𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐒𝐇
❝I would like to burn them to the ground and stand on their ashes.❞
in which the eldest child of viserys targaryen and aemma arryn is a little too violent, a little too wild, and a little too lost.
HOUSE OF THE DRAGON...
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THE WEATHERED TAVERN'S WINDOWS WEREA different shape and size, each with a sill full of flowers that were both taken care of and forgotten. The scent of brine, stale urine, and rotten eggs stuck to its very foundation the closer they came, combined with the distant idle chatter that pushed through its crevices. Between the insignificant conversations, she could muster the careful notes of a lyre.
It was soft and tender, barely audible over the countless sounds that overtook it.
Rhaenerys swallowed and cleared her throat. "Where are we?" She glanced at the man to the furthest corner of the taverns, with his trousers down his legs and pissing against the stone wall. He hummed as he did so, stumbling to the sides and almost falling over. "Why did you bring me here?"
"A hint of freedom is going to the local tavern for a drink after a long day of work," Daemon said as he pulled her through the door. "Welcome to The Dragon's Cave, little bird."
There was a grand fireplace to the furthest wall of the tavern, a bear head was mounted above the stone mantlepiece with its maw open in an attack that would never come. The walls were a mixture of wood and stone with stone sconces that helped the fireplace illuminate and warm the room. A handful of tables were scattered around the room, each with a candle and a little vase with a singular flower.
Daemon pulled her to the empty table at the corner of the room, away from the fireplace and the commotion of the tavern's patrons. "It's a seedy little thing here in Dragonstone, nothing like the ones in King's Landing."
Rhaenerys continued to glance around the room until her eyes landed on the musician. He stood in front of the fireplace with a beaten lyre, frayed wooden edges to tell the lyre was neither new nor well taken care of.
No one minded the musician or his music. No one focused on the way his fingers pressed against the strings, on the way they would sometimes catch and he would quickly continue to the following note. He would glance around the room for a moment then stare back at his lyre, a lover he could not ignore.
The musician was not handsome but he had a boyish face and dark ringlets. The dirty tunic he wore appeared too big on him, fastened and held together by a belt around his waist. He reminded her of one of the boys in her father's court, too young and too green to have a sword strapped at their side.
Cool fingers brushed against her chin and pulled her head to the side. Daemon stared down at her with a brow raised. "What are you focused on, little bird?"
Her eyes glanced back at the musician. "Do seedy taverns such as these tend to have musicians?"
He followed her glance. "Is that all you care about? The musician?" The way he said the name sounded like disgust.
