Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ II
Rhaenyra had awakened thinking of her uncle. She's emerged from a strange, almost-too-real dream: surrounded by shadow were she and Daemon, in some vast cavern of unknown whereabouts. Daemon was looking at her, and she at him. His face was contorted in anguish—regret, maybe—and then the very walls of the labyrinth shook, and a blazing light . . .
She feels sick, the smell of burning flesh all too prevalent in her mind. The aberrations she envisioned nightly haunted her so. And now, even afternoon she sees them, feels them as if she were engulfed in dragonfire. Three months did pass, and no word had she received in return for her desperate plea. Desperate it seems, she thinks, yet it must be that way. Word came a few weeks ago, just rumors she overheard the royals speak amongst themselves—of dire state in the Stepstones. They are tales she wishes never to picture, though try as she might, little can she prevent such imaginings.
Her hands are shaking, she sees. It is more than difficult, she realizes, to center herself these days. She feels terribly alone with no comfort, no true companion at her side. The only person in her close circle is the noble Ser Erryk Cargyll, a younger Kingsguard who replaced Ser Criston Cole as her sworn shield. She remembers that night . . . alone, and afraid. Nobody could protect her . . . No, she thinks, Daemon would have protected me.
She remembers. Remembers Ser Criston's right hand wrapped tightly around her throat . . . His other, reaching lower still, squeezing her thigh, groping, and pulling desperately at her undergarments. He forced himself upon her, silenced her pleas for help with his mouth. Restraining her rebellion with his much larger body, little could she do to resist.
Her chest is pounding. She's shivering now, though not from the cool autumn breeze in the godswood. She doesn't—no, she can't remember that night. Lilac eyes blink furiously, and then close tightly. None can know of her humiliation, her shame—not even Lord Commander Ser Harrold Westerling. She remembers her pleas to her lord father, the king, to remove Ser Criston Cole from her service. Half-lucid and well under milk of the poppy, he could scarcely understand, barely comprehend her tears and sorrow. He questioned her why, yet she couldn't find the strength—find the willpower to reveal such an embarrassing affair. She had suffered indignities, even though her maidenhead remained intact. If not for Ser Erryk, she would have been spoiled. I must remain intact, for him, she swears. For her one true love, she must remain a maiden.
Her thoughts return to her prince, Daemon. He still brings undying comfort even in absence. She feels his soothing aura wash over her, remembers the way he smiles only for her, hears his voice—so relaxing and so gentle as it was. Calmed, she sits up and kindles a wax candle beside her bed. Even midday as it is, no light bleeds through her shuttered curtains. She needs it to be dark in here, she realizes, because that is what her world has become without him.
Later this evening, she will head down to the royal sept and tend to her nightly prayer. Even anointed by the seven oils at a young age, of little faith had she been in the past. Now, she has upheld a strong devotion, one even Septon Eustace himself considers pious. Her candles before the seven faces of god number two-and-sixty; one for every day passed since she penned the letter to her uncle, and another would be added tonight.
Seldom did she do anything other than pray and dwell alone in the godswood. Sometimes, when she laid there by the weirwood tree, she felt him, felt as if he lay there right beside her, humming and singing his Valyrian ballads. Though when she glanced over, reaching hopelessly to grasp his hand—to interlock their fingers—he wasn't there. And that realization, the very reality of her abandonment overtook her, striking the warmth from her being.
She doesn't blame him, of course. No, she knows of duty and sacrifice. And of the blood of the dragon within, forbidding him from rest, from settling down. She feels that same hot desire, burning within her in other ways. Her breath quickens. Heart pounding once more. It's suffocating . . . dreadful agony. Every anguishing inhale quickens her descent. I can't, she laments. How can I keep breathing?
Tears cascade down Rhaenyra's face. Her cheeks—powdered and puffed, turning to blotch and stain as she releases all her grief. She is spent, she realizes. Long she's tried to mask it, to cover up the pain, and torment. It's too much to bear. Too much for a child to keep inside. She collapses onto the bed, hugs her many pillows, wails into them with all the abandonment of her age. She ruins them, soils them with her spilt tears. They were not unbidden, unwelcomed, or forced.
She must feel this way, so she can feel human again.
Rhaenyra feels guilt, sorrow, though more of the second thing. The walls of her royal chambers close in like this every night. These breakdowns have been an all-too-accustomed ritual by now. Finally, grief had overtaken her midday.
If he lives . . . if he lives, she repeats over and over. "Daemon," she cries suddenly. "Please . . . Uncle, please come back . . ." Her voice trails off, silenced by her own convulsions. Still, a few audible words escape through her despair: "I need you . . . Daemon . . . I love you . . ."
Her sobs continue. She is shaking, she feels. It is difficult to process what is happening, yet she strains her eyes and sees fire. In the darkness, only the dim light of the candle flickering in the corner brings her any comfort. She peers into the lonesome flame as it flashes amongst the dark, beckoning her to it. It seems like a beacon to her, as the White Sword Tower lures many sailors, weary from seafaring.
She moves away from the bed, toward her desk. There, she lights another candle, filling the room with a faint, orange light. She places her hands on the blank parchment, breathes deeply, and exhales. Slow and steady, she thinks. Deep breaths . . . And she focuses on that for a moment, to calm herself. It hardly works, her hands still quivering as if she were ill. Even still, she brings out the inkwell, freshly ground and ready for dipping. In her right hand she clutches the quill, untouched and untapped since her previous foray. Another letter, she thinks. Perhaps this one will reach him . . .
It's difficult to concentrate as she dips the quill in. Too much ink, she realizes. But she doesn't stop. She begins scrawling madly onto the blank parchment. Words too soon are lost to her, forgotten no sooner than they're written. Tears still stream down the sides of her face. The whites of her lilac eyes—so beautiful, so young—are streaked and smudged with blood. Words of love, of desperation come to her . . . and they do not. They come and pass into oblivion—painted into a new word, birthed into death. Her pallid knuckles whiten further; the quill bends under pressure, as if she willed every inch of her love, her being, into the thing. It is a quiet catharsis, and it isn't. Perhaps, love and hate? No, it's happiness, and sorrow. Maybe even light, and dark. Whatever it was, she poured all of it into the piece of paper . . . channeling all her endless grief, and sorrow from the beating forge of her heart.
She strains herself further . . . hears a knock outside. She freezes, looks in the direction from whence it came. There's a silence. All Rhaenyra hears is the erratic beat of her heart, and her uneven, panicked breath. She frowns, looks back down at the letter . . .
Another knock. Lilac eyes widen. She hears, "My lady Princess Rhaenyra, it is I, Ser Erryk. I bid you urgent news!" His intense voice, strong and full of energy, cuts through the shuttered doors. "Please, my lady. This is a matter of some concern to you."
"Stay yourself, I am not decent, Ser Erryk," she replies curtly. "I have already dressed down to my evening gown . . ." She trails off quietly, as she realizes her pitiful state.
"Even still, we must speak at once," replies Ser Erryk. His voice grows more pressing with every word.
Rhaenyra lets out a small sigh, says, "I give you leave to enter, Ser."
A key of some weight slides into the door, turns, and clicks. The royal bedchamber doors push open, revealing Ser Erryk, clad from head-to-toe in scaled armor ashen-white, and cloak draped to the floor. He stops just inside the room. His eyes trail quickly over Rhaenyra, and to the bed—linen and sheets disarray—and then back to her. Such a disheveled state, she thinks, is unbecoming of her station. She's far past the point of caring, now.
"My lady," Ser Erryk says, bows his head low. "Forgive me for my impudence, for the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, was seen returning from Blackwater Bay. My squire spied him in the skies making laps around the city. Nay, he nests now at the Dragonpit!"
Time stops for Rhaenyra.
She's there. He's here with her. They're back in the godswood now. Her small hands encircle his, fingers clasp and unite as one. She's there again, she sees, feels this, as she rests in his arms.
"My lady Princess," Ser Erryk continues, "As I am sworn to defend the king, same has he made me swear oaths under the seven oils to defend you. It is because of this, I bring word of this to you, before all else. The lord Hand has not yet been made aware of Prince Daemon's arrival." He finishes with eyes averted still.
Rhaenyra envisions herself in other places, says, "You have done your duty, Ser Erryk. Thank you. Please, summon my maids, quickly. I must prepare for his arrival. I'm . . . in poor state."
"It will be done, my lady."
Ser Erryk turns to go. Rhaenyra says, quickly, "Please, Ser. Before you go, fix the quarters across from mine, for my uncle. He . . . he needs someplace to stay." Her voice quivers as she finishes, highlighting her intent.
Her sworn shield nods silently, then bows one last time before exiting the chamber. He closes, locks the doors once more. Armored footsteps thud intently down the hallway before he bellows for the royal handmaidens to muster.
A first, faint smile. She feels it creep into the corners of her mouth. Her tears have dried, calmed by him once more. Holding up Rhaena's mirror, she grimaces—almost gasps—as she realizes the sullen state her sworn shield found her in. Her hair is matted, split at the ends and wild. The dark circles under her eyes, sunken and strained, highlight her ill state. He can't see me like this, she thinks, I must be strong, for him, as he is for me.
She opens the curtains to the high ceiling windows of her bedchamber. The sun spills in, fills her newborn world with amber light. Rhaenyra smiles, sees birds gliding joyfully over the Great Hall. She is thinking about what she's going to wear. Gone are the torrid thoughts which plagued her mind over the year. She can be herself again, finally, she thinks.
Later, her maids draw up a warm bath, and wash her long, silver-pale hair. She runs a damp cloth over her face, pressing it deep into the pores of her milky skin. They then comb her hair, straightening it out.
They call her beautiful, showering deep praise on her as they toil. Though, her maids always dressed her in unwarranted compliments, currying her favor. Finished, she dries herself and picks out a dress for the evening. She knows exactly what to wear: a gilded gown fit for a Princess of Dragonstone. Giggling all the while, her handmaids dress her, powder her face, and sprinkle light incense on her. It reminds Rhaenyra of roses, she thinks. She then goes to her dresser and takes her golden hairpin from the coffer. She pins back her bangs, and then takes Daemon's pendant in her hands. She looks at it; feelings of love and pride well up inside her once more, like a dragon's flames, seconds from bursting out. With care, she wears it between her breasts.
Staring at the spotless mirror, lilac eyes widen.
It will be passed down to her children, she decides then. Her firstborn will wear this heirloom proudly, as she does now.
She thinks of her father, of what he would think if she asked for Daemon's hand. Would he approve of such a union? They never had the most stable relationship, but she knew deep down, her father loved his brother very much. And he always wished what was best for her. To that end, she hopes desperately to receive his blessing.
Her father, the king, is still bedridden. Rarely does he ever have the strength to leave it. Then, there is Otto Hightower, and the good lady Alicent. She knows the Hand has been enacting the king's justice for the better part of a year. What would they think of their union? Would they oppose it? They can't oppose it, she thinks, because I am the Princess of Dragonstone. My word is truth, and law.
And there's so much she wants to share and do with her uncle. She thinks of Syrax, her she-dragon. Little had she taken her to the skies in recent months, the poor beast. Her taste for dragonriding soured considerably after Daemon left for the Stepstones. It was hard to enjoy such a thing without the comforts of the one who taught her. She much desires to conquer the skies with him yet again. They'll travel the vast lands of the known world together, hand in hand, she imagines.
Her stomach is twisting again. She always gets like this when she thinks of him. It is hard to comprehend, all these feelings within her. She's lightheaded now—must reach out to the table to steady herself. Gods, she thinks, how can she rule a kingdom if she can't even conquer her own feelings?
"Princess Rhaenyra," a voice beckons from the hall. Ser Erryk's, she realizes. "Are you well and decent? It is time. The prince will be arriving shortly."
"I am," she says. "Let me get the door."
She unlocks the door and opens it, revealing herself to Ser Erryk. No longer was she despondent and sorry-looking. She looks ever like the Princess of Dragonstone should. Ser Erryk keeps the calm disposition of a sworn shield, and nods plainly.
"My lady," he motions for her. "Shall we go?"
"Yes. To Prince Daemon, then."
Stepping in front of Ser Erryk, she takes her first steps down the hallway. It is quite a walk through Maegor's Holdfast and to the towering bronze gates of the Red Keep. She finds her pace quickening, her gold-studded poulaines clicking as she took eager steps.
Everything seems to become extremely slow, as heart hammers and mind races. The nobles and other royalties pass by her, bowing their heads and greeting in their own way. She fails to even acknowledge them. The joy, and happiness is evident on her face, in plain view for all to see. They will whisper, she assumes, whisper about her relationship with Daemon. Still doesn't care, and it's been a year since she realized that fact…
"Good morrow, young dear Princess," an old voice spoke. It was Lord Lyman Beesbury, her father's Master of Coin.
She stops for him. He is never anything but pleasant to her. "Good morrow, my lord," she greets gently back.
Lord Beesbury smiles warmly down at her. "And where are you going at this fine evening hour? Rarely have I seen you out of your quarters recently. Why, you just look spritely today, my lady."
Rhaenyra smiles back, and curtsies slightly. "It is a pleasure seeing you, my lord. I must be going, however. Farewell."
"And to you, Princess," says Lord Beesbury. He returns her curtsy with a bow of his own, smiles, and turns on his heel toward the council chamber.
As good a loyal servant as the Master of Coin is, Rhaenyra keeps secret Daemon's return. She wishes for nobody to ruin their reunion. She deserves at least a little peace, and distance from the king's court. And so, they continue their way.
Soon, she's in the courtyard now. She's so close, she can feel it. Any moment now, she will be face to face with him again. It suddenly becomes difficult to stand. She is afraid her legs will give out if she isn't held up. She steadies herself on the wall before Ser Erryk supports her himself.
"Easy, now," he says quietly. "Are you unwell, my lady?"
Rhaenyra shakes her head. "No, I'm fine," she says. "I just . . . I just haven't had enough water today. Perhaps I should drink more?" She laughs softly to assuage her shield.
"As you say," Ser Erryk replies. "Do you need me to escort you?"
"That won't be necessary, Ser."
She murmurs something softly to herself. Doesn't know what—possibly a curse to whoever made her, she thinks. Her reaction to such womanly things—it was so bothersome. It's just Daemon—her uncle, she tells herself. Many a time they've shared company, even alone with one another. There is nothing different about this . . .
Try as she might, it was hard to lie to herself.
Royal dignitaries and castle guardsmen make way for them, a pathway to the gate. It is probably rare to see the Princess of Dragonstone this far out of the keep, she thinks. Very few times did she walk this path unless travelling to some far-off kingdom with her father.
Ser Erryk is with her. He will protect her, she knows, at least until she is reunited with her uncle. Her sworn shield follows behind her, pensively. Rhaenyra sees him in the corner of her eye, stone-faced and brooding. Indeed, he was sworn to her, and ordered by her father to follow every command. She trusts him—one of the few in the entire Red Keep. A rare honor from the princess, that is.
Rhaenyra doesn't know how long they've been walking. Sun lowering, clouds moving lazily along, and the cold autumn air . . .
And he comes riding in through the bronze gates. If time has stopped earlier, it is running again, passing through her, carrying her away with it. Like the autumn breeze in the godswood, she is swept away by his very being.
On swift courser, black as the old crown of the Conqueror, he is here. He dismounts, Dark Sister ready at his hip like always. As she watches him tether his horse in the stable, little else does she do besides stare at him with lust. He is very tall. The very length of him almost doubling her own height. She wonders if he will sweep her up in his arms and hug her so very tight. And his long, pale-silver hair as beautiful as her own, dangles below his shoulders. Yet, she notices something unusual: atop his head is a crown white as ivory silk. It is jewel studded, and interesting.
Then she recognizes something else: he is staring at her now. A small smile forms from his lips. He just stands there—she too, as they eye one another with a mild mixture of curiosity and trepidation. He is every inch beautiful, she determines . . . and she desires him, wants him to sire children with her. She is true to herself now—she knows what she wants. And she's going to take it . . .
And said man, Prince Daemon Targaryen, takes a step.
He's coming, she realizes.
x x x
Daemon questioned his eyesight. He was sure he hadn't lost the ability to see clearly, yet in front of him, there she was: taller still than when he last saw her… leaner, more feminine, even, and of the most exquisite beauty he'd ever laid his eyes on. She had grown—quite rapidly, he realized—into a beautiful young maiden. And still young she was, at an age no more than ten years. Still, it was as if he looked upon the magnificent Visenya herself—her royal portrait sprung full to life once more.
The sunlight was very bright, gleaming, and dancing in the distance as it began its descent over the high stone walls of the keep. There was so much color to the world right now, something new, he felt. The grey wastes of the Stepstones stained with blood, were boring by comparison. And the views, ever so improved as well.
If Daemon ever thought himself a shrewd man, it certainly wasn't with Rhaenyra. He never felt ashamed in his dealings with her, ever since her seventh name day. When she took to the skies with him, she changed him forever. Now, she was his home, whether he liked to deny it or not. She was as much his as she was Viserys', he realized as much. Perhaps in companionship, or perhaps something more. Nevertheless, he couldn't hide away his feelings from her, nor was he a fool to her own.
With great care, he approached her. He saw the Kingsguard who stood adjacent to her, Ser Erryk Cargyll. A young knight he was, he must have quickly rose the ranks of the White Swords—no easy feat, Daemon noted. He seemed friendly, however, no doubt an ally if he escorted Rhaenyra to him like this.
Rhaenyra herself seemed unnaturally subdued. He half-expected her to throw herself into his arms, like she used to do in secret. Yet, she stood there, appearing conflicted, perhaps struggling with something inside. Or perhaps it was due to the public eye they found themselves in. He found the gaze of knight and guard alike upon them, and it was important to maintain proper public appearances, after all. She is far smarter than I, Daemon thought inwardly. It suddenly became difficult to remain serious in his doings.
He cracked a small smile, said, carefully, "It's so good to see you, Princess." He reached out and took her small hand in his own. With keen awareness, he placed a chaste kiss upon it, then said, "It is high honor to be greeted by the Princess of Dragonstone in this fashion."
She was wordless in her response, yet he saw a speckling of something behind her pools of lilac. Full of emotion, her eyes glistened gently. Oh, he realized . . . she was about to cry.
"We really should be going," Daemon said, abruptly. He took Rhaenyra by the hand and led her from the gateway back on the pathway to the Red Keep. "Ser Erryk," he called out. "Do tag along, but please keep your distance."
Her sworn shield nodded, trailing behind as he was.
This was difficult for him, as it was for her. He felt her small hand quivering within his own. And there, he could feel her grief, her sorrow, channeled through their very touching. He knew she was seconds from losing all composure. He briefly looked back at her as she quietly followed his lead. Her face, while beautiful, bespoke emotions too many to count. It was made painfully clear by her silence, how she couldn't confide in him as before. He couldn't think of a time where she was like this.
Without speaking, Daemon leading by hand, took her into the inner courtyard, and into a hallway where they found themselves alone. Ser Erryk stayed back, posted up near the intersecting halls, standing guard in case someone should come.
Daemon frowned. Rhaenyra was still silent, yet he could hear small whimpers escaping her now. Her body shook tenderly, and she averted her gaze from his own. Yes, it appeared to Daemon she found some great interest in the marbled tiles beneath them.
Two fingers. He lifted her chin so he could see through her tear-speckled eyes, and into her soul. Slowly Daemon raised his left hand and stroked her cheek, lovingly. He tried hard to bring her back, to heal her being with his meager love. Yet, aside from the affliction of sorrow, little did she respond to his advancements. Her hands, balled into fists, were tightly wound to her sides . . . And her face, contorted in such pain built up beyond her young years, broke his heart.
Daemon's eyes brimmed with tears. It was uniquely terrifying, he thought. "Look, my dearest princess," he then spoke sadly. "Look how you've reduced me. I've returned, for you and for my home . . . I am here now, though I am powerless now if you do not confide in me." He smiled sadly, pouring his own emotions out for her to see. Perhaps, this would reach her.
Rhaenyra stilled, then relaxed under his touch. Her clenched fists, loosened to reveal quivering hands. She then wiped her eyes and looked up at him gratefully. Daemon seemed to cherish that, as he held her gaze for a moment lasting a lifetime.
That's it, he thought suddenly, let go of the past, and return to me now. And even as the idea entered his mind, he knew she had come back to him finally. This was the moment of unity he so desired these past months.
"You came back," whispered Rhaenyra. "Uncle, you came back for me . . ." He felt her arms snake up his backside before she pulled herself closer to him. She looked up at him amorously with eyes raw from feelings sad and happy alike.
"I have," Daemon replied.
He could hear her, see her swallow. "Do I look beautiful?" she asked.
The prince nodded. "Indeed," he agreed. "With each day's passing, you grow prettier still. Prettier than all your ancestors, one would think. You are blessed with their best of traits, and none of their vices."
Rhaenyra stared at him a moment longer, said, "I've waited so long for your return, Uncle." She swallowed once more. Then, she went quiet.
It was hard for her, it seemed to Daemon. Hard for her to express her feelings in earnest. He saw the love for him in her eyes. It was plain as day; she had given herself to him already. He wished only to reciprocate that love, yet it still wasn't time.
"Where is my brother, the king?" he asked.
She looked up at him, worry suddenly painted on the soft features of her face. Her mouth opened, yet the words didn't come.
"I'm going to see him, now," he said plainly. He stepped away from her and fixed his appearance. None could see the weakness he displayed here.
A slight pause, a moment's thought. Rhaenyra then found her voice. "We shouldn't see him yet," she said, quietly. "It's . . . it's not a good time, you see. He's been unwell, bedridden, so sick and much unlike himself. Perhaps in the morning, given time to prepare?"
Daemon sighed. "That won't do," he said somberly. "I will go see him, now. Where is the Hand, Ser Otto Hightower?"
"I do not know," she replied. "I haven't seen him since supper, yesterday."
For an instant Daemon thought he understood. In some unthinking flash of certainty, he realized perhaps there was a reason he had been welcomed back into the Red Keep without notice. The Hightowers were shrewd, and cunning, he knew, and for that reason he held onto a deepening suspicion. There was safety and security in such things, he thought.
He turned to Ser Erryk, said, "We must go now to Maegor's Holdfast. Ser Erryk, muster the Kingsguard. We go at once to my brother." He beckoned quickly for Rhaenyra to join his side. Pale-silver hair tumbling, she hurried to him as he stepped intently toward the royal apartments. Poulaines clicked loudly as armored boots stomped over marbled floor.
Daemon led Rhaenyra out from the courtyard amid a silence so deep and brooding, he knew it unnerved her. They re-entered through a dim hallway, nearly bumping into Ser Arryk Cargyll, twin brother to Ser Erryk, and another Kingsguard. Daemon exchanged glances with the knight as he passed by without question. Out of view, he looked for Rhaenyra and saw her just behind him, stride matching his own. Instinctively, he reached for her, taking her hand in his own and continued his path.
Daemon really didn't know why he did it. He just did, and it bothered him somewhat. Even afterwards as they walked hand in hand, palms sweaty and tensions high, his protective grasp on her tightened deeply enough to make her wince. Yet, she said nothing, silently accepting his hand and guidance.
A simple curiosity, maybe . . . No, desire? Perhaps it was just love and protection a father held for his child. He'd never envisioned, even considered himself in such a position like that. He was far too callous for such things . . .
At the base of the holdfast, there was a grand staircase which led to the royal apartments. High, narrow multicolored stained-glass windows cascaded the walls and the solar above them. Late in the day as it were, the setting sun birthed coruscating colors too many to count, spurred and transformed by the glass itself. With fingers interlocked, they ascended the winding staircase upward, taking each step carefully and with strong-willed intent.
Within the secure walls of the royal apartments, Daemon suddenly found himself face to face with the doors of the king's bedchambers. He was standing in front of two large, extravagant doors of bronze, etched and bearing the sigil of his House. Standing guard on either side of the door was the Kingsguard—two knights he thought to be Ser Willis Fell and Ser Rickard Thorne.
He looked to Rhaenyra briefly, and she to him. Concern covered the contours of her young visage. She then nodded, giving him silent approval. And so, he went to greet them—
"I wish to see my father," Rhaenyra spoke first, her voice cutting harshly the silence about them. "Both of you step aside, so my uncle and I may have some peace alone with the king."
Each knight bowed their heads deep with respect. Ser Willis said, "As you wish, Princess." He turned to the bronze doors, knocked once with his armored fist, and announced, "Princess Rhaenyra has come, Your Grace. She brings with her Prince Daemon, and no other."
No response, just silence.
Ser Willis hesitated, and then with a steady hand, unlocked the king's bedchamber. In unison, both Ser Willis and Ser Rickard pushed the large, heavy doors open, revealing its inner sanctum.
Inside, sprawled across a large portion of the chambers was Viserys' model of Old Valyria. Tirelessly did he pour over the thing, putting meticulous craft and care into every inch of its design. A perfect replica, some would say. The chambers themselves were extravagantly designed, trimmed black-and-red in the colors of his House, with decadent tapestries adorning every section of the walls. The hearth in the corner had been lit, fires crackling and popping amongst the silence. Further past that, was the king's bedchambers themselves.
Daemon went up. He took care now, though still not knowing why, not to make any sound. Further still, there was a doorway, he saw. Without question, he turned the doorhandle and pushed it open.
His eyes widened. Surrounding the bed were a host of maesters. They looked upon him sheepishly, as if caught red-handed in wrongdoing. Even looking upon their faces in clarity, he doesn't recognize any of them. He'd spent enough time in the Red Keep to at the very least know faces, if not names. And among them, Grand Maester Runciter was noticeably absent.
It seemed to Daemon that he stood there for an endless time—or a time unmoving—stiller even than the Blackwater Rush when it froze over during a great winter. Hearing nothing save for his own breathing, and the labored, terrible gasps of air from his own brother, he looked upon the maesters with disdain and disgust.
Daemon fumed. "Get out . . . Now!" he said, sharply. It sounded almost muffled, barked through clenched teeth as it was.
Maester and servant alike spilled from the room, hurriedly out of the bedchambers and away from the area itself. None dared to question him in his fury. Rhaenyra, quiet and unspoken, took to his side and held his arm in distress. He looked upon his brother as he laid there, unmoving, and seemingly asleep. He was gaunt, sickly looking, feverish to a point and quite unrecognizable. He'd lost an untold weight, Daemon noted, the remnants of his being both bony, and feeble.
Daemon sighed deeply, unnerved by the King's weakened state. He had to do something . . . He needed to set the world to rights.
Too long had he stayed quiet. Too long had he played their games. His brother finally needed him, he realized.
No, he thought, Viserys always needed me.
x x x
"I have . . . I have returned, Brother," she hears him say.
His voice cracks, stutters even, an unusual occurrence for her proud uncle. Yet, his beckoning has the desired effect—the king stirs slightly. He's awake, she realizes.
Her uncle, proud and tall, steps toward her resting father. She sees him draw a breath, keeping his features expressionless. He says, slowly, "I've returned victorious from the Stepstones. Lord Corlys himself has crowned me King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea."
He waits, watching her father closely. He stirs once more, groans loudly. Daemon's face she sees, is pained, disturbed even by her father's condition. He's struggling even to sit himself up. He lacks even the strength for that, she realizes.
Her father's eyes crack open. His lips move briefly, whispers, "Daemon . . . Rhaenyra . . ."
She winces at the sound of his pained voice. Little does he have the energy to even speak. His speech is labored, heavy, and hard to comprehend. Daemon shakes his head in response, frowns deeply and stays quiet.
The king lets a pained smile slip through. He whispers, hoarsely, "You've come back . . . I always knew you'd return . . ."
Daemon takes a seat next to her father. With rare tears laden, he takes his brothers hands in his own. "Yes, and I'll never leave again," he replies, solemnly.
"Not long for this world . . . am I . . ."
"Brother, don't say that."
Rhaenyra can only watch in distraught silence as she sees these two brothers—her father, and her uncle, share this moment of union together. She wants to interject, to tell her father how much she loves him, yet she can't. She mustn't interrupt these two, she realizes. This was their moment.
After a moment's silence, Viserys coughs weakly. "King . . . of the Stepstones," he says, painfully. "So glad . . . Was afraid . . . you'd fall. I'm so sorry . . . Forgive me . . ."
Daemon laughs darkly. "I'm no king," he says. "You are my kin . . . and my true king. Yours is the blood of the dragon, Brother. You are the dragon, King Viserys Targaryen: last rider of Balerion the Black Dread, Son of Baelon the Brave, Grandson of the Old King, wielder of Blackfyre. You are king. And you will not let this sickness defeat you."
There is a silence when he is done speaking. Both king and prince stare at one another, she sees. Neither move, save for a small smile which forms at the corners of her father's lips. It's a pained smile, though a smile no less.
Viserys breathes in deeply. "Take care of her," he exhales. "You must protect her . . . I can't . . . Aegon's dream . . ." He then coughs terribly, almost gagging.
Finally, she interjects. "Please rest, Father!" Rhaenyra exclaims, unable to control herself any longer. She turns to Daemon, says, "We must fetch the maesters!"
He meets her gaze. "Don't let them back in here," the prince responds, angrily. "They're not to be trusted. We must dispatch a swift raven for Maester Gerardys. If any of the Hand's maesters step foot in this hallowed room again, I'll cut them down myself."
"But Father . . . he needs treatment now!"
She hears Daemon curse loudly, and the doors of the bedchambers swing open suddenly. Otto Hightower, the Hand of the king, clad in green garb evincing his House, barges in. Rhaenyra sees shock, no, an uncertain terror overtaking the usually calm features of his face.
"By the good Faith," he swears aloud. "What is happening here?"
Daemon is furious. With little word to spare, he quickly shoves the Hand against the wall. Rhaenyra yelps, frightened by his anger. He shouldn't—can't touch the Hand like that, she thinks rapidly. It would be . . . it would be—
"Treason!" yells Otto, slicing through her thoughts. "This is high treason, Prince Daemon! Remove your hands at once!"
And Daemon, full of outrage, whispers darkly, "The leeches can't hide behind the Crown forever." Rhaenyra barely hears it, though the Hand's face darkens considerably. Shock and surprise are replaced by fear, and fear by panic. He's afraid of Daemon, she realizes.
His grip on the man loosens. She sees Daemon storm angrily out of the bedchambers, and into the hallway where the maesters cower in fear. He takes one of them by the hem of their robe, says, "Where is Grand Maester Runciter? What is your name? Tell me, graveworm!"
Scared out of his wits, the maester bleats, says, "I . . . I am Archmaester Mellos. The old Grand Maester Runciter . . . He's been away for quite some time. He . . . he's taken travel to the Citadel to further his studies on the king's condition."
Daemon grows even angrier, she sees. Lilac eyes widen, burn, fill with ardor, and he stiffens. It was too quick, she realizes. His armored boot connects with the maester's robed chest, chain jingling and voice yelping alike. He splashes unceremoniously against the marbled floor of Targaryen ancestry. Kingsguard with swords already drawn shout commands. She doesn't hear them and neither does he. The room grows hot, beads of sweat form near her temples. The dragon roars—fire and fury rages onward, spills into the very hallways like molten dragonfire.
"Craven!" he exclaims, and no sooner had he done so, Dark Sister found its way from its sheathe, cleaving the maester in two from shoulder to hip. Crimson blood the color of the Red Keep pours from the bisected remnants of the scholar. The corpse spasms, and Daemon spits on it in disgust.
Pale-silver hair gleams in the darkness beneath a crown the color ivory. Dark Sister has a conscience, she realizes, as if the entrapped souls of Visenya, Maegor and Baelon breathe their dragonfires once more. Its tapered Valyrian steel tip finds its prey, points in the direction of the cowering maesters, and misguided Kingsguard.
"I'll have the head of any wretch who poisons my dear brother, the king," he announces, darkly. He's deadly serious, she sees. The dragon is free, unleashed, wrathful and full of vengeance.
Rhaenyra panics, runs to his side, and clutches him possessively. Such travesty, and so soon after their destined reunion. She knows the raging dragon blood inside him boils hotly. She cannot stop him, she realizes. Her heart is beating so fast, thrumming heavy against her breast. If I cannot calm him, she thinks, then I must support him.
Panicked cries fill the hallway, fleeing maester and brave knight alike.
"Lower your blade, at once!" shouts Ser Willis.
Ser Rickard takes a stance—sword raised and gleaming, cries, "Prince Daemon, sheathe your blade or ready yourself!"
And out of the darkness comes Ser Criston Cole, beckoned by panic, with sword unsheathed and ready. "Be careful, men!" he shouts to his companions. "The young princess is close to him!"
Rhaenyra looks upon the disgraceful knight with hatred. Silver brows furrow, lilac eyes gleam daggers. "Deviant! Oathbreaker!" she curses him, voice ringing with passion.
And from behind, she feels an arduous presence approach.
Hand raised, bejeweled finger pointing. "Seize that rogue!" Otto, the Hand commands them. "He has assaulted the Hand of the King. This is the highest of treasons, I say!"
Daemon readies himself, twirls Dark Sister in the air, makes circles as if he the evil blade itself came alive as a cornered beast. A bloodthirsty and twisted snarl forms from the wicked features of his face. He won't stop, she knows, won't rest until all his enemies lay slain and gone.
Spilt blood fills the hallway, stains the golden whites of her poulaines. Rhaenyra screams, her voice piercing above all else, and frantic:
"Stay your esteemed swords, Sers!" she commands.
It falls on deaf ears.
A faint thudding sounds. Numerous armored feet trample the marbled floor with a quickness. She hears them, sees them now as they make entry into the chaotic fray.
Ser Erryk has come to aid, and with him a host of Kingsguard, loyal to her and fiercely protective. There is Ser Steffon Darklyn, and Ser Lorent Marbrand, both noble and true. And leading the host is none other than the Lord Commander himself, Ser Harrold Westerling.
With gloved hand placed firmly on white scabbard, he removes his helmet. "All of you, stand down!" the elder Lord Commander bellows, shakes the very confines of the hallway. "By His royal decree, and order of King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, by the imposition of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Sworn Brothers of the White Swords, I command you to sheathe your swords at once! The Princess of Dragonstone is under the protection of the Kingsguard and shan't be harmed, so shall you suffer the pain of swift death!"
The Hand fumes. Says, "Lord Commander Westerling! What is the meaning of this treachery? You cannot disobey me! My word is truth! My word is the king's justice!"
Ser Harrold stays his ground, says, grimly, "The Kingsguard serves His Grace only, the one true Protector of the Realm, and no other! Prince Daemon is under the safeguard of the princess, therefor you must retire your stance on the matter. I bade you desperate plea, return to your chambers in the Tower of the Hand. Let us do our solemn duty, my lord Hand."
"I will not let this brigand travel these esteemed halls so freely!"
"Ser Steffon, Ser Lorent," Ser Harrold beckons. "Escort the lord Hand to his chambers. This matter shall be resolved once tensions rest. And to the rest of you, hear my order and obey! Disperse immediately and return to the White Sword Tower, at once."
The Kingsguard bow. "It will be done, Lord Commander," says Ser Steffon.
"This is an outrage!" bellows Ser Otto. He is prideful, and this embarrassment is much to endure. "When the queen hears of this treachery, I will have all of your cloaks, your titles, and oaths stripped without question!"
Ser Steffon is unfazed by the Hand's threats. "Let us go, my lord." They do not place a hand on the man, but Rhaenyra sees them stand tall and strong, unrelenting in their duties.
Rhaenyra, still reeling and panicked from the commotion, sees white cloaks billowing in the distance as the two Kingsguard escort the Hand away. The discarded corpse of Archmaester Mellos remains on the floor, drained fully of blood. It's rotten she thinks, stinks enough to make her feel ill.
Perhaps it is from the stink, or the calming of her dragon's blood, but she feels lightheaded enough to faint. The world is darkening . . . Her vision fades quickly . . .
Rhaenyra awakens later that night in her bedchambers.
She basks in dim candlelight, small ember music subtly humming to her ears. She stretches outward, feels every pain and ache wracking her body. Perhaps, it was a dream, she muses. She tells herself that, lies to herself to remain calm. She remembers Daemon . . . the yells . . . and the smell of fresh blood laden heavily in the air. She remembers, and then gasps.
"Awake already?" she hears.
She sits up, looks at him carefully. His violet eyes are grave above his long, perfect nose and neat, beautiful face. His Targaryen hair is combed neatly and sits underneath his white crown still. Dark Sister, in onyx-black scabbard and alone, rests against the wall where he sits. It wasn't a dream, she realizes. He's still here. He's unharmed, unbroken, and unbent, as strong and stalwart as the three-headed dragon resting prideful and true between her breasts. After tonight's incident, she knows the legendary stories of him are true. He is the waking dragon—her tales of wonder and adventure come alive.
Her ever-tarrying thoughts end there. "You should be resting," she hears him say, voice low, and gravelly.
"But I want to be close to you," she replies.
She hears herself say that and is amazed, though not ashamed.
His breath hitches slightly. Even amongst the low hum of the candle, she can hear that, see that in his subtle change.
"Why?" he asks suddenly, quietly.
She knows he knew why. She can see it written plain on his perfect face. He can't hide anything from her, try as he might.
"Because I love you, Uncle," she admits finally.
There it is. Spoken free of doubt and truer than the Seven's holy word. She watches him consider it, wrestle with her admission. She has made him speechless, on accident of course. The confusion, the battle plain on the strong features of his face reveal that fact. He is silent, unmoving, and quiet—brooding even—as he fights his inner turmoil.
But then he smiles and gets up from the chair. Taking Dark Sister in hand once more, he settles it into his black belt to rest. Then, he blows the candle, sending small plumes of smoke dancing through the air, and a darkness settles between them.
"Goodnight, Princess," he whispers quietly, almost lamenting in its tone. "Ser Erryk and Ser Steffon keep guard your quarters tonight. And I now retire to my own . . . I have travelled long and hard without rest, and now I must take leave until first light."
She can't think of what to say to that; watches hopelessly as he fades away in the shadow. She says nothing in fact, until she latches onto the only thing she can think of:
"I am the Princess of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne, Daemon Targaryen" she says, voice quivering and unsure, "and I order you not to go!"
The prince stops in his tracks. He turns his shoulder ever so slightly, so she can see his face.
He smiles once more . . . and continues on his way out.
The door opens, light spills in, and then shutters, cloaking her in darkness.
And there she waits, unable to sleep, and deep in thought. She draws a breath, and with it she allows herself a smile of her own. She is the blood of old Valyria, she thinks. I am the blood of the dragon, she decides.
It hasn't been long since her uncle departed, and yet she found herself stepping toward the door in nothing but her nightgown. She must do this, she determines. She will have what she wants. And she opens the large doors to her bedchambers, doors which are already unlocked, she muses.
Ser Erryk turns to her. "My princess," he greets her. "What keeps you up at this late hour, my lady?" She sees Ser Steffon as well, looking down upon her small form with curious interest.
"I will be resting in Prince Daemon's chambers tonight," she says immediately.
"But Princess, that's . . ."
She presses a small finger to her lips, says "Do not fret, good Ser. Know that Prince Daemon will keep me safe, above all else."
He thinks quietly for a moment, relentingly says, "As you command, my lady."
Conceding or not, he did have a solemn oath to uphold. He must follow her every command, she notes funnily to herself.
"Goodnight, Sers," she says kindly, and skips toward Daemon's bedchambers.
Yet, once she arrives at the large, bronze doors, she stops. The realization of the thing she's about to do, the taboo of it. It excites her, makes her feel things deep inside, churning and twisting her insides. That's when she realizes she's quivering. Oh, how it was so bothersome—these feelings. If only I could control them, she laments. And him . . .
And with a trembling, small and pallid hand, she turns the handle of the door slowly, pushes it open . . . and steps inside.
If Daemon Targaryen can be startled, he is.
On the other hand, she understood why he looks at her the way he does now. It was unusual to have your personal bedchambers invaded by the Princess of Dragonstone, she thinks. Yet, she approaches him without word. She sees him sink to the bed, stays there, sitting and stopped under her gaze—stupefied beyond compare.
She draws ever closer to him, like a moth to flame . . . Targaryen to dragon mount . . . queen to king . . .
And the innocent comparisons in her mind vanish suddenly.
As Rhaenyra Targaryen places a small kiss her own upon the lips of the man she loves.