Chapter Text
Giggling, Rhaenyra and her ladies stumble into the royal box. It’s still early, but the place is crowded already, for most nobles have rushed there after breaking their fast to mingle and gossip. Rhaenyra set off from the Red Keep with everyone else, but instead of joining the lords and ladies in the royal box, the princess and her friends took a turn around the tourney grounds to take a closer look at the knights readying themselves for the joust.
Sadly, her suspicions have been proved correct during their stroll. The group of knights who have arrived at King’s Landing for Helaena’s name day is not very impressive. Still, Rhaenyra and her friends managed to find a few candidates who may be worthy of wearing their favour.
“I bet Fool Frey will serenade you before the first tilt,” Marla Sarsfield whispers.
“No. He will faint when he sees the princess,” Lyra Blount argues with a cheeky grin.
Rhaenyra throws her head back and laughs. Forrest Frey is yet another man who becomes an absolute idiot whenever Rhaenyra is nearby. When the oldest son of Lord Frey was first presented before the king upon his arrival, the young knight fell to his knees and asked for Rhaenyra’s hand in marriage. She did not even know his name at the time.
Her laughter causes many nobles to look at the princess, their eyes full of disapproval. The high lords and ladies dislike her confidence and often grumble about Rhaenyra’s behaviour. She lost count of how many times she heard people advise the king regarding Rhaenyra’s upbringing. It’s a waste of their time, really, for the king has a new family and cares little about his oldest child.
She smothers the resentment simmering in her belly and focuses on her friends, who continue to tease her. “I hope he doesn’t do that,” she says, steering her ladies to the tables with refreshments. She pours a cup of pear cider and takes a sip. “His efforts are already humiliating enough.”
Rhaenyra is well-used to being the object of men’s attention. Although she is no longer the heir to the Iron Throne, she is still a princess, the Lady of Dragonstone, a dragonrider, and the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. Crowds of admirers gather everywhere she goes. Forrest Frey is not the first man to make a fool of himself in her presence, but his pathetic displays are embarrassing. She might laugh at the knight’s antics with her ladies, but to be subjected to his affections in front of thousands would be absolutely mortifying.
Beony Beesbury rolls her eyes playfully. “You know he will try to earn your token.”
“Like any other man in the tourney,” Anya Lynderly adds, grinning.
“And with Ser Harwin gone, I’m afraid they might grow bolder in their efforts to secure your favour,” Marla says. She pauses a little, tossing her blond curls over her shoulder. “So, who is it going to be, princess?”
Rhaenyra sniffs disdainfully at the mention of Ser Harwin. The notion that Breakbones has some special privileges when it comes to her is rather displeasing. She enjoyed Ser Harwin’s company in the past few moons, but she made him no promises. He has no right to lay any claims on her.
She goes through the list of knights they’ve met during their stroll. “I don’t know,” she says after a moment, a slight frown forming on her forehead.
Alicent is unpopular among the nobles. Because of that, many people have decided not to attend Helaena’s name day, and the knights who have come are not as impressive as one would hope.
“I guess I will give it to Ser Criston,” she says with a shrug. “He’s my sworn shield. He deserves a treat from time to time.”
Marla, Lyra and Beony groan. “Not him,” Beony says while other girls echo her words.
Rhaenyra’s eyes widen a little at their loud protest. “Why not? What’s wrong with Ser Criston? He is handsome and a good warrior.”
“I don’t like how he looks at you,” Beony explains quietly. Her brows furrow in worry. “No knight of the Kingsguard should look at his charge like Ser Criston looks at you.”
Rhaenyra chuckles. “He cannot touch, but the vows do not forbid him from looking,” she says before shrugging slightly. “Besides, I do not mind it.”
In fact, Ser Criston Cole was once an object of Rhaenyra’s affection. Even as a child, she greatly admired her White Knight. He treated her kindly, and whenever there was a tourney, Ser Criston wore her favour in the jousts and melees. Things have changed slightly after she flowered. Suddenly, her innocent feelings turned into something very different, and while nothing happened, Rhaenyra tormented the knight constantly. She teased him and tempted him, testing her new powers and poor Ser Criston could do nothing about it. His gaze often lingered on Rhaenyra’s breasts and legs for longer than appropriate, but that was it. He never gave in, even though his desire for her was quite obvious at times.
“It’s dangerous,” Lyra murmurs. “He could be dangerous. After all, he’s with you most of the time.”
“As are you and many other people,” Rhaenyra points out. “The only time when Ser Criston and I are alone is when I visit the Dragonpit, and there, I have Syrax to protect me.”
Her ladies do not look reassured, but they do not say anything. The girls have been with Rhaenyra for years, and they know how stubborn the princess can be.
To chase the worry off their faces, Rhaenyra offers them a smile. “Well, we’ll see how it goes. Perhaps a mystery knight will sweep me off my feet and win my favour?”
Carolei Waynwood snickers. “Or maybe one of your many admirers will do something to impress you. Ser Artos Oakheart looks very dashing today,” she adds with a wink.
Lyra stifles a chuckle. “You said he’s a good kisser.”
Rhaenyra nods. Ser Artos accompanied her during her visit to the Vale last year, and he proved to be a splendid company. He did not expect anything, and while they shared a few kisses, Ser Artos did not deem it enough to think they were courting. When their dalliance ended, he took it well and thanked her for the pleasant time. While many would act like scorned lovers, Ser Artos remains Rhaenyra’s friend, always treating her courteously and never bragging about the fun they had in the Vale.
“He is good at kissing but has little skill with lance. To offer him my token would be a waste. What about you? Have you chosen your champions?” she asks, wondering if some of the men they saw caught her ladies’ eyes. She has a few guesses.
Anya blushes at the question. “Bryden Mooton looks very dashing today, doesn’t he?”
Rhaenyra hums, happy to be right. “And from what I’ve heard, he’s rather charmed by one of my ladies,” she says, winking at Anya.
“Really?”
“Yes. In fact, he asked about you once or twice. If you wish, I could arrange something so you could get to know each other,” Rhaenyra says confidently as they walk through the curtain separating the stands from the resting area. Bright sunlight glares at them, and the princess shields her face from the blinding light.
“Maybe I will host a small banquet for the young ladies of the court and handsome knights,” Rhaenyra continues, thinking. She is known at the Red Keep for her gatherings, where young people can spend time with each other without the stifling presence of their parents or septas. She invites singers and poets and always makes sure a lavish feast is prepared for her guests.
“I’d like that,” Anya says quietly, a faint blush spilling over her cheeks.
Rhaenyra grins. “Then I will make sure to host a small party soon,” she says, squeezing her friend’s shoulder before they separate. The girls take their seats while Rhaenyra walks to the front row, to the spots assigned to the royal family.
Alicent is already there, but the king is nowhere in sight.
“Where is my father?” Rhaenyra asks as she sits down.
Alicent’s lips twitch. “Lord Rosby wanted to talk to him about some important matter.”
“I guess it will be just the two of us then,” Rhaenyra says, chuckling. The elderly Lord Rosby is known for his long, winding speeches.
The queen nods, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “How was your stroll? You’ve been gone a long time.”
“Uneventful. We wanted to take a look at the knights and find someone worthy of our favours.”
Alicent presses her lips together, the joy in her gaze replaced by a hint of wariness. “And how does it look?”
The queen is undoubtedly aware of the problem she faces. The small number of high-ranking nobles at celebrations hosted in favour of the queen or her children is a good indication of how little respect the lords have for Alicent. Even Rhaenyra – the daughter of a long-forgotten queen – draws in more guests to the capital.
Rhaenyra feels no need to sugar-coat things for her. She shrugs. “Nobody swept me off my feet. I thought of giving my favour to Ser Criston, but my ladies convinced me to not relinquish it too quickly. I think it’s a good idea to ask them to prove their skill before I choose my champion,” she says, grinning. This is a game Rhaenyra loves to play to amuse herself. The prospect of having knights compete for her token is rather exciting.
Alicent’s eyes grow wide for a heartbeat before confusion settles over her features. “But I thought-” she pauses, shaking her head slightly. “Well, Ser Harwin is gone,” the queen trails off a little awkwardly.
Rhaenyra scoffs. Harwin Strong was a nice distraction from her troubles – handsome, fun and a reputation of a ladies’ man. Rhaenyra assumed that meant he would know how to take care of her needs, and at least in that, Ser Harwin did not disappoint. Rhaenyra will fondly remember their secret dalliance even if Breakbones has become a little too clingy to her liking. She might have allowed him to put his hand under her gown a few times, but that does not mean Rhaenyra is willing to let Ser Harwin cage her in marriage.
Since it’s the second time Ser Harwin was mentioned, Rhaenyra’s patience snaps. With her ladies, she could feign indifference. With the queen, she becomes defensive. “And what does Ser Harwin have to do with it?” she asks, staring at the queen imperiously.
Alicent’s cheeks become pink. “I thought that you and he-”
Rhaenyra silences her with a glare. “You thought wrong,” she says sharply. “Ser Harwin and I had a bit of fun. It was just some innocent flirting. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Her good mood evaporates in a blink, replaced by anger. Fuming, the princess leans over to pluck a grape from the nearby tray. She chews, breathing through her nose to calm her temper, but Alicent’s heavy gaze doesn’t allow her to relax. Knowing that Alicent will not leave her to enjoy the tourney without addressing the matter, Rhaenyra decides to allow the queen to say her piece. “You disapprove,” Rhaenyra says, reaching for another grape.
Alicent sighs. “Not of Ser Harwin! He’s a fine knight and an honourable man. But your dalliance is becoming rather obvious, Rhaenyra,” the queen whispers. She takes Rhaenyra’s hand and waits until the princess looks at her before continuing. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Soon, the nobles will start to gossip and believe me, I know how painful it is to be a subject of their scorn.”
It’s not the same, a vicious voice in Rhaenyra’s head protests. Ser Harwin is not married. I am not betraying anyone.
She doesn’t say it out loud. When Rhaenyra found out about her father’s affair with Alicent, she was hurt. Laena Velaryon was kind to the princess, and though she was not married to the king for a long time, Rhaenyra grew to love her. In a way, her stepmother became a sister Rhaenyra always wanted to have, her friend and ardent supporter. The knowledge that Alicent – Laena’s lady-in-waiting – snuck around with Rhaenyra’s father is still a bitter drink to swallow. Yet, despite her past sins, Rhaenyra knows Alicent is not a bad person.
And she loves my father, the princess thinks, the desire to fight leaving her with a breath. The king might care little about his oldest child, but Rhaenyra still loves her father. She doesn’t want him to be miserable, and Alicent makes him happy; that ought to count for something.
She takes another deep breath and forces anger out of her voice. “You should not worry about me. Whatever rumours emerge, I can handle them. Besides, with Ser Harwin gone, everyone will soon forget about it.”
Truth to be told, Rhaenyra hopes Ser Harwin will forget, too. He was fun in the beginning, but as their flirtation continued, he started to hint about marriage, family, and children, which the princess disliked greatly.
Alicent frowns. Rhaenyra wants to tell her to stop, for when she does that, she looks much older than her twenty-three years. She swallows the comment and waits for Alicent to speak.
“But don’t you want to start a family of your own?” the queen asks, looking at Rhaenyra earnestly. “Ser Harwin is such a wonderful match. If he makes you happy, why shouldn’t you pursue him? I only meant you should do it properly. If you’re worried your father might not agree, I can help you convince him.”
Rhaenyra rolls her eyes. “Marriage is not for me, Alicent.”
Rhaenyra saw her mother wither away with each pregnancy before childbirth claimed her life. Later, she watched Laena – so bright and bold – dim like a candle left in the wind once the shackles of marriage vows had been put on her wrists. She will not allow the same thing to happen to her.
Alicent gasps. “You have to marry, Rhaenyra!”
“Why?” The princess casts a scathing look at her stepmother, her temper rising once again. “There is no reason for that. I am not the heir, so I do not need to secure my line. My father and you make sure there are plenty of Targaryen princes and princesses to ensure our dynasty doesn’t end. I can be just another Targaryen woman sent to exile on Dragonstone. My predecessors have already paved the path for me.”
And they were not ordinary women. When men in their family rejected them, three queens flew to their ancestral seat to spend their remaining days there. Queens Visenya, Rhaena, and Alysanne are women Rhaenyra greatly admires. To be among them would be an honour, especially since they proved a woman can be the mistress of her own fate.
“Oh, princess. You deserve to fall in love and have children. There is no greater joy, I assure you,” Alicent sighs, squeezing Rhaenyra’s hand.
This time, Rhaenyra is not quick enough to bite her tongue. “I believe the two women who wore the crown before you would disagree,” she says.
Alicent flinches as if Rhaenyra slapped her before ducking her head.
Guilt flares in Rhaenyra’s belly. She should probably apologise, but she can’t force the word out of her mouth. Alicent found happiness in her marriage, but assuming that is the case for every woman is stupid and callous, especially when she also witnessed Laena’s misery with her own eyes.
Silence stretches between them, tense and uncomfortable. Rhaenyra tries to form an apology, but before she can choke it out, Alicent looks up. Her eyes are a little glassy, but she puts a brave expression on her face. “I only wish for you to find happiness, Rhaenyra.”
The princess takes the queen’s hand and squeezes it gently. “I know, but you should not worry about me. One day, I will find my own path. Until that happens, I am content searching for my purpose,” Rhaenyra says, putting as much conviction into her voice as she can muster.
“Then that’s all that matters.”
They smile at each other, concealing their lies with bright grins – Rhaenyra is not happy in the limbo she’s in, and Alicent will not cease to fret about Rhaenyra’s choices.
Before the moment can become awkward, Rhaenyra’s father finally appears in the royal box. His arrival stops the buzz of conversation and forces everyone on their feet to bow and curtsey. The king nods at the lords and offers the ladies a charming smile as he walks towards the front, where his wife and daughter are waiting.
“I’m sorry for being late,” he says after greeting Alicent and Rhaenyra with kisses on their cheeks. When they sit down, he adds in a whisper, “Lord Rosby doesn’t know when to stop talking.”
“We all know it,” Alicent beams.
The king pats her hand. “Well, now that I managed to escape him, we should start the tourney. If we wait a little longer, we will sit here long after dusk,” he says before calling for Master of Games.
Once the king finishes his speech and wishes every knight good fortune in the games, the jousts start. As her ladies predicted, many knights ride to the royal box to ask for Rhaenyra’s favour, more often than not, making fools of themselves while trying to secure her token.
It amuses Rhaenyra greatly. Despite Alicent’s warnings and the disapproving looks some of the nobles send her way, Rhaenyra teases the knights, who are bold enough to speak to her directly, trying to see what they are willing to do to get her ribbon.
The answer to that question is a lot. Men really have little shame. When standing before a beautiful woman, they are willing to embarrass themselves just to win her attention.
In the end, she declares only a victor of the joust is worthy of her favour, sending all the knights away to fight for her token among each other.
However, not long after, she starts to regret her choice, for Ser Fool Frey comes first in the first round.
“Oh, Princess,” Carolei sighs, trying to stifle her giggle. “Your decision might turn against you.”
Marla nods. She takes a sip of her wine, a mischievous smile curling her lips. “If Fool Frey ends up with your favour, you will never get rid of him.”
“I am well aware,” Rhaenyra says, glaring at her ladies before they try to tease her more. “Ser Criston is my only hope. He is the best fighter, and he won jousts before.”
Her friends do not look pleased with her statement, but they choose not to argue with her this time. She might have been willing to indulge them before, but with Ser Fool Frey climbing to the top, Rhaenyra does not intend to cross Ser Criston off her list of potential champions only to soothe their worries.
When the break ends, Rhaenyra returns to her father and Alicent.
“Is it just me, or the games are less spectacular than usual?” the king asks quietly. There is a frown on his face as his gaze travels to the board that displays the sigils of houses participating in the competition. “I thought a tourney would tempt more nobles to King’s Landing.”
Sighing, Rhaenyra averts her gaze. She is unsure if her father is truly so clueless about his wife’s unpopularity or if his comments are a failed attempt to pretend everything is fine.
Alicent’s cheeks grow pink, and she ducks her head in shame. She always blames herself for the situation, even though the king is equally responsible.
When neither Rhaenyra nor Alicent reply, the king continues, “Too bad Ser Harwin is not here. I am sure his presence would make the tourney more thrilling.”
Rhaenyra rolls her eyes as yet another person comments on Ser Harwin’s absence. Why is everyone so obsessed with him? She presses her lips together and looks around, ostensibly ignoring her father’s words.
Alicent isn’t as strong. She blinks a few times until she manages to put on a happy face. She always does that – even with her own troubles mounting, she’s willing to put it all aside to please the king. “You can hardly expect him to miss his sister’s wedding because of a tourney,” she says gently, offering the king a small smile. “Lord Lyonel would be very displeased, and he was so proud of the match he had arranged for his daughter.”
The king tips his head in agreement. “Lord Buckwell’s son is a fine young man. I am sure he will be a good husband to Lyonel’s girl.” Then, his attention turns to Rhaenyra. “I was quite surprised you didn’t choose to attend the wedding.”
The Strong sisters – Amerei and Della – are Rhaenyra’s friends. Della is her lady-in-waiting, while Amerei had served in the queen’s household when the title still belonged to Laena Velaryon. Perhaps it’s unsurprising that her father wonders why she declined the invitation, but his words hurt her anyway.
Are you so eager to get rid of me, father?
Three years have passed since Rhaenyra’s father changed the succession and named his son with Laena - Aemon - as his heir. Since then, Rhaenyra’s relevance in the family has been diminishing with each day. The king has other children now – two sons to fill him with pride and another daughter who can bring him joy. Rhaenyra is no longer the apple of his eye. In fact, often, she feels more like a nuisance – a burden the king doesn’t know what to do with.
“I chose to stay for my sister’s name day, but if you wish for me to leave, you need only to say a word, Your Grace. I can fly to Dragonstone even today,” she replies, concealing her sadness with a cold tone.
“That’s not what I meant,” the king sighs. He sounds exasperated by Rhaenyra’s answer. “I do not want you to leave. You returned from the Vale just recently,” he says, glancing at her briefly. “I was merely curious. I thought you and Lady Amerei were quite close.”
Rhaenyra breathes through her nose, trying to get a hold of her emotions. She loves her father, but their conversations are always tricky now. It’s almost impossible to navigate it successfully with all the unresolved issues and grievances between them. Someone always says something that makes things awkward or hurts the other person without meaning to.
Once she’s composed, she looks at the king. “I adore Lady Amerei, but I decided Helaena’s name day is more important.”
She also didn’t want Ser Harwin to think too much of her presence at Amerei’s wedding. He insisted quite vehemently that she should accept the invitation and even tried to hint that, after the wedding, she might come with him to Harrenhal and meet his family. It was that suggestion that made Rhaenyra decline the invitation despite the affection she has for Lord Strong’s daughters.
“I am glad,” the king replies. “Nothing makes me happier than my family together.”
As soon as the words leave his lips, a whistling sound cuts through the air. Everyone looks around, searching for the source of the strange noise, but Rhaenyra and her father know where to look. At once, their heads tilt upwards, their eyes scanning the skies.
Could it be?
The clouds shift, and from the puffs of white, a crimson shadow of the Blood Wyrm emerges, heading towards the tourney grounds at great speed. Laughter bubbles from Rhaenyra’s lips at the sight.
She missed her uncle.
At her side, the king lets out an exasperated sigh, but no matter how hard he tries to hide it, Rhaenyra sees a spark of joy in his lilac eyes. Daemon has been gone for seven long years. They might have parted in anger, but Rhaenyra knows her father still cares deeply for his brother. He must have missed him, too.
“So dramatic,” he mutters, glancing at Rhaenyra. A wide grin lights up his face. He looks much younger now, the bright smile taking off years of worry and troubles from his face.
Caraxes lands in the middle of the tiltyard, roaring loudly as the crowds of smallfolk gathered on the stands cheer and scream for their prince. At the royal box, the reaction is much more lukewarm. Most nobles keep their faces blank as they look at the large red dragon and its rider, but some have a hard time concealing their worry. Jasper Wylde, who assists the Master of Laws in his duties, even looks displeased by Daemon’s sudden appearance, though Rhaenyra cannot guess the reason for the man’s dislike of her uncle.
Curious, she casts a glance at Alicent’s father. Otto Hightower and Daemon have loathed each other for as long as she can remember. To her surprise, Otto’s face isn’t twisted by a sour grimace. Instead, his eyes hold a calculating glint.
As intrigued as she is by the man’s reaction, Rhaenyra chooses to ignore it for a moment and turns her gaze back to the tiltyard. Once Daemon jumps off Caraxes’ back, the king approaches the balustrade to look at his brother. Rhaenyra wants to do the same, but she forces herself to stay in her seat and watch the brothers greet each other after many years of not seeing one another.
Daemon approaches the royal box before sinking to one knee. He holds a crown in his hands, and as he speaks, he raises it toward the king like an offering. “Brother, I’ve brought you the victory over the Triarchy and the crown of the King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea!” he shouts for everyone to hear. “The Stepstones are yours, Your Grace.”
The king beams. “Keep the crown, brother. You’ve earned it,” he says before opening his arms in a welcoming gesture. “Rejoice, people of King’s Landing! Your prince has returned!”
With that, Rhaenyra’s father descends the stairs leading from the royal box and joins Daemon on the tiltyard. He doesn’t hesitate for even a second before pulling his brother into his arms.
The crowds explode with booming applause. Though the smallfolk are genuinely happy about Daemon’s return, the nobles clap just as enthusiastically. Rhaenyra suspects they do it mostly to please the king. Their cheers last just long enough to show their support. Then, with a swish of gowns and a ripple of whispers, they move, forming small groups to discuss what Daemon’s arrival means.
Rhaenyra’s uncle always makes an impression, even if it’s not always positive.
Everyone at the Rd Keep knows about the complicated relationship between the king and the prince. There have been many arguments in the past, and most ended with Daemon being banished from King’s Landing.
She shakes her head, chasing off questions and doubts that sprout in her head. She will not worry prematurely about how long this peace between her father and uncle will last. Daemon has been gone for seven years. Perhaps that’s long enough for the old wounds to heal.
Rhaenyra gives her father a moment to enjoy Daemon’s presence, but once the king steps away to speak with the Master of Games, the princess stands up and approaches the balustrade.
Daemon’s gaze flickers toward her, his eyes widening briefly as he takes her in. He tilts his head. “Could it be?” he asks, a smirk stretching his lips. “No, it’s impossible. You can’t possibly be my little niece.”
A frisson runs down her spine when she meets Daemon’s gaze. Her body’s reaction surprises her and sparks curiosity. Rhaenyra bites her lip before allowing her eyes to slide over his face and body.
Daemon had always been a handsome man, but the last time she saw him, Rhaenyra was still a little girl, too young to truly appreciate his beauty. Now, everything is different. As her eyes travel over his handsome face and down to his broad shoulders and muscular chest hidden by armour, her body’s response is immediate.
Heat pools in her belly, and she sighs, almost dreamily, having a hard time lifting her eyes to his face. When she finally manages to compose herself, she offers her uncle a coy smile. “You’ve been gone for a long time, uncle,” she says, leaning over the balustrade so he would hear her better.
Daemon’s eyes flick over her face before skipping to her breasts that press against the bodice of her gown. His smirk grows sharper and more dangerous. “So, I see,” he says so quietly that Rhaenyra almost doesn’t hear him. “So, I see.” A mischievous spark appears in his eyes.
Rhaenyra shares the feeling. “Welcome home, uncle.”
***
With Daemon’s arrival, the king decides to cancel the tourney. Instead, he suggests a grand feast in honour of his brother and the victory on the Stepstones. Some of the nobles and the knights who have come to King’s Landing for the tournament seem disappointed by the sudden change of plans, but Rhaenyra couldn’t care less. The joust was boring anyway.
“You’re not very subtle,” Lyra says, trying to draw Rhaenyra’s attention.
The princess sends her uncle another smile before turning to her friends. The girls look at her knowingly.
“Who says I want to be subtle?” Rhaenyra asks with a shrug. In fact, she rarely bothers with it. If she wants something, why should she pretend otherwise?
Her ladies giggle. “So, Prince Daemon is going to replace Ser Harwin in your heart?” Anya asks. The tone of her voice suggests she already knows the answer.
Rhaenyra narrows her eyes at the girl. “Heart has nothing to do with it.”
She doesn’t know why everyone tries to imply that Rhaenyra felt anything special for Breakbones. She desired him and thought he might be the right person to entertain her for a while. Nothing more.
Beony and Lyra offer her looks laced with pity. She hates it when they do that. Annoyed, Rhaenyra calls a servant and asks for a cup of pear brandy.
As always, Marla senses the tension and rushes to break it. “Prince Daemon has a certain reputation,” she says, smirking at Rhaenyra. As one of her closest friends, Marla knows best how she thinks; She’s always the first to guess Rhaenyra’s plans and intentions.
“He does,” Rhaenyra agrees, her lips curling.
Dashing, daring and dangerous are the words most often used to describe her uncle. When she was a child, she understood little of their meaning. He was her uncle, who helped her cause mischief and told her the most interesting stories. She adored him for the gifts he brought her from his travels – toys, books, silks and jewels – and eagerly awaited his return whenever he was away. And while she thought he was handsome, her heart didn’t race at his sight, and even if it did, it was from excitement rather than desire.
Things are very different now. Finally, Rhaenyra understands the full meaning of the words people utter when speaking of Daemon. She bites her lip and steals another glance at him.
Daemon stands on the other side of the room, conversing with the king and Lord Beesbury. Although he seems to be engaged in whatever subject they’re discussing, he senses her gaze and looks her way, his lips curving when their eyes meet.
A shiver runs down Rhaenyra’s spine. The glint in her uncle’s gaze is visible even from across the room, and it makes her wonder if his thoughts are as impure as hers.
“You were always enamoured with him,” Marla says, once again trying to draw Rhaenyra to their conversation. “I remember you always wanted to wear your prettiest gowns when he was around.”
Carolei, who was also at court back then, giggles and nods. “You kept saying that one day you would marry him.”
“And refused to listen when people told you he was already married,” Marla adds.
Rhaenyra smiles at the memories flooding her thoughts. Those were precious days when she was still innocent and unaware of the world’s cruelty. “It was different. I was a child, and he was fun to be around.”
“I bet he’s still fun to be around,” Marla says, not bothering to hide her amusement.
“He’s no longer married, though,” Beony Beesbury points out quietly.
Rhaenyra nods, her teeth clasping around her bottom lip.
A few moons ago, a raven from Runestone brought the news of Rhea Royce’s death in a hunting accident. Rhaenyra remembers the Small Council meeting during which Grand Maester Runciter broke the news; it was a grim day, for while Daemon loathed his wife, neither the king nor his advisors were happy that the prince had been set free.
She wonders how Daemon reacted to the news. He despised his wife. Even before he had gone to the Stepstones, Rhaenyra recalls the hatred gleaming in his eyes whenever someone mentioned the Lady of Runestone. He must have been relieved that the marriage chains he wore for fifteen long years had been finally broken.
“So, what’s your plan?” Carolei asks, excitement filling her gaze. Rhaenyra’s other ladies have similar looks.
They are an adventurous bunch, never shying away from helping their princess in her schemes and plots. When Rhaenyra was meeting with Ser Harwin, her friends provided sensible excuses for her absences, delivered secret messages, and stood on the lookout whenever Rhaenyra and Ser Harwin were together.
Such behaviour is a bit risky – for Rhaenyra as well as her friends – but the danger only made things more exciting.
Rhaenyra purses her lips, thinking what she should do. There are two ways she can approach the matter. First, she can wait for her uncle’s move. Judging by the looks he gives her, Daemon is also intrigued by her. Rhaenyra knows that sooner or later, her uncle will walk over to her and strike up a conversation. However, that plan requires Rhaenyra to be patient, and she doesn’t have it in herself to wait for what she wants.
She’s also bold enough to make the first step.
Her lips curl as a plan forms in her head. The princess downs her pear brandy in one big gulp, shuddering a little as the alcohol slides down her throat before she looks over her shoulder, once again meeting Daemon’s eyes. She sends him a sultry smile, holding his gaze for a heartbeat or two.
“I believe I will retire early,” she says, directing her words to her ladies.
“What?” Beony asks, not expecting such an answer.
Rhaenyra turns to her lady and reaches to squeeze the girl’s hand. “Do not worry about me. Enjoy the feast. I will walk to Maegor’s on my own.”
“Oh.” Marla’s eyes begin to sparkle. “I am sure you will find someone to escort you to your chambers.”
“Maybe,” Rhaenyra replies, biting down a grin. Excitement is already pooling in her belly. “Make sure Ser Criston doesn’t follow me.”
The girls nod enthusiastically. They’ve already confessed their concerns about Rhaenyra’s sworn knight, so perhaps she should expect such a swift agreement, but it still makes her want to roll her eyes at them. They may not like Ser Criston, but he’s harmless. Yet, for the sake of her plan, she needs to keep him away. Her white knight is often overprotective, and Rhaenyra doubts he will comply with Rhaenyra’s plan.
Offering her ladies a conspiratorial look, Rhaenyra sweeps away, heading towards the back door that leads from the Throne Room to the garden. As she walks along the hall, she feels her uncle’s gaze on her back, and she presses her lips together to contain the triumphant giggle.
Once outside, Rhaenyra pulls down the bodice of her gown a little. She has long stopped caring about the propriety and the many rules young noble women must adhere to. Unmarried ladies are expected to dress modestly and conceal their curves with layers of heavy velvet and wool. However, Rhaenyra prefers modern cuts inspired by Essosi gowns and airy silks richly decorated with jewels and embroidery.
The dress she wore for the feast is one of those scandalous designs that never fail to put a heavy frown on Septon Eustace’s face. The old fool does not like it when Rhaenyra wears bold colours or reveals her arms, shoulders or back, and more often than not, Rhaenyra finds satisfaction in choosing gowns that will shock the man.
When she’s confident that she looks her best and that her curves are displayed, the princess leans against the stone pillar and fixes her gaze on the nearby shrub of wild roses. She is certain Daemon will soon find her, and as she waits for her uncle, she admires the delicate flower petals and delights herself with their sweet scent.
Rhaenyra senses Daemon before she hears him. Her back begins to tingle as if touched by some strange, dazzling energy. She doesn’t turn around, though. Instead, she keeps twirling a rose between her fingers, waiting for Daemon to close the distance between them.
She bites her lip, anticipation tying a knot low in her belly. It’s not the first time she feels that way, yet it’s somehow more intense and potent. Neither Ser Harwin nor any other man has ever evoked such strong emotions in her.
Whether it’s the thrill of danger or something else, Rhaenyra doesn’t know, but she’s ready to find out if the rumours about her uncle have any truth to them.
At last, the sound of his footsteps breaks the silence, and Daemon makes his way to her. He stops when mere inches separate them. The warmth radiating off his body caresses her skin.
“A princess alone in the dark?” he whispers into her ear, making her shiver. “Are you asking for trouble, sweet niece?”
“Are you the trouble you speak of, uncle?” Rhaenyra asks, still not turning to look at him. “Or perhaps you will protect me from the dangers lurking in the dark.”
He chuckles huskily. “I am no gallant knight, princess. I thought you would know that by now.”
“Should I scream then? Cry for help?”
He leans even closer, his warm breath brushing against her bare shoulder. “That depends. Do you want to be rescued, princess?”
She spins around and tilts her head to meet her uncle’s gaze. “Perhaps not tonight,” she murmurs, staring deep into his eyes.
One corner of Daemon’s lips tugs upwards in a crooked smile. “I thought so,” he says before his gaze slides downwards.
In that regard, Daemon is also different from other men. He is not a chivalrous knight pretending to have only chaste thoughts about her, nor does he try to hide his interest like Ser Harwin or other men Rhaenyra flirted with. Boldly, he fixes his eyes on her breasts, tracing their curve over the bodice of her gown. After he satisfies his curiosity, he lets out a pleased hum before his gaze travels lower, caressing her small waist and the flare of her hips.
Rhaenyra smirks. She recognises the glint of want in his eyes, the darkness of lust clouding his violet irises, and though his reaction is nothing unusual, she can’t help but preen a little. “Do you like what you see, uncle?”
“I do. It’s nice to be surrounded by beauty once more. The Stepstones are sorely lacking in that regard.”
Rhaenyra pouts. She lifts her hand to his cheek, allowing her fingers to skip along his pale skin. “I’m sorry to hear that the past seven years have been so unkind to you. Perhaps you’d like to tell me about it? I always loved your stories.”
Daemon chuckles. “This time, I’ve not brought tales of adventures and exotic lands. War is far from an appropriate topic for innocent maidens.”
Rhaenyra raises one brow. “What makes you think I’m an innocent maiden, uncle?”
“Intriguing,” Daemon murmurs. He stares intensely at Rhaenyra for a heartbeat before his lips stretch in a grin. “Maybe this time, you will also have stories to share.”
Rhaenyra shrugs. She’d rather not talk of everything that happened in his absence, though she knows he will ask questions. After all, it’s rare for so many significant and scandalous events to occur at the Red Keep in the span of a few years. “Maybe, but you should know a lady does not like to reveal her secrets. A princess likes that even less. Shall we?” she asks, pointing her head at the path leading to Maegor’s Holdfast. Since it goes through the garden and the godswood, it’s rarely used, and Rhaenyra is confident they won’t bump into a guard or some guest there.
He offers her his arm before asking. “And where do you intend to take me?”
“Somewhere more private,” she whispers huskily, pressing closer to him as they walk under a narrow archway between lilac shrubs. “I have your favourite wine in my chambers. We will be more comfortable there, and no one will bother us.”
Daemon hums. “Perhaps I was wrong before. Maybe I should be the one to worry about threats lurking in the dark.”
“I can light a candle if you’re scared of monsters and shadows,” she says, glancing at him suggestively.
Daemon laughs. The sound breaks the hollow silence of the night and startles nightingales from the branches of the nearby trees.
Neither of them says anything for a moment, but the silence is far from uncomfortable. Maybe Rhaenyra is imagining things, but she can feel some sort of strange energy buzzing between them.
Goosebumps rise on her arms from excitement. She steals another glance at Daemon.
Gods… he’s handsome.
Daemon is the first to break the silence. “I hope you’re not too disappointed about the tourney being cancelled. I remember you enjoyed them quite a lot.”
Rhaenyra snorts. He is not wrong, though. With the lack of impressive knights and Fool Frey’s victorious streak, Rhaenyra was rather happy her father ended it before the winner could be determined. “The tourney was boring. It would be pure torture to sit through the entire thing.”
Daemon smirks. “In that case, I’m glad to be of service,” he says, tipping his head.
When they step out of the godswood and into the courtyard lit up by torches, Rhaenyra shifts away, making sure the distance between them is appropriate. In the darkness of the garden and the godswood, she could cling to her uncle, but outside, the guards patrolling the walls and Maegor’s Holdfast might find their closeness alarming.
Daemon probably thinks the same, for the roguish smirk disappears from his lips, and he puts on the mask of an indulgent uncle escorting his niece to safety.
They pass the guards at the drawbridge in silence, but as soon as they are out of their prying eyes, they look at each other and chuckle.
“Where are you leading me, princess?” Daemon asks when Rhaenyra guides him away from the king’s wing. “Should I fear some attack on my person?”
“Maybe,” Rhaenyra replies cheekily. She holds Daemon’s gaze for a moment before she starts to laugh. “My chambers have been moved to the eastern wing.”
She hopes her laughter is enough to conceal the bitter note ringing through her voice. When she was a young girl, Rhaenyra lived in the king’s wing, her chambers close to those of her mother and father. Yet, shortly after her father remarried, he suggested that Rhaenyra should move to a different set of rooms. He tried to make it sound like he was doing her a favour, citing the proximity of the royal nursery and her growing up, but Rhaenyra knew what it was really about.
With every new child he sired, Rhaenyra has become less and less relevant – an outsider in her own family, a painful reminder of a woman who has failed in her duty to provide the king with an heir.
She shakes her head, chasing off her grievances. It’s useless to ponder too much on things she cannot change.
If Daemon notices the slight change in her mood, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he comments on how close her new apartments are to his. “Just around the corner,” he says, smirking.
Rhaenyra giggles. “Not quite. Unless we’re talking about Maegor’s passageways. Then it’s only one flight of stairs.”
Daemon’s brows jump on his forehead. “So, you’ve been using the secret tunnels?”
“I explored them a little,” Rhaenyra admits. There are many passageways in Maegor’s Holdfast, though only one leads outside of the fortress. She has never used it – not only is it long and winding, but it runs only to the Dragonpit. Other tunnels are far more interesting, especially the ones that allow her to go from one room to another without anyone being the wiser.
One of such passageways leads from her chambers to Daemon’s, and perhaps it’s why Rhaenyra chose this room for her new quarters.
During his absence, the princess sometimes visited Daemon’s apartments, perusing through his shelves and drawers in search of any trace of secrets her uncle might have left behind.
When she remembers one specific finding, her lips stretch in a smile. “I quite liked your book collection, uncle. Very intriguing and, dare I say, educational.”
Daemon frowns, likely not remembering what sort of books might have sparked such a reaction. The truth is that most of the volumes littering Daemon’s shelves have been incredibly boring – tales of wars waged long ago, stories of legendary warriors who have been dead for centuries, Valyrian fables and myths. Yet among those old books with yellowed pages and tiny scribbles, Rhaenyra found one of the many versions of A Caution for Young Girls, which opened Rhaenyra’s eyes to a different world. She was just a girl at the cusp of womanhood, and though her body had already started to change, Rhaenyra didn’t quite understand what was happening. There was a certain itch growing in her, and Rhaenyra – still innocent by then – had no idea how to scratch it. The book full of lewd stories was the push she needed to start exploring her body.
“What did you find, princess?” he asks, staring at her inquisitively.
For a second, Rhaenyra considers sharing her secret. She wonders how Daemon would react if she told him about the book and the countless hours she spent reading it and fantasising before she finally found the courage to touch herself.
Warmth rushes to her cheeks as she remembers the first spark of pleasure, the first moan, the first orgasm brought by her own hand.
“Now, you must tell,” Daemon groans. Perhaps it’s the light, but his eyes appear darker.
Rhaenyra sends him a mysterious smile. “That’s a secret, uncle, and I shall not reveal it. I will say, though, that it was very helpful.”
Before he can try to wring the information out of her, they reach Rhaenyra’s room. The princess opens the door and sweeps inside, inviting her uncle with a wave of her hand.
“Make yourself comfortable. I will bring the wine.”
As Daemon heads towards the sitting area, Rhaenyra grabs Daemon’s favourite Myrish Firewine and two cups.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, sweet niece?” he asks, glancing at the pitcher. “You mentioned a cup, yet you brought an entire flagon.”
“I simply don’t want you to get thirsty,” Rhaenyra whispers into his ear before walking to the settee.
She stretches herself over the silk pillows, trying to find a position that would be comfortable and make her look good while Daemon fills their cups.
He takes a sip of his drink, humming at the taste before leaning back in his armchair. For a moment, he simply stares at her, his lips curling in a smile. “So, tell me, princess, what did I miss?”
Rhaenyra sighs. Perhaps she should have expected that Daemon would want to know what happened in King’s Landing during his absence. He always knew the goings of the Red Keep, so it must be strange for him to be out of the loop.
“What do you want to know? I assume my father already dragged you to meet the little thieves?”
He snorts. “Little thieves? Do you mean your siblings?” He laughs for a bit longer before his face grows serious. He cocks his head to the side, regarding her closely. It’s almost as if he’s trying to read her thoughts. “You don’t like them?”
Rhaenyra shrugs. Her feelings towards her brothers and sister are complicated. She decides on a simple answer. “I adore my siblings, but that doesn’t mean they are not thieves. Aemon and Baelon stole my title, and Helaena became the perfect princess that I was before she came along.”
Feeling that she has revealed too much, Rhaenyra takes a deep breath to compose herself. Once her anger and envy dwindle a little, she meets Daemon’s gaze. “That’s what you’ve missed. Two funerals, two weddings, three births. All in the span of just a few years.”
“Surely, there is more to the story. I heard whispers of a scandal,” Daemon probes. He leans forward, an excited sparkle twinkling in his eyes. “Tell me, is it true that Otto Hightower’s daughter was hiding a swollen belly under her wedding gown?”
Rhaenyra rolls her eyes. Of course, Daemon would be interested in anything that is a stain on Otto Hightower’s reputation. The gossip surrounding Alicent’s wedding to the king is undoubtedly the sort of information her uncle would like to hear.
She ponders whether she should indulge him, but ultimately, she decides he will hear the story anyway. “It’s true.”
“Don’t be like that, Rhaenyra. Tell me more. You know I’d love to hear of that cunt’s failure.”
“It’s not exactly a failure. His grandson is second in the line to the throne,” Rhaenyra points out. “Aemon is still young. If something happens to him, Baelon will become the heir.”
The Sea Snake and Rhaenys pressured the king to change the succession in favour of their grandson, but Rhaenyra doubts her father will restore her old title if anything happens to his oldest son. In the case of Aemon’s death, Baelon will be proclaimed the heir to the Iron Throne and the lords who now snub Alicent will swarm to her side, while Rhaenyra will forever remain a royal afterthought.
Daemon scoffs at her remark. “Don’t spoil my fun, niece.”
“Very well,” Rhaenyra sighs. She leans into the pillows before starting the tale. “As you know, after my mother died, the Sea Snake and Rhaenys didn’t waste a moment before pushing their daughter into my father’s arms. I was told he was reluctant to agree. Everyone thought it was because of Laena’s age, but apparently, Alicent had already caught his eye. In the end, he succumbed to the advice of his councillors. You can probably imagine how eager they were to put a hand on Laena’s large dowry.”
“Of course,” Daemon huffs, a hint of disdain in the sound. “And Viserys never had the strength to stand his ground.”
Rhaenyra doesn’t speak up to defend her father. Why would she when she lost her title because of his weakness?
“Well, his advisors’ arguments were enough to convince him to marry Laena but not enough to make him end his affair with Alicent. Therefore, while his wife was struggling with her pregnancy, the king was secretly meeting with one of her ladies-in-waiting. It’s a tale as old as time,” Rhaenyra says with a shrug, though she doesn’t even try to hide the note of disgust that rings in her voice at the thought of her father’s actions. She might have accepted his marriage to Alicent, but that doesn’t mean she approves of his behaviour. As for Alicent, no matter what the queen does, Rhaenyra will never forget how she betrayed Laena.
“Laena gave birth to a son, but a few hours after Aemon was born, the childbed fever set in, and the maesters could not help her. She was dead the following morning. To honour her memory, the Sea Snake and Rhaenys demanded that the king change the succession and name Aemon as his heir. He bent to their wishes, and two moons after Laena’s death, her son was proclaimed the heir. Another moon passed, and the king declared his wish to marry again. This time, he wasn’t willing to listen to his councillors’ advice and chose the bride himself.”
Daemon scoffs. “And out of all noble ladies, he chose Alicent Hightower?”
Rhaenyra chuckles. “It was love, or at least that’s what he told Rhaenys when she accused him of dishonouring her daughter’s memory,” she says, rolling her eyes. Perhaps she should not mock her father, but the decisions he made a few years ago are still a painful wound.
The king was too weak to fight for Rhaenyra’s future, but when the matter concerned his marriage to Alicent, he found the strength to stand up against Rhaenys’ threats and demands.
“They married shortly after, and it was impossible not to notice that Alicent was pregnant. Once people realised the reason for the rushed wedding, they started to piece things together. Servants were bribed to reveal information about the secret meetings, and the Red Keep was buzzing with gossip.”
“And here, little niece, is the source of my delight,” Daemon says, grinning broadly. “The Hightower cunt might have gotten a grandson in the line of succession, but his reputation must have taken a hit.”
“I won’t argue with you about that. When the gossip about Alicent’s affair with the king started, Otto Hightower was furious.” Rhaenyra leans closer, a conspiratorial look settling over her features. “Like everyone else, he was unaware that Alicent had been meeting the king in secret. He found out when my father announced his wish to marry Alicent during the Small Council meeting.”
Surprise colours Daemon’s face. “You want to tell me that Viserys did something behind Otto Hightower’s back?”
Laughter bubbles from Rhaenyra’s lips. Daemon has always complained about the king’s dependency on Otto Hightower. Now that she is older, Rhaenyra also notices how much influence the Hand of the King has over her father. “So, it seems.”
“Now I regret even more that I wasn’t here to see it.”
The charged tension that has been sparking between them during their stroll to Maegor’s is gone, but Rhaenyra doesn’t mind it all that much. Later, there will be time to flirt, tease and tempt her uncle. However, the comfort Daemon’s presence always brings her is something Rhaenyra has sorely missed in the past few years. She will gladly bask in it for one evening.
She decides to reassure him. He might not have been at the Red Keep when the scandal came to light, but Otto Hightower’s problems did not end when Alicent married the king.
“If you stay in King’s Landing a little longer, you will see Otto’s humiliation for your own eyes. Rhaenys does not hide her disdain towards the Lord Hand or the queen. Once she returns, she and her faction will strike again.”
“Her faction?” Daemon chokes out in surprise.
Rhaenyra nods. “The court is divided in two,” she explains. “You have the nobles who favour the Velaryons and those who are wary of giving the Sea Snake more power,” she finishes with a shrug.
She can’t really blame either party. It’s understandable that some people condemn Alicent’s choices. The queen’s past follows her like an unpleasant stench, with many nobles saying she is a viper. They call her a woman of loose morals with no honour and decency, an ungrateful girl who betrayed the trust of her mistress.
As for the lords and ladies who swarm to the Hightowers’ side, their fears are also valid. The Sea Snake is the wealthiest man in the Seven Kingdoms, and he controls the large bulk of the royal fleet. His wife is a princess with a claim to the Iron Throne, full of pride and resentment for those who helped to steal her crown. They have dragons, too, and after Aemon’s birth, they’ve proven that they are not above using threats to bully the king into getting what they want.
“And what is Viserys doing about it?”
Rhaenyra snorts. “What do you think?” she asks, sending a challenging look at her uncle. Surely, the king’s response to the divide in his family is not some great mystery. “He pretends everything is alright.”
“Typical,” Daemon scowls. For a moment, he glares at the dark red liquid in his cup, silent and brooding, but before Rhaenyra can say anything more, he looks up. “Where are Rhaenys and Corlys? I have not seen them at the feast.”
Rhaenyra sighs. She finds the petty games the Velaryons play incredibly dull. “You arrived in the middle of the tourney for Helaena’s name day. Whenever there is a celebration in honour of the queen or her children, Rhaenys leaves the Red Keep. She will return in a few weeks. She never stays away for long. As for the Sea Snake, I don’t know. He is not as predictable or as committed to making Alicent miserable as his wife.”
Daemon’s gaze grows curious. He cocks his head, staring at Rhaenyra curiously. “Which faction do you belong to?”
Rhaenyra scowls. “Neither. Why should I ally myself with any of them? I am a neutral party,” she says, lifting her chin haughtily to hide the real reason.
The truth is quite different – neither faction tried to gain her as their ally. While Alicent is nice to Rhaenyra, the queen sees the princess as her stepdaughter. She offers Rhaenyra advice, aid, and guidance, but neither the queen nor the Lord Hand sees Rhaenyra as a worthy ally.
Similarly, Rhaenys and the Sea Snake disregarded Rhaenyra from the start. Even when she was still the heir to the Iron Throne, they treated her like a placeholder and someone unworthy of their attention.
In the grand scheme of things, Rhaenyra has little meaning. She is a princess who is meant to be married off and remain on the outskirts of the ruling dynasty. Why bother currying the favour of someone who has no political value?
Daemon nods but doesn’t say anything. If he notices the anger and resentment clouding Rhaenyra’s gaze, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he downs his wine before reaching for the flagon to refill his and Rhaenyra’s cups. She sends him a grateful smile before grabbing her drink. “I believe I’ve talked long enough. I was promised war stories, uncle. Don’t think I forgot.”
The corners of Daemon’s lips twitch. “Are you so eager to hear about blood and gore, darling? Battlefield does not make a pleasant background for tales.”
Rhaenyra meets her uncle’s gaze. “The court is also a form of battlefield. It might not be drenched in blood and carnage, but you might get wounded here or even killed. Political death is less final, true, but when you’re abandoned and disregarded by everyone, what is left for you?”
Daemon’s scoffs. The smile on his lips becomes sharp, making Rhaenyra’s heart skip a beat. She feels like she’s now seeing Daemon’s most dangerous side. That smile is the last thing Daemon’s enemies see before they are cut down, she imagines, and though any sane person would tremble in fear, Rhaenyra is even more intrigued.
“That is where you’re wrong, princess,” he says quietly. “When you have nothing to lose, you become the deadliest version of yourself. You are free to do what you want, invisible, a shadow in the darkness who takes out the enemies one by one.”
“Interesting approach,” Rhaenyra hums. Feigning indifference, she kicks off her silk slippers and stretches her toes towards the fire roaring in the hearth. But while her eyes are fixed on the gold and red tongues licking the logs, she ponders Daemon’s words. He is not incorrect. Rhaenyra has never had as much freedom as was handed to her on the day the succession had been changed.
No one cares what she does or tries to use her in their plots. No one attempts to undermine her. Even her father doesn’t limit her freedom; although Rhaenyra has tried many times to get his attention, he remains disinterested. She might disregard the rules, spurn nobles and act like a brat, but the king does nothing to put a stop to it. He’s indifferent.
As if I don’t matter to him at all, Rhaenyra thinks, sadness creeping into her heart. Perhaps that is the crux of the matter. She has more freedom than any other woman, be it a princess or a peasant, but she would still trade some of it for her father’s affection.
Daemon clears his throat, bringing her out of her musings. He wears a strange expression on his face – one Rhaenyra can’t decipher. When he has her attention, he takes a sip from his cup before smiling. “Well, everyone knows I could never deny you anything, niece. You want war stories? Well, make yourself comfortable then, for it’s been a long war, and I have many tales to tell.”
Grateful for the distraction he offers, Rhaenyra sinks deeper into the pillows and fixes his eyes on her uncle. She does not want to think about matters that make her sad or bitter, and why would she? Why ponder on difficult subjects when she can admire her handsome uncle instead?
For another hour or two, Daemon regales her with tales of battle and glory. She is old enough to know he exaggerates some things and makes the war look cleaner and more exciting than it probably was, but she doesn’t care. She has always enjoyed hearing him talk, and just like many times before, Rhaenyra loses herself in the sound of his voice. He describes his heroic deeds in great detail, listing off all the battles he won and naming important generals of the opposing side whom he slayed. He speaks about men who fought by his side and what they did between the battles.
Rhaenyra misses some details of his stories, for she is too distracted by his lips. Perhaps it’s the wine or the new, intense feelings blooming in her belly, but she can’t help but wonder how soft Daemon’s lips must be.
When he speaks about his duel with the Crabfeeder, Rhaenyra caresses her neck, imagining Daemon’s lips tracing shapes on her sensitive skin.
Time passes in a blink. It has always been like that with Daemon around. Even when she was a girl and her mind was completely innocent, Daemon’s stories always appeared too short. Now, with new fantasies filling her head, time seems to pass even quicker.
Much too soon to Rhaenyra’s liking, Daemon downs his wine and moves to stand up.
She sits up. “You have not finished the story,” she accuses him. The battle during which Daemon killed the Crabfeeder happened almost five years ago, and it was not the end of the war. The Sea Snake left the Stepstones, but Daemon remained and continued fighting. “I want to know what happened next.”
He smirks at her. “I should leave a few tales for another day. How else am I going to convince you to spend time with me, princess?”
Rhaenyra bites her lip. “I’m sure you would have found a way.”
“Of course,” he agrees, tipping his head slightly toward her. “But it’s good to always have an excuse to strike up a conversation with a pretty girl.”
Since she likes his answer, Rhaenyra decides not to argue anymore. She stands up and escorts him to the door. His hand reaches for the doorknob when an idea pops into Rhaenyra’s head. With a mischievous smile on her lips, she steps to her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his cheek. Because of the height difference, her lips land just at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you for the story, uncle. Sleep well,” she whispers.
For a heartbeat, Daemon seems lost in her gaze. He stands still, staring at her with his lips parted and eyes wide. Then he blinks, and a roguish smirk settles on his face. “You as well, princess. Sweet dreams.”
Rhaenyra is not sure if her dreams will be sweet, but she is almost certain Daemon will star in them.