Ambers || Jacaerys Velaryon

14. Miara

A storm rages over the capital, fierce and unrelenting. Rain lashes against the Red Keep, and thunder crashes across the sky after every strike of lightning, reverberating through the old, pale red stones. Miara finds comfort in it, never fearing a downpour, at least not since she was a child. An old friend once told her that storms were a blessing, and she'd grown to believe him even now.

Storms are wild, untamable-- reminders that there are forces in this world that neither bow to humility nor need to command respect. In their chaos, she sees a piece of herself, one she had buried deep, longing to declare herself as loudly as a storm.

The tune of nature's symphony drowns out her thoughts, if only for a fleeting moment, but her mind still wanders to the princes in the room behind her as she stands guard.

Luke had always hated storms. When they were children, before she was old enough to stand guard through the night, he would sneak into her room, trembling. He would beg her to protect him from the storms that rolled over Dragonstone, as if her presence alone could shield him from the wrath of the skies. She'd take his hand, and together they'd go to Jace's room. Luke had insisted they were only safe if they were all together.

Miara remembers the pride that swelled in her chest back then, how honored she felt to be their protector, even as a child. She never allowed herself to sleep, staying vigilant through the night as if her watchful eyes could keep their fears at bay forever.

However, that all changed as the years slowly eroded the innocence and naivety they once shared. The last time Luke sought her out during a storm, she turned him away. Not with cruelty, but with the professionalism she thought her duty required. She told him, and Jace too, that it was best for her to remain outside their chambers, guarding from a distance.

At the time, it felt like the right choice-- proper, aligned with her role as their sworn protector. Now, standing just outside their door, listening to the muffled crackle of the fire within, she questions her decision. She longs to check on them, to see if storms still haunt Luke's sleep, but she can't bring herself to breach the threshold. She already let herself slip too much today, arguing with Jace repeatedly. She needed to remember her place, her duty, no matter how much she wanted otherwise.

When Ser Lorent arrives to relieve her, she greets him with a tired nod of thanks. He encourages her to rest, as tomorrow will come soon enough, but she knows there will be no sleep for her tonight. The thought of returning to the servants' quarters where she once lived feels wrong. The narrow space would feel too isolating, just as it had even when she was smaller.

Seeking solace for her restless mind, Miara wanders through the castle, trying to relive her old midnight strolls. It fails to bring her peace as it used to, as the Red Keep, once so familiar, now feels foreign again.

Statues of the Seven line the corridors, their cold, stone forms casting long shadows across her body as she passes them under scarce torchlight. Miara's lips dip into a frown, their hollow eyes following her like silent judges. There is a stillness in the castle because of them, a sense of decay that clings to the walls. It no longer feels like a gift of solitude as it used to.

Only one place calls to her now-- the training yard. It is the one part of the Keep that time hadn't touched, as she had seen earlier. The clanging of steel and the efforts of sparring always gave her a sense of purpose, of belonging. As she makes her way there, her boots splash through the rain-soaked cobblestones, unbothered.

The yard is deserted when she reaches it. Rain hammers the square, soaking the rows of practice swords and shields scattered across the random tables. Steel and wood gleam wetly under the relentless downpour. Barrels of arrows are stacked carelessly against the far wall, their feathered ends darkened by water, drooping like wilted flowers. Without hesitation, Miara moves to cover them, a reflex from long ago. The familiar crunch of gravel and wet straw beneath her boots is the only sound besides the storm, grounding her in the space.