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zeciex · 4 months ago

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A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 1

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 1: Children and the Innocent

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

Children and the innocent–they were always the first casualty of war.

The tendrils of war crept into every corner of life, a rot that left nothing unscathed. It was never content to simply take; it marked, marred, and tainted all it touched. Even the righteous bore its stain, their hands sullied no matter how fiercely they had once clung to ideals of compassion or justice. War eroded those virtues, grinding them into something unrecognizable.

For the innocent, there was no refuge. Innocence was always the first sacrifice, offered up willingly or otherwise upon the altar of war.

Daenera Velaryon had made her offering–her innocence, or what little remained of it, laid bare upon the altar of necessity. It was not stolen from her; no blade had come in the night to strip her clean of it. She had given it willingly, if reluctantly, surrendering it in the desperate hope that mercy might bloom where there had only been cold inevitability.

The weight of that choice sat heavily upon her now. Its sting was sharp and unrelenting, like the bite of a thorn embedded deep beneath her skin. Every breath she drew seemed to tug at it, the pain subtle yet constant, a cruel reminder of the price she had paid. Mercy had been what she sought, but she wondered now if she had traded too much for too little.

Children and the innocent.

The thought circled her mind like a crow circling the ravages of a battlefield. She sat motionless, a heavy book balanced on her lap, its pages as neglected as the daylight slipping past her unnoticed. A golden coin danced between her fingers, its edges worn smooth. It glinted faintly in the soft light of her chamber, its metallic sheen mocking her in its simplicity. The eye etched on one side seemed to watch her with cold indifference, its stare unwavering, piercing. She turned the coin over, her thumb brushing against the spiral carved on the opposite face, its design both intricate and maddening in its endless loops.

Her gaze rested on the page before her, though her eyes did not see the drawings painted upon the parchment. Dread coiled in her stomach, a searing, molten guilt that pooled low and heavy within her. The hours dragged on with a torturous slowness, the sun climbing high in the sky before beginning its descent. She had been absent all day, her mind consumed by the creeping inevitability of what was to come. She had done the deed. Now all that remained was the waiting.

Waiting. How she loathed it.

The slip of a blade was quick, precise, and brutal–a crude finality that left no room for hesitation or doubt. It was an intimate act, one that forced the wielder of the blade to face their victim in the raw, unyielding truth of the moment. Blood spilled and life fled in a heartbeat, swift and irreversible.

There was clarity in its violence, a grim certainty that the deed was done.

But poison… Poison was an act of patience, a virtue Daenera found herself woefully short of in this moment. Unlike the blade, poison was a quiet, lingering death. It crept through the veins unseen, stealing life slowly, leaving nothing but stillness in its wake.

It was, in its way, a silent mercy, blessedly free of the screams and struggle that came with steel. Yet for the one who wielded it, the waiting was its own kind of torment.

Soon, she thought. Soon, there would be no need for waiting.

The guilt would remain, of course–it always did. But she would carry it, as she carried everything else. What choice did she have?

Daenera flipped the coin over in her hand, her thumb absently tracing its curve. She neither heard nor acknowledged the sharp voice cutting through the room, its commands ringing out like the squawking of an angry gull. It wasn’t until the sound of snapping fingers broke through the haze that her focus shifted, and the shill voice rose to an indignant pitch.

“Are you even listening to me?” Mertha demanded, standing above her with the poise of a long-suffering septa whose voice had gone unheard for far too long. Her dull gray eyes, the color of murky dishwater, bore down on her with a scowl so deeply etched it might have been carved into stone.

“No,” Daenera replied flatly, her tone devoid of apology. Her eyes drifted past Mertha, landing on the two servants precariously balanced atop stepladders. They struggled to hang a heavy tapestry, its intricate weave depicting a serene forest scene, with woodland creatures peeking from behind the shadows. It was a beautiful piece, though she could muster no great care for it.

“Must I shout to make you hear my words, or have you simply no care to listen?” Mertha’s sharp voice rang out again, her frustration etched into every syllable. She planted her hands firmly on her hips, her flushed cheeks and tightly drawn mouth making her look like an overripe plum on the verge of bursting.

“I do not care,” Daenera replied, her voice calm, almost bored, as she flipped the coin in her hand once more. It spun briefly in the air before landing neatly against her palm.

“Well, you should care!” Mertha snapped, her tone rising with righteous indignation. She stepped closer, her shadow falling across Daenera. “Here I am, toiling away in service to you, after spending the entire day organizing your wedding gifts–seeing them put away properly or displayed where they belong–and all you’ve done is lounge here like some lazy child!”

Mertha’s voice came fast and sharp, her voice lashing like a whip, and her cheeks burned brighter with each accusation. She gestured towards the servants still working to hang the heavy tapestry on the far wall, their faces red with effort. “Do you think this is all for our amusement? For my amusement?” Her head shook in indignation. “Do you think all of this is for me? That I enjoy running around like a servant while you–” she gestured pointedly at Daenera’s languid sprawl–“sit here and do nothing? It is your household, it is your duty! It is your responsibility as a wife to serve as a pillar of strength for your husband and for those under his roof. A wife does not shirk her duties or waste her hours idling away like a spoiled child!” She paused, her eyes narrowing as she fixed Daenera with a glare meant to cut deep. “A house falls into chaos without a steady hand at its helm.”

Daenera finally lifted her gaze, fixing Mertha with a glower that could have chilled the summer sea. She let the silence stretch for a moment, then answered tersely, “It seems you’ve missed your calling, Lady Mertha. You sound more like a septa than a lady-in-waiting.”

The coin spun between her fingers, its repetitive motion a fragile tether to hold her irritation at bay. Tension thrummed beneath her skin, stretched so taut as a bowstring, fraying at the edges and threatening to snap under the slightest strain. She tilted her head slightly, her dark hair catching the light as she continued pointedly. “I didn’t ask you to do any of it. In fact, I can’t recall asking for your assistance at all. What I do recall is you waving me away at every turn, assuring me you have everything well in hand.”

Her gaze shifted past Mertha to the two servants precariously perched on the stepladders, their faces red with strain as they struggled to hoist the heavy tapestry into place. One of them wobbled slightly, the ladder creaking under the weight, and for a moment, it seemed as though the entire endeavor might collapse.”

“If you’re so certain that chaos will consume this household without my steady hand,” Daenera added, her voice smooth and deliberate, “then I suggest you turn your attention to the task at hand. That tapestry looks dangerously close to coming down.”

Mertha’s face flushed deeper, her lips pressing into a tight line. She spun on her heel with a flurry of skirts, her sharp voice rising as she barked at the struggling servants. “Hold it up! Do not dare to drop it, or I will see you both scrubbing the kitchen floors for a fortnight!”

The servants strained as they hoisted the tapestry higher, their faces flushed with excretion. Sweat glistened on their brows as they fumbled to secure the heavy fabric to its designated place on the wall. With a final heave, they managed–barely–to fasten it in place, the rings clinging against their hooks. They released a collective sigh, their breaths coming in labored puffs, relief plain on their reddened faces.

Daenera’s gaze lingered on the tapestry, its intricate design drawing her deeper into its woven depths. Dappled greens and browns seemed almost alive in the shifting afternoon light, the shadows among the trees darkening as though seeking to hide something from view–a dozen pairs of eyes seemed to peer back at her from amongst the waved wood, unblinking and unnerving. The sensation was subtle at first, a faint itch at the edge of her awareness, but it grew steadily–a creeping sense of being watched. It prickled against her skin, cold and insistent, as if the fabric itself harbored some malicious intent.

“Is that the tapestry the Lord Confessor gifted us?” She asked, her voice unassuming.

Mertha turned, her expression softening as she admired the tapestry. There was a note of pride in her voice, even satisfaction, as she replied, “It is. A fine piece, wouldn’t you say?”

The servants began their descent from the stepladders, the room quieting as the laborious task came to an end. Daenera’s gaze remained fixed on the tapestry, her teeth clenched as the tightness in her chest coiled tighter, an unyielding knot of discomfort. The sensation that had begun as a faint unease now swelled into something far more oppressive–an icy prickle spreading across her skin, like needles pressed against her flesh. It was a feeling she knew too well, the same creeping chill that always accompanied Lord Larys and his piercing gray eyes.

Her breath hitched slightly, her fingers instinctively tightening around the coin in her hand as her thoughts darkened. Even when he was absent, the man seemed to find a way to linger, his presence clinging like an unseen shadow. She could almost feel his gaze now, sharp and calculating, stripping away her defenses to lay bare whatever secrets he thought he might find.

The tapestry felt no different. Those painted eyes among the trees bore down on her, heavy and oppressive, an extension of Larys himself. She could not abide it–not here, not in her own chambers, where she sought refuge from the suffocating webs of court intrigue. This was her space, her sanctuary, and she would not suffer his influence hanging on her walls, a constant reminder of his unnerving watchfulness.

Daenera already endured enough intrusions. Mertha’s ever-watchful presence hovered over her like a stormcloud, the woman’s sharp eyes scrutinizing her every movement, keeping her under guard as though she were a wayward child in need of constant correction. Beyond her chamber doors, the guards stood vigil, a reminder that her life was no longer her own, that even her privacy was a privilege rather than a right.

And then there was Aemond.

His presence loomed larger than any other, even when he wasn’t in the room. The mere thought of him pressed against her, heavy and inescapable, like a shadow that moved when she did, always just a step behind. She couldn’t decide which unsettled her more—the weight of his gaze, sharp and intense, or the flutter in her chest that his nearness always seemed to evoke, unbidden and unwelcome. That feeling—that traitorous, treacherous flutter—was what she dreaded most. It made her feel as though she were caught between wanting to run and wanting to stay.

She didn’t need another intrusion, not here in the one place where she could try to pretend she was still her own. The tapestry, with its eyes and the suffocating aura of its giver, was a trespass she could not abide. It was a reminder of everything she was already forced to endure, and she would not allow it to take root in her chambers.

“Take it down.”

The room stilled. Mertha’s head snapped towards her, disbelief flickering in her features. “Take it… down” She repeated, as though she hadn’t heard correctly

“Yes. Take it down.”

The servants froze mid-motion, their expressions caught between confusion and exhaustion. Their eyes darted between Daenera and Mertha, clearly unsure whether to proceed or await for further instruction. The tension in the room thickened as Mertha’s carefully constructed composure began to crack. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line as she seemed to struggle with maintaining her air of control.

“Princess,” Mertha began, her tone tight with barely restrained exasperation, “this was a gift from the Lord Confessor, one of great value and–”

“I know who it came from,” Daenera interrupted, her voice sharper now, slicing through Mertha’s objections like a blade. Her gaze shifted to meet the older woman’s cold and unwavering. “And I said take it down. I do not want it up. I much preferred the tapestry depicting the gardens of Highgarden.”

Mertha bristled, her cheeks flushing, “But the Lord Confessor will surely be offended to hear what you’ve done with his gift–”

“I said take it down,” Daenera repeated, her tone pointed, each word deliberate. “I didn’t say throw it out.” She leaned back slightly in her chair, the coin in her hand flipping once more between her fingers. “Send it to storage–or better yet, to my husband’s chambers. I do not care which, but it will not hang here.”

The older woman opened her mouth to protest again, but Daenera cut her off before she could speak. “Will you please see to it that it is done, Lady Mertha. After all, my husband entrusted me with full authority over the decorations of our chambers, and I doubt he will be pleased to hear that my instructions were ignored.”

Mertha’s mouth snapped shut, and after a tense moment, she turned on her heel, her skirts swishing as she barked at the servants. “You heard her! Take it down. Carefully, now. Do not damage it.”

The servant’s hesitated only briefly before moving to obey, their steps quick but cautious as they began removing the tapestry. It was a small victory–one that rang hollow beneath the weight in her chest.

“Hold it up!” Mertha chided as she continued to instruct the servants, her voice sharp as it cut through the air, correcting their every movement. “Do not let it drop!” She barked. “And mind the fabric–if you tear it, the cost will come from your wages!” The servants obeyed with visible tension, their hands trembling slightly as they worked to dislodge the tapestry.

It was only as the tapestry was finally freed from its hinges, slowly descending into the waiting hands of the servants, that Mertha’s attention swung sharply back to Daenera. Her exasperation spilled forth in a clipped huff, her eyes narrowing as she took in her posture.

“Must you sit like that?” Mertha snapped, her tone brimming with disapproval. “For the gods’ sake, compose yourself! It’s unbecoming!”

In silent rebellion, Daenera slouched even further into the cushioned chair. One leg dangled lazily over the armrest, the other draped carelessly off the seat. Her back curved into an exaggerated slump, the book resting against her lower abdomen, propped up by her bent knee. The skirts of her gown cascaded modestly over her legs, ensuring she remained decent, though her posture was anything but.

“It’s comfortable,” Daenera said with a shrug, her tone casual, as if the older woman weren’t glaring daggers at her.

Mertha’s jaw tightened, her lips thinning into a line so severe it looked as though it might disappear altogether. “Comfortable?” she repeated, incredulity dripping from the word. Her sharp gaze darted toward the servants still struggling with the tapestry before snapping back to Daenera, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper, as though the insult would lose its sting if overheard. “You look like a tavern wench sprawled out like that!”

The words hung in the air for a moment, sharp as a slap, before her voice rose again, full of righteous indignation. “What if someone were to walk in? Have you no pride, no sense of decorum?”

Daenera’s fingers continued to toy with the coin in her hand, her movements unhurried and steady, in stark contrast to Mertha’s rising fury. She let out a soft breath through her nose, not quite a sigh, but weighted with the quiet annoyance that stirred beneath her calm exterior. Her gaze flicked up to meet Mertha’s, cool and steady.

“If someone walks in,” she said, her tone light but edged with quiet defiance, “they’ll see me reading. How scandalous.”

Her lips twitched, not quite forming a smile but hinting at one, as though she found the older woman’s outrage faintly amusing. Daenera’s deliberate nonchalance only seemed to stoke Mertha’s frustration further, but Daenera didn’t care. Let her scold. Let her fume. It made no difference. She wasn’t about to let propriety—or Mertha–dictate her every move.

“And what is it you’re–what are you reading?” Mertha’s voice faltered before landing firmly in a tone of horrified disgust, her gaze locking onto the open pages sprawled across Daenera’s lap. Her face twisted as though she’d bitten into something sour, her eyes widening at the explicit illustration before her–two men entwined with a woman, limbs tangled in unabashed passion.

“Would you put that away?” she snapped, her voice rising in indignation. “That isn’t proper–”

Daenera didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she lazily turned the page, revealing an equally provocative scene. This time, a man and woman lay intertwined on their sides, the woman’s lips wrapped around his cock while his face was buried between her thighs. The stark intimacy of the image sent a creeping heat crawling up Daenera’s throat and into her cheeks, but her expression remained neutral, betraying nothing but cool detachment. “‘Proper’ is a word forged by men who seek to enslave us with it.”

“Proper and propriety are virtues we should all seek to aspire to!” Mertha retorted, her voice rising with indignant fervor. Her posture stiffened, her hands clasped tightly in her skirts as though the very act of standing straighter might lend her argument more weight.

“The king would be loathed to hear I’m not enjoying his gift,” Daenera hummed, her voice calm but laced with a hint of mischief. Her silver-blue eyes flicked back up to meet Mertha’s, holding her gaze as she added, “Perhaps you should borrow it, Lady Mertha. You might find some inspiration to warm up your marriage.”

The flush in Mertha’s cheeks deepened from shock to fury, her jaw tightening as though she were physically restraining herself from reacting. For a moment, it seemed she might snatch the book straight from Daenera’s lap, smack it shut, and then strike her over the head with it for good measure. Her hands twitched at her sides, trembling with the effort of restraint, but Daenera only tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady and unapologetic.

Mertha spluttered, her outrage too great for coherent words, before finally spinning away with a sharp huff, muttering something about propriety and ungrateful girls under her breath. Daenera watched her retreat, her fingers toying with the edge of the page as the corner of her mouth twitched upward, just barely.

At that moment, Edelin returned, a small bowl of glistening pomegranate seeds balanced carefully in her hands. Daenera had sent her away earlier, asking for something to occupy her time–something to distract from the oppressive weight of waiting. The girl moved swiftly, her steps light but faltering, her demeanor betraying her unease.

Her pale complexion seemed even paler in the muted light, her brow knit in a worried crease. The corners of her mouth tugged downward, as though she was trying and failing to conceal the sadness lurking just beneath her expression. She flitted across the floor like a bird unsure of its perch, her gaze flickering briefly from Mertha to Daenera.

Daenera’s stomach tightened. The weight she had carried all day seemed to shift, sinking heavily into the pit of her stomach, cold and unyielding. It was no longer the dread of waiting that gnawed at her–it was the creeping certainty of knowing. The pomegranate seeds, bright and unassuming, were no longer an indulgence or distraction. They were simply there, meaningless in the shadow of what had happened.

Without a word, Daenera carefully closed the book resting in her lap, her fingers deliberate and steady despite the turmoil roiling within her. The soft thud of the cover closing felt louder than it should yet it was lost in the scuffle of the servants–it only seemed to reverberate within her own ears. She placed it aside with care, as though the motion itself might starve off what was coming.

Straightening slowly, she adjusted her posture in the chair, her languid defiance giving way to something far more measured. The act felt like donning armor, each movement calculated to mask the dread rising in her chest. Her eyes flickered toward Eelin, but she did not speak, waiting instead for the girl to confirm what Daenera already knew in her bones.

The girl made an uneasy step behind Mertha, her hands clutching the bowl of pomegranate seeds tightly as though the small offering could ground her. Her gaze flicked towards Daenera again, uncertain and fretful. She lingered there, seemingly torn between the need to speak and the fear of what her words might bring.

Mertha, noticing the girl’s restless movements, turned sharply to face her. Her muddled gray eyes, narrowed in irritation, roamed over Edelin’s pale face. The snide edge in her expression faltered when her brows lifted slightly, catching the unease etched into the girl’s features.

“What is it?” Mertha demanded harshly, her tone clipped and impatient.

“It’s the boy,” Edelin replied, her words soft yet heavy. “Patrick… He’s gone.”

Daenera’s stomach clenched, the confirmation slicing through her as sharply as she had anticipated. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, feeling her heart twist painfully around the weight of the truth.

Daenera swallowed hard, the knot at the back of her throat feeling like a jagged rock, scraping painfully as it forced its way down. It settled heavily in the pit of her stomach, an unbearable weight she had braced herself to carry. The confirmation struck with all the force she had expected, yet instead of breaking her, she felt herself settle into its cold certainty. It was a burden she had anticipated, one she had already steeled herself to bear–because she had no other choice.

There was a strange, chilling ease in the finality of it. Her heart felt encased in ice, a numbing coldness that horrified her even as she clung to it. It was a shield, a bitter solace that allowed her to stand firm against the storm inside her. She had known this moment would come. She had orchestrated it, after all. It had been her hand, her choice.

And in that certainty, she found the resolve she needed. The weight, as crushing as it was, grounded her, providing a grim foundation to steel herself against the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Regret, guilt, anger–they simmered beneath the surface, but the coldness of her heart kept them at bay, at least for now.

Mertha turned back to the servants as they carefully descended the stepladders, the tapestry still a cumbersome weight in their hands. Her focus narrowed in their movements like a hawk watching for the slightest misstep. “Don’t you dare drop it!” She snapped shrilly when one of the servants stumbled, before redirecting part of her attention back to the startled Edelin. “Gone? Gone where? How could he have escaped?”

Edelin hesitated, her lips trembling as she tried to keep her voice steady. “He’s dead,” she clarified, the quiet finality of her words lingering in the air like a noose.

Mertha’s head whipped around, her eyes wide with shock. “Dead?” She repeated, her tone almost incredulous.

“I saw them remove him from the dungeons,” Edelin continued, her voice barely above a whisper,” and take him to the Sept.”

“How–” Mertha began, her voice faltering as her eyes darted erratically, seemingly searching for clarity amid the swirling storm of her thoughts. Then the realization dawned on her, her eyes snapping back to Daenera, wide with incredulousness before narrowing into scorn. Her lips curled into a sneer as she took a step forward, her posture stiff with indignation.

“You,” She hissed, the single word brimming with accusation.

Daenera rose from her chair, her movements measured and composed. She stood tall, her expression carefully neutral, offering no acknowledgement of Mertha’s venomous tone.

Mertha’s hand twitched at her side, as though she fought the urge to lash out, but her gaze flickered briefly towards the servants still lingering nearby. The hesitation seemed to temper her fury, redirecting it into something colder, sharper. She straightened, her tone hardening into ice as she barked out her command.

“Leave us!” She snapped, her voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument–and there was none to be found.

The servants carefully lowered the tapestry to the ground, the heavy metal bar clanking softly against the stone floor as it settled with a dull thud. They straightened quickly, gathering their tools with hurried movements. Though their faces remained carefully neutral, a flicker of curiosity danced in their eyes, betraying their instincts to linger and observe. Yet they knew better than to dawdle, and without so much as a glance at Daenera or Mertha, they shuffled out of the room, the door closing firmly behind them.

“Edelin, would you please fetch—” Daenera began, but her words were abruptly cut off as a sharp slap cracked across her face, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a whip.

Her head snapped to the side, her cheek instantly aflame, a searing heat radiating across her skin. Her ear rang with the force of the blow, and her balance faltered as she stumbled backward. She barely had time to draw breath, to register the shock, before another slap followed in quick succession, landing on the same cheek with brutal precision.

The second strike sent a sharp sting through her nose, making it itch and her eyes water involuntarily. Tears blurred her vision as the back of her legs caught on the edge of the chair, forcing her to collapse into it with a harsh thud. The book she had so carefully set aside fell to the floor, its pages splaying out in a chaotic fan, forgotten in the storm of violence.

The silence that followed was deafening. Her cheek throbbed, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as she clutched the arms of the chair, trying to steady herself. The sting of the slaps lingered, not just in her skin but deep within her chest, humiliation and fury twisting together in a knot that burned hotter than the pain.

“Lady Mertha!” Edelin cried out, stepping forward and seizing Mertha’s wrist just as her hand arched through the air, poised to deliver a third slap. “You mustn’t!” Her voice trembled with urgency, her expression wrought with horror.

Mertha wrenched her hand free with a sharp, violent tug, her fury unabated. She whirled on Daenera, her lips curled into a sneer so deep it seemed to etch itself into her bone. “You did this!” she spat, her voice trembling with rage. “You wretched, evil child! You murdered that poor boy!”

Her bony finger jabbed the air, pointed directly at Daenera like a blade aiming for her heart. “Do you take me for a fool? I know you poisoned him! I don’t know how you managed it, or where you got the poison, but I know you’re behind it.”

Daenera stared up at her, her chest tightening as a storm of emotions churned within her. Her throat ached as she swallowed back the bitter anger clawing its way to the surface, fighting to keep it contained. The burning in her eyes betrayed the fury and grief roiling beneath her carefully neutral expression. She bit her tongue until she felt her teeth dig into the tender flesh, the pain grounding her as Mertha’s accusations rained down like blows.

Mertha let out a disdainful huff, her head shaking with unbridled indignation, her face flushed deep red with the force of her anger. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she hissed, her voice rising. “How it will reflect on me–on everyone around you? I’ve been kind to you, more than you deserved! I allowed you to see him, to be near him. I gave you freedoms, and this is how you repay me?”

Her head shook more fervently now, her movements fueled by a righteous fury. “You vile, ungrateful creature! A witch! That’s what you are–a demon in the guise of a princess, cursing all who come near you with your poison and lies. The gods themselves will judge you for this! They will see you burn for what you’ve done. You mark my words, Princess.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as though the room itself strained under the weight of her fury. Each accusation reverberated like the echo of a whip’s crack, cutting through the tense silence that surrounded them.

Daenera remained still, her fingers curling tightly around the arms of her chair as she fought to keep her composure. The sharp point of her incisor dug into her tongue, piercing the tender flesh, and she tasted the metallic bitterness of blood as it seeped forth. The sting anchored her, keeping her rooted in place while the storm of Mertha’s wrath raged around her.

She did not rise, nor did she speak. She let the older woman’s words lash against her, each one landing like the crack of leather across her back. Daenera’s face remained a carefully neutral mask, though her chest tightened with the effort of holding her silence. The fire within her burned hot, but she refused to let it show.

The gods would indeed judge her. Of that, she was certain.

“That is enough!” Edelin cried, stepping forward, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and determination. “If you do not get a hold of yourself, I will fetch the prince–I will tell him that you’ve laid hands on the princess!”

Mertha’s scornful gaze snapped toward the girl, her gray eyes narrowing dangerously. “You will do no such thing!”

“I will!” Edelin shot back, though her voice quivered, betraying her nerves. “You struck her, and I have to–I will–”

“No,” Daenera interjected, her voice cutting through the exchange like a blade. It was cold and controlled, each syllable sharp with finality. There was no tremor, no outward sign of the ache burning in her throat, her chest. The weight of the moment pressed against her, but she bore it without faltering.

She rose slowly from her seat, her movements deliberate and measured. Her cheek still burned with the sting of the slap, the pain radiating across her skin like a brand, but she stood tall, her composure that of steel. Her gaze settled on Mertha, cool and steady.

“I will afford you this, Lady Mertha,” Daenera said, her tone ice-cold but edged with quiet authority. “This once.”

She let the sting linger, let the pain root itself deeply within her. She accepted it–welcomed it–as a small measure of penance for what she had done. It was not forgiveness, nor absolution, but retribution, a reminder of the blood on her hands.

“Let it be the last time,” she continued, her voice firm, her gaze unwavering, “that you raise your hand to me.”

Mertha’s jaw tightened, her teeth grinding audibly as her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Her knuckles whitened, trembling with the force of her suppressed rage. Daenera, however, turned her attention away from the seething woman, dismissing her entirely as she shifted her focus to Edelin.

“You won’t tell him about this,” Daenera said, her voice firm and unwavering. The words carried more than just authority–they held a quiet plea, veiled behind her composed exterior. She didn’t want Aemond to know. She couldn’t bear the thought of giving him the satisfaction of stepping in, of needing him, of revealing the extent of her own powerlessness.

Perhaps it was pride, the stubborn refusal to show weakness before him. Or perhaps it was uncertainty, the thought that he’d abide by it. No, not uncertainty. Deep down, she knew exactly what he would do if he found out, and it was that knowledge–the certainty of knowing to the bone what he’d do–that chilled her more than any other possibility.

“But, Princess–” Edelin began, her voice small, the words laced with hesitant defiance.

“No,” Daenera interrupted, the sharp edge of her tone cutting through the girl’s protests. Any further objections died in Edelin’s throat, her defiance faltering under her gaze. The girl looked uncertain, her hands wringing together as she lowered her eyes.

Daenera’s lips curved into a faint, sad smile, the expression an attempt at reassurance, though it felt forced, unnatural. The weight of the moment pressed too heavily upon her, and the smile faded as quickly as it had come, leaving her face somber. “Would you bring me my shawl, Lady Edelin?”

Before Edelin could move, Mertha stepped forward sharply, her hand latching onto Daenera’s arm with an iron grip. Her pointed fingers dug into her flesh with bruising force, the pain deliberate and punishing. “And where do you think you’re going?” Mertha demanded, her voice low and menacing. “Do you think I’d let you leave after this?”

“I wish to see him,” Daenera said simply, her voice steady and resolute, though her chest felt tight with the weight of her words.

Mertha froze for a moment, her gray, muddled eyes locking onto Daenera’s face. Fury burned within them, sharp and unrelenting, her cheeks still flushed red from her earlier outburst. Her lips trembled, stretched thin over her teeth as if she were holding back the force of her rage. But she couldn’t contain it; her mouth twisted into a scornful sneer, her contempt palpable.

“You wish to see the boy?” Mertha’s tone was mocking, dripping with venom. Her grip on Daenera’s arm tightened further, her bony fingers digging cruelly into her flesh. “Hmm? You wish to witness what you’ve done? Let us go then,” she sneered, her words a sharp lash. “Let us stand before the boy, and we’ll see if you're strong enough to face him!”

Mertha yanked her toward the doors, her bony fingers biting into her flesh with a bruising grip. She dragged her forward with the force of someone hauling a reluctant child, though Daenera offered no resistance. She moved willingly, her steps steady, intent on facing the weight of what she had done. Yet Mertha acted as if her compliance was a mockery, as though her lack of struggle only deepened her rage.

The older woman’s sneer twisted her face with disdain, her lips curling as her anger fed upon itself. With each step, her venomous words spilled forth, sharp and unrelenting, cutting through the air like shards of broken glass.

“It seems you have not yet learned the weight of death” she muttered, her voice a mix of fury and derision. “Let this serve as a lesson. Watch as the Silent Sisters cleanse him and remove his innards. Perhaps then you will grasp the weight of your actions and carry it with you for the rest of your days, as heavy as the grave you’ve filled.”

Daenera needed no lesson in the weight of what she’d done. It pressed against her chest ever since the moment she had made her choice. It was lodged like a stone deep in her stomach, heavy and immovable. She bore it silently, carried it as she carried all else.

She offered no opposition to Mertha. She didn’t flinch at the sharpness of the older woman’s words or the bruising grip of her bony fingers. Her nails bit into her arm with deliberate force, yet she made no effort to pull away. Instead, she stood as though carved from the same gray stone as the cliffs beneath the castle, enduring as the waves lashed against it. Each scornful word was another blow of saltwater against rock, each accusation a cresting wave that broke and retreated, leaving nothing but the cold, stinging spray in its wake. Her silence wasn’t defiance but acceptance–just as the rock accepted the punishing crash of the waves.

As they neared the threshold, the sound of hurried footsteps announced Edelin’s return. She emerged from the archway to the bedchamber, the shawl Daenera had requested draped neatly over her forearm. Her features betrayed her unease, her lips pressed tightly together as her gaze darted between Daenera and Mertha. The tension in the air seemed to thicken as Mertha abruptly released her arm, ehr fingers prying away with a reluctant jerk.

Edelin hesitated, her steps faltering for a heartbeat, before she stepped closer to Daenera, gently draping the soft fabric around her shoulders, her hands lingering just long enough to smooth it into place. “There…” She hummed, straightening before she pulled her own shawl tightly across her shoulders.

Mertha snatched her own shawl with quick, impatient tugs. She wrapped it around her shoulders with an air of brusque efficiency, her scowl deepening as her sharp eyes caught Edelin’s. The corners of her mouth curled downward further, as if such tenderness was an affront.

The silence stretched, taut and heavy, as Mertha stepped forward, breaking the moment with the scrape of her heels against stone. She didn’t bother to wait for acknowledgement, she simply went ahead, her hands pressing against the heavy oak doors, shoving them open. The hinges creaked lightly as it swung open, revealing the hall beyond and the guard–Finan–standing right outside.

A gust of chilled air rushed through the open doors, carrying with it the faint tang of damp stone and the earthy scent of rain yet to fall. Mertha stepped through the threshold first, her movements brisk and purposeful, the hem of her shawl flaring briefly. She cast a sharp glance back over her shoulder, a deep scowl on her face.

“Come,” she barked, her voice clipped, “We’ve not got all day.”

Daenera drew a slow breath, the chilled air sharp in her lungs, and she clutched the shawl a little tighter as she stepped forward without hesitation, following Mertha into the hall.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, Mertha closed the distance between them and unceremoniously locked her arm with Daenera’s, keeping her at her side. It was not a gesture of guidance or friendliness but of control, as though she feared she might slip away, might flee before facing the consequences of her actions.

Mertha’s eyes flicked sideways, her gaze sharp as a blade. “Do you think your silence absolves you? It does not. The truth will out, Princess, and when it does, you will stand bare before it. You will not escape this. I won’t allow you to.”

They moved in measured steps through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, the sounds of their footsteps lost among the usual shuffle through the corridors. The air inside the old walls was stagnant, laced with the faint scent of stone and old fires. As they descended the sweeping steps of the Great Hall of the Holdfast, the flickering torchlight gave way to the pale light filtering between the columns of the inner courtyard.

The inner courtyard lay still under the waning sun. They passed beneath the high stone columns were her men and Lord Caswell had hung, their bodies once swaying lifelessly from the second-story bannisters, a grim testament to the price of her disobedience. Though the bodies were gone, the memory lingered, etched into her mind as clearly as the etchings of the stone columns.

Beyond the inner courtyard, through the heavy doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, the afternoon air greeted them with a sharp chill, stinging against her skin like tiny needles. The sun hung low in the sky, inching toward the horizon as if eager to end the day. Thick clouds gathered in its wake, heavy and dark, slowly knitting themselves into a gray shroud that would soon cover the sky all around, swallowing any last remnants of light. The air was dense with the scent of imminent rain, more prominent that it had been within the stone confines of the Holdfast.

A shiver traced down Daenera’s spine, and she flexed her fingers against the cold, though she wasn’t certain if the chill was born from the weather or something deeper–seeping into her from the stone she seemed to carry within the pit of her stomach.

The Red Keep thrummed with the muted bustle of its endless activity. Servants scurried about, stripping the remnants of the wedding festivities from the throne room. Tables and chairs were hauled away, their legs scraping against the gravel and cobblestones, while garlands of flowers were unceremoniously bundled into carts. The festive energy that had briefly gripped the castle was gone, replaced by the hum of routine–a machine grinding ever onward, indifferent to tragedy or triumph.

Daenera walked on, her steps steady but unhurried, as though the very act of moving forward was a quiet defiance. The shadow of Mertha loomed beside her, unrelenting, her hand still clutching her arm as though she might vanish into the air like mist.

Daenera’s eyes drifted upward for a fleeting moment, drawn to the sky where a flock of birds wheeled and darted through the air, their chirping a faint melody against the growing quiet of the late afternoon. Their movements were effortless, their wings slicing through the encroaching gray clouds as if the gathering storm was of no concern to them. For a heartbeat, her gaze lingered, her thoughts following their ascent into the heavens.

If only she could join them–shed the weight of the world and take to the skies, far from this place and all it held. Her longing was sharp and sudden, like the ache of an old wound. But the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and she tore her eyes away, forcing them back to the path ahead. The ground beneath her feet was solid and unyielding, and no amount of wishing could change that. For now, she could only move forward, step by step, tethered to the earth and the choices that bound her.

The air inside the Royal Sept was thick and oppressive, laden with the mingling scents of incense and melting wax. The cloying heaviness seemed to seep into every crevice, saturating the grand chamber with its pungency. It clawed at the back of Daenera’s throat, the acrid tang almost unbearable as it coiled in her lungs. Her stomach churned in protest, the uneasy weight of nausea rising with every breath she took. Her mouth grew parched, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as though the very air sought to steal what little moisture remained.

She swallowed hard, forcing down the discomfort as her eyes flickered across the room. Despite the cool touch of the marble floor beneath their feet, a damp heat lingered in the air, radiating from the thousands of candles that adorned the altars to the gods. Their flames flickered and danced, casting shifting shadows along the high walls and the length of the aisle, their light pooling in golden swathes across the polished stone. The grandeur of the Sept felt suffocating, its sanctity warped by the oppressive solemnity.

Each step she took sent echoes bouncing through the vast chamber, their sound amplified in the stillness, as though the Sept itself was listening. The grandeur of the space, with its towering columns and vaulted ceilings, felt oppressive rather than reverent. The gods’ presence here was not one of comfort but of quiet judgment.

Ahead of her, Mertha walked with purpose, her heels clicking against the floor in sharp opposition to Daenera’s softer tread. She held her arm firmly, steering her down the central aise towards the small stairway tucked into the shadows of a column. A Septa stood there, her plain robes illuminated by the soft glow of the candles she lit along the stone steps. She moved with practiced precision, her hands steady as they guided the flames into life.

Mertha’s voice shattered the quiet, sharp and commanding as it rang out across the space. “We’re here to see the boy.”

The Septa straightened at the sound, her candle still in her hand. Her expression shifted, the faint serenity of her task giving way to wary frown. “You will have to wait,” she said, her voice calm but laced with a subtle edge. “The Silent Sisters have not yet finished their work–”

“The Princess wishes to oversee the preparations herself.”

The Septa’s gaze flickered to Daenera, lingering for a moment, searching her face for some sign of emotion–grief, anger, or perhaps something else. Daenera met the look with a quiet stillness, her expression unreadable, as she gave a small nod of agreement. The Septa’s eyes returned to Mertha as she continued, her voice unwavering.

“The boy was her ward,” Mertha said, her words clipped and precise, each syllable spoken as if it carried the force of law. “She will bear witness, as is her right.”

A flicker of something–perhaps disapproval, perhaps resignation–crossed the Septa’s face, but she bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment. “Very well,” she said softly, turning toward the steps. “Follow me, then.”

Daenera’s gaze lingered on the steps, descending into the unseen depths of the Sept. A chill traced along her spine, though whether it came from the air of the knowledge of what waited her below, she could not tell. As Mertha guided her forward, the echoes of their footsteps seemed lounder, echoing against the cold stone.

They descended into the depths of the Sept, where the air grew colder, heavier, and damp with the weight of stone and time. The hallway stretched before them, a narrow corridor cloaked in shadow, illuminated only by the flickering torches mounted along the walls. Their flames sputtered faintly, casting wavering light that did little to dispel the oppressive darkness. The stone underfoot was worn smooth, its chill seeping up through Daenera’s thin soles with each step.

Occasionally, a thin blade of light pierced the gloom, spilling from the open doorways of nearby chambers. These brief glimpses of illumination revealed the small, narrow windows set high in the outer walls, their glass clouded with grime. The light that filtered through them was pale and distant, more an echo of the world above than a connection to it.

The hall was eerily silent, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and the rhythmic echo of their footsteps against the worn stone. Each sound seemed to swell in the stillness, as if the very walls were listening.

The Septa finally came to a halt before a heavy wooden door, its surface darkened with age and use. She turned to face them briefly, her expression unreadable in the dim light. Her voice, when it came, was soft and subdued, as though the very air down here demanded quiet reverence. “Wait here.”

Without waiting for a response, she pushed the door open, the creak of its hinges breaking the fragile silence like a whispered warning. A faint glow spilled from the room beyond as she slipped inside, the door closing behind her with a muted thud.

Left in the hallway, Daenera stood still, her gaze lingering on the door as the silence closed in around her once more. The flickering torchlight cast long, shifting shadows along the walls, shapes that seemed to stretch and writhe like specters. The faint, distant sound of water dripping somewhere in the depths reached her ears, the rhythm steady and unchanging, as though marking the passage of something far older and colder than time itself.

The Septa returned shortly after disappearing into the chamber, the door creaking open just enough for a sliver of light to spill into the dim corridor. She paused on the threshold, her shadow stretching long against the floor as she met Daenera’s gaze. Her expression was solemn, her voice low but clear, imbued with the weight of reitual.

“Take this and cover your face,” she said, holding out a folded piece of fabric. “It is ill-luck to gaze upon the face of death. The wise turn their eyes from the dead, lest the Stranger see them and think they too are his to take”

Daenera’s eyes drifted down to the offering in the Septa’s hand. The fabric was unassuming, thin as a whisper, yet the solemnity of the words imbued it with a heaviness. The Stranger knew her face, she thought bitterly. He had known it for as long as she could remember. He had followed her since she was a child. But she kept these thoughts to herself, her expression calm as she reached out to take the fabric.

It was lighter than she expected, soft and delicate, a simple square with two strings tied at opposing corners. She unfolded it slowly, the faint scent of incense clinging to the cloth, and held it up before her face. The thin material obscured little, but its presence felt suffocating nonetheless. She tied it in place, the strings pulling tight behind her head. The mask rested just above the bridge of her nose, draping lightly over the lower half of her face.

Beside her, both Mertha and Edelin followed suit, each securing their own masks with somber efficiency. Mertha’s movements were brisk, as though impatient with the necessity, while Edelin’s hands trembled slightly, her fingers fumbling with the strings.

Once all three of them had covered themselves, the Septa stepped aside, her silent approval marked by the soft creak of the door as she pushed it fully open. The room beyond stretched out before them, the air heavy with stillness. The Septa inclined her head, her gesture both an invitation and an urging.

Daenera’s heart felt like a weight within her chest, pressing heavily against her ribs, each beat reverberating through her like the toll of a distant bell. Her feet felt laden, rooted to the cold stone floor beneath her, and for a moment, she remained there, her body unwilling to move, before she forced herself forward, crossing the threshold. She could feel the weight of the space pressing in on her, as though it were alive, as though it knew what was to come.

The air within the room was colder, sharper, and seemed to carry with it an almost tangible edge. The faint metallic tang of death mingled with the thick, sweet-smoky scent of incense, a cloying presence that clung to the back of her throat and filled her lungs with every breath. It was nauseating.

The shadows here seemed deeper, more oppressive, the flickering light of the candles barely holding them at bay. They clung to the corners like something alive, shifting and flickering as though reluctant to release their hold. The only true light came from the hundreds of candles scattered throughout the chamber, their soft, wavering glow casting halos against the oppressive darkness. Shelves lining the walls behind the imposing columns were filled with rows of these tiny flames, their uneven heights lending an almost chaotic beauty to the otherwise somber space. Tall candlesticks stood scattered around the room, their steady light doing little to dispel the solemn heaviness of the room.

Daenera moved slowly, her steps measured as she walked around the table at the center of the room and came to a stop, positioning herself with her back to the hundreds of candles that lined the shelves. She drew in a breath and turned to face the heart of the room, her gaze settling upon the large stone table that loomed at its center. Upon it rested the small, still body of a boy, shrouded in an unbearable quiet that seemed to echo louder than any sound.

She scarcely registered Mertha and Edelin as they stood beside her. Her attention remained on the boy, her eyes tracing the stillness of his form as though the world beyond the table had ceased to exist.

Her breath caught as a wave of nausea threatened to rise. She forced it down, swallowing hard against the bile clawing at the back of her threat. Her fingers curled tightly at her sides, the slight tremble in her hands the only betrayal of the storm roiling within her.

The Silent Sisters, robed in gray and shrouded by veils, glanced briefly in their direction. Their movements, like their presence, were silent, their expressions obscured by layers of cloth. Without a word, they returned to their task, their hands steady and precise as they prepared the boy’s body. One wrung a sponge into a basin of water, the droplets falling into soft, rhythmic plinks that seemed deafening in the stillness. The sponge was then dragged gently across Patrick’s pale skin, washing away the filth of the dungeons that had clung to him in life.

Their care was meticulous, their movements measured, guided by silent prayer. One sister raised his small arm, her touch careful as she washed his side. Another dapped at his face, the strokes of the sponge revealing clean, unmarred skin beneath.

Daenera’s chest tightened as she watched them, her eyes lingering on the boy’s face. His face seemed almost serene in the flickering candlelight. The streaks of tears that had marred his cheeks the last time she had seen him were gone now, wiped away by the Sisters’ careful touch. The sight made her throat tighten, and she forced herself to breathe evenly, though the ache in her chest felt insurmountable.

For a fleeting moment, she felt a strange sort of gratitude for the Silent Sisters, for the tenderness they shoved in their ritual. Their hands moved with reverence, their silence a balm to the oppressive grief that surrounded her.

But even as she watched their work, her gaze inevitably returned to him, tracing the delicate planes of his face. He looked younger than she remembered, the grime and filth now wiped away to reveal pale, lifeless skin. His face was unnervingly serene, his long lashes brushing against his cheeks as though caught in a gentle slumber. In this stillness, he seemed untouched by the violence of the world, as if he had simply drifted off into quiet, untroubled sleep.

And he had, she reminded herself. He had merely fallen asleep, his small heart slowing until it ceased entirely. It had been easy–peaceful, even. No pain, no struggle, just a quiet slipping away. It was a death most wished for.

The thought was meant to comfort her, but it hung hollow in her chest, an echo of something that should have brought solace but didn’t.

Few deaths were ever clean, a soft surrender without anguish or strife. Such serene ends were a rare grace that seemed reserved for a fortunate few. For most, death came harshly–heralded by blood, torment, or the slow decay of time and illness.

There was a certain violence to death.

It so often came with stab wounds, shattered bones, torn flesh–a brutal punctuation to life’s end. How many had laid upon this cold stone table, their bodies broken and ravaged by life's cruelty? How many wounds had the Silent Sisters stitched together with steady hands, how many rivers of blood had they washed away with water and reverence? Even death by illness or poison bore its scars. Burst blood vessels beneath sallow skin, lungs drowning in pink froth, bellies distended with blood, organs decayed and blackened–weach left its mark, a final betrayal of the body.

And some deaths, Daenera thought grimly, left no body at all to prepare.

Her throat tightened, and she swallowed thickly, the motion doing little to ease the knot lodged at the back of it. Her heart felt as though it were sinking, dragged down into the roiling pit of her stomach by its immeasurable weight. A chill crept along her fingers, numbing them, and the cold seemed to seep deeper into her bones with each passing moment. For one terrible heartbeat, the still figure upon the table was no longer little Patrick Piper.

The boy she saw now was older by a few years, his hair dark and curling like her own. His features–soft yet achingly familiar–echoed hers in every line and angle. The vision struck her like a blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her body shifted, her mind recoiling from the image even as it lingered, burned into her sight. She blinked hard, once, and he was gone.

It was Patrick again, his pale blond hair hanging matted from his head, his small frame unnaturally still beneath the flickering candlelight. Daenera’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her trembling fingers curling into fists at her sides as she tried to banish the ghost. Yet the moment lingered, the echo of another boy haunting the quiet room.

The Stranger follows you, she recalled, the words whispered in the back of her mind like an echo from a dream. He will claim those dear to you–some offered by your own hand, others taken by fate’s cruel turn.

The room seemed to darken at the thought, the shadows in the corners deepening until they felt alive, shifting and writhing like silent wraiths. It was as though the dim light of the candles could no longer reach them, the darkness swallowing them whole. The scene reminded Daenera of another time, of the eerie shadows that had danced and twisted within the witch’s wagon, their shapes unnatural and unyielding. A chill traced down her spine, sharp as the edge of a blade, and the memory of those words settled deep in her chest, pressing against her ribs like a weight she couldn’t shake.

Her hands folded tightly before her, her fingers brushing against the cold skin of her palms. The chill that clung to her seemed to intensify, and she pressed her nails against her skin, dragging them in slow, deliberate motions. The faint sting offered a small distraction, a fleeting escape from the storm of unease roiling within her.

Still, the cold seeped into her, relentless and unyielding. It crawled through the soles of her feet, stealing warmth as it climbed, creeping upward with an unnatural insistence. Even with the flames of the candles flickering behind her, their faint heat licking at her back, she felt frozen, as though the cold came not from the room but from within her very soul. She clenched her hands tighter, grounding herself against the sensation, though the creeping chill showed no signs of retreating.

The Silent Sisters moved with quiet precision, their actions measured and deliberate as they set aside the sponges. One Sister lifted the basin of murky water and carried it away, returning moments later with another filled with fresh, clear water. The faint ripples in the basin’s surface caught the light of the flickering candles, adding an almost ethereal quality to the otherwise somber scene.

They worked as silently as those upon their table, their reverence palpable, an unspoken language that seemed to fill the room. There was a strange comfort in their ritual, a solemn order that pushed back against the turmoil churning within Daenera’s mind.

Her attention flicked to the blade as one of the Sisters reached for it. It caught the light, glinting faintly in the dim room like a sliver of starlight. She heard Mertha’s breath hitch–or was it Edelin’s?–as the blade met Patrick’s skin. Pressing lightly but firmly, the sister dragged it with precision along the boy’s breastbone, the incision extending down in a single, fluid motion toward his navel. The cut was deliberate, practiced–an act devoid of hesitation, as clean and sharp as the blade itself.

Though Daenera remained still, she felt the sharp intake of breath from either side of her. Both Mertha and Edelin gasped softly again, their reactions betraying the shock they felt, even though they should have known what the preparation of the body entailed.

“Mother of mercy, give–” Mertha murmured from Daenera’s side, her voice breaking the quiet, though it was barely louder than a whisper. Her words faltered, and she swallowed thickly, the sound audible in the stillness. “Give me the strength…” she finished, her tone laced with a trembling resolve.

The Silent Sisters worked with calm precision, their blades slicing cleanly through the pale flesh of the boy. Another incision joined the first, stretching from one collarbone to the other, forming a line that mirrored the curve of his shoulders. A third cut followed, arcing across the hips from one side to the other. As they began to peel back the skin, their hands steady and sure, the room seemed to shrink.

A strangled sound broke the silence–a choked gasp from Mertha. Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling the noise as her body curled inward, trembling as though she were fighting to keep the contents of her stomach down. Her pale knuckles clutched her shawl tightly, her frame swaying under the weight of her revulsion.

As the Sisters peeled back the other side, the sight was too much for Mertha. She stumbled forward, her steps uneven as she brushed past Daenera, her shoulder colliding against hers with enough force to jolt her. She turned her head, catching the look of pale fury on Mertha’s face. Her expression, as colorless as Patrick’s still form, was filled with a mixture of horror and scorn, her reddened eyes brimming with tears.

“You–stay here,” Mertha commanded hoarsely, her voice shaking but firm as she pointed a trembling finger at Daenera. Her tone carried the sharp edge of desperation, as though the act of leaving the room required her to impose some semblance of control. Without waiting for a response, she turned abruptly, her footsteps uneven and hurried as she fled the room.

The sound of her gagging echoed faintly down the corridor, growing softer with each passing second until it disappeared entirely. The silence that followed felt heavier than before, settling over the chamber. Daenera’s gaze returned to the Silent Sisters, their quiet diligence undisturbed, their focus unwavering.

Daenera stood rooted to the spot, blessedly numb as the Silent Sisters worked with steady hands, their blade cutting carefully through the thin membrane protecting the boy’s organs. All she truly felt was the cold that seemed to seep into her very bones, the weight pressing heavily against her chest, and the sharp sting of her own nails as they bit into the flesh of her wrist, leaving crescent-shaped marks behind.

The quiet was broken by the wet, grotesque sound of movement–a squelch as one of the Sisters carefully lifted the organs free, placing them into shallow bowls prepared for the task. The noise was visceral, intimate, and it clawed at the silence with brutal honesty. It seemed too much for Edelin, who stood trembling at her side. Without a word, Edelin turned sharply and fled, her hurried footsteps echoing briefly before the heavy door muffled her retreat.

Daenera didn’t flinch, didn’t follow. She remained where she was, unmoving, the only sound now the steady rhythm of the Sisters’ labors.

Her gaze drifted to the lifeless form on the table, the body laid bare in its quiet surrender. She wondered, not for the first time, what her own death might look like. Would it be as calm, as methodical as his? No festering wounds, no rotting organs, no spilled blood–just stillness. A stillness that seemed almost merciful. But deep down, she knew better. She imagined a far crueler end for herself.

It would not be a clean death, she thought. There would be no soft acceptance, no sacred rites performed by the Silent Sisters. Her death would be a violent thing, raw and ruthless. The tightening bite of a noose, the cold kiss of a blade, or the searing agony of fire and blood–that was what awaited her. The thought did not scare her, not exactly. Instead, it lingered in her mind like a shadow.

The air in the room seemed heavier now, the scent of blood mingling with the faint bitterness of herbs. Her hand loosened from her wrist, leaving pale indentations behind. She breathed in slowly, the chill settling deeper into her frame. The Sisters worked on, their movements precise, almost reverent. Daenera envied them, their detachment, their purpose. They didn’t look to the past or the future–only to the body before them. Perhaps that was their gift, their burden: to see death and yet feel nothing. To make sense of it in a way no one else could.

Daenera remained, unmoving, and let the silence press down on her, its weight strangely comforting.

Watching his body being prepared by the Silent Sisters was a weight Daenera could neither name nor shake. It lodged itself deeper within her, tightening like an unseen noose around her throat, twisting between her ribs, and settling heavily into the pit of her stomach. Every careful motion of the Sisters seemed to etch the finality of his death into her, their silent reverence only making the ache sharper–and not only his death, but all of them. Yet, beneath the grief and unease, there was a flicker of relief–fragile and awful.

She was relieved that his end had come gently, rather than at the end of a rope, his life snuffed out in cruelty. No witnesses, no drawn-out suffering, no agonizing moments filled with fear and the bitter ache of longing for home. His death had come smooth, quick–a mercy in a world that so often denied such kindness. For that she was grateful, even as her stomach churned with guilt and her heart twisted with shame.

She was relieved, too, that his body would not be turned into a spectacle–a grim ornament left to rot in the unforgiving sun, hanging from the bannisters of the inner courtyard of the Holdfast as a warning to others. Nor would his head be severed, mounted upon a spike, and displayed upon the infamous Traitor’s Walk, his identity stripped away, reduced to a traitor.

But that was not his fate. His body was treated with care, not contempt. There would be no mockery, no public display of his remains, no desecration of what was once him. The Silent Sisters ensured that he would be laid to rest in quiet dignity. It was a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless.

Daenera’s eyes remained fixed on his form, pale and still, as the Sisters continued their work, removing the organs. She swallowed hard, trying to loosen the knot that had formed in her throat, but it lingered, unyielding. She hoped he had thought of home when he had slipped into the stillness.

The Silent Sisters worked with the quiet efficiency of those who had done this countless times before. They removed his organs one by one, their hands steady and unfeeling. The liver, the belly, the lungs, the heart–all were carefully lifted from his body and placed into plain, unadorned jars lined up on the table. Once emptied, the cavity was scrubbed meticulously with salt and a blend of spices and herbs, the sharp tang of the mixture mingling with the metallic scent of blood.

Fragrant bundles of herbs were tucked within him, tightly bound and pressed into every space until his form was filled completely. The herbs–lavender, thyme, perhaps a sprig of mint–seemed incongruous against the natural order of decay. Only when this task was complete did they begin to close him, stitching the incisions with beeswax-coated thread that gleamed faintly in the flickering light. The process was methodical, each pull of the threat smooth and deliberate, sealing the marks of death with quiet dignity.

Daenera watched in silence, her thoughts dark and intrusive. In the end, she mused bitterly, we’re all just stuffed like ducks. How absurd it was. The thought struck her with a grim humor she did not voice, one that almost made her want to laugh, or perhaps cry. It was a crude, awful truth.

The room smelled of salt and herbs now, an almost soothing scent that did little to ease the ache in her chest. She felt as though a part of herself had been carved away, chipped off like stone from a weathered statue, and tucked within him along with the fragrant bundles of herbs. Her innocence–or what little had remained of it–lay buried there now, entombed with him

When the stitching was finished, the Silent Sisters began the final step of their work. They brought forth strips of cloth, thick and white, steeped in a mixture of salt and herbs to starve off the decay. Carefully, they stilted and shifted his little body, wrapping him up. Each tug of the cloth seemed to echo in the still room, a soft rasp against skin. Inch by inch, they worked, winding the fabric tightly around him until only his face remained uncovered.

“Wait,” Daenera’s voice cut through the heavy silence, startling even herself with how loud it seemed, though it was barely more than a whisper. The word hung in the air, pulled from her lips as though drawn out by some unseen force. She repeated it, softer this time. “Wait…”

Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, the rough clack of her shoes against the stone floor echoing in the quiet chamber. Every step sent a jolt through her stiff, aching body, the hours of standing vigil catching up to her all at once. She hadn’t noticed the ache in her joints until now, until her feet carried her forward, each step drawing her closer to him.

The silent Sisters paused, their veiled faces turning briefly in her direction before one of them silently stepped aside, allowing her to approach the head of the table. Daenera hesitated, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs as she looked down at the boy. He lay so still, his features softened by death’s quiet embrace, as if he were only sleeping.

Her eyes lingered on the small strands of dark blond hair that peeked out from beneath the burial cloth already tied neatly around his head. The sight struck her like a blade to the chest. He looked so impossibly young, his face still round with the softness of childhood. It was a cruel truth that someone so small had ended up here. And yet, this table had seen countless others before him–smaller bodies, younger faces, children who should have been spared this grim fate.

She reached out without thinking, her trembling fingers brushing against the edge of the cloth, but she stopped herself, unsure of what she meant to do. Her fingers hovered for a moment before they fell to the rough, cold surface of the table. Her eyes remained on him, her gaze taking in his face. Slowly, almost hesitantly, her hand moved towards him again, brushing against the small strands of dark blond hair that had slipped free from beneath the cloth. The strands were soft beneath her tough, tickling against her skin.

Her movements were deliberate, reverent, as she leaned down and pressed her lips gently to this forehead, the icy touch of his skin sending a shiver through her. Her eyes closed, and for a moment, the world fell silent around her. Forgive me. The words resounded in her mind, silent but searing, a plea that seemed to sink into the stillness of the room.

When she straightened, the air felt sharper, colder. Her breath caught in her lungs, laced with the bitter tang of herbs and the lingering, metallic scent of death. It burned, a cold fire that settled deep within her chest. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to move, to step back.

The Silent Sister stepped forward to reclaim her place at the table. Daenera stood in silence, watching as the woman resumed her task. She wrapped the cloth around the boy's face, layer by layer, until he was fully concealed, sealed away from the world he would never return to.

Daenera’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. The finality of it struck her like a blow, the weight of what she could not change settling heavily in her chest. She did not look away, even as the last piece of him disappeared beneath the shroud. It was all she could give him now–her presence, her witness, her silent, aching farewell.

With one last fleeting glance at his shrouded form, Daenera turned away. There was nothing more to see, nothing more to feel but the hollow ache that had settled deep within her. The chamber behind her seemed to breathe with its own stillness, but she left it behind, stepping into the shadowed hall beyond.

The corridor was cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by the flickering torches mounted on the walls. Their light wavered against the stone, casting shifting shadows that danced like restless spirits. There were no slivers of daylight spilling in through open doorways this time, no respite from the gloom. The hall was a corridor of darkness, oppressive and unyielding, as though the very air refused to let her forget the room she had just left.

Outside the chamber, Finan stood waiting, his posture as still and steady as the walls around them. Their eyes met briefly, a silent exchange passing between them–acknowledgement, sympathy, questions. He said nothing as she moved past him, his footsteps quick to follow her own as she made her way back through the winding corridors.

The journey felt strange, as if she were retracting her steps out of a place that wasn’t quite this word but something far colder, death. The space between heaven and hell, she thought–a space where the living were trespassers, unwelcome and out of place. Each step felt like a struggle to pull herself back from that void, back into the world of the living.

The narrow stairway spiraled upward, its cold stone steps slick beneath her feet. Her fingers briefly brushed the wall for balance, its chill grounding her as she climbed. As she stepped into the Sept, the sound of rain filled the air. It lashed against the stained glass windows, the patter echoing in the vast, hollow space. The rain’s lamentation felt almost alive, as though the heavens themselves had been moved. The droplets raced down the panes in chaotic rivers and rivulets.

Was it mourning with her, she wondered, or raging against her?

Daenera’s steps faltered, her breath catching as her eyes found him–just as they always did.

Aemond stood at the altar at the heart of the Sept, a solitary figure amidst the flickering glow of firelight. His tall, narrow frame was outlined sharply against the golden light, his pale silver hair shimmering like spun moonlight, catching hints of gold in the dance of flames. There was a stillness about him, a pensiveness in the way he stood, his lone figure commanding the vast, hollow space. His head was slightly bowed as he stared into the fire, one hand hovering above the flames, fingers splayed as though testing their heat.

For a moment, his presence started her, the sight of him sending her heart leaping into her throat. But that initial shock gave away almost immediately to a surge of emotion that churned hot and fierce in her chest. It felt as though his presence seeped into her, inescapable as it always was, stirring emotions too tangled to name.

Without realizing, her steps quickened, the sharp tap of her shoes against the stone floor echoing loudly in the empty Sept as she closed the distance between them. Her scowl deepened as her gaze darted around the chamber, searching for others–for any Septa, any Septon, anyone to explain why he was here, alone. But there was no one. The vast Sept was deserted save for the two of them.

Behind her, Finan had followed at a distance, his footsteps halting just far enough away to grant them a semblance of privacy.

When she reached his side, she stopped abruptly, the momentum of her steps halting so sharply that her breath caught. The scornful flare she wore remained, and she tore her gaze from him to fix it on the flames instead. The heat of the candles brushed against her cheeks, though it did nothing to thaw the ice in her chest.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and fraught, as though the Sept itself held its breath, awaiting what would follow. Aemond remained still, his expression unreadable, his hand still poised above the fire. Daenera’s heart pounded in her ears, each beat urging her to speak, to confront him, yet she hesitated.

“Come to confess your sins?” Her voice cut through the stillness, sharp and biting, the edge in her tone unmistakable. The words fell from her lips like an accusation, yet there was something strained behind them, something forced–as if they carried the weight of emotions she couldn’t quite control. “Or have you come to beg the gods for forgiveness?”

Aemond didn’t respond immediately. Instead, a low, resonant hum escaped him, a sound that rumbled from deep within his chest and seemed to settle in the air between them. His hand remained poised over the flames, hovering just close enough to feel their heat.

“I do not seek forgiveness,” Aemond murmured, his voice low and steady as his hand hovered above the flames, the heat distorting the air around his fingers, yet he did not flinch. “Nor do I believe the gods care to hear my sins.”

Daenera’s jaw tightened, her anger flaring hot and sharp, twisting between her ribs like a dagger. The burn of it licked at her insides, relentless and consuming. Her hands remained curled into tight fists at her sides, nails digging mercilessly into the soft flesh of her palms. She wondered absently how many red crescents would mark her skin by the time she lay in her bed that night, reminders etched into her, soon to fade.

She felt his gaze then, a palpable weight that slid over her face like the edge of a blade. There was a deliberate intensity in the way his eye lingered, a sharp curiosity, as if he were searching for something–as though he sought to carve beneath her skin and read through the rivulets of blood inside her. She resisted the urge to look at him, her focus remaining fixed on the flames. They danced and flickered before her, offering no comfort, only a reflection of the fire roiling within her.

The sensation of his attention was maddening, a prickling heat that brushed over her skin, sending shivers racing down her spine. It was as though his presence itself sought to unnerve her, to burrow beneath her composure and drag something raw to the surface. She willed herself to stay still, to give him nothing.

“If I sought forgiveness,” he said softly, his voice like the smooth pull of silk over steel, “it would not be theirs to give.”

Her teeth clenched at his arrogance–to think that she’d ever forgive him. The air between them thickened, laden with unspoken truths and words that could cut as deeply as steel.

“If you sought forgiveness,” Daenera snapped, her voice taut as a bowstring, “you’d be on your knees begging for it, and you’d still find yourself wanting.”

The air in the chamber was thick, weighted with the warmth of the fire and the unspoken tension that hung between them. Daenera kept her posture rigid, her hands clasped tightly before her as if the act alone could keep her emotions at bay.

Aemond stood at a measured distance, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth–she could feel it, the faint amusement radiating off of him. “You’ve had me on my knees,” he hummed, his voice smooth, laced with a dark humor that seemed to echo in the stillness.

The words struck her like a spark to dry tinder, igniting a cascade of memories she fought to suppress. The image rose unbidden in her mind: him kneeling before her, his pride stripped away under the weight of her will. She remembered the desperation in his gaze, the way his breath had hitched as he peered up at her, his lips parted, his touch searing against her skin. The memory was a ghost, a phantom that burned against her even now, and she hated that it still had power over her.

Heat bloomed unbidden in her cheeks, a flush she couldn’t quite hide, though she turned her head slightly to keep her face out of his line of sight. Her nails bit into her palms, a futile attempt to anchor herself.

“You weren’t there in search of forgiveness,” Daenera replied, her voice taut, strained, as though she could steady it by sheer force of will. She fought to keep her tone even, suppressing the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to surface. “You didn’t beg for it.”

Her words were a shield, a deflection meant to push away the thing she refused to name, the thing that clawed at the edges of her composure. Yet, even as she spoke, she felt the weight of his presence, his words, his gaze, pressing against her resolve. The air between them felt charged, crackling with unspoken truths and emotions too tangled to unravel.

Aemond’s hum lingered in the space between them, a sound that seemed to mock her efforts to maintain control. “You wouldn’t have granted it, even if I had. It isn’t in your nature.”

“And it's not in yours to seek it.” She refused to give him the satisfaction of looking at him, refused to meet his eye and see whatever storm brewed there. Instead, she focused on the fire, letting its heat bite at her skin, grounding her in the moment even as the past threatened to overwhelm her.

“What of your sins?” he hummed, the question curling through the air like smoke. He took a step closer, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor, and when he spoke again, his tone shifted. It wasn’t quite an accusation, more a statement of fact, stripped of doubt.

“You killed him.”

The words hung between them, as undeniable as the heat from the fire. Aemond’s voice carried a peculiar intimacy, a quiet knowing that made her skin prickle. There was no malice in his tone–no anger or condemnation–but rather an unsettling understanding. The way he said it, as though peeling back a layer of her soul, left no room for denial.

Daenera didn’t answer; she didn’t need to.

“The Council knows–”

“The Council suspects,” She interjected swiftly, her voice cutting through his as sharp as a blade. She turned her head slightly, the heart of the flames curling around her face. “They suspect, but they’ll find no evidence of wrongdoing.” Her words were precise, delivered with a calm clarity that betrayed none of the storm brewing within her. “The Silent Sisters will report nothing out of the ordinary when they saw to his body–no lungs filled with foam, no blackened organs, nothing to suggest poisoning.”

She finally turned her eyes to him, her gaze as piercing as his own, her brow arched slightly. “They could raise the matter, but it would only expose their own… failings. How could I have obtained the means of poisoning? I have not been allowed near the gardens, nor have I been alone long enough to procure it.” A scoff left her. “The kitchens take it upon themselves to spare me the trouble of seeds in my apples. So tell me, how was I able to do it?”

She paused, inhaling deeply, her focus drifting back to the flames though she no longer seemed to see them. “At best, the Council will look cruel for letting him die of illness in the dungeons. At worst, they’ll look incompetent for failing to stop me.”

The Council, Daenera knew, would much rather let the boy’s death be seen as the result of illness born from their negligence than risk the appearance of their inability to control her. To admit they had failed to prevent such an act under their own roof would expose their own weaknesses far more than it would condemn her. They might suspect the truth–might even know it in the depths of their hearts–but to accuse her outright of murder while she remained under their watchful eyes was a step they would not dare take. The risk to their authority, their reputation, was far too great.

Aemond remained silent, his expression unreadable save for the faint flicker of amusement in his eye. His hum broke the quiet, low and appreciative, a sound that sent a shiver of skittering down her spine. “And what shall you do now, with your newfound freedom?”

“Freedom…” Daenera echoed, the word bitter on her tongue. She let the word hang in the air, tasting its lie, for she knew the truth: the cage that held her remained. The noose around her neck might have shifted, but it still remained around her neck. She stared into the flames before her, their restless dance reflecting the indignation burning in her chest.

“That’s why you killed him, is it not?” Aemond pressed, his voice soft, almost gentle–but laced with something darker. His words curled around her like smoke, taunting, suffocating, making her choke on them.

He always had a way of wielding words like weapons–he wielded them as deftly as he did a blade. There was a cruel precision to it now, the way he probed at the raw edges of her conscience. His tone, so maddingly composed, peeled back the layers of her actions with deliberate care, stripping away her skin to expose the truth beneath–be it guilt festering there, or the weeping of necessity.

“What I did was mercy,” Daenera forced out, her voice steady but brittle, like ice stretched too thin over deep waters. Her gaze remained fixed on the flames before her, though she hardly saw them as their tongues lapped at the air. Yet, even as she stared into the nothing of the flames, she felt his attention sharpen, a tangible thing pressing against her, daring her to reveal the truth, to justify herself against the unbearable weight of his words.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the subtle shift in him. His head tilted ever so slightly, the faintest quirk of his brow betraying his intrigue. It was a gesture she knew all too well, a familiar, almost maddening tic that always surfaced when something piqued his interest. It reminded her of a predator catching the scent of its prey–patient, calculating, and entirely unyielding.

She turned her face slightly to meet his gaze. There was something behind his expression now, a shadow that flickered in the depths of his lone eye. It was unreadable, twisting like smoke, elusive yet undeniable. His gaze unnerved her, the way it sought to strip her bare, searching for weaknesses, for the most vulnerable parts of her.

But she refused to give him the satisfaction of cowering before him.

“Mercy,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue with quiet amusement. His lips curved upward ever so slightly, the corners sharp enough to cut her with.

“Yes, mercy,” Daenera bit out, her tone laced with scorn. She held his gaze unflinchingly, though her throat tightened against the tide of guilt and shame that threatened to rise. It pressed against her ribs, a weight she couldn’t remove. Still, she clung to the notion that what she had done was rooted in kindness, in something nobel.

Her eyes hardened as she stared him down, her voice growing colder, more deliberate. “I didn’t want him to rot in the dungeons for gods know how long–days, weeks, months.” She shook her head, the movement stiff, her breath catching as she forced the words out. “He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be trapped among rapers and murders as though he were one of them–as though he had done anything wrong.”

Her chest heaved, and she swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat. Her voice thickened with the weight of her choice. “He’d be alone. Alone and afraid, listening to every echo of footsteps in the darkness, every jingle of keys. Fearing–always fearing–that they’d come for him next. That they’d drag him from his cell to meet the same fate as his friends.”

If she hadn’t balled her hands into firsts so tight that her bones ached, she was sure they’d tremble. “Or worse,” she added bitterly, the corners of her lips arching downward. “To be tortured before they executed him–to suffer in ways no boy should ever suffer.”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, his piercing eye narrowing as the weight of Daenera’s words settled heavily upon him. The muscles in his jaw flexed, the tension rippling beneath his skin as his teeth ground together in barely contained frustration.

Daenera met his gaze without hesitation, her expression unyielding, her chin tilted ever so slightly upward, a subtle act of defiance that spoke louder than words. “He was already dead. The noose was around his neck…he just hadn’t fallen yet.”

The ease with which the justification had slipped from her lips sent a bitter pang through her chest. The tone of her words, sharp and pragmatic, echoed hollowly in the Sept. The gods might judge her for it–she knew that well enough–but surely, she thought, surely they would see the mercy in what she had done. Then again, the gods were not merciful, that was why they were gods after all.

The guilt rose unbidden, clawing at the back of her throat like bile. It was a silent, insidious thing, creeping into her mind as she fought to shove it back down.

Aemond hummed, the sound low and deliberate, a vibration that seemed to crawl beneath her skin and prick at her resolve. It was maddening, how effortlessly he plucked at her threads, how effortlessly it was for him to unravel her. She didn’t need to look at him to know his eye was fixed on her, searching her face with a cold, unrelenting precision. She could feel it, like the edge of a blade grazing over her skin–not slicing, not yet, but testing her, caressing her.

“Mercy may be part of it,” he said, his voice smooth and silken, soft but carrying a weight that pressed against her chest. It held the intimacy of a dagger’s whisper before slipping between the ribs. “But you also did it to free yourself.”

The words struck her harder than she expected, as though they had been spoken from a place deeper than observation. Before she could summon a response, he took a single step toward her, the movement measured–testing. That single step seemed to change the air around them, and Daenera felt the shift like the tightening of a noose. His presence grew heavier, more tangible, wrapping around her like a shadow creeping closer in the dim light.

The faint scent of sandalwood, warm and earthy, mingled with something sweeter, something she couldn’t name at that moment. It seeped into her lungs, a brief reprieve from the cloying smell of burning candles and incense that hung heavily in the great chamber of the Sept. But even that familiar scent felt intrusive, like he was taking up more space than he should, both in the air and in her mind.

Daenera willed herself not to move, not to flinch, not to show the unease pooling in her stomach. She stood rooted, though her instincts screamed at her to retreat, to put space between herself and the monster closing in on her.

And yet she stood firm, her heart pounding against her ribs, meeting his gaze.

“You could have waited,” he continued, his voice soft, unhurried, as he flayed her with his words. It was a masterful dissection, peeling away the armor of her composure to expose the bloody truth as he saw it, raw and vulnerable beneath the surface. “You could have bided your time and found a way to see him free of the dungeons.”

His fingers twitched ever so slightly at his sides. There was a restlessness to him, a restrained impulse, as if he wanted to reach for her. His hand might have skimmed the curve of her cheek, brushing aside the dark strands of her hair, before cupping her face in cruel intimacy–only to drive the dagger of his words deeper into her soul.

Daenera’s gaze flickered, caught briefly by the subtle movement before returning to his, a fraction too late to mask her awareness. She knew he had noticed–he always did.

Her eyes narrowed sharply, a warning as clear as if she had spoken aloud. His hand stayed where it was, restrained, though the tension in him was palpable. Instead, he pressed forward with his words, relentless as ever.

“You could have found another way,” he said confidently–unforgivingly. “You could have negotiated his release, as you’ve done before. You’ve proven yourself capable of that.”

He tilted his head slightly, his lone eye fixed on her with penetrating intensity. “But you didn’t,” he continued, his voice so mercilessly soft as he twisted the blade of his words. “You wished for the burden of his life to be lifted from your shoulders. Without him caught in the cold grasp of the dungeons, without the sword of the headsman poised above him, you are free of the fear that your choices might condemn him. His fate no longer clings to yours like a shadow.”

Daenera’s teeth clenched, the muscles in her jaw tightening as she fought to keep her emotions down, shame churning in her stomach. But her eyes betrayed her, burning with anger and anguish.

“You sacrificed him,” Aemond said, delivering the final blow with cruel certainty. The gentleness in his tone only made the accusations sting sharper. “Mercy may have played a part, yes. But you don’t have to pretend with me. I know you, ñuha byka sȳndor hen bantis rūklon.”

My little nightshade. The High Valyrian rolled off his tongue like a caress, yet there was nothing tender about the way it landed. It twisted within her chest, sharp as a dagger.

The firelight flickered between them, its warm glow throwing their shadows onto the worn and ancient stones of the Sept. The sacred space, with its towering arches and the watchful eyes of the Seven carved into every corner, seemed to close in around Daenera as she forced herself to stand tall. Her chest heaved with the weight of her emotions, her heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum.

She would not falter–not here, not before him.

Her gaze hardened, locking on Aemond’s face. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, hot and unwelcome, clawing at her throat as though trying to choke her. But even as the emotions threatened to undo her, she summoned her voice. Low, strained, yet laced with a biting coolness, she spoke.

“Don’t presume to know my heart, One-eye,” she said, the insult deliberate, each syllable like the edge of a blade. “Not fully. Not anymore.”

Her words echoed in the vast hollow of the Sept, reverberating off the stone walls and carrying her defiance to the ears of the silent gods. Yet even as her voice rang out, she felt the weight of Aemond’s gaze pressing against her. It was unrelenting, searching, as though he sought to peel back her defenses and lay bare vulnerabilities she so desperately tried to hide.

It was maddening–the way he looked at her. His single eye, sharp and piercing, seemed to see through her façade, past the armor she had built, straight to the darkest corners of her soul. She would have preferred the judgment of the gods, their cold, indifferent stares from their carved effigies high above. Their condemnation, distant and immutable, was far easier to endure than the knowing look in his eye.

Aemond’s expression shifted, the faintest tightening of his jaw betraying his reaction to her barb.His lips drew into a thin line, his jaw tensing, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his otherwise steely mask. She noted it all–the sharpness of his mouth, the slight narrowing of his gaze, the way his control slipped just enough to show the edges of his irritation.

His lips pressed together before parting slightly, and a low hum rumbled from deep within his chest. It was a sound that carried exasperation and something darker, something heavier.

“You may deny it as much as you like,” Aemond said, his voice soft but cutting, each word deliberate, a hammer striking an anvil. “But deep down, you know my words are true.”

He stepped closer, his shadow looming larger against the stone wall, the firelight painting him in shades of gold and shadow. “You killed him,” he continued, his tone smooth, unyielding, “to free him… and to free yourself.”

His words hung in the air between them, thick and oppressive, as though the fire itself had paused to listen. The knowing in his tone, unforgiving in its certainty, wrapped around her like a chain. It was unbearable.

Daenera felt her chest tighten, the understanding in his accusation cutting far deeper than she wanted to admit. Yet she held his gaze, her own defiance unbroken, though the tears still threatened to spill, though the gods above seemed to watch her with silent reproach.

The flames crackled softly in the silence that followed, their dance mocking the stillness between them. In this moment, it wasn’t the judgment of the gods that mattered–it was his. And she hated him for it.

Daenera’s breath caught, a sharp hitch that betrayed the storm roiling beneath her composed exterior. Her fingers twitched at her sides, the urge to lash out–strike him, shove him, anything to silence the words he wielded with such maddening ease–tearing at her restraint. Yet she remained still, her nails biting into the soft flesh of her palms until the pain steadied her trembling resolve. Her gaze dropped back to the flames, their restless dance offering a momentary distraction, though no comfort.

His words struck her, sharp and relentless, slicing through the armor of her resolve and lodging deep in her chest. They weren’t wholly true–yet they weren’t wholly false, either. Her heart twisted on that knife-edge of contradiction, torn between justifications and the inescapable truth of what she had done.

She had made her decision.

All those days ago, she had sat amidst the ruins of her room, the shattered remnants of her world scattered around her like the jagged shards of a broken mirror. The rubble had surrounded her, but it was the ruins within her chest that weighed heavier–a hollowed space where her heart should have been, replaced by the aching emptiness of loss. Her brother was dead, and they had celebrated. They had donned their smiles, raised their goblets, and filled the halls with laughter as if his life had been nothing more than a pawn swept from the board. That night, she had faced them. She had stood among those who had left her world in ruins, their merriment ringing in her ears like a dirge.

Something had changed in her then. Innocence, fragile and fleeting, had been stripped away like the petals of a wilting flower. Her girlhood, once a thing of dreams and soft naivety, had been torn from her grasp. What remained was steel–hardened, unforgiving, ruthless. She had been reforged in the fires of her loss, and the girl she had been was gone.

It was in that moment she had chosen to act, her resolve born of the wreckage around her. She had understood the cost, had weighed the consequences and accepted them. The sacrifice had been inevitable.

Patrick’s life, innocent and undeserving of its place on the scales, had been set against her own. She could still see his face in her mind’s eye, his youthful features etched with fear, his bright eyes searching hers for answers she could not give. She had weighed their lives, hers and his, and with deliberate finality, she had tipped the balance.

If she could have spared him, she thought bitterly, she would have. She would have saved him, sent him home to whatever family waited for him, his wide eyes filled with hope instead of terror. She would have seen him live, alive and unbroken, free of the shadow she had cast over him.

If she could have done it, she would have. She could have.

But she hadn’t. And the truth of that would stay with her, a shadow clinging to her soul, for all her days.

That was the truth that twisted like a dagger in her chest. She had wielded her power to end his suffering, but also to end her own. Patrick had been an anchor dragging her into the abyss, his life a weight tied to hers, threatening to drown her beneath the crushing tide of her enemies’ machinations. She had severed that weight, made her sacrifice, and ensured she would not be as helpless again. She had chosen survival–not his, but hers.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move–each movement languid, precise, like a shadow come alive. His long fingers curled around a taper, the warm light of the candles casting faint shadows along his knuckles. He lifted it with a quiet grace, his movements purposeful as if the weight of the act was significant–and that, in itself, sent a faint ripple of unease through her.

Daenera’s breath caught, her throat tightening as she watched him lower the taper, passing the fire to an unlit candle. It flared, brighter now, burning with life. He paused, holding the small, wavering light for a moment, his expression carefully unreadable, as though he alone knew the weight of the act. The warm glow of the candles bathed his face, softening its impossibly sharp angles, muting the cold precision of his features. In that fleeting light, he seemed almost human–almost gentle. The warmth of it caught her off guard, and her heart tightened, the ache unexpected and unwelcome. It was a reminder of a softness she doubted existed, a shadow of what might have been but never was.

She shifted her gaze to him fully now, her chest tightening as her heartbeat grew heavy and uneven. A dreadful weight settled over her, the slow, creeping realization of what he was doing. She forced herself to speak, her voice quiet but trembling with an edge she could not hide.

“Your father?” She asked, the question barely above a whisper. It was hope spoken aloud–futile, desperate hope she didn’t truly believe in. She already knew the truth, already knew that the flame wasn’t for his father. Aemond Targaryen would never light a candle for his father. The bitterness between them ran too deep, the wounds of neglect and scorn too raw. Aemond despised him; there was no love to mourn, no remorse to soothe the edges of his passing. His father’s death was a thing of indifference, even satisfaction–not grief.

“No.”

Daenera’s jaw tightened, her teeth clenched against the surge of anger and despair welling inside her as her gaze bore into the flame he had just lit. It flickered almost mockingly, alive and unyielding, its small light dancing as though in jest of her turmoil. She felt the heat of it, a faint warmth doing nothing to combat the chill in her fingers–in her bones.

Her gaze followed his hand, the taper moving with unhurried purpose to the wick of another unlit candle. She knew then, without him needing to say it.

Patrick.

And Lucerys.

Their flames burned side by side now, equal in their shared fate, and yet to her, the sight was a bitter jest. It mocked her grief, her guilt, her.

“It is not the same,” she said, her voice tense, barely above a whisper.

Aemond turned his head slightly, his eye catching the light. “Isn’t it?”

He brought the taper to his lips, extinguishing the flame with a sharp, deliberate puff of air. Smoke coiled around his face, the faint scent of it lingering in the air, mingling with the scent of burning wax. Then he placed the stub on the altar. “You and I are the same–two sides of the same blade.”

Daenera felt the rage ignite within her, searing and wild, as though a beast of fire clawed its way through her chest, tearing and burning as it rose. It consumed her, flooding her veins with molten fury–with guilt and shame and outrage. How dare he? How could he compare their actions? How could he claim that it was the same?

“No,” she sneered, her voice low and trembling. The word tore from her lips like the crack of a whip, sharp and stinging. At last, she turned to face him, her eyes burning.

“What you did,” she began, her voice climbing with intensity, each word a dagger hurled at him, “you did for vengeance.” Her hands balled into tight fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms so deeply she could feel the sting. “You hunted him.” The urge to lash out at him surged within her, wild and unrelenting. It prickled at her fingertips, demanding release–the temptation to reach out and swipe at him, to snatch one of the candles from the altar and hurl it at his chest, to rake her nails across his impossibly sharp features until they bore the mark of her fury. The restraint it took to hold herself back burned just as fiercely as the anger roiling inside her, threatening to spill over at any moment.

“You chased him through the sky!” She spat at him. “You wanted him afraid–you wanted him to fear for his life. And then,” her voice broke, but she pressed on, the words spilling out like a torrent, “you struck him down. Not in justice, not in necessity, but in rage.”

“We are not the same!” she spat, her voice ringing through the Sept, her sneer cutting as sharply as any blade. Her lip curled, baring her teeth for a moment, and she caught herself thinking how satisfying it would be to sink them into his throat. For a fleeting instant, she felt more beast than girl. Her voice rose again, trembling with unbridled rage. “We are as different as fire and ice.”

He was the desolation of ice–a creeping cold that smothered life. Ice killed with no remorse, no guilt, it was the frozen soil where nothing could grow, nothing could thrive. His presence was a merciless finality, a quiet inevitability that arrived with neither fanfare nor warning but left destruction in its wake.

And she–she was fire.

Fire wasn’t like ice that crept in unnoticed and stole the warmth of life in silence. Fire shouted its presence, fierce and unrelenting, a force that demanded recognition even as it destroyed. To burn was to live with purpose, to bring light even as the world turned to ash.

And fire, in the end, would burn itself out–it did not linger the same way ice did.

Aemond’s gaze never wavered. He regarded her with that same inscrutable expression, though the faintest flicker of something–curiosity, amusement–crossed his face. His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eye.

“Fire and ice,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, a blade sheathed in velvet. “And yet, they both destroy in the end.”

Daenera’s chest rose and fell with the force of her indignation, each breath stoking the fire that burned within her. Her gaze locked onto Aemond, blazing with fury, defiance, and something deeper–something raw and painful that threatened to consume her. He met her wrath without flinching, his expression cold and impenetrable, his single eye gleaming like tempered steel in the flickering firelight. The quiet intensity in his gaze was infuriating, a silent challenge that only fed the storm raging within her.

"You don’t get to compare your actions to mine," Daenera spat, her voice low but trembling with barely restrained rage. "It is not the same."

Her words reverberated in the vast chamber, echoing back to her like the judgment of the gods. Her chest rose and fell, her breath coming fast, as if she could expel the weight crushing her ribs with sheer force. She stepped closer, the soft tap of her boots against the stone floor breaking the oppressive silence.

"The gods know it isn’t the same," she continued, her voice climbing with every word. “I feel guilty for the blood on my hands. I feel remorse.”Her hands trembled at her sides, the nails digging into her palms with such ferocity that the crescent-shaped marks would surely linger.

She fixed him with a glare so fierce it might have turned lesser men to ash, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, Aemond’s expression remained impassive, the faintest tilt of his head betraying only mild curiosity. That maddening composure stoked the fire within her.

"You," Daenera hissed, her voice breaking under the strain of her emotions. She shook her head, her dark hair spilling around her shoulders, trembling with exasperation and anguish. “You don’t even feel guilty,” she spat, her words cutting and sharp. “You don’t even feel remorseful. You don’t regret it.” Her words faltered for the briefest moment before they surged back, the pain behind them sharpening their edge.

"You take pride in the blood on your hands," she accused, her voice a blend of fury and despair, louder now, echoing off the Sept’s stone walls.

Her words hung in the charged air between them, the silence that followed pressing against her like a weight. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, trembling with the effort of holding back the overwhelming urge to lash out at him. She longed to tear that mask of detachment from his face, to make him feel even a fraction of what she felt.

Daenera couldn’t decide if it would be easier or harder if he did feel regret–if guilt or remorse weighed upon him the way it did upon her. Part of her thought it might soften the jagged edges of her grief, make it easier to see him as something other than the monster she had built him up to be. But another part of her–the part ruled by anger and pain–knew it was easier to hate him this way.

It was easier to hate him as he was now: cold, unrepentant, a creature forged from vengeance and pride. A monster, she told herself, a beast who had hunted her brother through the skies and slain him without hesitation. She clung to that image of him, sharp and terrible, because the alternative was too agonizing to bear.

If there was regret within him, if he grieved in some secret, hidden part of himself, then he would no longer be the monster she needed him to be. He would be a man—flawed, fallible, human. And that would mean confronting the tangled knot of emotions within her, emotions she could not afford to unravel.

The memory of her brother’s death loomed like a shadow over her heart, a wound that refused to heal. She had imagined the scene countless times: Lucerys fleeing through the storm, the clouds roiling and dark, the sea raging below. She saw Aemond in pursuit, his pale hair whipping in the wind, his eye alight with something savage and consuming. He had struck like a tempest, bringing his fury down upon a boy who could not hope to fight back.

No, it was easier this way. Easier to see him as a cold-blooded killer, a soulless executioner who had torn her world apart without a second thought. Anything else–any sign of remorse, of regret–would threaten to shatter the fragile armor she had built around her grief. It would demand that she see him not as a monster, but as a man.

And she could not bear that.

Aemond met her gaze, his eye gleaming with that maddening intensity that always seemed to cut her down to the bone. He held her in that stare for what felt like an eternity before finally speaking, his voice low, deliberate, and edged with something that made her stomach churn. “Do you think his parents would call it mercy?” he asked, his words as precise and cutting as a Valyrian steel blade. “Do you believe they’d see the difference between what you did and what I did?”

Daenera’s gaze fixed on the two flickering flames as she spoke, her voice measured but cold, each word deliberate and precise. “No,” she admitted, “they won’t see the difference. Because they’ll never know.”

She straightened, her shoulders stiff and her lower back aching from the strain of standing so long. The cold of the Sept had seeped through the thin soles of her shoes, creeping up her legs like an unwelcome tide, leaving her joints stiff and protesting with every subtle shift of movement. The faint creak of her body reminded her of her own mortality, the weariness pressing down like a weight she couldn’t shake.

Her dark eyes remained fixed on the two flickering candles, their golden light dancing across her features, but her focus drifted far beyond the altar. She stared at the flames as though they held the answers she sought–or perhaps the condemnation she feared.

When she spoke again, her voice was quieter but no less cutting, each word delivered with the precision of a needle stitching together a wound. “They’ll think their son died in the dungeons. They will believe he succumbed to illness, a quiet death in the shadows of those cold stone walls, surrounded by rapers and murderers.”

Her throat tightened, but she pushed the emotion down, her expression hardening as she pressed on. “And perhaps they’ll think it a mercy,” she added, her voice softening, though the tremor in it was impossible to hide. “That he wasn’t left to rot alone and afraid. That he wasn’t to be hanged like a traitor, or worse, have his head mounted on the Traitor’s Walk for all to see–like the rest of my men.”

For a moment, the silence of the Sept pressed in on her, heavy and suffocating, the faint liker of the flames the only movement in the vast, empty space. “They’ll have their son home,” she said finally, the words bitter on her tongue. Her voice dropped, quieter now, as though the admission had drained her of life. “They’ll see his body and they will have a funeral–they will get to bury him. They will grieve. And yes, they may blame me.”

They would get to bury their child–that was a kindness in itself, she thought. It was more than was afforded her mother. “I don’t expect forgiveness. Not from them, not from the gods.” Her jaw tightened as she steeled herself. “I made a choice. He didn’t deserve to die–no child ever does–but it was a kindness… I will bear the guilt and mourn him.”

Her eyes lifted from the candles to Aemond, narrowing. “Can you say the same for my brother?”

Aemond stood still as a statue carved from marble and obsidian. His jaw clenched tight, the muscles tensing beneath his skin. His face was a mask, cold as steel–she wondered if that was all there was. It was this inscrutable facade that drove her to madness, the implacable, unfeeling calm he wore as effortlessly as the blade at his hip. And yet, she couldn’t help but throw herself against it, again and again, cutting herself on its unyielding edges.

“No,” she said, the single word trembling on her lips, almost swallowed by the emptiness of the Sept. She drew a sharp breath, her gaze leaving his, daring him to respond–to let her beneath his mask so she could rake her nails over his tender, vulnerable insides as he had hers.

“His parents might not call it mercy,” she continued, her voice measured. “But they wouldn’t call what you did justice either.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the faint crackle of the flames. Daenera held her ground, the tremble in her limbs belying the strength of her stare. The gods above seemed to watch, unblinking and indifferent, their stone faces bathed in the light of a thousand candles. But it was not their judgment she feared.

No, it was not the gods’ dispassionate eyes that made her chest tighten or her throat constrict. It was his.

Aemond’s single eye, sharp and penetrating, seemed to see too much–more than she wanted, more than she could bear. His gaze held no condemnation, no fiery reproach or righteous fury. Instead, there was something far worse: understanding. That unbearable, maddening understanding that stripped her defenses bare and left her feeling exposed, raw, vulnerable.

It was not the gods’ cold indifference that terrified her, nor their justice that she sought to avoid. She could face that a thousand times over, endure their silent judgment and accept their scorn. But his understanding? His love? That was the weight she could not carry, the reckoning she could not endure.

The two flames flickered on the altar, their delicate tongues of fire dancing side by side amidst the sea of light that filled the Sept. Hundreds of candles burned in quiet reverence, their glow painting the chamber in shades of gold and amber. Yet, among them all, those two flames stood out, distinct and impossible to ignore.

Their wavering light seemed almost alive, mocking her with their unrelenting brightness. The comparison he had drawn hung in the air between them like a blade, its edge pressing against her heart, a wound too deep to ignore. She couldn’t dislodge it, couldn’t push it away–it had rooted itself in her chest, a cruel thorn left to fester beneath her armor of composure.

It was not the same.

Her ruthlessness had been born of necessity, tempered by mercy, even if it also served to free her from the suffocating weight of his life hanging over her head. At least she felt the blood on her hands, cold and sticky, clinging to her soul like an unwanted phantom. At least she bore the weight of it, the nauseating shame that churned in her stomach every time she thought of Patrick’s face–the fear in his eyes, the tremor in his voice. Her choice had been calculated, yes, but it hadn’t been without cost.

She clung to that distinction with a ferocity that bordered on desperation. It was her only shield against the relentless tide of his words. She was not the same as him–not wholly, not yet.

He felt nothing.

Aemond stood across from her, the shadows curling around him as though they were under his control, his pale features bathed in the warm glow of the candles. The light kissed the sharp planes of his face, softened the line of his jaw, and turned his silver hair into a crown of molten gold–he almost seemed godlier than the gods themselves. He had no regret. No remorse. The blood on his hands didn’t revolt him–didn’t haunt him in the dead of night or claw at his heart in the quiet moments between breaths. But he was no god.

Daenera’s jaw clenched, the tension in her muscles so sharp it felt as though her teeth might crack under the pressure. Her hands curled into fists, the fabric of her skirts bunched tightly in her grip, the embroidered pattern digging into her palms like thorns.

The air in the Sept felt heavier now, oppressive and stifling, as though the ancient walls themselves had closed in around her. The cloying scent of incense mingled with the faint tang of burning wax, saturating the air until it seemed to seep into her lungs. It was too much–thick, suffocating, pressing against her chest and making every breath feel like a laborious effort.

The flames on the altar danced mockingly, their light twisting and shifting like small, writhing prayers of remembrance–futile, empty gestures, as though she could ever forget. They flickered with a life of their own, their restless movement seeming almost defiant, as if taunting her with the weight of what they meant.

“These candles aren’t yours to light,” Daenera said, her gaze tearing away from the flames, locking onto his with a fierce intensity that burned as brightly as the candles themselves. “Do not feign sorrow for lives you never cared for. You feel no regret, no guilt for their deaths. You do not mourn them.”

With a sharp inhale, Daenera stepped forward, her movements deliberate and measured. Her chest rose as she drew in the cold, heavy air of the Sept, and with a forceful exhale, she blew out the flames in one swift motion. The candles flickered violently before succumbing, their light vanishing one by one. Her breath did not discriminate, extinguishing not only the two of them but also those scattered in the surrounding cluster.

The embers in the wicks glowed faintly in the aftermath, their light waning into dull orange specks as smoke curled upward in ghostly tendrils. The tendrils of smoke twisted and swayed, rising to fill the air between them, weaving a veil of faint, grey mist that seemed almost alive. The acrid scent of extinguished fire filled the space, mingling with the stale air of the chamber.

The silence was thick, broken only by the faint hiss of the dying wicks and the rustle of smoke dispersing into the stillness. Her chest rose and fell as she glowered at him, “Lighting their candles won’t absolve you,” she said, her voice trembling. “It won’t burn away the blood on your hands, and it won’t make you forgiven. Not by the gods, not by them, and certainly not by me.” Her eyes burned. “Lighting a candle won’t make you human again.”

Aemond didn’t flinch. His expression remained carved from stone, but there was something in his eye, a flicker of an emotion she couldn’t place–too fleeting to name, too restrained to understand. His voice, when he spoke, was soft but laced with a quiet intensity that cut through the heavy air between them. “If I am a monster,” he questioned, his words deliberate and steady, “what does that make of you?”

His challenge hung in the air like smoke, curling and twisting, pressing against her resolve. He didn’t rise to her anger, didn’t meet it with rage or denial. Instead, he accepted it, absorbed it, and turned it back on her with the quiet intimacy of knowing her.

Daenera’s lips tightened, the muscles in her jaw clenching as his words struck home. Her chest tightened, her fury a roiling storm barely contained. Yet, she refused to let him see her falter. She held his gaze for a heartbeat longer before turning sharply away, her dark hair sweeping over her shoulder like a curtain. Her eyes shifted to the altar, its flickering light reflected in her cold expression.

“I am what you’ve made of me,” she answered, her tone frigid and unyielding, each word dropping like a shard of ice. Her gaze lingered on the extinguished candles, her dismissal clear. Aemond might have held her in the moment, but she would not give him the satisfaction of holding her any longer.

The silence that followed was weighted, the tension between them almost tangible. Smoke still curled upward from the darkened wicks, weaving through the space between them.

“Most monsters are made,” Aemond said softly, his voice barely more than a murmur as he stepped back. The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and Daenera felt their weight settle uneasily in her chest. She knew what he meant–knew he was speaking of himself. He thought his monstrousness had been forged all those years ago when the blade had taken his eye, when pain and loss had seared into him like a brand.

Perhaps he was right, but to her, that wasn’t the moment he had truly become a monster. The moment was etched in her memory like a scar—the storm-laden skies, her brother’s desperate flight, and the roar of Vhagar in pursuit. It was vengeance that had made him monstrous, the choice to hunt a boy who could never match his strength, to bring his fury down like a tempest that left nothing but ruin in its wake.

Aemond exhaled then, a slow, measured release of breath that sent a faint prickle down her spine. The sound was soft, almost contemplative, yet it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, simply watched him from the corner of her eye as he lingered, his gaze flickering between her and the extinguished candles.

“The council will restrict your movements further,” he informed her, his tone even, with a note of reproach. It was a statement, not an apology, delivered with the same detached authority that he wielded like a blade. “They’ve decided you’re not to leave our chambers, save to come to the Sept.”

Daenera hummed quietly, a sound neither agreement nor protest. It wasn’t much different from how things were now. The walls that surrounded her were already her prison; the only difference was that she’d lose even the pretense of freedom. She supposed she wouldn’t be able to charm or outwit her way around these new restrictions. Not anymore. Not after Patrick.

She remained silent, her gaze drifting back to the smoldering wicks, their faint glow fading into nothing. The shadows deepened around her as the last ember died, the cold stone of the Sept pressing in on her like the weight of the sky.

The tendrils of smoke still hung in the air, a ghostly reminder of what had been extinguished, and Daenera inhaled deeply, her chest tight with the weight of what was to come. The gods watched from their lofty perches, silent and unmoving, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that they, too, had judged her.

“I suppose they’re worried I might upset the delicate narrative they’ve been weaving with this farce of a wedding,” Daenera mused. A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips.. “I have no cause to play their game anymore–and certainly no cause to act the part of your dutiful, adoring wife.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the subtle motion–a shift in the air, a ripple in the space between them. He moved like a shadow, silent and deliberate, his presence looming closer before she could react. His hand rose, his fingers brushing against her jawline with a touch that was soft, almost tender, yet felt like the kiss of a blade. The warmth of his palm followed, sliding beneath the thick curtain of her hair, his grip firm yet unyielding as he cupped the side of her face. The heat of his touch seared her skin, sending a jolt through her that she fought to suppress.

“Even so,” Aemond murmured, his voice low, the words a quiet claim that sent a shiver down her spine. “You remain my wife.”

His tone was calm, almost dispassionate, but there was something coiled beneath the surface–possessive, unrelenting. His single eye burned with an intensity that unsettled her, its focus locked onto her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered in that moment. The words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, as if daring her to deny the truth of them.

Her breath hitched, her body stiffening as her pulse quickened, a surge of conflicting emotions crashing over her–anger, unease, something deeper and far more dangerous. Her hand shot up instinctively, fingers curling around his wrist, nails biting into the flesh as she had done before. The half-moon marks she had left the night before were still faintly visible, and now she added fresh ones, pressing harder as though she could sever the connection between them with sheer force.

“Don’t,” she hissed, her voice sharp and venomous, slicing through the tense silence of the Sept like a whip. The single word carried the weight of all the emotions she refused to name, each syllable dripping with barely contained rage and desperation. “Don’t touch me!”

Her voice rose, cracking with the sheer intensity of her anger. “You don’t get to touch me! The blood on your hands has stained me enough already.”

Daenera shoved him back, the movement swift and unrelenting, her palms striking his chest with a force that betrayed the storm roiling within her. Her skin burned and prickled where his had had been, as though his touch had left a mark there–had branded into her skin to claim her as his. Her breath came fast and shallow, her chest rising and falling in quick succession as she struggled to regain her composure.

“You can say the words as often as you like,” she sneered, her voice low but trembling, each word forced through her clenched teeth. “It doesn’t change anything. Any love I might have held for you… it died along with my brother.”

Aemond didn’t move to close the distance she had forced between them. He stood as still as a statue, his piercing gaze fixed on her with that same maddeningly inscrutable expression. His head tilted ever so slightly, a subtle gesture that betrayed nothing yet seemed to study everything. The silence between them grew heavier with every passing moment, suffocating in its weight, laden with all the words left unspoken, all the emotions neither dared to name.

For Daenera, it was too much–his presence, his gaze, the crushing weight of the tension that had built between them. The anger and grief she carried churned within her chest, clawing at her ribs, threatening to break free. She could feel his gaze on her, an unrelenting force that pressed against her resolve, daring her to break.

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

With a sharp exhale, she turned away from him, her movements abrupt and tense. Her arms wrapped around herself instinctively, a gesture that was equal parts defiance and self-preservation. Her fingers pressed into her arms, desperate for an anchor, for something solid to hold onto as the storm inside her threatened to spill over.

She felt his gaze linger, heavy and unyielding, like the weight of a blade poised over her neck. It burned into her back, a sensation as tangible as if he had reached out to touch her. But he said nothing. The air around her seemed to grow colder as the moments stretched on, until finally, she heard the soft shuffle of his boots against the stone.

Daenera’s eyes lingered on the spot where her breath had extinguished several of the candles. The bare patch amidst the scattered flames stood out, cold and hollow, a small void of darkness in a sea of light. Her chest felt unbearably heavy, her heart beating a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt almost like a betrayal, as though it refused to align with the stillness she craved.

The faintest sound reached her ears–the soft scrape of boots against stone. She didn’t turn, but she felt the approach all the same. There was an undeniable awareness that prickled at her senses, a subtle shift in the air as someone drew near. It wasn’t the same as the way she felt Aemond’s presence. His movements were like ripples in the air, tethered to her in ways she couldn’t explain, each motion of his creating a reaction within her, a current she couldn’t ignore–as much as she wanted to.

This presence was different, quieter, less intimate. Daenera felt it in the weight of his gaze pressed against her back, a familiar sensation that all eyes seemed to bring, a prickling sense of being observed. The sound of his footsteps echoed faintly in the cavernous sept, almost drowned out by the sound of rain beating against the windows. He stopped at her shoulder, close but not intrusive, his presence offering neither comfort nor threat.

“Fenrick made it out of the city,” Finan said, his voice low, a quiet murmur meant only for her ears.

Daenera nodded once, her expression solemn, her lips pressed into a line. She didn’t respond beyond that, letting the silence stretch between them. The faint flicker of candles reflected in her eyes, and for a moment, she was as still as the carved statues of the gods that loomed over the Sept.

The news should have brought some relief, some fleeting reprieve from the weight pressed against her chest. But it didn’t. It only offered her a small sense of vindication that she had made the right choice–a bitter hope that could crumble as easily as it was made. The darkness between the flames on the altar felt like it had seeped into her, growing and festering in the quiet spaces where her thoughts roamed. She exhaled slowly, her breath steady but laced with the tension she refused to let show.

“How much did you overhear?” Daenera asked, her voice steady, though the faintest edge betrayed her wariness.

“Enough.”

Daenera nodded, a subtle motion, as though acknowledging the inevitable. She drew in a deep breath, but it felt shallow, as if the air couldn’t fully reach her lungs. The cloying scent of incense clung to her senses, sharp and oppressive, and it curled at the back of her throat, threatening to unsettle her further–her stomach roiling.

“You could have told me,” Finan said, breaking the silence again. His voice was low, quiet enough to avoid carrying through the cavernous space of the Sept, but there was a hint of reproach woven into his words. He shifted slightly on his feet, the faint sound of leather against stone punctuating the stillness.

“Had I told you, what would you have done?” Daenera asked quietly. Her tone was neither angry nor outraged–it was calm, almost detached, but her words carried a weight. It wasn’t just a question; it was a test, a subtle probe into the depths of his loyalty. Would his obedience to her have stretched far enough to carry out her will, even if it meant betraying his own sense of right and wrong?

She turned her gaze toward him, studying him in the dim light of the Sept. Finan’s face looked more severe here, framed by the glow of the candles. His features bore the unmistakable solemnity of the North–the heavy brow, the strong lines of his jaw, the unyielding set of his mouth. His gray eyes, however, remained humanity. They were not cold but carried a notable sadness, a depth of understanding she did not think she deserved.

“Perhaps there would have been another way,” Finan said at last, his voice quiet.

“There was no other way,” Daenera replied, her voice steady and firm. Her gaze did not falter. “None that wouldn’t have condemned him to the dungeons far longer than he deserved. None that wouldn’t have exposed you.”

Her chest tightened further as the words left her, but she forced herself to press on. “The Greens wouldn’t have given him up for anything. He was already dead, Finan. All that remained was to choose how much he would suffer before the end.”

Finan’s jaw tightened, the faint movement betraying his inner turmoil. His hands clenched around his belt, but he did not argue. It was not reproach then, but reluctant acceptance. “I know.”

“Would you still have brought it to me?” Daenera asked softly, her voice laced with quiet curiosity. There was no accusation in her tone, no anger–only a question that carried a weight far greater than the words themselves. Her dark eyes remained fixed on the flickering flames of the altar, the light casting faint shadows across her face, as though she feared meeting his gaze might shatter the fragile stillness between them.

The silence that followed was thick, stretching across the empty space of the Sept like a taut bowstring. For a moment, it seemed as though Finan might not answer, his hesitation hanging in the air alongside the faint tendrils of smoke that drifted upward from the extinguished candles.

At last, he spoke. “Yes,” he said, the single word steady but heavy with meaning. His voice, low and solemn, echoed faintly in the cavernous chamber. “You got Fenrick out,” he continued, his gray eyes watching her intently. “I know it cost you dearly, and for that, I am grateful.”

His words were deliberate, each one spoken with care, as though he were choosing them from a place deep within himself. “I swore to you, Daenera,” he said, the faintest edge of emotion creeping into his tone. “And I am a man of my word. I am yours to command.”

Daenera exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the soft crackle of the remaining flames. Her fingers twitched slightly, curling into the fabric of her skirts as she absorbed his words. There was no triumph in his answer, no sense of victory—only a simple and unwavering truth.

She glanced at him then, her gaze catching on the somber lines of his face. In the flickering light, he looked as though he had been hewn from the same stone as the Sept itself–strong, steadfast, but not untouched by the weight of his choices. There was a sadness in his eyes, one that mirrored the ache in her chest, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to meet it, to acknowledge the cost they had both paid.

The silence stretched again, but this time it felt less oppressive, softened by the shared understanding between them. Daenera turned her gaze back to the altar, the shadows of the gods above seeming to shift in the wavering candlelight. The question had been answered, but the weight of their actions lingered, a quiet specter between them that neither dared to dismiss.

Daenera reached for the half-burned taper, her movements slow and deliberate. She picked it up, its weight slight but significant in her hand, and she leaned forward to touch it to one of the still-lit candles. The flame flickered to life, its yellow tongue lapping greedily at the air, hungry and alive. She held it for a moment, watching the fire dance, before guiding it to the center of the darkened space where her breath had wrought its devastation.

She lit one candle, then another. The flames flared brightly, steady after a moment, their light filling the hollow void she had created.

Patrick Piper. Lucerys Velaryon.

The names echoed in her mind as her hand moved, the light glowing brighter. When she had lit the two candles, she brought the taper to her lips and blew it out, the flame vanishing in an instant, leaving behind a faint trail of smoke that curled upward and disappeared. She set the stub aside, her fingers lingering on the cold stone of the altar for a moment before she straightened.

“I know it’s easy for you to feel guilty,” she said, her voice low. Her gaze remained fixed on the two candles she had relit, their presence a reminder of what had been lost. “To feel responsible. But the guilt isn’t yours to carry. It is mine. Do not take it from me.”

Her tone was sharp, almost harsh, but there was vulnerability beneath it, an unspoken plea she couldn’t quite hide. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and jagged, like shards of broken glass.

Finan shifted beside her. “I provided it.”

“The smith is not to blame for the blood his sword spills,” Daenera muttered, her voice distant, as if the words were for the flames rather than Finan. Her gaze remained on the flickering light as exhaustion pressed against her bones. She extended her hand over the candles, her palm hovering above the wavering tongues of the fire. The warmth rose to meet her skin, chasing away the icy chill that had settled in her bones.

“The blame lies solely in the one who wields it,” she continued, her tone thoughtful, almost detached. Her hand lingered over the flames, her fingers spread as though to feel the full measure of the heat. The warmth turned to something hotter, a sharp intensity that bit at her skin the closer she moved to the fire. It wasn’t pain, not at first, just a prickling sensation, almost unreal, as though the heat couldn’t truly reach her.

The heat became sharper, searing, a faint sting growing steadily stronger. Yet she hardly felt it at all. Her mind was elsewhere, her focus lost in the light and the words she had spoken. It had been by her hand, and hers alone. She would not share the blame. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, until she felt the firm grip of a hand wrapping around her wrist.

Finan yanked her hand back abruptly, the motion startling her out of her daze. Her palm stung sharply with heat now, the sensation flooding back as the cold air kissed her reddened skin. Her breath hitched, and she blinked, realizing how close she had brought herself to the flames. She was not immune–she never thought she was.

His brow was furrowed, worry etched into the heavy lines of his face as he held her wrist, carefully turning her palm upward to inspect it. His calloused fingers brushed against her skin, steady but gentle. Daenera’s eyes followed his movements, her own gaze drifting to her palm. The skin was flushed, reddened from the heat, but there were no blisters, no lasting damage–only the faint pink line of an old scar, a memory etched deep into her flesh.

“You shouldn’t carry the guilt alone,” Finan said, his voice low but firm, as though he hoped the words might anchor her to something more solid than the turmoil within her.

Daenera’s jaw tightened at his words, her chest heaving with a slow, steady breath as she stared at her palm. The sting of the heat still lingered, a faint echo of the searing pain that hadn’t quite reached her. She pulled her hand from his grasp gently, letting her fingers curl into her skirts, her head tilting slightly as her gaze returned to the flames.

“It’s mine to bear,” she said softly, her voice raw and distant, like a confession whispered to the fire. “The sword was in my hand. The choice was mine.”

Children and the innocent, she thought, her gaze distant as the flickering flames seemed to blur before her eyes. Children, and innocence.

They were always the first sacrifices of war.

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