twin flames | daemon targaryen

sixty-seven

High Tide, Driftmark

The world seemed to shudder as thunder clapped and boomed across the gray skies, lightning streaking across in crackles of electricity. Rain poured down from the heavens, and turbulent winds whipped across the lands of Westeros with a ferocity that caused trees to bend and break.

The waters of the Narrow Sea rose and fell in great waves that crashed against the white sands of Driftmark. The castle of High Tide stood tall on the island's edge, unmoving in the face of the hurricane threatening the island's shores. Within the stone walls of the castle, members of House Velaryon took refuge, their eyes cast through their windows to the western horizon where the mainland lay.

"The storm has prevented us from watching the battle's progress," Ser Harrold Westerling said, his voice deep and echoing in the silence of the hall of the Driftwood Throne. The great hall, once bustling with travelers, sailors, knights, and noblemen, was nearly empty. Soldiers of House Velaryon and the Queensguard lined the walls, hands on the hilts of their swords, eyes on the Lord Commander where he stood beside three young women before the windows.

"The gods wish to shield its outcome from us," Baela Velaryon muttered under her breath. She raised an eyeglass to her eye, squinting through the lens in search of signs of dragon in the skies above the mainland. Her curly white hair fell down her back in wild curls, her body covered in a fine gown of the sea-green colors of House Velaryon.

Her lips were twisted into a frown as she scoured the skies, and the frown deepened when she could not find any sign of her family's dragons through the rain of the storm. She collapsed the eyeglass, handing it to Ser Harrold without a word.

"Superstitious words, even for you, Baela," a concerned voice spoke from beside her. The Velaryon woman turned, facing her sister. Rhaena stared back at her sister with a raised eyebrow, blue eyes filled with concern. Her hands were held protectively over her flat stomach, her fingers clutching tightly at the dark red fabrics of her skirts.

There were mirrors of each other, Baela and Rhaena, as they stared at each other. Their lips dipped into identical frowns, the same wrinkle appearing as they furrowed their brows. Their eyes, though different shades, seemed to shine with the hidden language seemingly known to only twins, the pair communicating with just a glance.

"Superstitions have their root in truth," whispered a dreamy voice. The twins looked to the woman who stood between them, their frowns deepening.

Helaena Targaryen stared past them and through the window, her eyes unseeing, her expression eerily vacant. She wore a deep burgundy gown, her pale hair falling limp around her shoulders. Her hands were hidden amongst her skirts, the blood drying around her cuticles hidden from view.

There was a crack of thunder, and the windows rattled violently within their frames. Helaena flinched, and Baela reached forward to rest a reassuring hand on her shoulder. The Velaryon woman turned to speak to Ser Harrold, her eyes catching on a glimmer of gold amongst the darkened storm clouds through the window.

Baela paused, blinking rapidly. Her mind must be playing tricks on her.

"Are you alright, My Lady?" Ser Harrold asked softly, staring down at the woman in concern. "The storm—"

He was cut off by a great shriek. Those in the hall froze at the sound, eyes darting to the windows to catch sight of the dragon whose shrieks mixed with the thunder rumbling across the skies. Neither Baela nor Rhaena recognized the dragon's calls, the twins standing close to the window, desperate to see the dragon and their rider.

Helaena remained where she had been standing, a small frown pulling at her lips, violet eyes sharp and focused on the storm outside. "The Golden Lady."