It is late autumn, early morning. Just how early is a mystery. It is cool in the godswood, mist drifting upward to sheathe the weirwood's bloodened visage as its leaves dance and loom over her. The cottonwood trees, tinged a shade of apricot, join in playfulness as a brisk gust sweeps through. Somewhere far off, she observes, the ringing of temple bells seems distant, and more so than usual.
She is alone in the garden, quietly contemplating the year's past events. Her mother had been taken from her, likewise her baby brother, Baelon. It is unfair, she thinks, and yet these cruelties dealt to her had served to teach a powerful lesson: It quelled her innocence.
A fortnight past since her ninth name day, yet the world already seemed so much clearer to her. Grand Maester Runciter had started her lessons of the histories and burdens sooner than the utterings of her first words. Keen and sprightly, she remembers his assessment of her. Wiser still, than her peers, and twofold beyond her years.
She found solace in her family's histories, reminding her, and making it painfully clear her own sufferings were no more unique than the shade of her long, platinum hair. Yes, she muses, suffering was a birthright, a treasure of her lineage.
Nobody ever came to this place anymore. Not even Alicent Hightower, since her consequential marriage to her father, Viserys I Targaryen. Their once amiable and oft close relationship had all but faded and become nothing more than a fond memory to her now. Indeed, she was much older than herself, and for that reason she served a higher cause. She was of age, she ponders, an age where duty overcomes personal interest. It was an age she herself was swiftly approaching, and not even the Seven themselves could halt.
And with the spring of her womanhood, blossomed new feelings and sensations which were so seldomly thought of, if she had ever considered them at all. She had grown half a head taller so quickly, her gentle curves defining themselves ever-so-slightly. Indeed, the changes were fresh and, in its birth; yet it was still utterly apparent to even herself, and others as well.
After her morning lessons with Grand Maester Runciter, she always found herself alone like this—though sometimes she wasn't. She thought herself abandoned by her father, and close friend, but her deft and sometimes-too-close uncle found himself within her proximity. And what a comfort he had been to her in this past year, and even before that. When she had first mounted Syrax, it was he who guided her through the soaring skies, coaxing her and bringing great relief when no one else bothered. When she poured upon the stories and histories of her great ancestors, she pictured him in her mind: He was bold and fearless, a Dragonlord and rider like herself. Sheathed and clung tightly at his hip was the vaunted blade, Dark Sister, its mere presence instilling feelings of greatness and pride of family in her. Never had she seen it wrest from its sheathe, and it filled with her with a childlike wonder reflecting her age. And now, he has filled the gaping hole in her heart born from the departure of her dearest mother.
Their relationship had filled with numerous wonderful colors, painting her bleak world much like the numerous rainbows she spied in the vistas over Aegon's hill. Their fondness of one another had already transcended their uncle-niece relation. It was something more, yet she was not so ready to assume it could give true life to her… fantasies. Young as she was, there was something about the histories, particularly that of The Old King and his sister, Alyssane Targaryen, which filled her with such feelings of wonder and amazement. She was wed to him so young, no more than of one-and-ten. Grand Maester Runciter wanted to overlook that innocent truth, but she knew better. Even in her infinite youth, she desired her life to mimic that of her forebearers. If only he knew, she laments, if only I wasn't so young as I am.
She wonders about her father often; how low he would think of her if he became privy of her salacious thoughts. It would be scandalous, she presumes, if the king's court knew the Princess of Dragonstone fancied after her uncle. Twice the sum of her age, it would be abhorrent indeed. Still, it was there, even in the absence of a father; the daughter in her dangling dangerously over a cliff, fastened by merely a thread. Yet she found herself not caring of any consequence, nor any other concern of dear import. Thus remained the painful fact her uncle was reluctant to pursue any real relationship with her. She was indeed too young for him, but it didn't stop her from desiring him any less.
Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Princess of Dragonstone, and heir to the Iron Throne—The Realms Delight, as she had been celebrated. Her titles, monikers, and other bestowals betrayed her sinister desires. The blood of the dragon filled her with life. It was in her very flesh and blood, the desire to be impetuous and take what she wants.
No, it was her birthright to desire him, she tells herself. It is my birthright, she repeats, and none shall take that from me.
She stretches her arms outward and falls backward onto the mossy floor of the godswood. Perhaps it was from dizziness, she muses, dizzy with excitement and failing miserably to keep her stony guise. She feels undignified, almost childlike. She hears whispers from the king's court about how her façade betrays no indication of her young years. Perhaps, for once, she is free and alone to reveal her true self.
And to that point she is alone. Gone are the Kingsguard who normally watch over her with all the stoicism of a statue. Of course they are, she thinks, because I sent them away.
She lets a small smile form in the corner of her lips. She loves this morning, even if she is alone, because even when alone she is left with the comfort of her thoughts. And so, she reaches out her senses—stretches her mind to hear the birds, to listen to the lesser winds, and even smell the blood red sap trickling down the weirwood tree.
She is wearing a golden dress fit for a Princess of Dragonstone. As much as she loves the colors of her esteemed House, she finds the brighter colors a perfect match for her alabaster skin and striking hair. In her hair is a white peony which she plucked earlier from the gardens of the godswood. It is perfect, she assumes, no doubt it would catch his eye.
On cue, she hears the opening and shuttering of doors—the ones which lead to the Great Hall. He loves this place too, she muses.
A lone pair of footsteps find themselves encroaching upon her. She knows who they belong to. Only one man would approach the Princess of Dragonstone without announcement.
She is not afraid of him, she feels. Quite the opposite, in fact. She has a small moment to wonder to herself, who is going to speak first?
"I saw you from the inner corridor," he says, quietly.
She sits up in response. His silky voice soothes her. In the common tongue, it's enough to assuage even the worst of her headaches, but when he speaks High Valyrian to her, and only her, she falls deeply under his spell. She wishes to hear it. To hear what he must share, and only to her. Her mind works like this. Her heart is racing, she feels.
With hands wound tightly behind her back, she whispers back, "Looking for me, were you Uncle?"
She makes a point to emphasize his relation to her. It was too forward, she feels. She's too young, she reminds herself, he's not interested.
He says nothing. Yet, she can see him eyeing the flower in her hair. A small smile graces his lips, but she doesn't notice.
Of course he's not interested, Rhaenyra thinks. She's nothing more than a child to him. It would be an affront to the crown—to her father, and the Seven Kingdoms itself if she acted upon her impulses.
She does not say that aloud. She says, "Nuncle, would you please help me up?"
She offers him her arm. He looks at her. His eyes of lilac narrow, brow furrowing beneath his wild mane of gold and silver. Her own eyes rest upon him almost expectantly—of what she does not know. He is dressed in the colors of their House, and from head to toe he is Targaryen, a living, breathing dragon in human form. He is the history books she so studiously pours over in her spare time, come to extravagant life. And yet, the lines in the corners of his eyes speak of some small measure of grief, though she knows not what spurred it.
In silence, Daemon bows. He offers his own arm, taking her by the forearm and placing his hand on the small of her back. His large hands could envelope her by themselves, his age and size far beyond her own, for she is but a child. This ever-prevalent fact bothers her not. All she can feel is the gentleness and tenderness of his touch, even innocent in its offering.
He says, "You look thin, Princess. Have you been eating?"
"My appetite has been thin as of late," she replies. Upright now, she looks up at him wondrously from her low position.
His hand, still on the small of her back, skitters across almost painfully slow until its warmth fades for good. She bemoans this but does not show it outwardly.
"Why?" he asks, almost suddenly. His left-hand rests on the pommel of Dark Sister. "Is that fool, Septon Eustace bothering you again? I warned him last time about his teachings. They dampen one's taste for… worldly things."
She finds herself shaking her head. "No, Uncle, that's not the reason why." She pauses, looks between her two feet. She clicks her heels together and continues, "Since the passing of mother, I haven't had much of an interest in those things. I've been studying hard with Grand Maester Runciter. He says I'm one of the smartest girls he's ever met!"
"Indeed, you are," Daemon agrees. He smiles wider and pats her on the head approvingly. "You have the blood of the dragon in you, Princess. Your maturity is without equal. Do remember you took claimant to Syrax shortly after your seventh name day. A young, wise, and daring dragonrider you are." He pauses, the sharp features of his face softening. "Wise, and beautiful," he finishes, in High Valyrian.
She finds herself in a dream. "Oh, Nuncle," Rhaenyra whispers amorously. She feels his fingers brush over her reddening cheek. The sensation of such a thing almost too much for her to process.
She regrets the way she uttered those words. It was more like a moan than anything. She's losing herself again, she realizes. Still doesn't care.
He pulls back his hand to rest again at his side. Toying Dark Sister with the other, he grins, says, "I brought something for you."
Pure elation courses through her. Her smile stretches almost from ear to ear. "Oh, wonderful! The Tyroshi cutlass you brought home last month; it's on display just above my bed."
"Is it now?" Daemon replies cheekily. He looks down at her, says, "Turn around."
Rhaenyra nods her head furiously and lets out a childish giggle. He brought that side of her out, the side of her which scarcely exists anymore. She regrets that fact, but cherishes these moments.
"I've found something special for you, Rhaenyra," he spoke softly.
The sound of him uttering her name enthralled her. He was close to her, closer than before she turned around. She never heard his footsteps, but the jingling of a small chain. Moments later she felt his hands brush over her neck, striking her with a chill. His touch had that effect on her.
"Here it is," he whispers, pushing her hair to the side.
Cool to the touch, the pendant and chain met with her ever-so-warming skin. Indeed, she grew unknowingly hot, her heart pounding heavy beneath her breast. Perhaps he could feel it, she wonders, perhaps he knows just what he does to her.
With the pendant around her neck, his hands fled from around her, giving her one last squeeze on the shoulders. Already the absence of his touch was felt. She wants him to embrace her again, closely, even more so than before. She desires that feeling of closeness she never once had.
He seems to come to another conclusion, though. He looks down at her with pride, whispers, "It's wonderful, perfect even. That jeweled pendant belonged to Queen Alyssane, gifted by the Old King himself on their wedding day."
In that moment, a fire lit inside Rhaenyra.
She touches the pendant near her breast. "It's Valyrian steel," she says, breathlessly. Famished lungs suck in another breath. "Thank you, Uncle."
"I just thought it would suit you," he says evenly.
Her listless digits toy with the bestowal. It's the sigil of her House, a three-headed red dragon. Gloriously adorned with jewels and set upon Valyrian steel, it brings a sense of wonder to her unlike any other.
She hadn't expected such a thing, not today. She meets his gaze as he stares proudly down at her from beneath the weirwood tree. A sense of pride is painted on his features, pride, and love.
They both fall silent. Mostly silence all around them now, as well, as the godswood rests just for them. With the winds settling, the birds quiet and tentative to their guests, Rhaenyra can only look upon her uncle with secret love.
She wishes to unsheathe that secret, much like Daemon unsheathes Dark Sister in his countless tourneys and other adventures he plays with. His life is adventure, a ballad of fire and blood. It is not easy, she thinks, to keep such feelings deep within myself.
And this man is twice her age, and then some. She reminds herself of her young stature, remembering that yes, she is indeed a child. What kind of love could he have for a child like herself? Nothing like what she held for him; she assumes.
Take me to wife, she imagines herself saying. Of course, she doesn't utter such things allowed.
Instead, she heard him laugh, her reward. "You are unique, even for a Targaryen princess," Daemon says. "But Rhaenyra, you are growing quickly…" His tone has changed, she looks up at him, locking eyes. "Growing more beautiful by the day."
"Am I?" she asks.
He nods. "Always remember one thing, Princess," he says. "Even beautiful as you are, the world is expecting you to be weak. You must be strong. You will be strong."
His sincereness breaks her. She's short of breath, but finds some words. "I will be strong," she declares. "I must be, for mother and father… and for you, Uncle."
There. Said allowed for all to hear. Only one other did. Could she be anymore plain with her feelings? Perhaps not.
Perhaps she could confess to him everything right here and now. Here in the godswood, where king and queen have dwelled since the time of Aegon I. All her ancestors have walked before this weirwood tree, hand in hand as one, in unison and strength. They are watching her, she thinks, observing quietly, patiently.
"That's good," Daemon says abruptly. "Because I will be going away for a while, and I do not know when I will return."
She blinks at that. She doesn't believe what she's hearing. "What do you mean, Uncle?"
"I'm sorry, Rhaenyra," he replies quietly. A faint smile. "I have to go, but I will return, I promise."
Tears well up. She blinks them out and down they trickle. "W-Where are you going?" she asks, stuttering. It's hard to speak through the pain.
"Across the sea, for another adventure."
She feels chastened, blazing hot with love and consumed by sorrow. She doesn't know what to feel, but she holds his gaze as best she can. He sees her pain, she knows this. "I don't want you to go, Uncle. Please, stay here… with me. We can go riding, off together to one of your special places—the places where people can't see us."
He gives her another brief smile. "I leave before nightfall," he admits. "Caraxes is ready and waiting…"
Time stops for Rhaenyra. Suddenly, she is hugging him so tightly she may never let go. She barely reaches above his waist, but nevertheless she buries herself as hard as she can into his protective grasp. He's like a fortress for her, where she feels safe and under guard. She must stay with him.
She doesn't know it, but she's wailing like a child now. She likened herself to an adult, but it wasn't true. She was a child of nine, no more, and no less.
Daemon swallows hard. She hears this, hears him say, "I will never leave you, Rhaenyra. I will return as soon as I can, and I will bring you a great many gifts from across the Narrow Sea. And when you come of age, you will join me. We will cross it, together. I'll show you all there is to see."
"Don't go…" She is finding it difficult to speak through her sobs. "Take me with you, please."
He feels her love, she knows this. How could he not?
He held her tightly like that, and for quite some time they stayed there in the godswood. She will not let him go, she promised herself. She will not let him go.
The sky is bright, and light fills the courtyard brilliantly. He finally releases her from his hold, cupping her cheeks with both hands. Suddenly, his hold loosens on her. He's departing now, she knows this, sees this.
Her eyes must be swollen right now. She must look like such a child to him. How could he love her as she loves him? A man could never love a child, she thinks.
Daemon, frowning now, stricken by his own grief, places a chaste kiss on her forehead.
"Please, come back to me," she says.
And extends her hand outward to him, toward the man she loves.