115 AC, Runestone
Rhea Royce was buried in the side of the hill three days after she died but it took thrice as many days for her daughter to speak again.
At first, Daemon was thankful for the quiet. It made his time at Runestone tolerable as he debated what to do. It seemed normal - though he would never claim to be the expert on the silly feelings of silly little girls - until day five. By then, she seemed determined to live in her grief. Ophaella's silence was spent in the company of only her mother's gravesite, at the spot marked by fresh turned earth and split rock. He assumed it would soon give way to creeping moss and be lost to all but him and his daughter, but that time could not come soon enough.
They did not believe in marking graves in the Runestone – they would just as soon leave the bodies out in the open, in the way of the First Men – if they could. They had given way to the customs of the southerners long ago and had taken to placing the bodies in carved out caverns in the rocky hills.
But they did not mark them.
They would be remembered and found as long as they were meant to.
Or so they claimed.
Daemon thought it was absolute dragon shite and would just as soon be done with the whole affair entirely.
And he would have been, just as he hoped to be done with Rhea Royce, if he had only been able to pull his daughter away from the cluster of rocks.
He found her there again, dressed for riding in a set of carved bronze leathers at his command, and wringing her hands together in front of her stomach. Her gloves, freshly made and crafted for little hands, squeaked as she moved her fingers. She shifted on her feet, shoulders slumping forward once again, as she began to sniff.
Daemon did not claim to know the girl, nor would he claim to have the desire to, but he could see well enough what might churning over and over in her mind. Perhaps she wondered what everyone would say if she pulled back the rocks herself and hid inside. Would they speak about the strange little Lady of Runestone in the same way they spoke about the Lady Daella before she died? Would they question his own hand in the sudden madness of his daughter?
What realities did she create in her mind?
Ones where her mother still lived, surely.
And ones where it was not he who was now left with the task of caring for a child that he scarcely knew more about than her name.
Ophaella stepped forward and placed a hand on the largest stone. He wished she would let it be. By her own traditions, the moment they walked away, she was meant to let her mother be at peace.
Yet nine days she had lingered.
Nine days she had wept.
And nine days Daemon had been left to wonder what he should do next.
The Runestone was his, now, by right but he would not dare live there. It smelled of sheep shit and despair and he had not seen a single woman worthy of his cock or a single man worthy of his knife. Enough time spent surrounded by their Seven-forsaken bird scratch and he might start to switch that around.
Ophaella dropped down to her knees and pulled out a small knife. Daemon was only half-concerned with what she planned to do with it and when she started to carve little marks in the stone, he decided he did not care at all.
The First Men – Old Gods and the New – be damned, he could not bring himself to feel anything but disdain for the little creature by his feet. He would dash her little head against those bloody rocks if he did not fear for his claim on the Runestone. When he thought of her he felt nothing but rage. And, then, just when he made up his mind to be done with her entirely, his entire resolve vanished every single time she had looked at him over the last nine days. But he couldn't leave it be, couldn't leave her be, and it drove him to near madness.
"Ophaella," Daemon said, reaching down to touch the top of her head. She touched the fresh carvings one more time before she looked up at him, brown – bronze – eyes brimming with tears. "Time to go."
"Where?" She asked, lip trembling as she glanced behind him to look at Caraxes.
She knew the answer.
No child of his was stupid enough to genuinely wonder.
"Will I get to come back?" She asked instead, her panic visibly building.
She didn't want to leave.
That much was as plain as her mother's face. He continued to stare at her, to size her up. He made no move to draw her in or offer her comfort.
No child of his was weak enough to need it.
He bent down and grabbed her backpack, making it clear that there was no choice for her in his actions, no debate that they could have that would let her stay behind. How could there be, really, when she was the only way he could lay claim to the Runestone. As was his entire purpose for entertaining his sham of a marriage as long as he did. He was meant to ensure the loyalty of the Vale. Like a lesser born daughter sold off and forgotten, he was supposed to keep the East as close to the crown as possible.
Daemon had done his duty.
He would be damned if he lost his right to a little blip of a girl.
No child of his would stand in his way.
Daemon turned his back on Ophaella and walked over to Caraxes' side. He tied her pack to the side of the saddle and.
She stared to cry again, this time covering her mouth with her hand.
Her panic was starting to build. He didn't need to know her to know that.
"Ophaella, come." He would not say it again and his tone indicated as such.
She buried her face behind her hands for a moment longer before she gave an almighty sniff and pulled herself to her feet. She smoothed down her clothes, paying special attention to her coat, before she followed up the small hill. Daemon stopped her in place with a raised hand, pleased when she did as she was told.
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes," She said. Perhaps she should have lied and said no. Perhaps it might have earned her more of his favor, if he was even of the mind to give it.
"Good." He said, unable to stop the barest hint of a smile. "Now, hold out your hand and move very slowly."
"Is he going to eat me?"
"Only if I tell him to," He said, meeting her halfway. "Besides, he has never quite developed the taste for little girls."
She glanced up at him and he was more than a little disturbed that the barest hint of the smile he wore was reflected right back at him. Caraxes tilted his head down to look at them both. Ophaella tried to step back, only to be kept in place by his strong hand.
"Gīdēdan."
"I don…"
"Hold, Ophaella."
"But…"
"What need would I have for feeding my daughter to my own dragon?"
"It might solve a problem," She mumbled, shuffling forward a step just as Daemon let out a bark of laughter.
"How old are you?"
"Five, but I have never had any friends my own age."
"You are too smart for your own good."
"Would you like me to be less smart?"
Daemon laughed again and shook his head, keeping a steady and on her shoulder. "Now, keep your eyes on him. Strong eye contact. Do not look away, do you understand?"
They moved closer in tandem. Her shoulders tensed underneath his hand as she hardened herself. She held steady in front of him and kept herself facing forward. She took another step forward, pulling away from him, as she lifted her hand.
"Good girl. Gīdēdan."
Caraxes stared at her for a moment longer before he turned his up to the night sky and spread his wings.
"Very good."
Before she could protest, not that he would have listened, he scooped her up and carried her with him to the saddle. He set her down at the very front of the worn leather and wrapped his arms around her middle to grab the pommels, locking her in place.
"When can I come back?" She asked again just as Caraxes lifted off the ground.
Daemon did not answer.
No child of his would be foolish enough to ask again.
115 AC, King's Landing
Ophaella began to squirm around in her seat the closer they got to King's Landing. They flew through the night and well into the early hours of the morning. His legs and arms ached from keeping them both upright. His face was covered in dead bugs and his eyes were nearly dried up in his head, but he could not say it was the worst night he had ever spent on dragonback.
For one, he thought, at some point Ophaella might have actually started to enjoy herself.
But it was a fleeting joy – a passing notion – and when Caraxes landed in the middle of the courtyard at just before dawn, she had once again returned her gaze down to her own naval.
"Have you no care for the hour?" A voice called. Daemon rolled his eyes.
A worse welcoming committee, he could scarcely imagine.
Otto Hightower stepped out of the shadows of the keep, skulking and scheming and setting Daemon's teeth on edge. He slid off the back of Caraxes and turned around, holding out his arms to help Ophaella down.
"Hightower. Does Viserys have you on door duty now?"
"I serve where the King commands. As it were, I was passing by on my way to morning prayers-"
Pious cunt.
"-when I saw your approach. A poor omen, come at dawn." Hightower stopped, eyeing them up and down. He held his contempt at the forefront, making no attempt to hide his hatred for Daemon. He looked downwards. "And who is this? You dare bring a bastard to court, after the King has allowed you…"
"I assume Viserys is still in his chamber at this hour," Daemon said, gesturing for Ophaella to walk ahead of him.
She took to steps before she stopped to wait for him.
"Daemon, you…"
"Come, Ophaella, let us go surprise your dear old Uncle on this good morrow."
She did as she was told, although she did pause long enough to look up at Hightower as they passed. The man did not gape, although Daemon would bet his left bollock that he very much wanted to. Instead, he walked along beside them, rage readily apparent in each step he took. The rage continued to build the further they weaved into the Keep.
It was delicious.
The whole affair would only be made better by seei-
"Daemon?"
Daemon could hardly contain his wicked smile.
"Good Queen Alicent, what a wonderful surprise," Daemon said, pivoting around to face the Queen as she stepped out from her chambers. She was dressed in Hightower green – a nauseating color – and clutched a book of prayers in her left hand.
"We did not expect your return," Alicent said, playing the part of welcoming far better than her father.
But Daemon saw right through them.
From the moment they slithered their way into Viserys' good graces, he had seen them for what they were.
High reaching, grubby-handed grasping, they clawed their way upwards until they found themselves nearly touching the sky. But a Tower could never climb as high as a Dragon, and Daemon would not suffer their shit for any longer than he had to.
"Is Viserys up and about?"
"The King is preparing for breakfast." Alicent, just like her father, turned away from Daemon to look at Ophaella.
"Good, then we'll be on our way to see him," Daemon said, putting a hand on Ophaella's shoulder to guide her towards Viserys' private wing.
"Who is she?" Alicent called, heels clicking as she rushed after them. "Surely, she is not…"
"You disappoint me, Your Grace. Such a frosty welcome for your niece?"
"Hello," Ophaella said.
Not a touch of reverence.
Not single blip of respect for the Queen.
Daemon could only imagine the sudden rage building inside her.
He found he could not have been prouder.
No child of his would ever be accused of respecting the Hightowers.
Alicent continued to stare at the little girl and Daemon recognized the same calculating look her father had worn a thousand times over. It might be the only feature of that damnable family that he respected.
That, and their bone structure.
"By which mother?" Alicent asked, staring down at Ophaella.
"My wife." The word still tasted as foul in his mouth as it had the first time.
"Rhea Royce let you in her bed? The Kingdoms will be rejoice to hear it."
"Hardly appropriate conversation for in front of the girl."
"Forgive me, you are right," Alicent acquiesced and Daemon did not think, for even a moment, that she meant a single word of it. "This is a discussion not for little ears. Ser Criston," Alicent said, turning her head to the side just a bit. The clinking of armor announced the man's arrival.
"Your Grace."
"Send for Florian. Have her prepare the spare quarters between Helaena and Aemond."
"At once, Your Grace."
Eager twat.
"Ophaella, sweet, why don't you follow Ser Criston and get settled in while your father and I talk?" Alicent said, phrasing a clear command like a question. When Ophaella did not immediately do as she was told, Daemon felt his affection for the girl growing. Just a touch, of course. It was hard to truly care for the new Lady of Runestone when he had felt so little affection for the old Lady of Runestone. But that touch of something that might be considered fondness was the first of its kind for Daemon and he found himself angrier for it.
"Go," Daemon said after the girl showed signs of not listening. He touched the top of her head again, more than a little alarmed to find that she relaxed immediately. "I will find you later."
Ophaella nodded and turned to face Ser Criston, looking even smaller than usual. She was a blip of a girl, gangly and slight like all women of the Vale tended to be, and she was positively dwarfed by the large knight and his ostentatious armor. The knight held out his hand – putting on great show for the Queen – but Ophaella did not take it. Instead she simply followed after him, head down.
"Come, Prince Daemon, the Ki…"
"I know the way," Daemon said, holding up a hand to cut off Alicent.
He could practically feel her rage as she stormed after him.
He smirked.
It was good to be home.