Daenys Velaryon is the oldest child of Rhaenyra and Laenor Velaryon, but she shares the same true lineage as her brothers Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. As the oldest child of the heir to the throne, she has duties to fulfill, duties that she is ex...
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Year: 129 AC
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Daenys blinked.
Then she laughed. A soft sound of disbelief.
No.
No. No. No.
She shook her head.
It wasn't possible. It had to be a lie of some sort. Yes, he was lying to her. For what reason, she could not imagine, but he had to be, for it could not possibly be real. It could not be real, and Daenys refused to let herself believe it in her drunken haze because if she woke up the next morning to discover it had indeed been a ruse she was sure she'd never recover. It was crueler to have had something and then have lost it, rather than never having it at all.
Why would he, who had all the choices in the world, choose her? She was selfish and wicked, her own mother had said so, and one's mother was seldom wrong about them. Furthermore, she had nothing to give him, absolutely nothing. She was the heir to nothing, and he'd never be king. He would get nothing out of being with her. Nothing at all, so why?
Aemond Targaryen regretted the words as soon as they slipped past his lips. Then he regretted them some more as he saw Daenys's face shutter off, as if she was distancing herself from him mentally. When she physically took a few steps back, her face stricken, he let her. It took all of his willpower not to reach out, to call out, to say anything, just to hear her say something back. Then when she turned around and fled him for a second time, that night, he let her do that too.
A tumultuous end to a tumultuous evening.
He followed her from a distance, relieved that she seemed to be making her way back to the Red Keep. Every time she stumbled, or ran into someone, he tensed, wanting more than anything in the world to be the one to steady her. But he couldn't. Not anymore. Not ever, perhaps.
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Daenys stirred from her uneasy slumber, a relentless pounding in her head greeting her as she fought against the heaviness dragging her back to consciousness. Her eyes, swollen and sore, resisted any movement, dried trails marking the path of silent tears she did not remember shedding. A lingering taste of bitterness clung to her mouth, a reminder of the indulgence that led to this wretched morning.
She shifted uncomfortably, the cold, hard floor beneath her adding to the discomfort of her aching body. Every movement felt like an argument with her protesting muscles, a silent plea for respite. Yet, she persisted, pushing herself to rise despite the protests of her form.
