~I think of how the mystics read by the light of their own bodies. What a world of darkness that must have been to read by the flaming hearts that turn into heaps of ash on the altar, how everything, in the end, is made equal by the wind.~
Daenys Ve...
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Year: 120 AC
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TW: grief, self-harm, dark thoughts, self-deprecating thoughts, descriptions of blood and injuries, overall dark themes. If any of these make you uncomfortable or are in any way triggering, please proceed with caution.
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Daenys's chambers were dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows on the walls. Daenys herself sat at her writing desk, a worn parchment and quill before her, though she hadn't written a word in hours. Her silver-blond hair was loose over her shoulders as she stared at the blank page, lost in her thoughts. In the quiet darkness of this night, the space felt like a solemn sanctuary. The only sound was the occasional crackling of the hearth and the distant hooting of an owl.
Over the months, their little family had settled into a routine that was now second nature. Daenys's days were spent in the company of her siblings, trying to make sure they didn't feel the loss of Ser Laenor too profoundly. Some of the knights of Dragonstone, friends of the late Ser Laenor, had taken it upon themselves to continue the children's sword training, and Daenys finally had the chance to spar alongside her brothers.
Daenys's brothers had become quite attached to her presence as she remained a steady constant in their lives. Rhaenyra had become somewhat withdrawn, often retiring to her chambers early, and so Daenys was left to fill in the gaps left by her occasional absences, offering comfort and solace to her younger siblings. Such was her lot as the eldest daughter.
Luke followed her around nearly everywhere, even insisting that he sit in some of her lessons with her. He joined her embroidery lessons too, much to the confusion of her Septa, and in the matter of a few months, he had become quite skilled in the art. He was certainly better at it than she was, Daenys could admit with some amusement, his small hands better suited to the delicate craft. Jace insisted that she spend her free hours sparring with him and she was only happy to oblige. Baby Joffrey was growing up fast too, just learning to pull himself up to stand and sometimes crawling around. The Velaryon siblings would spend hours cheering him on, encouraging him to take his first wobbly steps, although he had yet to take them.
Daenys was happy to remain constantly busy, for in those moments of bustling activity, she found a respite from the deep emptiness within herself. It was as if the void of grief that threatened to swallow her whole could be kept at bay as long as she filled her hours with an endless supply of tasks and responsibilities.
Every day, she threw herself into the roles of a dutiful eldest sister and a nurturing companion for her younger siblings. She took solace in the rhythm of her daily routine, in the comforting familiarity of her duties. There was something soothing in the clatter of swords during her sparring sessions, in the prick of the needle against her skin while embroidering, in the delighted giggles of the babbling baby, and in the reassuring routine of tending to her family's needs. When she was busy, the grief couldn't catch up with her. It was as if she could outrun it, at least for a while.
