The Unburnt

Chapter 31 - Do you know death?

In this chapter you may be like, well, WHERE the fuck is the lenghty dialogue in High Valyrian? Well, our couple is having one of their lowest lows. Also I want to add, that this is how I see Daemon, to me Daemon is the best and worst, but if he loves you or whatever he thinks love is, you are protected under his wing. I am telling you, this chapter made me feel many things and I was (s)creaming for the most part, because I love toxic Daemon. So if you are opposed to such things, well you can skip the chapter.

Warning: Daemon.
High Valyrian in bold.

Visenya Targaryen

128 AC (Spring, Kings Landing), six months after the death of Daemalia

Six moons have passed, and yet the weight of grief clings to me like a shroud. I am hollow, a shell of the woman I once was, with naught but the remnants of my resolve to carry me forward. Daemalia is gone, and with her, the light of our family has dimmed.

Six moons since the Stranger claimed Daemalia, my sweet girl with hair of silver and laughter as bright as dragonfire. Yet I find no solace, no direction. It is as though I walk through a fog, unmoored and adrift. Each day bleeds into the next, and I have no answers, only grief, only guilt, only the sharp edges of what has been lost.

I try to hold myself together for my children, my remaining children who look to me with their wide, questioning eyes. They do not understand what has happened, not truly, and I do not have the words to explain it.

How can I tell them that the Gods give, and the Gods take, when their little hearts cannot fathom the cruelty of such divine will? How can I tell them about my vision of the future made in ice and fire? If my own husband does not believe me why should my children? Although Daemon is a stubborn man, he cannot understand what he does not believe in. Yet he believed in us. That is why I cannot tell him.

I try to be present for my children, to offer them the love only a mother can give. Daryon is stoic, throwing himself into his lessons and training with a single-minded focus that frightens me. He barely smiles now, the boyish mischief that once lit his face replaced by the hard lines of determination. A boy of only ten, past winter we celebrated his name day yet it felt like a reminder, that although we were all there, one person was not wishing him a happy name day. He spends time with his father, racing in the skies with their mounts, Daemon teaching him how to wield his scaled beast, how to be one and the same with his dragon. It is as though he believes if he works hard enough, he can keep the sadness at bay.

I know the feeling all too well. The sadness eats at me, too, gnawing at my insides, a ceaseless hunger that I cannot sate.

Darones, my youngest boy of almost six of age, walks about with his wide smile, unaware of the shadow that lingers over us all. Eglyana clings to her maids, her thumb in her mouth, and Arlion, still a babe, knows nothing but the warmth of his wet nurse's arms. They are too young to understand, but I know they feel it, the weight, the absence.

Even Daemalia's dragon, Valyriax, mourns. She circles the skies above the Red Keep, keening softly, searching for her rider who will never come.

As for my marriage... Daemon and I have become strangers in the time since our daughter's death. He is as volatile as a storm, living up to his name, his temper erupting in sudden bursts-kicking tables, breaking vases, shouting at shadows. The maids scurry about in the mornings, cleaning the messes he leaves behind, their eyes downcast to avoid witnessing the wreckage of our marriage or perhaps afraid of his wrath. Yet even after the fights, he would crawl into our bed, his presence a weight beside me, silent but solid.

Walking the endless corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, I feel like a ghost haunting a castle of the living. The halls echo with footsteps, whispers of courtiers, and the faint clatter of servants tending to their work. My sworn shield, Ser Harrold Darklyn, follows closely, as he always does, but I need a moment away from prying eyes and watchful ears.