, if any, would come of it. For Daria, with magic in her blood and wood in her hand, who lived and breathed the magic from far off lands as she had with this one, knew words and oaths, no matter how small, were not something easily broken. The Stranger's lone eye seemingly, daringly, twinkled back at her from that void of an unfleshed socket. All shock was quickly abandoned, however, when the doors opened to a row of gold cloaks, heralding a vicious, slurred shout.
"What is the meaning of this!"
And there he was, the King, Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, shouldering his way through the brocade of towering Kingsguard, stumbling down the steps of the sept-proper. Daria, and Elia, had not seen the King since the tourney of Harrenhal, and although only but near a year had passed, the man had aged fifty. His long hair was unkempt, dirty and greasy, tangled into dreads and knots of dull silver. Bits of food and wine tints clumped his beard. His filthy robes, bejewelled but wrinkled and stained, hung off him in odd angles, enveloping his gaunt frame. His fingernails were nothing but cracked yellow claws, serrated and chipped. On his head, sitting unsteady, was the crown of Aegon the Unworthy.
Queen Rhaella was quick to follow this creatures path, for he was no longer a man, not to Daria. The Queen, unfortunately, was not fairing any better. Her own robes were clean, but crumpled, hastily adorned. Her hair swung clean and brushed, but braided in an easy plait that sung at her hips. On her face was a bloom of bruises, yellow, blue, purple, lining her jaw, around her eye, by her temple, and there, on the side of her neck, just as her braid swung, Daria caught sight of a rather nasty bite mark, deep, crusted… Infected and inflamed. She was shouting after her husband, calling him her love, pleading, reaching for the sleeve of his tunic, but he ignored the soft cries of his wife. His eyes had already found Elia.
Elia dropped to her knee's, cradling Rhaenys close to her chest, hiding the babes face, eyes cast to the ground, bunched and prostrated. Daria, as much as she wished to stand beside her mistress, knew her job true, and so, pulled little Aegon close to her skirts, behind the cotton, obscured, as she pushed them both into the safety of the small crowd. The boy cried and, perhaps a little harshly, Daria's hand clamped around his mouth, muffling the high-pitched whine. He wiggled and groaned, but Daria's grip never lessoned. Elia, the viper in ladies skin, had given Daria explicit order should this very moment come to pass. Daria would stay hidden, behind, with Elia's son, and no matter what, come execution or degradation, Daria was to get Prince Aegon out of this sept and away from the King.
"Your Grace, I was simply doing as you wished. You said you could not meet your granddaughter until she was blessed, and here, she has been."
The only one bold enough, strong enough, to speak up and break the deafening silence King Aerys yell had created was the Princess on her knees. Not the High Septon, who was supposed to be the voice of morality and reason. Not the Lords and Ladies present, who were meant to be brave figureheads of their houses. Not even the noble and honourable Kingsguard, who were meant to protect and serve the realm. But a Princess, weak and ill from a hard birthing bed, alone and singled out, with her infant daughter clasped in her arms. Then, she raised her eyes, met King Aerys head on, and Daria saw, really saw, the fire Elia held inside herself. A fire that had always been there, but everyone, including Daria herself, overlooked near daily.
It was blistering, scorching, unquenchable. It raged in her dark eyes like the Dornish sun, brighter than this golden domed sept, hotter than dragons breath or wildfire, and no one, not King, death, burning or exile could dampen that fire down because, in the end, it was the heat of a mother. In that moment, she was a coiled python protecting her hatchling, and Daria… Daria had never been prouder and more honoured than to call this woman her mistress.
"Is this not what you wanted, your Grace?"
It was a taunt. There was no other way to describe Elia's intense, neat, sturdy tone. A dare. Silently, she was telling the King, who was more phantom than man, that she knew exactly what he was doing and here, with her, she had won their game of chess. Aerys swirled upon the red-faced floundering High Septon.
"Is this true? Has the child been blessed?!"
Spittle flew from the High Septon's quaking mouth, struggled, fat cheeks wobbling as his eyes darted around, looking for someone, anyone, to sweep in and save him. His hand jumped to the necklace around his throat.
"T-the Que-"
Elia stood, cutting off the High Septon swiftly with a pointed hand towards the scroll still open on the tiny table.
"Rhaenys Targaryen still has the ash upon her skin, and as you can see, the scroll has been signed and sealed by sigil. It is done."
Thankfully, the King was distracted by Elia's brazenness, her unshaking bearing, to overlook the blubbering High Septon's referral to his own wife in the subversion to get Rhaenys blessed. A terrible quiver took hold upon the King's emaciated frame, his hands clenching as much as his claws allowed him, nostrils flaring as his pale lilac eyes lit with something menacing. Spit dribbled down his chin, into the wiry hair of his beard, as his yellowed teeth snarled.
"Guards! Seize the-"
Daria's hand jolted to her wand, still hidden in her pocket, gaze flickering between a pallid Aegon, who had begun to silently cry, and Elia, with her shoulders squared proudly. She had felt torn then, Daria remembered that, ripped asunder, split and leaking. She had promised Elia Aegon would be her first and foremost concern that day, his protection to be her only thought, and yet, her mistress was seconds away from being slain, and Daria had promised her brothers to protect Elia, no matter what and-… But as Elia had stood and forfeited herself for Queen Rhaella, the Queen repaid the favour. In a flash of silver and onyx, the Queen dashed to the pair, haggling the babe from a wide-eyed Elia.
"Yes, this is exactly his Grace's decree! Is it not, dear husband? And oh, isn't she a precious girl… Please, my love, look. We must rejoice! Yes, rejoice! His Grace is correct! Guards, seize the banners and fly them over the Red Keep, to let the smallfolk know a new Princess is here! And ring the bells! And send word to Dorne, the Martell's must be informed they too have a new child under their legacy. They have been such help these last moons, haven't they, my love? Yes, they must be included in these fine celebrations."
Rhaella gently bounced the babe in her arms as she, step by hesitant step, made her way to the King. There was moisture in her eyes, diminishing the sweetness of her smile. Rhaella's hand shook as she reached down and, gently, pulled away the swaddling cloth of the babe, showing, for the first time, Rhaenys's face to the crowd around them. The babe was awake, unblinking, eyes the shade of sizzling violet, dusk set on fire. There was to be no denial of who's the babe father was, not with eyes like hers. Gradually, the shaking form of the King lessoned to nothing but a subdued tremor as he glared down at the babe. The heavy tension in the sept finally broke as Aerys raised one contorted hand, more beast than human, and waved it in front of his face, as if he smelled something foul.
"It reeks of Dornish filth. Get it out of my sight."
That would be the only thing Aerys would ever get to say to his granddaughter. But, it was all Aerys said, and that was what mattered. There were no knotted orders for her seizure. No wildfire baths. In the end, with Rhaenys blessed, witnessed and having been presented to him by his own wife, there was nothing else Aerys could say. Rhaegar was not there to protect his child, but his mother, as beaten and broken as she was, bitten and bleeding, had done what her son had not.
Rhaella had also subtly reminded her mindless husband of the debt they owed to the Martell's, for their continued backing of the crown, especially now with the seven kingdoms tight with pressure. If Aerys slew Elia, killed her child, denounced Rhaenys without reason, even flimsy justification as was her not being blessed, his biggest contributor, the Martell's, would be lost to him. They would not take any threat to their own lightly. With Lyanna gone, Brandon marching, and lines quickly being drawn, King's Landing could not allow being boxed in with the south revolting too. Aerys, as far as he was already gone, was not so lost to be blind to these facts.
"A true Targaryen if I ever did see one. Congratulations, Princess Elia. We are honoured to have a fine new child under our name."
Queen Rhaella said stoutly as she handed the babe back to her mother, who pressed Rhaenys tight to her chest once more. Only when Aerys snatched up the arm of his wife, ordered his guards back to the Red Keep, and left in a sullen cloud of furry, did Daria's hand fall from Aegon's face. Aegon ran for his mother, sniffling, as Elia shushed and cooed, bending down to heave her trembling son up and into her arms, next to his sister, who he promptly snuggled into. When the sept-proper doors clanged shut, Elia nearly fell to her knees. Daria, heart beating like a hummingbird, barely managed to catch her mistress in time. Elia's fire had fled, leaving nothing but opulent smoke, heady but choking. Croakily, she muttered to Daria.
"He will not harm my children. Not my children. I will not let him, Daria. I will not."
Daria Sand wished she could ease Elia's worries. She wished she could tell her mistress that everything was going to be well. She wished she could say that, this, and everything else, would soon be a distant nightmare. But Daria was no liar, she never had been. This, sadly, she felt was just the beginning of a long, dark road. This, what Rhaella had done, had tempered Aerys presently, and Daria would forever be thankful to the Queen for what she had done, but that was all. There were other ways, secret ways, assassins and plots, for Aerys to use to get to Elia and Rhaenys, ones without his name involved. He may not have striked then, but that didn't mean he would not later. Daria Sand simply held her mistress tighter, unsure and fearful of what was to come.
All the while, staring down at them through his lone jeweled eye, was the Stranger.
Next Chapter: Daria Sand has to break an oath to keep another...
Well, these chapters seem to be growing, as they always do XD. We're also drawing to a close on Daria and Elia, as the next chapter will be the last in Part One. Then, there's only one chapter, told from Oberyn's P.O.V before we get to the well deserved juicy part; Little Rhaenys!
So, what do you guys think so far? Make sure to drop a review! Is anyone else as excited as me for the new season?