The Unburnt

Chapter 37 - A flame rekindled, grievances buried

Ah, we are almost there guys! Just a few chapters left, I will miss my babies Visenya and Daemon. Thank you for reading my story and giving it a chance, it means so much to me.

High Valyrian in bold.

Visenya Targaryen

Everyone says that Targaryens are closer to Gods than to men. I believe that is true, as it was was no one but my very own uncle who saved me.

The sun is low on the horizon, its golden rays painting the walls of my solar in hues of amber and crimson. A letter lies open on the desk before me, its contents heavy with implications. I read it again, savoring the weight of each word as if they were a fine flagon of Dornish red.

Larys Strong has, once again, outdone himself. The man may be a serpent, but he is my serpent, and he never disappoints. The letter details the capabilities of the Alchemists' Guild—masters of fire that burns brighter and fiercer than any dragon. Wildfire, he calls it. A concoction that floats upon water, consuming all it touches, devouring ships, soldiers, and stone alike. Clubfoot is a resourceful man after all.

For a moment, I stare at the words, imagining the flames licking through the Narrow Sea, consuming Dragonstone itself. Rhaenyra may have thought herself safe upon her island, but wildfire knows no boundaries. Yet I know this is not for her, as much as I would enjoy the spectacle. No, hers must be swift and silent, the Stranger cannot point fingers at me if she is to perish.

A pleasant shiver courses through me. The thought is intoxicating. But I know my husband. Daemon is a man of contradictions—violent and ruthless, yet oddly restrained when it comes to unnecessary bloodshed. It is a weakness I both love and despise in him. But I know how to sway him.

Daemon is a man struck low by his desires. To put it more plainly, he is cunt-struck. And I, his wife, know well how to wield that power. Although the tensions in the Red Keep mount as my father's illness consumes him and the Stranger seem to pull him by the hand day by day, I am almost giddy with the thought of my husband finally being King, getting the recognition he deserves. Mayhaps I would even let him take me on the throne, I know he would be thrilled with the idea.

I fold the letter and tuck it away in the folds of my gown. Tonight, after I have laid with him, I will whisper of wildfire in his ear, and by morning, he will think it his own idea.

***

The bells toll softly, marking the middle of the evening. My ladies-in-waiting have joined me in the solar, their laughter filling the room as we gather around the table, a pitcher of honeyed wine at its center, along with various platters of sweets and cheeses, meat and roasted vegetables, all befitting for a future Queen.

Elinda Belmore, ever the bold one, shuffles the deck of cards with a deftness that suggests she has won more coin than she lets on. Amanda Tully, with her fiery hair and quicker wit, sits to her right, already flushed from the wine. Bianca Pyne, the quietest of the group, listens intently, her cheeks pink as she sips her drink. Gyna Manderly, the youngest at fourteen name days, sits wide-eyed, as if she has just stumbled into a den of lions, although she is as quick-witted as Amanda. Lady Gyna is the happiest of the three girls in helping me throughout the day and keeping me company, although the poor girl has been traumatized by my husband's crass behavior.

We play cards and drink, the conversation drifting from gossip to idle musings about court life. The warmth of the wine has loosened their tongues, and before long, the topic turns to wifely duties—a subject they are all too curious about, especially with me, a mother of four and wife to the infamous Rogue Prince.