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13/ SECRETS AND DEAD ENDS
Nightmares haunted Maelora but she recalled only one of them when she fluttered her eyes open, her vision invaded by daylight.
Fire surrounded her. It was cracking the way a branch would crack under her feet. She couldn't bear the heat anymore, it was melting her insides; but she didn't want to get rid of it either, she didn't know what to do without it. She could feel the crumbs of her soul floating as cinder pieces. Burning was who she became.
Aegon was there too. His usual white-silver messy locks were as dark as their mother's mane. Fallen gods were sprinkled in his eyes like small pieces of fire, engulfing the blueness in his eyes. Something was different about him. She could sense it just from the way he stood. The way he held his chin high could jar the entire realm with vibrations of power. He seemed more confident, more sure of himself like he knew what he was doing. It was a twisted feeling for Maelora because Aegon never knew what he was doing.
Aegon extended his hands, the orange flames revealed what was curled between his long fingers. A golden crown, with a fiery dragon engraved in the middle of it.
Maelora was frozen in her place and could do nothing but watch as Aegon put the crown on her head. The heaviness felt like it would crush her skull, her whole body felt weak and unsteady, and her mind was a war zone with her scattered thoughts.
She thought it would kill her. It wasn't the crown itself that was heavy, but that burden of responsibility. That power could crack her ivory skin and reveal the crimson pool caged inside her flesh that was passed down to her fragile body to write more tragedies. The Targaryen legacy.
But no, it didn't kill her, at least not fully.
The cold gust traced Maelora's skin in a way a mother would caress her baby. Yet, the Targaryen girl could sense something divine in that breeze. A moment of epiphany was disguised within that cold yet soft wind. Maelora knew then, that the Gods were there with them, witnessing their already written doom, perhaps with small grins on their lips.
Gods were there with the Targaryens, but those holy things were never on their side.
If Maelora listened more attentively, she figured she would hear their laughter smudged with arrogancy. A raw voice from their throat like the cracking of hell's doors, a devil's laugh.
As if the Gods read those baleful thoughts invading Maelora's mind, the fire surrounding them like a belt sprawled. The hues of orange danced in a rhythm, making the girl feel like she was stuck inside a whirlwind. They made her head spin and spin, rising a bubbly feeling in her chest, making the barrier between reality and dreamland crack.
