The Princess of Dragonstone

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Silence seemed to spread over the Red Keep following Aemma and Baelon's deaths. Like a plague, it seeped into its victims, capturing them whole and making them sick with grief. They would not speak about it, unless in private or in hushed tones... her father certainly did not speak in it. He seemed to move through life with guilt and somberness in his eyes, his head held down ever so slightly, his movements sluggish. Satisfaction gnawed at Vaelora, deep in the pit of her stomach when she saw him. He had had his son in grasps, his heir so close, just to be gone as quick as he came. Leaving only a feather of ash behind. And even more, his wife was gone as well. There was no trying again. No more hope for a son. It was gone. Gone from her father's eyes, replaced only with despair.

It was a cruel satisfaction. To be satisfied with someone's own pain, satisfied with the death of her mother and brother. To pray upon the gods for someone to feel so much anguish just to fill her with a sick joy. For a smile to spread across her face in the lonesomeness of her chambers when no one was around. Vaelora had been conscious to all of her faults. To the deep sickness within her. But once she had felt that cold metal under her palms, she felt she could not even control it at this point. As if a being had entered into her body, taken over her soul. Maybe that was the truth. That a sweet and innocent Vaelora who would never wish for one's harm lurked inside her. Hoping to come out but being suppressed by the cursed thing within her instead.

But that was a silly notion. Vaelora knew she had always been this way. Everyone had always known she was this way. They should have thrown her out a window, drowned her in the sea, poisoned her when they had a chance. But they did not, their own foolishness, their own morals. For how could they kill a mere babe? They would be damned for life. But no, no, no. They were damned now that Vaelora had grown, now that she was harder to dispose of. To cover up her death. She was here, and she would make her presence known.

Her sister was also deep in grief as well. Perhaps not as deep as their father, but deep enough. She had attempted to console Vaelora, perhaps she thought that was her responsibility now. To be a mother to her younger sister now that theirs's was gone. But Vaelora did not need her care. Never mind the fact that Vaelora was only three years younger than Rhaenyra and did not need her comfort. It felt odd to be mothered by a girl only a few mere years older than her... but more than that, Rhaenyra was grieving far more than Vaelora was. For Vaelora was not grieving at all, she was celebrating. But that was certianly not the case for her sister. So it almost felt... unfair for Rhaenyra to even attempt to confront for Vaelora, when Rhaenyra was the one grieving. Rhaenyra did try to put on a brave face, pucker her lip, keep her head high, her face dry. But it was all for naught. The melancholy was evident in the way her shoulder slumped ever so slightly, the paleness of her skin, the defeated look in her eyes, the lackluster of her hairstyles, the black she was always dressed in. Rhaenyra was clearly grieving, as she should be, but Vaelora gathered the impression that she felt that her feelings were... inadequate in comparison to others.

Vaelora had composed herself well after the deaths. Had composed a character. The lost youngest daughter, with a distance in her eyes. She constantly looked as if she were internally asking the question, 'she was just here, where could she have gone?'. She did not deny her handmaidens when they dressed her in black, and when they tried to introduce any colors to her, she impishly turned her head away in upset, causing them to put the reds, the purples, the blues, the pinks, aside.

No one would question her behaviors or her grieving towards her mother. No one would realize that she truly, truly, had no care about her mother and brother's passings. And that is how she preferred it.

To wear a mask was to keep her true self safe.

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