i don't want your sympathy (i just want myself back)
Pairing: Luke Castellan x Child of Hypnos! GN! Reader
Summary: Terribly injured after returning from his quest to the Garden of Hesperides, Luke Castellan turns to the only person who can help him sleep. Basically a hurt/comfort shortfic for Luke cuz he needs comforting lol
Word count: 1.7k
The infirmary was a sterile space, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptic and tonics. It was mercifully silent, devoid of the Apollo campers who often sporadically visited to check in on whoever occupied the space.
Luke Castellan was the only patient there today, his features twisted in discomfort as he slowly regained consciousness. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the sunlight streaming in and the room swam into focus, though his thoughts remained muddled, fragmented memories clawing at the edges of his consciousness. He struggled to separate reality from illusion, unsure of which memories were true and which were twisted figments of his nightmares.
Immediately, he became acutely aware of a throbbing ache pulsating through his face. It felt as though his skin had been stretched to its limit, pulled taut over the wound that marred his features. With each breath he took, the pain intensified, a sharp reminder of the injury he had sustained.
The injury he had sustained on the quest he had failed.
His hand instinctively moved to touch the bandages that covered the wound, fingers gingerly tracing the contours of the thick gauze. Beneath the sterile fabric, he could feel the heat radiating from the angry gash, the skin around it tender and inflamed. The cut itself was a jagged slash, stretching from the bottom of his eye to his jawline, and seemed to throb with a life of its own.
The pain made him angry. He was always angry these days, and he had only just returned.
The voices from his dreams still echoed in his head, sinister whispers that promised power and vengeance, their dark allure tempting him to succumb. They spoke to his deepest desires and stoked the flames of his fury in ways that were becoming impossible to ignore.
And then, amidst the chaos of his thoughts, he saw the figure seated by his bedside, their head resting on folded arms, form rising and falling in a steady rhythm of breath. A life, a beacon of familiarity and solace in the midst of his confusion.
It was you. Of course, it was. You had not left his side since he was carried in, broken and bleeding from the camp's border. Your face, though serene in sleep, bore traces of worry and exhaustion, and Luke's heart clenched at the sight, a rush of emotion flooding his senses—gratitude, guilt, longing.
You should not have to worry about him like this, forgoing your own wellbeing to look after him.
You had been there the whole time, a steadfast presence in the chaos that followed his return. He remembered, faintly, the fleeting moments of clarity when his eyes had briefly met yours, finding comfort and reassurance in your gaze before he slipped into unconsciousness once again as his injury was stitched up.
He did not want to disturb you, but he couldn't help himself, his hand reaching out almost as if it had a mind of his own, fingers trembling as he brushed them against your cheek. There was something about you that brought him comfort, something he could not put a name to, but it was instinctual, almost magnetic.
You were peace. You were his peace.
You stirred when made contact, eyelids snapping open instantaneously, filled with concern and affection as you bolted upright in your seat.
"Luke," you breathed, your voice soft and gentle, like a soothing melody amidst the chaos of his mind. "You're awake."
A fragile smile tugged at Luke's lips, and although the gesture hurt, it was worth it to see the brief flash of relief that flooded your features.
"Luke, are you alright?" you asked hurriedly, scrambling from your perch to inspect him. You were no medic but you spent long enough in the infirmary, easing injuries and sending campers off into a peaceful slumber that you had become accustomed to looking for signs of concern.
"I...I'm fine," his voice was hoarse from lack of use, his throat parched, which had you rushing to pour him a cup of water.
"Should I call someone from the Apollo cabin to take a look at your injury?"
Your words washed over him, but your concern was both comforting and frustrating in equal measure. He appreciated your kindness, your willingness to help, but at the same time, he couldn't shake the bitterness that rose in his throat at the thought of being pitied.
If even your gaze was heavy with it, he could not imagine what the rest of camp half-blood would think of him. A failure. A demigod who could not complete a quest that had already been completed once before by another.
"I'm fine," Luke muttered, his voice tinged with irritation. "I don't need anyone fussing over me."
He tried to muster a reassuring smile, but it faltered, crumbling under the weight of his conflicting emotions. He didn't want your sympathy, didn't want to be seen as weak or vulnerable. He was Luke Castellan, a fighter, a survivor—he refused to be reduced to a mere object of pity.
Silently he cursed the gods for reducing him to this. His stupid father and his stupid quest.
Still, even as he pushed you away, a part of him longed for your presence, your touch. He couldn't deny the warmth that flooded his heart whenever you were near, the way your smile could chase away the darkness that threatened to consume him.
He had become quite accustomed to being around you over the years, because even though you had been claimed, being the child of a minor god was as good as being the child of nothing, thus cementing your place in the Hermes cabin with him. Another thing to curse the gods for, because if anyone deserved a place to truly belong, it was you, with your kind eyes, and careful hands so eager to help.
He supposed it didn't matter in the end. You had wormed your way into his heart, unbeknownst to him, and if there was one place you surely belonged, it was there.
As you paused in your fussing, your eyes caught the subtle signs of exhaustion etched into Luke's features—the faint shadows beneath his eyes, a telltale sign of restless nights and troubled dreams. Despite the fact that he had been asleep for the better part of the past three days, the toll of his ordeal still lingered, casting a shadow over his weary frame.
"Would you like some help...you know...falling asleep?" you asked gently.
The offer caught Luke off guard, his pride momentarily forgotten in the face of his overwhelming fatigue. A wave of relief washed over him at the thought of finding solace in sleep, of escaping the turmoil of his thoughts if only for a little while longer. It was almost embarrassing how quickly he acquiesced.
"Please," he murmured, the word slipping past his lips with a mixture of gratitude and pain. He shifted slightly on the bed, wincing as he made room for you to join him.
Your cheeks flushed a slight crimson as you took your place, precariously perched at the edge, careful not to jostle and cause him further pain, your gaze meeting his with a clarity that made his heart skip a beat. Then, when you reached out, your hand finding his own with a reassuring touch, it sent a shiver down his spine.
He found his eyes start to grow heavy.
Your touch was warm and comforting, a balm to his weary soul as you ran a hand over his closed eyes, fingers tracing soothing patterns against his skin. The tension in his muscles began to ebb away, replaced by a sense of peace and calm that he hadn't felt in days. He wasn't quite sure if it was the effect of your powers, or just your presence that put him at such ease, but it was magic all the same.
With each stroke of your hand, Luke felt himself drifting further into the embrace of sleep, his mind growing hazy and light. It was a different sort of slumber, one unburdened by the shadows and voices that awaited him in the darkness with dark promise.
When your hand moved through his hair, a sense of familiarity washed over him like a warm tide. The soft melody you hummed resonated deep within him, stirring memories long buried beneath the weight of his pain.
It was a popular tune, one he might have heard before but he couldn't quite place it. Then it came to him, a sharp ache in his chest, not so different from the physical pain in his flesh. His mother used to sing to him like this, during her brief bouts of lucidity, when she wasn't chasing him around the house spouting prophecies of doom and destruction.
He remembered her, her face a blur in the recesses of his mind, her voice a distant echo that whispered of warmth and safety. In those rare moments, she had held him close, her hands running through his hair in much the same way yours did now.
Unbidden, tears slipped from behind Luke's closed eyes, a silent testament to the grief and longing that filled his heart.
"Everything will be alright, Luke," you whispered, wiping his tears before they had a chance to seep into his bandage. "You'll see."
It's a lie. He knew it was a lie. Nothing would ever be alright again, and he would never go back to being the person he used to be, but there was a part of him that wanted to believe her, if only for a fleeting moment.
After all, he was the son of the god of tricksters—a master of deception and illusion. And as he lay there, cradled in your embrace, he couldn't help but succumb to the illusion of peace and comfort that you offered.
For now, with you by his side, he could trick himself into believing that everything would be alright—that the pain and suffering he had endured would soon be nothing more than a distant memory. And as sleep claimed him once more, he clung to that belief, finding solace in the presence of the one person who had never stopped believing in him.
A/N: feel free to send in requests for Luke lol, I'm currently in my brainrot era. Also reblogs/comments are much appreciated as I'd love to know what yall think <3
Lucerys Velaryon was a coward who did not wish to die, but die he did, with all the bravery his young heart could muster.
A true dragon rider's death.
With his death, the war of ravens and envoys came to an end, and the war of fire and blood began in earnest.
Daenys Velaryon no longer knew the difference between sacrifice and self-slaughter, nor where the violence against oneself ended. A Kinslayer, a rabid dog; such creatures had no use in a world of peace. Such creatures did not deserve peace. She was a tall child with no lap to crawl into, for who would wish to hold a thing like her, shame clotting in her blood like a curdling sickness. She, with the incessant need to apologize to everyone who ever knew her, for the inconvenience she caused them by making her existence known, walking into a room and searching for an empty seat so no one had to go through the painful act of sitting with her. Velaryons were supposed to be of the sea, but she was a burning ship, a vicinity one had to always flee. If anyone deserved to extinguish themselves in a kamikaze blaze, it was her, the one who would be missed least of all, who was needed least of all when the realm finally knew peace.
Aemond Targaryen was not the same person he used to be. He couldn't possibly be, and yet a part of his very being still belonged to his wife, as it always would. Though he had been absent too long, and the graveyard of old bones and lost kin that spanned between them was far too vast, he still held onto the memory of her, cutting into what he meant to only hold. He was a hunter whose trap had mangled the wrong creature, but it was the law of the world, for a knife and a wound to seek each other out, because they spoke in a language of damage no one else did, and now he owed her a debt.
An eye for an eye.
A brother for a brother.
An Eye for an Eye: ao3/wattpad
Before the Sky Falls (prequel): ao3/wattpad
Aesthetics
Fanart 1
Daenys Velaryon fanart
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
A/N: I posted this fic for the very first time here on tumblr, and now that it's almost complete (46 chapters have been posted on ao3/wp) I decided I should probably repost it on here because it has been given a complete rewrite since the first version yall saw. I will try to have all the parts posted on here eventually.
This fic has a prequel that explores Aemond&Daenys's childhood together and it is fully complete on ao3/wp.
If you wanna be added to the taglist, feel free to let me know!
"Home is the first grave, and you will always be buried here, in my heart."
Summary: In his chambers, Aemond Targaryen gazes upon his wife, the once vibrant spirit now hollowed by his hand. Her anguish tears at his conscience as he realizes the depth of her despair. She would perish in this place, her soul suffocating beneath the weight of his actions, yet he selfishly believes that even a fragment of her presence is better than nothing at all. The torment of this realization coils around him and he is forced to come to terms with the price of his need to possess what he has already shattered.
Word Count: 4.7k
Aemond Targaryen sat alone in his makeshift chambers, the weight of regret heavy on his shoulders. The room felt emptier without the presence of his lady wife, and the silence echoed the absence of her laughter and warmth that he realized he had begun to take for granted. It had been four days since he had seen her last.
His thoughts churned with self-reproach, and the memory of their last argument played out in his mind like a haunting refrain. He recognized the cruelty in his words, the callousness with which he had wounded the woman who had chosen to be his companion. She, who had always stood by him, was now misguided by his suggestion that she was a mere consolation prize, someone he settled for because he could not fathom anyone else having him, wanting him.
He had not seen her since. She refused to let anyone into her chambers, not even Helaena, and she did not take a single meal, each tray outside the door remaining untouched until one of the servants came to replace it with yet another. In fact, the only indicators that she was still alive, were the occasional sounds of things being thrown about, and the scuffle of her feet as she paced endlessly.
It did not help that the walls were paper thin and Aemond's temporary residence had been set up in the room adjacent to hers. All day, he heard both her screams and her pleas to some unknown deity, and if she got no rest, neither did he.
Even now in the dead of night, as he tried to occupy himself with the latest book he had picked up from the castle library, he could hear the unsettling cadence of hollow thuds echoing through the walls. At first, he dismissed them as the sounds of a heart heavy with sorrow and frustration, perhaps a physical manifestation of emotional turmoil.
However, as the rhythm of the banging persisted and grew more pronounced, he found it increasingly difficult to disregard the disconcerting noise. The hollow echoes seemed to reverberate through the corridors like a mournful lament, and his attempts to focus on his reading became futile as the sounds clawed at his conscience.
Then, a sudden escalation in intensity seized his attention, culminating in a terrible crash that shattered the uneasy stillness of the Red Keep. Without a second thought, he leaped from his seat, the urgency of the moment propelling him toward the source of the noise.
As he approached Daenys's door, he found one of her guarding knights struggling with the handle in vain. The guard's brow was furrowed in frustration as he hammered against the door.
"What is going on here, it is late, people are trying to rest!" Aemond snapped, impatiently.
"My prince!" the guard greeted his arrival with a nod. "Something has happened to the princess, I fear, but I can't get the door open. Something's blocking it from the inside."
Aemond, anxiety gnawing at him, took a step forward and grasped the handle, determined to overcome whatever obstacle stood between him and his wife. He exerted his strength, pushing against the door with a force born of desperation. To his surprise and frustration, the door remained resolute, as if an invisible barrier defied his attempts to breach it.
He gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts. He could feel the strain in his muscles as he pushed against the door, and when the guard joined him, the door yielded under their combined strength, revealing a narrow crack that allowed glimpses into the dimly lit chamber beyond.
It was his own writing desk that served as a barricade, the heavy wooden furniture having been pushed against the door, forming an impromptu fortress.
As Aemond surveyed the scene from his vantage point, he could see the aftermath of Daenys's storm etched across his quarters. He called out her name, the desperate plea hanging in the air, but there was no response, only the haunting silence that seemed to linger like a heavy fog.
With a surge of determination, he threw himself against the door, the impact jarring his frame as he sought to create an opening. The sound of strained wood and the metallic rattle of displaced objects resounded through the corridor, and after several forceful attempts, he managed to create a gap just large enough for him to slip through.
Once inside, he surveyed the chaos that unfolded before him. Shards of broken glass crunched beneath his boots, the remnants of vases and ornaments that had met a violent end. The air was thick with the acrid scent of overturned inkwells and the remnants of scattered parchment.
The furniture bore the marks of a struggle, with overturned chairs and dishevelled bedding adding to the disarray. Aemond's eye fell upon the writing desk that had served as the barricade, now displaced and toppled. Its contents were scattered, a chaotic collage of spilled ink and crumpled pages.
The concern that gripped Aemond intensified as his gaze fell upon his window.
His broken window.
The tattered remnants of curtains hung limply from their posts, and shards of glass still clung precariously to the edges like teeth.
Like glinting cannibalistic teeth.
That was when he noticed the pale, bloody fingers desperately clinging to the ledge. A cold chill raced down his spine, and every fibre of his being urged him to rush forward.
There she was, his Daenys, a fragile silhouette against the darkness of the chamber. One hand, stained with blood and gripping the window, despite the broken glass that dug into her skin, leaving crimson traces along the ledge.
In her other hand, she clutched a makeshift rope fashioned from sheets and torn curtains. The fabric, now stained and dishevelled, dangled precariously from the window. It was a desperate lifeline, a testament to the lengths she had gone to escape. The rope was nowhere long enough to reach the bottom, and the sight of her, teetering on the edge between safety and the abyss, struck Aemond like a blow.
"Seven hells!" his voice cracked with disbelief. "What are you doing?"
She did not respond to him. In fact, it was as though she hadn't even registered his presence yet. Aemond's hands trembled as he carefully reached down, fingers outstretched, to grasp Daenys's wrists, but the moment his touch made contact, her head snapped up, and he found himself staring into bloodshot, glazed-over eyes. Her skin felt unnaturally hot, radiating feverish heat, as if her body was consumed by it.
Below her, one of his chairs lay smashed to smithereens on the stone floor below, the wood splaying out ominously as if daring the precariously dangling girl to meet a similar fate.
When he tried to pull her up, a sudden resistance met his efforts. Daenys kicked and twisted, her movements desperate with the need to escape. He expected her to scream, but not a sound escaped her chapped lips, and his grip tightened instinctively, fueled by the instinct to prevent her from slipping away. His fingers pressed into her wrists with a bruising force and in a moment of panic, she let go of the sheets she had been clinging to. The sudden release threatened to send her spiralling downward, and Aemond, reacting on pure instinct, made a split-second decision.
Without hesitation, he abandoned caution. Ignoring the glass remnants that still clung to the window ledge, he forcefully dragged her over. The leather sleeves of his riding habit protected him from the worst of it, but he winced at the sharp edges of broken glass that no doubt bit into his wife's skin, as they tumbled back together.
Still, a few cuts were better than having her skull crack open in the courtyard.
The night was far from over, however, and before the one-eyed prince had a chance to catch his breath, his wife was surging back toward the open window. Aemond, his senses heightened by adrenaline, reacted swiftly, his hands reaching out to hook around her waist before she could slip away.
In a desperate attempt to keep her away from the perilous ledge, his arm wrapped firmly around Daenys's waist, pulling her away, and positioning himself between her and the window. Then he placed his hands on her shoulders and shook her, trying to pierce through the haze of her delirium. His voice, a desperate plea tinged with anger, cut through the air as he screamed at her, demanding an explanation.
"What in seven hells is wrong with you? Were you trying to fucking die? You could have died!"
Her response was a fragmented murmur, the words barely audible as she mumbled incoherently.
"I want to go home," she whispered. "I just want to go home, please."
Still reeling from almost losing her to her own insanity, Aemond dropped his head, forehead coming to rest against Daenys's shoulder. He did it half in relief, half in guilt to avoid meeting her pleading eyes, because he did not have an answer that would satisfy her. To his surprise, she let him, holding very still as he breathed her in.
Casually, his gaze swept over her, halting in alarm when his attention was drawn to her sleeves that had ridden up in the chaos of their struggle. The pale moonlight streaming in from outside was just enough to reveal a glimpse of red, and an instinctive urgency gripped him, as he yanked her sleeves up, making her wince.
The revelation made him want to retch as he beheld the grisly sight, both her arms marred by a twisted landscape of open wounds, and if he raised them closer to examine, he swore he could make out the occasional sliver of glass embedded in the carmine carnage. They seemed too deliberate, too methodical, too angry to be accidental, the gaping and twisted maws of gore that littered her flesh.
The revelation was a visceral punch to Aemond's gut, and a sense of helplessness overwhelmed him.
She would die here. If they kept her here any longer, she would die here. The Red Keep, where she was born, the place she had once filled with the effervescence of her life, would become her grave, and he her executioner.
He gently cupped her face, searching her dull and unrecognizing eyes for some semblance of clarity, but he found none.
"Daenys, where did you go?" Aemond pleaded, his voice a raw whisper, echoing through the room. He longed for a flicker of recognition, a spark that would return her to him, even if it meant her disdain, but her eyes remained distant.
"Can I go home now?"
Before he could respond, the guard from earlier returned with a maester in tow, just as Aemond had instructed, both men looking taken aback at the sight that greeted them.
Aemond, annoyance etched across his features at the interruption, eyed the maester with a curt nod.
"Leave your things and go. I'll take care of her myself," he commanded.
The maester, having tended to the one-eyed prince since he was a boy, was well accustomed to his sullen moods. He nodded silently, placing the medical supplies he had brought with him on a nearby table before discreetly retreating from the room. His eyes, however, betrayed a sense of concern for the troubled couple he left behind, but it was not his place to pry.
The Lord Hand would, however, receive a full report from him on the morrow.
The knight, on the other hand, lingered at the threshold, casting a wary glance at them, as if hesitant to leave.
Aemond, his patience waning, barked his orders again, "Stand guard outside. She needs no further audience for her troubles."
"The princess has been delirious for a few days, I think. She repeatedly calls out for her brother, as if he is still here," the knight's eyes were downcasted as he added, "I know it isn't my place but perhaps it would do her well to go home for a little while."
"Yes, you are right. It isn't your place to concern yourself. I told you to return to your post, and I do not like repeating myself."
He watched the door close but was dismayed to find that Daenys still resisted his attempts to lead her toward the unmade bed. Her gaze remained fixated on the window, as she pointed outside like a forlorn child.
There was something tender and vulnerable in her eyes, and Aemond felt awfully protective over it. In another world, in another time, he would have offered himself up as her shield to whatever may be thrown toward her. He thought he could spend his whole life preserving her. He would have died a martyr at the feet of her holiness if she let him
But that was before he killed her. Before he ruined anything good or holy between them.
With a gentle determination, he scooped her into his arms. She offered little resistance, her body feeling weightless and fragile in his embrace. Carefully placing her on the bed, Aemond knelt before her. Daenys remained limp and unresponsive, like a marionette whose strings had been severed.
Aemond, wincing in her place every time the rag in his hand came away stained with old blood, began the delicate task of cleaning her ghastly wounds. His hands moved cautiously, each touch an attempt to alleviate her pain, but he could have pushed her arm through one of the cook's meat grinders and she would not have uttered a single word of protest, wounded bird that she was.
She seemed nothing like the dragon his grandsire had warned him about.
Less a wounded dragon, and more a dead sparrow.
Her fever was still running high and her skin burned.
A furnace or a funeral pyre.
Aemond marvelled at how she managed to keep her eyes open, the flickering flame within them a mere echo of consciousness. She was barely present, a spectre caught between the realms of consciousness and the dark respite of slumber. There were an endless number of bruises to wrap up, and a lifetime of cleaning scrapes and bruises from his own sparring sessions had done nothing to prepare him for such a task. Perhaps he should have let the maester stay after all.
His memory did him no favours tonight, reminding him of all the times she too had patched him up, her treatments always followed by stern reprimands for his safety. Such instances almost always concluded in fits of laughter, because he never could focus on her words, not when he had been too busy thinking about her lips pursed in concern and all he wanted to do was kiss away her frown.
The present felt too dark a reality in comparison.
Finally, when he was finished wrapping her arms with fresh linen, he felt her delicate fingers grab his hand, and he stilled, not wanting to startle her. His gaze locked with hers, and he found her eyes unfocused.
"Aemond," she whispered softly, the sound barely audible. The gentleness in her voice sent a shiver down his spine. Perhaps she did recognize him, but there was an uncertainty, a distance in her eyes that hinted at the possibility that she had forgotten, if only for a moment, the weight of their shared history.
She knew him, but not what he had done.
"Aemond, I want to go home. Please let me go home. I want to be with my mother."
Her voice was a hoarse rasp, akin to the scrape of metal against stone.
"Shh, don't speak," Aemond urged gently, avoiding her request completely.
Leaning up, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, and her grip tugged at his arm, urging him to sit next to her. He complied almost instantaneously, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, and pulling her close as he guided her head to rest against his chest.
As Daenys nestled against him, his fingers gently traced soothing patterns on her back. The silence, punctuated only by the distant echoes of the night, enveloped them like a shroud, and it was easy to pretend that he could be her anchor here. It was easier than admitting he was also the storm.
She would not be allowed to leave; his brother, his grandsire, even his own mother would never allow it, and even if he were to let her go in some burst of compassion, Aemond knew she'd never come back. A selfish part of him wanted to keep her with him forever, even if it meant only getting to hold this empty shell of her for the rest of his life. She was his; she belonged to him.
His dragon. His sparrow.
From this day, until the end of my days.
He had made vows, under the eyes of the Seven, and the whole kingdom besides.
He was almost certain that he'd never be able to let her go, even when keeping her meant killing her. It was clearly killing her now. She didn't eat, she barely slept, and she had practically bored holes into herself in her grief. Who knew how much longer she would last like this, but letting her go was not an option. Aemond knew he had started a war with the death of his nephew, but he wondered how much wrath he'd incur from his half-sister if he cost Rhaenyra her firstborn as well.
He could only hope that she would acquiesce to their terms eventually, if only for the sake of her daughter. If she was no longer a threat, then Daenys would be able to return to her mother, and then perhaps her empty eyes would not haunt him.
Still, he'd take care of her. He would move back into his chambers, and wouldn't let her out of his sight. He would not let her hurt herself anymore; she could not die. He would not allow it. She belonged to him and no one would be able to take her from him, not even the Stranger.
Daenys stirred in his arms then, a timid whimper escaping her lips as he shushed her again. It only made her start crying, burying her face in his chest. Aemond tightened his hold on her, bordering on suffocating as he stroked her hair. It reminded him of better times, when she would seek comfort in him, when he was not the source of her pain. He didn't know how long he sat there, cradling her in his lap, wanting to savour each moment because he knew once her fever cleared, she would go back to hating him.
"Aemond."
"Yes, my love?"
"I really need to go home."
"Daenys..." he warned lightly. "This is your home...with me."
"No," she insisted, "it is important. It will be Luke's name day soon. I must return to Dragonstone. What with all their betrothals as well, there will be so much to do...and Baela...she made me promise that I'd be there...she said she had...oh, I can't quite remember anymore."
After a brief pause, her soft and muddled voice broke the silence again. Aemond waited, his heart heavy with the anticipation of what her words might unveil, what she might remember. He waited for the crying to start anew, but instead, she only frowned in contemplation, as if grappling with elusive thoughts just beyond her reach.
"I don't know what present to get him," she mumbled. "I'm supposed to make him something but we all know how absolutely terrible I am at that. Joffrey's easy to please, all I have to do is give him a ride on Silverwing, but Luke's presents require more effort. Always so picky, that one. Mother coddles him too much...well, I do too, it's hard not to, you know. That was a face formed to topple kingdoms, Father used to say. No one can refuse those eyes, and that rascal uses it to his advantage every time."
Daenys giggled at the end, the melody of her brother's laughter ringing in her ears as if he'd walk through the door that very moment.
"...if you say so..."
If she noticed the way Aemond's face paled as he croaked out his words, she did not say.
"And then I need to help Mother prepare for all the weddings. Rhaena wants a spring wedding, and Mother couldn't be happier. You know how they both love the flowers. As for Jacaerys, well, I think he'd put up with being married in a barn if it meant getting to be with Baela. They're sweet that way, don't you think?"
The seemingly mundane topics hung in the air, almost comedic in their joviality. Aemond, his heart aching, nodded and hummed along, playing along with the fragments of her perceived reality.
His fingertips continued to smooth her hair away, and as she babbled on about her family, Aemond felt the fragility of her state weighing on him. Whether it was the illness talking or a self-imposed delusion, he couldn't discern, but she was not right in the head.
"So...what do you think?"
Aemond paused, not entirely sure what she was asking of him.
"That sounds wonderful," he replied gently, his voice a comforting murmur. "A thoughtful gift and helping your mother with the weddings are both splendid ideas."
His worry only deepened as she continued to mumble, her words meandering through the labyrinth of her consciousness. It was as if she had constructed a façade to shield herself from the harsh realities that threatened to consume her. His fingertips traced her features, as if trying to memorize the planes of her face while he had the chance.
Eventually, she stopped, and simply looked at him, a sense of wonder flickering in her eyes, a spark that transcended the haze of confusion that had enveloped her earlier.
"What is is, jorrāeliarzy?"
"You're going to leave aren't you?"
"Leave? Why would I leave you Daenys? And where would I go?"
Daenys sighed, as if burdened by a great truth.
"You...care for your brother, your family, and I love my mother. I have heard what the people whisper about."
"And what does that have to do with me leaving?"
"Well one day you'd have to leave, won't you? It makes me sad. Sometimes I think I start to miss you before you are even gone."
Aemond stilled, threading his fingers through her hair, nails scraping against her skull as he brought her face a hairsbreadth from his.
"I won't leave. I swear it by the old gods and the new. I will never be the one to leave you," he declared fiercely.
And I won't let you leave me either.
She smiled slowly, although it didn't reach her eyes. Her gaze held a disturbing resemblance to Aegon's inebriated one, particularly when he had one too many drinks.
"And be nicer to my brothers. They are only children. They will come to adore you like I do, if you only try a little," she spoke as if she was in a dream.
Aemond couldn't tell, maybe she really was.
"If you ask it of me, then I will try," he mumbled, looking away from her guiltily but feeding into her delusion all the same.
When Daenys brought her hands up to cup his face, his breath caught in his throat. Her fingers gingerly traced the edge of his eyepatch, and then, with slow deliberation, she began to lift it away.
She was remarkably gentle, always mindful of the old injury, but Aemond couldn't help but inhale sharply through his teeth, his head jerking back involuntarily. The echoes of her previous words, the memory of her calling him hideous, lingered in the recesses of his mind. He waited for the sting of those words to be hurled at him once more, bracing himself for the impact of her judgment. He almost dared her to do it, to break the fragile calm that had settled over them.
A flicker of hurt flashed across her features as she sensed his avoidance. Undeterred, she took his face in her hands, gently turning him to face her once again. For a while, she simply observed, her eyes boring into the midnight depths of his eye that shone with every star of the night sky in the darkness of their chambers.
Then, her gaze dropped to the sapphire pendant that still adorned the hollow of her throat despite everything that had occurred.
She hadn't taken it off. The thought hadn't even crossed her mind.
Her lips pulled a little higher, the brightness of her a contrast to the shadows that clung to the corners of the room.
"We match," she said, her voice soft and filled with fascination. Aemond, caught off guard by the unexpected sentiment, felt a lump forming in his throat. It took everything within him not to cry.
Of course, they matched. They were always meant to.
He had given it to her on her fifteenth name day. It was a promise of sorts, even if she had not known it at the time. A promise that she would belong to him one day, that she would always be his.
He swallowed hard, his gaze locking with hers, "Yes, we do."
"It was on purpose you know..."
"What?" he frowned in confusion.
"Me...I...on purpose...I loved you on purpose. It wasn't pity...or-or guilt...or whatever else you think it was. It was a choice. It was my choice. I chose you."
Loved. She used the past tense.
This time Aemond was unable to prevent the tears from filling his uninjured eye, and when she leaned up to place a feathered kiss on the scarred skin under his sapphire, they trickled down his cheek, his face strange in its asymmetry when only one of his eyes could could truly mourn.
She kissed away another tear, and his entire world collapsed in on itself, the only feeling that of her lips on his skin. He wished this was real. With everything in his entire being, he wished this was real. He wished he had never gone to negotiate with Lord Borros Baratheon. He wished he hadn't let his rage or resentment consume him. He wished he hadn't ruined them.
Whether he would lose Daenys to the war he had inevitably begun or to herself and the madness he saw in her eyes, he would lose her all the same. He felt her slipping away from him, like granules of sand on a windy day, so he hugged her closer, unable to stop the sob that he buried in her hair, mourning her loss even as he held her still breathing form in his arms. Even as she stroked his head and murmured more comforting nonsense in his ear while he shuddered in her embrace.
It wasn't real. None of it was real.
Her temporary affections felt like a tease from the gods.
Someone somewhere was laughing at him, sniggering at his naivete. She was a gift he only deserved as a prelude to punishment. A bluff between goodbye and forever, and Aemond Targaryen had given himself up to the gamble years ago, to the breathlessness that was a hammer on his chest.
A/N: likes/reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, would love to hear your thoughts <3 Comment to be added to the taglist
Summary: In return for his terrible crime, the kinslayer's wife gives him an equally terrible gift. A gift with a vow; an eye for an eye, a brother for a brother, a debt to be repaid in full with blood.
Word Count: 4.9k
The room was still cloaked in the deep embrace of midnight, the silence broken only by the occasional whisper of a breeze outside, when Daenys stirred in her sleep, a low rasp escaping her parched lips as she slowly emerged from the clutches of a restless dream she could not recall. The air in the chamber felt thick, suffused with an unspoken tension that seemed to mirror the turmoil within her.
As her heavy eyelids fluttered open, she winced at the stabbing pain in her temples, a relentless throbbing that pulsed in rhythm with the beating of her heart. The room swayed gently around her, and she felt a strange stickiness on her cheeks as she blinked away the remnants of tears that had painted trails down her face. Her vision was blurred, as if the world had decided to don a hazy veil, and it took her a few moments to gather her bearings.
Then the sensation of a weight across her waist caught her attention, and when she turned her gaze downward to the source, there he lay, Aemond Targaryen, clinging to her as if she were a lifeline. His eyepatch had been carelessly discarded, revealing the vulnerability of the one who usually bore the mantle of strength. Moonlight spilled through the jagged maw of the window, casting an ethereal glow upon his tousled hair and smooth features, and even in slumber, his face was etched with lines of worry, a reflection of the troubles that plagued him past his waking hours.
His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm and Daenys resisted the urge to trace the soft glow that highlighted the shadows beneath his eyes. The arm that wasn't wrapped protectively around her waist rested gently on her neck, his fingers entwining with the tendrils of her hair, while his head nestled into the crook of her throat, finding comfort in the curve of her shoulder.
It made Daenys feel sick. His touch burned in a way that made her want to peel off her skin and leave it out to shrivel and crackle in the sun until she was a version of herself he had never laid hands on.
Determined not to disturb her husband's peaceful slumber, she began the delicate task of extricating herself from his hold. With the utmost care, she shifted her body ever so slightly, attempting to loosen the grip of his arms. However, as she maneuvered, Aemond unconsciously tightened his hold, responding with a reflexive sigh that hinted at the reluctance to release his grasp on her.
For a moment, Daenys paused, her heart pounding with trepidation. The moonlight continued to weave its silver tapestry around them, the room shrouded in the stillness of the night. She took a deep breath, determined to continue her discreet escape.
Undeterred by Aemond's unconscious resistance, Daenys resumed her slow, methodical movement. She carefully peeled his arm from around her waist, feeling the tension in his muscles as he unwittingly clung to her. The sigh that escaped him seemed almost like a lament, the complaint of a man reluctant to let go of an anchor during a storm.
Step by step, she managed to slide away from him, the silk sheets whispering softly in response to her cautious retreat until she finally slipped out, her feet landing on the broken glass that littered the room. She held in the pained whine that threatened to escape her lips and surveyed her surroundings carefully. She wasn't quite sure what she was looking for until her gaze settled on the dagger strapped to Aemond's belt. The weapon seemed to beckon to her, and without thinking Daenys found herself reaching for it.
With a deft hand, she unsheathed the dagger, its metallic rasp muffled. The cold touch of the blade sent a shiver down her spine and she held it tightly, the weight of the weapon grounding her as she considered her next move.
She wondered if this was the same dagger Aemond had offered up to her brother. The very same dagger that would have rid Luke of his eye.
Daenys glanced back at her sleeping husband, her hands moving unconsciously again and she didn't even know she had moved until the wicked blade was below Aemond's chin. It would be so easy. One smooth movement, one whispered hush with no one but the moon as her witness and then it'd be over. She could leave him bleeding into his own sheets, in the same bed where he had whispered all the lies to her. She could be rid of him.
Something hungry inside her begged for that crimson fountain to bubble forth and she hazarded pressing the weapon closer, its razor-sharp edge hovering just above his throat. She could almost feel the warmth of his skin beneath the cold steel, a stark contrast to the iciness that gripped her heart. The blade traced an invisible line, too close and too far apart all at once, the distance between two lovers, the distance between a promise and a lie.
Then he said her name.
Not in the coherent syllables of a fully conscious man, but a whispered invocation of her name as a desperate reach from the recesses of his slumber.
Daenys placed a hand over his seeing eye, and the furrow in his brow seemed to melt away at her touch. She could carry out the deed now, in the quiet of the night, and he would not even see it coming. His eyes would fly open, only to be met with an abyss of darkness, a void that would swallow both sight and consciousness.
Darkness and then nothing.
It would be a mercy.
Then she pulled back with a sigh. He did not deserve such a mercy. He did not deserve such a painless death of confusion and darkness. No, he deserved the spectre of fear that must have haunted Luke. She refused to hand Aemond over to the Stranger so easily. She would make him beg for it when the time came.
But now was not that time, and she could not risk awakening the entirety of the Red Keep for the sake of the sadistic desire that unfurled beneath her ribs.
For now, she had to go home and pledge her allegiance to the one true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Still clutching the dagger tightly, she tiptoed across the chamber, her feet seeking refuge in the spaces between scattered belongings, avoiding the treacherous shards of the shattered debris. Despite her meticulous efforts, the floor betrayed her intentions, and a faint trail of deformed carmine footsteps marked her silent journey across the room.
Her fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the door handle, and to her surprise, it yielded effortlessly beneath her touch. Turning one last time to ensure her husband's continued slumber, Daenys cast a glance over her shoulder.
Then she scowled and stepped outside, flinching when her bruised soles made contact with the cold marble outside.
"Princess?"
The knight from earlier stood sentinel near the doorway, an unexpected obstacle in her path. Ser Percival, if she recalled correctly, the very same man who had shown her some semblance of kindness when she had been ordered to the Queen's chambers to be a part of Aegon's cruel joke, and if she tried hard enough she could remember him asking Aemond to let her return home. She could not say how much of the latter was true though, as much of the events that followed were a blur in her memory, clouded over by her own consciousness.
"Is everything all right, princess?" Ser Percival inquired, his voice gentle.
Daenys nodded hastily, panic tightened her chest as she let her eyes silently plead with her captor to let her continue her escape undetected. Before she could slip away, however, the knight's gauntleted hand closed firmly around her wrist.
"Forgive me, my lady, but you cannot leave. It would be against my orders, and I'd find myself in grave trouble."
Daenys, her breath caught in her throat, her eyes flickering nervously toward the open door of Aemond's chambers, praying that he remained undisturbed in his slumber. Ser Percival, following her gaze, frowned in understanding but maintained his grip on her wrist.
"Pleas—please, I must go," she implored, her voice a quiet plea laced with desperation. Her fingers, concealed around the hilt of the dagger behind her back, tightened instinctively. She wished not to resort to violence, but she would do it if pushed any further.
The knight's gaze softened, a fleeting expression of pity in his eyes. "I understand, princess, but I cannot allow it. I am sworn to keep watch, and letting you go would betray...the king."
Daenys's eyes hardened and she wrenched her hand away from him aggressively, "I would cut your tongue out for being a traitor. Be grateful I do not have more time."
When she turned around to depart, he did not stop her a second time, only watching apologetically as he heard the young prince stir awake in his chambers behind him.
Aemond Targaryen was immediately aware of the absence of the familiar weight beside him, and panic surged through him, a cold realization that his wife was no longer in the bed where he had last seen her before drifting off to sleep. When his hand strayed to his waist where his scabbard was empty of his dagger his heart dropped.
In an instant, he bolted upright, disoriented by the abrupt awakening. His seeing eye darted around the chamber, searching for any sign of her, hoping to see her pacing agitated form. When the truth sank in, a surge of urgency propelled him to the door, and the knight stationed outside looked up with a start as he burst through.
"Where is she?" the prince demanded, his voice edged with a mix of fear and anger. The knight's eyes widened, and he struggled to find the words to convey what had just transpired.
"The princess... she just..."
There was a stammer in the knight's voice, and he was unable to meet Aemond's intense gaze. It was not often that the one-eyed prince walked about without his eyepatch on, and his singular gaze was strikingly unsettling, making it difficult to look at him for too long.
"I will not ask again. Where. Is. My. Wife?" he enunciated the words slowly, as if speaking to a fool, his hands coming up to grab the trembling man in front of him by the shoulders.
"She...she left, my prince."
"Left? Left where? What do you mean? It was your job to watch over her! Where is she?"
Ser Percival, caught between duty and the fury in Aemond's eyes, gestured vaguely in the direction opposite to where Daenys had gone. Still, the prince's sharp gaze scrutinized both sides of the hallway and, to his horror, he noticed the faint bloody footprints that marked her departure. The realization hit him like a physical blow.
"What happened to her?" Aemond growled, his fingers digging into the knight's armour. "Why is there blood? Answer me!"
Now pinned against the wall, Ser Percival struggled to maintain composure, "I don't know, my prince. She just left. I tried to stop her, but she insisted on going. I... I don't know anything about the blood."
"You tried to stop her? And you couldn't have tried harder? You, a knight of the realm, could not stop that wraith of a girl? Seven hells, and you're expected to protect my brother the king?"
If fear hadn't laid siege to his mind, Percival might have scoffed. Wraith of a girl? The princess was a little more than that. Something in her voice reminded him of another who once roamed these halls. He never thought he'd hear that voice again, the dominating tone of the Commander of the City Watch coming from the mouth of the silver-haired princess, and for a moment it was as if Percival's old mentor had returned to life, if only to scorn him for being a traitor. Perhaps that is why he had let her go in the first place, as some sort of penance.
Aemond's eyes flared with anger, his mind racing with the possibilities of what could have transpired in his absence. Without another word, he released the knight and stormed down the corridor, following the bloody trail left by his fleeing wife. His mind threw his way an onslaught of worst-case scenarios. Was she still sick in the head from her fever? Had she thrown herself off some balcony or slit her throat? Or was the dagger meant for someone else? Would he find her standing above Aegon's bed, or worse, his mother's or Helaena's, her hands and his dagger drenched with their blood? He would not put it past her.
He wondered what state he'd find her in. The version of her who dug craters into her arms as if they were graves, whose eyes contained a glint of mania that spoke of impossible actions. Or the version who would plead and cry and allow him to hold her once he finally reached her.
He knew which version he preferred. He knew which one of them was easier to subdue.
Aemond pursued Daenys's trail to a painting on the wall, and he immediately knew where she was headed, even as the footsteps ended with a faint smattering of red in the darkness. It was a path well traversed by both of them, for late-night escapades in Flea Bottom, and he quickened his step.
Eventually, he arrived at a secluded courtyard, where in the dim light, he discerned a figure—limping, dragging one foot behind, and cloaked in the shadows.
Approaching cautiously, Aemond's heart ached at the sight of his wife. She really was a wraith of a girl here, her unbound hair a spill of starlight down her back, and her silhouette, fragile and ghostly. Before he could take another step, she whirled around, a dagger clutched in her hands, poised as a barrier between them.
"Daenys," Aemond called out, his voice gentle and laced with concern. "What are you doing out here? The hour is late and it's freezing. Let me take you back to bed."
Daenys, her eyes hollow and distant, stared at him through the dim light. The dagger remained a silent sentinel between them, the one-eyed prince watched it cautiously, not knowing who she'd use it against.
"You're hurt, Daenys. Let me help you. I'll carry you back if I have to. Just please...let us return."
She backed away, her movements cautious and guarded. The moonlight danced on the blade in her hand, casting glimmers of silver across her face. A fleeting smile crossed her lips, but her eyes remained distant, as if she were standing at the edge of a precipice. The fever that had gripped her earlier seemed to have subsided, yet an unnatural flush lingered on her skin. Aemond, sensing the fragility of her mind, extended a hand toward her.
"Daenys give me the weapon. You'll hurt yourself."
Daenys's gaze, still clouded and enigmatic, flickered between the dagger and Aemond's outstretched hand.
"You know I wondered if you'd come after me," she finally spoke, her voice low and contemplative. "I even hoped for it."
"You wanted me to come for you? Well, you wanted me, so here I am. Let us go back then."
"No that's not why I wanted you here."
"Then...why?" Aemond's brow furrowed, not understanding the game she played.
"I'm not entirely sure."
Daenys paused. She was leaving here tonight, that much was certain. She had made up her mind about it and there was nothing that could keep her from it. She had hoped to slip away unnoticed, but she couldn't deny the thrill that shot through her bloodstream to see her husband's cautious form trailing after her like a shadow. He was asking for it at this point. If he laid a hand on her, she would end him, but if he didn't...then well, it remained to be seen. The night hungered for bloodshed, and perhaps she'd oblige, although she hadn't yet decided who would make the sacrifice.
She raised the dagger, her smile mirroring the sharp edge of the blade, and her husband instinctively raised his hands placatingly.
"Daenys, put the knife down," he implored, his voice a gentle but urgent plea.
"Do not worry, lord husband," she murmured. "It's not for you."
Aemond's heart pounded in his chest, the dread of the unknown tightening its grip. What did she mean? Was she planning to end her own life; did she wish to hurt him by making him watch?
"Who is it for, then?"
"Would you like for it to be for you?"
"I-No, that's not..."
Daenys placed the dagger against her collarbone, and Aemond blanched. Amused by his reaction she cocked her head to the side, as if contemplating a profound question.
"What would you do if I said it was for me?"
Aemond's seeing eye widened, the realization sinking in like a heavy stone in his stomach. He took another step closer and the courtyard seemed to narrow around them.
"Why would you even think of doing something like that?"
"I don't know. Why would you think of doing something like what you did?"
She trailed the dagger up the column of her throat, and then further up until it rested just above her left eye. The one-eyed prince's breath hitched, and something inside of him knew where this was going. He should have surged forward, he should have wrestled the weapon away from her, he should have slammed her head against the stone wall behind her, if only to stop her next actions.
All he was capable of doing at that moment though, was standing still, waiting with baited breath.
"You know I thought about it. I thought about ending myself right here in front of you. Letting you watch as I bled to death here. I wondered if that would hurt you half as much as you have hurt me. But that would be no fun at all, would it? And it would make no difference to you."
She took a deep breath, the slight waver in her lungs being the first sign of real emotion she had shown all evening.
"And besides...why should I die? Why should I be the one to," — another shudder— "why should I be the one to die for your crimes? I have so much left to do, so why should I do you the favour of ending myself, when you don't give the slightest damn about me?"
"That's not true. You know that that's not true. You are the one person I care about most," Aemond was pleading now. In fact, he might have sunk to his knees in front of her, the way she had for him, but there was still too much pride left in him.
"Liar. You are nothing but a fucking liar."
"Daenys pleas-you aren't well...let us..."
"An eye for an eye was it?" her words burned with fury but they remained calm, nonchalant as if she was merely discussing the weather. "Well then, did you get the eye you so desired? Did you pluck out my dead brother's eye? Did that bring you peace husband?"
Aemond was taken aback. Is that what she thought of him then? Someone who would desecrate a corpse like that —not that there was a corpse to begin with. Someone that heartless and cruel? But he supposed he had given her all the reasons to believe him so.
"No! Of course not. Why would I...you have to know it was an accident. I would never..."
"Pity. If you had taken what you were owed, then perhaps you might have given the rest of him to me. Perhaps then there'd be something of him to burn."
"You know I would never do such a thing. To violate a corpse-"
"Says the man who has no trouble at all violating the living. Tell me, is there a greater violation than murder?"
The one-eyed prince was rendered speechless, so his wife continued with a long-suffering sigh.
"The fact of the matter remains then. Your debt has not been paid. We shall have to remedy that. If it is an eye you want, it's an eye you shall get."
Daenys's subsequent grin had an unhinged quality to it and for the first time in his life, Aemond Targaryen found himself afraid of his wife. Perhaps equal parts afraid of her and afraid for her.
"I don't want anything," he whispered, shaking his head. "I don't want anyone's eyes. Daenys please you're scaring me."
"Ah, that's a shame. The debt must be paid after all. Unpaid debts lead to deadly grudges, as you probably already know."
Before Aemond could respond, before he could move a single muscle, she had already lifted the dagger to press deeper into her skin. In the brief second before her skin split, she thought of Luke. She thought of his pale lifeless body floating in the sea, his empty fingers reaching out but never holding. She imagined he'd look something like Lord Caswell, whose bloated swaying form hung from the stone arch behind Aemond.
The dead were all the same, in that they were dead.
Some things were worth spilling blood for. Some people were worth bleeding for.
The blade left a neat, horrifying slash across her left eye, tracing a line from brow to cheekbone. Daenys bit her lip, stifling the instinctive shriek that begged to escape her throat. Aemond, recoiled with horror, feeling the spectre of pain that unfolded before him almost viscerally.
A thin line of crimson welled from the fresh wound, staining her pale skin, but she was resolute, determined to bear her suffering silently, just as Lucerys had. She would carry her silence to her grave, just as her brother had. Still, the twitch in her lips belied her. The dagger dropped from her trembling fingers, echoing against the courtyard stones, and without hesitation, she drove her hands into the bloody aftermath.
Blood gushed over her face, a torrent of red that reminded Aemond so much of his injury. He watched in numb shock as Daenys pried apart the torn skin and drew out her eye, the macabre appendage trailing a bloody root. She cradled it for a moment in her hands as if one might cradle a newborn babe, and though her other eye leaked a steady stream of tears, her face remained expressionless.
Aemond was jolted from his initial paralysis when she walked forward to press the disembodied thing into his shaking hands.
"I always did say I would have given you one of my own, you only had to ask," Daenys's whispered voice was strained as if it took all her remaining strength to keep it steady. "I would have given it to you with my blessing and a kiss."
She grabbed his jaw, her fingers leaving red smears on the prince's chin. Then she pressed a kiss to his frozen lips, staining them too. She tasted of blood, and although her actions were smooth, precise, her hatred felt unfamiliar and hard. Something within her had torn loose. She wanted to devour him. She wanted to chew him up and spit him out so he resembled the mass he cradled so protectively in his hands.
There was no time for that now. She could feel her consciousness slipping, feel her resolve crumbling as more of her flowed out of the gaping wound in her face. If she passed out here, then everything would be for nought, and she'd never make it back home.
"I-I never asked for it."
"You never asked for it, but now you have it."
With a curse and a kiss.
"Here's your debt repaid in full Aemond. An eye for an eye."
"I'm sorry, gods I'm so sorry," Aemond's eye filled with tears, the one that could shed tears anyway.
He had lost his right eye, and she had given him her left. Standing side by side, they might have made a whole person even. He could still feel it, when she had sliced into herself, he had felt the sharpness of his nephew's blade and for a few short moments, he was ten again, except this time there was no thrill of riding Vhagar for the first time humming in his blood. Only guilt and horror.
"Oh, Aemond. Valzȳrys."
The prince's heart clenched at the sound of the words that spilled from his wife's lips. A remnant of another time when they were full of love, but there was no affection in her eyes—eye, for only one of them was capable of emotion— now. There was only emptiness.
"I have paid the debt my brother owed you. But rest assured, the blood of Lucerys will be repaid tenfold. A debt your entire family will pay. A brother for a brother if you will."
Aemond's blood ran cold.
"What are you insinuating?"
"I don't have to insinuate anything. I will kill your brother. A fair trade don't you think, a brother for a brother, especially now that you have my eye."
"I did not ask for your eye!" Aemond raised his voice in frustration.
"And I did not ask for you to kill Lucerys... yet here we are."
"That was an-"
"Do not say accident, you fucking coward. At least own up to it. At least admit to your crime."
She turned around to leave, her tongue heavy and her eyelids heavier. It was becoming increasingly difficult to stay on her feet.
"You're leaving?"
Daenys scoffed, her voice barely audible now, "You expect me to stay in this prison then? Play house with the man who murdered my brother, pay my respects to his traitor brother and conniving mother? The family who stole my mother's birthright?"
Something in Aemond snarled at her insult toward his mother, or perhaps it was the panic that reared its head because she was leaving. She was finally leaving, just as his grandsire had warned him. She was going to abandon him.
"You cannot leave. I am your lord husband. If I demanded it, you would have to stay," Aemond snapped.
She could not leave him, she would not. Not her. Not the only thing in the world that he had for himself, the only good thing that had ever happened to him. The only thing his brother hadn't spoiled for him, although he supposed he had ruined it all by himself without any help.
"You really think you can make me stay, because what? The gods say that I must? Abide by your pathetic rules that bind wives to their husbands, slave to their every whim. I did not make vows of obedience to you. I do not have to listen to a word you say."
"No, please. Don't go. Don't leave me here," Aemond's tone shifted immediately.
He inched forward faster now. Beseeching her to let him hold her. To let him keep her. He reached out to snag her forearm but she shook him off just as swiftly. Her skin was burning. She was burning. He could have held on harder, could have forced her but she had picked up his dagger again and he could not imagine where she'd embed it next.
"Would you come then? If I asked you to abandon your family and support my mother's true claim, would you come with me," she meant to mock him, but something in her eyes implored him.
It was a chance. It would not absolve him of his sin, but she shared in his Kinslaying and if he bent the knee to her mother, then perhaps one day she might be able to forgive him, and forgive herself too.
Aemond stayed silent, his jaw clenched, his outstretched hand retreating. That was the one thing he could not do.
"I do not hold a candle to the flame you harbour for your family. Who was I to think that you would choose me."
The one-eyed prince frowned, a tear trickling down his face.
Or I to think that you would choose me.
He watched her limp away, her hand coming up to cup her face only when she had turned around, her back toward him.
He let her go, and when she finally disappeared from view, his attention returned to the carnage he still clutched tightly in his hands. His anger, his panic, had made him ball his fists, and when he separated his fingers, he was relieved to find the bloody sphere still whole, the violet iris wide and unseeing.
He finally sank to his knees, unable to keep down the surge of bile that rose in his throat, and burned his way out of his mouth, depositing the meagre contents of his stomach on the stone floor.
The moon continued its silent vigil, casting a luminous embrace over the troubled prince as he heaved, still clutching the final remnant of what he had lost.
He had always been a better knife than a person and now he had turned the girl he loved into a gaping wound. She hated him, but he knew he'd see her again. It was the law of the world, for a knife and a wound to seek each other out, because they spoke in a language of damage no one else did.
A/N: likes/reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, would love to hear your thoughts <3 Comment to be added to the taglist
"You're my family and I love you. But you're terrible, you're all terrible."
Summary: Aemond Targaryen is left behind in the ruins of his marriage as he fervently seeks absolution for his sins, but neither his pious mother or gentle sister can give him what he needs and his debts to his wife will pay themselves in far bloodier ways.
Word Count: 4.3k
The morning sun began its slow ascent beyond the horizon, casting its faint light through the shattered remnants of the Red Keep's window. Its feeble rays danced upon the dishevelled figure of Aemond, whose once proud stature now slumped against the cold stone floor. His breath came in ragged gasps, as he ignored the splinters that dug into his flesh. His chambers lay in disarray, debris littering the floor, a chaotic mosaic of broken furniture and shattered glass.
With trembling hands, he examined the remnants of his misdeed. Blood, still wet and sticky, clung to his skin like a macabre badge of dishonour, nestled into the creases of his palms and beneath his nails. His fingers trembled as they traced the contours of the unseeing eye that lay nestled within his grasp, although it was no longer that brilliant shade. Discolouration had begun to set in, its surface wrinkled and cloudy, a relic of his own making.
Aemond's heart constricted with every beat as he beheld the ruin he had wrought, the weight of his sins pressing down upon him like a leaden shroud. He knew he should wash away the evidence, but no amount of scrubbing would rid him of the stain that marked him as a pariah in the eyes of gods and men alike.
Kinslayer.
Murderer.
He could not bring himself to move, could not muster the strength to rise from his pitiful perch upon the floor. His limbs felt heavy as lead, his eyelids drooping with the weight of his weariness. It seemed fitting, a poetic justice of sorts. He had the blood of his nephew on his hands, he had killed him after all, and yet his hands had remained untainted of the incriminating stains. Now he was covered in the blood of the one he loved most. He laughed self-depreciatingly, knowing that before this war was finished, he would be covered with a lot more blood. Perhaps even with the blood of his family. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had sparked the first flame and now his family was under even more threat. His mother, Helaena, the children. Even his brother, his stupid drunk fool of a brother, but a brother nonetheless.
Aemond took a deep breath, willing himself to clear his mind, but his thoughts kept returning to the events of the previous hours. He should have been faster, more reactive. He wished he had gotten there earlier, had somehow managed to knock the knife out of his wife's hands before she carved up her own face. Instead, he had just stood there and watched like some shell-shocked fool.
If he was being honest with himself, he didn't think she'd do it, didn't think she had it in her. It was too horrific a curse to incur upon oneself, and it took a certain measure of loathing to carry it out to completion. This final act of hers made him realize just how much her brother's death had affected her, unhinged her in some way. Looking at the blood under his fingernails again, he abruptly stood. Seized with the manic urge to scrub his hands until they bled, he could not stand the idea of having her blood on him for even an instant longer. He might as well have killed her, for the version of her he used to recognize was dead. It was the same as if he had wrapped his fingers around her pretty throat and squeezed until the life left her eyes, transforming her into whatever she was now.
She hadn't made a single sound. It was impossible and yet Aemond had seen it with his own eyes, the strange detachment, as if she was carrying out the procedure on someone else, and not her own flesh. His eye throbbed in fresh agony, the memories resurfacing with painful clarity. His own screams echoed in his ears. It had been agony. It had to have been agony for her as well.
They were finally equals in a way they had never been before.
That is how Alicent found him, minutes later, standing in his day-old clothes, frantically scouring his palms, the basin below him filled to the brim and devastatingly crimson. She had seen her son in moments of distress before, but never like this—his face drawn and haggard, his eyes haunted by shadows she could not hope to fathom.
For a fleeting moment, the dowager Queen found herself frozen in place, her mind struggling to process the tableau before her. She had been roused from her slumber by the distant echoes of chaos, the telltale signs of upheaval that had become all too familiar within the walls of the Red Keep. And now, as she stood on the threshold of Aemond's chamber, her gaze swept across the chaos that lay strewn about.
Before she could take another step forward, her son was upon her, his hands dripping with blood and water as he seized her shoulders in a desperate grip, staining her pale mint sleeves with carmine streaks. Despite being at his wit's end, despite everything, her safety was of paramount importance to him. Her silken slippers would do nothing to protect her from the danger his chamber floors posed, and he would be damned if he allowed his chaos to hurt her.
"Aemond," Alicent breathed her voice barely a whisper as she met his wide-eyed gaze. "Aemond? What's wrong?"
She looked like she had rushed out of bed and thrown on her robe haphazardly without a care for her appearance. Aemond thought it was quite unusual for his mother, given that she always did her best to look put together and meticulously tidy.
"Nothing, Mother. Nothing is wrong. You should go back to bed, it is very early," he tried to lull her back into a state of calm.
"What do you mean nothing is wrong? What are you doing, and did you not change for bed last night? You look out of sorts...and your chambers...what has happened, " her eyes fell on his hands and they narrowed, flickering upwards to trace his face.
"Mother...."
"Is that blood? I smell blood."
"Mother wait...I-" Aemond's loss of words did nothing to ease his mother's nerves.
"It's blood, isn't it? It's on your hands. Is that what you are trying so desperately to wash away? It's on your face too," she pointed at his forehead in horror and Aemond cursed himself. He must have smeared it accidentally.
"It is nothing. I just..."
"How can you say it is nothing? Have you not done enough? What other calamity have you brought upon our heads?"
She was rambling now, angry and tearful, not giving him a chance to explain.
"I heard a commotion. I couldn't sleep. It hasn't been easy these past few days and I had to see if you were alright! Tell me, son, are you alright?"
"I am perfectly fine, Mother. You do not have to worry about me."
"How can I not worry?" Alicent scoffed. "All you do is make me worry. All you do...you...and now I come to find you and see you scrubbing blood from your hands. Is it your own or someone else's? I do not know which I fear more."
"It is not mine," the one-eyed prince muttered softly. "I am not hurt. You have nothing to worry about. I'm right here."
Alicent was silent for a few moments, scrutinizing him in a way that made him want to squirm. She had a way of knowing when he was lying, even when he was just a boy. She'd eye him down like this, as if she could pull the secrets from his heart before he knew of them himself.
"You killed her didn't you?"
Aemond recoiled, his hands dropping from her shoulders instantly. He took a step back in horror.
"Who?"
"You know who, son."
"What-how?"
It was Alicent that gripped his shoulders now, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders.
"I asked you if you killed her Aemond! Your wife is missing and you're here covered in blood you say is not yours!" her voice dropped so that he had to strain himself just to hear her, and it was particularly hard to do so with the blood thundering through his ears.
"You...how could you say that? Do you...do you truly think me capable of something like that?"
His voice was stone against stone, hard and brittle, just inches away from shattering, and he did everything in his power not to let his mother hear the slight warble behind his words.
She heard it nonetheless, and her eyes softened. She was his mother after all, and she always knew.
"I did not think any of my children capable of bloodshed," she paused in thought —but if any of them were, it would have been you— "but after Lucerys, I... I am not sure about many things."
"I did not mean to kill him," her son said quietly.
"But you did...you have cost Rhaenyra not one, but two children. She will have your head for this. Daemon will have your head for this. Rhaenys and Corlys will have your head for this. That girl was..."
"I never said I-"
"All I ever wanted was to keep my children safe," Alicent snapped. "And yet they insist on creating new dangers for themselves. Why are you hell-bent on getting yourself killed with your foolish impulsive behaviour?"
Aemond looked away, feeling stung. Standing here now, listening to her berate him felt just like standing before her when he was a child, listening to her berate him for foolishly endangering his life by trying to tame dragons.
The stupidity of a child with the hands of a man, but no, that wasn't quite right.
The crimes of a monster under the guise of a man.
Even his mother thought he was a murderer now. He had always done his best to please her, to be the calming obedient child so that she would not be caused worry by him at least. The gods knew Aegon gave her plenty to worry about already, and his father was a demon of pointless dreams and a breaker of trust. There was so little joy in his mother's life, so he had always tried to fill the void, although perhaps there was only so much he could do, when he came from the unhappiness she did.
She thought him a monster; capable of monstrous things. His anguish must have shown on his face because Alicent finally stopped her tirade. Aemond could see the gears turning in his mother's head and he was afraid of the new suppositions taking root there. When she took a deep shuddering breath, he held his. Her initial shock seemed to seep away, and in its place, she slipped on a mask, returning to the calm and collected queen that she always was.
She placed a hand on his cheek and he leaned into her touch.
"Yes, well things happen my son. Now did you kill her? You must tell me immediately so we can take care of it before too many people find out. We must delay the news reaching Rhaenyra at all costs. Is there a body we need to dispose of?"
We.
She said we, and Aemond wondered if she'd really go through with it if he had killed Daenys. It almost scared him how well she took charge, talking about damage control with such practiced ease.
"Your duty is to your family Aemond. They are your priority. They are who you must protect. What is done cannot be undone. We must look to the future and ensure the protection of Aegon's crown," she continued.
Aegon. Always Aegon, and his crown.
"MOTHER!" Aemond finally exploded. "I did not kill her. I swear it on the Seven!"
Alicent froze. She blinked at him, slowly digesting the information before her face crumpled in relief. She almost collapsed to the floor and Aemond had to support her weight as she regained her balance.
"Where is she then? And whose blood is on your hands? Did you kill someone else?" his mother's questions were endless.
He told her what he could, in brief muted sentences, skimming past the more gory details, and omitting others entirely. He did not say that Daenys now sported a wound to match his own.
"So...so she's gone then? Where did she go?"
"To Dragonstone I suppose. Where else?"
Aemond lowered his gaze, realizing how disappointed his mother and grandsire would be upon finding out that he had let her go. After all their efforts to make her stay. Otto most of all, would be positively furious and he'd take it out on Alicent.
"Mother, I am sorry."
"For what my love?"
"For everything."
How did a boy apologize to his mother for being born?
"But most of all, for causing you to worry. And...for letting her go."
"Oh, my dearest boy, I cannot fault you for that. That girl was going to leave one way or another. I suppose it is better that she returned on her own and not in a casket. It was Father's idea to keep her here in the first place. I wished for peace, I have always wished for peace you know," Alicent brought him closer and held him tight.
Aemond felt like a little boy again, although this time it was a fonder memory, one of the few he held. A memory of his mother holding him like this, of the sleepless nights she spent tending to him after the loss of his eye, even when she could have passed him off to the maesters and servants. She loved him. She knew all of him and she loved him despite it all.
"Aemond."
"Yes, mother?"
"I need you to make me a promise."
"Anything."
"I want you to come back to me. No matter where you go...or what you do...I need you to return to me. My priority is your life, and in order to come back to me, you may have to do things you do not wish to. You may have to hurt people that you cannot fathom hurting, but you must promise me that you will. Promise that you will always come back to me no matter what you have to do for it."
"I-"
"You have to promise me this. That is all I ask. Nothing more, nothing less. Always return. it will never matter to me what you have done to do so."
It was as if she had read his mind once again, digging out his worst fears, shining a light onto them, and saying that she didn't care. It didn't matter to her, what he was, or who he'd become. He would and always be her son.
Aemond clutched his mother tighter. No one could love him like she could, in her own strange way that he sometimes found hard to understand. And in return, he'd lay down his life for her. He'd die for his mother, but he supposed she'd rather he kill for her, and so he would.
"I will pray to the gods for you, dearest."
The air hung heavy with the weight of centuries past as Alicent slipped into the chambers of the late King Viserys. It was a desolate place, devoid of life and warmth —not that it had ever contained those things anyway— and pale sheets draped over the furniture like shrouds, casting long shadows that danced across the barren floor.
Aegon's refusal to inhabit his father's chambers had left the room abandoned and forgotten, a ghost town within the heart of the Red Keep. The absence of knights to guard the entrance lent an eerie stillness to the air, broken only by the soft whisper of Alicent's footsteps as she moved further into the room.
Her eyes swept over the tapestries that adorned the walls, their colours dull but she knew them by heart, the placement of every thread, every stitch. She had after all spent many a night staring holes into them, wishing to be anywhere but here.
In the center of the chamber stood Viserys's model of old Valyria, its intricate spires and towers frozen forever in a state of incompleteness. And then, there was the bed—the accursed bed where she had spent countless nights wishing she could cease to exist, longing for a reprieve that would never come. Its ornate carvings seemed to mock her, each twist and turn a reminder of the shackles that bound her to a fate she had never asked for.
Alicent's chest tightened with each passing moment, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she fought to contain the rage and despair that threatened to consume her. She wanted to scream, to scream until her throat bled, but in all her years of servitude and sacrifice, she had never given her grief a voice, and she certainly wasn't going to start now.
Still, it wasn't fair.
As her fingers closed around the first miniature stone structure, she could feel the weight of resentment and grief pressing down upon her. The cool surface of the model was rough against her skin, its edges sharp with the memory of a thousand silent screams. With a surge of determination, she wrenched the structure away from the model, a fierce satisfaction blooming within her chest.
The impact as she hurled the stone against the wall reverberated through the empty chamber, the sound echoing but unheard in this corner of the castle no one wanted to visit anymore. Alicent watched with a mixture of triumph and relief as the shards scattered across the floor, a testament to the destruction she had wrought.
But it was not enough—not nearly enough.
With renewed fervour, she set to work dismantling the model piece by piece, tearing down the city of old Valyria with relentless fury. Each stone she pried loose was a blow against the legacy of her late husband, a reckoning for the pain and suffering he had inflicted upon her and their children.
With each structure that burst into dust beneath her touch, she felt a surge of vindication coursing through her veins. It was Viserys's fault, she knew it with a certainty that bordered on madness. He had been the architect of their misery, the puppet master pulling the strings of their lives with callous disregard.
Her children bore the scars of his indifference, and he was the worst part of them —the fact that they came from him. He made them so difficult to love, but she loved them all the same because they came from her too.
And now they were going to be taken away from her, and everything would have been for nothing. All her years of silence would be for nothing. Rhaenyra was going to kill them all, and it was her own son who had hastened the inevitable.
Somewhere in the corner of his chambers, the ghost of Viserys laughed at her misery, laughed at how everything she had spent years building was coming undone through the acts of her son, just as she tore down his life's work.
Later Alicent would light a candle in The Grand Sept, and say a prayer for forgiveness. She would ask the Seven to protect her children, to forgive her sons for their misdeeds, to forgive her for her outbursts, and then she'd spare a single thought for her own mother, gone long before Alicent knew what a burden it was to be one herself.
It was said that no child could save their mother, but it was rarely remembered that no mother could save her child either.
Old habits died hard, and whenever things got particularly difficult, Aemond found himself returning to his sister's chambers. It was their own particular tradition, seeking shelter in each other, Aemond from his thoughts, and Helaena from her dreams.
She was awake early this morning, gazing out the window in contemplation. She registered his presence before he even arrived at her door, calling him in with her back turned toward him, and for a moment neither of them spoke, the only other noise being the sound of their synchronized breathing and the gentle breeze coming in from the open window.
"So she's gone then?"
Aemond was startled, wondering how she could possibly know, but he nodded.
"I saw her go, brother...but she left something behind."
Not knowing what else to say, the one-eyed prince apologized.
Helaena's words were soft, almost a whisper, "I am not the one you should be apologizing to, at least not yet."
"Can I tell you something?"
"Of course."
"I...I killed Lucerys Velaryon," Aemond confessed in shame, and his sister's lips twisted in a grimace.
"I think we are all aware of that already."
"No, I actually killed him. I think I meant to kill him."
Helaena was quiet for a long time.
"Please say something..." Aemond almost pleaded
"Did you want to kill him?"
"No! Yes. I don't know. When I saw him that day in Storm's End, I was just so angry. When I took Vhagar after him, all I knew was that I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to hurt as much as I hurt. I wanted him to be in pain, I wanted him to suffer."
"So it was both a game and also not?"
"Perhaps."
"Only you can say for sure. Your dragon can sense your intentions, brother."
"I know," Aemodn sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I was a fool and now I'm a coward. I blame Vhgar for something that was my fault. A dragon is a weapon. I was her wielder, her rider. She felt my rage and behaved accordingly, and it resulted in death.
Aemond's swallowed the lump in his throat before continuing. The answer to his next question was what he dreaded the most.
"Do you think I'm a monster, Hel?"
His nickname for her made Helaena's heart ache. He said it with the same earnestness that was so reminiscent of the times when they were children. Infact this entire situation was painfully nostalgic, although a younger Aemond drunk on milk of the poppy was much different than this older version of him who was drunk on regret.
They both looked at her in the same way though, pleading for her understanding, pleading for her forgiveness.
Do you think I'm a monster? Do you think I look like one? Do you think I behave like one?
He couldn't help it. He was her little brother.
She couldn't help it either. She was his sister.
This was their tragedy.
She knew him once. She liked to think she knew him still.
Helaena Targaryen took her brother's face in her hands and kissed his forehead.
"It does not matter what I think. Your sin is not mine to forgive."
"She will never forgive me, will she? How could she? How could anyone."
"You are not a monster. Monsters are not capable of self-condemnation."
"I have done a monstrous thing, Hel! Does that not make me a monster?"
"Men do monstrous things," Helaena sighed. "It is what separates us from the saints. What separates you from a true monster is that you know it was a monstrous thing to do and you feel remorse. Your conscience still lives."
Aemond let out a bitter laugh, "You may be the only person who thinks that way. I suspect even Mother is weary of me now. And Daenys...well it would be a miracle she can restrain herself from gutting me open the next time she sees me."
"My dreams do not tell me how all this ends, brother."
"You do not need any dreams to know how this one ends. A war only ends in bloodshed."
"And grief," Helaena added. "Always grief."
"Right."
Helaena turned to look at him with sorrowful eyes, "I grieve for her. For our dear sister, for all she has lost and has yet to lose."
I grieve for myself too, and all that I will.
"I don't think I've told anyone this before," Aemond admitted. "I don't think I have even allowed myself to think of it. It felt easier to pretend that I did not wish for it, but I think... a part of me meant to kill him and now that I feel awful for it, I'm not sure what I am."
"Do you feel awful because your actions killed him or because Daenys wants nothing to do with you anymore?"
"Is there a difference?"
His sister nodded sagely, "That makes all the difference."
"I...I am not sure."
"Then perhaps you need to think on it more, brother."
"I know."
"The right thing is never easy. Your guilt is your penance. You must live with it for the rest of your days."
"Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"
Will Mother? Will you?
"Mother has already forgiven you," Helaena said simply, as if reading his mind.
"And Daenys?"
"You cannot completely unlove someone, no matter how hard you try, no matter how awful they are. And you are far from awful, brother."
"Of course, you would say that. You're my sister."
"I only mean to say that your debt will find a way to pay itself. Debts usually do."
She frowned then, as if lost in thought and Aemond found himself wondering what it was that held her captive in her own mind. He dare not ask. His sister had a habit of spouting strange things, things he could make no sense of.
A/N: likes/reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, would love to hear your thoughts <3
Summary: Daenys Velaryon wakes, her face aflame with a throbbing reminder of the sacrifice she has made and a heart that burns with equal fervour to exact revenge; first on her list is Borros Baratheon, the very man who allowed her brother to die.
Word Count: 4.1k
Daenys awoke to a throbbing headache and a face that was on fire. She blearily opened her single eye to see that she was still sprawled out on her mother's bed, although her familiar presence was nowhere to be seen. Gingerly lifting herself a little, she peered around the room and was surprised to see her brother Joffrey curled up on an armchair nearby, curled into a position that had to be uncomfortable. She frowned, sending another bolt of pain through the left half of her face, and she winced. Her features felt stiff as if the maester had stitched them into place the night before.
Shifting herself to sit up and face her brother properly, Daenys said his name. It came out a hoarse whisper but his eyes flew open all the same and he jolted up to stand.
"Daenys!" he exclaimed.
With his brows furrowed and his eyes wide, he looked startlingly like Luke. She had never realized how similar they were, she never had to, but now as she traced the slope of his nose and the curve of his cheek with sorrow, the resemblance was uncanny. At his concern, she yearned to give him a reassuring smile but she could not bring herself to it. She didn't think she had it in her to smile again.
Joffrey stepped closer and reached out his arm before stopping short, his hesitation palpable.
"Everything alright, Joff?"
"You're hurt," the brunette boy whispered, his lower lip trembling, eyes watery. "You're hurt really bad. You must be in so much pain."
"It's not so bad. It doesn't hurt," Daenys lied. It came easy to her, even as her brother looked at her in disbelief. "It doesn't hurt at all, so you don't have to worry about me."
Gingerly, Joffrey settled himself at her bedside, watching her intently as if he could scrutinize the truth out of her. Still, Daenys made no move to alter her statement, instead choosing to stretch out her arms in his direction, prompting him to immediately collapse into her side.
"I thought you weren't going to come home!" Joffrey's voice was thick with misery.
"Why ever would you think that? This is my home."
"No. Grandsire said that King's Landing was your home now that you're married. But..."
He trailed off, unsure of his next statement when he felt her stiffen. He was not so young as to not be aware of the talk that permeated the air of Dragonstone. He was not the naive little boy his older siblings and parents thought of him.
"Mother and Father didn't think you'd come back either," he finally said. "They wouldn't say why, and I thought...that you were gone like Luke."
Oh.
"It does not matter what anyone else says. My home is where you are. My true home is wherever my family is. I will always come back to you, no matter what," Daenys's response was both a reassurance to her brother and a vow to herself.
"You won't leave, will you? Please don't go away again. Everyone is so unhappy here and it's so lonely. Father only ever talks about war and Mother and Rhaena are always so sad. Baela and Jace are away while Aegon and Viserys are too little to understand anything. I have no one."
Daenys pressed three kisses to the side of his forehead, as was their mother's custom when any of them were upset, "I am here now. You have me. You will always have me."
"Will you find Luke?"
Joffrey's words made her blanch, and she squinted at him cautiously.
"I'm not stupid," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. "They never said anything about a body. He could still be alive...please...please you have to look for him."
She did not have the heart to tell him that she had already looked. Although perhaps it was an unfair attempt, half dead from blood loss and grief. Perhaps this would be her excuse to continue the search. Suddenly Daenys felt terribly guilty, for if Joffrey could hold on to the hope that Lucerys was still alive, why couldn't she? Try as she might, she could not make herself believe in such a hopeless notion, because when it turned out that he was well and truly dead, she didn't think she had it in her to mourn him all over again.
"How long was I asleep for?" Daenys asked, eager to change the topic of conversation.
"Four days. You had Mother worried. We were all worried. You were really sick, with a fever and everything. Mother thought you might not make it," Joffrey's voice was laced with worry again. "Are you sure you're alright Daenys?"
"Perfectly alright, Joff. Never been better."
Still, that reassuring smile would not come. She was a liar and her brother knew it.
"I was supposed to fetch Mother when you woke up. Do you want me to do that?"
She didn't, not really. Having to face her mother meant having to face what she had done to herself. There would be questions asked no doubt, and answers demanded, none of which Daenys had the patience for. She had a different task to take up, something that had begun to consume her ever since the idea had been born in her head.
Joffrey took her lack of an answer as affirmation and as he hurried off to bring Rhaenyra to her, Daenys closed her eye, tipping her head back to lean against the headboard. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind. She had to get up, she had things to do, but she couldn't bring herself to stand. Everything hurt too much. Tears of frustration clouded her uninjured eye. She would be useless to her mother like this, a burden even.
She had to find some way to lock it all up, bury her despair someplace deep where it would not come erupting at a moment's notice. If she was to help her mother win back her throne, she had to be a soldier, and soldiers didn't have time to waste on incessant crying. Not when there was a war to win and a brother to avenge. Her mother did not need some snivelling brat who couldn't keep their emotions in check. She needed a sword forged from Valyrian Steel, and so that is what Daenys had to become for her.
It was easier said than done of course. No one had told her how much it would hurt. How was she supposed to be the Queen's sword if she could barely get out of bed?
Daenys's internal reverie was interrupted by her mother's abrupt arrival, prompting her to hastily scrub at her face, earing all remnants of sorrow.
"Oh my sweet girl, you're awake," Rhaenyra sighed, entering the room with a maester in tow. She sat beside her, smoothing her pale strands away from her face to feel her forehead with the back of her hand. "We've been so worried about you."
"I'm perfectly alright, Mother. I swear."
Another lie. Daenys wondered how many more she'd have to tell. If the gods didn't strike her down for her future crimes, perhaps they'd do so for her fibs.
"Your fever has gone down, thank the gods. Tell the maester if you have any pain so he can give you something for it."
Wordlessly Maester Gerardys handed Daenys a concoction, presumably to drink, "Milk of the poppy, princess. Helpful in small doses for the pain, but I would recommend that you practice endurance. Long-term usage is ill-advised as it causes dependency."
An addict. It would make her an addict, is what he meant to say, although too polite to do so in the company of the Queen. Daenys frowned, her disdain for the drink and its effects warring with the creature inside of her that howled in pain every time she so much as blinked. She needed to take it, but she had seen what it had done to her grandsire. The way it had sucked the life from him, leaving him a husk of dilapidation and weariness.
"I do not wish for it to cloud my senses," she mumbled. "If I am disoriented all the time, I cannot be of use."
Rhaenyra pressed a kiss to her forehead, "You need not do anything to be useful dearest. It is enough that you are here."
It was meant to reassure her, but it did little to assuage the bitter feeling in Daenys's stomach. She looked at Maester Gerardys expectantly who sighed, gesturing at her to drink up.
"If it is necessary, I shall give you something else to increase your energy and alertness, although I must insist that you do not make a habit of it. Like I said, dependency can be deadly."
"What is it that you will give her?"
"Ephedra my Queen," the maester bowed. "Just a minuscule amount to stimulate her out of her stupor."
Daenys's fingers trembled slightly as she brought the vial to her lips. With a determined resolve, she threw her head back and swallowed the liquid in one swift motion, though the taste made her cringe inwardly. She resisted the urge to grimace, careful not to show any sign of discomfort in front of her mother and the watchful maester. When he handed her the second vial, she disposed of it in much the same way, repeating the process, though the taste was no less unpleasant.
As she lowered the empty vial, the maester's concerned gaze lingered on her, his brows furrowed in silent assessment. Daenys met his gaze calmly, hoping to reassure him despite her own doubts.
"Does it help, my dear?" Rhaenyra asked anxiously, her voice tinged with concern.
Daenys hesitated for a moment before nodding, knowing that the medicine was unlikely to provide immediate relief, but she couldn't bear to see the worry in her mother's eyes any longer.
"Of course, Mother."
Maester Gerardys raised an eyebrow, regarding her with skepticism from behind the Queen, and Daenys resisted the urge to squirm beneath his watchful gaze.
There was nothing more she could do, nothing at all to dispel the cloud of misery and anxiety that seemed to hang over her mother like a shroud.
As the maester retreated to give them some privacy, Daenys reached out to grasp her mother's hand, offering what little comfort she could, and preparing her for the onslaught of questions. If she asked her questions first then Rhaenyra would not have time to ask hers.
"Where is Daemon?"
"Harrenhal," Rhaenyra replied, her expression sombre. "He left this morning. There are matters to attend to there."
"And Jace and Baela?"
"Still in Winterfell."
"Did you not...do they not know?" Daenys was unable to say the words.
Her mother's mouth twisted into a grimace, her gaze falling to the floor briefly before meeting her daughter's eyes —one whole and one not— once more.
"They're still negotiating with Cregan Stark," she explained, her tone laced with frustration. "Daemon thought it best for them to remain there for the time being. There's... there's not much they could do here anyway, not without a body for a proper funeral."
A wave of nausea washed over her at the mention of a funeral, her stomach churning uneasily.
"But... do they know? Do they know about...him?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"They do, but there's nothing they can do for him now," and then as if alarmed by the hardening of Daenys's gaze, she shook her head. "And there's nothing you can do either."
Daenys swallowed hard, the bitter taste of despair filling her mouth. It wasn't true. There was still plenty that she could do for him, although she tried not to dwell on the fact that it would be of no help to him anyway.
"And... what about the Baratheons?" she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet chamber. She knew it was a sensitive topic, one that had the potential to cause even more pain and uncertainty, but she needed to know.
Rhaenyra's eyes filled with tears, a sorrowful expression crossing her face as she nodded slowly, "Yes, Lord Borros sent a raven. The Hightowers... they've made him an offer he cannot refuse."
The news filled Daenys with a newfound sense of determination. This was her chance, her opportunity to make a difference, a place to channel her grief and her rage. Without pause, she blurted out, "Then may I go to Storm's En-"
"No!" Rhaenyra interrupted her before she could even finish her sentence, sharp and unwavering. "Absolutely not! I will not send another child of mine to be swallowed by that cursed sea. The Baratheons be damned, we do not need them."
"Mother please, just listen-"
"How dare you be cruel enough to even suggest such a thing. Have you not seen me lose enough? Why do you want me to lose you too?"
"You will not lose me. I will return to you. I promise it."
"He promised too. My sweet boy promised that he'd come back home to me, that he would not engage in any fight, that he'd go as a messenger only. Promises like this mean nothing."
"But I have to. Please, I have to."
"Why must you even go? What will that accomplish? What do you hope to do in that gods forsaken place?"
Rhaena chose that exact moment to walk into the room, her eyes widening in relief at the sight of her sister awake and conscious.
Rhaenyra rose from her seat, her arms wrapping protectively around her as she planted a tender kiss on the crown of Rhaena's head. "Thank the gods, you're here," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "I feel like I need to have my eyes on all of you."
"Rhaena, talk some sense into her," Rhaenyra urged, her voice pleading. "Tell this foolish child she cannot go. Tell her she must not risk her life. Tell her I cannot lose another child, please."
The younger girl looked slightly startled to be thrust into the middle of their argument, but she nodded solemnly, eager to appease the distraught queen.
"Daenys," she began gently, her voice laced with concern. "You're still injured. You need to stay abed and heal before you even think of taking any reckless trips."
Daenys opened her mouth to protest, but Rhaena held up a hand, silencing her. "Please, sister," she begged, her gaze pleading. "Listen to Mother. She's only trying to protect you."
"Where was she thinking of going, anyway?" Rhaena asked Rhaenyra curiously.
"The stupid girl wishes to go back to Storm's End," she replied tersely, her tone tinged with exasperation. "As if she hasn't caused me enough worry already. As if that place has not taken enough from me."
Rhaena froze at the mention of Storm's End, her usually composed demeanour faltering, her hands twisting together anxiously. Her jaw clenched, teeth gritting as she struggled to contain her emotions. She bit her lip, trying to stop them from trembling, but the turmoil within her was evident.
"Why would you go there?" she muttered.
Daenys felt a surge of frustration and grief bubbling up inside her, threatening to spill over. "Because of Luke!" she exploded, her voice cracking with emotion. "I cannot take it anymore. I need to do something... anything, and this is something I know I can do. I will make it so that his journey was not in vain. I need to do this, don't you see?"
Rhaena recoiled as if she had been slapped, her expression stricken with hurt and disbelief. Daenys immediately regretted the harshness in her tone directed at her most gentle sister, her heart aching at the pain she had caused.
People who were hurting sought to spread their pain, and Daenys felt like barbed wire, cutting anyone who got too close. She scarcely recognized herself anymore.
"Rhaena, I..." she began, her voice softening with remorse, but Rhaena held up a hand, silencing her.
"And how will your death make his journey not be in vain? And then I will have lost yet another person," Rhaenyra snapped.
"I will bring you Lord Borros Baratheon's alliance!"
"Are you-" her mother had barely spoken when Daenys interrupted her.
"Or I will bring you his head."
"Are you insane my child?"
She might as well have been.
"No, I am not. That is what my brother set out to do, wasn't it? To bring you his alliance, and they turned him away in the storm, left to fend for himself against the monster who murdered him."
No one moved to point that that said monster was her own husband
"Well, I shall attempt to do the same. And if he does not cooperate, I will bring you his head."
"You cannot go into a man's home and threaten his life!" Rhaenyra exclaimed.
"Yes I can, Mother, and I will."
"If Lord Borros Baratheon dies, there will be no alliance."
"There can be. I am certain the next in line to his seat will be more amenable to our propositions once they see what we are capable of. One way or another I will give you this Mother."
Rhaena watched their interaction silently, but she finally voiced her opinion, something akin to both admiration and apprehension in her eyes, "You really have this all planned out don't you?"
If Daenys was capable of laughter, she would have burst out at the insinuation. She did not have a single thing planned. She was only blathering, without the slightest idea how she would achieve what she sought to do. Her mother was right, one did not just murder a man in his own home, and yet Daenys's voice of reason had gone mute, the vocal chords severed along with her eye. All that was left was this all-consuming urge to do something, anything that would fill the emptiness that yawned within her.
"I need to do this Mother. These lords swore their fealty to you when Grandsire named you heir. Now it is time they fulfilled their vows. We must show them what is done to oath breakers. We cannot allow them to simply toss you aside now that they have found a man to crown. We cannot allow them to forsake you without consequence."
"But to kill them," Rhaena began, "perhaps there is a more peaceful way to go about it."
"The Greens did it too!" Daenys bargained, the image of Lord Caswell's body hanging from the arches flashing in her mind and making her want to throw up. It was unlikely that he had hanged himself, especially since she had always known him to be one of her mother's staunchest supporters. Who knew how many more the Greens had killed in their quest to usurp the throne?
If they were willing to commit horrific crimes, then so was she. Only a monster could defeat another monster, and she was willing to shoulder the burden, stomach her own rot so that her siblings would not have to. She would do it so that their hands remained unstained.
"You know I am right," she continued. "They will keep turning their backs on you, or making outrageous demands unless they are shown what happens to those who have forgotten their oaths."
Rhaenyra massaged her temples, feeling a headache building.
Rhaenyra watched her daughter with a heavy heart, torn between her instinct to protect and her desire for revenge for the children she had lost.
"Daenys, please," she asked again, her voice tinged with desperation. "I cannot bear to lose another child. I cannot bear to lose you. Why must it be you who has to go?"
"I'm not going to die, Mother. I will come back, I swear it. I swear it on your name. But I have to do this. For Luke. For you."
Her mother's grief gave Daenys the strength to finally pull herself out of bed and step towards her. She kept her steps slow and measured, so as to not alert her spectators of her condition. They did not need to know that every step she took sent molten fire through her face and that her nerves alternated between being completely numb and submerged in acid. When she had closed the distance a sufficient amount, she got down on her knees, keeping her eye on her Rhaenyra all the while.
With trembling hands, she took her mother's hands in her own, pressing them gently to her lips in a gesture of reverence and devotion. "Let me be your sword, my Queen Mother," she implored, her voice steady despite the tumult of emotions raging within her. "Let me do what I can to ensure that you are the one who sits on the Iron Throne, as the true heir. I will be whatever you need me to be, just give me your blessing."
"Oh my sweet girl, you always have my blessing. You are my blessing," Rhaenyra bent down to kiss her daughter's forehead. "I just worry for you. I will always worry for you, it is what a mother does."
"I will return. There will be so many more battles to fight, and I must be by your side through them all. I cannot leave. I will not."
"Then will you also promise me that you will at least try to find a peaceful solution first?"
"Mother-"
Rhaenyra shook her head, "I will not make the mistake of sending you as a mere envoy. You may do whatever you see fit as long as it allows you to return safe and unharmed, but I need to know that you will try to be level-headed. I know you, and I trust your judgement."
That might have been true, long ago, during times of peace, but later Rhaenyra would find that one never truly knew another in grief. Her daughter's judgement was not what it once used to be, and the things she would do would horrify her.
Still, she would not stop loving her. You never stopped loving your firstborn, no matter what they did, no matter how little you recognized them.
As Daenys made her way to her own chambers, she passed by a single closed door. The urge to wrench it open into Luke's chambers tugged at her heartstrings relentlessly, but she resisted, knowing deep down that he wouldn't be there.
She wanted so desperately to see him sitting at his desk penning that letter he never got to send her, or maybe he'd be sprawled out on the floor, pouring over one of the books Maester Gerardys lent him, reciting the passages out loud. She'd trip over his gangly limbs and scold him for it, and in return, he'd trip her again on purpose, and she would never forget the sound of his laughter.
Logic told her that he was gone, but her heart clung to the hope of seeing him once more, alive and well, to absolve her of her guilt. It was over, yet still, she clung, and she did not open that door, putting it off for a little longer.
Finally reaching her own chambers, Daenys pushed open the door with a sense of trepidation, unsure of what she would find within. But as she stepped inside, she was met with a scene frozen in time, everything exactly as she had left it. It not have been surprising, as she had been away less than a moon, but it felt as though an entire lifetime had passed.
Her bed, neatly made with the same embroidered linens she had cherished since childhood, beckoned to her like an old friend, and the sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting colourful beams on the walls.
Daenys closed the door behind her, and in the privacy of her solitude, she allowed herself to collapse to the floor. She pressed her forehead to her knees and took deep shuddering breaths. If she was to do this, she would need more of that concoction the maester had given her, addiction be damned. It was beginning to take effect now, taking the edge off just the slightest bit, enough to keep her from passing out.
She spared a brief thought for the journey ahead of her. Going to Storm's End meant seeing Cassandra Baratheon again. It meant possibly having to kill the father of her dearest friend, and no matter how much she had expressed her distaste for said father, no one could forgive that sort of crime.
A/N: likes/reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, would love to hear your thoughts <3
Summary: Far away from home and on the run from her husband Aemond, Daenys Velaryon retreats to a place that once was a refuge, but now has become a harrowing reminder of her losses.
Word Count: 4.2k
The night draped its cloak over Shipbreaker Bay, stars twinkling above as if they were winking secrets to each other. Daenys had not even uttered the command, but Silverwing had known that Storm's End would be their first destination. Below them, the sea stretched out like a vast expanse of liquid glass, its surface reflecting the starlight in shimmering ripples.
Under different circumstances, Daenys would have marvelled at the tranquillity of the scene beneath her, but right now, the peacefulness of the bay only served to stoke the flames of her fury. It was calm, much too calm, and still, she could not see a single damned thing.
As she scanned the soft lapping waters below, Daenys squinted, straining her right eye in a futile attempt to find something, anything that might offer a glimmer of hope, but it was too little too late.
Lucerys Velaryon was gone forever, and if she thought she would simply come across his floating form in the sea, days after he had passed, she would be the greatest fool in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Logic dictated that the search was futile, but what was logic in the face of love? What candle could logic hold in the face of devotion so unwavering?
Too little, too late.
The adrenaline that had fueled her flight was beginning to wane, leaving her feeling dizzy and disoriented. There was blood in her mouth, blood hardening in a crimson shell over her skin and under her fingernails. It was in her nose when she breathed and if she tried hard enough she could have drowned in it.
Perhaps she deserved to.
Despite realizing the futility of it, Daenys urged her dragon to circle Shipbreaker's Bay once more. In a more lucid state, she might have wondered if anyone saw her, for a beast of Silverwing's size would not be missed, especially flying this close to the surface, but nothing mattered anymore, certainly not the gawking eyes of some stranger who stayed awake at such an hour to watch the skies.
She shivered as the cold air whipped through her unbound hair, icy fingers reaching through her nightgown to freeze the very breath in her lungs before it escaped. Nonetheless, she could feel a scream building in her chest, the terrible kind that went on and on and never stopped until you ran out of a voice to give it. The kind that didn't stop until you were dead.
Or someone else was.
As she dug her heels into Silverwing's side once more, the dragon bristled with indignation, a silent protest against the fruitless circling. The princess could feel the tension in the creature's muscles, a silent communication of dissent. For a moment, it hovered in the air, its massive wings beating against the night sky, before decisively veering in the opposite direction.
Daenys felt a pang of frustration, but she was too exhausted to argue with her companion. She slumped against Silverwing's back, allowing the dragon to carry her wherever it wished, her fingers loosening their hold on the reigns ever so slightly.
It wasn't long before Silverwing began to descend, wings gliding gracefully as they approached one of the smaller, more isolated islands scattered between King's Landing and Dragonstone. Daenys could see the outline of its rugged coastline, illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight, but instead of landing on the sandy beach, the dragon came to a stop at the water's edge, legs sinking into the shallow surf.
Daenys, too weary to protest, slid off Silverwing's back unceremoniously, her body crashing into the water with a muted splash. For a moment, she lay there, the cold embrace of the sea enveloping her like a comforting blanket.
The sensation of being submerged brought forth a flood of memories, memories that seemed to rise from the depths of her subconscious like spectres from the past. She closed her right eye against the sting of the saltwater, allowing herself to be enveloped by the eerie silence that surrounded her.
She had been here before. This was where she and her brothers had spent many a pleasant afternoon when they were avoiding duties or simply wanted some time to themselves, away from the court gossip. But more than that, she had been like this before, in another time and another place
As the chill seeped into her bones, she forced herself to stand, her muscles protesting with every movement.
She was ten years old again, standing on the shores of Driftmark, begging for her father to return. She was ten years old again, her heart heavy with the disbelief of loss, wading into the biting cold waters as she searched tirelessly, her hands reaching out in vain for a glimmer of hope, for any sign that the one she sought might still be out there, somewhere amidst the rolling waves. But no matter how hard she searched, no matter how desperately she called out his name, he remained forever beyond her reach, lost to the depths of the ocean, swallowed whole by the merciless sea.
She was a child again, learning for the first time how to be someone entirely new. Ten years she had known her father, and it had taken just as long for her to become someone who could live without him. In fact, there were days when she still felt like all her progress had been for nothing, when she felt as if she hadn't grown up at all. She was still a child. A tall child, but a child nonetheless.
She had known Luke for longer. She had been his sister for much longer and she didn't think she had it in her to accustom herself to a world where that was no longer one of her titles.
The mix of tears and saltwater stung, causing her eyes to burn with a searing heat. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision, but that only seemed to exacerbate the discomfort. With a grimace, she reached up to wipe away the moisture, only to recoil as her fingers brushed against the tender mass of flesh and blood.
There was something about the sensation that jolted her into action; the primal instinct of a wounded person to seek out more wounds. Gritting her teeth against the throbbing ache, Daenys tore the bottom of her nightgown with a swift, decisive motion, fashioning a makeshift rag to clean the blood from her face.
With trembling hands, she took a deep, steadying breath, trying to steel herself for what was to come. Then, with a resolve born of desperation, she pressed the damp cloth to her injured eye, wincing as the rough fabric made contact with her tender skin.
At first, she couldn't feel anything, her face numb from the shock of the injury, but as she continued to scrub, the pain began to seep through the numbness, radiating outward like tendrils of fire.
They said dragons didn't burn, but here she was, a living pyre.
Gritting her teeth against the agony, her breath coming in ragged gasps, Daenys scrubbed harder. The more it hurt, the harder she drove her fingers.
Pain. Pain. Pain.
Everything fucking hurt.
Everything was fragmented, and behind her Silverwing let out a keening sound.
There was blood, so much blood, staining the cloth a dark, ominous crimson. Daenys cursed under her breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she fought to keep her composure. If she was going to go home, then she could not do so in such a state, and so she persisted, scrubbing and rinsing until the cloth came away mostly clean. Her hands trembled with exhaustion, her fingers slick with sweat and blood as she continued to work. It felt as though she had been there for an eternity, her teeth ground to stubs, her lips bitten to a pulp.
Until she felt as though she had scrubbed her skin and peeled it from her skull, leaving her a bundle of exposed nerves.
After she was done, she just slumped there in the water, too exhausted to move. Her dragon reached out one of its massive silver wings to gently nudge her closer to the shore, letting out another pitiful screech, as if afraid her rider would drown herself.
Dragging herself out of the water, Daenys stumbled onto the shore, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. She collapsed onto the sandy beach, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stared up at the night sky, the canopy of stars twinkling overhead like distant beacons.
It took her several more moments to gather the courage needed to trudge toward the little cabin ahead of her.
It stood as a silent testament to the passage of time, a relic of bygone souls who had once sought solace within its humble walls. A minuscule space, barely more than a glorified shack, it held a wealth of memories and emotions that transcended its crude appearance.
As Daenys pushed open the creaking door and stepped inside, the musty scent of age and neglect greeted her like an old friend. The interior of the cabin was dimly lit by the soft glow of moonlight streaming in through the cracks, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floorboards. Despite its modest size, the space was filled with an eclectic assortment of odds and ends, each one a cherished memento of a life lived.
She remembered the day when she and her brothers had first stumbled upon this forgotten refuge, their hearts heavy with the weight of their own burdens. Slowly, painstakingly, they had transformed it into something akin to a home, a sanctuary where the whispers of their bastardy could not penetrate.
Along one wall, a weathered shelf stood sentinel, its surface littered with an assortment of trinkets and treasures. Jace's Old Valyrian language books, with their worn leather covers and faded pages, sat alongside Daenys's collection of fairytales and histories, their spines cracked from years of use.
Above the shelf, Jace's maps were tacked to the mouldy planks, their yellowed parchment adorned with intricate lines and symbols. Beside them, Joffrey's sketches adorned the walls, their crude lines and smudged charcoal capturing whatever had caught the young boy's fancy.
It was a haphazard jumble of knowledge and imagination.
In the center hung a tapestry of sorts, its vibrant colours and intricate patterns standing out against the faded backdrop of the rotting wooden planks, and just the sight of it sent a bolt of grief so sharp through Daenys's chest that it had her gasping for breath. It was something that she and Luke had created together, a labour of love born from countless hours spent in the quiet solitude of the cabin. They had worked on it in secret, stealing precious moments away from the prying eyes of their brothers, who were often too preoccupied with their own pursuits to notice their absence. Jace, in particular, had been prone to teasing Luke for his "ladylike" talents, but to Daenys, her brother's skill with a needle was nothing short of remarkable.
He had practically shadowed Maester Gerardys everywhere he went, but when the older man refused to let the young prince practice his skills with a needle on flesh, deeming it much too unsavoury, Lucerys Velaryon had taken his practice to Daenys's septas. They had been delighted with him of course, his stitches neater than any they had seen.
In another life, he would have made an admirable maester.
Daenys remembered the hours they had spent together, huddled over the tapestry, their laughter —Luke's mostly, and Daenys's annoyed grimaces— echoing through the confines of the cabin as they worked side by side.
She traced the edges of the thing now, her fingers lingering over the cluster of hyacinths, red, purple, and blue —their mother's favourite. It was obvious where Luke's neat and precise stitches ended and where her own haphazard and loose ones began, giving the tapestry a lopsided and uneven appearance. But Luke had insisted that they hang it up, much to Daenys's embarrassment.
And so, there it hung, a tangible reminder of her loss, the colours dimmed due to grime and age.
Despite the passage of time, the cabin remained frozen in a state of suspended animation, a snapshot of a life that had long since faded into memory. And as Daenys stood amidst the relics of her past, she couldn't help but feel a pang of bittersweet longing for the innocence and naivety of youth.
Squinting against the encroaching darkness, Daenys rummaged through the clutter of odds and ends that littered the small cabin, her heart pounding in her chest as she searched for the instruments they had surely left behind. The sense of urgency that gripped her was palpable, a desperate need to stem the flow of blood that threatened to drain the life from her wounded face.
As she sifted through the tangled mess of fabric and trinkets, her fingers brushed against something cold and metallic—a needle. Relief flooded through her, mingling with the lingering dread that coiled in the pit of her stomach.
Swallowing back a sob, Daenys forced herself to focus, pushing aside her fear and revulsion as she prepared to mend her own wound. She was no maester or seamstress, and the memory of her uneven stitches on the tapestry made her stomach churn with unease, but she knew that there was no other option. She had nowhere else to go, and the thought of succumbing to her injuries felt like a coward's way out.
With trembling hands, she gathered the needle and thread, along with an old bottle of something that smelled vaguely of alcohol. Jace must have snuck it into the cabin, she realized, for she couldn't recall ever seeing it before. The maesters had always said that alcohol served as a good disinfectant, and Daenys imagined that Dornish sweet wine was as good as anything.
With a deep breath, she lowered herself to the floor, bracing herself. She could feel the sensation returning to her face, a tingling numbness giving way to a fiery agony that threatened to consume her whole. Gripping the needle tightly in her hand, she threw back her head and downed a deep gulp of the alcohol, the bitter taste burning a trail down her throat.
The liquid courage burned like fire in her belly, fueling her resolve as she prepared to do what must be done. With trembling hands, she doused the tip of the needle in the alcohol, the sharp sting of the disinfectant making her hiss. She could feel the tension coiling in her muscles, a primal instinct urging her to flee from the impending agony.
With a grim determination, she pressed the needle to her skin, and fresh iron flooded her mouth as she instinctively closed her teeth around her tongue. Pausing for a moment, she scrabbled around for something to prevent her from biting her tongue clean off. The only thing she managed to find was an old scabbard and as she stuck it between her teeth, she tried not to think about whom it belonged to.
With each stitch, the pain intensified, radiating outward like a thousand iron claws, scraping her raw. Daenys could feel the blood pooling beneath her skin, the sharp prick of the needle piercing her flesh with each careful movement, but she refused to falter, refused to slow down.
Her hands shook with exhaustion, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she worked to close the wound, and as wave after wave of nausea washed over her, Daenys felt her resolve begin to waver. Her muscles screamed in protest, every fibre of her being crying out for relief, and her fingernails digging bloody crescents into her palm as she fought to maintain her focus. Each movement sent shockwaves of agony coursing through her body, threatening to drag her down into the depths of unconsciousness.
Without a looking glass to guide her, she found it difficult to gauge where exactly the needle needed to go. Her sense of touch was dulled by the relentless throbbing in her face, making it nearly impossible to distinguish between injury and whole flesh.
Perhaps none of her was whole anymore, and soon she would look like how she felt. A gaping bloody wound.
Muffled sobs escaped her lips as she worked, her tears mingling with the blood that stained her hands. With trembling fingers, Daenys reached up to feel along the rough, uneven line of the jagged scar that now marred her left eye, but at least the bleeding had slowed to a sluggish trickle.
Taking another shaky sip of the wine, Daenys poured the remainder of the bottle over her scar, the burning sensation sending a shiver down her spine. She was made of agony, her entire body screaming at her to stop and rest. But if she gave in now, she knew that she might never wake up again.
With a heavy sigh, Daenys flung the bloody needle aside and leaned her head back against the cool wall. To distract herself, she removed the worn-out leather piece from her mouth, her fingers tracing the ugly stitches that marked the sigil of House Velaryon and the initials L.V. Tears welled in her right eye as she examined the unremarkable object, a flood of memories washing over her like a tidal wave.
It was a simple gift, nothing extravagant or grand, and she remembered the occasion vividly—it had been Lucerys's 10th name-day, and she had spent nearly three months painstakingly crafting the thing for him, pouring herself into every stitch.
When Luke had seen the finished product, he had laughed himself silly at the sight of the misshapen lettering, and Daenys had been furious with him at the time, her pride wounded by his mocking laughter. Eventually, though, the leather piece had become his favourite possession, and Daenys couldn't help the pang of hurt she felt at the thought of him leaving it here, abandoned and forgotten.
She felt a sickening wave of nausea wash over her, her body convulsing with dry heaves as she struggled to contain her emotions. But no matter how hard she tried, nothing came out. She hadn't eaten anything in over a week, her appetite ravaged by grief and despair.
Daenys felt sick to her very core, her stomach churning with a nauseating mix of sorrow and anger. She wanted to purge herself of all the misery that threatened to consume her, to turn herself inside out and shake off the weight of her burdens. Her body convulsed with dry heaves but all she spat up was acidic bile and blood.
Then she wanted to scream again, and the scream that had been building inside her for so long finally erupted in a molten stream of fire and blood. It was a primal, guttural scream, tearing through her like a beast unleashed from its cage. Each wail echoed through the confines of the cabin, and outside her dragon screeched in tandem, a chorus of torture between the two of them.
Her fists slammed against the floor with a sickening thud, the impact sending shockwaves of pain coursing through her battered body. Blood flowed freely from her wounded hands, mingling with the tears that streamed down her face in a crimson cascade.
She probably tore a few stitches loose that way, but still, she screamed. She screamed until her throat was raw and her voice hoarse, until there was nothing left but the empty echo of her own anguish. She screamed until she could scream no more, until the darkness threatened to swallow her whole.
Grief is just love with nowhere to go.
That's what her father had told her, but it had to have been a lie. This felt nothing like love. Love was not meant to be hideous. Love was not meant to scald your insides and wreak carnage like this.
This was rage.
Rage that rotted you from the inside out. Rage that remained even as whimpered prayers and incoherent pleas crawled out of the gates of her lips to ricochet off the dilapidated ceiling, unanswered, unheard. They fell right back onto her blinded face, never reaching where they were supposed to, although Daenys didn't quite know where she meant to send them.
All she knew was that somewhere above her, the gods were laughing, laughing at her folly, laughing at her naivete, for ever thinking that men could change, that the man she loved would put aside his grudges for something as insignificant as her.
In the dim, shadowy corner of the little cabin on the isolated island, Daenys allowed herself to crumble under the weight of her grief. It was a heavy burden, carrying the dead on one's shoulders, an albatross around one's neck, as her father liked to say. She sobbed over the death of her beloved grandfather, whom she had not been allowed to grieve for. For all the time she had not been able to spend with him as a result of her family having to leave King's Landing after the incident of Aemond's eye. She shed tears for her brother, whose absence loomed large in the empty spaces of the cabin, mourning all the memories she had yet to make with him, and all the things she had never gotten to tell him.
She mourned her mother too, who had lost her father, her son, and her birthright successively. Then she wept for Jace who had lost one of his closest friends in the blink of an eye, for young Viserys and Aegon, who would no longer have the joy of knowing Lucerys as a brother, and finally for her unborn sibling who would never know him at all.
And finally, she cried a little for herself, even if she did not deserve it. Her mother thought her a traitor, and so did the rest of her living family. She had nowhere to go, and no one to call home, and no one would care if she perished on this shore. She did not deserve to grieve for herself, having been married to her brother's killer, for having loved him, and perhaps for loving him still, and she abhorred herself for it even more than she abhorred him.
Although perhaps, her grief was tainted by guilt as well. Losing an eye was an excruciating ordeal, and losing it to someone else was something unbearable. How could she have expected Aemond to have forgotten, to have forgiven the loss of something so crucial to a person's being. It was all her fault. She should have been more vigilant. She should have known. She should have done something earlier to mitigate the loss. She should have cut out her stupid eye that night in Driftmark and thrust it into the Queen's hands, her hands sticky with blood and penance.
As exhaustion settled over her like a heavy blanket, Daenys lay curled up in a fetal position, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her grief. Her mouth hung open, her breaths coming in laboured gasps as she struggled to draw air into her shrivelled lungs. Every movement sent a jolt of pain rippling through her aching body.
Her senses dulled to a faded throb, the world around her blurring into a haze of indistinct shapes and muted colours. Her right eye, swollen and bloodshot, struggled to remain open, the effort of keeping it focused exhausting her beyond measure. Black spots danced in her vision, swirling and twisting like shadows in the dim light of the cabin.
In the depths of her exhaustion, Daenys found herself longing for the comforting embrace of her parents. It was a childish longing, a yearning for the safety and security of her childhood days when her mother and father had been her protectors and confidants. She knew she didn't deserve their comfort, didn't deserve to see them again after all that had transpired, but still, the desire burned within her, rotten and selfish.
She wondered if she could summon the courage to face her mother, to stand before her and plead her case. It was her whole purpose for escaping the Red Keep, to join her mother and fight for her claim to the throne, but the mere thought of rejection, of being turned away by the one person she had hoped would accept her, filled her with a bone-deep dread.
Otto Hightower's words echoed in her mind, a haunting reminder of the doubts and fears that plagued her every waking moment. If she turned her away, if she met Daenys with the same hatred and loathing that Otto said she would, Daenys would not be able to bear it. Rhaenyra Targaryen was the one person whose rejection she could not stomach, whose disdain would cut in ways that would never heal.
If your own creator despised you, what else was there left to do except cease existing?
A/N: likes/reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, would love to hear your thoughts <3 Comment to be added to the taglist
