𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆, daemon targaryen

022.

THE ONLY sound was the crash of waves against the shore, soothing, rhythmic—perfect. Eleanor stood at the water's edge, her silver hair whipping wildly in the wind as a grin twisted her lips. She hummed a melody, one far too sweet for the devastation that simmered beneath her skin. Her violet eyes gleamed with something unhinged as she bent down, plucking a seashell from the sand with delicate fingers. She cradled it, laughing softly to herself, marveling at the beauty of such a fragile, insignificant thing.

She turned.

The peaceful shore vanished, consumed by a battlefield drowned in blood and ash. The bodies of knights, her own and those foolish enough to stand against her, lay broken and scattered, their faces frozen in agony. Eleanor's laughter grew louder, sharp and brittle, echoing across the wasteland. The scent of burning flesh filled the air, smoke thick and cloying, but she breathed it in like perfume.

Her violet eyes darted over the carnage, wild and gleaming with madness. "Look at them," she whispered, her voice a mix of wonder and hysteria. "They fell so easily." Her fingers tightened around the seashell until it cracked in her hand, shards slicing her palm. She didn't flinch, the pain only fueling the fire in her eyes.

The melody returned, more twisted now as she began to hum again, stepping over the corpses like they were nothing more than debris in her path. Peace had never been meant for someone like her. 

Eleanor's boots crunched over the sand and blood-soaked shore as she moved through the bodies, her humming steady, uninterrupted. The battlefield was hers—her victory, her ruin. Smoke curled in the air, dancing in twisted shapes, but all she saw was the beauty of destruction, the power she wielded so effortlessly.

"P-please..."

The voice was faint, weak. It crawled through the chaos, cutting through her melody, and her smile faltered. She turned her head sharply, her gaze falling on a soldier sprawled in the dirt, his armor dented and stained red, his hand feebly reaching out toward her. His face was pale, eyes wide with fear, as he dragged his broken body an inch closer.

"Please... help me..."

Eleanor stared at him, her head tilting to the side as if considering. Her smile slowly returned, but now there was something cruel, something dark in the way her lips curled. She crouched beside him, her violet eyes locking onto his, her fingers still bloodied from the shattered shell.

"Help you?" Her voice was soft, almost sweet, as if she were addressing a child. She reached out, brushing a strand of blood-matted hair from his face, her touch gentle, too gentle for the battlefield around them. "You poor, broken thing..."

The soldier's eyes filled with hope for the briefest of moments as her hand lingered near his cheek. But then, in a fluid motion, her other hand gripped the hilt of her dagger.

"You should've known," she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss, "I don't help the weak."

Before he could scream, before he could even beg again, she plunged the dagger into his skull, straight between his eyes. His body seized for a second, then went limp, his outstretched hand falling to the ground, lifeless.

Eleanor stared at him for a moment, her head still tilted, watching the life drain from his face. Then, with a satisfied hum, she stood, wiping the blade clean on his armor before continuing her walk through the carnage. The battlefield was quiet again, save for the occasional crackle of burning flesh.

Her melody picked up once more, light and airy, as if the death and devastation around her were nothing more than a passing thought, a fleeting dream.

This was peace, her kind of peace.

The battlefield stretched out behind her, a grotesque masterpiece painted in blood and scorched earth. The sun, low in the sky, cast a sickly orange glow over the carnage, making the bodies look like twisted shadows of the men they once were.

Her violet eyes, still gleaming with the fire of insanity, flickered as she prepared to move on. The hum on her lips grew quieter, as if the death around her had quieted even the melody in her mind.

"My lady."

The voice was deep, steady, and familiar. Eleanor's head snapped up, her gaze narrowing as Lord Fionn Tyrell emerged from the smoke, his armor battered but his posture unwavering. His dark hair clung to his forehead, streaked with sweat and dirt, and his emerald eyes—usually calm—were filled with something between respect and concern.

Fionn had always been there, a solid presence amidst the chaos of war, but he had never looked at her quite like this before. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the fire inside her dimmed, replaced by something unreadable.

"Fionn," she said softly, her voice almost a purr, "You're late. I've already taken care of our little... problem."

He approached cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though he knew better than to draw it. "I see that, my lady," he replied, his gaze shifting briefly to the soldier's lifeless body at her feet. "But the battle is done, and Lys awaits our return. They've provided us with shelter—for now."

Eleanor's lips curled into a smirk. "Shelter... until it suits them to twist the knife." She sheathed her dagger and stepped over the body without a second glance, her boots squelching in the blood-soaked earth. "Lys doesn't give without expecting something in return. The Disputed Lands—they want it all for themselves, don't they?"

"They do," Fionn agreed, his voice low as he walked beside her, their footsteps the only sound in the stillness. "They see Myr as a stepping stone, and as long as we clear the way, they'll remain loyal. For now."

Eleanor's smile widened, a glint of wicked amusement flashing in her eyes. "Loyalty is fleeting, especially when the promise of power is at stake. Lys thinks they can use me to gain the Disputed Lands." She turned her head toward Fionn, her smile twisting into something darker. "But they forget I'm not a piece to be played. I'm the one moving the pieces."

The two of them continued across the ruined battlefield, the fires still burning in the distance, smoke billowing into the sky like a warning. Behind them, the dead were left to rot, forgotten. The only living souls still breathing were the survivors limping back to camp.

As they walked, the land of Lys loomed in the horizon, a city with marble towers and streets bathed in gold and silk. Beautiful, yet treacherous. They had taken Eleanor in after she started this war with Myr, offering their support and shelter, but their true motives had always been clear. They craved the Disputed Lands—those fertile, contested territories caught between Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. And with Myr standing in their way, they had sided with Eleanor's war, knowing it would open the path to their ambition.

Fionn glanced at her as they neared their camp. "You trust them?"

Eleanor laughed, a sound both melodic and harsh. "Trust them? No, Fionn. But I'll let them believe I do. For now, Lys is a tool. And when they're no longer useful..." She trailed off, her gaze distant for a moment, before her smile returned, sharper than ever. "I'll burn them like the rest."

Fionn didn't respond. He knew Eleanor's mind was set, her path carved in blood and fire. The only thing left to do was follow her lead and wait for the inevitable storm she would bring to Lys, and to whoever else stood in her way.