The Unburnt

Chapter 33 - A Rogue's Reverie

I am sorry, but 45k reads? Well, POWERCOUPLE DAEMON&VISENYA FOR THE WIN. Man, writing is killing me because I am writing a future chapter (you will both love and hate me for it), and I re-wrote it 3 times? I almost re-wrote it once again today but I clamed myself down and said: girl how about you write chapter 33 instead. Only seven chapters left! *^squeaks^*Also you can see Daemon's influence on Visenya, they both use the word "plague" when speaking of their older sibling. Also I had to write this on three different devices (even at work hehe) because I have started a draft for a new story and I am happy so far with the line of the story!

Summary of this chapter:
Visenya: plots murder and acts like Maegor reborn
Daemon: *gets a boner*

High Valyrian in bold.

Daemon Targaryen

The morning begins with a rare lightness, the sort that has eluded me and mine for too many moons. After the tumult of the Second Great Council and the shadow of Daemalia's death, the sight of my family gathered at table, their chatter lively, is a balm to my soul. I sit at the head, my gaze flicking from one child to the next. Daryon, ever the responsible eldest, helps Eglyana cut her bread; Darones babbles about dragonriding, his face smeared with honey; and Visenya...

Ah, my Visenya.

She smiles, truly smiles, for the first time in months. It is as if the sun itself has returned to her face, dispelling the grief that has dulled her beauty. I cannot keep my hands off her, reaching for her even as she swats me away, pretending to scold me for my lack of decorum. I care not. Let them all see that she is mine, as I am hers.

The clatter of spoons and laughter of children fill the hall, and for a fleeting moment, we are not surrounded by intrigue, whispers of rebellion, or the looming threat of Rhaenyra. We are simply a family.

Later in the day, I find myself in the chambers of my brother, Viserys. The room reeks of death masked by lavender oils and incense. My elder brother lies in his bed, his face hidden beneath a gold mask that cannot conceal the decay beneath. His breaths are labored, his form frail.

Aemma sits beside him, her hand clasped around his. My good-sister has aged greatly under the weight of her burdens: an ailing husband, a realm in turmoil, and the fracturing of her daughters. She greets me with a tired smile, one that barely reaches her eyes. She excuses herself, leaving two brother's, one to become king and the other to become ash.

Viserys stirs, his one good eye opening to find me standing there. The gold mask hides the worst of his illness, but it cannot disguise the frailty in his frame, the tremor in his hands.

"Daemon," he croaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I pull a chair to his bedside, lowering myself into it. "Brother," I reply, my tone softer than usual.

Viserys struggles to sit up as I approach. "Daemon," he rasps, his voice a ghost of its former strength. "You... look well."

"And you look like shit," I reply, my tone light, though my chest tightens at the sight of him. He chuckles weakly, the sound rattling in his throat.

I do not stay long. The sight of him—once strong, now reduced to this—gnaws at me.

"You've come to see the old king one last time?" he asks, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips.

"Do not speak of last times," I say, though my chest tightens at his words. "You are still the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and I am here to serve you."

Viserys chuckles weakly, a sound that turns into a cough. "You serve yourself, Daemon, as you always have. But I find I do not begrudge you for it. You have always been true to your nature." Hesitantly, I do not roll my eyes at his jab.