Cirilla was a girl bedevilled. All her life, she'd been plagued with terrible nightmares of fire and blood. But as she twisted and turned and burned, Daemon Targaryen smelt the smoke and smiled.
daemon targaryen x fem!oc
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ HOUS...
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𝕿HE WORLD WAS on fire.
Blood forged streams through the streets and a stampede of horses followed in its wake. There was so much smoke that Cirilla thought at any minute it might transform into a great beast that could rival the red dragon, Meleys, herself. With hurricane wings and a tongue that lashed flames, their city was being devoured whole. From the harbour to the highest perch in the Tower of the Sun, the screams and clamour of battle could be heard raging. And they were losing. The Triarchy had no mercy for Cintra. The White City, now blackened by smog. Cirilla felt the nausea rise in her throat and she sprinted to the battlements and vomited over the edge. She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. Embroidered fine silk, now ruined. The flames danced in her eyes, taunting her with their jagged fingers, reaching out for her, seething: You're next. She felt her mother's hand on her shoulder, ushering her away from the tower's edge. Rhaenys kissed her hair, as silver as her own, and sat with the young girl in her lap, humming a soft tune as swords hacked at guts and men and women were raped below.
Her father was out there. Her brother, too. Somewhere amid the inferno, the two of them were either fighting for their lives, for that of their people's, or laying dead to be trampled by horses. Cirilla squeezed shut her eyes as her breathing shook. Not even her mother's voice could chase away her dark thoughts. How could she ignore the devastation wreaked upon the city she grew up in? If only her arms were capable of lifting a sword and joining the fray. If only she could fight side by side with her family to the last. But she was a lady, thus was stuck in this eerily silent chamber, with Rhaenys' maids to wait on her needs—water, grapes, platters of cheese—while men were torn apart, their intestines feasted upon by the hordes. She was not alone in her restlessness. Her mother's jaw was tight and her eyes never left the window. She was itching to leave this gods-forsaken room and ride to war on the Red Queen. But she had a duty to her child to stay, and if they were ever going to make it off this island alive, Meleys could not be brought down by the Triarchy's scorpions again.
Cirilla grabbed onto her mother's hand and squeezed tight. Though outwardly, Rhaenys' face was barely pinching at the brow, such was a lady confident with her husband's skill in battle, when Cirilla leaned into her chest, she felt her mother's heart pound like a mallet. Rhaenys was not a woman who cowered easily, or at all, but there was something tangible in the air and it weighed heavy on the Lady of Cintra.
Fear.
With the crack of every canon, every explosion that brought age old architecture to its knees, every shriek who made their deathbed in the ashes, the fear grew. It crawled under the skin like some flesh-eating disease. It consumed them all, just as the flames would soon.
