The Unburnt

Chapter 30 - only House Targaryen could destory itself

Well well, if you know the reference from this chapter here is a cookie. You have no idea for how long I wished to put this scene from Driftmark in another light, it feels almost bittersweet, knowing we have only 10 chapters left.

Also we have never seen Daemon grieving, or sad, which means the man has no idea how to do so (my poor Daemon).

Also I feel like this chapter's name, will basically sums it up how this story will go (vision or not of the Song of Ice and Fire, Visenya said fuck it). I feel like a lot would have been mended with some communication. Perhaps Visenya would have never wished to take the throne for herself, if Rhaenyra would have taken her head out of her ass. Perhaps if their parents Aemma and Viserys would have picked up on the cues, they would have avoided this. Perhaps, if Daemon would have looked after Visenya (he only does what is best for himself, and it will bite him in the ass metaphorically), he could have stopped this too, he always sided with her on hating her sister but it seems that now he understands how grave their situation is and now nothing can be done because Visenya reached her breaking point. A fucking tragedy because people don't C-O-M-M-U-N-I-C-A-T-E.

I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it🖤

High Valyrian in bold.

Daemon Targaryen

127 AC (autumn, Harrenhal, after the Second Great Council)

The solar is naught but a cacophony of misery and outrage, each voice rising above the other, clashing like the sound of steel on steel. And in the heart of it all lies Daemalia, her small form still and pale, as though sleep had taken her and would release her again. I brought her here myself, carried her broken body back to this cursed solar of Harrenhal, where my Visenya now kneels by our daughter's side, her sobs a haunting melody. She cries in silence, a grief so deep it consumes the very air we breathe.

This is the second time my wife and I shall light up a pyre for one of our children. My heart clenches, seeing my darling niece, kissing once again, the cold skin of one of our children. Flesh of our flesh. No more, I vow to myself.

My brother, Viserys, has been brought in, sagging into a chair by the door, his weakened frame barely able to hold him upright. My goodsister Aemma stands by his side for a moment to make sure he is settled in, and my brother dismisses her with his hand. Aemma, with teary eyes, approaches me and puts a hand on my upper arm, nodding at me as if to give her condolences, for I know if she were to open her mouth she will break down crying. My goodsister lost many children at birth, but never had she put up a pyre for one that lived past the tender age of one. Her form, dressed in dark robes, only the top of a blue nightgown peeking through; kneels next to her daughter and hugs her shoulders. Mother and daughter sharing the same pain.

A tale as old as time.

Ser Darklyn brought me my belt, along with my sword and dagger, feeling like I needed to protect my family more, even in the moment of a familial reunion. Yet the solar is crowded beyond bearing; there is no peace to be found here. The room seethes with bodies and voices, all demanding and accusing, each one steeped in rage or guilt or despair.

Daryon, his lip swollen and smeared with blood, stands across from Jacaerys, who sports a nose bloodied in kind. These two, have shown one another hostility even at the feast after the coronation, but I could not be proud of my son smashing that bastard's nose knowing just a few feet away from me lies my daughter.

The two boys shout accusations, their voices shrill and strained, Darones wailing beside them, his little face twisted in grief and fear. Eglyana rocks herself in quiet distress by her mother's side, her gaze far off as though she can neither see nor hear the chaos that surrounds us. Thank the gods Arlion remains with his wetnurse, shielded from this horror.