The Unburnt

Chapter 38 - Wildfire

Ohhh, ever since I watched the Crown (the first seasons with Matt because my mans has me in a chokehold), I wanted to use the furniture line so badly, so here it goes.

High Valyrian in bold.

Daemon Targaryen

The air in Maegor's Holdfast is heavy tonight, the weight of it pressing against my chest as I pace the length of our shared chamber. The flickering light of the hearth casts jagged shadows on the walls, mirroring the tempest in my mind. My fingers twitch against the pommel of Dark Sister as if longing to unleash the fury roiling within me. I might as well carve a pathway in the stone with how much I pace.

Larys Strong.

The name hisses in my thoughts like a viper's warning. My wife, my Visenya, has continued to keep company with that cursed creature, and for what purpose? I thought the matter resolved. Months ago I warned her, advised her to not let that man whisper anything in her ear, that he was not trustworthy. I thought her trust lay with me alone, with our family and the crown we've fought so bitterly to secure. So much blood and death surrounded us just so we could claim what was rightfully hours, yet she decided to lie to me about the meetings she had with that toad.

The door creaks open, and there she is, as regal and resolute as ever, my beautiful lying wife. Visenya strides in, the faintest hint of weariness softening her steps, though her eyes are curious as ever, following my pace that comes to a halt once I set my eyes on her. She closes the door behind her and regards me with a calm expression that only fuels my ire. Visenya wears a gown of crimson, silver threading along her shoulders and the hem of her skirts, her silver-white hair cascading down her back.

"Daemon," she begins, her voice smooth but as she smiles walking towards me.

"Do not say my name with such ease," I snap in common tongue, rounding on her. "Not tonight. Not after you have yet again been keeping things away from me. Am I to be considered a fool? The mock of my own wife?" I say through clenched teeth, heart hammering in my chest with fury.

Her silver brows furrow, and she tilts her head, a flicker of annoyance flashing in her lavender eyes. "What grievance grips you so tightly now, husband?" she huffs and strides past me as if I am but a mere speck of dust, pouring two goblets of Arbor Red. My favorite wine.

My wife strides back towards me and offers me the drink. I smack the goblet out of her hand, red spilling over stone and furniture, the furs now turning to the color of life loss.

I draw a sharp breath through my teeth, taking a step closer to her, leaning slightly so I can look at her down my nose. "Do not feign ignorance. I know of your dealings with Larys Strong. Have I not warned you or do you consider my advice of importance?"

Her composure falters for a moment, a slight twitch of her lips betraying her surprise before she steels herself. "And what of it? I have always considered your-"

"What of it? What of it?" I echo, my voice low and dangerous. "You defy me, wife. You conspire with a lecherous, crawling thing, and for what purpose? To what end? What is it that he whispers in your ear that is more valuable than what I can acquire with my own spies? Or do you not trust me enough to tell you what I know?"

My wife stares at me then looks at the mess on the floor, her eyes suddenly locking with mine. "I do trust you." She murmurs.

I chortle, though there is no amusement in my tone. "Do you?"

Visenya brings her cup to her lips and goes to sip, her gaze cool and unyielding, but I snatch it out of her grasp and throw it behind me, the thud echoing in our chamber. Her lower lip trembles slightly yet her eyes hold a fire matching mine. "Larys is the Master of Whispers, Daemon. It is his place to gather knowledge, to ferret out secrets that might otherwise elude us," she clasps her trembling hands tightly before her.