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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𝕴N THE WOODS, the trees bent to a rhythm of their own. It was silent there, to human ears, for they were not inclined to hear the darkling hoots of an owl or the gentle rustle of the breeze. Or the sound of hoof prints being engraved into damp earth. The moonlight pooled forth like a waterfall from the heavens. It graced the crown of the stag's head—silver-furred and valiant—a prince of the forest. Its dark, round eyes glimmered with starlight. It stalked over gangly roots and trotted nimbly through trunks.
A twig broke under its hoof.
Suddenly, the night sky swarmed with clouds. The clouds massed, spiralling downwards in a whirlwind of grey. It arrowed for the stag, its hollow mouth gaping for it. Swoosh. The violently twisting air whipped about it like the wings of a thousand birds. The whites of the stag's eyes shone bright.
It was the sound of a thousand birds.
The whirlwind shattered apart as it showered over the stag. A flurry of bristling feathers and beaks, pecking and lacerating its hide. The stag reared and broke away through the underbrush. The birds squawked and shot after it. Although the stag's charge was relentless, there was no place to hide. It skidded to a halt at the stone walls of a castle. They'd appeared out of nowhere. The stag was trapped, terrified and soon to be torn apart.
The birds closed in. Their claws slashed red lines through fur. Their beaks gouged out eyes and choked them down their gullets. The agony of the stag was short-lived. It slumped onto the grass before the castle—a feast for the crows.
Ciri woke up, mumbling. Sweat lathered her gown to her back, her hair to the sides of her neck. She'd thought only to rest for a few moments before mustering the strength to greet Lord Strong and Ser Harwin, but her venture at sea must've taken more out of her than she'd thought. Or perhaps it was the assembly in the Great Hall that did it. Seeing Daemon again was unexpected. It had her breathing a little heavier, her heart beating a little faster. She'd tried to persuade herself it was out of enmity. But Rhaenys was right—though Ciri would never admit the words aloud—a woman had her needs. And there was something about Daemon that made her think he could satisfy them.
Such ideas were beneath her, and yet she could not shake them. That was, until she'd drifted asleep on the sofa and had that awful dream. She could still discern the stag's intestines being yanked from its gaping stomach. The remnants of it lingered when she woke.
"The first is a sentence, the second is the prey, the third a catch, and the fourth the sway."
Just like after the dream she'd had of Bloodstone, the words were whispered like a mantra. She'd possessed no conscious thought to speak it—for the words were not her own. They were given to her by R'hllor. But unlike her dream of Bloodstone, the answer to her mind's riddle was not clear. Ciri did not have the time to dedicate to figuring it out either. She had a betrothed to meet, and a father-in-law to impress.
