Daenys Velaryon is the oldest child of Rhaenyra and Laenor Velaryon, but she shares the same true lineage as her brothers Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. As the oldest child of the heir to the throne, she has duties to fulfill, duties that she is ex...
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Year: 129 AC
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As Daenys and Aemond navigated the labyrinthine alleys of Flea Bottom, the atmosphere clung to them like a thick fog. The air was heavy with the mingling scents of stale ale, smoky fires, and the distant aroma of something resembling roasted meats. The buildings towered over the narrow streets, casting long shadows that swallowed the moonlight, leaving patches of darkness swallowing them whole.
Daenys moved through the maze-like pathways with determination, always remaining a few paces ahead of her companion. Aemond trailed her diligently, his gaze, sharp and perceptive, scanned the surroundings as he followed her lead. Every time he opened his mouth or sped up to walk beside her, her pace quickened, as if she could outrun him altogether.
As they ventured deeper into the heart of the slums, the buildings seemed to close in, their facades casting menacing shadows that danced with every flicker of light. They finally arrived at the modest dwelling the princess had been searching for. The dilapidated structure, its wooden frame weathered and worn, bore the scars of neglect, yet, at its entrance, a small garden bloomed.
Yellow flowers, vibrant and unyielding, defiantly pushed through the cracks in the earth, their petals reaching eagerly toward the passersby. They adorned the otherwise sombre exterior, their golden hues a stark contrast against the muted tones of the streets.
Daenys paused just outside the door. The cook had told her to look for the house with yellow flowers, but now that she was here, she could not think of what to say. She raised a hand tentatively, allowing her fist to connect with the worn wood before she could talk herself out of it.
As seconds trickled by, the silence that followed stretched like a taut string. Daenys grappled with the fear of intrusion, a nagging worry that she might be imposing at such a late hour.
When the door creaked open, a sliver of light spilled onto the threshold, revealing the weary countenance of a woman worn by the harshness of existence. Lines etched deep on her face, telling stories of hardship and struggle, added years beyond her true age. Her eyes were sharp and held a guarded skepticism as they fell upon Daenys, dissecting her presence with an unspoken interrogation.
"What do you want?"
The woman's scowl seemed etched into her features, a permanent fixture and her voice was gravelly as she snapped at the princess. Daenys looked down, instinctively retreating into the shadows of her cloak, her hood thankfully obscuring her features.
"I am seeking Dyana. Does she perhaps live here?"
At the mention of Dyana's name, a flicker of emotions flickered over the woman's face—a mixture of anger and pain. Her scowl deepened.
