Chapter Two: The Girl Heir
A/N: Hello again, and thank you so much for the warm reception so far!
A note: at this point of the story, Demelza is 15. I don't know exactly how old Criston is meant to be in the show, but I assume early 20s. Their relationship will be initially quite fast-paced, but the "whirlwind romance" is kind of the whole point of it. There will eventually be sexual content in this story, but anything occurring before Demelza is 16 will be alluded to instead of anything explicit.
Also, if you read some *gay* subtext in Rhaenyra and Demelza's friendship, that's absolutely the intention.
Demelza shielded her eyes from the bright morning sun as Syrax descended from the sky, Rhaenyra's white-gold hair whipping about in the breeze. As the dragon landed and Rhaenyra swung a leg over the saddle, Demelza couldn't help but feel a mixture of admiration and jealousy. The Princess was so effortlessly bold and beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful girl in all of Westeros. It tore open an ache in Demelza that she didn't quite understand, and she masked it with a smile as Rhaenyra approached.
"If you're here to ask me to talk to my father, you needn't bother."
Rhaenyra's black boots crunched past Demelza, and the dark-haired girl fell into step beside her best friend. In the months since Aemma had died, Rhaenyra and Viserys had been tense. The dynamic at court had shifted when Viserys named Rhaenyra as his heir, a fifteen-year-old girl over his brother, Daemon. The Rogue Prince had since departed King's Landing.
"I came to see my best friend, Princess." Demelza linked her arm through Rhaenyra's, secretly pleased when the other girl didn't pull away. "I enjoy seeing you fly on Syrax in any case. There are few things as majestic as a Targaryen on dragonback."
Rhaenyra scoffed. "I get enough flattery at court. I hardly need it from you."
Demelza lapsed into silence, casting a look over her shoulder. Ser Harrold Westerling was practically Rhaenyra's shadow, though he was currently deep in conversation with Valko. Demelza despaired of the fact that her sister Corrina had departed King's Landing soon after the Queen's death. Did Corrina think Valko a suitable matchmaker, or had she simply given up on finding Demelza a husband? Demelza had not written to Corrina to find out, not wishing to focus on the dreaded conversation of marriage.
The glimmer of sunlight caught Demelza's eye, and she cast a look over the ocean, listening to the comforting lap of the waves against the shore. She hoped one day she might fly on dragonback with Rhaenyra, see more of the world from such a dizzying height. The thought coaxed a smile to her lips and filled her with warmth. What would be more pleasing, than to spend such precious time with one of her best friends?
The thought of marriage, of heirs, of anything of the sort…it all paled in comparison to the idea of spending her years at court, basking in Rhaenyra's splendour. Between the Princess and Alicent, Demelza was more than happy to simply exist in their orbit. Unfortunately, even being the youngest child of a prominent Dornish family meant that her position was important, as she was ceaselessly reminded.
Demelza let the sun beat down over her face, closing her eyes momentarily to its warmth. It was more humid in Dorne, though she could not say she remembered it now. She had spent half her life in King's Landing, and could hardly even remember her homeland. On some nights that realistion made her weep bitterly, but she could not afford to look anywhere but forwards.
"Maybe when I'm Queen, you could be my Hand." Rhaenyra grinned and though Demelza's heart skipped a beat, she recognised the words as spoken in jest. Even if the realm ever allowed a female monarch, a female Hand would be unheard of, and unacceptable. She furrowed her brow.
"You shouldn't mock me, Rhaenyra."
"I'm serious," Rhaenyra insisted, catching the sleeve of Demelza's dress when the dark-haired girl marched forward, "Why not? Don't you think we would make a good team? You, me, Alicent…together we could change things, for the better. Maybe then Dorne could…"
Demelza's dreams of a future of peace were rocked by the mention of Dorne, and she immediately soured. It had been over a century since Aegon the Conqueror had invaded Westeros, and Dorne had remained a proud and independent kingdom ever since. Demelza had no intention of changing that.
"So it's just about Dorne, then."
"Demelza." Rhaenyra caught both of Demelza's hands in her own. Her fingers were warm to the touch, her skin smooth. When Demelza examined her best friend, there was an earnestness in Rhaenyra's violet eyes. She had always admired the colour of Targaryen eyes, but none seemed as lovely as Rhaenyra's in this moment, glimmering with sun and sea.
"Princess Rhaenyra."
"I'm not going to force Dorne to join us. I just meant…we could have better relations with Dorne. I know your father is a close friend of Qoren Martell."
"Yes, well." Demelza slid her hands from Rhaenyra's, noting the Princess's disappointment, her shoulders slumping at Demelza's casual rejection. "That's a matter for another time. Right now, I want to see how long I can keep Valko out in the sun until he complains of the heat."
Rhaenyra laughed. "He's Dornish. It will hardly matter to him. You just don't want to deal with Septa Gwenefer."
Demelza opened her mouth to remind Rhaenyra that she too was Dornish, but then closed it again. Was she really? She didn't quite know who she was anymore, a strange mix of Dornish birth and Westerosi upbringing. A small, dark part of Demelza burned with resentment toward her parents. Of all the children they could have sent to be fostered, they had picked her. The youngest, the smallest, the one who would not remember home.
"We should get back to the castle, Princess." Harrold trailed over to the pair of them, breaking Demelza from her reverie. "Your father is having a small council meeting."
It was something Rhaenyra would not want to miss, not that Demelza could blame her. In Dorne, female rulers were just as common as male, but things were different in Westeros. Rhaenyra was being granted an opportunity that none of her bloodline had been thus far, and she intended to seize it with both hands.
"Ouch!" Demelza snapped as Septa Gwenefer poked and prodded at the splitting seams of her favoured violet dress. The older woman pursed her lips, tugging harshly at the hem of the dress and looking up at Demelza with a disapproving frown. That look was so common on the septa's face, and each time Demelza saw it, she loathed Gwenefer a little more.
"Lady Demelza, this gown is a mess. The hem looks like it's been tripped over and stamped on countless times, the seams…it will not do."
"She has grown over the past few months, septa." Valko leaned in the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest, arching an eyebrow at the woman's grumblings. "Perhaps the seams of the dress have simply stretched."
"Hmm." Gwenefer grabbed Demelza by the shoulders, turning her none too gently to face the spotted mirror by the window. "You have sprouted teats, at least."
Demelza scowled at her reflection. She didn't see the commodity that Gwenefer wanted to put on display at court, but rather a pale girl with silky dark hair, almond-shaped dark eyes and barely any of the breasts that Gwenefer seemed to believe she had suddenly gained. Compared with Alicent and Rhaenyra, she was no beauty. Passably pretty, and a curiosity coming from Dorne, but hardly a girl that men would stumble over themselves to greet.
"I'm not some prize horse."
"No, but you should be looking presentable in court." Valko's cool tone was always a stark contrast to Demelza's irritation. "Regardless of your protests, Lady Demelza, you will need to find yourself a husband."
A sharp rapping at the door was a welcome distraction from the unpleasant reminder of marriage and Gwenefer's prodding hands. Demelza brushed the septa off, sweeping back her dark hair as Valko strode over to open the door. Rhaenyra stood on the other side with her hands clasped demurely, Harrold lingering behind her.
"I wondered if I might borrow Lady Demelza."
"Please, keep me." Demelza lurched across the room, all too eager to accompany her friend no matter the task if it meant she could stop being scolded. Gwenefer opened her mouth to protest, but Demelza offered her a dazzling smile. "We can discuss my dresses when I return, Septa Gwenefer."
Valko, as ever her quiet shadow, tailed Demelza from the room as she gladly accompanied Rhaenyra. The Princess's gait was determined as they strode through the halls, following Harrold's lead.
"Where are we going?" Demelza asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. She was not one who enjoyed surprises.
"To choose a new member of the Kingsguard." Rhaenyra's eyes flashed with triumph. "Father says I get to pick, even if it's just Otto's way of getting me out of the council meetings."
Speak of the man himself, and he would appear, like a foul odour. As they approached the courtyard, Otto Hightower was waiting patiently. Demelza jutted her chin up and slid her hand into Rhaenyra's.
The King's Hand had never expressed outright disapproval of Demelza, but she saw the way his lip curled and the contempt in his eyes when he looked at her. Demelza held her head high, resting her elbows on the balcony railing as Rhaenyra stepped up to examine the first of the potential Kingsguard members.
Harrold began rattling off facts about the first knight, a member of House Caron, as Demelza's eyes swept over the assembly in the courtyard before them. She wished she'd had the privilege of selecting her own guard, though Valko was perhaps as good a man as she could hope for. Loyal and quiet, a shadow to tail her movements at all times. Even now he stood silently behind Harrold, though she imagined he must be utterly bored.
"Do any of these knights have combat experience, beyond capturing poachers?" Rhaenyra asked.
The question silenced Harrold, who had been midway through introducing the next knight, and drew a weary sigh from Otto. Demelza turned to throw him a sharp look. Why was the man even here? She could guess that his purpose was to guide Rhaenyra's choice in a manner he found pleasing.
"Ser Criston Cole." The young man who moved forward was familiar to Demelza, though she did not say aloud she remembered him from the tourney for fear of embarrassing herself and appearing overeager. "Son of the steward of the Lord of Blackhaven."
"Be welcome, Ser Criston." Rhaenyra leaned forward, a bright smile countering her previously unbothered expression. "You saw combat in the Stormlands."
"Dornish marches, Princess. I fought for a year as a foot soldier against the Dornish incursions."
Demelza bit her lip. She had been told not to comment on the political situation between Westeros and Dorne, though she knew Criston had Dornish blood himself.
"I choose Ser Criston Cole."
Otto stepped forward, a false smile playing about his lips. "Let's not be too hasty, Princess. There's no doubt Ser Criston is a fine warrior, but houses such as Crakehall and Mallister are important allies of the crown. Seagard, for instance…"
"But Rhaenyra was told she could choose." The words were out from between Demelza's lips before she could help herself, earning an irate look from Otto. Nonetheless, she raised her eyebrows in response to the Hand's annoyance. "Certainly, she should have the opportunity to do so."
"My apologies, Lady Demelza." Otto smiled tightly, though anger burned in his eyes. "I believe you've misunderstood the situation here."
"I don't think she has." Rhaenyra's smug smile dared Otto to contradict her. Demelza was certain he would not, for Otto was a man who realised his position and would not squabble with a teenage Princess to maintain his pride. "I chose Ser Criston, so perhaps we should plan his investiture."
Demelza cast a glance over the balcony, noticing that Criston was still looking up at them. She did not know if he would recall her from the tourney, but she raised a hand in greeting nonetheless. A smile dawned across his lips and he waved in return, bringing a warm flush to Demelza's cheeks. Before anyone could question it, she dipped her head and strode after Rhaenyra in giddy silence, trying to think of anything but Criston's handsome face.
There was much that Demelza had forgotten over the years since she had left Dorne, and it broke her heart at times to know how different she was from the little girl who had tearfully farewelled her family. One of the things she remembered was stealing arrows from her older brothers Calix and Lindon, begging them to teach her archery. They had found her thoroughly vexing, but when they had arrived in King's Landing, Valko had promised to teach the upset young girl how to shoot arrows.
One of the gardens was perfect for it, since it was practically unoccupied early in the mornings when most of the court was still asleep. A few times a week, Demelza and Valko would rise at dawn, the servants setting up a handful of targets so that Demelza could vent her frustrations through a bow and arrow. Over the years, Valko had come to use it as an opportunity to get a sleep-in, often assigning one of the other guards to watch so Demelza could have some peace.
There was a fine mist settling over the castle on this particular morning, Demelza's hands tightening on the arrow between her fingers as she focused on the wooden target and imagined it was Otto Hightower's smug, stupid face. She released the arrow, breath flowing out in a gentle fog when it hit near the centre.
"I had no idea you were such a proficient archer, Lady Demelza."
She whirled around at the sudden interruption, an arrow gripped tight in one hand and her bow in the other. The guard on duty this morning, Olyvar, appeared just as startled. When Demelza saw the familiar handsome face of Criston Cole, she held a hand up to placate Olyvar. This morning, Criston wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard, and she had to admit how much the armour suited him.
"It's hardly a skill, Ser Criston. When I came to King's Landing, my guardian Valko Sand taught me as a distraction. A pastime for a bored little girl, nothing more."
"Yet you've gotten quite good at it." Criston strode over, hands clasped behind his back, to examine the arrow that had almost hit the centre of the target. "You know how to defend yourself, at least. With a long range weapon."
Demelza barked out a surprised laugh. "I hardly think I need to defend myself. I have my guards with me at all times."
"Do you know how to fend off a close range attack?" Criston arched an eyebrow, and Demelza paused before shaking her head. "Valko never taught you?"
"As I said, it's not something I need to know."
"I think it is wise. Your guards may not be with you all the time."
Demelza planted her hands on her hips, tossing her dark braid over her shoulder and examining him expectantly. A sense of daring came over her, perhaps something that would have been subdued by Valko's presence. But he was not here this morning. Instead it was Olyvar, bored and probably waiting for the maid he liked flirting with to come past with the morning's washing.
"I suppose you're not going to teach me?"
"Here." Criston paused, glancing at Olyvar before drawing a knife from his belt. He held it up to the cool morning light, watching the guard expectantly. "May I approach your lady with the knife? I promise if I use it to do her harm, you may strike me down."
"I…yes, I think so, ser," Olyvar stammered, seeming perplexed at being asked his opinion on the matter.
Demelza bit back a smirk as Criston approached, putting the knife in her hand. It was light between the fingers, the cool kiss of steel biting at her skin in the morning's cold air. She turned it over in her fingers, examining it closely. The knife was hardly as long as her forearm, though it looked wickedly sharp.
"You would strike here." Criston gently caught Demelza's wrist, bringing the tip of the blade to his shining armour. "Between the third and fourth ribs typically does the trick."
"What if an assailant is wearing armour like you are now?" Demelza asked, trying desperately to ignore how close Criston had moved to her, so close she could stare up into his brown eyes and inhale the scent of musk. Criston's eyes roamed over her face, settling momentarily on her lips as Demelza bit down on her bottom lip.
"Then you could also try and stab him in the neck." Criston lifted her arm so that the edge of the blade was pressed to the side of his throat. His breath was warm against her cheek, and heat flared in Demelza's face.
"Lady Demelza!" The sharp bark of her name made Demelza stumble backwards, almost dropping the knife in the process. Valko marched over to the pair, eyes narrowed as he looked between them. "Ser Criston, I thank you for your time, but the young lady's ability to defend herself is my concern, not yours."
"My sincere apologies." Criston inclined his head to Valko. Demelza offered him the knife back, but he shook his head. "Keep it. If the head of your guard allows, of course."
Valko simply folded his arms over his chest, watching as the Kingsguard swept out of the courtyard. Demelza watched him go, turning the knife he'd gifted her over in her fingers. Olyvar stood in the corridor with his head bowed, and Valko's expression was one of utmost annoyance as he examined his charge.
"Would you care to tell me what, precisely, is going on?"
"Ser Criston was teaching me how to defend myself." Demelza tucked the knife into her belt, wincing when it pinched against her skin. She made a note to get a sheath made for it, before Septa Gwenefer could scold her for ruining yet another dress. "Why does it bother you? He's a member of the Kingsguard, who are all valiant knights…"
"He overreaches himself with you." Valko strode over and caught her by the arm, marching her back into the corridor and throwing Olyvar a stern glare. "He is far too familiar."
"He's simply being kind," Demelza protested, though for a few charged moments she had hoped it was more than that. Criston was young and handsome. Nothing could ever come of it, for even if he was not a member of the Kingsguard, he was too lowborn for her family to even consider him a suitor. Nonetheless, what was the harm in flirtation?
"You are not a fool, Lady Demelza, and nor am I." Valko shook his head slowly, heaving out a long sigh. "Go and get dressed for breakfast."
Scowling in displeasure, Demelza tugged her arm free and stomped into her bedroom. Valko was a loyal guard, but his presence sucked the fun out of everything. At least Olyvar had been content to watch things unfold, though she supposed he would now have earned a verbal lashing from his superior.
Demelza's fingers caressed the hilt of the blade that Criston had given her. Regardless of Valko's mistrust, she had at least received a gift from Criston. She would be damned if she would let her guard take that away from her.
Rhaenyra was not one to mask her feelings, and the Princess's anger came in the form of slamming doors and footsteps that echoed through the corridors. Following the source of the noise, Demelza found her best friend stalking down to her room, wiping tears from her cheeks, jaw clenched tightly.
"Go away, Demelza," she snapped as she pushed through the door to her room.
Demelza was not so easily deterred, concern overarching her fear of her friend's fury as she followed Rhaenyra in. The Princess sank into one of the plush chairs near the window, pressing her face into her hands. Demelza sat opposite her, the silence between the pair giving Rhaenyra the chance to explain what was on her mind.
"Father is marrying again."
"Alright." Demelza nodded slowly. Though it had been a mere half year since Aemma's death in childbirth, Rhaenyra had always acknowledged that it was her father's duty to marry once again. It was something she had accepted, so why did that now bother her?
"To Alicent."
The words gave Demelza pause, the truth of Rhaenyra's frustrations coming to light at last. Though Demelza knew Alicent had been spending time in the King's company, it was a shock that Viserys would choose to marry his fifteen-year-old daughter's best friend. Alicent's father Otto was a second son, so it would not be a politically advantageous match, puzzling Demelza as to its reasoning.
"Rhaenyra, I'm certain if you spoke to Alicent…"
"I don't want to talk to her," Rhaenyra spat, recoiling as Demelza tried to offer a comforting hand, "She's meant to be my best friend, and now she's going to be my stepmother."
"Do you truly believe this was Alicent's choice?" Demelza demanded, the words coming out more harshly than she had intended. She had never been much to the King's interest, but if he had chosen to wed her, she would have had little choice in the matter. Demelza had the distinct impression that this was Otto's work, not Alicent's. Women married who they were told to, even in Dorne.
"I don't know." Rhaenyra wiped at her face with her palms. "She's still doing it, though."
Demelza quashed her frustration, taking a deep breath. As the Princess and heir to the throne, Rhaenyra did not understand the position that women like Demelza and Alicent were in. They did not get a choice in who they married, and were considered fortunate to make a handsome match for themselves. Alicent's betrothal to Viserys was what Demelza dreaded: a marriage where she had no choice but quiet acceptance. She was guiltily relieved that she had not been considered.
"It does not bear thinking about to spurn the King." Demelza eased herself to her feet, planting her hands on her hips. "If Viserys had asked me to marry him, I would have no other choice to accept. My family would have seen it as an honour. I am thankful that I am not Alicent."
Biting back harsher words on her tongue before they could take root, Demelza strode from Rhaenyra's chambers, sweeping her hair back. The Princess was her best friend, as was Alicent, and yet Rhaenyra was in a position of privilege and could not even see it.
Men could marry for power. They could marry for love. They could marry for convenience, for a whole host of reasons beyond those Demelza could fathom. To her, marriage was a cage, stepping in through the bars and hoping the person with the key wouldn't lock her in. It was a suffocating prospect, and she envied Rhaenyra for not having to consider how trapped Alicent must feel.
