A/N: Or three times when Drusilla met people who treated her as she deserved. 

«Funnily enough, despite my natural hatred towards men, they were the one to create me, in some twisted and wicked way. Drusilla Tyrell you knew was always just the fragments of inspiring words and advices. But I don't blame them. Because I am this type of person in general. I am the animalish creature that uses people on her way as the stepping stone for something greater. If it wasn't for three of them, then it would be others. I was just lucky enough for to find them.»

— From Drusilla Tyrell's diary.

•

120AC, Highgardens.

Daemon Targaryen is loud.

Not in the way other people are; he doesn't scream—at least not as he speaks—and his voice is actually soothing most of the time, like the sweetest lullaby. But he is the loud in a way, he draws attention to himself. Not by doing something great, but rather by ruining things.

He goes somewhere and voices follow him around.

So, naturally when he arrives to the Highgardens, everyone knows. Waits, even.

And Irellea suddenly remembers how she hates this man.

They never met personally, actually, though Irellea visited the King's Landings quite often in the past, always following her dear mistress. But she heard stories about him enough to understand that the reason why he continues to stay free, not receiving punishment, is because he is a man.

Irellea wishes she could become one.

...But then again, men are stupid. She couldn't become them, she is too way smart.

'What an upstart!'

A slap that lands on her cheek is not painful, but Irellea hisses anyway; little sign of resistance.The grip on her collar is tight, and she is fighting the urge to stand up and bite the woman, one of the maids, for this.

She is not an upstart. She just values herself.

'Killing you wouldn't be enough, Irellea. Death would hardly change such a lost cause as you.'

She smiles.

'Death and gods would kneel before me, when I die!'

Irellea waits for another hit, but it never happens. Instead, there is someone—she can feel legs behind her scrunched back—above her, humming:

'Is what house of Tyrell presents? Beating kids?'

When she opens her eyes, the servant's hand, flying for another round of beating is gripped by the wrist, and there is a man with long white hair, who is no doubt is Targaryen.

'Prince Daemon... Please, this girl is...'

'Scram,' he says tonelessly.

Irellea watches the woman running away, humming impressively; that what she wants to become - the person from whose word other will shook and run away. That is her dream, her wish.

'You are okay, kid?'

Irellea slowly raises to her feet, facing Daemon. She doesn't want to kneel before him or greet as she should, so she just nods.

'Had seen worse.' Pounding a little bit, she asks: 'What is that prince himself needs from this one to save her?'

Daemon looks surprised by such an answer, definitely waiting for something else, but instead of raging, he laughs, throwing the head up.

'I see how it is... Bold. What is your name?'

'Irellea,' she slightly squints.

Irellea.

What a stupid, useless name.

Another reminder of her being no one to this world.

She would gladly take Drusilla as hers. It sounded more powerful; the power her mistress lacked, terrible.

'Irellea... Well, you reminded me of my childhood. Your eyes, more precisely. So much hatred to the world in such little blue oceans, m-m?'

Oh, hatred... That is what she has enough.

Yet, it can't help her.

She needs something more to win. To win this game with Gods, with devils, with unfairness and rich houses. Something to prove who is she.

That she is more than a little servant.

'Hopefully, these little blue oceans would help me to drown others,' she hisses.

Daemon snickers.

He raises her by the chin, long fingers tapping on dry skin as if examining the statue. Irellea, despite the wish to run away, stays completely unmoving. He has the charm in him, that makes others to listen.

'If you want them to drown, you should learn how to be quiet,' he whispers. 'Your rage is destructive, but when it is so consuming, you will be the first one to die under its waves. Do you understand?'

Irellea doesn't nod. But she listens. And he continues.

'You know how they say? Game always recognises the game, and players sees a one from afar. To fool them both, the winner should know how to hide well. From both of them.'

Oh.

'And the oceans are the quietest before the storm,' Daemon finishes, releasing her carefully. 'Good luck with the tides, Irellea.'

Before she understands anything, he is already gone, as if he was simply a phantom.

Irellea's heart beats fast, too fast.

From excitement.

She knows what to do.

Irellea is too loud, too envious and sinful.

She needs to become someone else, someone quieter and kinder. Like Drusilla.

No.

Not like her.

Irellea needs to become her.

But how?

•

121AC, Seclusion, Borders of the Reach.

In the end, she does it easily.

No matter how crazy it sounds, but it takes just a few months to find out everything about this family, so she could know what to do. And here it is, what helped her: it starts with parents. In a loving couple, the husband, who adores his wife and gets the same from her, cheats. Cheats on his pregnant wife, carnival desires being stronger than anything. Cheats, and getting caught by her exactly.

And then... Miscarriage.

Miscarriage and illness.

Slowly but surely, perfect lady Tyrell goes insane. One at fault, worrying, lord Tyrell tries to fix the mess by doing whatever she wants; marrying his only son and daughter, for example.

And here goes Augustus, perfect son, who wishes nothing but be free from this stupid marriage with his stupid sister.

Irellea just talks with him twice.

And does all work by pushing Drusilla out of the window.

"Look, what a beautiful bird!"

"Where?"

(Really, how naive this little princess was? The true air-head.)

And then, Augustus, ever helping son, brings her, Irellea, to the king. Starts to blame him for Drusilla's suicide—oh, how poor girl tried to escape this marriage!—and reminds that mother will be devastated to know that, completely dead! Why they... Not to take this little stupid servant instead of Drusilla? Mother will not know anything, and father really doesn't want to break her more!

And so, she finds herself here.

Playing the role of Drusilla Tyrell, locked in the seclusion, resting after loosing her best friend! How sad!

It is almost ridiculous, actually.

The best plans are simple, that is it.

'You are doing better in our etiquette lessons,' Augustus sighs, rubbing his forehead tiredly. 'A few years and you will make a perfect lady.'

A few years, and I will make a perfect queen, brother, she thinks viciously.

'Well, I hope so. We can't allow ourselves to make mistakes.'

'You,' he amends. 'It is your plan.'

Drusilla rolls her eyes. Someone has unbelievable ability to deny everything about himself. She needs to train him for better.

'Oh, Augustus, I am begging you don't pretend that it wasn't you, watching me killing your sister without a single emotion, because you value your freedom much more than life of your family. And don't pretend that it is not the fact that you like men that make you despise the idea of proper marriage. Don't lie to yourself. You are just like me, just weaker.'

Augustus flinch, red spots starting to appear on his skin as hands curl in fists, helplessly.

'Hadn't your parents told you some manners?'

'I don't have any,' she smiles.

For some reason, it absolutely makes all the anger that Augustus has, disappear. He just looks at her, blue eyes examining, and sighs. Drusilla hopes that it is not pity. Because she could only hate the person that chooses to offer orphans watered looks and repetitive oh poor little thing.

'Gods,' Augustus proclaims suddenly. 'Oh, Gods.'

'What?' She asks irritated. 'Hadn't seen orphans?'

Augustus pinches the bridge of his nose.

'You are just a kid. Maybe, smarter than me, or father or anyone else, but you are a fucking kid. You are thirteen.'

'Don't act like you are not just fifteen.'

But it doesn't matter. Something in Augustus changes, and Drusilla can't say what.

Just, something.

He starts to bring her food more often, and trying to trick on taking breaks from studies. Drusilla pretends not to notice what he is doing.

Years later, Drusilla realises that it was the day, when Augustus became her brother.

And she thinks it is stupid.

In a good way.

•

127AC, Highgardens.

For a very important reason—which actually is her unwillingness to embarrass herself—Drusilla will not share details, how Daeron Targaryen, the third son of the King and the Queen, became the second person to know her secret.

Instead, she will offer you this:

Both bonded by the same ideals, the same wish—Aemond on the throne, just him; not Aegon, for obvious reasons, and not Rhaenyra, because Daeron is loyal to his family—they decide to help each other.

After all, their life is a dance, and the dance needs two people to continue.

Drusilla offering him not only his brother's happiness, but lessons how to play the game, and Daeron giving her information. And loyalty. It costs more than gold, and Drusilla is not a fool.

So they dance.

Without music, the only sound is songs of birds, and not in the halls, instead of stepping on beautiful floor, they touch the grass. There are no watchers or admires, only them.

Somewhere safe.

Yet, they talk on their own language, not because of fear but as a sign.

You are with me, and so I am with you.

'Tomorrow we are going to discuss another important thing, regarding my mother and my half-sister,' Daeron says, the voice always coming out as light as feather.

Drusilla hums.

'Why not now?'

'We are here all day. We need to rest. Both.'

'I can do it all day,' she tsks.

She really can. She spends hours and hours, working, reading, writing, practising, and then again, endless loop. Why everyone seems to mind it? Is that so bad? To be fucking smart?

'You can,' Daeron agrees, spinning her around. 'But you shouldn't.'

She falls in his arms, another practised movement—Highgardens' people adore the way they look together, and popularity is always a good thing, especially for young ladies and lords—and relaxes. They exchange glances, when Daeron lets out a sharp breath.

'Illa,' he calls, breathlessly. 'Please, don't do that.'

She furrows, sincere confusion on the face.

'What?'

'Don't look at me like that.'

'Like what?'

He leans closer, a few inches between them, Drusilla feeling high and lost, eyelashes flattering.

'Like I am my brother,' she slowly tries to realise it, when he adds more: 'Because I would never refuse sharing my first kiss with you, Illa. But I don't think that you will be so happy about that.'

Oh.

Daeron likes her. Daeron wants her. Daeron—

'You are right,' she murmurs. 'You are right, we shouldn't.'

He nods, always a gentleman, grip on her waist loosening as Drusilla steps back. The strange voice behind her back says that she could have him, in some different life. It is strange, because Drusilla had never liked any man beyond Aemond, but...

'Come on,' Daeron says, as if nothing happened, ever cheerful. 'Let's return to the castle. Maybe, your brother likes me, but he still doesn't like when you are returning late.'

Augustus wishes Drusilla could fall in love with Daeron, always praising his character. At this point, maybe everything would be easier if Daeron would be her choice.

But he isn't.

And Drusilla will do anything for her love.

'Let's go... Kasia is probably missing me.'

They never mention that day anymore.

Daeron continues to be her best friend.

(Yet, even years after, it is easy for everyone to say how hopelessly in love he is. Drusilla says she doesn't know what they are talking about, and Daeron agrees.

Of course, they are both lying.)

A/N: Next chapter is going to be the last. Wow. Probably would spend some extra time before publishing it...