Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
༉˚*ೃ ᵒ³. 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇, 𝐒𝐈𝐗 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖! D A E N E R E A
𝐈𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌 had been a bad omen, the dead raven Daenerea found on her windowsill would have been a worse one indeed. One crow for death, two for prosperity, three is a victory, four is a war, five for joy, six for sorrow, seven for plague to strike at the morrow, eight crows call for the crowning of a lord, she recited to herself gently as she wrapped the stiff dead thing in a silken sheet and carried it downstairs, nine crows call for a neck under the sword, ten crows mean liberty, eleven for strife, twelve for a maiden's dream come to life. The silly child's rhyme played round and round in her head, the same that Rhaenesmyra used to tease her with as children. Daenerea cradled the wrapped corpse to her breast and tried not to slip on the stairs that had become wet with rain slipping through the windows. In the wind, her long pale hair tangled itself in knots and faeries' braids.
Her slippered feet carried her down the great staircase—with the music from Elaevenya's harp carrying through the stone walls. It was a gentle, mournful sound, like the longing for a place far, far away, that you'd never quite known, but felt like home.
When Daenerea reached the central sector of the castle, where murals spun out across the walls weaved the tales of Targaryen history—from the ancient Valyrian houses, to the conquest of Aegon and his three sisters, and the descent of Valyrians and sorceresses that came with—she found a mill of servants and maids cleaning away the contents of the dining table. Their eyes raised in surprise when the saw her, clearly thinking the princess would be tucked into bed with her handmaiden waiting on her or keeping her company. One servant must have noticed the bundle Daenerea was carrying and the sense that she needed assistance, because she immediately began towards the young princess.
"What is it you have there, Your Highness?" the servant asked, a woman from Lys with gentle doe eyes and high cheekbones, her dark eyebrows pulled together. She extended her fingers in an offer to take the swaddle of cloth.
Strands of silver hair fell across Daenerea's lilac eyes as she clutched the small wrapped crow to her chest. "Just a raven, bury it in the gardens, please," because Daenerea believed all things had the right to be buried. The servant nodded and took the bundle from her—a little wide-eyed, because the smallfolk all knew what a single crow meant too.
