Of Blood & Shame [Daemon & Rhaenyra]

MOURNING WE MET

Ｔｗｅｎｔｙ－Ｏｎｅ
𝓂𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝓉
╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Sometimes, Rhaenyra felt as if she lived for condolences. Sometimes, it felt as if they gave her a pattern in her life, something to hold onto when the world got to be too rough. They made her feel as if some things were meant to be. At fourteen years old, Rhaenyra had only ever given condolences to dead horses and the litter of puppies that hadn't made it off the birthing bed back in Dragonstone.

Her father's hand was upon her back, guiding her further down the line of seats in the church. There was a sombreness in the air, the faith of the Seven—the religion of old Valyria—was still the only thing that connected Targaryen to their Baratheon relatives. Blood, they said, ran thick in the Great Houses, but lately, her mother would say it thinned.

She sat upon the dark brown pews, wishing her uncle had arrived this morning to make this entire ordeal pass with far more ease. Rhaenyra loved her parents, but the golden light seemed to come and go with Daemon's fickle appearance. She bowed her head as the silence cast the dim church in dark light when the Septon began to read the old Valyrian script—a language that most had forgotten, determined to kill off her culture.

She spotted the Velaryons a distance away, Laena's deep white curls were difficult to miss with the light bathing them like Valyrian steel. As if her cousin could feel the stare, Laena turned her head and caught Rhaenyra's eye, offering a fleeting and awkward smile.

The smell of flowers was heavy and without mercy, where it hung in the air like a cloud of vapour or as tangible as the condensation clinging to the stained-glass windows. The room was congested with white and red roses. In the middle of the far-off wall was a coffin balanced on shrouded trestles where the body rested at the centre.

The sermon passed with much bore and the rain had already begun to drizzle against the windows. Rhaenyra watched the slow droplets, noticeable if one truly squints. She prayed for it to increase—to blow off the very roof—that way she could go home and have pizza.

It did not and instead just continued its bare and minimal assault against red and blue and yellow glass. It was not enough to flood the cemetery, but just enough for the umbrellas to sprout out like little mushrooms, springing from the graves. Besides the Septon, the funeral of Luciara Baratheon, the estranged wife of Tamar Baratheon, was a quiet one. There were many mourners present, standing with their dome umbrellas, but none spoke a word.

Rhaenyra thought that odd, staring at the many distant relatives and friends. She scrutinised Boremund Baratheon with a child's eye. The elder man leaned heavily on his cane, having grown weary and worn in the coming years. The grounds were absent of sobs or even the flailing of the embroidered handkerchiefs. Tamar Baratheon was hidden from Rhaenyra's sight, but she could just barely make out the man's wheels upon his chair, his limp legs, and the burnt skin of his hands.

The red scars were a smattering of colour, restricted in a sea of black suits and gowns. Borros Baratheon met her eye and Rhaenyra was surprised by the intensity of its cold stare. He was unlike his father, who looked as unmovable as stone. Borros looked about ready to leap from the grass and attack her. Even the light drizzle could not push down the anger in the boy's expression, drawn perhaps from some old realm of despair. Rhaenyra didn't understand why it was directed at her so she scowled right back.

"He lost a sister-in-law," her mother whispered, placing both palms against Rhaenyra's shoulders. The girl could feel the swelling of her mother's belly upon her back—yet another child, yet another way to fix a mistake. Rhaenyra thought it might be fitting for a new birth to come into fruition, over the body of a lost life. Perhaps that was awful, but Rhaenyra didn't care about being awful.