Capítulo 16: | Chapter 16: The Weight of Ambition, The Solace of Shadows And The Blooming Rose |
× × × ×
. . .
. .
.
| Aegon Targaryen - 1st Person Pov |
.
. .
. . .
The night sky over me was deep and infinite, with stars that seemed to flicker and burn like distant dragonfire.
As I stood alone on a random balcony of the Jade Palace, the air was thick with the scent of incense drifting up from the city below,— as usual.
This place, once a symbol of my ties to Jia, now felt like a gilded cage,— beautiful, ornate, and suffocating. But my thoughts wandered far from Yi Ti, across oceans, over lands I had never seen, to a place that had haunted me in dreams since I could remember.
Westeros. The Iron Throne.
The very name ignited something within me,— a hunger, a fire that had been kindled in my own blood since I was young.
I could feel it burning stronger each day that passed,— each day that I grew as a person, as if each passing day brought me closer to the seat of power that was my birthright.
I knew now that my destiny was not here, in the east, beneath the shadow of the Jade Sea.
My place was in the west, where my family had once ruled for centuries before it was all torn away.
My calloused hands gripped the stone railing as my unruly mind drifted further.
The lessons of Shen Dao rang in my ears, the calm but unyielding voice of my swordmanship mentor echoing in the silence of the night.
"Ambition without control is the surest path to destruction. Power is not won by force alone, Aegon. It is won by discipline. Patience."
Patience.
The word grated against me.
For whole months, I had been patient,— waiting, watching, listening. In Jia's court meetings, I had learned the art of subtlety, of maneuvering behind the scenes, but it was not enough. The more I learned, the more I felt the pull of my heritage, and the less satisfied I became with this life of shadows.
I was not born to serve. I was born to rule.
Yet, there was something else that tethered me to this place.
Jia Niao.
The 'Empress', the Lady Consort. My thoughts of her were tangled, a web of emotions I had yet to fully unravel. Her influence over me was undeniable, and in the early days of our relationship, I had believed in her vision for me.
She had promised me the world, but now, I was beginning to see that her vision was not aligned with my own.
She sought control. I sought freedom.
And yet, I could not deny the power of her touch on me, the way she had shaped me, guided me. There were times I felt as though she could see straight into my soul, and that frightened me more than I cared to admit.
She had her own ambitions, her own designs for power, and I was a part of those plans,— but no longer.
"I will not be a piece on her board." I muttered to myself, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
But what did I truly want? I knew the answer, but the path to it was still unclear. My plans to return to Westeros were vague at best. I had no army, no fleet, no allies beyond the thin threads that connected me to my past.
And yet, my dreams,— the visions that haunted my sleep,— grew more frequent, more vivid.
Night after night, I dreamed of a black and pink dragon.
I saw the throne of melted swords, bathed in fire, and myself sitting upon it, crowned in glory. I saw my enemies,— Robert Baratheon, Tywin Lannister, and the faceless men who had stolen my family's legacy,— kneeling before me, defeated and broken.
And then there was the Mountain, that beast of a man who had crushed my sister Rhaenys and dashed the skull of my infant self against a wall,— or so I had been told.
But these dreams were not always victorious. Sometimes, they were darker, more ominous. I saw the throne room of the Red Keep drenched in blood, the faces of the dead staring up at me, accusing me of some crime I did not understand.
And sometimes, in those dreams, the dragons turned on me, their great jaws snapping shut around my body as I fell into darkness.
My spine shuddered.
Could these visions be prophecies? The Targaryens had always been prone to dragon dreams I heard, my ancestors gifted,— or cursed,— with glimpses of the future.
Was this my future? Was it all foretold, or could I still forge my own path?
As I turned from the balcony and walked back into the palace. The tapestries lining the walls depicted the glories of the Empire, scenes of phoenixes soaring above blackened towers and lands wreathed in flame. They had once filled me with awe.
Now, they felt like relics of a time long gone,— another reminder of what had been lost to time as well.
My Valyrian blood called out to me constantly, but what had it given me in return? For months, I had lived under the roof of Jia, serving her whims, training under the guise of her ambitions for my own future.
But in truth, what did Jia want? Was I simply a means to an end for her?
I recalled the countless nights spent in her naked embrace, where she would speak to me in that low, seductive tone, telling me of her plans for the future, while molding my body to her whims.
"We will rule together." she would say, her fingers brushing lightly against me skin. But I could never shake the feeling that she wanted to possess me more than she wanted to rule with me.
"Together?" I repeated the word bitterly.
No. Jia wanted control, and though she had taught me much, I knew that I could not share power with her. Westeros was my destiny, not hers.
The pull of my birthright was growing stronger every day. My mind was consumed by thoughts of King's Landing, of the Iron Throne.
I could feel it, almost as though the throne itself was calling to me, beckoning me to return to it. My family's blood had soaked the stones of that cursed city, and every day I was apart from it felt like a betrayal of their memory.
Shen Dao's words came to me again, quieter this time.
"The strongest enemies are not the ones you face with a sword. They are the ones that live within you. Doubt. Fear. These are your true foes, and they will conquer you if you do not master them."
Doubt. Fear.
Yes, I had known them both intimately. For years, I had doubted my own life and belonging, then I questioned my right to claim what was told to be mine. I had feared that I might never be ready, that my destiny would slip through my fingers like sand.
But no more.
The time for hesitation was over.
I knew what needed to be done. I had to return to Westeros. But how? My plans were still little more than fragments, shards of ideas that had yet to form a coherent whole.
I would need allies, powerful ones.
The Golden Company, perhaps, though their loyalty had always been suspect to the Blackfyres. I would need ships, men, wealth.
Yi Ti and Jia had made me stronger, but it was not enough.
My hand unconsciously drifted to my recently gifted Valyrian-steel sword. A gift from Jia that I received in the past few days.
Sunset.
I had named it,— an honor I gave to my mother's memory and the Martell sun.
The weight of it at my side was a constant reminder of who I was.
But what kind of king would he be?
Westeros had known mad kings and weak kings, conquerors and tyrants. I would not be weak, but I would not be mad, either. The blood of Aegon the Conqueror ran in my veins, and I would carve out my own legacy, not as a king of shadows but as a king of dragons.
My thoughts went again to Jia. She had seen something in me, something powerful, something that frightened her. Perhaps she had always known that this moment would come, the moment when I would outgrow her, surpass her.
Her words from weeks ago echoed in my mind: "Power is a dangerous thing, Aegon. It can turn on you if you do not wield it carefully."
Power was dangerous,— I knew that now more than ever. But it was also the only thing that could bring me home.
I then turned back to the balcony, my soft gaze hardening as I looked out over the city of Xia Quo. This place had been my prison long enough. It was time to leave the east behind. My future was waiting for me across the sea, in the land of my ancestors.
Westeros was mine, and I would take it.
No more waiting. No more hesitation. The dragon was ready to roar.
× × × ×
. . .
. .
.
| Jon Snow - 1st Person Pov |
.
. .
. . .
I sat with my back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, watching the last rays of the sun disappear behind Winterfell's towers.
From my spot in the shadows, I could see Robb and Theon sparring in the yard, their swords clanging against each other in a rhythm that had once felt like my own. Now, I was an outsider looking in, my place beside Robb taken by Theon Greyjoy, a man who was more brother to him these days than I'd ever been.
There was a time when it was me standing in that yard with Robb, laughing, swinging swords, and trading blows like we were Eddard Stark's true sons, side by side.
But everything had changed in the last few months. Lady Stark's cold looks, the distance that had always been there, had turned into something more, something I could feel in every glance Robb threw my way. My father's wife whispers had finally worked their poison, and Robb had begun to turn away from me,— just like she wanted.
Now, Theon laughed, and Robb laughed with him. They were close, like brothers. And I... I was just the bastard, wasn't I?
I tried not to let it hurt, but it did. I had always known my place, hadn't I? Yet, watching Robb grow colder towards me stung more than I'd ever admit. He was my brother, and yet every day, he slipped further from me. I should have been the one out there with him, practicing our swordplay, trading jokes and stories.
But it wasn't me anymore. It hadn't been for some time.
And as her grip on him tightened, I felt him slipping from me, bit by bit. He had always loved his mother fiercely, I knew that, but now her presence between us was an iron wall, impenetrable. I was now the one who didn't belong.
I lowered my eyes to the snow-covered ground, breathing in the icy air, trying to push the thoughts away. They came back, though,— every time I saw them together, laughing, moving like I wasn't even there.
But it wasn't all coldness, not everywhere fortunetly.
Arya was still there.
And Sansa, of all people, had become the one I could still look to, the one who didn't treat me like a shadow.
She wasn't like Arya, wild and free, always running off to do gods knew what.
Sansa, though... she had changed around me lately. Her smiles felt softer, warmer, when they found me across the dinner table.
When she spoke to me, it wasn't in the formal way she used with most; it was something else, something almost... kind.
I tried not to dwell on it.
Sansa was my lady sister, after all, and I was still the bastard. Whatever looks we exchanged, whatever softness lingered between us, it couldn't mean anything.
But when Robb's coldness cut deep, I found some comfort in the way Sansa treated me,— as if I was still worth something.
I watched as Robb disarmed Theon with a quick flick of his wrist, and they both burst into laughter. I clenched my fists. No matter what I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being pushed aside, left behind in the wake of my brothers... no, not even my brothers anymore. The truth was sinking in,— Robb Stark was my father's trueborn son, and I... I was nothing more than his half-brother. A reminder of the famous Ned Stark's shame.
I stood, pushing myself off the wall and turning away from the scene, unwilling to watch it any longer. The cold air bit at my cheeks as I walked back toward the Great Hall, where the warmth of the hearth fires would do little to chase away the bitterness I felt creeping into my heart.
As I passed through the stone corridors, the whispers of servants caught my ear. They spoke in low, hurried tones, but I caught enough of their words to make me stop.
"...the king himself... riding north... naming Eddard Stark his new Hand of the King..."
My heart skipped a beat. King Robert Baratheon, coming to Winterfell? I knew little about the politics of the realm, but even I understood the gravity of such a visit. If Robert was coming north, it meant something big,— something important.
I leaned closer, my mind racing. King Robert had fought beside father during the Rebellion,— he was father's closest friend. What could he want now? And why would he name my father his Hand?
The whispers faded as the servants moved on, but their words lingered in my mind. I couldn't quite place it, but something about it felt heavy, like the weight of a coming storm.
I felt a flicker of excitement and dread at once.
Change was coming. I could feel it, as sure as the cold in the air. And for some reason, I had the strange sense that this change would reach even me, the bastard of Winterfell.
× × × ×
. . .
. .
.
| Sansa Stark, A few minutes earlier - 1st Person Pov |
.
. .
. . .
The evening sky above Winterfell had turned a soft shade of violet, and I stood by the window of my bedchamber, brushing out my auburn hair as I watched the light slowly fade.
The scent of freshly fallen snow filled the air, crisp and clean, though the stone walls of Winterfell kept the chill at bay. My reflection in the glass was soft, like a blurred painting,— just a hint of color and shape.
Mother's voice echoed in my head, always reminding me to sit straight, to smile sweetly, to act like a proper lady. I had always tried to be that, hadn't I? The perfect lady, just like Catelyn Stark wanted me to be.
But lately, something had been shifting in my heart, a small, quiet change I could hardly explain.
I had always dreamed of knights and princes, of King's Landing and the courtly world far beyond the North.
I used to think of my brother Jon Snow as little more than a shadow at Winterfell's edges,— someone to be ignored, someone who didn't belong in the grand stories I made for myself.
He was a bastard, after all. Bastards were not part of the songs I cherished.
And yet... lately, I had found my gaze lingering on him, longer than it should.
Something in his quiet, solitary presence had begun to tug at me, like a thread I couldn't unravel. Jon wasn't like the men I had imagined in my stories. He wasn't a knight or even a prince, but there was something in the way he carried himself,— something strong, quiet, and noble, even if no one else saw it.
I lowered the brush, resting it on the vanity, and stared at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed, though the room was not warm.
What was happening to me?
A knock on the door broke my thoughts. I turned, and Mother entered, her eyes stern as ever, though there was a softness in her features tonight. "Sansa, we should speak before dinner." she said. "Your father has important guests coming in the following days, and I must prepare you."
I sighed inwardly but nodded. "Yes, Mother."
She crossed the room with her usual grace, her long skirts swishing across the stone floor. She sat on the edge of my bed, patting the space beside her. I took a seat, folding my hands in my lap. It felt like one of those talks,— the kind where Mother reminded me of my duties, of the future she expected of me. The kind where she reminded me that I would marry well, that I was a Stark, but also something more.
"Your father has received word." she began, her voice steady. "King Robert Baratheon is riding north, and he intends to name your father the new Hand of the King from the look of things."
I blinked, my thoughts scattering like leaves caught in a breeze. "The king is coming... here?" I whispered. The idea of King Robert in Winterfell, of the royal court coming north, filled me with a kind of nervous excitement.
Mother nodded. "Yes. And with him, there will be many important men,— lords, knights, even princes. You must be prepared, Sansa. You are growing into a young woman now, and soon, you will be expected to play a role in the future of this house."
The words should have filled me with the giddy anticipation I had always imagined when thinking of princes and lords. But tonight, something felt different. The excitement didn't come. Instead, I found myself thinking of Jon.
"Mother." I asked, hesitating, "What about... Jon Snow? He is still our father's son, will he be allowed to attend the feast and the ceremonies?."
Her expression hardened. "That boy is a Snow, Sansa. He is not of your world, nor of Robb's. He has his place, and it is not at our side."
Her words were like cold water, but I couldn't shake the feeling that rose within me,— a defense, soft but persistent, forming on my tongue. "But he's lived with us, all these years. He,— he belongs here, with us, doesn't he?"
Mother's eyes narrowed slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Jon is not your brother. Not truly. You should not be concerning yourself with him, Sansa. Your future is with the lords of the realm, with those who are worthy of your name and your station."
I nodded, but inside, a small rebellion stirred.
Why did she speak of him like that? Jon wasn't like the lords and knights who would come to court. He was better in some ways,— more real, more steady. I had seen him from the corner of my eye, the way he kept his distance when Robb and Theon laughed in the yard, the way his eyes would drift away, as if trying not to see the world that had pushed him aside.
I swallowed the words that threatened to rise, forcing myself to sit straighter. I was still Sansa Stark, the lady, the dutiful daughter.
But when I thought of Jon, I couldn't help but feel that perhaps, being a proper lady wasn't the only thing that mattered.
"I understand, Mother." I said softly, though my heart was not in the words.
She stood, brushing a hand lightly over my shoulder before heading for the door. "Good. Remember who you are, Sansa. You will need to be strong, with what's coming."
As the door closed behind her, I turned back to the window, letting out a slow breath. The thought of King Robert's court arriving should have filled me with joy,— a prince, perhaps even Joffrey, might come north. But instead, I found my thoughts lingering on the one person who wouldn't be part of those grand stories.
Jon. He was no prince, no knight in shining armor.
And yet, when I saw him, I felt something that I hadn't expected,— something warm, something... safe. A secret part of me, one I didn't dare admit, longed for his presence more than I could explain.
Why, though? Why him?
I brushed out my hair again, slower this time, lost in thought. I wasn't sure what I felt for Jon, not fully. But I knew that when I looked at him, the world seemed softer, quieter, and for a moment, I wasn't just the Sansa Stark, a lady of Winterfell,— I was just... me. And Jon, in those moments, was more than the Snow Mother had always told me to ignore.
× × × ×
| Author's Ending Note: Thoughts? |
PENSAMENTOS DOS CRIADORES 
The_Illuminated
The_Illuminated Creation is hard, cheer me up! VOTE for me!
Status de energia semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Pedra de
Poder