Chapter 29
INTERLUDE
ALLYRIA DAYNE
Allyria Dayne had rarely ever seen anything so beautiful as the love between her sister and the Prince Daemon Targaryen. Her sister's affection for the Prince had been evident from the first letter she had received from her after she had accompanied Princess Elia to the capital.
The Gods had blessed Ashara with a haunting beauty. The Prince himself had described it as 'beauty enough to topple kingdoms' much to her and Elia's laughter and Ashara's embarrassment. Not that there was ever a lack of compliments, but few ever saw beyond the beauty, unlike the Prince who saw the caring and loving nature of the girl underneath.
The Prince himself was the crown jewel of the Targaryen family, which had begun to reveal itself as a dysfunctional mess. The King's madness, the Queen's helplessness, and Prince Rhaegar's obsession with obscure prophecies, the Royal family had many problems, but Prince Daemon was not one of those problems.
He was, in many ways, the ideal Prince. Hailed as a prodigy in both letters and the sword, he was more read than many maesters and was said to be blessed in the ways of the sword as well as madly in love with her sister.
It was the kind of love woven into songs and plays, and that is why when word of the Prince's demise had reached Runestone, she knew the toll it would take on her sister and their family as a whole.
Arthur, Asahra's brother, and Daemon's friend was forced to duel him for his life, and the King ruled afterward. It was cruelty—sheer cruelty.
And it took its toll. For years, the Dayne's suffered from the consequences of that duel. Watched as Arthur could scarcely lift his head after that disgrace, giving up on Dawn for what he was forced to do.
But most of all, it was Ashara. The pain and agony her sister went through was something she only ever wished upon the Mad King himself, and then had come the accursed disease, making her sister into a barely alive coffin.
There were days that she prayed for death—begged for it. And yet the Gods refused to answer her, despite her pleas. And only now she realized that it was a blessing that they had not accepted her prayers.
The castle was in uproar, hundreds were dead, a quarter of the castle turned to rubble because of the attack. And yet she cared little for it, for her eyes laid focused on the form infront of her.
There she was, Ashara Dayne, alive, weak, and thin, yet full of life. All traces of greyscale eating away at her gone from her skin except the wrinkly cracks on the side of her face, eating away at her beauty.
Yet she knew that those scars would matter little to the man whose face she held in her hands as she lay beside him, caressing her face and gazing at him with those haunting purple eyes of her.
The Targaryen were always known to be paragons of beauty, and Prince Daemon had been no different. And yet how he wore a mask and from what she had been able to gleam out about him how every nook and cranny of skin was covered up told about the secrets that lay hidden underneath.
She had seen those secrets for herself when his mask had slid off his face as he stood triumphant over the corpse of a dragon he had slain nearly by himself. Allyria had been forced to shift her gaze because of the sheer revulsion and state of his face.
And yet it was gone, those haunting scars, that charred crinkled skin, gone. This leaves behind soft and bright skin, along with a scar much similar to Ashara's own scar, yet this one occupies the left side of the face, unlike Ashara's, which is on the right.
"How?" she gasped out as she stood there inside the room and saw Ashara's eyes turn towards her.
"It was a curse," she answered as Allyria joined her on the sed. She sat down on the edge as Ashara lay there beside an unconscious Daemon, speaking softly.
"One cast by a powerful witch. Potent enough to kill me, yet it could not," she answered as she looked towards Daemon.
"Because he went to war for me. Defied and rose against the Gods themselves," she added with a soft smile as she sifted her hand through the cracked skin on the side of his face.
"Slew a dragon for me. My suffering is nothing compared to what he went through for me, and even now, he shall carry that scar for it. Damned fool!" she added as she rubbed her eyes and kissed him softly.
"Will it not heal?" she asked, and her sister shook her head. This was beyond the Maester's capability, though they had lost him and many of the acolytes to the attack.
"I don't know, though I would gladly give my life if it could do just that," Ashara added, and there was little doubt in her heart that she would hesitate even for a second.
"I doubt he would ever let you," she added sharply, and Ashara nodded.
"Yeah. I doubt so as well," Ashara replied.
"And I must thank you as well," she said as she looked at her.
"The only reason I am alive is because of you. I can hardly imagine what it must have been like for you," Ashara said, and her fists balled up as she felt her vision blur, and she shook her head.
"I...I do not deserve it," she eeked out as she thought of her prayers, of what she had done, and her head fell down in shame.
"Of course you do," Ashara said.
"bu...."
"Allyria," Ashara called her out and she looked up at her sister.
"Thank you," and with that, she broke out into tears as she nodded.
0000
OBERYN MARTELL
Dragons were beasts of legends, beasts that had forged the seven Kingdoms into one. The source of the power of the Valyrian Freehold, the beasts were majestic and considered long gone from the world of the living. Many even doubted their existence, calling them but a dream from an era long gone.
And yet they were real. And the proof lay all around him with the destroyed castle and the massive hulking remains of the beast they had just slain.
A day had passed since the beast's appearance, yet men refused to approach its corpse, hesitant at the memory of the sheer destruction and devastation it had brought with itself.
And to think there was a time when the Targaryens had as many as eight Dragonriders at their call, with dragons double or even triple the size of the beast they had just slain—and not they—he had slain.
Their King, Daemon Targaryen.
Oberyn was far more observant than people gave him credit for, and it was evident to him that this victory of theirs was all because of him and his unnatural prowess. Powers that could only be explained by one thing—magic.
Magic was a sensitive topic. Even the grey rats at the citadel failed to understand this phenomenon, and yet its existence could not be denied no matter what one may wish for. The Targaryens themselves were the biggest symbol of it, their history laden with dragons and other abilities that remain unexplained to this day.
And it was that very ability on full display as Daemon stepped forward, as the men parted, opening a path for him.
He was different, the mask he wore over his face was now gone, his armor abandoned for a loose doublet that hung over his body. And what supposedly remained of the scars he had obtained from his father's punishment was a single scar that covered nearly a quarter of his face expanding back from his eye.
A scar, much similar to the one born by the woman standing beside him. Ashara Dayne looked as if she had not aged a day since the last time he had seen her. Her beauty remained as haunting and mesmerizing as that fateful day when the Mad King had called all the lords at court after the Defiance of Duskendale.
And yet she must have changed; her ailments and condition were well known to him and his brother, and yet now she walked once more bearing no sign of damage except a scar similar to Daemon's yet covering the opposite half of her face.
He watched as Daemon entered the wooden structure, his steps small and feeble as he walked into it, and then minutes later, a grand fire erupted from within, making them all back away. All except Asahra, who simply stood there on the edge of the fire, her amethyst eyes burning with the dragon corpse infront of her.
The fires roared, rising into the skies and he watched as the dragon's remains were reduced to nothing infront of his eyes, the wood gathered by the men charred away, crumbling into pieces and smoke as the remnants of the dragon took to the skies infront of their eyes.
And then he saw it appear. First in the form of a silhouette, and it grew darker and darker as it reached the edge of the fire before he stepped out of it just as he had walked into it, the raging fire around him powerless to touch him as he stepped out, yet not with empty hands.
It took him a second to recognize the object in his hands.
"What...."
0000
ELIA MARTELL
The capital had been abuzz with rumors and gossip about their new monarch, one who had vanished for quite some time. There was already widespread gossip about what had transpired in Starfall, yet none knew the truth except a select few, including herself.
The bards spoke of how he fought a dragon, and others wrote of how he transformed himself into a dragon to defeat an evil god and rescue the love of his life. Many a noble had asked the Crown to give an explanation, to confirm or deny these rumors, and yet she had replied as she had been ordered to.
"The King shall answer your concerns on his return."
It had been a week since the first missive arrived from Starfall, and that had started this all. Even now, she could scarcely believe it—a dragon alive in this day and age.
And yet, she had no reason to doubt their words. And then she heard a knock on her door.
"My lady, they are here." And she nodded as she rushed out of the castle, along with a contingent of guards much like the rest of the court, and watched as a small procession made its way through the city as the people cheered on loudly, the banners flying were the Targaryen dragon, and soon enough the procession reached the castle doors which swung open to reveal the King riding alongside his Kingsgaurd, and yet he was different.
His mask was gone, and what remained was the face she was so used to seeing, that same youthful and kind face she had called a friend. And the only thing that remained of the injuries was a scar that ran back from one of his eyes.
"Daemon," she gasped out, and she was so lost that she missed that he was not alone. only when the horses came to a halt, and Daemon jumped off his horse only to walk to the side and lead someone else off their horse, she recognised the other person.
"Impossible."
"It's her." "But she was supposed to be dead."
No, she was not, and she recognised her instantly, those raven black hair, those haunting purple eyes and that pearly white face. It was her.
It was Ashara. She was here. Alive and healthy. Except for that scar on her face, similar to Daemon's own scar.
She saw Ashara look up at her and give her a small smile as Daemon began to lead her up the stairs as the guards stopped the small folk from trespassing on the castle, and yet they gathered by the doves and whispered and cheered with every step Daemon took.
They climbed and climbed until they were at the platform beside her, and she had missed how a herald had appeared beside her.
"It is you," she finally managed to eke out as Asahra took the place beside her.
"It has been quite some time, Elia," she said softly and nodded.
"Indeed, it has," and at that, the herald stepped forward.
"I give you the king and queen of the sixteen kingdoms!" he announced as Daemon raised his hand in the air and the crowd cheered.
"DAEMON TARGARYEN AND ASHARA DAYNE!"
0000
Back in Pentosh, a servant rushed into a room sweating profusely as it spoke.
"Master, you need to see this. It is your son," the slave man muttered out in horror, and immediately Illyrio Mopatis rushed out of his room, his fat belly flapping around as he hulked towards the room of his son.
"What happe..." and yet his words halted as he saw the scene inside, for there lay his son, his beget from his dear Saera, sitting down infront of a small lizard-like creature with wings attached to its back.
"Impossible."
0000
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