⸻ ( 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 stood in front of the ashen pyre, the black mourning veil she adorned obscuring her face. A fresh wave of tears leaked over the brim of her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks without restraint. The sky was ablaze with a storm of bruised flames; the crimson reminded her of a blood-stained birthing bed, pale limbs splayed coldly.
Questions plagued her mind. Aemma had been the one person that had been a true sister to her. Lyra too had suffered the same fate — begetting life through the hands of death. She had tasted its bitter fruit, drowned under its oblivion rivers. Yet she alone remained unscathed while others perished, her purpose shrouded in stygian shadows.
She could not comprehend the will of the gods, could not unravel their tangled web of plots. No matter how much she begged, R'hllor would not answer. Abandoning her to darkness.
The sound of trodden stone caught her attention but she could guess who it was. In the next moment, she felt a gentle caress along her arm. Daemon murmured beside her, "Lyra...you should return too. The hour grows late."
She looked up to his face, half-lidded violet eyes gazing back at her sympathetically. A light frown creased his brows with concern. The eventide brought a chill wind blowing between the strands of their hair. She wished it would carry her grief away with it, to a time in the past when all remained in bliss.
Lyra bowed her head in a nod and Daemon gently led her away from the cliffsides overlooking Blackwater Bay. The waters below were treacherously dark and still under the fading sun. She paid little attention to the dirt path leading back towards the gates of the Red Keep. Beyond the cloistered courtyards, the dim halls seemed to be devoid of life.
"Would you like to have supper?" Daemon asked her. "I can have a servant bring you something to eat."
She managed a faint smile. "It's alright...I don't think I have the appetite for it."
"At least some dessert? Or some warm soup would be better," he coaxed attentively. "Your hands are freezing."
Lyra was about to acquiesce when she saw a knight bounding towards them. Her green eyes watched him cross the square, drawing Daemon's attention to the man as well. It was Ser Elwyn Scales, her sworn sword returned to her. After innumerable profusions of apologies and regrets from the knight upon her astonishing return, she had not the heart to turn him away.
"Good evening, Ser Elwyn," she greeted him amiably when he was near enough, "why do you seem to be in a hurry?"
"My prince and princess," he called to them, "the Lord Hand has requested for the small council to convene."
Lyra exchanged baffled glances with Daemon. His outrage was evident. "At this hour?" he questioned sharply. "Has he gone mad? This is absurd, Aemma was only laid to rest mere hours ago."
