HĀROS BARTOSSI | DAEMON T.

[ 𝟏𝟖 ]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 - 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄

── •✧• ── ⋆⋅༻✦༺⋅⋆ ── •✧• ──

For House Velaryon's warriors who fought to reclaim the Stepstones, the passage of time felt like a mere blink. Yet for the families left behind, the three long years stretched out like an endless tide. For countless suns and moons, many had stood vigil by Driftmark's harbour, wives and children offering nightly prayers to the old gods and the new, beseeching their protection, and guiding their sons, husbands, and lords far from home to return safely. 

Like any other wife and lady, Princess Rhaenys was no different. She bore the burden keenly, the weight of her apprehension gnawed at her sanity, and the fear that gripped her heart was a heavy shroud, difficult to bear— even for one who endured the trials of carrying her babes for nine moons thrice. Had each moment of anguish and dread she felt upon receiving a raven bearing grim news of her husband and children been a coin, her fortune would have rivalled the lords of Casterly Rock's— and mayhaps even surpassed her husband's.

Thus, when word reached her ears at long last of the victory, led by the Seasnake and her cousin, the Rogue Prince, her lungs had found air again. Time had begun to flow once more when she heard the familiar roars of Seasmoke and Vermaelyon echo through the air, reverberating the bones of those on Driftmark. And when the sharp blast of the Seasnake's horns resonated across the waters, bouncing off the cliffs, penetrating the walls of High Tide, the knot of unease in her throat at last began to loosen and dissipate, signalling the end of their long wait.

But unlike before when the ships of House Velaryon sailed through the choppy waters into battle with courage and boldness, their homecoming was sombre. Despite their sails still billowing like proud banners, heralding a hard-fought victory, their return was not triumphant. The ships arrived nearly wrecked, fewer than before and the remnants of the Battle of the Stepstones lingered heavily; the scent of salt mingled with the metallic tang of blood was a stark reminder of the toll victory had demanded.

Even the heavens seemed to mourn. Dark clouds brooded low over Driftmark as the soldiers disembarked, their steps heavy with exhaustion and grief. At the prow stood Corlys, his face as as stoic as the stone walls of his keep, but his gaze betrayed the weight of what had been lost. He met his wife's eyes where she stood waiting at the forefront with their daughter, Laena. Though regal as ever, sorrow flickered in Rhaenys's expression as she shared the bitterness of those who had fallen. 

The mist of grief clouded the returning men, including Corlys. While they were grateful to have arrived home safely, everything around them reminded them of the losses they suffered: each wave that lapped against the hull echoed the names of the fallen— friends, sons, husbands, and warriors who would never again see the shores of home.

In the weeks that followed, the halls of Driftmark rang with songs of valour and lament. Velaryon banners once more flew high and proud over High Tide, yet their shadows seemed longer, marked by the absence of the knights who had not returned. Even when laughter broke through the grief, it carried a muted edge, for joy could not exist without tainting those who outlived the fallen.

Nevertheless, as painful as it was, life pressed forward. For the sake of those who did not, the living endured, carrying their memory like armour, a silent vow to honour their sacrifice.

The return of Corlys, Laenor, and Maevys filled Laena with as much joy as it did their mother, though for different reasons. Where Driftmark's gaze largely turned to the lords and warriors, Rhaenys and Laena's worry settled most upon Maevys. She had borne the brunt of the battle's violence— more so even than Prince Daemon, who had taken refuge at Driftmark to recover from his own grievous wounds.