"The blood of Lucerys will be repaid tenfold. A brother for a brother."
In which Daenys Velaryon, the oldest child of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, must come to terms with the fact that the man she loves has committed an unforgivable crime...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Locked outside of my home, and there's music inside that I don't understand. There is smoke inside but nothing is burning. Perhaps I am the one burning."
⋇⋆✦⋆⋇
Daenys did not know how she did it. She did not know how she dragged herself out of the water, how she numbly shrugged off her sodden cloak to wrap the remains of her brother and his dragon, and how Floris Baratheon was safely returned to the care of her sisters. Daenys did not know how she did any of these things because, to her knowledge, she hadn't moved at all. Her limbs were mechanical things, the gods puppeteering her with stiff jerky movements, like something so desperately trying to seem human, but was not.
She wondered briefly, if it would have been better to bury the remains right there in the sand, but that didn't feel right. The sight of him would indeed destroy their mother, but Lucerys Velaryon deserved a proper funeral. He deserved to be sent off to the gods in a manner befitting a true prince. He deserved better.
Daenys did not remember her journey back to Dragonstone, her memory fragmented and disjointed. With a trembling hand, she dared to peel back the edge of her cloak, stealing a furtive glance at her melancholy cargo. A small, forlorn pale hand protruded from the folds of fabric, its fingers tightly clenched into a fist, and a dark leather cord peeked out from between the swollen digits. Summoning all her strength, she swallowed back the bile rising in her throat and forced herself to observe the hand more closely. With painstaking care, she pried apart her brother's cold fingers, revealing the object hidden within—a rusted iron anchor, its surface pitted and worn with age.
Tucking the anchor into the folds of her cloak, Daenys felt a shudder course through her body, a cold chill that seemed to penetrate her very bones. But despite the discomfort, she refused to dwell on the gruesome reality of her brother's demise. Instead, she focused on the simple act of intertwining her fingers with his, seeking solace in the touch of his cold, clammy hand.
It felt unnatural, this communion with the dead, but she pushed aside her revulsion. She was just a sister, holding her brother's hand, taking him home.
As Silverwing landed on the familiar shores of Dragonstone, the night had fully enveloped the island, casting a blanket of darkness over its ancient stones. The stars glittered overhead, their light dancing upon the surface of the sea, yet despite the beauty of the night, the castle felt terribly empty to Daenys, and she hesitated for a moment, uncertain of where to turn.
Reluctantly, she began to make her way through the silent halls, wandering a little aimlessly as her footsteps echoed in the stillness of the night. And there he was, Ser Atticus, her loyal shield, his figure illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Relief flooded through her, nearly overwhelming her senses. She wanted to run to him, to throw herself into his arms and never let go.
