Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ III
Near three years had passed since his return. Rhaenyra's thirteenth name day came and went, unmolested and without issue. Yet, those who witnessed it could say it had been spoiled. Not quite a woman-grown, other matters proved more prominent to the royalties of late. Though, the lords and ladies of the land always had purpose and curious design in their doings. Perhaps it was intentional, Daemon thought, nay—malicious even, to spurn the young princess like they had.
Thus, Aemond of the House Targaryen, the second son of Viserys Targaryen, had come. Brother to the young Helaena, and to Aegon the Second, his birth was much welcomed by his queen mother—who, by all accounts, had tired of pregnancy. Though not present to witness, he'd heard whispers the boy came birthed into the world fierce, his violet eyes wide and full of Targaryen-born fire. Song and dance then filled the halls of the Red Keep, jovial ones which even found their way deep into the amber-coloured long halls of the riverlands. The celebration of the ailing king's second-born son—a miracle, some called it—united all in great joy and merry cheer. He hadn't the stomach for any of it, he realized.
All day, they had travelled the lands on dragonback. His engloved hands tightened on the reins in front of him. Ahead, the golden-glittering scales of Syrax shimmered like a thousand lanterns alight in the clouds. And overhead, the high sun had finally peaked over the gentle clouds, like the unending beacon of Hightower itself. They'd set out from King's Landing sometime this morning, Daemon mused, and somehow midday was already upon us . . . Finally, they'd been unshackled from the duties which beset them: freed from the courts, routines, and formalities made ever tedious. And time itself was a curious thing, Daemon felt, passing too quickly when days both gay and free found them. No, he'd much rather enjoy these quiet moments alone with her.
The Blood Wyrm rushed through a puffy cloud, letting out a shrill roar in self-satisfaction. The speed, the thrill—it was there, and for a moment, Daemon felt he became a dragon. His wings spread, reaching outward, catching the winds like Velaryon sails on a spirited sea. It felt good—the feel of the wind nigh on his face, the sounds of dragons singing. In her own response, Syrax crooned approvingly—mewled, even, if a dragon ever could. She danced amidst the heavens ahead, cutting through cloud and skies blue as if she were the old god herself.
He could feel the thrumming, large drum of a heart pounding beneath his embroidered saddle. Music to his ears, he thought. In response, Daemon stroked his dragon-steed with gloved hand, calming him, his grip on his reins loosening ever so slightly. He needn't use them, he figured. And under him, Caraxes whined and purred, sending fervent vibrations through his own being. The great beast had grown hotter too, he realized—the ardent fires of his blood boiling to a head, enough to brim his very scales the color crimson with a scalding, unyielding heat.
Midday found them coasting over the Kingswood, west and toward the Grassy Vale, and then north back toward the crownlands. Up ahead, they could see the great stone walls of King's Landing, made to look small as they looked down upon it. The sigil of his House displayed itself magnificently. Great red-and-black banners and streamers alike lined the outer walls—and, most wonderful of all, Aegon's High Hill peaked the Red Keep into the low hanging clouds themselves. And Daemon knew all who looked upon such majesty understood the great House Targaryen stood above all else.
But they hadn't the stomach to return yet. The day is still young, Daemon mused. And for that reason, they kept on their path. They stayed on the fringes of the Blackwater shores, travelling fast, and flying low enough to taste the salt in the air as water sprayed around them. Eventually, there were a few scattered, lonesome rocks off the coast. They'd disport there—perhaps find some brief rest and gather themselves after such a long ride.
His spur-laden boots rattled as he hit the ground. Caraxes wailed; the rocky ground shook as he flapped his enormous wings and leapt into the skies again. A second pair—of the golden variety—joined the Blood Wyrm, and together the two dragons flew almost in tandem over the grey hills. Sore to a point and weary from their ride, he glanced over at the approaching figure, and silently cursed the elegance of her figure. Turning to Rhaenyra—and he wished he hadn't—he received a mischievous smile of delight, which awakened something inside him he'd rather not dwell on.
Whenever he heard her voice, its sound pleased him much like the melody of dragons.
"That was enjoyable," said Rhaenyra, flicking her long, pale-silver hair to one side. Daemon turned fully to her now, looking upon her with curious, narrowed eyes.
She had forgone the usual royal attire he'd grown accustomed to seeing her in. Today, she wore her simpler riding gear: a black-as-tar leather jerkin embroidered with the sigil of their House; her boots too, spurred, and comfortable—not that she'd ever use them. She'd grown far taller over these past few years, the top of her silver-crowned head reaching just below his own shoulders. She was full into her young womanhood now, he realized, and in that she'd become the fairest maiden in all the Seven Kingdoms—in all the known world, even. And yet, since that fateful night of his return to court, they had grown farther apart, he realized.
Tending to royal duties could be responsible for that, he mused.
"It has been quite some time," he finally said, resting his left hand on the Valyrian steel pommel of Dark Sister. "I yearned for the skies these past months. In truth, we could have gone as far as the Eyrie, but Caraxes desired other things."
Laughing, Rhaenyra looked just past his shoulder. There, in the distance, the two dragons played joyously in the skies. She had a pretty laugh, he noted, but it departed sooner than he desired. Instead, he saw her motion over to her satchel which lay on the rocky surface. She giggled prettily, and skipped over to it. After rummaging through the thing, she flourished two flasks of wine.
Rhaenyra held out her hand, asking, "Care for a drink?" She tossed over one of the wine flasks, and it thudded against his own leathered chest before he caught it.
Daemon eyed the drink curiously, saying, "Didn't your father teach you anything? And you're barely a woman-grown. Such an unfortunate family quality . . ."
"I didn't take after father's habits, more so your own," Rhaenyra admitted, flatly.
With silver brow raised, Daemon cracked a smile. "Well, that's very kind of you," he replied. He popped it open, then raised the flask for a drink. It tasted sweet as the warm nectar trickled down his throat. "Is that summerwine?" he then asked, "I've forgone the drink recently—haven't had the time to frequent the taverns. Truthfully, I prefer its taste to that piss they drink in the Arbor."
"Taverns, was it?" Rhaenyra asked, smirking. "Ah . . . Perhaps, you meant the pleasure houses you so patroned. And what—I might ask—did they serve in these taverns?"
Daemon took another swig, lounged up against a rock, cross-armed and weary-looking. "Must we go into this? Ah, well . . . They served the finest cider in all the Seven Kingdoms. Can't find that in a lord's hall, can you?"
Rhaenyra smiled, ruefully at that. "And I've heard you've been deep in your cups at the small council meetings recently. Has being Hand to my father stressed you so, Uncle?"
He'd gone to take another sip from his flask, but it never touched his lips. The half-emptied flask lowered as his hand dropped slowly to his side, Daemon's own smile fading with it. "Your father has been unwell again," he said, quietly. "You sit on the small council, Princess . . . You know the duties I've undertaken in his stead."
"Yet, you've executed those duties faithfully," Rhaenyra said, quickly and decisively. She looked upon him as she'd done so. He saw the rise and fall of her bountiful chest as she inhaled deeply. She exhaled, saying, "Otto Hightower was wrong about you, Uncle."
She'd left it at that, stared intently at him with lilac eyes both tender and understanding. He too held his gaze into those lovely pools of lavender. He would find himself bewitched if he kept this up.
Daemon turned, scoffing darkly. "Was he now? And what was he wrong about, Rhaenyra? Please, do tell me, lest I have trouble sleeping at night knowing you privy to such things I am not."
It was quiet in their solace. Quiet enough to hear her breath hitch. His frowned deepened, scarcely recognizing the vitriolic sound of his own voice. Rarely did he speak in such ways to the young princess. Perhaps he'd said too much, he thought, cutting the girl deeper than intended.
Rhaenyra's response was very soft. "Daemon, I didn't . . . I mean—I meant to say . . ."
His name, he heard. It made him feel something deep inside, as her pretty voice uttered such things. He hadn't enough wine to even feel hazy, yet when he looked upon her wide, pleading eyes, he felt himself slide into a stupor.
Daemon's own voice dropped to a whisper. "That was rude of me, Princess. I misspoke, you see." His throat had dried considerably. It was difficult to speak such simple words; oft he became as so under her gaze.
Such eye contact wasn't to last, he realized. In the silence following this, Rhaenyra found interest in the unpleasantly dark stones between her leathered riding boots. Things are growing uncomfortably forlorn, he thought.
Daemon broke the stillness, said, cheerfully, "Ah, I've brought you another gift!"
Rhaenyra nodded, but the lord Hand had already turned, and with a rising tenor he beckoned to the heavens in High Valyrian. "Come now, Caraxes! Come and be sat my side, I say!" he bellowed to the skies.
A shrill wail reverberated through the rocky shores. Rhaenyra covered her ears, its sound piercing even to her. Suddenly, a blur of vibrant red . . . and then an earthquake; the Blood Wyrm crashed down in front of them, his enormously long neck twisting in submission to his master's call. He was ever obedient—enchanted even, his normally terrifying visage both calm and docile as Daemon reached a gloved hand to greet him in his own way.
"Steady, Caraxes," he said gently, stepping toward the massive beast.
He hadn't noticed Rhaenyra hiding shyly behind him.
And he took another step.
x x x
She sees him departing—doesn't notice herself clutching him until he pulls away. She had taken ahold of his side, she realizes, ever since his furious and loyal dragon made landing in front of them.
It isn't out of fear, she thinks. She just feels comfortable—close to him—as she is now. Her listless fingers peel away from him as he walks away and toward Caraxes. Her heart thumps beneath her breast; feels a sudden burst of loneliness—even if she really wasn't.
She watches closely as Daemon mounts Caraxes, reaches into his saddlebags. He digs for a moment, then withdraws a medium size book bound in red leather. She feels her breath quicken. He always remembers, she thinks, remembers what makes me happy.
She sees her uncle's lips move, yet his words are lost to her. The Blood Wyrm's call in response overshadows it, and Daemon dismounts. The dragon's wings beat furiously against the air, and in a moment, he vanishes from sight and into the clouds once more.
Her uncle steps toward her again, book in hand. He's smiling, she sees. She's smiling too. Little could she help herself. She is watching him closely, so he sees how happy he makes her—allows him to absorb every little detail. She notices little things about him as well: notices how the closer he is to her, the smaller steps he takes. Sees how he looks upon her with a mixture of adoration and pride. His hands are relaxed, the tome resting calmly between his fingers. His presence is forceful, she decides, and impacts her very being. He was decisive, confident and . . .
"I've brought you something new," he says—no, cuts through her thought. She breaks away from her trance, blinks her eyes hurriedly. It takes her a moment to realize he's reached out his hand, book outstretched and waiting. "Take it," he commands.
"Really?" Rhaenyra says, meekly. She breathes slowly; gets her wits about her. "You always know how to please me, don't you, Nuncle?"
Silence. But she can feel without seeing his smile upon her.
She takes the book from him. Their fingers touch ever so slightly. It feels good, to accidently do such things. They hadn't been close in some time, she laments. Forgetting that, she looks upon the freshly bound book, reads, The Complete Histories of Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Old King, by Grand Maester Runciter.
"Grand Maester Runciter wrote this?" she asks.
Daemon nods, says, "It was his final completed work before he passed away."
Rhaenyra briefly remembers when they'd received word from the Citadel about his sudden passing. Too soon, she thought. He hadn't even made it to the Citadel, she muses, but struck a fever in the midst of a storm somewhere near Ashford. He was a pleasant old-man, serving her father and the Old King before him both dutifully and in good faith.
She flips open the tome, pours through its pages quickly. It's a comprehensive text, she notes. A page turns, and then another. She looks upon the header and the words painted in gilded manuscript. She jerks slightly in response, and then looks up at Daemon who—in all his curiosities—studies the pages beneath her fingertips.
"Ah!" he exclaims, with real interest laden in his voice. How he adored the histories, she thinks. "The marriage and wedding of King Jaehaerys and the Good Queen Alysanne . . . A very curious point of history indeed . . ."
She lets his voice dwindle away. Allows a short pause between them, before she asks, "Is it true Queen Alysanne was taken abed by the king at an age three-and-ten? I've read about it before, during my studies with Grand Maester Runciter."
Her probing question seemed urgent, Rhaenyra thinks, lacking the subtleties she is known for. Daemon pays no heed to it, however.
"Indeed," he responds, interestedly so. "Whilst it is true they married first in secret, it was on their second marriage half a year later where their union was finally consummated. It was said the Old King initially believed her too young—too pure, even—though he had a change of heart after sitting the throne."
Rhaenyra ponders this fact for a moment, says, abruptly, "Would you take me to wife, Uncle?"
She hears herself say the words; doesn't believe her darkest thoughts finally found the light of life. Still, she's scared now; scared of what he might think. Her palms are sweaty, though just moments ago she was altogether calm. Daemon is scarily wordless, stares almost through her into the clear skies and ocean behind her. She hears rhythmic rolling swells and sudden thunder of the waves crashing against the rocky shores. She hears sea-birds sing—dragons too, as they dance and bellow in the distance.
Her uncle's just as shocked as she is, she realizes. He's lost himself now, found solace in the intricate embroidering and golden inlays on the book. His finger, which just moments before traced crimson letters upon the paper, rest lifelessly upon it as he stays stony and still, marred by careful thought.
Daemon clears his throat. Finds some words. "And . . . why would you wish for that?" he asks. His voice is prosaic, bereft of emotion—much unlike the Daemon she loves. The dragon sleeps, she thinks.
Rhaenyra finds sudden strength in his weakness. "Because our lineage demands it," she announces, confidently. "Ours is the blood of the dragon. I've studied the histories. I know what our ancestors expect of us. I've read the ancient vows of Old Valyria; the blood of two, joined as one. A sacred union befitting our House." Her voice grows louder, fiercer—filled with fire. "Take me here, Uncle. I beseech you, take me as you will, right here—my maidenhood is mine to give, and yours to—"
"Rhaenyra," he interrupts her. His voice is gentle, understanding. "Do not cheapen yourself. I'll not sit idly by and let you soil the purity of your maidenhood upon the ill-timed words of emotion. You are to be a queen, Princess. I was not made to bed you, even if your father disavowed my prior marriage."
Forlorn tears well in her eyes. She looks to him, to see the pained-yet-strong features of his face. "Ill-timed words? I've seen how you look at me, Uncle," she whispers. "I've watched you all these years. Your love for me is clearer than the starry night sky in the godswood; I've seen how you treat me and me alone. I know what you felt that fateful night, when in my naivety I snuck away to your quarters. I was but a child then, but now I'm nigh a woman-grown . . . had my monthly blood . . . And to this lonesome place, we have come; is this not your purpose, your very design? And our bond—do you feel it? Do you feel the same as I do? When you're close to me . . . little can I do to steady my own breath, my own heart. Bade me your answer . . . Nuncle, answer me!"
Every passing second makes her more desperate. All of her is revealed to him now. She's his, whether he would take her—ravish her with need and passion on the very rocks of this barren land. Yes, they would paint these grey rocks with the sacred blood of her maidenhead, staining them forever. And in the histories written for their song of love, this place would forever be known where they consummated their union. It would be holy ground, she thinks. And in his eyes, she sees a fire there—knows a desire burns within him—a passion to take her, for him to keep her for himself. Oh, how she wants him, needs him more than he could ever need her. She doesn't care what he wants . . . for a dragon stirs inside her too.
"Obey me!" she commands.
Fists tighten to balls and knuckle whiten. She's furious, she knows he can see this. The surprise is written on his face, plain for her and gods old and new to see.
The book closes. Daemon steps back, says, solemnly, "I am at your disposal, Rhaenyra. I would kill for you, tear the world asunder if only to please you. Yet, there are some things I cannot do. This, is one of those things. My love for you—my promise I've made to myself prevents me from obeying such a command. I bear you no ill will in my disobedience. For my insolence, you may have my head stricken and placed upon the feted spikes lining the dry moat of the holdfast. Do with me what you will, my princess—I am yours."
He said it. Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, and then lunges at him. "I will have you myself!" she roars, striking him on the chest with small fists. He falls back, helpless to her assault, unable to raise even a finger in his own defense. "Fuck me as I am, right here!" she curses. "I've given myself up for you! Before all the gods I say it! Fuck me! Fuck me! I don't care what you or anyone else thinks! I am the Princess of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne, and I'll have what I want!"
She's fumbling to remove her trousers—accursed things they were—of evil design and in ill contempt of her desires. If only she'd worn her gown in this moment, there's no chance he could squirm away from her. Appropriate for riding or not, she cursed all the gods for this embarrassment! And her leather jerkin, even worse . . . She needed to free herself from the shackles of clothes. To feel his body against hers . . . And . . . Daemon . . . he was laughing?
His husky voice penetrates her deeply. "Ah, Rhaenyra," he ekes out through hysteric babbling. "You are a dragon true, I say. Both fierce . . . and passionate!"
The book drops to the floor. She feels his strong arms wrap around her playfully. They're almost grappling with one-another now. Indeed, his touch isn't filled with lust, she realizes—just simple joy. Though, the sheer happiness from such a laugh rarely heard is enough to assuage even his refusal of her. It is intoxicating, she thinks. She's feeling dizzy again, and not from the wine.
"Oh, yes, you are deliberately insolent," he says, mischievously. "If only your forebearers could see this." His voice is incongruously delighted speaking these words, as if the very realization she desired him so brought great bliss to him.
Her turn to smile. "Does my insolence please you, Uncle?" she asks, playfully. Struggle as she did to remove any article of clothing, she found the coordination to grind herself pleasantly into him. Daemon stiffens, lets out an audible gasp; his breath smells wonderful, she notes. She presses further, curls into him deeper to whisper, "Does this please you, too?"
"Oh, Rhaenyra," he gasps—no, moans.
A sudden loss of control. She made him do that, she realizes. She made Daemon Targaryen moan! Glee in physical form spreads across every contour of her face. And with that elation she kisses the man rapidly, with quick, short pecks across his neck, jaw, and cheek. He belongs to her now, she realizes. There's nowhere for him to escape to . . . More kisses, there, here, everywhere, and soon she's slipping her trousers off past her hips . . . down to her knees . . . almost there—
The entire rock shakes horribly—then a roar, a wailing both shrill and deafening pierces her eardrums to the point of bursting. The air grows dry, hot—boiling even. Another roar, this time directed at her. Daemon yells something, she doesn't know—can't hear what he says. He's on top of her now, covering her small form with his own large body. Though he's not facing her, she notices. Above them, vast red wings spread out, massive jaws open wide, jagged teeth the size of bastard swords point and out comes a hiss—a heat which burns the very air itself. Overhead, another dragon—Syrax, she recognizes, lands unceremoniously nearby to see what the commotion was, sending rock, dust, and debris the same scattering in all directions.
The prince stands tall, holds fast. "Caraxes!" Daemon yells. "Yield, I say!"
Rhaenyra does not move. Though she knows the loyal beast will not hurt him, nor her, she's enchanted by Daemon's unflinching protection. He'd put himself between her and the Blood Wyrm, shielding himself with his own body. And he did it unquestioningly, she realizes. There was little wonder her love for him—her passion growing as it did. That's just the type of person he is, she thinks.
Daemon relaxes his stance. The Blood Wyrm growls lowly, his long, enormous neck craning to the side in confusion. A few moments pass, and with it, his own demeanor tempers downward. The dragon must have realized, she thinks: little threat did she ever pose to Daemon. His mount was fiercely protective, loyal to a point of fault, she muses. And with one big leap, he takes into the skies once more, kicking up clouds of dust to glide effortlessly through the air. Syrax, who had by all accounts grown disinterested, whistles a song of her own in response and follows the wyrm closely by side.
And as their dragon mounts vanish, so too did her own arousal. With a shy hand does she pull her trousers back up, covering her brief nudity. She had lost herself for a moment, she realizes. She must have appeared as a spoiled child to him; spoiled and ill-tempered. Feeling besmirched, she looks up at her uncle with embarrassment toiling inside her.
Rhaenyra breaks eye contact. "You say I am to be queen," she says, lamentingly, "yet, how can I, after I've tainted the purity of my maidenhood?"
A brief pause, then: "You've done no such thing," Daemon whispers.
It was barely said. Rhaenyra stiffens. She feels dizzy suddenly. The bright sun overhead covers them in a warm haze; the salty scent of Blackwater Bay permeates the air. Her senses grow keener still, heightened from her foolish attempts at foreplay. She feels unwell now, and for a vast number of reasons. She has brought this feeling upon herself, she thinks. His kind words—words meant to heal her broken spirit, ring hollow within her, self-bereft of pride and dignity as she was.
She looks up at him, a sickness manifests. It's physical now, she feels, with disgust spread across her face for him to see. Never could she rule the Seven Kingdoms; nay, she failed even to control her own base lusts—her depraved desires. How long had she coveted after her uncle so? She shudders at the thought of counting the days gone and lost.
Peaceful was her father's reign, yet she's been fighting a foolish war—a war deep within her for self-control. She's held strongly inside these emotions until now, struggling to keep them from spilling out. She remembers her fantasies, her daydreams as he focused so heavily on the realm and all its doings. She'd imagine him taking her on the small council table, glorious tapestries and murals watching curiously from above . . . and on the Iron Throne itself, the eminent seat of her forebearers tainted by the smell of coupling. No, she'd have him anywhere she so desired. Lilac eyes grow wide in sudden realization. It is a terrible feeling to admit, she thinks—of her swift descent into madness.
She turns abruptly away and begins to walk toward the rocky shore. The dragons above have stopped their dance in the skies above, having found a place to nest and lounge on the other side of the skerry. She holds her head up high and walks with whatever composure she can muster.
"Rhaenyra," Daemon says from behind her, his voice raised. She had known he would call to her. She will not face him. He would have to come from behind and take her in his arms for that. Yet, she hears his voice again, calling her name, though the crashing of the waves against the rocks silences him. She looks down at the chaotic waters. It would be so easy, she thinks, to end her dreadful life here. She needs only jump.
She takes one step forward, closes her eyes to feel the salted wind blow against her face. Water sprays upward as more waves crash against rock. The tips of her boots dangle helplessly off the edge. She's so close now . . .
Two strong arms wrap around her possessively. "The sea is home to the Velaryons," she hears him whisper into her ear. She knows he would come. In his possessiveness, he tightens his hold on her further, then says, "But for us, we have only the skies to call home. We are made of dragonfire, and little else . . ."
His calloused hand finds its way to her cheek, and she stops moving. She feels the warm rush of blood center around where his fingers touch. He cranes his own neck to look at her. And it is there in his eyes she finds his answer. Wordless was his admission of love; unspoken were his vows. She grasps his hand with her own small one and turns slowly back to look at him. Afterwards, she will remember that moment, with the sun high and waves thumping the jagged rocks below them, dragonsong in the distance; the endless oceans beyond—lashed by an amber arrow as far as any could see.
Rhaenyra is afraid of a future without him. She would yield all her titles, her power, and her status just to stay him by her side, she realizes. And for that she looks upon him with quivering, pink lips. Her eyes too, are wide, and scared.
"What . . . what if I abdicate the Iron Throne?" she stammers, her pained heart speaking for her, latching desperately onto any semblance of hope. "What if I name you as my successor? Will you take me to wife, then?"
Daemon smiles, says, "I haven't the desire to sit the Iron Throne. Only to be a conqueror . . ."
Rhaenyra smiles at that. He is a heedless romantic, she muses. She says, quietly, "What of the Free Cities . . . of Dorne. My father's peace will never last, you know this. You can still become a conqueror!"
She doesn't mean to sound so excited.
He lifts a hand to her cheek, says, "Lord Corlys will be unhappy, Rhaenyra. He has only just returned to his post on the small council as Master of Ships. He expects you only to wed his son, Laenor. It's a wonder your father hasn't already made such an arrangement."
Rhaenyra clears her throat, touches his hand with her own. "I do not care," she says, resolutely. "I do not desire any of them, only you."
And she struck gold, there, as she looks into eyes wide with both understanding and astonishment. She sees him change inside, wrestle with inner conflict never released, never verbalized. He is at war, steady and by her side—lance in hand and dragon rearing. He's always going to be there, she realizes.
Daemon looks past her, out over into the ocean and beyond. Time passes slowly now, as he holds her tight like that. And she only wished forevermore to die in his arms like so. His safety and security were paramount, and she knew with him at her side, they would be both feared and respected—a true Targaryen union of strength, and majesty.
She sees him take a deep breath, before meeting her eyes again. "You will be my queen," he says, pride laden in every syllable. "And I your Hand . . ."
Her breath hitches. His head drops slowly. His wonderous lips part, ever so slightly. Time slows down . . . reverses even. She can't breathe . . .
Rhaenyra's eyes lid shut, closed to the world, as Daemon Targaryen's mouth covers her own.
x x x
When they had arrived back to the Red Keep later that night, the portcullis was down, and the great bronze gates sealed to all who approached it. The keep seemed lifeless, aside from the flickering of lights just past the castle windows. There were guardsmen posted on the castle walls, looking down at them interestedly, and then calling to whomever operated the entryway. The portcullis raised, followed by the gates themselves opening slowly till they spread wide open.
Daemon was thinking of what transpired today, as he walked through the gates. The guards standing by gave a cursory salute of the swords as he and the princess passed by. It wasn't until they made it to the outer bailey he'd seen who awaited their arrival.
Standing resolute in front of the bronze doors to the Red Keep was Ser Erryk, and beside him, Lord Commander Westerling.
Daemon saw both bow deeply, upon their approach.
"Your Grace," Ser Harrold greeted. His voice was somber, yet still proud. "We have imminently awaited your return since noon."
"Your Grace?" Daemon questioned. "What is the meaning of this, Lord Commander? Speak, at once!"
Ser Harrold looked solemnly at Rhaenyra, and then back to Daemon, saying, "His Grace, 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, went to bed last night, and never awoke . . . He died peacefully in his bed, my lord Hand."
The very utterance lit a fire inside him. "How did this happen?" he asked, hardly believing the Lord Commander's words. "Viserys has been recovering under the treatment of Maester Gerardys. I bade him a goodnight yesterday evening. I saw him . . . He was well and alert—fine by all accounts!"
Rhaenyra stood wordless. Daemon could only hear small whimpers coming from the girl. Suddenly, she stumbled forward before he caught her. She was limp, near unconscious under the weight of such ill news.
"Rhaenyra . . ." he whispered, pushing her silver bangs out of her eyes. "Bring some water, quickly!" He beckoned Ser Erryk, and the knight went immediately to the stable to fetch a pail. Daemon returned his attention to the young queen, "Breathe slowly, Rhaenyra . . . Look at me, focus on my words."
He placed a warm hand to her cheek, and Ser Harrold turned to disperse the onset of guardsmen and the like who spied them from afar. They needn't the prying eyes of the public, right now.
Daemon turned his head to Ser Harrold, asked, "And what of Queen Alicent?"
"The Dowager Queen Alicent has fled the keep," Ser Harrold replied, plainly. "I was bade word of her departure by horse-drawn carriage early in the morning before the rising of the first light. Shortly after my lord Hand and Her Grace left on dragonback, in fact. In her company was said to be a host of Kingsguard, namely Ser Arryk, Ser Criston, Ser Willis, and Ser Rickard. The Master of Whisperers also tells she took the crown prince, Aegon, Prince Aemond and Princess Helaena with her. Tyland Lannister also accompanied the host, and with them they stole the Conqueror's crown, and Blackfyre."
Daemon was furious. "So the bitch wants to play games, then," he cursed, voice dark and filled with spite. "And no doubt she went running to hide under her father's coat. I should've removed that bastard's head when I had the chance!"
Armored footsteps approached. Ser Erryk had returned with a small bucket in hand. "Please, drink this, Your Grace."
Daemon snatched the bucket out of his hand, then leaned her head forward slightly. "Rhaenyra, please," he pled to her. He tilted the bucket to meet her lips. Her long, dark lashes fluttered briefly, and he could see her lips suckle the bucket just enough. "There you are . . ." Daemon whispered, stroking her silver hair gently.
Ser Harrold, observing the two, spoke, "My lord Hand, we must reach the Iron Throne at once. Grand Maester Gerardys and the High Septon await patiently with the royal crown. She must sit the throne, and our vows must be renewed."
It took a moment for Daemon to register what was just said.
"And what of it?" he barked back. "Have you been blinded as well? The queen is unwell. Give her a moment of your pity so she may rest. Gods forgive her, she's just lost a father, myself a brother, and you a king!"
His tone was too sharp to identify any grief there, he thought. Though Ser Harrold relented, and bowed deeply in respect. "As you wish, my lord Hand," Daemon heard him reply.
Silence took them all with unrelenting force. Daemon's entire focus appeared to be on the girl in his arms, yet inside, he was boiling hot. He seethed, quietly, as the fires of war awoke inside of him. His dragonsblood pumped violently through his veins. His head pounded—the ardor of such things, the irony which beset his life, shook the very foundations of his being. His hold on Rhaenyra tightened, possessively, as he saw her eyes flutter open to reveal pain and confusion.
"Rhaenyra," he whispered to her. "We must make haste to the Iron Throne. Your coronation will be tonight, and you must sit the throne to legitimize your queendom."
Gently he helped her sit up. She looked up at him, saying, "So it's true? My father has passed?"
Daemon nodded, solemnly, "And the Dowager Queen Alicent has fled the castle, along with all her children and patrons alike. Your glorious ascension is nigh, Your Grace."
She had smiled sadly at that, Daemon saw, and had not answered for a time.
"Let us be on our way, then," she said, using him for support as she stood. "Sers, please lead us to the Iron Throne."
Rhaenyra's resolute guise had surprised him, as he saw her innocent visage shape and malform into something . . . queenly. Daemon looked up at the night sky, to see the muted grey light of the moon and the blotched canvass of clouds scattered throughout. It is her time, he thought. Finally, her hour had come.
Their escort down the quieted halls of the Red Keep came uneventful. They were solemn in their stride, unspeaking—waiting, ever-so-patiently for what was about to come. His fist around the hilt of Dark Sister tightened, almost painfully so. And his sudden realization of Alicent's treason, so close to a declaration of war, spurred a further anger within him. Yes, taking such hallowed ancestral relics such as the Conqueror's crown and Blackfyre amounted to such. They were not tools for kingmaking, nor were they artifacts for the taking. They belonged to his House, and for them be stolen away to Oldtown and that pitiful tower they called home, burned him—scalded his very soul more than the hottest fires.
Looking ahead, squinting through the gloomy hallways, Daemon saw the large oak-and-bronze doors to the Great Hall. He walked side-by-side with Rhaenyra, in case she had another dizzy spell. Ser Harrold and Ser Erryk cut in front of them to wrest the doors open and quickly.
Daemon entered the Great Hall to see the High Septon and Grand Maester Gerardys standing patiently before the Iron Throne. A thousand jagged swords jutted like dragon's claws out from the ground to meet the staircase leading up to the twisted chair itself. Long was it his desire to sit the throne; long ago had he given that up.
On either side of the great hall in front of the throne stood the remaining Kingsguard, and the small councilmembers. He counted Lyonel Strong, his son, Larys Strong . . . Lyman Beesbury, and Corlys Velaryon. A few other royal patrons stood idly by, yet he hadn't the temperament to acknowledge their existence.
He knew most of the realm desired Viserys' firstborn son, Aegon the Second, to sit the throne. Even here in these halls there were one, maybe two, whom he thought supported that notion. He was ever suspicious of who surrounded Rhaenyra, and ever protective. He wouldn't let the leeches get close to her, as he did his brother. No, that fatal mistake would be his last.
He turned to face the High Septon, who stared at him with holy book and scepter in hand. In front of him, candles and oils burned brightly, filling the room with a scented aroma. And Grand Maester Gerardys held the symbol of a king—Jaehaerys' golden crown which bore the sigil of his House. Daemon took it immediately.
"Kneel, Your Grace," he beckoned. In both hands did he hold the jeweled crown high, awaiting her approach.
But Rhaenyra herself looked upon him curiously, both underdressed and unprepared to don such a thing. He saw her look upon him with sad, tired eyes. She had just lost a father, yes, he realized. As did he lose a brother, whom he so recently renewed the familial bonds of love with. He understood, plainly, what she felt in this moment. And yet, she must kneel, here and now before gods and men.
Amongst the Great Hall, all its occupants fell to one knee. Their heads bowed deeper still, breath still and awaiting her arrival as their queen.
Rhaenyra took a careful step, leather boots clicking against the tiled floor. Dazzling chandeliers above them sparkled flame in the darkness. The moon shone through the grand and tall windows of the halls as if beckoned by her very presence.
He watched her as she too, took a knee before him, bowing her head and awaiting the crown. He looked upon all in attendance of the room, sat the ancestral crown of gold upon her beautiful silver mane, and bellowed his loudest. "All hail, Her Grace!" His voice echoed throughout the hall. "Rise now, Rhaenyra of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"
"Hail, Her Grace!" bellowed the hall in unison.
And the queen did rise, as she looked upon her subjects with newfound pride and dignity. As a ruler would, Daemon thought. And she too, looked up at him, smiling through the pain of heavy loss. Then, a steady voice broke their silence:
"Before the burning of the seven oils I take this vow anew!" cried Ser Erryk. And in tandem, the other White Swords joined him, Ser Harrold, Ser Steffon, and Ser Lorent included: "I swear to ward the queen with all my strength . . . and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife . . . hold no lands . . . and father no children. I shall guard her secrets . . . obey her commands . . . ride at her side, and defend her name and honor!"
Rhaenyra then said in a measured voice, "Rise, my loyal Queensguard." She was regal in her demeanor, Daemon thought.
White cloaks billowed brilliantly as the knights arose born anew with oaths and vows made fresh and solemn. The High Septon then said, "May these vows never be broken, so made before the eyes of the seven faces of god, they were."
There was a silence. In it, the councilmen, Queensguard and royal patrons alike looked upon Queen Rhaenyra in awe.
But came from the silence was an older, wiser voice.
A closed hand raised—Maester Gerardys'—and within it was a sealed piece of parchment. "I stood by the king in his final moments. Hear now before all the gods what I say! In my right hand is the last hallowed order of King Viserys!" He displayed it for all to see, clear to show the king's seal, red wax unbroken. He opened the letter and read. "This is the word and final will of Viserys of the 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."
The maester cleared his throat briefly, before continuing:
"I do hereby command and name, Daemon of House Targaryen, Lord of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea and Hand of the King, to serve as Lord-Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my death, and until my daughter, Rhaenyra, does come of age. So writes my final will, and testimony, before all the gods, old and new . . ."