Chapter Text
She was never meant to be a princess.
Ever since she could remember, Lucera Velaryon knew the gods had made a mistake in making her a scion of the royal house.
She found absolutely nothing about the role appealing. The smiling and posturing, learning how to sing and be courteous. And the dancing. So much dancing.
That was the one she hated the most. Next to the embroidery of course.
There was something especially vile about sticking thread into a piece of cloth over and over again, hoping to create a discernable shape.
“The Red Keep has an army of seamstresses at their beck and call. Why do I have to learn how to make stitches? No one is going to wear this anyways,” she grumbled, stabbing the needle into the tambour.
Her tutor Septa Melara arched a pale brow, her waspish eyes lashing her. Luce felt all the warmth flee her cheeks.
“Princes, princess, princess.” The aged woman's hook nose rose higher with each repetition. "Must we go through this again? The Father, in his wisdom, had made men strong and brave. So that they may be warriors and defend the weak. While the Mother, in her grace had made women sweet and gentle.” She repeated her mantra with infuriatingly practiced perfection. “We were never meant to wield weapons or fight wars. We're made of finer stuff. So beauty and courtesy must be our armor, and the womanly arts our weapon.”
Luce stared up at her from behind her desk, her stomach in knots.
“I think the Mother may have stitched the wrong fabrics together when she was making me.” She twisted the needle in the fabric, attempting to close a stitch. As usual, it turned out crooked.
“Do not be silly child. You just refuse to apply yourself.” The Septa tapped her finger at the tambour frame, directing her next stitch. Luce jabbed, pulled, and tightened. Again, the seam came out crooked. “If you spent less time running after your brother in the yard, playing at swords, you would have learned how to be a proper lady.”
“I don't play with swords, they're stupid. And Jace is an idiot.” She countered, scowling.
“Mind your tongue,” The Septa pressed her lips, making the lines around her mouth as deep as knife wounds. “The Prince Jacaerys may be as wild as you are, but he is still your elder. Thus, you must treat him with respect, as any good sister would.”
“Only by three minutes,” she fired. Though the way Jace saw it, it may as well be three years.
Her twin lorded his seniority over her more than any true blade. Every time they argued, he would bring up their age to cut her down. That, or he would resort to making fun of her for being a horrible princess.
“They should send you to the Silent sisters since you can't do anything right.” He would say, whenever he caught her practicing her dancing.
It wasn't fair.
“If he hadn’t been so impatient to leave Mother's belly, I would have been the elder.” Luce continued, “I would have been the heir, and he would have to kneel at my feet.”
The Septa cocked her head again scrunching up her nose. Luce immediately thought of Maester Mellos' ravens. If someone were to swap her faded gray robes for black feathers, she could pass for an oversized bird.
“You forget child. By law, a son always comes before a daughter. So he would still be heir over you.”
Luce made a face. “No, he wouldn’t. My mother is heir over Aegon, and she is a woman.”
A long, arduous silence fell on her chambers, as Septa Melara circled her table. Luce shrunk deeper into her chair.
“Indeed,” she finally said, looking down on her. Her eyes were as dark as an ink well. “Only because His Grace, in his wisdom, disregarded the old laws, and decided she was most fit to be heir.”
“Good,” Luce murmured, her skin pricking up. “We shouldn’t just make someone king because he's a boy and the oldest. They should be good at it.”
A King must be fit, strong, and capable if he is to lead his people—she'd read that in a book somewhere. It rang true, she supposed. They'd had over 60 years of peace and prosperity under King Jaehaerys. The realm had never been wealthier or as populous.
There were occasional whispers of plagues, conflicts, or disputes. But her royal grandsire always sought his best to restore the peace and continue Jaehaerys' legacy.
-He is a good king.
Though, sickly as he was, Luce didn’t think Viserys looked as strong as the books said he ought to be.
“Of course,” the Septa agreed, sinking her teeth into her lip. “A good ruler must be fit to bear the crown. But he must also uphold the faith, the laws and traditions of the land.”
Luce shifted in her seat. Another stab at the fabric—another crooked stitch. “Not if those traditions are stupid.”
The Septa ceased circling her. With agonizing slowness, she pushed the tambour frame Luce had tried to press to her chest, to reveal the concealed stitches. She eyed it and released a loud snort.
“Tongue, Princess. Those traditions are the foundation of our world. The gods granted us these laws so that we may live good lives. Just as they intended.”
She jabbed the finger into the cloth so hard, Luce thought she meant to tear it. At her direction, she pushed the needle in.
“If that were true, then everyone would be following them. I wouldn't have to make myself dance or do needlework. I'd just be good at it.”
The sigh that left the woman’s lips rang in Luce's ears louder than the Sept bells.
“It is true that the gods inscribe morals into our hearts but… we are sinners, and we are bound to make mistakes. To stray from their intended path. Some more than others.” She paused gazing at her. Her long, bony finger trailed Luce's face, tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear. Her hand felt cold and clammy against Luce's skin. “It comes from the blood for some. They cannot help but be drawn toward wickedness. Because they were created in sin.”
The words lingered between them, getting sucked into the vast silence of the chamber. Luce squeezed her needle, jabbing the point into her index finger. She could feel the blood burst from the wound, warm and sticky.
“I… I… don’t think I am wicked.” She announced, her voice small—thought she knew plenty of people who disagreed.
Stubborn, sullen, and willful. The crooked child, the wicked sister. Ser Laenor's shame.
That one had hurt her the most— it hadn’t come from Jace, Aegon, or any one of the vile lickspittles that followed her uncle around.
No, this one had come from a woman grown. Alena Florent, one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting.
“How could the King allow that plain-featured thing to remain here?” She'd whispered to a gaggle of the Queen's companions, her wormy lips twisted into a sneer.
Luce didn’t think she had any right to insult anyone's appearance. Not when that hideous orange gown she wore was enough to make even the most ardent lover of that fruit swear it off for life.
“She brings shame to the Targaryen name.” one of her companions in spotted green commented.
“She brings shame to her ‘father' you mean,” Lady Alena continued, enunciating the word.
That one had caught her attention. It was one thing for others to comment on her disheveled appearance. It was another to assert that she was her father’s greatest shame.
Granted, her father had never been particularly attentive. Laenor Velaryon was away more oft than not, scouring the streets of Kings Landing with his companion, ser Qarl Correy. Adventure and swordplay were his passions, not fatherhood.
But, the times he was here, he was nothing but kind to Luce. He'd bring her gifts, shower her with smiles and kind words, and play with her maps.
“Nonsense,” Princess Rhaenyra had exclaimed when Luce had confronted her with the accusation later. “How could he ever be ashamed of you? You are the joy of our lives.”
Seizing her in her arms, she showered Luce’s cheeks in gentle kisses. Despite her dark mood, she couldn’t help but delight in the affection.
“They all say it.” She grumbled, burying herself into her mother's soft silver curls. “How bad I am. How I’m not a real Princess.”
Through the finely spun silk, she felt her mother's muscles clench. Peeling her off her, Rhaenyra cupped her daughter's cheeks.
“Of course, you are a real Princess. You're the blood of the dragon, my love. You will soar the skies on Arrax and all the world shall be yours,” She paused, the pale lilac of her irises darkening to a striking purple. If she squinted, Luce could almost see the outline of a dragon in her mother's features. “Let the fools say what they like. Their opinions are worth naught. You are mine and that's all that matters.”
A smile bloomed on her lips again and she let her mother crush her into an embrace so fierce, she was convinced it would shatter her bones.
Mine. She liked that. Though a nagging voice couldn’t help but whisper how she didn't say father’s.
She wished she could say the vile gossip stopped. Even after Lady Alena Florent mysteriously returned to the Reach, and the remainder of the Queen's entourage began fleeing at the sight of her and Jace, the doubts lingered.
It was the way people looked at her. The way their eyes followed her like an arrow target, brimming with hidden meaning. Like they all knew some terrible truth about her she didn’t understand.
The Septa was looking at her like that now, her irises as dark as molten pitch. Her mouth was deathly still, pressed in a tight, white line—as if she was barely biting back some vile remark.
When she moved it, Luce expected her to affirm that yes, she was wicked.
She had committed some terrible sin, and the gods, and everyone else around her, meant to punish her for it. Instead, the Septa lifted her lips into a smile.
Luce squirmed in her seat. It did not reach her eyes. “No, I didn't mean that you were wicked.”
She paused and took the tambour frame from her to examine it. The needle threads were meant to show a flower. But the pattern was so tightly woven, it looked more like a pile of jumbled weeds.
“The Mother inscribed goodness in your heart, too princess. If you work hard and apply yourself, you will unlock it.” The aged woman arched a brow, pulling the fabric off the frame. “Perhaps then you can earn her grace.”
She set the cloth at the table, fingering the crooked stitching. Her nails were as yellow as egg yolks.
Luce swallowed hard.
“I'll try, Septa,” she meekly responded. Though in her heart, she knew that no matter how hard she tried, nothing she did could erase this supposed ‘wickedness’ the Septa saw in her. She and everyone else.
“Good.” With one last disdainful glance at the cloth, she tossed it aside. “Now, let’s get you some more material. You'll have to go again.”