It was your mother's funeral, and everyone waited for you to order your dragon to burn her corpse, but you couldn't. It was a Targ_____ tradition, from fire they come, to fire they should go.

"They're waiting for you."

Your uncle, Daemon, whispered into your ear. He was standing behind you in a comforting manner.

"I hope for the short time my brother was alive that my father was happy, he finally had a son."

You told your uncle in Valyrian. Something you two did often. He only lowered his head in response, understanding that you had always felt neglected by your father, being the second daughter. In a way, he saw himself in you; he was the second son, the reason his mother died after giving birth to him. His gaze softened, and he took a step back.

You looked at your father, waiting for him to react in some way, but he didn't, so you turned towards your dragon, Virylia.

"Dracarys."