#challenge:styleofmourning

[black-queen-rising]

The Fruits of My Labour

(Hard Launch Challenge for @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood)

You can get used to anything if you bear it long enough. How long had Rhaenyra been exhausted, grieving, waiting? King Viserys died three days ago, the Kingdom knew he was dying for three moons, the Keep had been expecting his death for three years, in a way Rhaenyra was waiting for him to die for three decades. She had expected, anticipated, in the back of her mind even hoped that the King's death would be like a storm breaking. That after spending so long feeling so used to it all, this would give her some sort of relief, and permission to finally feel something new.

She had cried, that is to say, tears had fallen from her eyes a handful of times over the past couple days. But whether they had done so by sincere emotion, well-practiced performance, or simple expectation even Rhaenyra herself could not say. There was just as much waiting as before the King died, that was to be expected, it went hand in hand with the grief after all. Fealty was pledged, her new Queensguard sworn in, and in fact, all political matters that could be handled in advance were settled by the end of the first full day with Viserys gone from this world. Daemon would remain the Master of War and Lord Corlys would grant Lord Beesbury his hard earned retirement as Master of Coin; the pair would serve as a sort of co-interim Hand until a suitable appointment could be made after her coronation. Lord Dalton would replace Ser Tyland as Master of Ships, Lady Mysaria doing the same for Larys Strong as Master of Whispers, she did not trust either of the formers as far as she could throw them, nor did she feel any different about the Master of Laws, Jasper Wylde, but a satisfactory replacement had not been found for him yet. Ser Steffon Darklyn would serve as her Lord Commander, Gerardys as the Council’s new Archmaester, and with that all Rhaenyra could do had been done.

Under the guise of grief she slept for fourteen hours straight, under the pretense of mourning she had her first afternoon free of audiences in weeks, under the covers she slept with Daemon four times; no one cared, no one noticed, and no one commented. She was delighted by all of it, she was numb to everything, she dared to start hoping for a baby again, she dared to hope she would start feeling anything again. There was a funeral to prepare for, they’d been preparing for moons, there was nothing left to prepare, she didn’t have to prepare until the night before.

“Calla and Willow will make sure Viserys and Visenya are all set, Jace is already on Aeg, and I’ve got the little ones. They there anything else you need, Muna?”

“No, thank you, Rhaena love, you’ve outdone yourself as always. Your gown and the black pearl tiara are all taken care of for tomorrow?”

“Yes, since last week, actually.”

“Good girl,” Rhaenyra finally looked up with a small smile, observing her step daughter through her vanity mirror before she left to her own chambers and the nightly routine they’d both inherited from Laena. “Your braids look lovely, Princess Rhaenys has my compliments as always, and you look wonderful.”

Rhaena’s eyes shined as she returned the compliment, “You look even more beautiful as the Queen.”

Rhaena kissed her cheek goodnight but before she could fully leave Rhaenyra called, “Issy Jorraeliarza?”

“Muna?”

“The night it happened…you were the one who helped Aemond weren’t you?”

It referred to so many events now there was no better way to phrase things, even the ones seemingly simple no less easy to talk about, Rhaena just nodded. “Yes, I was. It was a nice distraction, really, still haven’t the faintest what got to him.”

“Hm” She laughed softly, it didn’t feel quite right though, only a physical reaction…laughing was supposed to feel like joy. “It’s usually best that way. He seems sweet on you.”

“You see it too?”

“I just said what I think, I’m asking you.”

“Do you…did you, with Kepa, did you ever think if you just had enough care, enough time, enough love that it could…well, fix him? Or did it just sort of…happen.”

“Oh sweet girl, I’m afraid I can’t claim to have done that at all. It was your mother, her patience and her grace, that’s where the credit has always belonged. I’ve reaped the fruits of her labor, I’m forever grateful for it…” Her voice got much quieter then, as she added, “But you know the only reason I wouldn’t trade it all back to have her is that she’d never let me.”

Rhaena nodded once more, knowingly this time, this was hardly a new conversation, and the question that followed was no less familiar. “What do you think she’d say…about him?”

“Never let him push you around, hit him back if it comes to that,” The smile on her lips almost felt like something, almost. “And however love struck he makes you feel? Love him twice as hard.”

It’s quiet then, Rhaenyra thought she’d gone to bed but she calls one last time.

“Never forget, now we get to see yours, and she’d the proudest of any of us for you.”

“My what, darling?”

“The fruits of your labor, the kingdom, and all of us, but I’m—I’m a Princess now and you’re the Queen, you did that.”

Rhaenyra didn’t have the heart to tell her stepdaughter all she wanted was for it to feel like a triumph, but it didn’t feel like anything at all. She hugged her, then went to check over Jace’s clothes, fixed Daemon’s hair exactly the way she’d always found so charming, and by sunrise the bells were ringing right on cue.

She spent the morning allowing her ladies to fawn over her, numb to it, wishing she could at least be upset she felt nothing towards something she’d always enjoyed so much. When Roslin brought up the girls they were in their youth and Cissy assured that even Queen Aemma would be glowing with pride, she teared up, and they cooed and comforted over her grief, but Rhaenyra still didn’t have the strength to admit the tears only came because of her lack of grief. Had her father truly taken so much from her?

The black, elaborately decorated, ostentatiously caped gown shined bright purple and dark red in the light, her curls, neck, and hands dripped with dazzling rubies, amethysts, and onyx. With dark red lips, her icy purple eyes, appearing as perhaps the only unveiled female figure, wearing, arguably even flaunting, The Conciliator’s crown, and Daemon’s equally, perfectly dressed arm around her waist, she looked like a goddess. The gorgeous husband and pristine, glamorous children clustered around her only emphasized the image, The Mother and Father, and all their little children, Syrax and Caraxes, carrying on the legacy of Vhagar, Balerion, and all of Old Valyria with their twelve deified offspring, the ultimate jewels in her crown, a perfect family. “Even the Good King and Queen didn’t have all ten together like that…she must be doing something right.”

As they were about to exit the Red Keep’s grand doors Daemon whispered to her, “Don’t forget, you’ve been working all your life for this, you earned this, try to enjoy the bits you can,” and then, his voice concealed by the sound of the doors opening, “Gods you’re fucking breathtaking.”

This was it, Rhaenyra had been waiting three days, three moons, three decades, done her duty, made her sacrifices, found her freedom, the fruits of her labor, her first public appearance as The Queen.

It all felt nice.

It all felt comfortable.

It all felt numb.

Rhaenyra was already used to not feeling.

[goldaegontargaryen]

Character Challenge for A Song of Golden Fire and Black Blood

Prompt:

Write a scene of your character preparing for King Viserys's funeral.

__________________________________________________________

The King was dead.  

It was easier to think about things that way.  He could make it through the King’s funeral.  He had no idea how to react to the idea of his father’s funeral.  There were too many complicated emotions caught up in his father’s name and the title of his relationship to him.  It was easier for Aegon to separate himself from the personal nature of it all when he only thought of his father by his title.  

Almost as if they were reinforcing his thoughts, the bells signaling the death of the King rang continuously, scattering most of his thoughts as soon as they entered his head.  He focused on completing one task after the other.  He stepped into his boots.  He forced his unsteady fingers to buckle the various straps attached to them.  He pulled on his coat.  Just actions with no meaning.  That was the only way he could make it through the day.  

Just as he finished dressing, the door flew open and a small shape ran across the room.  He recognized Maelor just as his son threw his arms around him and Maelor’s constantly tired maid, Janna, ran in after him.  She was already appropriately dressed in dark mourning colors, though her chase after Maelor had brought a bright color into her cheeks.  “I’m so sorry, my prince.  I told him you were busy getting ready, but the little prince insisted and slipped away from me.”  

Aegon waved away her worries.  Maelor was also already dressed in the dark outfit chosen for the funeral and even his wild curls had been tamed into some sort of order.  “It’s alright, Janna.  I’ll help him finish getting ready.”  

“Are you sure?  I wouldn’t want to put any extra pressure on you with your father—” 

“I’ll be fine,” he promised, quickly cutting her off.  The last thing he wanted to hear right now was condolences about his father.  He would have to suffer through those all day as it was.  “Having him around will cheer me.”

Janna slowly nodded and shut the door behind her, though Aegon didn’t miss the expression of pity on her face.  She’d known that Aegon and Viserys weren’t close, but he supposed the passing of a father received pity from all, even if he hadn’t much cared about his children when he was alive.  

He looked down to his son who was still clinging to him with his eyes firmly fixed on Aegon’s face, his expression focused.  “Jaehaerys said I wasn’t supposed to bother you and mother.”  

“Why did he say that?”

“He said that you were going to be sad because of the funeral today.”  

Aegon brushed an errant curl behind Maelor’s ear.  “Jaehaerys was wrong.  You can bother me all you want.  But your mother may need her space today, I’m not sure.”  Aegon hadn’t talked to her as much as he should have.  Both of them had gone their separate ways to prepare for the funeral and to start to process their individual grief.  

“What are funerals like?” Maelor asked, finally releasing his tight hold to sit on a stool that stood by the dressing table.  

“They’re very sad and usually very boring.”  

“Will Baelon be sad?” Maelor’s closest friend in the castle was Rhaenyra’s youngest son, whose name Aegon usually couldn’t remember but thankfully Maelor had reminded him.  

“I imagine so.  The King was already very ill by the time he was born, but his mother is going to be very sad and I imagine that will make him sad too.  Be patient with him.”  

To his surprise, Maelor didn’t follow up his last question immediately with another one.  It was strange for him to be quiet, but Aegon allowed him his silence as he put on his jewelry.  The only things he bothered to adorn himself with were his sun ring and his wedding ring from Helaena.  The last thing he wanted was to draw any attention to himself.  

“I think I’m sad too,” Maelor finally said, breaking the silence.  His face was creased with deliberation as if he was working out a difficult problem given to him by his Septa.  “But not because of grandfather.  He was scary.”  

“He was very sick when you visited him.  He was a kind and peaceful man.”  That would be how he was remembered.  Not by Aegon, but by most.  “Why are you sad?”

“Because you’re sad.  I can tell.”

“Oh Maelor, I’m not—” To his shock, Aegon was forced to stop talking, his throat suddenly feeling tight.  

Before he could recover himself, Maelor had already run back over to hug him again.  “Can I hold your hand at the funeral, father?  And mother’s too?  To help you feel better?”  

Aegon quickly nodded, wrapping his arms tightly around his son.  

Maybe he would make it through his father’s funeral.

[helaenasdreamfyres]

Character challenge for @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

Challenge: Write a scene in which your character is preparing for Viserys’ funeral.

💛 🌙 💛

———————————————————————-

The day was a dark one, and all Princess Helaena could do was cry. Her heart felt constricted and her eyes burned with tears as she made sure she looked perfect. Perfect for her father, the King, whose funeral was so soon, too soon, in fact.

Was she crying because she was sad he was gone? Or that he was gone and he’d never truly known her? Or maybe because others were going to be sad this day, the ones she loved and cared for the most? She knew all of the answers, yet didn’t want to admit a single one. A million questions ran through her head as she pulled her arms through the long, black sleeves. The dress widened towards her arms and felt heavy. More weight to carry as she battled through this day.

Once the dress was on, she reached for the black veil she chose for this day. A day she dreaded ever since she came back to Kings Landing. She looked to herself in the mirror, trying to fit the headpiece on her perfectly. Her eyes stung, they were red and bloodshot from the tears, and it was hard to see.

It was too many emotions, to many buried feelings, too many things she needed to do. All of this had built up to her tearful preparations now. Helaena clumsily put her veil on and stepped back, taking her whole attire in.

Black, black, and more black. It was unusual for the Princess to wear such a color, and she did not like it. It made her feel melancholic, the opposite of everything she tried to represent every single day of her life. The dress was large and stiff, different from her usual flowing and wispy outfits. It had flower patterns on the inside of the sleeves and down the middle, something she had chosen to make it somewhat happy, but it had not worked.

Nothing could make this day happy, she knew, but she had to show up positive for others. She needed to support her family, make sure they’re not suffering alone. She wiped the tears from her face and took a long, deep breath. She swallowed, trying to stop her crying. It was time to leave her chambers, and time to face the day. She would smile and make others a bit less sad, she decided, even if she felt awful. Even if she wished she wasn’t there. It was what she always did, and this day would be no different.

[alyofraventree]

Style of Mourning - A Character Challenge for @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

Alysanne made her way through the gardens of the Red Keep, her path a growing familiar one, as she walked winding towards the weirwood tree that stood tall and ancient, its pale bark a stark contrast against the red of the castle. The white bark and blood-red leaves were a comforting sight, as it was the closest thing to home. 

The air around the weirwood was cooler and quieter. The chatter of the court faded into the background, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the growing calls of ravens. Alysanne’s steps sounded softly on the leaves and grass as she approached the tree. She carried a small stick of incense, a ritual she had maintained since her mother’s death. However, this was a special sent, finding cinamon had a fiery scent more fitting for a Targaryen. Lighting the incense, she placed it at the base of the weirwood, knelt, and closed her eyes, inhaling the familiar and smoky scent.

She had never met King Viserys, but she understood the pain of loss, and she came to the Godswood to offer her respects and prayers for the grieving royal family. 

“Old gods, hear my prayer,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the leaves in the wind, “Guide the soul of King Viserys to the next stage as his body becomes one with the soil and air. Bring peace to Helaena and strength to our future queen.” 

The smoke curled up, mingling with the branches above. Alys opened her dark eyes and looked up, her gaze following the patterns of the leaves rustling against the sky. She felt a pang of sorry for the Targaryens, knowing what it was like to lose a parent. Her father had been a stern but loving man, and her mother’s death had left a void that nothing had quite filled. 

As she stood there, the ravens perched in the branches began their chatter as if in response to her words. Alysanne listened, their voice a comforting murmur. She had always had a way with ravens, although she didn’t know if it was because she spent too much time with the ravens of Raventree or if so many ravens gathered at their tree waiting for another listener like herself. 

“Dark wings, dark words,” she murmured to herself, recalling the old saying. “Do you bring news from beyond the Godswood?” she asked the nearest raven, its black eyes gleaming with an intelligence that seemed almost human. 

The raven cawed softly, tilting its head as if considering her question. Alysanne smiled faintly. In her mind, she could see and hear the mix of images and words, a complicated weaving of information. Their words were not always clear, but today they seemed to offer cryptic advice and reassurance. They spoke of change, of endings, beginnings…. And threats? 

“You speak in riddles, as always,” she said, her tone lightening. These ravens did not seem as used to her presence as the ones in Raventree. “But perhaps that is what I need. A reminder that change and death are all part of nature.” 

The ravens cawed in agreement, their voices blending into a harmonious cacophony. 

As the incense burned low, she stood and brushed off her skirts, although little showed against the mourning blacks. “Thank you, old friends,” a few caws responded, “and new friends,” she said with a quiet smile. Your words are always appreciated.” 

With a final, lingering glance at the weirwood, Alysanne turned and made her way back towards the Red Keep. The somber atmosphere of the court awaited her, but she would honor King Viserys’s memory the best she could and support Helaena and their new queen. 

The ravens watched her go, their dark eyes following her until she disappeared from view within the castle.

[princeluce]

Style of Mourning - A Character Challenge for @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

Lucerys stood on the balcony of his chamber, the salty breeze from Blackwater Bay ruffling his dark curls. He gazed out at the churning waves while listening to the distant sorrowful cries of dragons. Usually one could see at least one in flight, either with a dragon rider, or one that was enjoying the sky having escaped the dragon pit. But today the dragons were landed, and their cries were a reminder of the clear bond of dragons with riders. 

The funeral preparations for King Viserys were underway, and the weight of it all felt like it was pressing on him. His grandsire’s death was a blow, a reminder of the fleeting nature of life and the ever-looming changes that awaited him. 

His mother, Rhaenyra, was to become Queen, a title that carried with it a tumultuous wave of change. Lucerys felt a pang of fear, not only for what it meant for the realm, but also what it meant for him. Another reminder that soon he would be departing for Driftmark, leaving the only home he has ever really known, to take up as heir to his Velaryon roots. Yet he could als not deny that the sea called to him, the legacy of his father and grandsire Corles pulling him toward the water. Still, the thought of leaving King’s Landing and his family left him feeling unthreaded. 

Luce turned from the balcony and walked back into the chamber that he shared with his brothers, his eyes landing on a wooden carving he had been working on. It was a dragon, its wings unfurled, ready to take flight. It was meant to be Balerion, based off of descriptions from texts and his grandsire’s tales, yet not finished in time. He picked up the dragon, running his finger over the intricate details. Lucerys had spent time on them, with Viserys eyes failing him, he had wanted to make details that the King could feel with his hands. 

He remembered the warmth in Viserys’ eyes, the gentle hand on his shoulder, the stories told alongside the stone Valyria.  

He didn’t hear the knock on the door, and was only pulled out of his thoughts when he felt a touch on his shoulder. He looked up to see his brother Jace, his expression somber. Luce leaned forward, his forehead resting on his brother’s chest as his brother’s arms held him. No words were needed between them, no tears or cries. For a moment they were not princes or heirs, just brothers who had lost their grandsire. 

After a breath the two separated with a sigh, and a masculine reassuring shoulder squeeze and a quiet nod between the two. Lucerys straightened his dark tunic, adjusting the clasp that bore the sigils of House Velaryon and Targaryen. The silver seahorse and dragon glinting in the light. He took a deep breath, steeling himself and tucking the wooden dragon into his pocket as he left his room and followed after his brother, stealing his face when he reached the crowds. 

As he walked his fingers continued to play with the dragon, his fingers following the scales. He decided that before his mother calls on Syrax to light Viserys’ pyre he would place the dragon alongside him. Lucerys might not have been able to give him the dragon in life, but at least Viserys could take Balerion with him into whatever fight was waiting for him next.

[jonswann]

Style of Mourning - A Character Challenge for @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

Jon stood before the tall mirror in his chamber, adjusting the black doublet adorned with a pin of a black swan, the dark metal glimmered faintly in the candlelight. Usually, he would wear a white swan against his normal black, but for a funeral, all black seemed more fitting. He straightened his collar, his reflection staring back at him with a mix of determination and indifference. The capital was busy with the solum buzz with the preparations for King Viserys’ funeral, but Jon’s mind was elsewhere. He had never met the late king, and while he felt the vague empathy that one does at the thought of another losing a loved one, his own heart was not burdened with grief. Yet, duty called him to represent his house with the utmost respect. 

One day his own father would pass, and there would be others like was now, who would come to show respect even though they had never met his Lord Father. 

Jon slid on his black gloves, his mind wandering back to the shifting dynamics of power he would be walking into. With the imminent coronation of Westeros’s first ruling queen, the court was running rampant with speculation and intrigue. Quietly, of course, open scheming would be distasteful while the King’s body was not yet cold. Jon’s loyalty was to House Swann, and the people of Stonehelm, but he couldn’t deny the fascination he felt towards the pawns at play. But he knew better than to wear his ambitions openly.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his reverie. Ser Erich Horpe, his loyal retainer and son of the Stonehelm Steward, entered. “My Lord, the procession will begin shortly.”

Jon nodded, taking a deep breath, “Thank you Erich. Please ensure the rest of our men are ready.” 

He swept from the room, his long robes trailing him as he swiftly walked through the halls of the Red Keep. Reaching the courtyard, Jon joined the assembled nobles, exchanging polite nods and brief words with those around him. Cordial and solemn as fitting the occasion, yet beneath the surface, his mind was running, calculating, assessing, and always vigilant. The funeral was a somber affair, but Jon couldn’t help but think of the future and the opportunities that lay ahead with a new monarch on the throne.

As the procession began, Jon’s gaze drifted to the black banners that were waving in the breeze. The winds of change were blowing through Westeros, and he intended to navigate them all with what was at his disposal. House Swann would rise, he would ensure it, no matter the cost.

[defiantinthetower]

Funerals always made Ashara melancholic, she wasn't a stranger to grief and the memories filled with nostalgia.

Today, at least, the funeral wasn't for one of Ashara's family members or loved ones, they would be morning a distant King from a distant land.

She had mourned a father and a husband, she had needed ���and had been one to provide— a shoulder to cry on.

« I don't belong here. These people don't need my comfort nor my condolences. What is an unknown voice against family's embrace? »

Ashara wasn't fond of funerals. She hated the dull feeling that accompanied it. Too many memories and not enough time. « Today's corpse isn't one I know, but the sorrow is contagious »

A black saree was the main piece of her outfit. Her pallu was decorated with silver thread. Silver jewelry adorned her right arm while bracelets and rings rested in her left hand. Black silk hid her face from others with a long veil. A silver headpiece finished her attire with a mysterious charm.

« I'm not alone. » Her daughters were in Dorne, far away from any danger. She had her Princess' company, they would get over this troubling time together. Just like they always did.

[crimson-kraken]

Dalton —like every other noble at King's Landing— realized the King was gone once the bells started singing.

« Does it really must be so loud? » The first bells started soon after the King was gone, Dalton thought maybe they will continue six more times and then the noise would be gone. Wrong! The damn bells continue from early morning to the rest of the day.

Dalton washed his face, hoping the water would clear his mind. The King was gone and now he had to play his part.

Almost all his clothes were black, so choosing wasn't difficult. He made sure to pick something that didn't smell like blood. Half-capes were popular at court and after trying one on, Dalton could see the appeal.

So he ended up dressing with a full black leather suit, black boots and a black half-cape. He felt the need to go a little fancy and pick a kraken necklace, gifted by one of his sisters.

After years of raiding, Dalton had a collection of rings; taken from a dozen corpses. Dalton took some and had enough to share, his kids taking the smaller ones.

—We always look amazing in black. —Dalton was impressed by how many different versions of "black dress" his wives could come up with, even weirder, his daughters wore corsets for the occasion.

Dalton counted his children as they left, making sure everything was going according to plan. He took a little knife and tied it to his belt, a last gift for the King.

[alicenthightowerrp]

(A challenge for rp)

THE DAY OF CHANGE

THE KING IS DEAD LONG LIVE THE QUEEN

Alicent stared into the mirror; thankfully the lack of title allowed her the freedom of an empty chamber as she dismissed the servants without thought. The days of mourning had been long and had began to drain Alicent of her energy as ever her mind raced with many thoughts. The change that came with the death of a King - her King, had too many variables. There was too much at stake if anything were to go wrong or even if the whims of certain people changed. Alicent scoffed to herself, it seemed her life was dictated by those whims.

Those delicate, ringed hand of hers reached for the goblet of wine as she fought of the nerves threatening to overtake her. Now was not the time to make mistakes. It took Alicent a moment to realise the gold, wedding ring that had been on her finger for decades now. She leaned closer; her other hand moving to grasp it before gently tugging it off her hand. It was the first time since her wedding day that Alicent took the symbol, of her marriage off. The sound of the ring falling onto the dresser echoed in the empty chambers.

In the end - it all seemed to mean nothing, she thought to herself whilst watching the ring move in circles before falling silent and still. If only she herself felt calm and still as she heard the beats of her heart in her ear. Alicent's head rested on the chair as she looked towards the window; the bright sun taking control of the sky before she noted the bed. A shiver ran down her spine at the sight of it. The memories of her own wedding night; the fear that had trapped her and something she would never admit to, but the fear had not left her for longer than needed. Her hand reached for the ring as her grip only tightened on it. The nails pierced her soft palm but Alicent gave no reaction as she stared outside her window that had once seemed appealing to jump from. The next day, the maester's had told her she was with child. With Aegon.

Aegon had saved her life in equal measure that he destroyed as well. Her fate was sealed in that moment - a fate she still wondered how it would end, as well as her darling boy. Still, she had faith that he would not walk without care into a trap. Alicent herself had already begun such preparations with sadly the participation of Larys Strong. Being the Queen had given her a certain protection that would now be absolute. Gracefully, Alicent moved to stand; her hand still clutching the ring in her palm. The nails causing indents in her usual soft skin. Still, Alicent gave no mind - the pain hardly existed with such an act now. It was not long before she stood in front of the large window; the sun shining on her as she took control.

In one move, the ring was thrown out. It made no sound as it moved through the air until falling into the gutter. A smirk stretched on her face at such a thought, Viserys would be ash soon - and she was still here, no matter the amount of babes he forced on her. Her hand reached for the large, seven pointed necklace resting on her chest. It was one of her largest ones; a gift from her father on the day of her mother's funeral. It gave her a moment of strength but alas, it never stayed for long. Nothing ever did, she thought to herself whilst playing with the skirts of her dress - pushing them down to be more presentable. Her hands slowly moved up the arms that were usually covered but now were on show, as if free.

The green shade gave her some comfort but if she was honest with herself, it seemed to not give her the strength it usually did. The conflicting nature had her hand reaching for her head if only for a moment as a soft ping of pain came over her. "Your grace." Ser Cole's voice from outside her chambers called in and her head snapped to the side. "It is nearly time." The knight continued as Alicent bowed her head. Of course, time seemingly stopped for nobody, not even a King.

"Yes..of course." Alicent spoke for nearly the first time that moment; her hand reached for the goblet of wine once more and not so gracefully took the wine in gulps as if that were to calm her nerves. It was no wonder Aegon leaned into such devices still Alicent shook her head as if to remove her children from her thoughts. It would only cause her more distress. No, she had to make her move and plan ahead if they were to survive. If she were to survive. It was obvious of Rhaenyra's softness towards Helaena..a large part of Alicent knew it was easier for her children to survive this than herself. A selfish part of her desired to live, she did not want to die. It was that thought that had Alicent's hand going to her neck.

The thought shocked her. It had been a long time since she had desired to live and now it only confused her. The day of Viserys' farewell seemed to be clouding her judgement and thoughts, Alicent had to get a handle of herself and quickly. There was no time for such thoughts and desires. The once Queen reached for the gold hair pin and slowly placed it on her thick locks that were elegantly up in braids. It had been a moment of peace as she allowed the servants to do such things. "Your grace.." Cole's voice entered the room once more as she leaned close to her candles and blew them out. "Yes, I am ready." As soon as those words fell from her lips; the door of her chambers slowly opened.

It was as if it was her wedding again; thoughts of confusion and fear of the changes ahead grabbed her and tightened around her body. As she once did as a young girl, Alicent stepped forward and her head was held high as she began to walk to the unknown once more.

[aemond-one-eyed]

Save me from the nightmare I call myself

(A part of the #challenge:styleofmourning in collaboration with @rhaenaspearls for @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood)

The halls of the Red Keep were quiet this evening, which only made sense due to the news from the Maesters that this would likely be the king's last evening. He had been avoiding going to see his father the entire time he had been back home, he wasn't sure what to say or do. Honestly he was a little worried he would hold a pillow over Viserys' head if he said something to piss him off, which was highly likely. He decided seeing him was necessary or he would probably regret it for the rest of his life if he didn't attempt to get any closure. When he reaches the King's chambers the Maester is outside the door and gently grabs him by the arm,

"I sent for the Princess Hand to come visit but it seems she isn't able or willing to. Be warned if you go in there, it's very likely he will pass,"

Aemond nods his head in acknowledgement, "Thank you, I understand. I am alright being there for that," he replies. The maester opens the door for him and he steps inside. He wasn't wearing his eyepatch tonight, choosing to keep an amethyst in the socket that was a close match to the purple of his remaining eye. He approaches his father's bed and sits at his side. Viserys already had the appearance of a corpse, as if his body had already begun rotting while he stilled breathed. The King glances at his son with the good side of his face, "Rhaenyra?" he asks a desperation to his tone. Aemond nearly growls in annoyance, he supposes with his long hair and the absence of the patch he had been mistaken for his sister.

"Afraid not father, you'll have to settle for me... Aemond," he clarfies deciding to think of his previous conversation with Rhaenyra and how he had to prove to her he could control his temper.

"Oh... Aemond. I know you think I didn't notice you, but I did. I once claimed the largest dragon alive and my own son did the same," he manages to gasp out. Aemond begins to feel the swell of pride within himself, maybe this hadn't been such a bad idea after all, "that's why I knew you would be alright on your own. You are like Daemon, very independent and self assured. When you claimed Vhagar I knew you would be a warrior," Viserys adds on. And there goes the good feeling he had. What had that lasted, like thirty seconds? Gods this was why he hated him, even on his deathbed he still had excuses for his negligence.

He grinds his teeth together, "I wasn't fine then, and I'm not fine now. Father I've been chasing the feeling of how a SHRED of mother's love felt when I was recovering and I found it vials of poppy. Do you think that is fine? Is it fine that I'm not even sure what love actually feels like? Is it fine that I am angry all the time?" he cries. He hadn't wanted to cry, gods he hated it. Hated it because it caused tears to still well in the empty socket he had a gem in, hated how they would get caught behind it but also still seep out as if it were still a real eye.

"I-I am sorry I failed you... I did the best I knew how to,"

"Fuck you, I hate you. I hate you so much,"

"Then why are you here?" his father rasps out, his breaths becoming more labored.

"Because I'm not like you... I won't leave you to die alone," he says through the lump now in his throat. His father's hand opens and Aemond takes it. Not out of anything other than pity. Viserys can't seem to speak anymore. His breathing becoming slower, the time between each one growing. After a few minutes of this the King takes one more breath in and slowly exhales. Just like that, his father was dead and Aemond was still crying. He stands quickly and leaves through the hidden passageways to return to his room. He refused to let anyone in the main halls see him like this.

Back in his room he hurriedly grabs for his box filled with vials of milk of the poppy. His hands trembling as he opens the box. He downs one, two, then three vials and almost immediately feels the effects of the drug. He never bothered to take this much at once, but gods maybe he should. He felt fantastic. The euphoria only lasted a few moments though, until he caught his reflection in the mirror. His one eye rimmed red, and the gem wet and shinning from his tears. His hair was undone and a mess too. It just reminded him that his father only seemed happy when he thought his son was Rhaenyra. Fucking bastard. His gaze caught on Blackfyre still hanging from his hip. He unsheathes the blade, the pattern of the steel seeming to swirl in his vision from the high of the drugs. It was so sharp, it could cut through necks as if the bone weren't even there; so hair would be nothing to it right? With one hand he gathers up his long silky hair, with the other he raises Blackfyre and with one quick flourish his hair is now awkwardly at the nap of his neck. He looks at the length of hair in his one hand and drops it to the floor before looking into the mirror again. Oh gods... he had fucked up. It was so bad, all he had done was eliminate the length, he had no idea how to actually give himself any sort of style past that.

There was only one person he could think of to help him. Only one person who would judge him, but would keep it to themselves. He goes to her door, and knocks. Rhaena opens the door, eyes blinking as she takes him in. He stands in her doorway, hair hacked to pieces, Blackfyre hanging limply in his dominant hand. He downs another vial, letting it fall to the ground once he consumes it's contents.

"My father is dead," he slurs the words out before glancing down at the floor and back at Rhaena, tears still sticky on his face, "and I fucked up," he adds. He hadn't exactly asked for her to help him, but he hoped his message came across.

[lady-vypren]

The bells started to ring, announcing the inevitable news; the King was gone, dead after fighting sickness for years.

Sabitha wouldn't mourn the man. She barely knew him. The King had been an absent figure most of her life, they never met and they never will.

« I must dress for the occasion. » Sabitha had already prepared her gown. The black soft fabric neatly sewed in a traditional Vypern style, with long sleeves and voluminous skirt. She arranged her hair in a tight bun, decorated with red flower brooches. « Red for our Targaryen Queen. »

Sabitha wasn't one who used cosmetics often, she painted her lips and eyes just for that day. Her work was delicate and simple. It would be covered by a short black veil, some transparency would show her face and hopefully someone would notice her efforts.

She decided to keep it simple, so Sabitha didn't add any more accessories. She had learned that sometimes, simplicity was elegance « I sound just like my mother. » She smiled at the thought.

Her Lord husband was waiting, already dressed in all black. Her son Theo wore a black and gray attire, Sabitha had prepared her little one's outfit long before leaving the Twins. The three of them left the chambers, on their way to visiting the late King's funeral.