SIMILAR TO EVERY NAMING DAY she's been through, every aspect of the day is rash and heavy. While the rest of the realm gather where the tourney will be held. Daenys remained in the main chambers of the Red Keep against her father's wishes of joining the council and Rhaenyra.

Distress hangs on her skin like a stubborn itch, it fades and rises from the pit of her stomach until it crawls to her fragile throat. Soft whimpers will then spill from the Targaryen girl.

Queen Aemma is in pain and so is her eldest daughter.

"You'll miss the tourney, sweet girl," the woman draws every breath deep and difficult, her silver locks soaked in sweat and tears as she lay in the birthing bed.

"There will be others, mother. I prefer to be here anyway."

Despite the storm of turmoil blooming inside her chest, Daenys forces a huge smile and clasp her mother's hand tighter than ever. Birth has always been a sore subject to the princess, the horrors of the past lingers in memories that come in flashes and stunned silences. She will always be reminded of the cruel fate her Lannister mother, Lady Cierra, met the day Daenys was born.

A golden lion on a bed of summer roses.

In the course of ten years the young woman had witnessed every complication and sickness that comes with carrying and delivering a child. With the queen losing one child in the cradle, two stillbirths, and two miscarriages - five failed attempts in a decade at this point Daenys should be used to it now. And yet she isn't.

Watching her mother in agony is only relieving the first time it happened.

The smell of cultured herbs and olive oil wafts on the thick air inside the chambers, the grand maester along with midwives stroll the room back and forth as they prepare for the actual birth. They seem to be anticipating for the queen's labors to end before another hour passes. Daenys is with them on that one.

"Kessa sagon toliot aderī, aōha dārōñe." It will be over soon, your grace.

A weak grin appears on Aemma's face from her child's slip of a tongue in Valyrian.

"Don't call me that," she scoffs at her child. "You are a wreck again, Dany. Don't be, all will be well."

The blonde could only nod and stay firm on her seat, she dampens a wet cloth on the older one's belly. Her skin is now covered in a flimsy sweat, milk and plant oils.

"Princess," Mellos approaches her side. "We have to move the queen on the birthing stool now."

"Is her labor over yet?"

"It should be by now. The babe must have a massage to come out."

Servant women carefully lift the queen to transfer her from the bed to the chair. They say it will be easier to deliver the child when sat. Daenys hovers the grand maester in a distance, not wanting to be separated from her mother.

What seemed like grueling minutes of strained screams and struggle to push lasted longer than she hoped. Aemma begins to rise in her position, agitation overwhelming the pain and discomfort, the queen reaches to return to the birthing bed. It's only a matter of seconds until she finally succumbs to a spiral of panic.

Screams of agony spills from her mouth as her limbs and muscles shake under the excruciating labor.

"Tell the guards to call the king, now." Mellos turns to an assisting lady.

Daenys was frozen where she stood despite the whole room eventually descending to full crisis and chaos. High maesters and handmaids barking commands to follow so they can perform another labor technique, one after another failing all the same.

The door of the chambers swing open and Viserys marches straight at the Grand Maester. His eyes fall first to his wife and to his daughter. One lady-in-waiting, dark haired and pale, pulls Daenys aside to make way for the maids.

"Your grace, we can escort you outside," she offers, her hands supporting the princess' quivering shoulders.

"You don't have to be here."

"No," Daenys' eyes remain focused at her father's lips as he speaks with the maester. An exchange of hush tones is enough for her to know. Without missing a beat she beelines across the room to be with her mother again, who now lies again on the birthing bed. Exhaustion has swallowed her whole form.

"Daenys, oh my sweet girl," the woman mutters breathless. "Don't cry, it's almost over."

"Muña," Mother. Her throat twists in a lump, she takes her mother's hand and clasps it between both hers. Daenys begs the fear in her not to be true, to stay as a looming darkness and not a tangible one.

"Daenys," Viserys kneels next to the beside, hands pulling his daughter. "You do not have to be here."

Upon hearing yet another nagging to remove herself out of the situation, her despair twists into a surge of burning anger. Had her father not pushed so much for an heir, knowing how bearing a child has been for the queen in the past years, they wouldn't be in this horrific predicament.

The woman bites her lower lips and closes her eyes for a moment to soothe the raging storm inside her. "No. I will stay with her until this is done."

Queen Aemma could barely keep her eyes open, her limbs slowly going limp from tiredness as she sank back and forth on the bed. Is this how my Lannister uncles felt during my birth? Daenys wonders. Births should be celebrated with warmth and joy not fear of the Stranger. She never once had the chance to have it that way.

So let her live. Let her welcome motherhood with the celebration of life. The young Targaryen could only pray over and over again,

Occupied by intense chaos that consumes everything around her, the young Targaryen failed to notice the preparation being done by the maesters and ladies behind them. And before she even has the chance to, the King has commanded his guards discreetly to take the princess. Two pairs of metal cladded hands wrap on Daenys' arms, she was dragged away from her mother's bedside in an instant.

Exhaustion mixed with confusion took hold of her for the next seconds. When she catches the sound of a brandishing knife, only then it dawned to her what is about to unfold.

A guttural shriek escapes her throat, "No! Father, stop! What are they doing?! Tell them to stop!"

Viserys refuses to face his daughter and acknowledges the desperate pleas tailing him.

"Father, please!" Daenys is reduced into a pathetic, weeping mess. Her voice hoarse from the screams and limbs sore from attempting to break from the knights' hold. She can no longer make sense of her surroundings except for the spot where Queen Aemma lies, half conscious and unmoving. Daenys wanted everything around her to fade and just run to the only mother she ever knew. To end the shared misery between them.

"Take her. Take her away, now!" Viserys barks the command with pure spite dripping from his voice.

"Father, I beg you! Whatever this is, end it now. Please!"

Despite her rage and will to remain on her feet, the girl's frail state was no match to the strength of Kingsguard knights that surrounded her. She was carried out of the chambers with an ease despite the continuous struggle. As the maesters perform their grim work to deliver the child, a chorus of screams of mother and child fill up the halls of the Red Keep.

They are the blood of dragons and gods yet at that moment neither could have prevented such tragedy to befall on the ruling family of Westeros. Maids and guards alike shrink to their feet as they bear witness to the carnage that took over inside the castle walls. Daenys found herself being wrapped by the silence of the warm afternoon. Her entire form would have collapsed on the stone floor had it not been for the lone knight that held the princess by the arms.

Daenys looks up to him, a small gap formed between them but it did not last long, for the second she gasps for air her entire form goes limp and collapses backwards.

"Princess!" The knight shouts. A mess of blonde hair nestled on his arms.

Cold metal pressing against her thin layered dress was the last of what she remembers, before the young Targaryen plunges to the abyss of nightmares and lifelike dreams of a lady in bed. Red roses bloom under her skin.

She laughed and cried and bled like a slaughtered pig.

Muña.

The lady has no silver hair or eyes of lilac though, but locks scorched by the color of the summer sun.

Ah, my lady mother.

━━━━━━━━━━━

IT WAS NIGHT WHEN DAENYS AWOKE. Night when the dread dawns to the woman at last and the king's word is delivered on her chambers by the Hand as if she was some petty Westerosi lord. Only worthy to be spoken by almost the entire Small Council but not the king, her own father himself. Whether the reason for it being duties to be done or guilt ridden heart from the eventful day, he will have to answer to her first.

She will not let the night pass and accept the man's refusal to speak to her. He seem to have his way on words when he commanded the butcher of his own wife. Why only now does he choose to be quiet?

The city below them might have rested in the darkness of the hour of the eel. But the towering castle of the Red Keep refuses to, now the eldest princess has found herself barged from entering the throne room. Mix of sharp curses in Valyrian and raised voice can be heard from the Targaryen princess as she attempts to reach the king. Fresh blood drips from the hem of her nightdress after the struggle to escape her room and reach the hall she now stands on. 

With the Valyrian blade gifted by her Uncle Daemon the princess broke free from stationed guards outside her chambers, Daenys had cut two knights and a cupbearer much into the insistence not to be confined in a room all night. The three are alive and well but the woman has decorated the steps with a trail of bloody footprints and screams of men in agonizing pain.

"Ser Harrold. Let me pass, this is an order." Daenys bares her teeth, it sounded almost like a snarl, with every second passing the decency in her pleas becomes less and less.

"Princess. We follow the King's orders. You are not to leave and visit the throne room or any place in the castle besides the grand chambers."

"And yet here I stand."

Daenys pace forth once again but holds herself three steps away from the line of guards standing in her path. Under the helm, their gazes are stoic and unblinking, not a single one dares to look directly at the sight in front of them.

All except one.

The knight with a Baratheon sigil as coat of arms. The one who held Daenys until she was lost of her senses. His eyes bleed with pity similar to how he looked at her before she collapsed in his arms. Only now there is less warmth on his demeanor as if in any moment his pity can turn into cold indifference.

"You were there. You saw what the king has done," her voice waver but Daenys is certain it was heard by whom she is referring to. "Do not look away from me!"

He wants to. He cannot.

"Let me through. You know I should be there."

Daenys raises her hand with the knife on it and charges forward in the direction of the distracted knight. Clash of blade against armor brought the armed men in a state of alarm, weapons were raised quickly and with intent to defend.

"Princess, enough." The Lord Commander of the kingsguard has his grip tighten on her wrist that holds the Valyrian steel. Even in the dark of night Daenys sees a hint of disdain emerge behind Ser Harrold's eyes.

For a moment she considers the notion of surrender. To accept defeat and retreat at the royal quarters until grief puts the rage inside her into sleep.

"My lady, please. Return where you should be."

By my mother's side I should be. Not here tears standing in her own blood, with anger melting into tears. Dragons do not beg. Nor do lions make pleas. But Daenys is neither of those now. She's a child with a dead mother and father who betrayed her.

"I must see my mother. I need to know where he had placed her."

"You will. Not just tonight."

A voice spoke with a rasp and inclining tone of command.

Not now.

Long, silver hair drapes on Daenys' shoulders and another set of hands from the back reach for hers. Daemon takes a hold of the knife he had given her niece, he is careful not to slice further on the flesh of the young woman's  palm. But crimson liquid has already poured between her fingers.

"Leave her to me and return to your posts," the prince announces to the kingsguard. "Lord Commander, please."

On a whim the hallway was cleared and only two Targaryens were left outside the throne room. Blood dripping from her becomes more visible to Daenys now that the light from fires around has grown brighter.

"You have shamed and hurt yourself. All because Viserys hides behind that door," he hushes at his niece.

"Oh, see who has spoken," an airy chuckle leaves her. She awaits for him to lunge, perhaps let out a string of clever answers for her insult. Only he does not. The man remains still and silent as he uses the knife to cut a piece from his loose, woolen white tunic.

Daenys shivers under his hold despite it being gentle and lacking the typical roughness present to the prince. She pulls back once the layer of cloth fully wrapped her wound and blood no longer pools on it.

It stings dull and heavy.

"Join your sister at her chambers. Let the night rest as both of you shall. This day has been long enough, do not let it go on any further for your own sake, Daenys." His head lifts. The purple of his eyes glints bright but sullen.

"This is no use to anyone. She is-,"

Daemon almost trips to his feet when the woman nudges him by the ribs as she walks by, he may not have followed her but his eyes guarded the woman until she fades on the shadows of the steps.

Daenys trudges past the halls of the empty castle. She prays for the soul who will see her at this late hour. Painted and damp with red, the gauntness on her features only grew sharper, it will be so quick to mistake her for a ghost. Perhaps I am. When she reached the royal chambers, she made no effort to conceal herself from the knights stationed outside Rhaenyra's room.

"Your, Grace."

"I want to see my sister."

Instead of compliance Daenys is met with odd looks from the guards as if her command was incomprehensible to them. Armored dimwits. All of them. She pushes the door herself, past the men's scrutinizing silence, past their stares of daggers. When its hinges closed shut, the pale figure by the window was alerted. Despite the disheveled state she's in, her younger sister rushes towards and takes the woman in a full embrace.

"Dany!" Rhaenyra exclaims in tears, she ignores the blood staining her dress and only clung tighter to the older one.

"I am sorry, Rhae."

The words echo at the chamber walls louder than it should have. And with it sobs of both the princesses fill the room. At first, Daenys tried to speak words of comfort in hopes it will ease her as well, but the two soon realized they are content into the company of each other in silence. They curled up on the sheets together until the sun has risen and the streets of Kingslanding has come alive again.

And then they knew, it would be a long time before they found themselves at rest again.

━━━━━━━━━━

TARGARYENS ARE BORN FROM FIRE. And they will return to it at the end.

Under the heat of the morning sun, when the winds by a cliff near Blackwater Bay are calm as its graying waves are, a royal procession for Queen Aemma and the one day old Prince Baelon was held. In honor of Old Valyrian practices the dead shall be interred into a funeral pyre as their final resting place. The small band of silver haired royals and the men at service gathered at a small hill with a single dragon in their stead.

Like salt on the sea, Daenys lets the soft breeze take the tears on her eyes. Over and over until her lids are chaffed and dry, too painful to even cry on.

"They're waiting for you." Daemon speaks from behind.

The set of pitiful gazes burns on Daenys' skin like sparks from dragonfire. The crowd has turned their eyes on the daughters of Queen Aemma as they await for them to honor the final moment of the procession.

"Ñurho valonqro paghyro jēdunna, lo tolijī kepa ñuha kirimvī rhēdos pendan?" I wonder if, for those few hours my brother lived, my father finally found happiness. Bitterness drips from every word that Rhaenyra has spoken. One that Daenys knows all too well.

"Kepa aōha avy sīr ojūdo tubiro toliot jorrāelza." Your father needs you more now than he ever has.

Viserys stands separated from the three younger Targaryens, distant and still clad with the crown.

The sharpness of hatred that Daenys carries within her cannot be contained by the grief stricken form she has. Her fists still shake on the sight of him, red dances after her eyes and the urge to further break him still sings on the woman's chest.

And yet, behind all of it, Daenys wants to hold his hand and tell him all will be all. Just as she did all those years ago back at the Great Council.

"Trēsy dōrī kesan." I will never be a son.

And neither will Daenys.

Rhaenyra breaks away from their small band and stalks up the hill towards her golden dragon, towards the makeshift pyre where the two bodies lie side by side wrapped in cloth and Targaryen shroud.

Daenys had made peace with her unfortunate predicament of not possessing a dragon, and yet at that moment she wishes Syrax is hers. All just so Rhaenyra does not have to bear the weight of being the one who burns the remains of their own mother.

The word of command chokes on the younger princess' throat, she turns to her father for a moment only to see nothing but a mournful, broken man. Then back to her elder sister, as if she's asking for a permission

It's unneeded but if it will comfort and soothe Rhaenyra at the very least, then Daenys is willing to be the one who gives out the final order. She nods at her.

And with that, a much hardened expression replaces the broken down expression of the younger Targaryen.

"Dracarys!"

Strong flames of Syrax engulf the funeral pyre at the bottom of the hill. The colors of House Targaryen consume the remains of its two deceased members, bringing the funeral ceremony to its end.

Air constricts on Daenys' chest, her insides knotted and twisted, the physical pain from the grief is almost unbearable that she is close to collapsing on her knees. It is only halted when she feels a warmth of a hand grasp her freezing and shaky wrist.

Daemon's hand runs down to Daenys' to intertwine his fingers on hers.

On any other day such action from the prince will instigate a violent response from his niece. But at that moment Daenys lets it happen, she tightens her grip around the man's hand instead of recoiling from his touch.

Because after all, it might just be what the Targaryen princess needs.

A familiar hand to hold her whilst everything she knew and believed crumbled right before her eyes.

&&&

ashara's
endnotes !

I'm resurrected from the dead due to our weeks-long semester break. I don't want to make any new promises but I'm trying to get back to writing!

Anyways I hope you enjoyed this chapter despite the heartbreak. Can y'all believe it that it's been more than a year and I'm still actively on the HOTD mindhive?? Like I never really lef it?? I just got inactive on interacting with the fandom but god I didn't lose my fixation over the show. Which is a really good thing because it's making my writing process of this fic easier.

Let me know what you think of this chapter! Feel free to drop your feedback