¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

xxxi. the ones we love

✧˖° 🌑 ೄྀ࿐
━ [   SONG OF SORROWS   ] ༉‧₊˚✧
x. act one... the dragon's daughter
the ones we love ━ ✩・*。

— WINTER, 114 A.C
THE STEPSTONES, NARROW SEA

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     THERE was a profound beauty in death, Valerys Targaryen thought. Eternal rest, unburdened and untethered until the stars collapsed and the galaxies fractured. She had often thought about the life after this one, of what awaited her beyond the shadowy gates. It was a comforting thought to imagine her mother's awaiting arms, life flushed back into her body, stomach unmarred by the blades of the greedy. Morbid undoubtedly, but Valerys almost craved the knowledge, the confirmation of her conjurings. She did not have any desire to die, but she also had every desire to; if only death weren't a permanent resolution.

    Perhaps it was comical for her to imagine herself welcomed by the innocent souls of her family, when she herself had shoved so many into the dark. It was war, she had justified, and people died — good and bad. And yet, despite that knowledge, she had not forgotten their horrible screams and pleas, their final acts in this world to pray to the Gods above. Gods that would not save them. When the Gods died, where did they go? Did they perish as mortals did? Was their last moments spent wondering where their souls would depart to? Many said Targaryen's were closer to Gods than to men, but Valerys had never felt so mortal; yes, perhaps her family was nearer to the Gods, but they were not deities, they did not evade the laws of morality. They were not Gods.

    If Valerys Targaryen was to supersede any deity, she'd like to believe it'd be the Stranger. So many lives had felled by her hands, by her command. Rot followed her like a shadow. Guilt was not a foreign feeling to Valerys, though its potency never lessened. That harsh grip on her heart only managed to squeeze tighter, battering the poorly stitched organ until she was sure it would burst. That would be her recompense, to be killed by the thought of those she'd given to the Stranger. The irony was not lost on her.

    Valerys knew she should've died. While her muddled mind struggled to recall the exact moment, she knew that her life — tumbling in the unceremonious hands of the sky — was not guaranteed. Both her savior and her downfall had locked his body into her own, wrenching her from the impact of the rock-hard waves. Her savior had pulled her from suffocating waves, had brought her on shore and expelled the salty water from her stinging lungs. Her doom had looked her in the eyes, had kissed her forehead, and all at once reached his hand into her chest and ripped out her wounded heart. Still beating in his hands, he'd painted the organ black, had marked it with his touch, and handed it back to her. Blood ran thick in her palms as she held her life-force, now forever tainted with a touch of something she could never have.

    Daemon Targaryen was cruel. Yet Valerys had not thought him vile enough to take something that could never belong to him. To lay claim to lands that did not belong to him. A conquerer of an unwilling kingdom, a brute who collapsed her battlements. He had no regard for her own wants, for her life. He had taken to tethering her forevermore to him, without a damn for the consequences. Yes, Daemon Targaryen was a conniving, reviled man. And Valerys loved him.

    That same, somehow still-pulsating heart gave a lurch when she arose in her bed — well, not her own — and heaved, attempting to expel any and all thoughts of the night before, of how Daemon had touched her, like she were the final, ancient artifact from a worshiped city. Air felt like acid in her lungs, a crown of throbbing pain banded around her forehead. Beneath a scarce chemise, she could feel her torso pound with pressure. Memories came to her then, ones she had no desire to remember. The fall, Daemon saving her, his words... and they arrived with nerve-trembling force. Daemon had saved her. He had put his own life up as forfeit to ensure her safety; an effort that was not guaranteed to work, and yet one he attempted all the same.