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CHAPTER FOUR,
House of the Dragon

[ season one, episode six ]

DAENYS
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Hair like dirt. Daenys' joy turned to ashes in her mouth. His hair was a dark tuft atop his little head, and she imagined his eyes would be of similar colour when opened after his slumber. If he were lucky, he would blink violet like she did, and the whispers would not grow so loud. But if he were unlucky, the words in the wind would garner enough power to channel a battering storm.

Poor doomed thing.

She stared at him in his little bassinet, gently rocking it from side to side to lull him into a deeper sleep. The threads in the cradle were entwined with the Velaryon sigil, and his blankets were pale blue, like the sea. Occasionally, he squeezed one hand into a tight fist and rubbed it across his face.

"I think Joffrey is a fine name," Jacaerys mused. He stood to the side, his gaze bouncing from their mother to the babe.

Rhaenyra's hair was unbound, flowing like molten silver over her shoulders and down her back. The handmaidens washed it after her earlier toil. She had a difficult birth, it was said, and Daenys could only imagine how unclean it could get. Blood and sweat and tears, all running amok.

"Do you?" Rhaenyra murmured. She looked utterly worn out, the purple circles under her eyes a deeper shade than usual. "Your father chose it."

"Where is Father?" Lucerys chimed in. He had grown bored of staring at the sleeping babe rather swiftly and had taken to organizing Joffrey's gifts in order of size. No doubt he wanted to keep some for himself.

Her mother leaned on the palm of her hand, legs stretched out across the velvet divan, "He should be back shortly."

Their father was not in the Keep as often as they would like, but his sporadic appearances made up for it. He was funny and tender and always brought them something from the city, or wherever it was he ventured. A pearl hair clip was Daenys' personal favorite, and she wore it whenever the chance arose.

Lucerys nodded and went back to organizing the wooden toys. Jacaerys gazed into the cradle and reached down to curl his finger around Joffrey's tiny hand, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the babe's flesh.

Her twin brother was always so gentle with his siblings, utterly devoted to steering them from harm and showering them with his affections — as caring as the eldest should be. Nothing at all like Aegon was with Helaena, Aemond and Daeron. Aegon seemed more devoted to steering his siblings toward harm rather than away from it.

"Dany, sweet girl, what is it?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice a little rougher than usual.

Daenys tore her gaze from Joffrey. She peered over her shoulder at her mother, lounging on the Targaryen-red divan. There was concern etched in her face. That same look always resided there when Daenys was quiet for too long. It meant she was thinking deeply, which often ended in tears or barbed questions.

"I was admiring Joffrey," Daenys stated plainly. "He is smaller than Lucerys was."

At the mention of his name, Lucerys' head snapped up, "I was small?"

"You all were, issa dōna," said Rhaenyra. Her amethyst eyes settled on Daenys again, and her look of concern was replaced by one of fondness, "But your sister was the smallest. The maesters said Jace was not keen on sharing in my womb, so Daenys could not grow as sufficiently as he did."

A soft huff of amusement left Daenys' lips, "That does not surprise me. Jace cannot share even now."

Her twin brother scowled, "That isn't true. Mother, I do share. I gave Luke my sword!"

"Ah, yes. The wooden one that rotted because you hadn't used it for months?" Smugly, Daenys arched a singular brow, which only served to aggravate Jace further. "You only gave it to Luke so you would have an unfair advantage over him during your sparring sessions. Rotten wood snaps easier."

Lucerys gasped dramatically. He still had that sword now, but rarely used it in favour of his new one, a gift from their father after a prolonged absence. "What? Is that true?"

"No!" Jace insisted. He pouted, as always when he was displeased ( or caught in a lie ). "Mother!"

Daenys rolled her eyes, "It is true!"

Lucerys' nose wrinkled indignantly, "Jace!"

"Mother!"

"Don't lie!"

"Mother!"

"Daenys! Boys! Lykiri!" Rhaenyra demanded softly, her tongue instinctively slipping into High Valryian; commanding children and dragons was surprisingly alike. She pressed a finger to her lips and gestured to the cradle, where Joffrey was sleeping soundly. "Enough. Come, now. The three of you are above bickering over such trivial matters."

Jace lowered his head in shame, "Sorry."

"Sorry," Daenys added.

"I didn't do anything," Lucerys mumbled under his breath, balancing a toy dragon atop the turret of a wooden castle figure.

Daenys reached down and ruffled his mop of dark hair. She loved him more than anything in the world ━ Jace, too. He was sweeter than honeyed milk. Incapable of malice. When she looked at him, the pangs of envy she often felt when their mother showed him the affection he deserved as much as she was like a knife in the heart. How could she be so revolting?

Daenys wanted to be Rhaenyra's favourite, for reasons beyond her understanding; she was born with the longing, it felt like. Some days, she wondered what it would be like to be an only child. And then other days, she couldn't imagine a world without her brothers, and could not bear the thought of a life devoid of their existence.

Being an elder sister was a fulfilling duty, but it came with burdens, as everything did.

"Daenys," Rhaenyra said. She beckoned her to come closer, "I need to speak with you."

A coil of dread tightened in the pit of Daenys' stomach. Her mother couldn't read minds, could she? No, the Targaryens were not so close to the Gods that they could transcend normal human capabilities.

Nevertheless, Daenys obeyed.

Up close, her mother's exhaustion was more obvious. The shadows under her eyes looked like purple bruises, and she was heavy-lidded in her stare. She reached over and wrapped her fingers ( vacant of their usual rings ) around Daenys' hand, but there was little strength behind it ━ if any at all. She should be resting, Daenys thought. Where is Father?

Her mother flashed her lovely smile, warm and amiable, "I have heard you made a new friend today."

"Who told you that?" Daenys blurted. She had almost forgotten about her little escapade to the Dragonpit. Someone else had not let it slip their mind so easily, hence her mother's knowledge. Her immediate assumptions settled on Aeron.

Surprisingly, Rhaenyra's smile did not wilt, "Ser Steffon Darklyn."

Damn him. He was almost too loyal.

"How did he━"

"━I am not displeased with you, sweet girl," Rhaenyra interrupted. Her fingers tightened around Daenys' hand, just so. "It is a wise thing to make friends in this place. The Keep is too vast to navigate alone. You have befriended a girl as sweet as you."

"We didn't stray far. I only wanted to show Cathlyn my dragon," Daenys said, her words spilling from her lips like vomit. She could never lie to her mother, not even if she wanted to. "She is Lord Jasper Wylde's daughter. We found her, crying in the stables. I thought Bloodfyre would be the perfect thing to lighten her mood."

Her mother nodded. "I see." Then, she shifted over and patted the divan, implying she wanted Daenys to sit. And so she did. "Why was she crying?"

Daenys sank into the pillows, gazing down at her fingers, twining them together like Helaena's embroidery threads, "She was reprimanded for striking her brother."

"How?" Rhaenyra pried. She slung an arm around Daenys' shoulders and tugged her closer, into her side. "It must have been extreme, to reduce your friend to tears."

"It was. Her father ordered the septa to strike Cathlyn's hand with a stick. Three times, I might add. Don't you think that's horrid?"

Her mother's expression curdled, "'Tis, yes. How old is the girl?"

"Seven."

"Young, then," Rhaenyra mused. She smoothed her thumb over Daenys' forehead, pushing a loose band of curls backward. "Unfortunately, it is something we cannot meddle in — how others discipline their children. Lord Jasper may take it as a slight against him. The man's pride is fickle. So long as Cathlyn is not succumbing to severe harm, which she is not, we must allow it."

A ball of heat flared in Daenys' chest, "That is hardly fair. We cannot say anything to Lord Jasper because it may hurt his feelings? Damage his stupid pride? And continue to let him discipline Cathlyn for such small matters, but not her brother, who was the one to provoke her in the first place?"

"I know, Daenys, it is a shameful practice," Rhaenyra assured, her hand gently squeezing the flesh of Daenys' arm. It reminded Daenys of how Cathlyn had comforted herself in the stables, with thick, hot tears running down her face, little fingers flexing around her forearm. She needed someone, like Daenys had her mother. "But I cannot overrule the King's authority, as you well know. Lord Jasper has a seat on his council. My words will be as good as wind, issa dōna."

She pressed a kiss to the top of Daenys' head, stroking her hair back and tucking it behind her ears. There was no room in Daenys' heart to carry resentment toward her mother. This matter was beyond her control, despite her status as heir. She spoke only the truth. Words are wind. Especially where men are concerned, hearing it from a woman.

Of course.

Daenys imagined herself a boat in a bed of tranquil water, distanced from the bustling harbor. There were no oars to steer her toward land, no gale, no ripples in the water. Someone was calling out to her, attempting to reel her in from shore, yet she did not shift, not even an inch, not even when she gritted her teeth and tried to propel herself forward. The boat was stagnant.

Was that how it felt to be a woman? To perceive things from a distance, to be reeled in tantalisingly, yet unable to move or do anything of significance?

Daenys was only a girl, but she felt she understood.

No wonder Alicent Hightower always looked so miserable. Her boat probably hadn't shifted since she married the King. What was it like, Daenys wondered, to float and watch and yearn for so many years?

Lonely, she'd like to wager.

In the corner of the room, Jace and Luke were busy debating which toy would be Joffrey's favorite. The way of boys. Carefree, from birth to death. There was a broad selection; the people of the court were generous in their gifts. From where she sat, Daenys silently decided his favorite would be the wooden dragon figurine.

Speaking of.

She peered up at her mother through two curtains of thick, black eyelashes, "Will Joffrey have a dragon?"

"I believe your brothers have already selected an egg," Rhaenyra answered. "Another of Syrax's."

"Oh. Then I will pray to the Seven that it hatches," Daenys mused. Aemond's egg never hatched in his cradle. He was still without a mount now ━ the only one. "Yesterday, the Dragonkeepers told me they think Bloodfyre will one day be as large as Meleys. She is growing rapidly now."

Her mother tapped the very tip of Daenys' nose, her warm smile splitting to reveal teeth and gums, "Much like you."

Daenys rolled her eyes playfully, "I don't think I want to grow. Children seem much
happier than men and women grown."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. They do." She paused then, her eyes flickering over Daenys' face curiously. They blazed like amethysts on a hearth, crystalline and bright. "What of you? Are you happy?"

The answer was easy enough.

"Yes. Very much so, especially now that I have another brother." Her violet eyes clashed with her mother's. They were identical, whirlpools of purple bestowed down to them from their ancient Valyrian ancestors. "And you? Are you happy, Mother?"

Rhaenyra's smile faltered like she wasn't expecting her question to rebound. She shifted, leaning forward so her forehead grazed Daenys.' She smelled strongly of cloves and the jasmine oils her handmaidens used to cleanse her hair. "So long as my children surround me, my happiness is enduring."

And without us?

Daenys dared not ask.

Her mother was to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms someday. The Realm needed a content ruler to oversee them, and so Daenys silently vowed to remain by Rhaenyra's side as long as she could, marriage prospects be damned. It would not bode well for her mother's reign to begin in despondency. A miserable Queen was an omen to the people; it carried over the city like a dark, brooding stormcloud, casting an immense shadow over the smallfolk like Balerion the Black Dread had come to flap his leathery wings in rebellion once again.

Rhaenyra cradled the side of Daenys' head and pressed a soft kiss to the flesh between her brows. She was always gentle, no matter the circumstances. That was where Jace had inherited his gentleness from. Even when reprimanding her children, Rhaenyra never raised her voice — not if she didn't have to, which was a true rarity.

Quite often, Daenys discreetly observed Alicent Hightower's parenting methods and compared them to her mother's. Where Rhaenyra's edges were sanded and smooth, Alicent's were sharp and jagged, often prone to unintentionally nicking skin — drawing pinpricks of blood. She did not show half as much affection toward her children as Rhaenyra did. That much was apparent in Helaena's hesitancy with any manner of touch, in Aemond's near-impenetrable emotional barricades, Daeron's absence in Oldtown, and Aegon's innate desire to seek the affection he could not siphon from his mother, and thus finding it in the lowliest of places.

She felt sorry for them, admittedly. Even Aegon. Of course, she did not entirely blame Alicent for how her children had flourished; she felt sorry for her, too. A set of parents was present, not just one, and the King did not live up to the standards that Daenys expected from any father. He was too harsh on them, especially with Aegon. He was rarely ever there. Helaena once said she saw her septa more than her father.

How were children meant to know and understand love if it was scarcely shown to them?

In that, Daenys was fortunate. Where her aunt and uncles desperately sought the piece they'd been missing since childhood like bloodhounds on a scent, Daenys had been clinging to it the moment she emerged from her mother's womb. Unconditional love.

It was easy for her. She didn't have to look for it.

Suddenly, the heavy door to Rhaenyra's chambers clicked open. Daenys' thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.

Laenor could hardly walk two steps into the room before Jace and Luke ran headlong into his knees, tackling him in an embrace. Her father's laughter was rich and cheerful, and he somehow managed to keep himself upright, even as Jace and Luke refused to relinquish their grip, squeezing harder.

"Father, have you met the babe?" Luke exclaimed, pointing at the Velaryon-blue cradle.

"Indeed, I have," said Laenor. He grinned down at his sons, "It was I who named him."

At that, Rhaenyra's smile weakened, a faint furrow drawing the tips of her pale brows together. Daenys was skilled at noticing such things in her mother, or in anyone, really; she was a master in the arts of body language.

Rhaenyra was displeased, and Daenys had some notion of why. Joffrey was an unusual name for a Velaryon — it was more suited to boys from the Reach, where babes were commonly born with brown hair. What had prompted her father to choose it? It was almost like he was waving a flag, drawing attention to the unmistakable. Hair like dirt.

Daenys and her brothers had ancient Valyrian names. Joffrey was an oddity among them.

"We chose an egg for him!" Jace blurted excitedly.

He ran to the other side of the room. Near Joffrey's cradle, a metal incubator resided, and Jace carefully removed the lid. Thick tendrils of smoke seeped out from beneath it, slithering over the sides of the incubator and rising in a hazy spire toward the ceiling. The egg was visible once the smoke had subsided, nestled in a small pile of burning ashes and molten rock. The scales were black as charcoal, gleaming in the candlelight flickering about the room.

Laenor hummed in approval. He gently pried the metallic lid from Jace's fingers — cautious of its scolding heat — and lowered it back over the steaming, incubated egg.

"One of Syrax's?" he questioned, his gaze briefly passing over Rhaenyra.

"It is," Luke confirmed jovially. "Her clutch was small, but this egg was the largest. Do you think Joffrey will like it?"

"Of course he will," their mother answered. "He will like anything you boys give him."

She readjusted her position on the divan, stifling a grunt of pain. She winced at what, presumably, was the amplified ache in her limbs that only grew worse with movement — a direct product of her grueling birth.

Once, Aeron told Daenys he witnessed a serving girl giving birth in the servant quarters, and she screamed so loud he swore the flimsy walls around her cracked, and that there was a ringing in his ears that did not fade until hours afterward. There was no pain quite like bringing life into the world if witnessing the act itself could be of any evidence.

"Let me, mother," Daenys insisted. She reached over and fidgeted with Rhaenyra's silk pillows, ensuring they were fluffed enough to prevent back pain. "There."

Rhaenyra leaned back against them, sighing in relief, "Thank you."

"Daenys, have you held your brother yet?" Laenor asked, peering into Joffrey's cradle. A smile graced his pursed lips, his expression one of sheer admiration at seeing his new son.

She shook her head, leaving her mother's side — with an encouraging pat from the latter — to join her father by the cradle. "Not yet."

"Can I hold him?" Lucerys questioned. He abandoned his meticulous stacking of Joffrey's gifts and leaped to his feet, craning his head over the side of the bassinet.

"He's still asleep," Daenys pointed out. Little Joffrey had a squashed face like all newborns did. She thought him cute. "We shouldn't wake him. Besides, Mother needs sleep, too."

Lucerys pouted sullenly, his shoulders drooping in disappointment, "Oh. Right."

"You can hold him on the morrow," their father assured, squeezing Luke's shoulder. "He shall be well rested by then, as will your mother. And I'm certain Joffrey will want to meet his siblings."

From behind, Jace poked the knobbly point of Daenys's elbow — a habit he'd obtained for as long as she could remember. It meant he was in want of attention. He said, "Babes don't want much of anything. They eat, sleep and cry. They don't have thoughts."

"They do," Daenys answered. "only they can't voice them like we do."

"Everyone has thoughts, Jace," Lucerys added, with a petulant eye roll that probably made Jace feel very stupid. "Even dragons. How else would they know to obey us? And how would babes know when they're hungry?"

An angry scowl was picking at the seams of Jace's stoic expression, but he refrained from allowing it to tear. "Dragons don't always obey us."

"No, but to disobey they also need thoughts," Lucerys retorted. He was clever for his age, much like King Viserys had been in his youth, according to him. "They need a reason not to listen. And they have to think of such a reason, don't they?"

Daenys snickered. Her young brother had a knack for making Jace feel stupider than the castle's lackwitted fool. It was amusing — free entertainment, as Aeron would say.

"Settle down, you two," she interjected, bumping Luke's shoulder with hers. "You're beginning to resemble Aegon and Aemond."

It was not such an insult as she expected it to be. Jace and Luke both idolized Aegon, despite his vices. They pretended not to; their feigned indifference was a means to please Daenys. If he asked them to accompany him, in the Pit or merely to meander about the Keep, her brothers dropped everything to oblige. It was sad, really. Aegon only used them as tools to entertain him, which was often achieved through cruel teasing and mischievous jibes.

Daenys preferred Helaena. Everyone did — even the King.

"I'd rather be Aegon," Luke said bitterly. "He actually has a dragon."

Disaprovingly, Daenys clicked her tongue, "That isn't kind, Lucerys. Aemond's egg did not hatch in his cradle through no fault of his own. He will have a dragon one day. I know it."

If he didn't, not even the Gods could withstand his fury. A Targaryen without a dragon was like a parched man with no water.

Luke twisted his face, but he at least had the decency to look ashamed. He was not unkind. She expected he must have spent an unnecessary amount of time with Aegon recently, hence the unnecessary jab at Aemond. Aegon was cruel to his brother, and Lucerys often repeated the things he said. Jace knew better.

She looked down at little Joffrey. But babes, they knew better than anyone. They could not do any wrong.

Joffrey gurgled and rubbed a scrunched fist across his face, stirring in his slumber. Knowing they were of the same blood brought a wan smile to her lips. Another brother to love, to protect, to guide. Another brother to teach, in the ways her mother could not begin to. Sisters had knowledge reserved solely for their minds.

She kissed the tip of her forefinger and middle finger and pressed them against Joffrey's splotchy pink cheek. His stirring ceased.

I do not need armor or a sword to be your protector, she thought. My heart will do, for it is made of steel.

━･❪ ❁ ❫･━

The library was a bland place. Ever since the incident in the yard with Aegon, Alicent and the King had sentenced Daenys to additional lessons with her septa, hoping it may deter her from the training yard and causing any further trouble. At first she thought it comparable to a dungeon sentence. But in time, she'd learned to enjoy it. She only wished the library itself was less dull.

She had been studying the Conqueror as of late. A thick tome was spread across the table, a low-burning candle tossing rivulets of golden light over the old, brittle pages. She was midway through a segment on Visenya Targaryen, who she thought to be the most intriguing Targaryen of them all. Following Aenys' death, Visenya crowned her son, Maegor, and helped him rise to significant power despite the outrage from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

Her mother had wanted to name Daenys after the Conqueror's sword-wielding wife, but Laenor thought she would be more suited to a delicate name, and thus used the Dreamer as her namesake. Rhaenyra still regretted heeding his opinion. She idolised Visenya, as did Daenys.

Visenya Velaryon. The Princess of Dragonstone.

Daenys turned the paper delicately, ensuring the ageing parchment did not crack. The maester's writing continued onto the next page, detailing Visenya's ride over the riverlands atop Vhagar, where she burnt the seats of several Houses that rejected Maegor's ascension to the throne.

She could imagine her own mother going to similar lengths to defend her children against the realm. An angry, protective mother was not something to be trifled with.

"What are you reading?"

Seven Hells.

Daenys jolted in her chair. Her head whipped to the side, eyes frantically searching for the owner of the intruding voice.

It was Aemond. Of course it was. He emerged from the shadows to her left, candlelight spilling across half his face. The library was much darker than she expected, and the moon shone bright beyond the window, warping Aemond's silver hair to the colour of milk glass.

"Aemond," Daenys said stiffly. "You seem to have a talent for lurking."

"I don't," he answered. His shoulders were bunched up to his ears, and there was a tightness to his expression that made her wonder if he was annoyed for some other reason beyond her presence. "You have a talent for avoiding questions."

She rolled her eyes, glancing at the thick tome sprawled across the table, "It's for my studies. Aegon's Conquest."

"You haven't read of it before?" His question was one of disbelief.

"Not this particular account," Daenys said. Carefully, she closed the book and raised it so he could see the front cover. "My septa assigned it to me. The Dragonlord's Reign & Subsequent Fallout."

Aemond's bottom lip jutted out in acknowledgment, "I've read that one. It's the most reliable source, I think, concerning the history."

Unlike his brother, Aemond spent much of his time with his face wedged between the pages of history books. Without a dragon, he turned to an alternative source of entertainment.

"Mayhaps, though I still doubt any words scrawled on a page could truly capture Visenya Targaryen's essence," Daenys mused. "From what I have read, she was a fearsome warrior and Queen."

"Hm. Without her, Aegon would not have conquered the Seven Kingdoms," Aemond added trivially. He shuffled forward, between the array of tall bookshelves pressed tight together. "And Rhaenys. She is often forgotten about, because she fell whilst in Dorne just ten years into Aegon's reign."

Idly, Daenys ran her thumb down the spine of the book, "Yes, that is true. Though, she was not as fierce as Visenya. People would rather remember the valiant in place of the gentle."

"They would."

He lingered, standing between the looming shadows of the bookshelves and the flickering light of Daenys' dying candle, like he wasn't sure where to go. There was a long beat of silence. A howl of wind rattled through the window, and there was a distant clamour of servants scurrying about the halls.

Daenys let out a sigh, "You can sit, if you want."

She gestured to the chair opposite her own, tucked beneath the rounded table. Aemond's eyes shifted to it, and he hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

( He was always unsure when it came to Rhaenyra's children. Jace and Luke teased him alongside Aegon, and as a result of that, he had never grown to tolerate or trust them. Daenys mostly kept to herself, but Aemond was still sceptical on the rare occasion they talked, half expecting her to taunt and mock him somehow, just as her brothers did. Just as his own brother did.

Aemond decided to trust his gut that she wasn't mocking him now. He drew out the chair and sat in it. )

Meanwhile, Daenys decided the silence was too heavy to bear and ripped it away like a cloak. "What book did you come to retrieve?"

"None in particular. I came to browse."

"I see." She wondered why, at such an hour, but did not voice her concern. "Have you ever read of the ironborn? Or the Drowned God?"

"The Drowned God is what House Greyjoy and the ironborn believe in," Aemond rattled off, violet eyes sparkling with wisdom. From this particular angle, he looked vaguely similar to Alicent. Same chin, the same glazed look in his eyes when something of interest was mentioned — sinking into a world of his own. "I've read all about it. Have you?"

"I have. Do you know the priests of the Drowned God perform ritual drowning on men, and then bring them back with a kiss of life?"

"Mhm, and it doesn't always work in their favor."

"I know. Can you imagine that? Plunging your head under the sea, knowing the air will be slowly sapped from your lungs, and allowing it to happen regardless of the chances that air may never return." Daenys shook her head incredulously. It was something she could not fault the ironborn for — their steadfast bravery. "I could not do it."

Aemond nodded his agreement, "Nor could I." He paused, then gave a shrug, "Well, not unless it would result in me having a dragon."

"You will have one soon," Daenys assured. Aemond's head shot up, violet eyes searching her face for any sign of mocking or dishonesty. She suspected he found no traces of any such thing, as the corner of his mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. "No need for any ironborn priest to drown you and bring you back. It'll happen. You only need to be patient."

"At least you believe so," he muttered. Their eyes met, swallowed by candlelight, "You're different to your brothers."

She knew that. Most of the court knew that. Her purple eyes put her apart from them.

Aemond continued, frowning, "You talk to me."

"We're family, Aemond. I have every intention to talk to you."

"Jace and Luke do not seem to," he said bitterly. His nose wrinkled, as if uttering their names alone left a sour taste on his tongue. "They avoid me. Ignore me. You do not." Aemond lifted his gaze to meet Daenys' again, probing and sceptical. "Why?"

Her lips parted, but she could not string any words together. There wasn't a reason. She'd never pondered the matter before. Did she even need a reason?

"You feel sorry for me, don't you?"

The air left her lungs as if attached to the end of a string and tugged roughly through her airways. "What?"

"You feel sorry for me," he repeated, a little firmer this time. "Everyone does."

Perhaps she did, but her uncle did not need to know that. Lying would not harm her. People lied all the time, about things far more complicated than this.

She shook her head fiercely, "Not me."

"Don't lie. It's obvious. You give me the same look the rest do."

By the Seven. He was more perceptive than her mother. Daenys pursed her lips. "And what look would that be?"

Aemond screwed his face up like a displeased toddler, "Pity."

"Then you have perceived me wrong, Aemond," Daenys said, grabbing the thick historical tome from the table and tucking it under one arm. She stood, looking down on him. "I don't pity you. I see you for what you are."

His pale brows knitted together, "What?"

"You're a person, just like everyone else," she told him. "A dragon does not make us different from one another, nor does the colour of our hair, or our Valryian blood, or our titles. We all live and breathe the same air, and one day, we shall all lie buried beneath the same dirt. The Gods cannot save us from that. Neither can dragons. Everything is temporary. So why should I pity you? Pitying you is a waste of my precious time, as is pitying yourself."

Aemond opened his mouth as if to respond, but Daenys unceremoniously cut him off.

"And that is why you don't have a dragon yet," she said prudently, "You waste valuable time feeling sorry for yourself for what could be. It is truly sad."

By the time he thought of a way to respond to that, Daenys had already taken her leave – cerulean skirts swirling around her feet like the sea lapping at shore. Her wisdom was staggering, the truth in her words bruising. Aemond sat in the library for a long while after, staring at the wick of the burning candle as the stump of yellow wax melted, shortening, and dripped onto the table.

In that time, he came to a realisation. The faces he saw around him were mirrors, and Aemond had stared at his own expression reflecting back at him in anguish again and again, pitying him wherever he went.

If Daenys could see that, then how was he so blind?

━･❪ ❁ ❫･━

daenys 🤝 me:
feeling sorry for alicent