Where the Flames Touch

                                    

                                          

The air in the halls of the Red Keep was heavy, charged with the chaotic energy of frightened whispers and hurried footsteps. Daena ran, her boots skidding against the uneven stone floor as she rounded another corner. The walls seemed to close in on her, the flickering torchlight casting grotesque shadows of rushing figures. Her shoulder slammed into a pillar, pain flaring briefly before she stumbled forward again, barely catching herself.
The corridors were choked with people — maids clutching at each other, guards shouting orders, courtiers pressing against the walls with wide, fearful eyes. A woman’s scream echoed somewhere in the distance, sharp and piercing like a blade cutting through flesh. Daena barely noticed when she barreled into a servant carrying a tray of bread. The tray clattered to the ground, the bread scattering like discarded bones, but she didn’t stop to apologize. She couldn’t.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, the cold air of the keep scraping against her throat like a whetstone. The heavy skirts of her dress snagged against her legs, nearly tripping her as she pushed through a group of murmuring guards. They turned, startled, but she was already gone, her heartbeat roaring in her ears.
The godswood. She needed the godswood.
At last, the heavy scent of damp earth and bark greeted her as she stumbled into the sacred space. The towering heart tree stood in the center, its white bark glowing like a beacon in the dim light. The face carved into its trunk seemed to watch her, its eyes bleeding red sap as if weeping for the chaos consuming the keep.
Daena barely made it to the base of the tree before her knees buckled, her hand catching against the rough bark to steady herself. Her stomach churned violently, and she doubled over as the bile rose in her throat. The first wave of vomit hit the ground with a sickening splatter, and then another, and another.
She couldn’t stop. Her body rejected everything, heaving again and again until there was nothing left but acid and dry, shuddering spasms. When it finally ended, she staggered back, clutching her stomach, her legs trembling like a newborn foal’s. The taste of bitterness lingered in her mouth, her throat raw and burning.
Daena collapsed onto a cold stone bench nearby, resting her forehead against its edge. The chill seeped into her skin, a brief reprieve from the heat of her spinning thoughts. She forced her breathing to slow, though every inhalation brought the smell of earth and bile and blood — blood that wasn’t there but still felt like it clung to her hands.
The memory hit her like a lance.
Daeron’s face, pale and lifeless, his lips tinged a sickly blue. His arm stretched unnaturally across the floor, his hand — so young, so graceful — resting limp in the blood-red wine pooling beneath him. Alicent’s wails filled the room, guttural and heart-wrenching, as she cradled her youngest son like a babe.
And Aemond.
Daena shivered, the image of him etched into her mind: standing in the corner, as if the walls themselves might consume him. His violet eye, wide with a fear she had never thought him capable of, had darted between the corpse of his brother and the cup that had held his own wine.
Someone had tried to kill him.
The realization had shattered the fear in his gaze, replacing it with something far more dangerous: rage. His commands had been barked with a ferocity that sent men scrambling. Lock the gates. Question every guard. Search every corner of the keep. He had demanded answers, demanded justice.
Daena closed her eyes against the memory, but the sounds of his fury echoed still, blending with the tolling bells from the Great Sept. Their mournful song had been meant to honor Otto Hightower, but now they felt like a requiem for Daeron.