Chapter Text
“You know no one will recognize us, you know it, you know—”
A swift jab in the ribs knocked the breath briefly from his lungs as the stable lad rounded the corner with an armful of hay. The boy was older than Aegon, gangly in that way that boys on the cusp of being young men were. It reminded Egg achingly of the one sibling who would have understood him in this instant. Instead, he was stuck waiting at a gloomy inn with his gloomy eldest brother, and the brother he’d never expected to have.
“M'lord,” the stable boy muttered at Daella with his eyes low. He shot a glance at Egg as he passed, meeting his eyes in a nearly conspiratorial way. Egg smiled at him weakly. The instant the boy was out of sight, Daella caught the sleeve of his rough spun tunic and shoved him into the stall that housed Palestone, Daeron’s finnicky mare that had been hard pressed to carry both him and Daella this far. The small horse that Egg had ridden had been sold the day prior, though Egg did not know if it was to pay for Daeron’s escapades or to prevent Egg from getting any ideas.
“I should not even be out here with you,” Daella said stiffly. Palestone snuffled at her, expecting, Egg knew, some sort of snack. Neither of them had thought to sneak out an apple or sugar cube for her, since Egg had fled the inn and Daella had stomped after him irritably. She had been more melancholy in the past few days than what was typical of his elder sister, but he attributed the melancholia to her dead septa.
“But you are,” Egg hissed, catching Palestone’s head and rubbing her snout as she nosed his tunic, “because you are just as bored as I am! Come on, you’re a boy now, anyway. I’ll bet if you roll in the mud, my tunic will look as fine on you as this old sack looks on me.”
“Roll in the mud yourself,” she retorted, scowling down at the silk-lined black ensemble that she had pulled from his own trunk. Her newly shorn hair was not nearly as dramatic as his own, though Egg doubted their father would see it that way, given that Daeron had cut it to her ears.
“If you are to cut his hair,” Daella had insisted, “you must cut mine as well! You don’t want us recognized, well, I don’t want people asking me stupid questions. I’ll have far more freedom as a boy.”
“But you’ve got the nicest hair!” Egg had objected. He had been excited when Daeron had suggested they shave his head. He had been fairly sober the night prior, perhaps in preparation for this task, and he had looked very guilty to suggest it. He hadn't a clue how the idea had filled Egg with a sudden and desperate delight, excitement shivering through him. He had not thought it something he could do, getting rid of his hair.
But fairly sober did not mean completely sober, and Daeron did not hear Egg’s objection at all as he studied Daella thoughtfully.
“More freedom as a boy,” Daeron had muttered. He’d huffed a disparaging laugh and slung his own hair back from his face. “Not a bad idea, actually. Though you’ll be taking the blame for it.”
“I’ll say I was scared of fleas,” Daella had said primly, sharing a glance with Egg, who had grinned at the thought. Oh, their father would not believe that, but there would be no stopping the three of them.
It was the happiest Daella had been since departing Summerhall. Their father had taken Rhae and departed earlier, to meet with their uncle and cousin with a united Targaryen entourage. Egg did not envy her. Travelling with their father and Aerion was worse than this endless boredom of inn-hopping and scraping Daeron off tavern tables. Egg knew that Daella wanted to be a boy because a few days prior they had been in a similar situation as tonight, Daeron slumped over a table, Egg and Daella left to wander the tavern. A man had grabbed Daella by her sleeve and said something about the lace trimming her gown, and Egg had bitten Daeron to wake him up.
He had spent the next three nights nearly sober. Egg knew he felt guilty. Guilty enough that he suffered the threat of the cloying sickness of sobriety, an ailment that only really seemed to affect Daeron. But he had tried, for Daella. Looking at Daella now, her dark hair wispy about her brow, she reminded Egg of a younger version of their cousins. She seemed so suddenly serious and sad, and he knew it was because she missed her septa, and because she missed Summerhall, but he had thought she would love to watch a tourney with him again. And she wore his clothes well. Probably better than him. But still, not even the playact had amused her, really.
“My Lord Prince, Aegon Targaryen!” he’d gasped, sweeping a bow that morning. Daeron had still been abed, and she had stood in Aegon’s stockings, staring at him blankly as he’d laughed at her. He had tried so hard to make her smile that he had rushed to her trunk and pulled one of her brilliant summer dresses from it, Dayne purple and embroidered with little beaded moonblooms, silver against the long, flowy sleeves. He had shimmied into it, and Daella had watched him silently as he tripped over the hem.
“You are hopeless,” she’d sighed, snatching him by the shoulder and whirling him around. Then she’d tied up the dress while he fidgeted before the mirror, grinning madly at the sight of himself, bald and bejeweled like a mummer, and Daella, a proper little prince down to her posture, which, maybe, was no different than how a proper little princess stood. When she had finished lacing him into her dress, she had briefly gripped his shoulders and rested her cheek against his head. “It feels weird.”
“Doesn’t it?” he’d asked eagerly, grinning up at her. “Touch it!”
Then she had rubbed his head, and he had gotten a real smile out of her.
“You’d make a better me than me,” she’d said, glancing back at the mirror, her hand perched upon his head. She was only a year older, but she was tall for her age. They were as physically different as a brother and sister could possibly be.
“Back at you,” Egg had snorted, shoving her shoulder and earning a shove back. “Father would lose his senses if he saw this.”
“Is that not why it’s fun?”
Egg looked at her now, her expression pinched from irritation, and he wondered why she did not see it the way he saw it.
“Listen to me,” he said, hushing Palestone softly. “Listen. We are close enough to Ashford. You know the mood Daeron’s in, he won’t even realize we’re gone—”
“I won’t leave him like this!” Daella’s eyes flashed at him in genuine dismay. “He’s—it’s stupid, yes, alright, it’s stupid and—and infuriating, Egg, but he needs us.”
“Because we’re supposed to be taking care of him?” Egg demanded. Daella flinched. “Father left you behind because you told him that you preferred that Daeron take you to the tourney. Otherwise you’d be picking spiders out of your hair with Aerion right now, or worse, you’d be playing septa for Rhae.”
“Shut up,” Daella breathed, paling considerably. “It’s not—it’s not that bad, putting up with Rhae. You just don’t have patience for her.”
“I have lots of patience!” Egg objected, flushing at the insinuation. “Perhaps it is simply that I dislike being spied on and whispered about and nearly poisoned—”
“She just wants to know you.” Daella scowled at him. “She tells me that she’s jealous of me all the time, because you and Aemon like me best, but I can’t help it if we’re closer in age.”
“She also thinks you’re going to marry me.”
“That won’t happen.” Daella stared down at him, and he stared back miserably. It wouldn’t happen. But it had been mentioned twice in front of them. In front of the whole family. Aerion’s reaction had been enough that Egg shuddered and shrugged Daella off when she touched his shoulder.
Their father didn’t want that. He had told them he did not want that.
“Egg,” Daella whispered, “I love you, but I would slit my own throat before marrying you. No offense.”
His jaw worked at itself as his throat grew tight, and he knew he would cry, and she would feel guilty.
“You should go make sure Daeron’s not drowning in his own sick,” he muttered. He did not look at her, but he knew he was hurting her, and he wondered if it was all they knew how to do. Did Targaryen madness, the flip of the coin, also extend to love and hate? Could he not love his family and loathe them all? Even Daella, even Daeron, even Aemon, who were good and kind to him, so often showed him a face that made him hate to look at them and hate to look at himself.
“Alright.” Daella chewed on her lip, clearly fighting her own tears. They avoided talking about it, but every time someone brought it up, it made things between them feel brittle and hopeless and impossible. Whenever Egg thought about it, he got it into his mind that he should never speak to Daella or Rhae again, and that would show them all that there was just no way he could marry one of his sisters.
And right now, he did not want to look at Daella at all. Even as a boy.
“Go,” Egg huffed, shooing her away. “I’m going to groom Palestone.”
Daella’s shoulders slumped in relief that he had a plan to perhaps cry over Palestone’s brushing, and she nodded eagerly.
“Don’t be long,” she murmured. “I… don’t want to be alone.”
“We should get you a knife.”
That made her smile. And it almost made him feel better.
Once she left him, he did as he said he’d do and groomed the lovely, temperamental mare that Daeron lovingly fed and constantly neglected. It hadn't always been like this, Egg knew. He remembered a time when Daeron would join them in the stables and find some small threads of happiness among the horses. But it had been a long time since Daeron had cared about anything at all, it seemed.
Sometime later, after he’d had a good cry and given Palestone a good brushing, he finished up polishing the leathers and mucking out the stall. He resolved to get the mare an apple and apologize to his sister for making things unpleasant. There was no reason to worry about it, because their father had told them that they had no reason to worry. It would be wasteful to throw away two viable alliances on an antiquated tradition.
He went to wash his hands and face in the stream nearby, and when he returned, he found himself staring down a very tall man with three horses, looking a bit bewildered as he nodded down at him.
Daella had been mopping up the wine around her brother’s head when the tall man came in. She had instinctively lowered her eyes before remembering that she was a boy, and she quickly glanced at him again. Tall, shaggy looking, and smelly. Though, she supposed, that probably described Daeron well enough at this point. The man inclined his head at her respectfully, and she was surprised, though she realized she shouldn’t be. What would a man do now? Speak? Septa Jana would have disapproved, but Septa Jana was dead, and Daella was a boy.
“Are you a knight?” Daella demanded. The innkeep, a plump woman named Minnie who had given Daella and Egg warm custard tarts that afternoon, shot her an amused glance. She was the only one who knew she was a girl, the only one who had seen her in her muddy dress the night prior.
“Er,” the man said, a flush about his cheeks as he blinked and then nodded firmly. “I am.”
“Really?” Daella’s eyes flickered over him curiously. He must have been quite poor. She could not say so, it would be rude, but she wanted to point it out. Perhaps he was down on his luck.
“Yes,” the man hissed, “really!”
“Your belt is…” Daella bit her tongue as the man flushed deeper red as he thumbed his rope belt. “Do you need a new one? We could certainly spare it—”
“No, no!” The knight took a deep breath as Minnie shook her head and told him to sit where he liked. Daella sighed and went back to mopping up Daeron’s mess, listening to the innkeep and knight speak about the tourney that they were all stalwartly avoiding. Then she offered the soiled rag to Minnie.
“Don’t worry about that, dear,” she said sympathetically, taking the rag and tossing onto a bar behind her. “I’m sure you get enough of cleaning up after this one.”
“Only sometimes,” Daella said quickly. “I know he’s had too much tonight, and I apologize—”
“I dreamed of you.”
Daella turned slowly to gaze back at her eldest brother. He was sweating through his velvet robe, his hair sticking to his cheeks and brow from both sweat and spilled wine. He pulled a knife, and Daella gasped, causing Daeron’s dazed eyes to flicker to her confusedly.
“Val?” Daeron shook his head furiously, his fingers flexing toward her, and she went to his side and took his arm, slinging it over her shoulder. “You got small again, Val. Should I be small, too? That’d be nice—don’t look at him! Stay away from us, you understand?”
“I’m sorry, ser,” Daella gasped, gripping the damp, stained folds of Daeron’s red robe. “He’s not feeling himself tonight. He doesn’t mean it.”
“I bloody well do,” Daeron muttered, swaying against her. “I—oh, I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Outside.” Daella pushed him toward the door, probably a bit too harshly, but she did not want Daeron’s room to smell even more of sick than it already did. She got him out the door and released him, watching him double over and vomit noisily into the nearest bush. “Daeron. Can this be enough? Can we go to the tourney now?”
Daeron continued to dry heave, and Daella covered her nose with the collar of Egg’s linen undershirt. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. It wasn’t fair. Egg was right. She did want to go to the tourney. She had wanted it to be exciting and wonderful, and she wanted to sit beside her brothers and watch Aerion lose horribly to Valarr, and she wanted to meet Gwin Ashford and wish her a very happy name day, and ask her who she thought the handsomest knight was, and tease her if she picked any of the princes, because that seemed like the thing to do, with other ladies. And then she could teach Rhae to conduct herself politely, and dance with a squire, and secretly, very secretly, duel with Egg.
Only now she looked like a boy. She had asked Daeron to chop off all her hair, in solidarity with Aegon, and now it seemed unlikely anyone would want to dance with her. Should she be glad for that? She dreaded dancing, most days, especially when forced to dance with Aemon or Aegon for lessons. Aemon was an incredible dancer, lively and meticulous, and that often made Daella look clumsy, while Aegon simply did not care enough to pay attention, and he usually stepped on her feet. And the dread came from other things, too. But Septa Jana was dead, so lessons were over until they could replace her. Their father had cursed his luck at the septa’s ill-timed bout of what was, according to Summerhall’s maester, a sudden and acute stopping of the heart. Daella had told Rhae to stop bringing the salamanders in jugs, since they liked to leap to other things. She did not blame Rhae for it. At least, not in front of their father.
“Dae,” Daella murmured. He had slumped over. “Dae, I’m cold. Let’s go back inside.”
He was asleep again. Daella stood there, a cold anger swooping over her. She wiped her tears furiously. She prodded his back with Egg’s boot. She wanted to dig her toes into his spine and pop it loose.
“Get up,” she gasped. “Let’s go!”
But he did not listen or stir. He was face down in the dirt, narrowly having missed his own puddle of vomit.
She took a deep breath. An idea had struck her, but Daeron would be furious at her.
Well, she thought, it only serves him right!
Daella marched back into the inn and found the big knight sitting at a table, tearing into a leg of mutton. She stood behind him a moment, lingering awkwardly, trying to formulate the correct words to ask him politely for this favor. And then she recalled that she was a boy!
“Ser,” she called. The knight glanced back at her with wide eyes. He dropped his mutton leg and wiped the grease onto his trousers, his head bobbing as he swallowed and bowed it in acknowledgment. “I need help. My brother is asleep outside, and I cannot move him on my own.”
“Er…” The man’s eyes darted toward the door. “Your brother. Who threatened me with a knife only just…?”
“Yes, that one.” Daella rolled her eyes. “He’s asleep, he won’t hurt you. I’ll take his knife, if that makes you feel safer. But I can’t let him sleep outside. Someone might—steal him, or kill him, or—or—there are many terrible things that can happen to a person, you know, if they are not careful. And my brother is never careful.”
“I’ve slept outside more times than I can count, m’lord,” the man said gently, “and I’ve never been much worse off for it. But I will help, certainly, yes. Please don’t cry.”
Daella turned away sharply and swiped at her eyes again. She wished Egg were here. He was better with his words. And Daeron was, too, when he wasn’t drunk. She used to be better with them, but Septa Jana had told her that the gods did not favor young ladies who spoke what was on their minds so often. Rhae had told Septa Jana, in turn, that the gods probably did not favor her, as all she did was speak to them what was on her mind.
She missed her sister. And her brothers. Part of her even missed Aerion. At least he would have been able to bring Daeron to bed, and she would not need to ask this stranger for help.
“He’s just here,” she said, leading the knight out and crouching beside Daeron. She pushed him over and pulled his knife from his belt, holding it up to the knight and stepping back. “Thank you. I’m sorry he said those things to you. He just gets like this sometimes.”
The knight was quiet. He made it look easy, the way he plucked Daeron off the ground and threw him over his shoulder. They both slipped back inside.
“What did he mean?” the knight asked as Daella led him to Daeron’s room. “He said he dreamed of me.”
Daella licked her dry lips and listened to the floorboards creak beneath Egg’s boots. They were too tight on her, but all her shoes were plainly girlish, even her traveling ones. She only had her small trunk, for her father had taken the rest of her things with the family. She had not thought she would need very many clothes, since they were supposed to get to Ashford Meadow before the rest of them, given how light and small they’d travelled. Even leaving days after afforded them more speed. But she was sure that her family would be there now.
“M'lord…?”
“It’s nothing,” Daella said quickly, pushing open Daeron’s door and squinting into the dark. “Give me a moment, ser, let me light some candles.”
The knight waited silently as Daella fumbled with the tinderboxes. She took a deep breath as she managed to light one, and she took the candle and lit a few more with it. Cupping it in hand, she turned to face the knight.
“Where should I…?” the man asked uncertainly.
“The bed,” Daella said, watching the man duck and shuffle forward, visibly wincing when he dropped Daeron onto his bed. Daeron groaned softly. “Thank you.”
“Sorry…” The man rubbed the back of his neck. “He should be watching out for you, y’know. Not the other way around.”
Daella’s mouth was dry as she smiled and nodded.
“Here, ser.” She tore one of Daeron’s belts from the floor, discarded with some of his dirty laundry, and she marched up to the knight and thrust the leather into his hand. “Take this as payment.”
“I don’t need—!” the man squawked.
“I insist!” Daella really just wanted to steal something of Daeron’s, and it was only fair. “It’s good leather. You’ll likely need a good belt. For the tourney?”
“Oh. Yes. I suppose so…”
“Exactly.” She nodded at him, and he nodded back. “Good luck, then. I suppose I won’t be seeing you.”
“You two aren’t headed for the tourney?” the knight asked confusedly.
“I think my brother would fall off his horse before he even got the chance to join the lists,” Daella said dryly.
“You are his squire, then?”
Daella was surprised by the question, until she remembered yet again who she was supposed to be, and she nodded fiercely.
“Yes,” she said. The thought filled her with genuine joy and pride before that thought expanded and popped like a soapy bubble and filled her with dread. “I… wish we could go, but I don’t think it will happen. I wish you all the best, though. Perhaps you will knock down a landed lord. Or even a prince!”
“Oh,” the man laughed sheepishly, rubbing his neck, “that would be… well, perhaps I will see you, y’know. He may yet sleep off this night and be ready to compete by the time the tourney starts.”
“I hope so.”
The man smiled and nodded. He shifted from foot to foot awkwardly.
“Well,” he said, raising he hand and waving. Then he flushed and bowed. “Goodnight, then, m’lord. Thanks, for… you know.” He held the belt up with a shrug.
“Yes, ser. Goodnight.”
When he was gone, Daella stood in Daeron’s room and listened to him snore softly. She stood a long while. And then she felt small and silly, and also guilty for giving away his belt, though he would never notice it gone, and so she began to gather his clothing from the floor. She folded it and placed it in his trunk. Then she went to the bed and sat down upon it. She poked Daeron’s cheek.
“Dae-Dae.” It was what Rhae called him, but Daella knew that Egg had called him that first, and that she, too, had called him that, and that she must have heard it from Aemon, who had maybe heard it from Aerion. It was hard to know who had owned Dae-Dae first. And Daeron looked sick and young now. She pushed him by the forehead. He rolled onto his side, smacking his lips and batting her away. “Dae… I just want to go home now. We could do that, couldn’t we?”
But Daeron was drunk and asleep, and Daella was alone. She slipped off the bed and returned to the room she shared with Egg. To her surprise, he was not there. Was he still in the stables? Daella paced, irritated and filled with dread. She wanted to go to sleep, but she didn’t want to sleep alone. Still, Egg would probably be back soon. He likely wanted to be alone, and she did understand that. So she got into her nightgown and climbed into bed. It was cold and lumpy, and she tossed and turned for a long time. Nervous, she got up, pulled on Egg’s boots, and went down to the innkeep. But there was no one there.
“Egg?” she whispered into the dark, holding a candle aloft.
She shouldered the door open and went to the stables. She was relieved to see Palestone was still in her stall. Egg had groomed her and mucked the stall out. So, where was he? She looked in every stall, but she was just as alone as before.
A cold realization came over her as she stood there in the dark, clutching a candle stub to her chest.
Egg was gone.
She ran back into the inn, rushing up the steps and throwing Daeron’s door open.
“Wake up,” she gasped, setting the candle on the bedside table and jumping onto the bed, shaking Daeron desperately. “Wake up, Daeron, wake up!”
“Gods…” Daeron groaned, shoving her off the bed. “Go away. Go put the fire out. Put it out now.”
“Daeron, Egg is gone!” Daella’s tears blinded her. “He’s gone, and it’s all my fault!”
“Shh…” Daeron’s eyes rolled as he tried to open them. “Mm. What? Dae-Dae, did you have a nightmare? Come here.”
“Daeron,” Daella breathed, trying not to get angry and finding herself completely devastated as her brother reached for her, unable to pick himself up, but clearly thinking he might pick her up. Exhausted and frightened, she kicked off Egg’s boots and climbed onto the bed beside him. “Egg is missing. I don’t know where he is.”
Daeron was quiet. He blinked slowly.
“Bad dream,” he said firmly.
“Dae, it’s not a dream,” Daella whispered.
“When we wake up,” Daeron mumbled, “you’ll see. Bad dream. It’s not true. Say it won’t be true, Val.”
“I am not Valarr,” Daella hissed at him, smacking her hand down upon his forehead and forcing him to look up at her. “You recognized me. You called me Dae-Dae. Only you call me Dae-Dae. I am your sister, and you are supposed to be taking care of me and Egg!”
“Yes, yes,” Daeron gasped. “You and Egg. You’re safe. We’ll stay here, and we’ll be safe. Oh, Dae, your hair… did I do that…?”
“Don’t go back to sleep!” Daella shook him fiercely. He groaned. “Daeron, please, please, Egg is missing!”
“Not true,” Daeron whispered, “bad dream. Sleep here… in case.”
“All your dreams are bad, Daeron,” Daella whispered. “None of us ever made them better. But this isn’t a dream.”
“They never are, are they…?” Daeron smiled at her. And then he was asleep again.
And Daella wept. She wept into the pillow, curled up against her brother’s side, and after a long time of whimpering, she fell asleep.
The ride to Ashford Meadow was boring and stuffy. Rhae had to ride in the litter, even though she could fit on her father’s horse, and when they made stops, she wasn’t allowed to wander from camp. When she had gone to the stream to look at the fish, Aerion had pushed her in, so she’d gathered leeches and put them in his bedding.
“Rhae,” her father said the next morning, just as they began to approach Ashford Meadow. She had been hiding in a tree from Aerion and had spotted the Targaryen banners coming toward them. Her cousins! “Rhae, get down here. I know you can hear me.”
She kicked off her slipper and whipped it at her father’s head.
“Rhae!”
She climbed up higher. She had no interest in apologizing to Aerion, who had gotten mud all over her pretty dress. Well, more mud. Before it had just been the hem, and nobody noticed when the hem got muddy except Septa Jana.
At some point, her father must have gone away. She wondered if she could just stay in this tree and not go to the stupid tourney. It wasn’t fair. She should have been allowed to stay at Summerhall by herself, or at least with Daeron and Daella and Aegon. Or someone could have called Aemon back from maester school to stay with her, and he’d read her stories and steal jam tarts with her. Or she could have gone to King’s Landing and stayed with family there.
But instead, she was bored and stuck with the worst of her siblings. Aerion didn’t even know how to make it a game, he was so boring!
The branches beneath her swayed. She could hear the leaves rustling. She squeaked and pulled up her feet as a young man appeared before her, his hands grasping at the branch that held her.
“Hello, Rhae,” Valarr breathed, smiling at her gently, “would you mind terribly to share your branch with me?”
Rhae blinked at him. She nodded eagerly, smiling as he lifted himself up and sat down gingerly beside her, propping his boots up on the branch beneath them.
“Good hiding spot,” he murmured.
“You have leaves in your hair,” she replied.
“So do you.” He plucked at her crown, and she swatted his hands away.
“They’re meant to be there.” She rolled her eyes. “I put them there. I’m the Queen of Love and Beauty. Obviously. Cousin, did my father tell you to come up here?”
“I offered.” Valarr sighed and shook his head, staring out through the foliage and remaining silent for a while. Rhae plucked at the sleeve of her dress. The maids they’d brought along kept making her wear simple dresses, and she did not understand it. They were all solid colors with no embroidery or beading, and none of it was pretty. “Rhae, you know your father is trying is best.”
“Okay…”
“He’s speaking to your brother now.” Valarr closed his eyes and then rubbed them. “You put leeches in his bed?”
“He pushed me,” Rhae hissed, “into the water! And he’s done worse, anyway. He fed me a rat from the kitchen and told me it was chicken just a few weeks ago. And he makes Egg cry. And Dae. Daella, not Daeron, but Daeron cries too, just when he thinks no one is looking. Valarr, I’m not scared of him. He’s not a dragon, like he says he is, he’s just bigger than me, and that’s not scary. Most things are bigger than me. Except salamanders.”
“Most things don’t have the temper that Aerion has,” Valarr reminded her gently.
“I have a temper, too,” Rhae said, scowling, “but no one says to be scared of me. But they should be. I’m blood of the dragon too, and so are you. We can be just as scary. So I put leeches in his bed. If he does it back to me, I’ll find more crawling things.”
“No, please,” Valarr said in a small voice, “no more crawling things. Your father is speaking to Aerion, so I think this argument will be over, and you needn’t hide.”
“Oh, Cousin,” Rhae said, reaching over and patting his head fondly, “you don’t spend enough time with my brother. He is going to find something to make me miserable. I just need to figure out what I shall do to him in return.”
“Perhaps you should stay with me and my father at our encampment,” Valarr said quickly, smiling at her in a way that made her smile back, big and bright.
“Really?” she asked eagerly. “With you and Kiera and Uncle Baelor?”
“Yes.” Valarr nodded, looking relieved. “Yes, I think Uncle Maekar would approve of that. Let’s go down and ask him.”
“Okay!”
She climbed onto his back at his ushering, and he carefully climbed down the tree. Then he carried her back to camp. She rested her chin on his head as she watched her father march up to them.
“Rhae,” he gasped, reaching for her. She scowled and twisted away from him. “Rhae, please—”
“I’m staying with Uncle Baelor at the tourney,” she declared.
“Rhae, we need your father’s permission,” Valarr said in a tight voice. Her father glanced at him with a furrowed brow. “Uncle, I think perhaps Rhae should spend some time with us and away from certain aggravators that might turn her mood for the worse. Don’t you agree?”
“I do not.” Her father’s eyes darted to her desperately. She scowled down at him. “Rhae, Aerion will not bother you again. I have spoken to him—”
“I am going to spend time with Kiera,” she said firmly. “I haven’t seen her since my name day, and I want to be with her. You wouldn’t let me go with Dae and Egg and Dae-Dae. I’m here with stupid Aerion and stupid you.”
“Rhae!” Valarr set her down suddenly, and she glared up at him, daring him to refute her. “You mustn’t speak to your father that way!”
“She doesn’t know how to speak to anyone, Cousin. It’s her way, you know, always disrespecting her elders, never once thinking of consequences—”
“Speak for yourself!” Rhae snapped at Aerion as he slinked beside their father, smiling down at her in that simpering way that he often did when he pretended to be sorry in front of him. “Father, I want to go with Valarr!”
“And if you conducted yourself,” her father barked at her, “in a manner that was befitting of your rank, station, and age, well, perhaps I would let you spend the tourney with the Prince of Dragonstone! But as it happens, you have done nothing to prove to me that you are even remotely prepared to manage yourself in the way of a proper young princess! Hells, girl, you have leaves in your hair, and I have not seen you without mud about your skirts since we left Summerhall!”
“It’s muddy,” Rhae huffed, kicking said mud onto her father’s boots and grinning as his expression turned suddenly wroth. Then, as he often did with Rhae, but never the others, he stared at her with softening eyes and turned his face away. “Father, please, I’ll be so good, I’ll be a proper princess, as you’ve said, and I won’t speak poorly. I’ll be just like Dae.”
“Replace the salamander with a mouse,” Aerion drawled. Their father cuffed him on the ear, and Rhae smiled up at him brightly.
“So I can go?” she asked eagerly.
“No.”
Rhae yelped as her father scooped her up and set her on his hip. She twisted and wriggled, but he squeezed her so close she could scarcely breathe.
“Uncle,” Valarr objected.
“Peace, Valarr. I appreciate it, I do, but you know it is a horrible idea.” Rhae settled against him, meeting his eyes and seeing that he looked sad. She was too big to be held like this, but never too big for her father’s arms. Still, she blamed Aerion. She was sure that if he had not been here, she could have twisted her father’s heart her way. Aerion always ruined everything! “Unfortunately, my second daughter is not nearly as dignified as the first, and she will doubtless cause you and your father a headache.”
Rhae was silent as she reflected on Daella, who was not here, and still did it all perfectly.
When she glanced at Valarr, he was staring at her. She stared back at him pleadingly. And all he did was bow his head.
“Yes, Uncle,” he said quietly.
Coward.
And so she remained by her father’s side. All day, in fact. He told her in no small words to be silent, or she would not be allowed to sit with Aegon and Daella at the tourney, and would instead be situated beside him for the whole thing. She did not think he wanted that, but then, it was hard to tell. Sometimes her father wanted her beside him more than he wanted anyone else, and then other times he could scarcely look her in the eyes.
“Enough of this petty feud with Aerion,” her father said after she had performed her part and stood like a statue in front of her uncle while the men had talked boring jousting terms that Daella and Egg would have gone mad for. She wished they were here. “He is bigger than you, and you invite disaster whenever you play these terrible tricks.”
“He plays tricks too,” Rhae reminded him. “Why is it only wrong when I do it?”
“It is wrong of him, too.” Her father groaned and ran his hand down his face. “We must be moving. We’ll be at Ashford Meadow within the hour. If you can conduct yourself as you have shown me that you can, quietly, properly, with the obedience of a young lady, then I will consider allowing you into Valarr’s wife’s care for at least a bit of the tourney. But you must prove to me that you can, Rhae. No more climbing and muddying up dresses and digging leeches out of rivers and sticking them in your brother’s bed—”
“He deserved that.” Rhae met her father’s eyes, and they watched each other grimly. “You know he’s done worse. To me, sometimes, but mostly to Egg. And Dae. And Aemie.”
“Aegon has spoken to me about the cat.” Her father frowned deeply as he glared down at nothing in particular. He looked distinctly revolted. “Daella never tells me anything, so it is news to me that Aerion has harassed her. Has she… divulged any information to you?”
“He beat her with Egg’s training sword when he caught her with it a few weeks ago.” Rhae stared at their father’s face and watched it remain unmoved. He’d known, she realized. He’d known that she hadn’t fallen down the stairs. “She won’t say what he says to her to me. You’ll have to ask. I just know he scares her, and Egg, and I won’t let him scare me.”
“Enough.” Her father placed a hand on her head and then quickly released it. He took a shaky breath. “You may ride your own horse into the tourney grounds. If you like.”
For the first time since leaving Summerhall, Rhae looked up at her father in pure adoration, and she flung her arms around his waist and squeezed him tight.
It had all been going very well, riding her own horse, watching the bannermen around her, until something crashed heavily behind them into the stream. Shouts and screams floated forward through the ranks, and she saw her father and uncle sidle up to each other to commiserate. She sat upon her pony, craning her neck to get a better look at the crash. A cart had been detached from a horse, and the cargo was all over the road.
She realized quickly exactly what cart that had been.
“Rhae!” her father cried in dismay and frustration as she jumped from her pony and ran for the creek.
Sliding down the bank, she slowed down at the sight of her over turned trunk. The leather straps had broken open, and her clothing and shoes were littered across the muddy incline. A chemise was caught upon a mossy rock, shivering against the bobbing current. She ignored it and grabbed hold of her trunk, using all her strength and righting it, though not before toppling onto her backside. She fumbled to get the trunk back open, and the belts fell into her hands, slippery and cleanly sliced in half. She stared at the cut leather, a fury like no other flooding her. She pushed it away as she shoved the trunk open and dug around the remnants of her silk gowns.
It wasn’t there.
“No,” she gasped, gripping the lip of the trunk and looking around the bank of the creek helplessly. “No, no, no…”
She scrambled to her feet, sliding along her personal possessions, tears in her eyes as she kicked over rocks and dug in the silt. She saw a curled piece of wood jutting out between two stones in the steam. They were slippery with moss, and she splashed into the water several times before snatching the dark painted wood and wiggling it free.
It was the remains of what had been a small, curling tail. Painted black with a single red stripe running down it. The red-backed salamander figurine had been a bit too big to make a pendant, so she had wrapped it in her stockings and resolved to find a way to make it into a bit of less conventional jewelry, such as a brooch. But the wood carving as gone now. Crushed.
“Father! Father, I found her!”
A pair of hands snatched her from the creek, and she shouted in shock and horror as she was lifted into Aerion’s arms. He carried her up the muddy bank, hefting her beneath his arm like she was a very large sack of barley. She kicked at him, and he pinched the inside of her arm so hard she screamed into her hand.
“Don’t forget,” Aerion hissed in her ear, “you’re meant to act as a proper princess. You are blood of the dragon, Rhae, not blood of the salamanders.”
“Aemon made me that,” Rhae whispered, tears on her cheeks as she clutched the tail of the splintered woodcarving to her chest.
“Perhaps Aemon should have made himself a toad to match your salamander.” Aerion snorted at her derisively, dropping her into her father’s arms without much effort as she gaped at him. “What a mess! Who belted that trunk in? We should have them flogged—oh, she’s alright, Father, just wet.”
“My salamander,” Rhae whispered, watching her father’s eyes flicker over her damp, ruddy face in horror. “Papa, my salamander, it’s—look at it—!”
“Are you hurt?” her father demanded, cupping the back of her head and shaking her furiously. She swallowed her words about her perfect red-backed salamander figurine. She had never caught a red-backed salamander. She and Aemon had read about them in a book, and he had carved the figurine before leaving for Oldtown. It had been the nicest thing any of her siblings had ever done for her.
“No,” she croaked, blinking down at the tail in her hands, “but my salamander—!”
“Oh, fuck the salamander, Rhae, give that to me!”
“No!” A sob bubbled up out of her and she threw her head onto his shoulder. “I want to go home! I want to go home!”
Her father clutched at her like he thought she might splinter away, like her figurine. He clutched at her the way she clutched at the remnants of the tail Aemon had carved for her. He turned her face into his neck and let her sob into his finery, and though she did not see her cousins and uncle, she knew he must have passed by them. She was shaking and gasping for air when he set her upon his horse. She could not hear what he said to her uncle when he came riding beside them, not over her own hiccupping breaths.
“Rhae.”
She lifted her damp face toward her cousin’s wife. Kiera was, Rhae thought, the most beautiful woman in the world. She had a round, warm face, and the prettiest hair, a soft and wonderful shade of pink that always curled so perfectly, even when she did not set it in pins. Now she looked radiant in the warmth of the sun, her eyes darting over Rhae’s face.
“I have spoken to the driver of that cart,” Kiera said softly, “and it seems your sister’s trunk was undamaged. I have found a suitable dress for you, and if you would like to join me in the litter, I will help you into it.”
“Thank you, Kiera,” her father said, hopping onto the horse behind Rhae, “but she will be riding with me until we reach the tourney grounds. Once we have arrived, though, I would appreciate such help greatly.”
“I don’t want one of Daella’s dresses,” Rhae lied. Daella had the finest dresses, she knew. Being elder and more marriageable made it so. Though she did not have the Targaryen hair or eyes. She didn’t even have Dayne purple eyes. She had Martell eyes, dark and gloomy. Rhae knew she was prettier, and she thought Daella probably knew it, too.
“Enough, Rhae.” Her father placed his hand on her head, and she could feel him seem to physically give up something as he leaned down and kissed her hair. “Enough, you stupid girl.”
She realized it did not matter if she told him about the cut leather on her trunk, or the clear evidence on the tail of the salamander that it had been crushed purposefully. He would not punish Aerion. Not in any way that would matter. And Rhae was lucky, she knew, that he had taken it out on her things, and not her body, but she wished he hadn’t. A bloody nose and some bruises were better than losing any evidence that someone actually loved her.
As they rode to the tourney, Rhae glanced over her father’s shoulder once. Aerion met her eyes, cocked his head, and then turned his face forward as if she were as insignificant as a rat skittering under his foot.
Her father pushed her face forward, but he said nothing about where her eyes had landed, and she realized once again with crushing disappointment and rising fury that her father knew. He just did not care that Aerion had done it.
She did not speak. Not because she was a proper princess, but because she was clutching onto her rage as desperately as her father clutched onto her. Next time, she promised herself, she would make it count. And it would not be a game at all.