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"The partition between love and anger is thin. I suppose it's a need to protect the self from further wounding that makes people scream at the one they love."
― Sebastian Faulks
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𝐋𝐀𝐄𝐍𝐀 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃.
Rhaenyra had received the missive just two days after they left for Dragonstone. Luke disappeared to his chambers after hearing the news, and Maella knew he was crying. Jace had gone somewhere. She wasn't sure. Their father was dead.
The funeral was held at Driftmark.
That very same day she met Daemon Targaryen. They had run into each other in the library before Laena's wake, and her breath had caught in her throat at the sight of him: the man who had been nothing more than a bedtime story.
Maella knew he was her father. She'd known for years, though she never told Rhaenyra. It was a decision born out of love and a desire to spare her mother any unnecessary anguish. The woman did not need any stress.
Not now. Not ever.
And for the first time, Maella wondered how anyone could pass by this man and not immediately recognize him as her father. The resemblance between them was remarkable, from the similar contour of their noses to the fiery glimmer in their eyes. They were kindred souls, reflections of one another, united by blood.
She had scrutinized him like a book: tracing the sharp contours of his cheekbones, the definition of his jaw, and the shadows encircling his mouth. His eyes held an intensity—Maella couldn't tell whether they were lilac or royal purple. In the flickering firelight, they oscillated between hues, never settling. Forever iridescent.
And he was dangerous, Maella knew. Gods be good, Daemon Targaryen was dangerous. More dangerous than anyone she would ever meet. Merely looking at him, she sensed his adeptness at navigating rebellion, anger, and restraint. Darkness itself seemed to be snugly draped around his neck. A shadow trailed him, just behind all that chaos.
Or perhaps it was Maella's own projection. Perhaps she was the one casting a shadow. All she could do was part her lips, praying the right words would escape before they sealed shut once more.
She'd introduced herself to him. They spoke for a bit after that; it was stiff and more formal than it should have been, but Maella did not find herself regretting it.
