⸻ ( Daemon Targaryen )
She comes like rain, soft and gentle, upon his cheeks. The taste of summer snow and enduring love, like a declaration of war upon fate.
( house of the dragon ) • 2022
( editing in progress )
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LYRA watched the hearth crackle, grey stone illuminated with reckless flames that danced with abandon. Licking with treacherous glee at the wood logs that bore them.
Fire was a fearsome beauty to behold. Much like the waters and the winds, each element beguiled and devastated at will. The ruin of kingdoms and entire civilizations, dynasties of kings and queens brought to heel.
Yet it also brought life, a soft gasp in the wanton night. As pale as a radiant star of silver light.
Lyra felt a creature stirring in her chest, sharpening its claws as it lay in wake. As sharp as an executioner's axe.
The door to the solar opened softly, footsteps shuffling across the threshold. She turned, green eyes peering through the long shadows spun by the eventide.
Viserys looked to her, then at Daemon who was seated by the miniature replica of Old Valyria. Balerion the Black Dread held between slender fingers.
A childhood dream that yearned to be made reality.
Could that be the reason, Lyra pondered, that Viserys claimed Balerion despite his great age so that he could relive the splendour of his ancestors' ruin. For one brief transient moment in the clouds. A young boy's folly, wrapped in naïveté. A wish that died before it had even been born.
"Your grace," she greeted him.
"Brother," Daemon echoed her sentiments.
"Lyra, Daemon." The king nodded to them. "Thank you for waiting. I was caught up with certain matters..."
He paused to take a seat next to Daemon, on the other side of the replica that jutted out to form an imposing entranceway. Neat rows of carven pillars and adjacent walls reminiscent of Old Volantis decorated it in lifeless white clay. He should have it painted black, like the halls of Dragonstone.
"I have a proposition to which I would like to know your answer," he continued.
"Well, that sounds interesting," Daemon commented. "What is it?"
"Corlys Velaryon was the one to suggest it to me, actually," Viserys told them coyly.
"And so the plot thickens," Daemon jested.
Lyra's lips started to tug upwards at her husband's tongue-in-cheek humour. "If it is from Lord Corlys then I fear to ask what it is."
Viserys chuckled. "Nothing so sinister, I assure you." He took another brief pause. "He suggested that I bring you into the small council, Lyra ... as mistress of whisperers."
Both husband and wife raised a quizzical brow at his words. Daemon was right; Corlys was an incorrigible egghead of a man.
"Now do not look at me like that," Viserys said. "I heard what you did, for the orphan boys and that whole mess with..." His voice trailed off uncertainly. "With the tailors."
