『 : ̗̀➛Two parts of a whole, destined to find their second half, and when the sun finally sets on them, the last ember of hope glows in their eyes. ☄. *. ⋆ 』
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How does one begin to tell such a tale? What tale, you ask? A tale—that is not a tale at all. It is a reality that is about to change everything. A tale that would have changed everything had it been told.
Sometime in Stepstones, when the war was still raging and Daemon had not yet been crowned, a girl exited a tent. For that time being, the battleground was empty. It was night, and most clever soldiers were asleep.
She was weeping, her dark hair cascading down her back in disarray. Again, she was sent out without a single coin to keep. She was too loud, he told her. Her legs were too long this time. Or were they too short? She couldn't remember, but it didn't matter anymore. It hadn't mattered for some time now, yet again and again she was called back. One time the man had a beard, the next he had no hair, and again he had them, this time blonde, the other time raven black and blonde again.
She didn't want to remember any of their faces; she just wanted a few coins. Enough to provide for herself. Enough to provide for her swollen belly.
She passed some tent down the line, just one of the dozen that lined the street. The smell of roasted meat wafted out, making her stomach growl in response. She passed another one; that one was quiet, and the man inside must have been asleep. As she passed the third one down the line, her heart jumped in her chest as she heard a loud crash coming from inside. The crash was followed by a string of curses and then another loud crash.
She stopped by it for a moment to listen, but soon enough she ran off, unaware she would be in it the next day, cleaning up the mess.
She was paid to do so by Lord Corlys. One silver coin was not much. Still, silver was silver, and she needed every coin she could get her hands on. She folded one of the many tunics that were scattered on the floor. They were all still fresh and unused, made from the finest silk. She placed it carefully in the trunk that sat in the corner. It was a big and richly carved one. It was obvious that this was the prince's tent. She knew she had to be cautious when handling the prince's belongings.
She picked up a candle holder that was made of solid gold. For a moment, she thought about taking it. She could buy some fabric with it; her baby will need clothes. They didn't need to be made of silk like the prince's; the cheapest cotton would suffice.
But as soon as she hid the candle holder under her dress, she saw a golden coin.
It just laid on the ground. The prince didn't bother picking it up. He must have had hundreds of them, if not more. He wouldn't notice one missing. She quickly picked up the coin and slipped it into her pocket, feeling a rush of guilt. But as soon as her empty stomach growled, she knew this was her only way.
Months later, with a completely different baby in her belly, her other one lost as she travelled over the sea, she sat on the streets. It was a sad life to be a beggar, but she had no real choice. Still, she held on to the golden coin. She never spent it; she didn't know what on.
This time, a healthy babe was born to her. But soon enough, he would starve to death. She was too afraid to name him, knowing that attachment would only bring more pain. And the more she looked at the coin, the more she knew what she had to do.
.
.
.
.
.
.
She didn't know what to do. How could she? What does a woman do when she learns of her husband's bastard?
She knew she was not the first. First of the many, if what. It was not uncommon for lords, especially those of higher rank, to have bastards on bastards. The commoners must have been no different. Men will always be men.
But the worst part? She could not be angry with him. He did nothing wrong. Well, morally, yes, but she permitted him to do so.
Still, she'd never thought he would actually sire a child. To do so in not three but one single night was beyond her imagination. It boiled her blood to think about it, made her sick to the stomach.
"Princess," urged Tanya, sitting her down. The moment Daenerys walked into the grand hall, seeing a young, filthy girl with torn clothes holding a baby, she turned pale. It felt good to sit, but it didn't stop the queasiness building in her stomach.
"The fuck's this?" blunted Daemon, looking at the girl and the baby with disdain. Daenerys felt a surge of anger at his callousness, but she knew she had to handle the situation delicately, so she kept quiet.
"M-my prince," the dark-haired girl stuttered. The child in her arms was wailing, probably starved and neglected. "This is your son," she sobbed out, looking at the floor. "Please, please, take him. I cannot care for him myself."
Daemon only raised his eyebrows. "My what?" His voice was sharp, still, the words exited his lips like a scoff. He turned to Daenerys, whose face was in her hands. "Don't believe this bullshit. Let's return to bed."
"Please, my prince! It's true!" called out the girl. "You must believe me... Please... Princess Daenerys, accept my apologies... but surely you know your husband's babe will perish if I take him back with me."
Daenerys moved her fingers so she could peek through the holes they created.
"Oh, spare me," scoffed Daemon. "I don't have time nor energy for your lies."
"I can prove it," the girl insisted. She reached into her dress, taking out something small and shiny. "You gave me this coin," she said.
Daemon's eyes widened in recognition of the golden coin, and he sceptically stepped closer. "Where did you get that?" His voice sounded like a chilled murmur in the dark room. His eyes hardened, carrying a dangerous glint that made her shiver. "You stole that."
The girl shook her head, her eyes pleading for him to believe her.
Daenerys stood up from her seat, her feet carrying her across the room like a ghost. She reached out a hand, her gaze soft but firm. The girl placed the coin in her hand. As soon as it touched her palm, she shut her eyes, grimacing in pain that took over her heart.
"You- you-..." Daemon couldn't finish the statement. He didn't know what to call her. Until now, he was sure that the child had nothing to do with him; he didn't betray his sister like that. He would never. But as he thought back on so many nights he drank to oblivion to forget his longing and homesickness he claimed he didn't have, he began to question his own memories and the truth he had convinced himself of. There were so many holes in his mind—holes that could only be filled with lies. He could no longer tell the truth from his hopes.
And what now?
"Go," said Daenerys. "Don't look back. Perhaps it will be easier to leave him behind this way."
Daemon's face twisted in anguish as he realised what was happening. "Dae..." he said softly, almost sounding like a child.
Daenerys took the boy, whose hair was the darkest shade of brown she had ever seen, into her arms. "Does he have a name?" she asked.
"No, princess."
"Go," Daenerys repeated. Only once the dirty girl was fully gone did she hand the babe to Daemon and leave without a word. Daemon just stood in place, frozen.
