𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 | 𝐚𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧.

𝐗𝐗𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

A/N: Or three times when Drusilla met people who treated her as she deserved. 

«Funnily enough, despite my natural hatred towards men, they were the one to create me, in some twisted and wicked way. Drusilla Tyrell you knew was always just the fragments of inspiring words and advices. But I don't blame them. Because I am this type of person in general. I am the animalish creature that uses people on her way as the stepping stone for something greater. If it wasn't for three of them, then it would be others. I was just lucky enough for to find them.»

— From Drusilla Tyrell's diary.

•

120AC, Highgardens.

Daemon Targaryen is loud.

Not in the way other people are; he doesn't scream—at least not as he speaks—and his voice is actually soothing most of the time, like the sweetest lullaby. But he is the loud in a way, he draws attention to himself. Not by doing something great, but rather by ruining things.

He goes somewhere and voices follow him around.

So, naturally when he arrives to the Highgardens, everyone knows. Waits, even.

And Irellea suddenly remembers how she hates this man.

They never met personally, actually, though Irellea visited the King's Landings quite often in the past, always following her dear mistress. But she heard stories about him enough to understand that the reason why he continues to stay free, not receiving punishment, is because he is a man.

Irellea wishes she could become one.

...But then again, men are stupid. She couldn't become them, she is too way smart.

'What an upstart!'

A slap that lands on her cheek is not painful, but Irellea hisses anyway; little sign of resistance.The grip on her collar is tight, and she is fighting the urge to stand up and bite the woman, one of the maids, for this.

She is not an upstart. She just values herself.

'Killing you wouldn't be enough, Irellea. Death would hardly change such a lost cause as you.'

She smiles.

'Death and gods would kneel before me, when I die!'

Irellea waits for another hit, but it never happens. Instead, there is someone—she can feel legs behind her scrunched back—above her, humming:

'Is what house of Tyrell presents? Beating kids?'

When she opens her eyes, the servant's hand, flying for another round of beating is gripped by the wrist, and there is a man with long white hair, who is no doubt is Targaryen.

'Prince Daemon... Please, this girl is...'

'Scram,' he says tonelessly.

Irellea watches the woman running away, humming impressively; that what she wants to become - the person from whose word other will shook and run away. That is her dream, her wish.

'You are okay, kid?'

Irellea slowly raises to her feet, facing Daemon. She doesn't want to kneel before him or greet as she should, so she just nods.

'Had seen worse.' Pounding a little bit, she asks: 'What is that prince himself needs from this one to save her?'

Daemon looks surprised by such an answer, definitely waiting for something else, but instead of raging, he laughs, throwing the head up.