Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ V
It's not something she's ever thought about, but Rhaenyra has never been a deep sleeper. She's never slept well these days, in fact, and most of all since she's sat the Iron Throne. Its heavy burden had affected her in many ways, she feels.
Lilac eyes blink sleepily. She feels the bed shift as someone stirs upon it. It is difficult to make out the silhouette of the shape sitting in the darkness upon the foot of her bed, yet she knows who it is. With a listless gaze, she rolls over to nudge him from behind with her bare foot. She sprawls out on her pillows, now hugging one tightly as she shifts her weight further to prod him. She can see him turn his head at that.
There is a draft from the open windows. Rhaenyra shivers, pulls the sheets over her shoulders, saying, "You're awake so early . . . "
She hears him sigh wistfully; knows he's smiling even though she can't see it. His smile is beautiful, like every inch of him, she thinks. She can envision that beauty in the dark: his chiseled, well-toned body hardened from combat, the countless scars painting story of war, and the shining pale-silver of his locks an unfaltering beacon of his heraldry and pure line.
The pictorial thought of his majesty stirs her famished lungs to pump harder as bellows stoking the very flame of her heart. He'd come to her last night, she remembers, in the shadow of the night wordless to both knight and queen alike. There he'd taken her abed, though was careful in his doings—careful not to split her royal maidenhead upon the length of his own. Though she wished for more, desired it even, he'd cradled her as one might a treasure—possessively so. She had felt all of him in that moment, feeling his very large manhood pressed against her rear through his silken trousers. And yet he stayed himself—forbade himself even—and clutched her tightly, so wrapped in his great warmth as she was.
She hears bells sound in the distance. Its clear ringing signifies the morning prayer Septon Eustace tenders to every morning. First light is upon them, she realizes. Yet for now, they're still shrouded in comfortable darkness.
She loves the sound of the bells from this high place. She looks up at him from her low position, eyes half-lidded and still drowsy. Long lashes flutter, and she refocuses. He's somewhat visible now, her vision adjusted accordingly to see him bathed dark in the gloomy and ill-lit room.
It is the same twilight she found herself in every morning, a time when she's awoken to maid and knight aplenty who bring little comfort into her world. Yet he is here now, breathing dragonfires into her dwindling tinder, rekindling her flame.
Even so—or perhaps, because of this—the morning feels more somber than usual. Today, they will place her father upon the pyre of her forebearers, where many a king and queen and those of dragon's blood became one with the fires which birthed them. It is a day infused with both love and mourning, she realizes.
She does not wear that sadness upon her face, so lifted by amorous love to steal her from the depths of any sorrow.
A strong hand grasps her foot, and squeezes. Daemon looks down upon her nestled form with a gentle longing. Gone was the austereness which defined his very being, as she feels fingers trail yearningly against her skin. She feels this, sees this painted on the soft features of his face and the low-lit flame of his plum-colored eyes.
She wants him to embrace her wholly.
She turns over in the bed to get closer. Sees him cock his head to the side, pale brows raised. She says, looking at him from underneath, "Have you become so smitten with me, my prince?"
Unexpectedly, Daemon moves closer to wrap his hands underneath her head, cradling her. He's gentle in his doings, calloused-though-tender fingers kneading themselves through her soft, pale-silver hair. His touch is divine, she thinks.
"Have I? Hopelessly so!" he says through a grin, rocking her back and forth with mirth. "I deign to admit I have become in thrall to you, my queen."
She stares, lilac eyes lidded and well-pleased under his touch. "Well then, as both your lady and master, I bid you love me and no one else. Do I have your heart now and forever, Daemon Targaryen?"
"I am yours, now and forever." His voice is solemn, spoken true like a knight's vows. He looks more thoughtfully at her. "With my undying love, I shall protect and safeguard you, and soon when we wed, all our foes will bend the knee . . . or fall vanquished under my blade."
"How soon?" she asks suddenly.
She sees him ponder that a moment, then with voice low, says, "There will be an appropriate time for our union, but nay has it come. And I fear what I've done will be deemed unsavory betwixt gods and men. For that, I can only beggar your forgiveness for such a whimsical display of compulsion and desire."
"It was not whimsical." She is afraid of sounding like a child.
"But it was. I shouldn't have invited myself into your bed. It is—"
"Do not say it," she says, touching a small finger to his lips. "Our affair is many things, and none of it whimsical. I forbid you from uttering such matters again."
He curls his long fingers around the shape of her head, saying, "As you wish."
Rhaenyra feels herself smile, saying, "You love me then,"
A smile to match hers. He is amused, she sees. He leans forward, closer still to her lips, murmurs, "You are a queen now, yes. But you will always be my princess . . ." And he covers her mouth with the length of his own.
She tastes his need and hunger as his adventurous tongue plunders deeper for treasure. In base instinct, she presses herself hard against him to satiate such gluttonous need. Her hands too, have a mind of their own, she realizes. She can feel that as they slide up and down his perfect skin, curving downward to reach his trousers. He delves deeper, and her eyes wound shut. She mouths something—soundless words maybe—lost as they are. Needy fingers creep, find their purpose—and in their lustful firmament can feel his very large manhood engorged and tight against his hose—she need only take it . . .
He restrains her hand just as she's about to grip his length. She gasps and turns to claw at his shirt until it comes away. She hears him grunt, perhaps her name; the world blurs and he's suddenly above her, bare-chested and beautiful. She struggles futilely against him, but he's much larger, and stronger. He takes both her arms by the wrist now and pins them above her head. His eyes plead her for something.
She wants more.
"Why won't you give me what I desire?" she asks him pointedly.
He just stares. She can see his excitement, both on his face and elsewhere. His chest rises and falls quickly, a symptom of his arousal. "I'll not spoil you now, after all this suffering I've endured. I beg you, wait until we are wed, and then I will give the pleasures you seek."
"I've saved myself for you," she says. She sees him look more thoughtfully at her. "I refuse to entertain the hand of another. Lord Corlys will be disappointed to hear I kept myself intact for you, though it bothers me little."
His hold on her relaxes. "It will disappoint many," he adds, "and there are a great number of suitors who desire your hand."
Rhaenyra wags a lazy finger. "Forget them so," she says. "No man can compare to you, my love."
"You flatter me, my princess."
His voice is husky, and his demeanor equally sensual in a way. In the dark, lavender pools of his eyes, she sees something stir. His answering smile is scintillating, and in that moment, he is hers.
She sees him turn his head to whisper something under his breath. It was meant to be unheard, she realizes. He seems disturbed now . . . and when he'd seemed so peaceful just seconds ago. He's gripping the bedsheets now, she notices. She reaches out a careful hand to clasp his own.
"What bothers you so, my prince?" she asks him. She feels him stiffen as her arms envelop him. "Did something other than love deliver you into my bed last night?"
Things grow quiet between them. "I will take Caraxes to Oldtown after the funeral," Daemon replies after a short moment. "I will make for the Roseroad, cut through the Reach, and confront the Hightowers myself."
The two exchange glances. She sees a fire burn in his eyes, and it frightens her. "But why must you go alone?" she asks. There is worry laden in her tone. "We can raise a host ten-thousand strong. Let us confront them in unity and strength, my prince."
Daemon sighs and twists away from her gaze. "I go as envoy, not a combatant," he replies. "The Hightowers may be cowardly, but they have their honor intact. Rest assured, my safe passage into their halls is guaranteed, Rhaenyra."
Her name gentle on his tongue spurs her. She can feel her heart stop. "But I command you not to go!" Rhaenyra exclaims. "You vowed never to leave my side again. You made such a promise solemn and true underneath the very gods!"
"I did promise," he says ruefully, "but there must be exceptions. It is for the betterment of your rule . . . your hegemony, and for your very safety. It would take a fortnight to summon the crownlords and their banners. I must take care of this business myself before it becomes untenable. And with Caraxes, I will be nigh on the Hightower gates by the morrow."
She wants to fight, to argue her point. But she knows he'd win. She hears herself whimper, saying, "You mustn't go!"
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I truly am."
"You're not."
"Rhaenyra . . ."
She feels foolish, young. He doesn't see her as queen, she realizes. "You are Protector of the Realm, Daemon Targaryen! You are my regent, and you serve me! Must I have you thrown in the dungeons, tortured even? I will do what I must, to keep my prince from going astray!"
She's standing now, arms by her side, hands balled to fists and knuckles white. Her golden night-gown billows in the brisk morning gusts from the open windows. Its translucency paints a pellucid shape of her forbidden and bare body, though she cares little right now. She's boiling inside, hot steam billowing from her tiny nostrils as if she were a dragon. A very small, and warmhearted dragon, that is.
Daemon looks surprised. Rhaenyra sees him suddenly stand, back straight and long form towering over her now. His arms are crossed, and his face stern. She wasn't one to normally make such a fuss, she realizes. And now his full and all-encompassing ire was upon her now. I am but a whelpling compared to him, she thinks. Indeed, he is a full-grown dragon, hardened by war and stained with blood . . . and he'd been awakened from his deep slumber. His full-blooded lilac-eyes, now both glowing and fiery look upon her with silent damnation.
A very large hand grasps her shoulder, and his other, stills inches from her face. He points a bejeweled forefinger, saying, "Be wary how you speak to me, little queen."
His voice is raspy, and dark. He's lacking malice shown to others, though he was scarily serious. She knows, sees this, as he glares daggers into her own submissive pools of lavender. She can feel her defiant form shrink, cowering in such a way to his dominance. He squeezes her shoulder lightly, relaxes, and then finally turns away.
Seeing him walk away makes her feel nauseous. She feels ill. "I haven't dismissed you," Rhaenyra chokes out. "Daemon, please!"
She hears him grunt angrily and suddenly he's turned and upon her. She backs into a wall, hands grasping for anything. She finds a desk and steadies herself. She's trapped under his large form . . . and his enormous hands envelop her, one around her neck and the other to curl against her cheek. Daemon squeezes possessively, but it is altogether gentle. His eyes narrow to slits, and his brow furrows pointedly.
"I would take you up against this wall," he whispers, hot breath sensually tickling her ear. "If you wish to debase yourself as a tavern whore, I will treat you like such."
Rhaenyra frowns. "I am not a whore," she replies.
She feels him rub her cheek with his thumb, saying, "Then, you will let me carry out my duty to the realm."
There is silence now. Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, saying, "If I must. But remember, I yearn only for you, my dearest prince."
Daemon smiles. There is something dangerous behind that toothy grin. In uncomfortable silence, wordless is his reply. Then she hears:
"I know."
And his lips are full upon her once more. Ravenous is his desire, unending and consuming. Rhaenyra can discern that, feel that as he explores deeper. The grip around her neck tightens. Her lips part receptively, driven by instinct and pure need for him. She feels his tongue enter finally. Hers too—welcoming, and pleased—finds its way against his own to escape into his mouth.
She's dizzy now . . . needs to breathe but can't. It's useless to protest now. She can feel his hands snake themselves curiously up her gown. Her own fingers rest pathetically against his bare chest. He presses himself into her, and finally her hands find purpose. She loosens the drawstrings of his trousers, searching desperately for anything. A moan escapes her as he finds the soft pillows of her breasts. It's terribly hot, she feels.
"I am burning up," Rhaenyra says.
Daemon grunts, saying, "Let me help you with that."
An orange spill of light illuminates her body as he lifts her gown up and over her head. The discarded garment falls pitifully to the wayside as their soaking and impassioned bodies meld against one another. She has time to register the blazing fire growing in his pools of lilac. And he kisses her full upon the lips to drag his mouth downward her jaw and lower still on her neck. She moans loudly—his name she thinks. Moans it again as his hands play against her supple skin. He's flushed bright red and beautiful. She can see that through lidded eyes, long-lashes blinking rapidly as he suckles hungrily her earlobe as a babe would a teat.
With a deep, throaty sound, Daemon grunts, traps her hand and sinks his teeth deep in the flesh of her neck. And that wonderful pain sheds all notions of sanity, unshackles her desires, and makes her forget all notions of chastity.
Everything is gone, her undergarments too as they hit the floor faster than Daemon can suggest it. Seconds pass, but it is a lifetime to her. The many colors of the queen's chambers meld and blur to form a rainbow. She shuts her eyes. The world goes weightless as Daemon lifts her and plops her onto the bed. She looks up at him from her low spot, sees his pale-silver and shining crown-like mane atop his head glistening majestically above. Restless hands find the sheets and clench madly. She see him hover over her, face animalistic and beastly, starving with lust and unyielding desire.
She feels ready for him, ready to take all of him full and deep. She wants it and he does too. She knows that, sees that, as he pulls his hose down to free his engorged sex. Its length causes her to shudder. Perhaps I'm not ready, she thinks suddenly. And it's the most coherent thought she's had all morning—but it's too late.
They've gone too far now.
She must see it through.
And he just about collapses onto her as one of his hands finds her cheek. It doesn't take long for him to find the portal he'd desired. Her awareness of things suddenly heightens. She feels lightning. He's prodding her outer folds now. It's moist, and wet, she feels. She grips the bed harder, and he, her cheek. She hears him whisper something—maybe a name? Her name? Her mouth opens briefly . . .
A loud rap-rap wrests them both back to reality. She feels her heart collapse. Daemon freezes, she does too as both their heads turn slowly toward the doors leading into the hallway. They stay absolutely-still like that, listening and keen to their intruder. Perhaps they had imagined it, she thinks. Then, a strong, but muffled voice follows that innocent thought:
"It is I, Ser Erryk, Your Grace!"
Rhaenyra just stares at Daemon. He's quiet as he pulls up his trousers and secures his painfully unsatiated sex within them. She's soaking wet from head to toe from their carnal foreplay, and he too is ragged looking. The banging continues as she watches her lord prince throw on an undershirt and stroll over to the doorway. As she sees him go to jerk the doors open, Rhaenyra tosses the sheets over her body to conceal her nudity.
An uncomfortable silence. The two men just stare at each other, wordless.
Ser Erryk suddenly falls to one knee, bowing his head and saying, "Forgive me for my impudence, Your Grace!"
Daemon waves his hand. "Get on your feet," he commands sternly. "Come now, what news demands such urgency?"
Ser Erryk stands and nods slightly, saying, "The funeral procession for His Grace, King Viserys, is set to begin shortly." He withdraws a piece of parchment and hands it to Daemon. "The small council requested my services to inform the queen, as Her Grace's presence is expected to mark its beginning."
"Very well then," Daemon says evenly. He takes the note and gestures politely at the knight. He is unusually dutiful, she thinks. He continues, saying, "You may take your leave now. I shall inform Her Grace the Queen, myself."
The knight bows deeply, saying, "By your command, Your Grace." And she can hear his armored footsteps thud against the hard floor as he departs.
She sees Daemon close the doors and turn to her. He sighs deeply, saying, "We seem to have lost track of time."
"Have we?" she asks prosaically.
He nods, saying, "I will call for your handmaidens. Get your wits about you, as we are needed promptly to begin my brother's departure."
"But . . . Daemon, can't we—"
"Speak no more of it," he cuts her off harshly.
She watches him fasten his tunic, prep himself and fix Dark Sister in his belt.
He then turns on his heel and pushes open the doors. They swing shut coldly, and Rhaenyra finds herself both unsatisfied and terribly alone in the queen's chambers.
x x x
She remembers the smell.
Just hours ago, her father had burned upon the funeral pyre of her ancestors. Her she-dragon, Syrax, carried the high honor of setting the pyre aflame with her dragonfires. It was a somber thing to witness, but customary to her kin. His ashes were to be collected and placed in the sept beside the Red Keep, or so she was told.
She'd rather not dwell on that now.
As she winds her way through the cobblestone terrace adjacent to the keep in the outer bailey, she thinks of her father. She can't help herself. His memory is fresh on her mind now. His eulogy, given heartfelt by Daemon, had brought her to tears. Little did the two ever share an air of amicability between each other, and yet he had conjured such kindness in that moment to offer before his burning. She feels great pride to have such vaunted lineage—to be daughter to the last rider of Balerion, the Black Dread. She'd only wished to be granted one last moment to share how much she truly loved him.
Her eyes close, and then open again. She listens to the sentinel trees as they sway with the wispy winds. The scent of them relaxes her, soothes her enough to clear her mind of family tragedy. Birds sing from their nests, much like the dragons earlier as her father burned away.
She takes small, yet quick steps in her stroll. Her poulaines loudly click a song of their own against the cobblestone. Cleaned up and dressed austere in black for the somber occasion, she finds herself frowning. It isn't too much farther now, she thinks. Mixed with the tree's scent is something far headier. It is the odor of a dragon, she realizes.
She sees, without surprise, Daemon Targaryen tending to his great dragon, Caraxes. The large, ruby-red of his slitted eyes narrow interestedly as she approaches. His twisted and spiked tail coils submissively around his enormously long body. She sees Daemon pat the beast gently, and then turn to face her. Bells ring in the distance, and her prince looks upon her with a frigid glare. The sun illuminates his pale-silver hair beautifully. A wind blows from the east.
"You're departing already," Rhaenyra says lamentingly.
It is a statement, an admission of reality. He is glowing brightly like his crimson dragon. Armored as he was, he wore a black padded doublet with charcoal-black leather, with a plain, war-torn plate barring any sigil overtop. In his left arm nestles a simple helm with red plumes, and Dark Sister hangs aside his hip. He suddenly turns and tends to his large saddle once more.
"I am expected," Daemon replies.
Lilac eyes narrow. "And yet you set out armored like so," she says pointedly. "You said earlier you intended to travel as envoy. Yet, your plate is stained with corsair blood, and your leathers split and tattered. Pray tell, is this how my regent should conduct official business representing the Crown?"
She sees him tighten his saddlebags and fasten a long, black whip to it. He's busy with his doings as he speaks, saying, "They know what to expect from myself."
"A mockery?" she asks bluntly.
Daemon grunts, replies, "I go as a warrior to offer terms of peace, if they would have it."
With hands wound tightly behind the small of her back, Rhaenyra steps closer, asks, "And if they do not accept your generous terms?"
Daemon hops down from his saddle and pats the dragon approvingly. The great beast whistles, mewls even as his master dotes on him if he were his child. He turns to her, saying, "The crownlands have come under a shortage and bull of sheep. You see, Caraxes is growing quite hungry—starved even, to the point where even putrid human flesh becomes delightfully tasty . . ."
She grimaces, saying, "Your taste for jest is unsightly, Uncle."
Daemon takes a few steps closer to her. He leans forward, closer still. She can feel his hot breath on her nose—smell him, even. "It is no jest," he replies darkly.
The words are almost immediately lost to her. She can only process his heady scent of boiled leather and dragon. It's intoxicating to say the least. And she finds herself orbiting him now, her hands raising to touch against his plated chest.
"I need you, Uncle," she says. Her voice is desperate, she feels. Doesn't care. "Send Lord Beesbury in your stead. You are the throne's protector. You mustn't go!"
Daemon sighs, touching a hand to her cheek. He's wearing thick riding gloves. She feels it, coarse and smelly as they are. A small silence, then he exhales the breath he'd been holding, saying, "I am doing this to protect you, Rhaenyra."
She feels a lonesome tear slide down her cheek. "Then you must take me with you," she says. Her voice is urgent, her growing need evident as she presses herself up against him. "Don't put me through this a second time!"
Her prince smiles, wiping the singular tear dry with his gloved hand. He then turns and departs from her close presence to mount Caraxes with one big leap. He dons his plumed helm, and looks down at her as the vicious dragonsteed lets out a dreadfully loud wail, as if he were mourning a great and unimaginable loss. With his whip in his right hand, and the reins in his left, he gestures at her to bid farewell. He gives the whip just one crack against the blue canvass of a sky, and the ground shakes.
She can do nothing as the dragon beats his wings once, twice, and then leaps into the air to kick up dust, dirt, and debris. And only a short moment passes before he scales the outer bailey and launches into the skies above magnificently and with great speeds. Sooner still, the receding red shape vanishes into the puffy clouds painted on the midday sky.
He was gone, and all she's left with is the dragon's far-off whistling roars as he sings and plays about the sky he commands.
It feels like a dream, on this terrace bathed in orange light. She holds her eyes open, as long as she can to look into the sun. And finally, when she tires and can look no more, her eyes flutter and she looks to see a vague figure approaching in the distance. It is Lyonel Strong, Lord of Harrenhal.
He is careful in his approach. She watches him as he bows his head, and greets her, saying, "Good morrow, Your Grace."
Rhaenyra nods her head in simple acknowledgement. "Good morrow, Lord Strong," she says. "If I can only utter such a thing. It has been a morning of great sorrow, I think."
"It has been, Your Grace," he replies. His face is warm, as is his overall demeanor. "Tragic was his passing, but the gods have given your father rest and relief."
Rhaenyra can feel the pinprick of tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "Thank you," she replies shortly. There is a moment's silence between them before she continues, saying, "And the Lord-Prince Regent's departure. He has taken flight to Oldtown. Oh, how I fear the worst for him!"
Lyonel looks upon her with concern. "Your Grace, in seeking my council, you bring great honor to my House," he says evenly. "His Grace—your uncle, is a very proud man. He is made of sturdier stuff than any Hightower. I believe you need only trust in his ability to resolve the matter at hand."
It is a typical response one would expect from Lord Strong. His words feel hollow, however. She can do little other than worry. "I must go to him . . ."
She leaves the thought unfinished. She doesn't have to say anything else.
"I understand," she hears Lyonel reply.
His response is unexpected. "Truly?" Rhaenyra asks.
She sees the man look at her pensively. He thinks for a moment, then says, "I had served your father for nearly half a decade . . ." He pauses briefly. He is speaking candidly now, with his court-like pretenses lowered and gone. "In that short time," he continues, "he impressed upon me greatly his desire to see you sit the throne, and his undying belief in your future rule. It is for that very reason, I will support your true and legitimate queendom until my dying breath."
Rhaenyra looks at him bow his head in respect. She's expected fealty, but not like this. She hadn't done anything remarkable yet. There is a silence, more wind. Suddenly, she says, "I hereby order you, Lyonel Strong, Lord of Harrenhal and Master of Laws, to dispense the queen's will, justice, and keep the peace while myself and the regent are away."
Lyonel drops to one knee. "Your Grace," he said. "I am not worthy of such an honor."
Rhaenyra raises a hand to beckon him. "Please rise, Lord Strong. You are worthy because I have deemed you so."
The man lifts his head and stands. He nods and says, "I will accept this honor, and execute these duties to the fullest of my abilities, and with true honor reflecting Her Grace's court."
Rhaenyra turns to look upon the domed castle of the Dragonpit atop the hill of Rhaenys. "Send word to the Dragonkeepers," she commands. "They are to ready Syrax immediately for swift flight to Oldtown."
x x x
Daemon remembered lying awake in her bed that night. In his weakness, he'd stowed away into her bedchambers where neither knight nor courtier knew of such a thing. He didn't know why he really did it, just allowed himself once to act on base instinct and passion. He'd needed someone that night—needed the comforts of love and a warm woman in his bed—no matter who it was. A Flea Bottom whore could've sufficed, but he swore to himself almost a year ago he'd end that undesirable activity. And so, he found himself in forbidden places once more. Found her . . . and had nearly defiled her in unforgivable ways.
He had been filling his flask with the freshwaters of the river Mander when his thoughts returned to that night. Perhaps he'd been entranced by the slow, steady flow of the clear waters, or maybe the calmness of the gentle breeze which gusted out of the east every now and then. He'd remembered when he came in and embraced her suddenly. She had been clad in nothing but a flimsy sleeping-gown, pink nipples taut against the transparent fabric, and every detail of her forbidden body on display for him. He remembered her long pale-silver hair let down to dangle below her shoulders for the night. He'd never seen her so vulnerable, so naturally beautiful like that. They had looked at each other for a brief, soundless moment as the winds and seconds which passed ceased as time stood still just for them. He remembered the dim candlelight glow as it played on the fair features of her face, and the look of expectancy on her supple parted lips, then Rhaenyra had said, softly, so no knight may hear, "Have you come to consummate our union? Have you come to take what's yours?"
And Daemon had lifted her up in his arms to place her gently on the bed, and then held her so tightly he'd never be able to let her go. He said nothing to her—uttered not a single word of love or anything else really. Just held her like that, breathing in her wonderous scent and burying himself in her luscious silk-like hair spread out and shining on the dark pillows like they were. An eternity passed before he'd turned over to blow out the one remaining candle that continued long past its time of expiration. Whether it was from disappointment, or the comfort of his embrace, she'd soon fallen fast into the oblivion of sleep there in his arms. And he too soon followed her into peaceful rest.
And that's all he remembered before he'd awoken this morning.
He'd meant to make the journey to Oldtown almost a week ago, yet his brother's funeral was delayed, and other matters arose. Now the Hightowers were more than prepared for his arrival, he realized.
Perhaps it was stress from events of the past week, or his fear of something else. But Daemon had not known whatever led him to her room that night would bring him so close to defiling her. He didn't even know what drove him—fueled his lust like endless timbers feeding a ravenous flame to birth a forest fire. He surely wanted her, he knew this . . . and she him—but it just wasn't time. She is still too young, he thought.
Surely the realm would condemn him, and the gods sentence him to eternal damnation if he deflowered and despoiled her as a young maiden. She wasn't just some Flea Bottom whore. She was of his own blood, born from a royal womb and of the most sacred lineage. And one whom his deceased brother had granted him charge to protect . . . to safeguard, and to keep all her foes fearful enough to prostrate themselves before her in shame.
And now he was somewhere southwest of Highgarden, set upon his path toward death and glory.
He spoke her name once in his mind. He would remember it until his dying breath.
And he did remember it when he heard a long-distant song somewhere over the horizon.
It was the beautiful sound of a songstress, or perhaps the merlings of Lannisport. Caraxes, who had been sipping from the river waters, cocked his head interestedly after the first tune, and then gave his own answering call in tenor after it sounded a second time far-off and away. There were no known stray dragons anywhere near these wilds, and such a sound was very familiar. It had a feminine quality in its tone. It must've been of a she-dragon, he realized.
He took a sip from his flask as Caraxes dashed off the ground to beat his wings furiously in the air once more. He could only watch as the more-than-excited dragon chased after whatever approached them. Oh, he knew just who had come. She is a heedlessly disobedient, he thought.
And soon enough the sound of dragon's singing filled the river Mander and the surrounding lands. Dashes of gold and red painted themselves onto the bright blue afternoon skies. He just watched as the dragons played through the air like a couple of babes. The two beasts were shamelessly in love, he realized. And yet he couldn't help himself in this moment, sitting upon the grassy knoll along the edge of the river and awaiting their arrival. He felt himself smile, bemused by such a sight.
After the dragon's reunion, Syrax came to rest at the foot of the riverbed. She'd need some drink for the tribulations ahead of them. And he just watched as her rider, equally beautiful in her own way, dismounted with a thud against the rocks and made her away toward him.
"You've begun to make defiance a habit, haven't you?" Daemon said amusingly to the approaching queen. "I should have suspected as much."
"I wouldn't allow you to confront them by yourself," Rhaenyra answered, voice stern and unwavering. She was dressed comfortably in her riding gear, and without the crown of Jaehaerys. "And two dragons is more fearsome a show, wouldn't you agree?"
"Ah. So that is your design then," he replied. He stood up from the grass and took a stance in front her, hands on his hips. "And I wonder . . . Just who've you left in charge of the realm while we're away?"
"Lord Lyonel Strong," she said primly.
Daemon laughed softly. "Forgive me. But perhaps you should consult with your regent before you place a cunt like Lyonel in command of the entire Seven Kingdoms and all its realm."
"You need not be vulgar," she replied. "Lyonel is a fine advisor, and I trust in his loyalty. There was no finer candidate."
"Very well," he said.
He turned away from her and walked toward Caraxes, who had by now joined Syrax alongside the riverbed to drink and lounge. The two dragons were sprawled out massive and long against each other, enjoying their company. Neither Rhaenyra nor Daemon said anything to one another. Just listened to the wind blow, and the birds sing and dragons purring. He looked at her out the corner of his eye, seeing her small smile, and her relaxing demeanor. He could feel his own mouth curling upwards to smirk. Then he remembered what he'd done to her just this morning.
He looked at Rhaenyra, hesitated, and then frowned deeply in the sunlight. "I know you possibly think lowly of me now," he uttered. His voice was dejected, and low. "I shouldn't have done that, Rhaenyra . . ."
Even with all the things they'd been through—both in joy and sorrow—there was still something heinous about his actions. He'd tried so hard to control himself, to deflect her advances and attempts at courtship. There was so much struggle in it . . . so much anguish. And yet all this time he maintained his honor, just to dash it away in an instant.
Rhaenyra was quiet when she spoke. "I would never think of you in such ways," she whispered. She took quicker steps to match his own long stride. She was quiet for a moment, and then inhaled. "I wanted that more than the Iron Throne itself," she admitted.
The prince turned his head at that. A brief, malformed smile formed from his grimace. "You are certainly something else," he said quietly. She could barely hear it if she did, he realized. There was a brief silence before he continued, saying, "I do not wish to squander your maidenhood on lust, and desire. Only when we wed, will I take such a sacred treasure from you."
"My maidenhood is mine to give to whom I wish," she replied evenly, looking down at the passing bunches of grass and dirt. "There was once one who tried to take it from me, but his attempt was foiled. My maidenhead has survived for this very reason. I thought I told you: I have saved myself for you alone. It is your decision when to take what's akin to your birthright."
He turned around and looked at her, shocked. "What craven tried to defile you? Tell me, Rhaenyra! Now!"
She was surprised by his anger, he saw. She surely hadn't meant to hide such a thing from him. Her voice was low when she spoke, saying, "Ser Criston Cole of the Kingsguard . . . attempted to take my maidenhood shortly after my tenth name day. He had taken advantage of your absence while you were away in the Stepstones."
His fists clenched. He seethed with anger. "I will take care of that bastard myself," he whispered. "I promise you, I won't let his treachery go unpunished!"
Rhaenyra had noticed his growing anger. She clasped her hand around his own, said, "Thank you . . . for everything."
And it was in that moment Daemon knew what he must do.
He stopped in his tracks. Turned to face her and touch a cheek with his hand, said, "Then I will make our union official as soon as that old fool Septon Eustace will allow it."
He could see her heart stop in that moment. Her breathing ceased, lips trembling. "Then you will take me to wife?" she asked.
Daemon suddenly fell to one knee. He loved looking up at her from this low position, seeing her beauty in new ways. With his right hand, he took her hand in his own, and slowly lifted it toward his lips so they might meet.
Nearly touching his lips to the back of her hand, he said, "I, Daemon of the House Targaryen, will take Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, to wife. I pledge myself to her, and promise this before all the gods, old and new. I will welcome all the curses of the known world, if I am to break this solemn vow of love and courtship." He took a deep breath, then placed his lips full on her skin to touch the jeweled ancestral ring around her finger, and every digit beside it.
When his lips departed her pale and perfect skin for the last time, he looked up at her. He saw the joy and the sadness spread across her face for only him to see. In this peaceful meadow, where dragons sing and toil in the river waters, and where no man or woman could trample on their happiness, he saw endless tears streaking down her cheeks.
She couldn't speak, he knew this—saw this as she rest her other hand on her heaving chest. It was his turn to speak, and so he did, said, "Do you accept this oath, sewn with the very fabric of my soul . . . my very love, such as it is?"
Rhaenyra laughed through her anguish, smiled through her elation. "Yes, this vow I do accept!" she exclaimed. "And I will make one of my own!"
She was silent for a moment. Daemon only listened patiently for whatever she was about to say. He could hear her inhale deeply. Her face, normally pallid, was flushed beet-red. Through tears, she exhaled, letting out a voice loud, proud, and full of confidence:
"I will order our marriage within the fortnight!"
The knee he rested upon began to shake. His palms became sweaty, and his lips dried considerably.
"You will be my prince consort, and all the known world will celebrate our union of blood, and fire."
x x x
When they came upon Oldtown, they were high up above the clouds. Yet, as high as they were, they could still see the majestic Hightower cutting into the heavens like an arrow of silver. It shimmered in the evening, as the setting sun was sliced in two by the ocean's horizon.
He tightened his grip on his reins and cracked his whip to send his dragonsteed darting through the clouds and descending from their high position. Syrax let out a wail behind him, and followed them closely to match his swift speed.
Daemon smelt the salt of the Whispering Sound. One could taste it even, as they approached the coastline at rapid speeds. He knew that scent, it had beckoned memories of his last foray here—a great many in fact. And in an instant, he knew there was no turning back now. Lilac eyes of fire narrowed to slits and so did his dragon mount's. Caraxes whistled horribly as they flew low enough to spray salted waters around them. Numerous lights glowed to glimmer in the growing darkness. He could see flaps on the numerous houses lining the harbor flip open, curious to what the noise was.
They knew he would be coming, and if they didn't, they'd surely heard that wail. Heard it from miles away, actually. Suddenly, he jerked his reins upwards as they approached, and gave his whip a torrid crack. Caraxes roared again and twisted upwards at devilish speeds to scale his massive form over the Hightower in seconds. He circled once, twice, and then collided with the tip of the tower itself, just above the beacon as it glittered brightly. Large, sword-like claws dug themselves into white stone as his dragon clung to it and roared down upon the massive sprawling city splayed before them. Steam billowed from his nostrils, fires roared inside him. The beast grew hot, and furious to match his rider's ire. From their high position, Daemon could see commoner, merchant, and citizen alike spill from their homes to see what horrors lingered in the night. Syrax made circles around the Hightower as if she were the very goddess of her namesake. She crooned alongside the wyrm's fearsome roar.
The view was so beautiful to him it almost caused him to second guess himself. Only a fool would burn such a majestic and storied city. Yet, he had business to take care of. He looked at Rhaenyra as she glided through the skies atop her golden dragon. The mere memory of his vows made to her were fresh on his mind. She'd agreed to let him go into the Hightower alone, but she'd continue to circle Oldtown in case something sinister transpired.
It occurred to him, almost incongruously, the insurmountable weight of what he was about to do. And yet, he had to take such drastic actions. For his brother, for the realm, and most of all, for her.
And with that thought, Caraxes launched himself off Hightower, sending white-stone bricks tumbling down into the sea. In the blink of an eye, he crashed down upon the inner-bailey near the towering, white gates of the keep.
Guardsmen and knight alike bearing the beacon sigil of Hightower descended upon him in an instant. Yet Caraxes, undeterred, both roared and reared tall above them, sending all who dared to challenge cowering in all directions. Boiling steam blew from his nostrils as his massive jaws opened ready and sharp for any intruding threat. He spit small bursts of fire into the air and bared massive sets of teeth sharper and longer than any weapon of man. Large crimson wings flapped to send dust and debris all up into the air, and it only made him whistle louder, fiercer even. Smoke billowed from his very breath. He salivated heavily for a taste of man flesh, Daemon knew.
The Lord-Prince Regent drew Dark Sister from its sheathe and pointed it to the sky. "Hear me!" he bellowed. "Hear me all and hear me well! I have come with cordial intent to offer terms of peace to your liege lord, Ormund Hightower. This is the queen's peace, and I, as Regent and Protector of the Realm, enforce the queen's justice. What say you all?"
Out of the gray smoke, Daemon saw a familiar white cloak approach.
"I will escort you to Lord Hightower, Prince Daemon," Ser Arryk said loudly. He was still clad in the scaled, white armor of the White Cloaks. "Your safe passage is guaranteed—you need only send your beast away."
Daemon dismounted with a thud on the ground. Caraxes smiled wickedly at the knight dressed in white. Nostrils blew smoke, and embers burned within his crimson jeweled eyes.
"Stay your vile tongue, Oathbreaker," Daemon said admonishingly. "You really aren't in a position to make requests. My beast will make rest right here and now, until I've left this forsaken city behind and made leave for the crownlands. Do watch yourself around him . . . He's quite angry with you lot, you know? He can even smell your fear . . ."
Ser Arryk's eyes widen as he looked upon the very large dragon. Indeed, the wyrm's devilish smile only grew wider, as if reflecting his rider's own demeanor. He was terribly frightening for any knight, Daemon knew. None could face the Blood Wyrm and keep their courage intact.
"Very well," the knight responded. "We must go at once!"
Daemon had laughed in that moment, as he sheathed Dark Sister. The blade hungered for the blood of these traitors, and yet she must wait just a little bit longer for it. And the revelation that Ser Arryk was here proved valuable insight to his situation. If the Kingsguard were indeed here in Oldtown, it meant Aegon the Second and his mother were here as well, along with the rest of the vile band. I could end this feud in one swift stroke, he mused.
Looking up at the two banners billowing overhead, Daemon wondered what they'd possibly aimed to achieve by enacting such treason. Otto Hightower was an intelligent man—more shrewd and clever than he ever gave him credit for. This didn't seem like one of his well formulated, laid out plans he'd always concocted before. No, it seemed much more crude—desperate to a point of being pathetic. This plan lacked both honor, and tact, he realized.
Then thoughts of such things were dashed as he entered the expansive Hightower through two great gates reaching high up above. With plumed helm tucked underneath his left armpit, and right arm swinging stiff as he sauntered alongside his escort, lilac eyes narrowed at what lay before him.
And as he stepped into the massive, sprawling hall which soured high into the heavens above, as far as the eye could see really, he spied Ormund Hightower sitting upon a throne of the whitest marble. On a golden pedestal next to him, were two dragon eggs—one bright yellow, and the other a deep bluish color. He was flanked by that wretch, Ser Criston Cole, and Ser Rickard. To his right, stood the Dowager Queen herself, Alicent Hightower, wearing a dress of green adorned with sigils of Hightower and the seven faces of god. To his left was Ser Otto, who waited in silent assessment of the situation. And in Ser Criston's possession was Blackfyre, slung at his hip as if he had the very birthright to carry such a relic.
His hold on his helm tightened. The gall of that treacherous oathbreaker disgusted him, and it was plain for all gods and men to see in that moment.
Putting that aside, Daemon managed a bitter smile. He cleared his throat and said, "Lord Hightower, I have been named Lord-Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm by King Viserys, my brother. Surely this is not fresh news to your House?"
He saw Ormund grip his throne harshly. "And who witnessed this final act of goodwill by the late king?" he asked. "To our knowledge, not a soul was in the king's bedchambers when he passed."
"Grand Maester Gerardys was present at his time of death," Daemon replied quickly. He toyed with his belt before continuing. "His last will was etched out on a piece of parchment—signed and stamped by Viserys himself."
"Ah, I see," said Ormund mockingly. "A maester who, by all accounts, is a staunch supporter of your claim to the throne. I see, very well."
Otto Hightower stepped forward. "And this worrisome maester. If indeed he was the only one to witness this edict's creation and signing, how can we ever know that it was made legitimately, and on good terms?"
Daemon scowled, said, "And this is your petty scheme? This is how you will justify your little treason?"
It was Alicent's turn to speak now. "Viserys shared his wishes with me," she said evenly. Her hands were wound in front of her calmly. "My lord husband, the late king himself, bade me his last desire before he passed. He said he wished for his firstborn son, Aegon, to ascend the Irone Throne. This I can state before the seven faces of god, as a clear and indisputable truth."
Lord Ormund laughed. "And here we have it. Your piece of parchment, against the truth of the king's own good and widowed wife. You besmirch yourself with this mummer's farce you have brought before us, Prince Daemon Targaryen."
Ser Otto raised a pointed finger. "Nay, I say there is malice in this farce. His rise to absolute power from his origin as a drunken lout is miraculous—dare I say, improbable. Yes, I believe he befuddled the king with milk of the poppy. He would've done anything to be welcomed back into the good graces of King Viserys."
Daemon shook his head. There was a great weariness in him now. He didn't want this.
"Do you deny these charges levied against you?" asked Lord Ormund.
"Yes, do you admit to poisoning the king?" prodded Alicent.
Otto Hightower raised his voice, said, "And you've molested, debased, and deflowered the king's own daughter, Rhaenyra! She's bound to your hip, like a whore who beggars the realm's men for gold. You've corrupted her for your own ends—your own salacious desires! You are a disgrace to your House, I say—a betrayer, and traitor to the realm!"
Daemon ignored them. He turned and began to walk away—cautiously, because there were a great many guardsmen and knights surrounding him now. The exit of Hightower seemed a long way off. He need only walk away. He had offered his peace, and they'd spat in his face. There was only one recourse now.
"You have not been dismissed, Prince Daemon!" Lord Ormund exclaimed. He raised a bejeweled finger and waved. "Ser Criston! Seize that treasonous usurper at once!"
Behind him, Daemon could hear the knight's armored footsteps as they approached. They shouted things and he didn't listen. For a long moment he stood motionless, as he honed his keen senses to his very surroundings. He'd been in worse situations, he realized.
The shrill shriek of blades drawing filled the air. He counted, three, maybe four. Five pairs of footsteps too, he heard. They were surrounding him in a half-circle. Their mistake.
There was a whistle through the air. His helm had hit the floor before he side-stepped the backstabber's blow. Long pale-silver hair danced majestically. Dark Sister already kissed the cold air before his blow fell and found the sweet taste of flesh just below his plate. It had to be irony. Ser Criston Cole was the first to fall, as he carved through his innards mercilessly. Gutted, he gripped at his flailing organs as they spilt and fell to the ground pitifully.
Woman-like screams filled the air. There was another shriek, and more orders bellowed from numerous men.
There was no time to gloat. He jumped sideways again, stumbled, and almost fell. Ser Arryk had set upon him with a mace, and it clanked against the floor madly, cracking the hardstone floor. He used his accidental momentum to swing his shoulder into Ser Rickard who he'd caught mid-swing, striking him with such force he fell to the ground haplessly.
Everyone had drawn their swords now. He parried a blow from Ser Arryk, and it almost knocked him off his feet. The large knight set upon him again, this time overconfidently. He used that to his advantage, poked calmly at the man's face as he came at him again. Dark Sister carved through his cheek deep into his jawbone, and the man wailed horribly as Daemon kicked him down to the floor.
Daemon drew a deep breath, aware once again of his now worsening condition. He was tired, spending the past years at court with little time to practice the art of war. He was even afraid; only a complete fool would be fearless in the face of death. He'd made promises, vows before the gods. He had to survive. He needed to persist . . .
If he didn't, then who would be there to protect her?
"He's spent," a voice said from in the distance. Daemon stabled himself and levelled Dark Sister, preparing himself for another onslaught. "You can tell he's tired himself out, the oaf. Finish him promptly!" He identified the voice now, it was Lord Ormund's.
He heard himself laugh. It was a deep, maniacal laugh that disturbed even himself. Daemon just stared at the numerous encroaching knights, wishing one last time he could see the one he loved. He struggled to identify his thoughts in that moment, as his sanity pealed away with his laughter.
And then, as if his very thoughts were a beckoning, as if their minds were one—dragon and rider—king, and queen—he turned his head to hear yells echoing from the corridor behind him, and a brilliant blaze of fire illuminated the entire hall. He had seconds to duck.
There was a strange, whistling sound; he realized it had come from a dragon. A horrible explosion of fire and stone burst from the entryway to the great hall. Cobblestone rained upon them all, made molten by dragonfire and smoldering. Smoke billowed to cover them all in an unseeable thick sheet of debris. He could only hear screams, and various panicked orders as knight and lord fled in every direction.
He blinked in astonishment and got his wits about him. There wasn't just one dragon flailing about the hall, he realized. There were two. And indeed, he saw both Caraxes and Syrax thrashing, tails swinging and fires billowing from their very monstrous jaws to engulf knight and guard alike. Ser Arryk, the poor sod, had been trampled underfoot by the wyrm's massive claws. He flailed madly and wailed like a child, as much as he could with an evidently broken spine.
Suddenly, a burst of dragonfire spewed out toward the throne, collapsing against the majestic thing with absolute fury. It splashed against the walls, the golden pedestal, and spilled into the adjoining corridors. Just briefly, Daemon could see the smoke dissipate enough to realize Lord Ormund and his retinue had vanished into the tower itself.
Daemon turned then, stumbling over a charred corpse amidst the chaos. He could barely make out the knight's identity, but clutched in his blackened hands was Aegon's blade itself, Blackfyre. He tried helplessly to pry it from the corpse, but he couldn't budge the thing. With a laborious lurch, he drew Dark Sister and chopped at the man's stiff appendages till they came loose, and cut into him to free the scabbard as well. Taking the ancestral blade in hand, he turned his attention toward the throne, where the dragon eggs had been. The fires spread maniacally, and very little could he even breathe by now. He tried his best to make it through the hellish fires, but the entire marble throne and its terraced surroundings were completely ravished by the hellfires of Caraxes.
The heat was unimaginable, burning hotter than anything he'd ever felt before. Surely, he'd been surrounded by such fires before, but never immersed inside a burning tower like this one. It was as if the very seven hells had taken physical form in Oldtown. The flames roared, spread upward and into the tower's apartments above. There were shrieks, the whistling and roaring of dragons. And suddenly, Daemon could just make out the shape of two lonesome eggs engulfed within the massive swelling inferno.
The eggs were indeed lost, he realized.
Daemon grimaced. Clutching Blackfyre in his right hand and Dark Sister in his left, he turned on his heel and made swiftly for his steed. The dragon was trampling over numerous corpses, throwing them every direction he could and taking them in his massive jaws to sling them again, pulverizing them into hunks of flesh. His massive, spiked tail crashed against the walls of the tower sending thunderous quakes reverberating throughout.
And Daemon dashed as fast as his tired legs could take him. He was more than weary now, and he'd inhaled far too much smoke to survive much longer. The prince called out desperately and waved madly to his dragon mount, who whistled when he set his crimson-red eyes upon him. He sheathed both his swords, and with every last bit of strength he had, he leapt onto the dragon. He hadn't quite made it—nearly slipped even . . . but caught the saddle enough to pull himself up.
Caraxes twisted and beat his wings, turned to look at Syrax whom Rhaenyra seemingly clung to desperately.
They'd smashed through the entryway itself, he realized. Dragons were far more terrible and powerful than he could ever have imagined. And he'd seen the full force of their might thrown onto entire armies, burning corsair ships in seconds to send them smoldering to the bottom of the ocean.
And with that thought, he felt the full might of his dragon's power as he launched himself out of Hightower in one mighty leap, and with a single beat of his wings he scaled the walls and sailed into the starry night sky above.
Smoke swelled from Hightower, lighting the sky ablaze with an otherworldly and hellish red glow as if the very gods had set themselves upon it. He coughed, held the reins as best he could as Caraxes guided himself toward salvation. He'd little energy for anything now, as he dangled helplessly like that. He could only feel the crisp breeze of the Whispering Sound breathe new life into him. He turned his head, pale-silver hair blowing about him as they soared high and off into the cloudless night sky.
And he saw Syrax, golden-scales twinkling in the distance, and behind her, the marble-white Hightower glimmering brightly amidst darkness as it burnt to a cinder in the center of Oldtown.