.
. .
. . .
| Author's Note: We're getting back on track now, and I truly hope to keep you all as engaged and entertained as ever. Your support means the world to me.
Enjoy the chapter!
. . .
. .
.
"Some birds are born to soar, others to be caged. But the cruelest fate belongs to those who are given wings, only to have them clipped when they dare to fly."
.
.
.
- The year is 80 AC (5 years later), with Daella Targaryen:
The sun rose without ceremony, as it always did,— indifferent to the mortal world, inevitable. Its pale light stretched over the gardens of the Red Keep, casting long shadows across dew-kissed grass.
The air still carried the lingering traces of breakfast,— the warmth of fresh bread, the sharp tang of lemon cakes, and the savory scent of bacon.
Somewhere amid the hedges and winding stone paths, birds sang to one another, their voices weaving together in perfect, effortless harmony, as it is meant to be.
Daella walked slowly, her silver hair shinning brightly on the sun light, trailing her fingers over the velvet petals of a rose, breathing in its perfume with a small, content smile.
These quiet moments, when she could lose herself among the flowers and the birds, felt like stolen fragments of peace, of a world only hers. The world outside the garden walls was vast, filled with matters she barely understood,— courts and councils, marriages and alliances, all of them greater than her, all of them moving forward with or without her.
She paused, watching two sparrows dart and weave in the air, wings brushing as they danced through the sunlight. A soft sigh left her lips, because of course, even birds knew their place in the world,— they flew together, supported one another, built their nests side by side.
A family, working as one. Then why couldn't she be of use to hers?
The thought pressed heavily upon her, the weight of it familiar. She had tried,— how she had tried,— to be more than what she was, for them, not for herself.
But the whispers had always been there, carried through the halls like an autumn draft.
"Slow-witted."
"Feeble-minded."
"Dumb."
She wasn't blind to them, she had heard the courtiers laugh behind closed doors, had caught the servants exchanging glances when she struggled over words.
She could not read without guidance, could not grasp the knowledge her brothers and sisters wielded so effortlessly. She was timid, frightened by things others found trivial, and no matter how hard she tried to swallow her fears, they always found their way back up.
What use was she to her father, the king? To her mother, or to her siblings?
Perhaps, one day, they would even send her away.
Not in cruelty, no,— her family was kind, and she knew they all loved her,— but love did not always mean keeping. One day, her father might decide to give her away to some lord in a distant castle, where she would no longer be a burden, no longer be an embarrassment.
And perhaps that day would come sooner rather than later.
She had not even fully grasped the thought before a shriek of laughter cut through the quiet, high and bright. A streak of black with silver strands blurred past her, followed by another, this one only of silver,— two children, running with unrestrained joy, their giggles filling the morning air.
She turned, watching as they tumbled through the grass, lost in whatever game their minds had conjured.
They were still young enough to be untouched by the weight of duty, still allowed to play and dream, still blissfully unaware of the world that awaited them beyond these years of innocence. And that was good, in Daella's opinion.
Let them stay this way for a little longer,— let them have these golden days before they are thrown into the great, merciless game that all royals must eventually play.
A small smile curved her lips, soft and fleeting.
Her good-sister, Jocelyn, was not far behind them, moving with the watchful grace of a protector. She had taken to the children with fierce devotion these past few years, as though guarding their happiness was a duty of its own.
And as she passed Daella, she met her shy gaze, offering a silent nod of understanding and care, before continuing after the two running children.
Then came the sound of metal against stone,— measured, steady, but unexpected.
Daella turned sharply, just as the white of a Kingsguard's cloak entered her vision.
A broad-shouldered knight approached, his steps firm but unhurried, his expression composed but not unkind.
"Ser Giles." She spoke his name softly, her voice barely above a whisper, while her gaze met his for only a moment before it fell to the ground, a habit as ingrained in her as breathing.
He stopped before her, studying her carefully, as though reassuring himself that she was well before he spoke. "Princess." he said at last, his tone gentle. "Your father, the king, has requested your presence in the council chambers at once."
A summons? She had not expected it, and hearing the words sent a shiver through her.
Ser Giles knew what was to come,— she could see it in the way his mouth tightened ever so slightly, in the way his eyes softened with quiet sympathy. He pitied her,— as he always had, and she swallowed.
So it is happening...
"Very well." she murmured. "Would you... would you walk there with me, Ser?" She stepped closer, slipping her hand around his armored arm, her fingers curling over the cold steel.
The weight of it grounded her, even as her grip betrayed her unease, and Ser Giles hesitated for the briefest moment in regret of knowing where and what he was taking the princess into, before inclining his head. "Of course, princess."
And with that, they walked toward whatever fate awaited her.
.
- A few minutes later:
The doors of the council chamber groaned open just as Daella and Ser Giles approached, the hush of voices slipping through like a fading breath. Inside, the remnants of the meeting still lingered,— scattered parchments, a half-spent candle flickering against the gloom, the air thick with ink, quill shavings, and the faint smokiness of melted wax.
The lords of the realm filed past her in measured steps, their robes brushing against stone, their voices hushed but urgent. Some barely spared her a glance, others met her gaze fleetingly,— curious, indifferent. A few, however, let their eyes linger, and in them, she saw it, barely veiled sympathy.
She lowered her eyes, her fingers twisted in the fabric of her sleeves as the last of them departed, the weight of the chamber pressing upon her. The doors creaked shut behind her, sealing her within a room far colder than it should have been.
At the head of the long table sat her father.
King Jaehaerys Targaryen had always been a man of quiet authority, his rule built on wisdom rather than wrath. Yet beneath the solemn candlelight, he looked carved from something harder than flesh,— something unwavering. His silver hair, now streaked with the wisdom of his years, framed a face lined by thought, by duty, his hands steepled before him, unmoving, waiting.
To his left stood Prince Aemon, her eldest brother carried none of their father's stillness, yet his posture held its own quiet tension. He did not smile when their eyes met, but in his gaze, she found something softer than what Jaehaerys offered.
A glimmer of warmth.
The silence stretched, and then, at last, her father moved, raising two fingers in a simple gesture. "Come in, Daella. You may take a seat."
The words were neither cold nor kind. They simply were,— final and unyielding, as all things spoken by a king.
Daella stepped forward carefully, the hem of her gown whispering over the stone.
Ser Giles hesitated at the threshold before positioning himself near the door, a silent sentinel, as she lowered herself into the chair opposite Jaehaerys, her hands folded on her lap,— small, still.
The air in the room shifted, and it was Aemon who spoke first, his voice low, careful. "You are of age already, Daella. Father thought it time we discuss your future." The words curled in her chest like a tightening ribbon.
She had known this day would come,— not so soon though.
But the whispers had reached her long before now,— the quiet speculations of courtiers, the murmurs of ladies who did not think she listened. But knowledge did not soften the moment, it did not steady the way her heart pounded.
Her father exhaled slowly. "I had considered giving you a choice,— Rodrik Arryn, Boremund Baratheon, or Tymond Lannister."
A pause. "But I have since decided. Lord Rodrik Arryn, my Master of Laws who has been away attending to family matters, will arrive back at court within the month, and it is him whom you will marry in two moons."
The name fell into the silence like a stone into a still pond. Rodrik Arryn. A man she had never met personally,— only a distant name from her father's council, a title, a sigil of a falcon on a field of blue.
She barely noticed how tightly her fingers curled into her skirts until the fabric bit into her skin, the chamber around her felt too small, the candlelight too dim, the walls pressing inward.
"...Must I?" The whisper left her lips before she could stop it, and Aemon's expression flickered, though he schooled it quickly.
He had always been gentle with her, careful, and he wouldn't stop now. "Rodrik is a good man, Daella." he said, voice quiet. "He will treat you kindly."
Kindness. A strange thing, that kindness alone should be enough.
She swallowed, turning back to her father Jaehaerys, and his gaze had not wavered, his face unreadable. "You are my daughter, Daella. A princess of House Targaryen." A pause, measured. "And that brings responsibility,— to do what is required of us."
Not cruelty,— not even disappointment,— just the pure truth.
She turned to Aemon once more, seeking,— something. A thread, a lifeline, but what was there to say? The decision had been made, and so her throat only felt tighter, her hands colder.
"...Yes, Father. I understand." And Jaehaerys nodded once, while Aemon watched her, but did not press. "If I may..." Daella rose on unsteady legs.
She did not remember reaching the doors, only that Ser Giles opened them for her, and that the corridor beyond was not the same as it had been before.
The air, usually warm, felt far colder than it had ever been.
And then, she was gone.
.
- Hours later:
Her chamber was cloaked in quiet when they found her.
Hours had passed since she had left the council room,— long enough for whispers to spread, for servants to murmur behind cupped hands, for the weight of her fate to settle like a stone upon her chest.
The sun had begun to dip beyond the horizon by now, casting long shadows through the tall arched windows, yet she had scarcely moved from her place near the hearth. (A/N: Don't blame on the usage of the Hearth, its a very commonly used thing in medieval settings and it lets me have some freedom for creative descriptions.)
She sat curled upon the divan, the fabric of her gown pooled around her like the petals of a wilting flower. Her hands lay motionless in her lap, fingers entwined, nails pressing faint crescents into her skin, as the fire before her had dwindled to embers without the necessary care to keep it going, their glow casting flickering light across the chamber walls, but she did not see it.
Then, a knock at the door that was soft and slow, to which she did not answer. Alyssa entered regardless, pushing the heavy door open without hesitation, her son Aenys, who was now five, close behind her, his small feet pattering against the stone floor, with his silver hair a tousled crown atop his head.
"Daella?" Her sister's voice was gentle, but firm. And yet, she gave no response, and heard Alyssa sigh, stepping further inside.
The door clicked shut behind them, courtesy of the household guards, muffling the distant sounds of the Red Keep,— the echo of footsteps, the murmurs of courtiers, the hum of life continuing as if the world had not just shifted beneath her feet.
"You've been alone too long, sister." Alyssa said, moving toward her. "I thought you might need company." And Daella did not stir, only lowered her gaze, her hands tightening in her lap.
Alyssa did not wait for permission, she sank onto the divan beside her sister, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. Aenys scrambled up after her, struggling for a moment before Alyssa reached out and hoisted him onto the cushions, nestling between them with a determined little frown, his legs tucked beneath him.
Alyssa was quiet for a moment, studying her sister's face. Daella had always been delicate,— soft-spoken, gentle-hearted.
There was a fragility to her now, but it was not weakness. It was the kind of sorrow that weighed upon the bones, pressing inward until one was left brittle and hollow.
"I heard Mother and father speaking,— rather heatedly." Alyssa said at last, accompanied by a small, feminine sigh.
"Rodrik Arryn." The name sent a shiver through Daella, barely perceptible, but Alyssa saw it. "You could do far worse, you know?" she continued, keeping her tone light but sure.
Daella exhaled a breath that was nearly a scoff. "You say that so easily." And Alyssa tilted her head. "Because it is true. Our matches are mostly chosen for duty, not love. But love can come after."
Daella's fingers twisted in the fabric of her gown. "And yet you always wanted our brother, did you not?"
Alyssa smiled, unashamed. "I did. But even if I had not loved him first, I would have learned to want him. That is our way, Daella, it needs not to be a curse,— unless you make it one."
That made Daella let out a slow, unsteady breath. "And if I never learn to love a man I don't even know?"
For a moment, Alyssa had no answer, but then Aenys shifted. "You will, Aunty." he said, his small voice certain.
Daella blinked, looking down at him.
His little hands gripped the edge of her sleeve, his violet eyes staring up at her with quiet intensity. "You will." he repeated, nodding as if it were the simplest truth in the world.
Both women turned to him then, surprised by the interruption, and Aenys pressed on, his tiny brows furrowed in determination.
"Like how I learned to like fish. I hated it before, but grandmother said I had to try, before saying so,— and I did. And now I like it... a little." Alyssa huffed a soft laugh, brushing his silver hair from his forehead. "A very wise comparison, my genius hatchling."
Daella however, made a choked sound, something between amusement and despair. "It is not quite the same, nephew."
Aenys considered this, pursing his lips. "It is the same... and you will be okay!" he insisted, then, after a moment's hesitation, he clambered onto her lap.
His small arms wrapped around her waist, his warmth pressing into her as he tucked his head beneath her chin. Daella stiffened at first, her breath catching in her throat, but then, slowly, she relaxed.
Alyssa watched the change in her, the way her shoulders eased, the way her hands, which had been trembling before, now settled gently against Aenys's back.
"See?" Alyssa murmured. "Even when you do not ask for love, it finds you."
Daella exhaled shakily, pressing a kiss to the crown of Aenys's head. He smelled of sunshine and lavender, of ink and parchment from the lessons he attended in the mornings. His small fingers curled against the fabric of her gown, holding on as if he could anchor her there, away from the uncertainty of tomorrow, even if he did not understand what was happening in the slightest.
Yet, for the first time since leaving the council chamber, Daella finally closed her eyes. She had no words left, but for now, she did not need them.
Not yet, not tonight.
.
.
.
- Two moons have passed:
The chamber was warm with candlelight, the golden glow flickering against the polished edges of the silver mirror before her.
Scents of lavender and myrrh curled in the air, mingling with the faint salt of the sea breeze drifting in from the open window.
King's Landing stretched beyond, endless in its sprawl, yet in this moment, the world felt impossibly small,— narrowed to the hush of soft voices and the gentle hands of the women preparing her for what lay ahead.
Alysanne was seated beside her, delicate fingers threading through Daella's pale golden-silver hair, weaving small pearls between the silken strands. The Queen's touch was light, yet steady, as if willing calmness into her daughter with every motion. "You will be beautiful." she murmured, her voice like a lullaby, tinged with quiet pride. "More than that, you will be graceful, and strong."
Across the room, Alyssa fussed over the gown, smoothing the fabric with an intent focus. It was a thing of pale blue and silver, embroidered with moonstones and edged with Targaryen fire, a delicate balance between her own house and the one she would soon call her own.
"The fit is perfect." Alyssa declared, adjusting the sleeves with a small smile.
"Rodrik will not be able to take his eyes off you." Daella tried to smile at that, though the weight in her chest made it difficult.
Her hands rested in her lap, the fingers trembling slightly without rest. She had always known this day would come,— had been raised for it, prepared in every lesson and whispered expectation,— but now that it was here, it felt as though she stood at the edge of something vast and unknowable, with no choice but to step forward.
She lifted her gaze to the mirror before her.
For a long moment, she simply stared, taking in the grown girl reflected back. The silvered glass caught the candlelight, making her eyes seem brighter, the pearls in her hair shimmering like captured stars.
She was still Daella Targaryen, daughter of Jaehaerys and Alysanne. But in mere hours, that name would be reshaped, bound to another.
'Lady Arryn of the Eyrie'.
The thought pressed against her ribs like a cage closing in.
Alysanne saw it,— of course she did. The queen had always seen too much.
She reached forward, taking Daella's cold hands in her own. "You are not leaving us, sweetling. You will always be Targaryen."
Alyssa, ever practical and blunt, gave a small scoff. "The Arryns will have to endure that truth, whether they like it or not." And Daella huffed a quiet laugh, but it did not last.
The absence in the room was suddenly sharper,— the lack of Saera's voice, her presence, her teasing and diminishing smirks. Her younger sister should have been here as well, playing with Daella's jewelry, making some irreverent comment to pull a laugh from her.
But Saera was elsewhere, chasing laughter of her own, weaving through the lords of the court, indulging in her own version of freedom. The difference between them had never been clearer.
Saera ran where Daella had to stay, Saera laughed while Daella braced herself for forced duty.
Alysanne, sensing the shift, reached forward and traced a gentle line over Daella's cheek, the way she had done when she was a child.
"You will be happy." she promised, as though she could will it into existence. "I'm sure of it!"
Alyssa exhaled through her nose, crossing the room to kneel beside Daella, taking one of her hands. "This is frightening, I know. But you are not alone, all woman felt the same when they first married their husbands. I,—..." She hesitated, then shook her head, smiling softly. "I never feared marriage, but that is because I always knew where my heart lay."
Daella swallowed hard. Her sister had always been certain of herself, always certain of Baelon. That certainty had shielded her from this kind of doubt.
But Daella did not know Rodrik Arryn,— he was but a name, a title, a man of duty. Would he be kind? Would he be patient? Would he see her, truly, as something more than a wife given to him by the king?
The questions sat heavy in her throat, unspoken. Instead, she exhaled and forced herself to straighten.
The gown had been adjusted, her hair had been woven into its intricate crown, the final touches placed upon her.
The moment had come.
"I am ready." she said, though the words felt like a lie. Alysanne squeezed her hands once more, and Alyssa rose, offering her arm in quiet support.
And so, with one last glance at the girl in the mirror, Daella let her go.
.
- Two hours later:
Aenys swung his legs under the his seat, his smaller feet unable to reach the stone floor of the Sept. The polished marble was cold beneath his hands as he pressed his palms against it, the surface so smooth it almost felt like water.
He could hear the hush of voices, the rustling of silk and velvet as the nobles shifted in their seats, the soft murmur of prayers whispered by some of the ladies.
The air was thick with the scent of burning incense,— sweet but strange, making his nose wrinkle.
Beside him, his cousin Rhaenys sat still, her hands folded properly in her lap. She always knew how to behave in these moments, but Aenys could tell she was only pretending to be interested.
She wasn't looking at the ceremony, she was watching the dragons carved into the pillars, her little fingers tracing the shape of one in the wood carvings of their bench.
He nudged her lightly. "Why is everyone so quiet?" he whispered.
Rhaenys gave him a quick look, her purple eyes narrowing slightly. "Because it's important." she whispered back, sounding just like their grandmother.
Aenys frowned, kicking his legs again. It did look important,— everyone was watching Daella.
His aunt stood at the front of the Sept, her hands in whom he now knew to be Lord Rodrik Arryn's, a pale ribbon wrapped around their wrists. She was wearing the prettiest dress he had ever seen, soft blue with silver embroidery that shimmered when she moved.
A heavy cloak of red and black was draped over her shoulders, pinned at her throat with a dragon brooch.
She looked different, but she was still his Aunt Daella. So why did it feel like something was changing?
The Septon spoke in a deep, echoing voice, his hands raised as he called upon the gods.
Aenys didn't understand all the words, but he knew the names,— Father, Mother, Warrior, Stranger.
He glanced at his own mother, Alyssa, who was watching with a sharp but unreadable expression, then to his grandmother, Alysanne, who looked as if she might cry.
Aenys didn't like it when his grandmother cried, then he turned back to his aunt, who wasn't crying, but was very quiet.
He watched as Rodrik Arryn lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. He had a serious face, not unkind, but not smiling either. Aenys didn't know him, he didn't know why his aunt had to marry him, if he did not understand what marrying someone meant, he knew his aunt was not happy.
"Why is Aunt Daella doing this?" he whispered again, leaning closer to Rhaenys.
His cousin sighed, barely glancing at him for a second. "Because she has to." And Aenys frowned, he didn't understand that either.
The Septon lifted his hands, and all around them, the nobles leaned forward slightly, as if something important was about to happen.
Aenys gripped the edge of the bench, feeling a little nervous now, though he didn't know why.
Daella's voice was soft when she finally spoke. "With this kiss, I pledge my love."
Rodrik Arryn bent down and kissed her, just a small kiss, but it made something in Aenys' stomach twist, as he narrowed his eyes.
And then it was done.
The ribbon was unwound from their wrists, and the Targaryen cloak was lifted from Daella's shoulders,— delicate, embroidered with dragons, a piece of her past now set aside. In its place, Rodrik Arryn fastened a new cloak around her, sky-blue and white, the moon-and-falcon stitched in silver thread.
The weight of it looked heavy.
Aenys turned to Rhaenys again, his voice quieter this time. "…Does that mean she's leaving?"
Rhaenys didn't answer right away. She just sat there, watching as Daella and Rodrik turned to face the gathered lords and ladies, accepting the murmurs of approval, the bows of respect. Then, finally, she whispered back, "Yes."
Aenys didn't like that either.
He didn't say anything else, but as the Sept filled with applause, as Daella stepped forward as Lady Arryn, Aenys slid his little hand into Rhaenys' without thinking.
She held onto it, just as tightly.
.
- At the feast, during the evening/night:
Rhaenys sat straight-backed at the table, her small hands folded neatly in her lap, just as her mother and septa had taught her.
She was six years old now,— old enough to sit through a feast without fidgeting, old enough to listen when the adults spoke, and old enough to know that tonight was important.
Her aunt was married, that thought felt strange.
The Hall was alive with the clamor of celebration,— music filling the air, golden goblets raised high, laughter spilling from the lips of lords and ladies. Across the great table, she saw her father, Prince Aemon, speaking with Lord Rodrik Arryn. Daella's new husband.
She didn't know him, but he looked serious.
She didn't know if she liked him.
Rhaenys then stole a glance at Aenys beside her. He was quieter than usual, small fingers gripping his small water goblet too tightly.
He hadn't eaten much, and every so often, he cast uncertain glances toward their aunt, as if he thought she might vanish before the feast was over.
Rhaenys understood.
Daella looked different tonight, she wore her hair in a heavy, intricate braid, her gown a soft sky-blue, as if the Vale had already claimed her. The silver cloak with its falcon clasp marked her as one of them now. Even the way she sat,— back straight, hands folded delicately in her lap,— was different.
It was as if she was already gone.
Alysanne was close at her side, her voice soft as she whispered something only Daella could hear. Alyssa leaned in too, though her words were firmer, her expression unwavering.
They were telling Daella something important, something Rhaenys wasn't supposed to understand, but she somewhat did. "You are still ours." The Targaryen women had not let go of Daella yet.
Rhaenys watched as her aunt's gaze flickered across the hall, her violet eyes seeking something,— or someone. And then, for a moment, their eyes met.
Rhaenys held her breath, while Daella smiled. It was small, hesitant but real, although a sad one.
She knew then, even without truly understanding it, that this was a farewell.
Not forever, but long enough.
Aenys shifted beside her. "I don't want her to go..." he mumbled.
Rhaenys reached for his hand under the table and gave it a squeeze.
"Me neither."
.
.
.
- A few weeks later:
Aenys was running too fast.
His little legs pumped beneath him, slippers barely making a sound against the smooth stone floors of Maegor's Holdfast.
The corridors twisted ahead like secret paths only he and Rhaenys knew, and the torches lining the walls cast long, flickering shadows that danced in the dimming light of the evening as they ran.
Behind him, he heard Rhaenys' breathless giggle, light as the wind. "Faster, Aenys!" she called, her voice echoing through the empty hall.
He tried,— tried to go faster, tried to keep ahead of her,— but his feet slid against the polished stone as he rounded a corner too quickly. With a startled yelp, he tumbled forward, arms flailing before he hit the ground. His hands and knees stung from the impact, but he didn't cry.
Rhaenys skidded to a stop beside him, her slippers making a soft scuffing sound. She crouched down, black curls spilling over her shoulders. "Are you hurt?"
Aenys swallowed, rubbing at his scraped palms. "No." But he didn't get up right away.
He stared at the floor, blinking hard. His lip wobbled, though he wasn't sure why. He wasn't hurt, not really.
Rhaenys didn't tell him to get up. Instead, she sat beside him on the cold stone floor, crossing her legs beneath her as if they weren't in the middle of a hallway. She tilted her head, watching him the way his mother sometimes did,— like she knew what he was thinking before he said it.
"You miss her, don't you?" He knew who she meant. Aunt Daella.
And so he gave her a small nod. Rhaenys sighed, pulling her knees to her chest. "I do too." She hesitated, as if she wasn't sure whether to say the next part, but then she did, softer than before. "It feels different without her."
Aenys sniffled, rubbing at his nose. "Do you think she misses us?" She smiled, a small, knowing thing. "Of course she does, we are the best. She's probably thinking about us right now."
Aenys wanted to believe her. He imagined Daella in the Vale, in some big stone castle surrounded by mountains, sitting in a hall with strangers he had never met.
Did she still braid her hair the same way? Did she still hum that soft tune when she thought no one was listening? He hoped so.
But she was far away now, farther than he could reach, and the Red Keep felt different without her,— too big, too quiet, too empty in the places where she and her usual, kind smile used to be.
He and Rhaenys sat there for a while, the silence stretching between them, their small forms huddled together in the vast corridors of the castle. The air smelled like stone warmed by the sun for the whole day, and the faint scent of the gardens drifting in from a nearby window. Aenys traced a small crack in the floor with his finger, wishing he could say something, anything, to make the strange ache in his chest go away.
Then, suddenly, Rhaenys pushed herself to her feet. "Come on!" she said, brushing off her skirts. She held out her hand. "Let's run again."
Aenys frowned up at her. "Why?"
Rhaenys tilted her head, considering, before answering simply, "Because we still have each other."
It was such a small thing to say, but Aenys felt something shift inside him. She was right, Daella was gone, but he wasn't alone.
He took her hand, letting her pull him up. And when they ran this time, the sadness was still there, but it was smaller, lighter.
Because they were together.
And that, for now, was enough.
.
. .
. . .
|| Fire & Blood ||
. . .
. .
.
A/N: So, how was my silly try on building another part of Aenys backstory? Please let me know your opinions in the comments!