The blood of Old Valyria lives on still in both the Targaryens and Velaryons, and another who fits in neither category. Saerra Salt is a bastard, born out of wedlock as a result of Lord Corlys's drunken night on the Street of Silk. He takes care of...
Saerra places the soft and smooth silky dress over her body and admires herself in the mirror, for it is one of the few nice things she has ever been given. She styles her hair up to bring more attention to the dress, before she steps out of her chambers and lets her nose guide her to where Daemon is sitting at a grand table, eating a feast fit for a king.
" Good morrow, my Prince."
Daemon's eyes follow the sound of her voice and see Saerra wearing a silk dress. His eyes wonder for a moment before they lock on her eyes.
" It fits," He observes.
" Y-Yes, it does," She utters, " Thank you."
But the Prince gives no response. He continues eating as Saerra stands before him, and a few moments go by before he brings his gaze up to her again.
" Are you just going to stand there?"
Saerra flushes from the embarrassing question, then quickly finds a chair where she cautiously brings food on her plate, being mindful and not wanting to take too much. She doesn't realize she's being watched until her head turns to face the Prince and finds his eyes looking straight at her. Saerra nearly chokes on her food but pushes her plate back in fear that she has done something wrong.
" My apologizes," She mumbles as she brings her head down.
" You're apologizing for eating?" Daemon questions.
" For eating your food, my Prince."
" It's just food. You eat it if you're hungry."
Saerra's head slowly tilts upwards as the Prince gets up from his chair, seeing as his belly is already full.
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Throughout the day, the isle receives many ships filled with Daemon's men and more staff for the castle. The Salt girl feels as if she's imposing, even if she's a guest, and excuses herself from the castle walls to find comfort elsewhere.
Saerra stands on the battlements of Dragonstone, her slender frame quivering with nerves as she gazes out at the crashing waves below, and as she stands there, lost in thought, she suddenly hears the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching. She turns her head to see Daemon.
Her breath catches in her throat as she looks at him, taking in the sight of his chiseled features, his bright eyes, and his broad shoulders. It's a sight she feels as though she'll never grow used to, especially as she feels the skin of her cheeks rise in temperature.
Daemon draws closer, his eyes never leaving hers. She feels a sudden jolt of electricity run through her body as if he's touching her without even laying a finger on her. His gaze is so intense, so penetrating, that she can't help but feel as if he's examining her down to her very soul.
"You're very quiet," He utters, "Do you always hide away like this?"
Saerra can feel her cheeks growing even warmer under his gaze. She wants to speak, to say something clever or witty or charming, but her voice seems to have deserted her. She's never felt so tongue-tied in her life.
But Daemon doesn't seem to mind. He steps closer, his face just inches from hers, and looks down at her with an expression of curiosity and interest.
"Look at me," He whispers.
She meets his gaze and feels as if she's being pulled into a vortex of desire and longing. His eyes are so blue, so bright, that they seem to glow in the sunlight. She can see the intensity of his emotions, the raw power of his will, and she knows that she's lost in his spell.
"You're beautiful," He says, and she feels a flutter of excitement in her chest.
She's never been called beautiful before, not by anyone. She's always been the forgotten one, the unloved one, the girl who's been left behind by everyone else. But now, at this moment, she feels as if she's finally been seen for who she truly is.
"Thank you, my prince," She whispers with a dry throat.
Saerra knows that she's going to spend the rest of the day dreaming of him, of his eyes, his voice, his touch. And she knows that she's already fallen under his spell, completely and irrevocably.
She doesn't know what to do or what to say. She's frozen in her place with her feet in the sand, the wind blowing through her braided hair as she stares up into Daemon's eyes. It may be the closest she's ever been to someone of royal blood... or just anyone for that matter.
Daemon's forehead creases as he looks down at the girl, feeling somewhat irritated with the power she has over him. He doesn't like how much she has embedded into his mind... yet here he is.
Daemon stands on the beach with the Velaryon bastard, bodies inches apart and eyes locked. He's so close to her, that he can hear the faint sound of her heart thumping in her chest, watching as her pupils dilate as a smirk paints across his lips.
" The hour is growing late" He observes.
" It is, my Prince," She nods.
" Perhaps you should head back to your chambers."
" I will, my Prince."
The Targaryen leaves the beach with the Salt bastard trailing behind him, struggling to keep up as her dress was not intended to traverse through the sand. Once more, Daemon escorts her to her chambers and stands right outside the door, where their eyes meet yet again.
" Goodnight, Saerra."
" Goodnight, my Prince."
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