Chapter XXIX: In Another Life

Night had fallen across Sunspear. The warmth of the Dornish day had faded into a silent, starlit hush, and even the wind that often sang through the palace walls seemed reluctant to stir. All lay still.

In her chamber, Daenerys sat alone.

Her children were long asleep, the servants dismissed, the torches dimmed to a low glow. The stillness around her only made the storm within her heart more deafening.

On the table beside her, an old letter rested—one never sent, never meant to be read. Her eyes drifted over the parchment, though she did not see the ink. She saw him.

Daemon.

The name lingered in her soul like the echo of an old song.

He had been her first friend, her fiercest protector. They had laughed beneath the towers of King's Landing, stolen moments of joy within a world that would not allow it. In the godswood, in shadowed halls, in long silences charged with the things they could never say aloud—he had always been near.

And she had loved him. Gods help her, she had loved him still.

She closed her eyes.

In her vision, Daemon smiled at her, clad in silver and black, his hair unbound in the Dornish sun, his purple eyes dancing with mischief and pride. He offered her a hand as if they were children again, as if nothing ever changed. She remembered the scent of ash and cedar, the way he held her, the way he kissed her once—just once—before turning away forever.

What if? The thought had haunted her since the news reached her ears. What if he had not been born a bastard? What if our father had kept his lusts in check? What if the sword Blackfyre had passed to Daeron, not Daemon?

What if she and Daemon had wed, as the songs told of noble princes and princesses? Would they have had peace? Would he have ruled with wisdom, not fury? Would their children have known a world unburnt by treason?

"I curse you, Father," she whispered through clenched teeth. "For the seeds of this sorrow, for making Daemon a bastard, and crowning him with steel he was never meant to bear."

She stood, pacing slowly toward the open window. The moonlight kissed her silver hair, and the breeze carried with it the scents of lemon and myrrh from the gardens below.

"And I curse you, Daemon," she said more softly, her voice trembling. "For your pride, your blindness, your refusal to heed me when you still had the chance. I begged you not to do this… but you chose war."

She lowered her head, her fingers clutching the window frame.

"They say you died gloriously," she murmured. "But I wonder… in that last moment, did you think of me?"

The tears fell then—slow at first, like the first drops of a summer storm. Then faster, heavier, until she sank to her knees, overcame.

For the children Daemon lost. For the sons he would never raise. For the letters never sent. For the future never lived. For the love the world refused to allow.

Daenerys Targaryen wept.

She prayed—not to the Seven, not to the Red God, nor to the Old Gods, but to something beyond them all. To the stars. To fate. To love itself.

"Let him find peace," she whispered, "wherever he wanders now. Let him find his sons. Let them find each other."

She lifted her tear-streaked face to the sky.

"And let us meet again. In another life. In another world. Where you are not a bastard, and I am not a princess sold for peace. Where we are free."

Alone in her chamber, Princess Daenerys wept until sleep took her, cradled in sorrow, dreaming of a silver-haired boy with black armor and a smile that could break hearts and kingdoms alike.

The histories never recorded her grief. Only she and the Gods knew what she had lost.

And only the stars bore witness to the mourning of a princess—for the man who had been her brother, her beloved, her greatest joy, and her deepest sorrow.