Damarys Targaryen was the second born daughter of Viserys and Aemma Targaryen. The sense of duty was instilled in the young princess from a early age, always a polite smile on her face, never a mean word from her lips, the exact image of a perfect n...
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The chamber is dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn to keep out the gloomy daylight. The room is filled with toys and books, remnants of a childhood now overshadowed by grief. In the corner, on a cushioned chair, a young girl sits huddled, clutching a worn stuffed dragon gifted by her mother. Her eyes are red from crying, her face pale and drawn.
The door creaks open, and Prince Daemon Targaryen steps inside. His usually confident demeanour is softened by sorrow and concern. He looks around the room, his eyes finally settling on the small, forlorn figure of his youngest niece.
"Damarys..." He says in a gentle tone.
Damarys looks up, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and fear. She clutches the stuffed dragon tighter, not moving from her spot.
Daemon approaches slowly. "I know this is hard, little one. But your mother... she would want you to be there."
Tears begin to well up in Damarys' eyes again, and she shakes her head. "I don't want to say goodbye, Kepus . I don't want her to be gone." She whimpers.
Daemon kneels down beside her chair, his expression softening even further. He gently takes her small hand, his touch reassuring.
Speaking softly as not to spook her "I know. But being there is a way to honour her. To show how much you love her. And she will always be with you, in your heart." His hand reaching to place over her heart.
Damarys looks into her uncle's eyes, searching for strength. Slowly, she nods, understanding the truth in his words, though it doesn't make the pain any less. Daemon rises, offering his hand to her, she hesitates for a moment before placing her hand in his, drawing comfort from his presence.
He leads her out of the chamber, their footsteps echoing through the stone corridors of Dragonstone.
-
The cliffside is filled with mourners, their faces etched with grief, the wind carries the murmur of prayers and the scent of the sea.
As Daemon and Damarys approach, heads turn, and the crowd parts to let them through. King Viserys, standing near the pyre with her sister, looks up and sees them. His eyes soften with a mixture of sorrow and relief at the sight of his brother and daughter, yet turns away retreating into himself.
As the final rites begin, Daemon stands beside his niece, the youngest clutching his sleeve while Rhaenyra stands in front of them a island of grief in herself. The silent sisters chant their solemn prayers, and the atmosphere is heavy with the weight of loss.
Once the rites are over there is silence amongst the crowd, Daemon moves forward to step next to Rhaenyra. "They're waiting." He mutters. Damarys hangs back not sure what to do with herself, watching her uncle and sister talking, the feeling of isolation grows, her father can't make eye contact with her and her two closest family members where talking too fast in a language she was still not comfortable with.
