✧˖° 🌑 ೄྀ࿐
━ [ SONG OF SORROWS ] ༉‧₊˚✧
x. act one... the dragon's daughter
the fall of fury ━ ✩・*。
— WINTER, 114 A.C
THE STEPSTONES, NARROW SEA
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BLOOD falls like tears in the Stepstones, thick and oozing and rotting, the taste of copper invading the soldiers tongues. Silver hissed and slashed down in unsteady motions, lifeblood spraying from jagged wounds and pattering onto the already sodden ground. Men in their shawls of dirty gold and brown raise hammers to the heavens, and as if fueled by the anger of the Gods themselves, bring them down upon any lump of flesh that can be caught under metal. Pirates of the Triarchy swarm the battlefield like ants, their home torn from the dirt, seeking vengeance against those that dare disturb them.
Soldiers of the Crown weave about the earth with precision, dutifully rehearsed movements guiding their steps as they engage the overwhelming forces of the Free Cities. More men of Westeros fall than before, their nameless faces thumped to the earth as a wave of pirates descended upon them; what they lacked in skill, they gained in numbers. In a war, it mattered not if the most prowess man was alight in the fight. One sword could not parry hundreds.
Hissing sliver, wet with blood, wove through the bronze skin of a pirate, before a metal hammer rained down and caved in his skull. A cacophony of rancorous shouts coalesced in the night sky, the constellations above weeping down starlight upon the doomed battle. Formless, the moon kept its dutiful watch on man, bearing witness to their atrocities, to the bitterness with which their swords and hammers cut and smashed. No amount of gentle moonlight could dissuade them from their own hatred, and so the moon left the sky behind thick clouds, retreating into the darkness.
Above the disharmonious atmosphere rang out a whistle, discordant and hostile before tendrils of red fire split through the dark sky and caved men into cinders. Serpentine and red, the beast gracefully wove through the air, indiscriminate in who his fire touched. Pirates and soldiers alike screamed out in horror before the fingers of flame forever silenced them, those pleas fallen with their ashen bodies; bodies that could never be mourned, a casket with no dead, a grave without name.
Rings of fire desecrated the battlefield as pirates began ordering retreats into the deep caves along the cliff-face. Astride the winged serpent was the mastermind behind the war, a commander of death. Daemon Targaryen had never tired of fighting, nor did he seem troubled by the death he wrought upon friend and foe alike. To many, nothing riddled the Rogue Prince with discontent.
They, however, were wrong.
A ghost had clung to his back for years, a poison that refused to leave his tongue no mattered how desperately he tried to shuck it from his tongue. That presence was a pulsing scar upon his back, the mocking laughter in his head. Daemon loathed it, the way in which his stomach tumbled sickeningly when memories of lost moments flickered in his head, when in the dead of night that same ghost would tickle up his spine, invading his only moment of peace to corrupt it with lust and longing. He hated when Corlys Velaryon informed him of the large banquet held in King's Landing, one that would solidify the heir to the Iron Throne as a girl come into maidenhood. He hated imagining her laughing with other men, of her being poked and prodded by hands that could not hope to contain her fire, of imagining him returning from war, only to find her clung to the arm of another man. But most of all, he hated her.
Daemon hated Valerys Targaryen, and she was haunting him.
It was her scent, that of gentle lilac and berries, that came to him most often. The smell snaked up his nose and loosened his airway, expanding lungs with the hope that the sweet smell had come with her; it never did, and so Daemon learned to evade hope. Hope that once she finally came into his sights again, he could murder this ghoul and banish it once and for all, just as he murdered the Triarchy pirates before him. Daemon hated her. He wanted her to relinquish this grating hold she had upon his mind and bleed into the background of his life.
And yet, he could not let her go.
It was not for lack of trying. Letters, scribbled and smeared with undried ink, lined his table, forever stuck in a ceaseless decision to send them, or keep them sequestered away within the gloom of his heart. Many had been sent, and none had been answered. Daemon wondered if she had burned them like she burned his heart, reduced to cinders just like the soldiers below him. Daemon wanted her gone, yet wanted her close at the same time.
Thoughts of his sweet niece shattered when arrows alit with fire slipped past him, released from rows of archers atop the cliff. Below him, Caraxes' fire ceased its endless torment and he squealed, ducking and turning his body as Daemon clung onto his reins. The forms of the archers were minuscule at this distance, hidden in shadow. Just like ants, mused Daemon silently. And just as his niece had done years prior, he would stomp these insects out.
Caraxes' lithe form swooped lower to the ground, the bluster of wind that followed sent many of the warring men backwards and onto the wet ground. From a distance, he could see the silver-plated figure of Corlys Velaryon, his axe swings sure and deadly, cleaving down pirate after pirate like bronze-skinned trees. Grey eyes turned upwards as Caraxes approach, and he paused as fire consumed his enemies in front of him.
Though something had caught the Sea Snake's attention, and it drifted from the crackling fire out towards the mist-lined sea. "Daemon!" he called frantically, twirling his axe in his hands. "Look!"
Daemon followed the point of his fingers, twisting his neck to stare out at the shadowy waters beyond. Fog curled and thickened the air, enclosing in the war-field like ever-encroaching death. Below, the waters rippled with calm movements, entirely unaware of the death befalling the shores it licked upon. A vast shadow darkened against the mist, and for a moment all was silent before a giant ship split the haze and eased from the sea beyond. One by one more followed, until near ten moved into the harbor besides the Crown's remaining ships, split with cannon balls of the Triarchy's.
Daemon was never a frightful man. Death had wrested with him many times, attempting to steal away his life, yet it seemed it always lost. But here and now, he had never felt such depleting terror. Paralyzed atop his leather saddle, Daemon watched as more ships came forth from the murk, joining their brethren. Under the veil of night, the sigils remained obscured, allegiance hidden; cold, slimy fear coiled around his organs, setting them in place with tendrils of ice.
Riding with those ships was loss. Victory was already a hard-fought game, evading his fingertips like a flighty bird. And yet, Daemon had thought it possible — if only for a fleeting, foolish second. As more ships gathered in the dark waters, Daemon knew well that death clung to their hulls, solidifying that their surrender was imminent. The Crown had truly forsaken him; his family had truly forsaken him.
Setting his jaw in a hard line, Daemon wrenched Caraxes' reins and drove him towards the newcomer ships. Impending fire boiled his blood-red scales, and Daemon could feel the heat as if it were his own. If he were to die, it would not be by way of forced destruction. Daemon would die as he lived: with full control and surety. These Triarchy cunts would gain no satisfaction from felling him by their own hands.
Just before Daemon could give the command, a pin-prick sensation shot up the column of his spine, bringing gooseflesh with it as his hair stood on end. An unknown sensation flamed in his gut, hands of fire setting his body ablaze as Caraxes came to a halt. It seemed the Blood Wyrm was as perceptive as his rider, and the dragon gave a trill before hovering weightlessly in the dark expanse of the sky. Mirky waters shattered and split with forced waves, licking up the sides of the arriving ships. For a moment, all Daemon could do was dare to wonder.
And then, as if hewn from the mist itself, a silver-scaled dragon burst from the brume, enormous wings dispelling the haze entirely as he soared low above the ships, screeching out with such an intensity that the hulls rocked in the waters. Tailed by a red dragon, crowned in keratin horns, Aegarax lifted into the air, facing down the Triarchy ships with wise gold eyes.
She was hidden from his view, her damned countenance lost behind Aegarax's behemoth form, but Daemon knew she was there. He could feel her, and he was sure his heart slipped from its place in his chest. She was here. Each beat of his heart felt strong enough to shatter his ribs. She hadn't forsaken him. Blood roared in his ears, overwhelming the sounds of war until all he could hear was the dull buzz of his own mind. She had gotten his letter. Everything but her blinked out from the world, the stars fell into the sea, moon lost to shadow, until all he could see was her as she reared from Aegarax's back.
His mind burned with loathing. His heart roared with longing.
Distance stole away her features, but he could see her starlit hair dancing carelessly in the wind, always unbound, a testament to her wild nature. As Aegarax soared forwards, casting an all-consuming shadow upon the Triarchy fleet, she turned to look at him, and offered a gentle, small smile. And for a moment, nothing mattered. The dull ache in his ribs subsided, the pounding in his skull a distant feeling. He hated her. He hated her, she had stolen the one thing he still controlled: his heart. She was not meant to have it, she could not have it. He wouldn't let her.
Valerys Targaryen, his enchanting niece, the greatest vexation in his life and yet the greatest desire of it, looked the very image of her forebears as she dove down upon the Triarchy troops. Silver-streaked fire burst from the chamber of Aegarax's belly, decimating three Triarchy ships with one cloud of flame. White-knuckled, Daemon watched her fell the ships with ease before Aegarax swooped down upon a sister ship and tore at it with his claws, splintering the hard wood and cleaving it in half. Ancient wood groaned and wept as it died, screams of the pirates aboard rang out in the air, but all Daemon could make out was two words through their deathly wails.
Gods' fury.
Gods' fury, thought Valerys as Aegarax tore apart a ship below them, sinking spear-sharp talons into the hull with ease. A fitting name. For Aegarax was not a serpent, he was fury given form. Death with wings. A reincarnation of the Old God of Valyria. Rational thought fled Valerys' head as she commanded Aegarax, the screams of the men beneath her only tossing kindling into the growing fire in her stomach. She had seen him; him and his wide blue eyes, him and his stormy face, him and his presence that stunk with heartbreak. He looked like death and pain, yet Valerys had never wanted him more.
Ash and fire extending into the air as the waves below opened their greedy mouths and began to swallow the ships whole. Cannon-fire rung dully in Valerys' ear, landing with splintering impact that cleave through the sides of hulls, Baratheon, Tarth and Estermont alike releasing death-kissed omens towards Triarchy ships that dotted the harbor. Meleys wove through the air as if she were apart of it, tearing mast from deck as she went, sending ripples across the stormy waters with ear-splitting howls.
Vast and commanding, Aegarax beat his way through the air until he settled upon the land. Dwarfed soldiers cut through one another without care, without reason, puppets set upon strings of their superiors. Valerys' gut curled around itself with pity for both causes, for the unnecessary death they wrought, slaying for a cause they did not begin nor would see end. Men were always wills to their whims, to the desires of others if their gold shone bright enough. The Triarchy had none of her pity, none of her desire for an end to this war. She would see it wage for decades if only to ensure the extinction of their brutish kind. Men like them deserved nothing but the unforgiving fires of hell, but then again, they weren't men, and so Valerys did not treat them as such.
White-knuckled she clenched onto Aegarax's spines, leaning forward to glimpse at the Triarchy soldiers retreating from the battle. A unconscious smile slipped onto her face. "Dracarys."
And so they were stomped out like the ants she so despised as a child. Claimed by the greedy hands of flame they crumbled into ash, returned back to the earth. Swarms of moths fluttered in the confines of her heart as a slender red form wove in front of her. With bated breath she stared forward, eager to catch him in her sights again. He who had staked a flag in her heart and claimed it as his own. He who became a conqueror in his own right. He who she loved so much she could not help but hate.
Rows of plaited white hair crowned his face, marred with nicks and healed wounds. Ghosts plagued his face, haunted and utterly unstable as they stared upon one another for the first time in a year. Shattered lapis engulfed his eyes, tinged with a fire stoked by her presence. He looked at her like he wanted to destroy her and make her his queen all at once. She would gladly let him do either. Valerys would welcome death by his hand, if only it meant he would touch her flesh. If only it meant her last view would be his face. Daemon couldn't escape the woman, as if her intoxicating aura had taken him hostage and thrown away the key. Not that he minded, even if the key was found, he'd melt the metal of the locks to keep her hold on him. Anything to keep her.
A thousand unsaid words flitted between them, declarations of love and hate, spits of resentment and whispers of adoration. Lead weighed down Valerys' tongue, trapping it to the bottom of her mouth as her throat contracted painfully from lack of air. A chill settled in her stomach, clawing its way to her hear like a rabid animal. There was so much she wanted to say to him. So much she wanted him to know, if only to rid herself of these awful feelings, to finally be free of the boulder that pinned her to the earth.
Valerys never got the chance.
A snap of string, and then thousands more rang out around them, and when Valerys turned her head finally away from Daemon, she saw fire-coated arrows racing towards them, a promise of death within those ocher flames. Valerys thought she heard Daemon scream her name as Aegarax attempted to evade the rain of arrows, rearing upwards to take the brunt of the strike on his hard-plated belly. Frigid terror froze Valerys' heart as she felt her body be jolted backwards, Aegarax's sudden movement catching her by surprise. Sweat beaded at her palms, and she could not wrest any grip upon his back before her fingers slipped from their holdings. Valerys' nerves split entirely, stomach weighted down to her toes as she slipped. Air brushed her airborne form, whistling in her ears; all Valerys could hear was her heart. One she was sure was going to stop.
And then, she was falling.
Her horrified scream was beaten down by Aegarax's terrible wail, sensing his rider's weight flee his back. Horror fell over the entirety of everyone who watched the scene: a silver-haired princess flying back-first towards the shadowy waters, limp and formless as she fell. Two dragons dove towards her — one scaled in silver, weeping as if his own heart fell from his body; the other, coated in blood, long neck racing to beat the waves that threatened the rapidly moving girl.
Valerys was aware she was falling. Air beat senselessly against her back, parting around her as if it wanted no part in saving a sinner from certain death. This was her atonement, her recompense for stealing the lives of so many. The Seven Hells called her name in a chant, a pit forming in the sea below to claim her soul and shove it into eternal damnation. But Valerys did not think about her impending demise, nor the torment that would follow. She thought of her family.
She thought of Rhaenyra's bell-like laugh, her youthful defiance that Valerys had once seen within herself. She thought of how her younger sister felt in her arms, how safe Valerys felt when Rhaenyra spoke to her, the heat of their foreheads touching. She thought of Alicent and her brother, Aegon, another little boy she would never witness grow up. She thought of her father and his unending love, a support he only ever extended to her, a confidence that she could succeed him as Queen. She had broken her promise.
Numbness claimed Valerys, and she allowed her eyes to shut. In the darkness that followed, she could almost see her mother, a small babe cradled in careful arms, life flushing her cheeks unlike the last time Valerys ever saw her. Aemma, in an infinite beauty Valerys only hoped she could emulate, looked at her daughter and smiled. Not yet, was her gentle, loving whisper.
Valerys did not see it. Two dragons raced towards her, but neither would reach her in time. Daemon could tell, everyone could as they watched the princess fall. Rope reins slipped from his hands, legs locked as determination steeled his gaze. Valerys did not see it, but she felt it. She felt two strong arms nab her midair, wrenching her around into a hard chest. He smelled of copper and cruelty, all-consuming and daming, but Valerys did not care. For if this was to be her death, she would die with a sweet smell upon her nose. For a moment, she figured the Stranger had come to her, spiriting her away into death. But that was impossible, she knew, as water enveloped her and the body she was fastened against.
Valerys couldn't breathe, though she wasn't sure if she had been before the icy seas claimed her. The impact hit as hard as the earth, knocking any remaining air from her lungs as she felt her figure — and the body attached — sinking deeper into the clutches of darkness. Salty water snaked through her airways, eyes burning from the unwanted intrusion. The arms around her fisted into the leathers of her tunic, fingers clenched on her waist so tightly she wondered if her fragile bones would break. Suddenly, she was being tugged upwards through the murk and out over the unforgiving waves. Water lapped at her chin, seeping into her agape mouth, and the arms only crushed her more. After a moment of sputtering, the air barring itself from her mouth, Valerys peeled her stinging eyes open to behold her savior — or doom.
Soaked and exhausted, Daemon Targaryen heaved then through the frigid waters, carrying her as if his life depended on it, and not her own. Water beaded down his face as he towed them towards the shore, jaw set in a hard line, eyes of hand-carven glass dangerous and unholy. With what little strength remained in her body, Valerys grasped onto his forearm and heaved, water dripping from her nose and lips. She was being suffocated, both by the liquid brimming her aching lungs, and by the presence of Daemon, who appeared every bit the Stranger incarnate. He looked defiant, angry, and horrified all at once. Valerys had never seen him so scared — she'd been shot, manhandled, slapped in front of him, and yet he'd never looked so human and frightened as he did now.
As if sensing her eyes upon him, Daemon looked at her and snarled. It was a low, rage-filled noise that erupted from his chest like a volcano. "I will not let you die."
Fatigue crept in on Valerys' bones, weighing her down in Daemon's arms. When she felt Daemon arise from the waters, her limp body in his arms, she knew then that he would save her from more than just a fall; he would drag her from the clutches of death, from raging fires, from anything that would seek to fell her. Because that was who Daemon was for her: a protector, a shield, the blood that rushed into her heart and made it beat. Heaviness clouded her mind, and when her body was lain upon broken stones and sharp rocks, she could not find it in herself to open her eyes.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?" came his dark voice, but it was fuzzy and distant, the gentle caress of the wind. She felt hands on her chest, pushing, shoving, expelling water from her lungs. Though Valerys could not feel it, she expected her ribs would snap under his ministrations.
Bouts of water spilled from Valerys' lungs in one clear flush, rushing up from her lungs and belly and out unto the stones below. Finally she found it in herself to flutter open her eyes, which came with a great deal of effort from her weeping muscles. In the darkness, she shouldn't have been able to see Daemon's face, but she could, drawn to him like an unknowing moth to a destructive flame. Water gathered at his lips and fell raindrop-soft unto her own, but despite that gentleness, his dark eyes held the force of a thousand storms.
Her cheeks ached as a ghost of a smile slipped onto her lips. Heat flooded from his body to her own as he kneeled over her, hair mussed and unkempt over his face, and yet so devastatingly beautiful. A tremor ran through the ground below her, and she looked over to see Rhaenys hurrying over with Corlys in tow, their eyes wide with unsaid fear.
Yet, Valerys could not find it within herself to gaze at anything other than Daemon. Once again her muscles shouted out in protest as she reached up a hand to caress his cheek, and on instinct he pressed closer to her hand, eyes blazing with fear.
"I came to save you," she said, but her voice was unsteady and hoarse, lungs far too worn to sound properly prideful.
Fog clouded her mind, but she could make out the sight of a smile on Daemon's face, and for a moment, nothing hurt. "You already did."
Valerys' mind was too weak to figure out what exactly he meant, and she felt her body sink further into the ground, as if she longed for the rocks to split apart and pull her into the core of the earth. Everything hurt; her lungs, her head, her body. It felt as thought a great hand had smote her, striking her down for her sins of wanton violence. Perhaps this was her punishment, to die before she could tell Daemon, to forever hold that in the silence of her still heart. It was a cruel thing to imagine, but the Gods were cruel. Valerys did not know if her heart still beat behind cages of fractured bone, but if it did, she'd imagined it would've stuttered as Daemon pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"You're okay, zaldrītsos," he told her, voice too quiet. Far too quiet. When had he begun whispering? "Just stay with me a bit longer."
Valerys wanted to nod. She wanted to tell him she loved him, but the words would not come out. Nothing seemed to work anymore, and so she shut her eyes and hoped when she reopened them, her tongue would loosen. However, she no longer felt the harsh dig of rocks at her back, or the protective hands of Daemon curled against her body.
She felt nothing.