“I want a dragon.” Irene folds her arms, scowling.
Princess Irena Vasilisa Caroline - Irene - is my only child. When she turns sixteen, in just over a month’s time, she will be confirmed as my heir. It is traditional that the parents of a newly confirmed heir give a gift at the conclusion of the ceremony. This gift is considered an omen of the heir’s rule to come, and is planned and considered for years in advance.
“Darling, the ship is almost finished. It’s a lovely ship.”
Iren’s scowl deepens. “I don’t want a ship, Mother. I don’t want the omen of my rule to be a stupid ship.”
“But it signifies trade, and - “
“I know what it signifies. Everyone knows what it signifies. But I don’t want it to!” Irene stamps her foot. “Mother, this is my omen! My rule! I should get some say in this!”
I open my mouth to repeat the platitudes, and then I stop. All my life, I have been trained to say what is appropriate. What is suitable. What is expected.
Irene hasn’t. Oh, she was at first, when my parents were alive. But since I became queen, I have been more… lenient. I learned music, and dancing, and history, and poetry. Irene loves music, and sings like a lark, but she also uses a bow and a sword with skill, rides like a centaur and is an astute student of politics as well as history.
I wanted to protest, when my parents told me what my omen would be - a fabulously rare and precious tree from some faraway land, whose yellow apples were sweet and plentiful. The tree still grows in the palace garden, and I’ve always liked the apples, but…
I never protested. Fruitful and peaceful. It was a good omen for a regnant queen, they said.
And now my daughter stands before me and demands a dragon.
baratheonpilled
discoholicmusic
prguitarman
andulkaphoto
areudirty
dededos
izzy806
