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
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ HOUS...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"𝕴F I EAT ANOTHER tart, I think I may actually barf into the flowerbed."
Ciri was strolling through the Red Keep's godswood, hanging off Harwin's arm and blushing at the feel of his muscles under his tunic. It was a blossoming spring day; the air was gentle and cool and the sunlight danced across their skin in dappled patterns. The marigolds were in full bloom, so every time Ciri inhaled, she was engulfed with nectar. Although the flowers couldn't take all the credit for the sweetness. Viserys had wasted no time in ordering a banquet to be laid out beneath the great weirwood tree. Long tables bountiful with grapes and salads and all manner of desserts. However, the plate of dried, sugared orange slices was empty, courtesy of Rhaenyra.
"And risk waking the wrath of the gardeners?" teased Harwin.
She grimaced at the scent wafting from a passing salver. "I've faced worse."
"I don't know..." mused Harwin. "Their shovels look quite menacing."
"Well, that's when you come in, good ser."
He feigned shock, a hand flying to his heart. "You'd use me as a human shield, my lady?"
Ciri smiled wryly. "Who would've thought the strongest knight in the Seven Kingdoms is afraid of some crotchety old men?"
"You caught me," he grinned, nudging his elbow gently into her side and leaning close to whisper in her ear. "Just do me the honour of keeping it between us, hm?"
"I suppose I can," she sighed. "I'm not without mercy, after all."
A maid garbed in the scarlet of House Targaryen ventured past. As she did, Ciri plucked up another blueberry tart and stuffed it in her mouth. What once tasted gooey and rich now made her sick. Her stomach churned, reminiscent of her days at sea. So much for keeping a meal down.
When she looked back at Harwin, he was staring at her with both amusement and exasperation. "You're not obliged to take from their platters every time they come around, you know."
"But how could I turn down such sweetness?" Ciri replied, aghast. "Surely such a thing is criminal!"
Behind them, Arobynn was pretending that he wasn't paying any heed to their conversation. The way Harwin's thumb drifted over the small of her back. He always was a bad actor. His sword was tucked neatly into its scabbard, but every time she laughed at something the knight said, the itch to unsheathe it was unbearable.
Arobynn waved off the maids and their platters, finding himself in no mood to eat. Unlike Ciri, who gorged herself on sugared goods as if Driftmark had deprived her of such—which it had not. The war in the Stepstones had tightened stomachs and diminished rations to the point where Arobynn had gone days without a proper meal. But over in High Tide, House Velaryon still feasted like the royalty they were. Ciri did not know what real hunger was. When the body resorted to gnawing on its own entrails to mimic the feeling of contentment. Still, by the way she scoffed down tart after tart, Arobynn might've been tricked into thinking she did.
