"The blood of Lucerys will be repaid tenfold. A brother for a brother."
In which Daenys Velaryon, the oldest child of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, must come to terms with the fact that the man she loves has committed an unforgivable crime...
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"Then, when God asks you, 'Where is your brother?' You respond, 'I do not know. Am I my brother's keeper?' In essence, the rest of your story is written as an affirmative response to this question."
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The predawn air was still and cool, tinged with the faintest hint of dew as echoes of steel against steel sounded out in the training yard. The sky above was a canvas of dark blues and purples, untouched by the waking sun, yet, despite the hour, Daenys Velaryon was already clad in her training attire, her sword gripped tightly in her hand as she swung her sword in wide arcs against Ser Atticus. The weight of her father's Valyrian steel weapon was unfamiliar and cumbersome in her hand and her head throbbed, but still she persisted. Meanwhile, Ser Atticus effortlessly parried her attacks, his movements fluid and precise. He watched her closely, his gaze assessing her every move.
"Remember to keep your stance steady, Princess," he instructed every now and then, his voice calm and reassuring. "And don't overextend your strikes."
Daenys gritted her teeth in frustration, her swings becoming more erratic with each passing moment. She could feel the weight of the sword dragging her down, her single eye overworking itself to try and take in as much of the surroundings as it could. She felt like she was seven years old again, and her father was teaching her to spar for the very first time. She had not felt this unskilled in a very long time, and it was a pathetic feeling.
Unbidden, she felt a twinge of sympathy for her one-eyed husband, who prided himself on his sword skills. Surely it must have been just as difficult for him. Her sympathy faded when she remembered all the events of the past few weeks. The memories made her lips twist in a snarl and she slammed her sword against Ser Atticus's with extra force, sending both their weapons flying out of their hands.
"Again," she demanded, her voice sharp with determination.
Ser Atticus nodded, his expression concerned as he retrieved his sword, but as they resumed their sparring, Daenys could sense a subtle shift in his demeanour. His movements seemed slower, more deliberate, as if he was intentionally holding back.
Frustration bubbled up within her as she continued to swing her sword with all her might, each strike missing its mark by inches. She could feel the heat of her own frustration rising within her, clouding her judgment and blurring her movements.
And then, with a swift motion, her brunette knight disarmed her, her sword clattering to the dusty ground below. Daenys stumbled backward, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she slumped to the ground in defeat.
"Perhaps today is not the best day for such activities, Your Highness," Ser Atticus suggested gently, his voice filled with concern.
Daenys leaned back on her hands, her chest rising and falling with the exertion of her efforts. She gazed up at the sky, its darkness a stark contrast to the fire burning within her. Bitterness welled up inside her, a mixture of frustration and disappointment.
