daenerys targaryen martell
She spends her first month in Dorne crying. Her new husband says nothing, though she knows he can hear her silent sobs in the night.
Everything is so different. The people, the climate, the food, the culture. Nothing is familiar. None of it is what she wanted. Especially her husband.
She wanted Daemon, with his Valyrian hair and violet eyes, his smirk and his charisma, his strong shoulders and slim hips, his intelligence and ambition. She wanted to be his queen, to sit beside him when he took the Iron Throne, like Father had wanted. She wanted to wake up beside him every morning, and lie with him each night. She wanetd to sit next to him and watch him clean the blood of his enemies from Blackfyre. She wanted to call him husband with a smile on her face.
Instead, she sits across from Prince Maron Martell and calls him husband with no emotion at all. It takes time, but when she realizes that Daemon isn’t going to burst into the halls of Sunspear and demand that his love be returned to him, like a hero from a song, she begins looking for traces of him in Maron. A witty remark, a mischevous glint in his eyes, a righteous fury against those that wrong him, something, anything. But she finds nothing.
Decades later, as she sits beside her husband and watches their grandchildren play in the pools with the orphans, she finds herself struggling to remember Daemon Blackfyre at all.