twin flames | daemon targaryen

sixty-five

High Tide, Driftmark

The sun was just barely beginning to rise, yet Rhaella was already awake. The Targaryen woman turned to face it, taking in how the sun's golden light shimmered against the waters of the Narrow Sea. She could hear the gentle huffs and clicks of the dragons nesting on the beach and the slight breeze that rushed through the open window she sat in front of.

It was peaceful—beautiful, even. It was far different from how Rhaella felt inside.

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms moved in her seat, her back now to the sun. Her amethyst eyes settled on the bed that stood before where she sat. Rhaegar laid upon it, her second son sleeping beneath a thin sheet, his eyes closed and chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm that did little to quell the fear within Rhaella.

There was a knock on the doors to Rhaegar's chambers, and Rhaella looked up to find Baelon walking through the doors. Her eldest son wore a loose tunic underneath a dark red vest, black pants tucked into brown leather boots. He looked tired, bruises coloring the skin beneath his eyes, his white curls pulled back haphazardly into a bun.

"Baelon," Rhaella greeted softly, giving her eldest a strained smile. Baelon struggled to return it, his violet eyes glancing toward Rhaegar's motionless form on the bed. The prince walked to where Rhaella sat on a small chaise at Rhaegar's bedside, and he sank into the cushions with a sigh.

"It is early," Baelon said to his mother, looking at her in concern. "Have you slept at all?"

"My dreams kept me awake," Rhaella replied, not bothering to lie to him anymore about the haunting images that plagued her sleep. Baelon frowned at her words, and he studied her. The bruises beneath her eyes were far darker than his own, and her eyelids drooped ever so slightly, as though she were struggling to stay awake.

"Muña..."

"I am fine, Baelon," she assured. She reached over and took his hand in her, squeezing it gently. "I am used to it. Why are you awake so early?"

"I could not sleep either," Baelon admitted. "Too much on my mind." His gaze slid to Rhaegar's form, and the mother and son sat in silence for several moments, watching the steady rise and fall of Rhaegar's chest.

It had been days since Rhaegar had returned to them unconscious on Vermithor's back. No matter the time had passed nor the strange concoctions the maesters spilled down his throat, the second son of Rhaella and Daemon had yet to wake. The maesters had warned them all that he would likely not wake. The trauma of the battle, of what the prince had endured, had been too much for his body and mind to recover.

Rhaella and Baelon had fought against the maester's predictions, staying at Rhaegar's bedside every moment in hopes that Rhaegar would wake on their own. But, with each day, each hour, each minute, that passed without sign of recovery, the Targaryens were forced to confront the fact that the maesters were right: it would take a miracle for Rhaegar to wake and return to them.

"Do you remember how you and Rhaegar would chase Aemma on the docks with your fresh catches?" Rhaella asked Baelon, breaking the silence with a rueful smile. "The laughter and screams could wake the entire Dragonmont."

"I fear that we are the reason Aemma is still afraid of fish," Baelon mused with a slight smirk. "I doubt she has eaten any since then." Rhaella shook her head fondly, her white curls flowing down her back.

"Brothers," she muttered with a gentle laugh. "I had always wished for one myself. The gods had blessed us with a brother for a day." Her smile slipped off her lips at the memory.

Rhaella, standing in the center of the royal nursery, holding little Baelon in her small arms. The sounds of his wheezes filled the room, and she watched as Baelon grew still in her arms, and the wheezing stopped.