𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗘𝗘 :
𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗴'𝘀 𝗟𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴

                    𝑺𝒀𝑳𝑽𝑰𝑨 𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑫 𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑨𝑹𝑴𝑺 along the ship's ledge as they approached King's Landing. A city her mother longed to see with her two eyes, together as promised, now forced to experience this moment by herself surrounded by knights loyal to the crown and others who've known this city by heart. A thrilling but anxious feeling she struggled to bury. As well as vomit that refused to vanquish with constant swallowing, remembering how unkind the sea was during long nights.

        Outlooking the city of cluttered buildings hidden behind a red wall taller than any known height, as though the Gods embraced the land that it molded within its structure, a majestic castle came closer into view as they traveled through the city by carriage. It reached the skyline at this angle. The city was far livelier than Toland with more people than she could count on her fingers; more land, more green, more water, more color. And although it was hot, there wasn't a lingering dryness that left her throat parched, but humid with a wet earthy taste that kept her saliva wet enough.

        But while its differences were known, it wasn't Dorne. Home.

        The people pointed and waved at the traveling carriages — at Sylvia as she gawked through the velvet curtains, taken aback by the people and their cultural differences, and a lingering stench. To process a world existed beyond the sea outside of deserts and sandstorms was exhilarating. She wondered if it snows here too having not seen it before.

        Mar'kel and Jorio split ways once landing ashore. He had no choice but to accompany the journey to King's Landing given their boat was taken by the current, and assured Sylvia he would find good work to provide for his family.

        Haron Baratheon — Lord Hand, as stated to address him — was kind enough to allow Sylvia to join his carriage. His eyes would linger in her direction and she would catch him staring without break as if Sylvia was a mystical creature, but she didn't mind his curiosities. Forgave him even since he took her in, informed her of the castle up ahead, and spared her life.

        The Red Keep.

        A line of knights dressed in white armor and golden cloaks awaited the return of Lord Hand with Sylvia following behind like some lost puppy still yet a stranger to this new region. Though he was kind to allow sanctuary, she knew better than to trust a helping hand with blind eyes because the price weighed heavier.

        Lord Hand advised Sylvia to wait outside the guarded bronze doors until she was announced, and anticipation grew with every passing second. Because she had never met her father before, only heard through countless stories her mother shared, Sylvia was unable to create an expression appropriate toward her arrival. The one created out of her naive imagination, hoped he'd smile gracefully and acknowledge her existence. Fathers back in Dorne did. Without shame too.

        "Father, how was your travels? We heard war broke loose again across the sea, but hope to hear good news with the Martells and the arrangements made the hundredth time." Said a woman whose voice was carried by gracious echoes.

        Two passing servants carrying a basket full of sheets were caught sizing Sylvia down, their noses riled in disgust as they picked at her filth. It wasn't until one pointed out her hair that regret followed by fear flashed. They offered a bow before hurrying off, eyes glued to the floor. Whatever that was about. But they weren't the only avoiding attention; the knights paid Sylvia no mind but they were intimidating. Everything was.

        "Rather interesting, your grace." Lord Hand responded to the woman, assumedly his daughter. The Queen. "Aside from matters that should be privately discussed, in my travels along the border of the Narrow Sea, I made a mild discovery sure to be the talk of the day. Perhaps weeks. Come on out, girl."

        Sylvia's head perked realizing that was her cue.

        The chatters of council members and lords and ladies of the Royal Court were silenced once the large doors opened and there Sylvia stood, gawking at the view. High ceilings bleeding in light from the sky, held with humongous pillars. Colors so vibrant it was blinding. Lord Hand cleared his throat and gestured his head to the spot next to him. She hurried down the red carpet stretching from the doors toward the throne made of an asymmetric monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges and twisted metal made of swords still sharp enough to cut.

        It was where an older man — King Aul Targaryen, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, as proudly announced — with silky white hair pinned from his old face where a crown of gold sat. His slouched position straightened upon the girl's entrance. Just as a beautiful black-headed woman — Lady Queen Alice Baratheon, as announced — stood beside the throne, glaring at her husband.

        Sylvia kept her gaze to the floor, fidgeting with her dirty fingers when reaching Lord Hand's side. The carpet tracked her wet muddy boot prints. She never stood before royalty, a king and queen of the realms, and possibly her father somewhere hidden. Their customs were foreign, but knew when greeting high-borns — or in this case, royalty — one should show respect as customary.

        So, Sylvia lifted her chin and lowered her body with a curtsy as her mother taught her. With grace and beauty...or so she believed it to be. And since she wore no dress, had to improvise with her loose-fitting shirt that was given by the cook on the ship. It smelt of sweat and sausages but it was better than her other shirt still covered in Yanis' blood and dirt from home.

        "Oh God," said Lady Queen Alice, unimpressed by the gesture. Lord Hand included by his lips pressing together with a sigh deep from his chest.

        Sylvia started feeling a bit silly especially when a snicker erupted the gossiping crowd on her left. There were too many faces scrutinizing her existence down to the soul, but only one who made their laughter known and didn't care to hide it. Only his silver hair registered before the Queen spoke up.

        "Have you fathered another bastard, husband?" Lady Queen Alice rubbed between thinly arched brows, looking at the King with low eyes. Despite her disappointment, it seemed nothing new to her.

        "I would remember if I did." The King motioned toward Sylvia's awkward stance. "What is your name, child?"

        Lord Hand spoke before she could. "This is Sylvia, Sands of Dorne, and takes claim as daughter of the late Prince Daemon Targaryen."

        The room erupted in a collective of gasps and gossip with people squeezing between one another to get a better look at the bastard. The Queen noticeably sighed with relief. Possibly for the fact she wouldn't have to provide for another bastard the King presumably has.

        King Aul scooted further in his throne, careful not to knick his hand along the sharp blades. Violet eyes widen with shock they could bulge out of his sockets. "Impossible," though said to himself, the echo carried his voice across the room. His eyes were on Sylvia but his words were directed toward the Hand. "Daemon would have told me if he seeded a bastard especially one of her grown age. How old are you?"

        "Nine-and-ten years," Sylvia answered, her accent far different and distinctive than everyone here.

       "That is long before his marriage with Lady Vana, my king." The Queen mentioned. "During the — "

        "Yes. I am well aware of my brother's travel as it was I who sent him to tarnish our enemies for the crown and won the battle that gave him the title I bestowed. A war of many, and a war that has come bite me back in the ass." King Aul interrupted his wife who bit her tongue, still never letting Sylvia out of his sight. "Nineteen years is quite some time. My brother, as sneaky as he was, confined me with his secrets and there has been not a word of the existence of a child born on Dornish soil."

        Perhaps her father was ashamed of Sylvia. Or he didn't give a rat's ass to acknowledge a bastard across the sea when his life and legitimate children was right where he's needed. She didn't hold it against him, but she would be lying if she didn't want a proper answer. All those letters sent and not one response? Coming all this way for a false dream her mother fed, and he dare not show his face?

        "Prince Daemon was known to enjoy common acts of pleasure and relish in an arm's length of lovers to keep him company. There is no doubt in me to believe he wouldn't find company of his own during his long stay in Dorne, a world free of imagination. And in such actions, resulted in the birth of Sylvia Sand. Perhaps without his knowledge." Lord Hand defended.

        After a beating moment, King Aul beckoned Sylvia closer where he may view her better. The red stones beneath her feet were so clear that she could see her reflection, her dirty clothes and matted hair. She'd even caught the reflection of nobles standing in wealth from head to toe, wrinkling their nose at the stench of the slums that clung to her. She was nothing but scum to them. Undeserving of this opportunity to be presented before their King, defended by the Hand, and bastard of a war prince.

        But Sylvia knew avoiding their vile opinions and cowardly within her skin would do no better but give them more to talk about. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and kept it high, and allowed the King to look at her. The Queen didn't bother to dignify Sylvia's presence with so much as a quick size-down, as she was no child of the King, and therefore, no threat to her or her problem to deal with.

        "And you are sure your father is Daemon Targaryen and no other man?" He added quickly as Sylvia opened her mouth to answer him, "Don't you lie. It is a sin to lie to your king." He spoke in a tone only a father would on a child, but Sylvia was no child nor a child of his from the looks of it. The feminine growth of her body held proof of her womanhood, yet it was hidden behind shapeless clothing.

        "My mother is no liar nor did she raise me as one; Daemon Targaryen is my father. During the Blood War, my mother kept him company before he left to fulfill his duties to his king where I was then later conceived."

        "Why wait until now to stake your claim?"

        "It's not in my intention to stake any claims my father withholds. I was perfectly fine living in my little village with my mother without knowing my father or him knowing me, but because of certain circumstances, here I am."

        "Here you are, yes. But for what reason? What compensation do you seek from the crown?" He asked.

        Lord Hand stepped forward. "The bastard — "

        "I want nothing from the crown," Sylvia spoke over him with a confession that intrigued the King to hear more, but not so much the Hand. She ignored his burning glare. "From my father. From this house. From anyone. My only wish is to remain in King's Landing so what was lost shall be found. But. . .the other half of me can't ignore the opportunity I have to learn about my lineage and how my features came about. This world was just stories when I was young, but now that I'm here, I wish to explore it."

        As the King observed the girl once more, Sylvia saw the look in his eyes had softened with contentment. Perhaps he saw the prince in her, a face he knew better than anyone else. Certainly better than Sylvia. She may be a bastard but enough of her father's blood, this house's blood was in her veins; evident from the scales along her skin, the color of her hair, and purple in her eyes. It's not of Dornish traits nor did her mother share any — that was all them. And frankly, coming this far across the sea in a world unknown, brought by Lord Hand who decided to take bring her to court, some recognition would be nice.

        "Very well, then. It seems you've caught me in a good mood and on a lucky day." King Aul sat back on this throne but not too far. "I hereby affirm Sylvia, Sands of Dorne, be known as Sylvia Targaryen, eldest daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen. I shall send word to Drangonstone and inform Lady Vana of my royal decree."

        Sylvia was just as stunned as the next, even more than Lord Hand. This was not what she asked of him. Nowhere near her desire to remain in the city, yet it was exactly what her mother wanted. No longer known as a bastard but legitimized in the eyes of the law and given more than what had been given in her entire life in just a few days, and all it took was an outbreak of a civil war.

        She dropped to her knees to thank King Aul. She had no words. No one else did either.

        Lady Queen Alice almost lost her posture at the degree and sought to question his decision. "My king, don't you feel you are being too generous? You have always been fond of Prince Daemon, rigid with guilt after the following of his death — " Sylvia lifted her head. His death? " — but we don't know the girl. She is all but a stranger. What if this decree inspires more bastards of Daemon's or yours to come forth and ask more than we provide?"

        My father is dead?

        "Then we get to know the girl. My brother has only one child in his lifespan and the Gods have brought us another. Not only will I honor him and his services to the realm, but I shall hope his bloodline strives another hundred years to come." King Aul addressed and stood from his throne. "Someone see the girl to a bath and proper clothing. I need a fucking nap."

        The Queen chewed her bottom lip pink, glaring in the direction of her father as she and the entire court bowed as King Aul took his leave. Sylvia stood off to the side not to block his path, next to Lord Hand, and met his empty stare. There's no telling if the outcome of this arrangement went in his favor or against his consciousness. Following behind the King, he ignored his daughter's glower.

        A brown-haired woman with big round eyes rushed before Sylvia upon the Queen's request. "My lady, if you'll please, follow me this way." She motioned after the King had cleared the room, trying to sneak a glimpse of her scales.

        Instead of replying, Sylvia peered around for the silver-haired individual who laughed at her earlier. She had hoped to catch a proper view of him before everyone cluttered together to exit, but he was nowhere to be found. Or he was hiding.

        "My lady?" The servant called again, closer than before, and Sylvia almost thought she'd mistaken her for someone else until it settled. "Shall we take our leave?"

        She would never get used to that. My lady. A proper title than bitch, boy, bastard, and aye.

        "Sure. Yes, we can go."

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𝑺𝒀𝑳𝑽𝑰𝑨 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑳𝑬𝑫 𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑶 𝑨 𝑾𝑬𝑳𝑳-𝑫𝑬𝑪𝑶𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑫 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑴𝑩𝑬𝑹 consisted of many colors but blue and browns and reds were popular. Deep blue couches with three-headed dragon embroidery stuffed pillows. Brown bricked fireplace burning low, gleaming against the detailed oval rug. Red curtains pinned from the wide windows almost as big as the wall, framed with a series of paintings and banners of the same three-headed dragon. And many bronze decorations of items unknown to Sylvia as she never owned any of them before. Like this room that was about three to four rooms combined back home.

        "This is my room?" Sylvia asked, peering over her shoulder toward the woman following behind. She couldn't keep her fingers or excitement to herself, touching everything in her path like the wet leaves of watered plants as tall as her and the quilted cloth slung over the couch.

        "Yes, my lady."

        She went over toward the table where a basket of fresh-picked grapes and bright red apples sat. Plucked it but didn't complete the next step. "And this?"

        "Yes, my lady."

        She plopped the grape in her mouth, sloshing around its sweet with a tint of sour juice. Madam Marget reserved fruits — aside from apples — for her high-paying guest and whores and Zaal the cook, would notice if a stem was broken or someone blew their breath too close. Her mother was the house favorite and together would eat a hoard of grapes, raspberries, peeled oranges, and chugged rich wine until their heads grew heavy and their finger tingled.

        She ate another. Then discovered a bed big enough to fit five or more people, dressed with thick embroidered quilts and stuffed pillows shoved in designed cases. She never had her own room. Her own bed. Her own space. It was all too big that she missed her small room, where it was just her and her mother.

        "And this?"

        "Yes," the servant repeated, barely hiding her annoyance well. "My lady. All of this, the room, is yours. In your name, as your birthright. If you would follow me this way, I may introduce you to Meya, your handmaiden."

        From behind a bamboo panel where multiple women stood filling the tub with boiling water, a woman with deep auburn hair draped into a messy braid down her back revealed herself with a bow. "My lady, it is a great honor to serve you and this house. I intend to serve you well." Her lips were so thin that when she smiled they were nonexistent, and beneath the red dress she wore — quite similar to the woman who escorted Sylvia and few who passed them — her breast filled every open space.

        Sylvia knitted her brows as she faced the servant beside her. "Are you not my handmaiden?" She asked, unsure how this went about and what exactly a handmaiden would do for her at her side already used to fending for herself.

        She laughed as though Sylvia said something funny, but it was a modest laughter. Very light and airy, hidden behind her hand not to offend her. "You flatter me, my lady, but I serve the Queen. I am here only to guide you to your chambers. Meya is well qualified and shall help you adjust and become a proper lady of the court. Should you need anything more, Meya is at your arm."

        Another question touched her lips but the woman was already gone.

        When she took her leave, Meya guided Sylvia behind the thick panel to rid herself of clothes connected to an identical she once was. She kept the boots because the pouch of money and jewels remained, in close proximity should anyone get any ideas. Then, with offered help, eased herself in the water dusted with rose petals, hot enough to burn off her skin.

        The air smelled of spiced salts and perfume, foreign scents and fancy oils she wasn't accustomed to. Sylvia soaked further in water steaming off her skin with a deep sigh, allowing her aching muscles to relax. But what followed next gave no prior warning to such torment. Under the care of servants, her skin was rubbed red and raw with a rag determined to change her tone or peel off her scales, her nails shaped and picked of dirt and dried blood.

        Washing her hair required the help of many hands struggling to work through mats and knots with wide-tube combs, fingers, and horse-hair brushes. Sylvia's cries were ignored until every stand was free of tangles and dirt. By the end of the process, the milky-like water had turned brownish-red with floating twigs and leaves.

        Sylvia had never been pampered with such torment and washed with the help of multiple hands touching intimate parts. It wasn't something she could get used to.

        She tugged her wet curls free from her nightgown shoved over her head and stood before the mirror — at the woman, a lady, a legitimate child of her father — as Meya recorded her measurements to send the seamstress for a whole new wardrobe.

        "Is this necessary? All the. . .extra hands?" Sylvia finally brought up. Everywhere she looked there were hands on her body, in her hair, reaching for her when she wasn't looking.

        "It is, yes. You are no longer who you were before you stepped foot in King's Landing. You are Sylvia Targaryen, eldest child of Prince Daemon Targaryen, royal blood of the leading house in Westeros. You must look your best even while you sleep. That is the way of a lady." Meya replied, telling another a number to record. At a closer view, she was quite young but not as young as Sylvia, but graced with years before her first grey strand would grow in.

        "I'm not sure how to be one. A lady of the court. Or a lady at all. There aren't many examples where I'm from." Sylvia admitted. A few giggled at her response but not in an antagonizing way but like a puppy barking for the first time.

        With a firm look from Meya, they fell silent. She stretched the numbered strip from her shoulder toward her wrist, a warm smile on her young face. "You need not worry, my lady, that is my job to bear. I will guide you every step of the way. The world is slightly different from Dorne but I believe you'll learn quick." She hugged the strip around her slim waist, passing more numbers to record. "I suppose it will take some getting used to."

        Sylvia took in the room as though it would be taken from her with a blink of an eye and she'd awake in the boat heading toward Yronwood. This was everything her mother ever wanted for her and it's a shame she wasn't here to witness it. But the plan remained the same; I will stay and wait for my mother's quick return.

        Meya caught Sylvia yawning once again, her eyes fluttering and heavy head swaying back and forth. Her lips tugged upwards and with a wave of a hand, sent everyone away. "It's been a long day for you, quite the journey across the Narrow Sea on top of your given status the King bestowed. Why don't you rest for a while? Should you need anything else I will be here at your side."

        She didn't even have to ask twice. Sylvia climbed into the bed — the pouch hidden under her pillow, which she placed shortly after getting out the bath when no one was looking — and drew the sheets to her chin. Her head was thick with exhaustion as she drifted off into a deep slumber.

        But it wasn't long until a voice of worry called from her sleep and Meya was hovered over her, inspecting Sylvia as she had gone somewhere. She rubbed her eyes while sitting up in bed that had molded her figure. Eyeing the room confirmed this wasn't a dream but her reality. She was a lady of status.

        "What's going on? Did something happen?" Sylvia inquired and her pulse spiked at an older man at her side, mashing herbs in a bowl to pour in a steaming cup.

        "You slept like the dead, unmoving the entire day through night and day again. Then you were burning in your rest so I called the physician to assess you."

        The physician handed the cup to Sylvia to take. It smelt strongly of ginger and an unknown substance.

        "What is this?" She took the cup but didn't dare sip it.

        "Mild supplements to get your blood pumping, my lady." He gathered his tool and little-tied bags of herbs and shoved them into his brown bag. "Nothing to worry about, you are as young and healthy as a dragon. After your long journey, it is only natural you would sleep through days until it wears off. Should another fever arrive, do call for me."

        Her nose scrunched in disgust at the bitter taste warm down her throat. She remembered how long it took the physician back in Toland to see her when she was bedridden with sickness and puking her guts red. There were so many cases of the sick going around that it took days for one to see Sylvia, to the point her mother had to pay differently to secure a visit and proper medicine. They were not at her beck and call as they were now, and for minor disturbances.

        Meya walked the physician out and lent her ear to another servant who entered the room while Sylvia struggled to swallow the rest. Her eyes grew wide with shock, bowing to the messenger, and rushed over. "My lady, the king has requested you join him for supper."