Daemon waits on the stone bridge, the sea wind whipping against his face, as she approaches. In her cloak of grey, she would fade into the cloudy mist, were it not for her white-blonde hair. As her figure grows clearer, his eyes search her neck until he sees the glint of gold. She does not wear the steel he gave her. He knows not why he thought she might, yet he realizes now that he was counting on it.
He had arrived first. He'd wanted time alone in the fortress he once called home. He knew she would not mind.
"Uncle," she says in greeting.
"Rhaenyra," he says, "I am glad to see you."
"I am sorry for your late wife." She speaks gently but her voice is deeper than he remembers it. She is pretty as ever, yet Daemon scarcely recognizes her. He recalls the day he gifted her the jewelry he's been imagining 'round her neck, her jests cutting through the dark mood he had found himself in. Daemon has always been able to rely on her mischief to coax him back out of himself, the grin he saw so oft he still considers it part of her face. She is not smiling now.
Daemon was anticipating the difficulty of seeing her on Laenor's arm, their comfort with each other, the three children he suspected had been sired by Ser Harwin Strong. He has not wished to see the intimacy the two of them once shared now shared with others.
And yet despite the presence of Rhaenyra's family, despite the presence of their guards, she appears very much alone – exhaustion in her countenance. He remembers the light that once lived behind those eyes.
Daemon wonders what she thinks as she takes him in. Although the years have scarcely bothered to touch his face, he recalls what Laena said to him on the last night before her passing: "The man I married was more than this."
Laena. He feels an ache in his chest as her image swims back to him, the white curls that gently framed her face, her quiet strength. She had deserved better than she got.
Rhaenyra is looking at him with compassion and… pity. This isn't how he imagined this going.
"Thank you for taking care of her," says Laenor, stepping beside Rhaenyra and taking her arm. His eyes are red.
"She fought until the end," replies Daemon. "She died as she lived." My brave girl, he thinks to himself, though these words feel too intimate to speak aloud.
She does not lean into him, Daemon thinks to himself, noting the stiffness between the princess and her lord husband.
"If we can be of any assistance," Rhaenyra begins and then pauses as if assessing him. "With your girls. I know what it is like to lose a mother. The wound never fully closes."
All he can do is bow his head. What else is there to say? A gust of wind sends the tide spilling over the rocks, and Daemon turns, leading them back toward the castle that is no longer his. He is thankful for the roaring sea, for the footsteps of the men who escort them and their clinking of armor – for these deafening sounds make it difficult to speak whilst they walk.
This is not how he imagined it. This is not how he imagined her.
They had always found their way back to one another – sometimes years between their meetings – as if no time had passed: the quiet familiarity between them simmering below the silence. He now feels as if the cord between them has been severed. He has been holding his end for ten years, trusting it would one day lead him back to her. He wonders what happened to her necklace. When was the last time he saw her in it? The wedding feast? No, she was not wearing it then. He searches for her neck again in his memory. Ah yes, he thinks to himself, the pleasure house, a smile softly tugging at the corners of his lips. He remembers running his fingers over her face – her eyes rapt – as he glanced it, pride swelling in his breast, as he leaned down to capture her parted mouth with his.
That was the last time he'd seen her wear it.
Her mouth looks different now. It is not the lines on her face that disturb him. Time has been kind to her as well. No, it's the downward turn of those lips, the frown he saw when he looked at her. Living there on her face. He does not need to turn around to know it is still there, that it has grown there for years – her face slowly hardening with each day spent in King's Landing without a friend, her body hardening rapidly in the throes of each labor, the steady darkening of her eyes with each piece of slander she faces in court.
It was he who did this to her and then fled. He has hid in his books for the past ten years while she slowly turned to stone, convincing himself first of his strategy and later, his restraint.
"The man I married was more than this."
Daemon turns to glance at her and at once understands the root of his disturbance. It is not guilt he feels nor is it shame for how he must appear to eyes that have grown; it is not the time they spent apart nor is it the man on her arm, nor is it the children on her hip.
It is the simple matter that she is not looking at him at all.
