Cirilla was a girl bedevilled. All her life, she'd been plagued with terrible nightmares of fire and blood. But as she twisted and turned and burned, Daemon Targaryen smelt the smoke and smiled.
daemon targaryen x fem!oc
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𝕯ESPITE FIRE BEING the birthright of House Targaryen, Ciri had always associated it with destruction. It became the very thing it fought against. To Ciri, the flames meant misery and woe. They meant darkness. They meant a girl's tears staining her mother's cloak. They meant weeping alone in a cold chamber. They meant visions and bloodshot eyes. Today, as the sea winds seeped into the bones of the gathered wake, they meant the cremation of a mother and child, and the grief of those who remained.
A funeral pyre was built and Aemma and her babe were laid on top of it, wrapped in cloth. The day was bitterly cold, as if the skies themselves mourned the loss of the queen. The colourful tourney flags had been replaced by black banners. Ciri stood next to Rhaenys in a plain dress, the shade of sorrow. There was something lodged in her throat. Every time she swallowed, it hurt.
They'd never had a funeral for her father. His body had never been recovered. Besides, it seemed wrong to have one for him and not the thousands that died at his side. His burial was dug in their own chests, his eulogy whispered from afar. At the time, it had felt like an ungodly act. But having to stare now at the faceless sacks that were once kindly and warm, Ciri was almost grateful for it. Her father's death had not felt so real, so final. It was more that he slipped from corporeality into a dream. Brannon might've burnt but at least she wasn't there to witness the ashes.
Standing before the great pyre in a dark gown, Rhaenyra stifled back tears. Ciri knew her pain and had the most unnatural urge to reach out and hold her hand. A burden shared was a burden halved, after all. It was why Rhaenyra's father should be there by her side, united in their heartbreak. Instead, he did not so much as look at her. The king stood a few feet away, eyes shifting from his beloved wife and son to the ground when it became too much to bear.
Rhaenys placed a hand on Ciri's shoulder and squeezed it. Their understanding did not require words. Their minds were bound to the same memories, the same sadness. It would not relinquish its hold on them, no matter how much time passed. Truth be told, neither wanted to be rid of it. It was their solitary tie to him. A reminder that they lost, but also that they loved. And unable were the loved to die. For love was immortality.
Corlys had remained diligently by his wife's side, but he was a clever man. He knew her thoughts lingered leagues away with a past love. So, though he stood by her, Corlys did not try console her with his touch. This grief was one he had no part in and no right to distract her from.
Before Rhaenys, his heart had been his own. His first wife, Aemelia, had been a gentle woman. Much like her sister, in that respect. But Corlys' soul belonged to the sea, to its ferocity and treasure. It was only befitting that when he did fall, it was for a woman just as fierce.
