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Victarion watched as Euron boarded his ship. “You were never too good at pleasing, brother” Euron couldn’t help himself, he had to torment him some more before he left.
His laughter echoed, and Victarion had to clench his fists and swear to the drowned gods to not take his life with his bare hands like he did his poor wife. The ship gently swayed to the motions of the undercurrents, Euron visibly stood on the deck with his usual pride.
Victarion didn’t know if he could forgive Euron. The wife had pleaded, but it was no use, and it was easier this way; he wouldn’t have to deal with the rumors and the bastard that would be born of this affair. He needed to make him hurt, hurt the same way he did. His taunting laughter made Victarion want to choke the spirit out of him, if he even had one.
Just then, loud huffing and rampant noise of the gritty ground made Victarion turn; it was his niece, Desmera.
Desmera began to softly walk, her legs giving out gently but not letting her fall. She just stood and watched sullenly as her father’s ship was almost out of sight. Her black hair blew in the wind, and so did her tears. Victarion looked at his little niece, all sad and confused.
She wore her hair in neat intricate braids, her dress beautifully made; it was a velvety red that contrasted her pale skin, layered with myrish lace. Desmera had all her mother’s daunting beauty, and her father’s taunting gaze, a face full of secrets and mockery. A permanent smirk, but this time, it was full of barely hidden
His throat worked. He should say something. A command? A question? But words had always been Euron’s weapon, not his own.
Instead, he reached for his axe just to feel its weight settle into a familiar rhythm with his grip and muttered,
“You’ll catch a chill standing there.”
She turned and stared him down; he could fully see she had none of her father’s rot, only fresh innocence. Her head turned back to the expansive sea.
After a while of a shared comforting silence, “I am truly sorry about your wife.” her voice was soft.
Victarion went very still.
The wind howled between them like a living thing, carrying the scent of salt and storm. His jaw clenched beneath his beard, fingers flexing before settling into fists at his sides.
"Don’t," he said finally, voice low as thunder before the break. "You don't speak of that."
A wave crashed against the rocks below them with force enough to spray their faces in icy mist. He didn't wipe it away; he let it sting instead of what her words had done.
They both lost something. Victarion’s wife was gone forever, and he may not touch another woman again. Euron seemed to have left without a second thought, like his dear Desmera meant nothing.
They both lost things before, however, it hurts a little worse this time.