¹ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 ━━ 𝐝. 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

xxxiii. strangers with memories

✧˖° 🌑 ೄྀ࿐
━ [ SONG OF SORROWS ] ༉‧₊˚✧
x. act one... the dragon's daughter
strangers with memories ━ ✩・*。

— WINTER, 114 A.C
KING'S LANDING, CROWNLANDS

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REGRET. That was the sole feeling blistering Valerys Targaryen's heart as she walked through the open mouth of the Red Keep. Dark and hazy as the thick clouds of a forthcoming storm, it threaded its path through her heart in black twine, a rot setting in upon the weathered muscle. Perhaps she had not felt it when those words had been spat from her lips in false homily, nor when her trembling figure ascended the ash-wrought scales of Aegarax — but she felt it now, and it blazed a self-pitying course as bright as embers within her churning stomach.

Anger shed from her skin like dew-fall upon the leaves of a tree scattered off by harsh winds. Reality had instead rooted itself in her mind, rather than thr conjured storyline she'd fit her narrative into. Beneath sagging skin her bones trembled, though white-hot rage did not rumble the foundations of her being. Rather, indescribable pain, that of having a still-beating heart shorn from the holdings within her chest, leaving behind nothing but a gaping hole, her weary body still unfortunately unable to claim death. Perhaps Death did not want her; her sins had become far too grand for even him to place punishment upon.

Had she meant it? Surely the words would've not escaped her mouth had she not. As if closed off to any other sounds, the words she'd uttered spun about in her head like a thick, knotted ball of yarn, unable to be pulled apart by even the deftest hands. Tear-soaked memories of Daemon's face, twisted in a mask of sorrow and rage, haunted her mind, sticking its grimy claws into her brain, a punishment in itself. Had she not been so wrought with discontent, chest burning with the understanding of her fault, Valerys could've laughed at herself.

Had she not placed herself in this position? While spurred by Daemon's once again disparaging words, the eruption of those hate-filled words were her own. This was something she could not blame him on. Ever since childhood, she'd prided herself on the resolve to remain calm, even when faced with great challenges. Yet, it seemed, Daemon awoke her long-slumbering lapse of control, prodding the sleeping dragon with an uncaring finger. Even now, he still was able to conquer her emotions — and therefore, conquer her. Millions of tears fell into the well of his own design, trapping her sorrow within it forevermore, a testament that she cared for him. That he held the power to crumble her castles with mere words.

Valerys hated it. She hated how easily he shattered her resolve, how he dug his hands beneath her flesh and toyed with her heart between bloodied fingers. She hated it. And she desired to hate him; those words had been an attempt to convince herself of it, but they only served to force her further into the blackened pit of his heart. Though now he hated her, and maybe it would be easier to hate him.

But the haze of loathing had cleared, and despite her entrance into the main hall of the Red Keep, she longed for nothing more than to run back to Aegarax, fly to the Stepstones, and apologize to Daemon. To fall to her knees, a sinner at the alter of another, and repent for her depravities. Would he even care? She didn't think so. Once a slight sliced Daemon's heart, he refortified his walls and shunned those who'd wronged him. He made certain a weakness such as that could never be exploited again.