"Is it over?" Betty Merryweather squeaked, peeking through her fingers as Prince Baelor reined in his destrier and waved to the crowds, winning himself a hearty round of cheers. "I couldn't have survived another pass! My beloved, he must be so sore and hurting." She mimed a swoon, bringing a hand to her forehead after Baelor Targaryen's victory against Erich Dondarrion. Betty was as dramatic as any mummer alive.
"Leave off, Betty," Martha Darry replied, rolling her eyes at her friend's display. "You've as much chance with the prince as she does." The group giggled as Martha pointed to a serving girl, pouring wine into Alysse Hightower's chalice for what had to be the thirtieth time of the tournament. "Besides, your skin's too fair for any man with Dornish blood."
"To think he'd want a maid as tiny as you, Martha," Betty teased, her eyes following Baelor as a groom took hold of his mount's bridle on the far side of the ring. "Even if he never grows another inch, he'd more likely break you than bed you."
In her head, Princess Daenerys Targaryen wanted to tell them to mind their tongues. That's my nephew you're drooling over! He's too good for any of you, even for so much as an hour. But Daenerys was barely eleven, while her companions at court were in their teens, so she dared not cross any of them. Not out of fear. She didn't truly fear them. As Princess, she could order her father to do anything to any one of them.
No, what Dany feared was not being in their favor.
Nothing seemed more important to the Princess than being liked by other girls.
And so, she decided to feign boredom. "Baelor is but a year my elder. Surely you fancy some of the more experienced squires for your fantasies? I doubt Baelor knows any more than his namesake in that regard." She felt proud of her words, and how she sounded saying them. Like I'm older.
"Oh, I'd be happy to teach him," Betty said, blushing apple red to the roots of her hair.
"What do you know of men, silly maid?" Martha scoffed, elbowing Betty but grinning to soften the blow.
"Girls," came a soft voice from behind them. The floorboards creaked to announce the arrival of the fusty Jon Hightower, who bowed awkwardly to them out of courtesy. "My apologies for intruding on what must surely be a very. . . lively conversation, if only for a moment." He gestured for the tall young man accompanying him to step forward. "May I introduce my son, Hensen Hightower, who has made his way from Old Town to see the tournament?"
How very odd, that so many have come from so far for a squire's tourney, Daenerys thought to herself. Even so, he is late, and of an age that if he is not Ser Hensen, he should be an entrant himself. "A pleasure, Ser Hightower," Daenerys said, extending her hand but greeting the blond youth with as much sarcasm as courtesy. It was plain he was no knight, and she was curious as to how he would reply.
She was disappointed when he ignored the opportunity to correct her, rushing into a blatant pursuit of her instead. "The pleasure is all mine, your loveliness. Your beauty is as breathtaking in person as it is said to be throughout the realm," he smiled, his voice buttery smooth, as smooth as the skin on his delicate hand as he took hers and kissed it too softly to feel. Hensen Hightower was comely, but refined in a way too soft for Daenerys' tastes. When he looked up, it seemed almost as if he batted his eyelashes at her, like the maiden in the tales instead of the knight. She almost laughed out loud.
After greeting the Princess, he turned to Betty Merryweather, "A pleasure to meet you as well, my Lady." He didn't kiss her hand, but gave her a smile as sweet as the Honeywine.
"I am Elizabeth Merryweather, my Lord. It is a pleasure to meet you," Betty said, with every courtesy a young lady could muster.
Next, he turned to Ysabella Darklyn, newly arrived at court, who had kept quiet for most of the day. "And you as well, my Lady."
"Well met, Ser Hightower," Ysabella followed the Princess' lead in addressing him, presumably out of ignorance.
"I'm no knight, my Lady," Hensen assured her. "I will one day be Lord, but such a frivolous pursuit as Knighthood is beneath a man of my position."
He looked pleased with himself for saying so, but nothing he might have said could have impressed the Princess less. "I see." Dany's full lips thinned as she regarded him. "If that's all, Hensen, there's tilting we don't care to miss. I trust you will enjoy King's Landing while you are here." There. She hoped the Hightower recognized a polite dismissal when he heard one.
"I am not above watching other boys crash into each other, it's always a good show," Hensen chuckled, ignoring her hint or else missing it entirely. "Lords will always have need of knights to carry out the lowlier business of the realm. Some men must needs be in harm's way, to ensure that deeds be done from time to time."
"You have no stomach for danger or effort?" Daenerys forced a smile through her annoyance. The tall blond youth again ignored her point, plowing through the obvious slight like the sigil of Martha Darry. To her dismay, he instead took the seat next to Ysabella, fixing his eyes on Daenerys, determined to earn her favor, likely on his father's request.
"Will Prince Baelor be alright?" asked Betty brightly, attempting to regain the center of the conversation, speaking of another boy but still flipping her thick black hair to attract Hensen's attention.
"I wager he will be," replied the Princess evenly. "He may be only twelve, but he's already more a man than many a future lord." She flicked her eyes in Martha's direction, making a conscious effort to keep her nostrils from flaring in irritation. Septa Emmatha constantly needled her over deportment.
"I've heard his matches are fixed," chuckled young Hightower, butting in yet again, completely oblivious to the Princess' slight. "He's of royal blood, why risk injury when the match can be bought?"
Not every problem can be purchased away. Men Hensen's type nearly enraged Daenerys. They see themselves and their wealth as what makes them better, yet, their wealth comes from the efforts of their forebearers. And they have accomplished nothing themselves. Her tone betrayed her worsening mood, "You must not have been watching him, then, or else know nothing of jousting," Daenerys shot back.
She was the only one among them who could rout the insufferable Hensen in this tilt. Though Betty, Martha, and Ysabella were all of noble houses and officially her ladies-in-waiting, they had next to no standing in Court as compared to the future Lord of the Hightower. Hensen was the son of the Hand of the King. Only a Princess could spit dragon fire in his direction and remain unscathed.
I can be defiant.
She'd reached the limits of her patience. "The Prince Baelor, a braver and nobler man than some will ever be, has just withstood five lances to advance against a Marcher Lord. Remarkable, is it not? That he is four or five years younger than you, yet already so big, so strong, and so much more impressive! If his matches were fixed, would he really be as stupid as to allow for the danger of four successful breaks against him?"
"He's stupid enough to be down there in the first place," Hensen snapped, finally reacting to her disdain.
"Not as stupid as some who'd imagine a Princess would ever consider a match with a boy too frightened or lazy to ever attempt the lance or sword." Dany set her goblet down so hard the water splashed out of it. Her eyes flashed to meet Betty's, with the hope she'd take the hint to do what she did best.
"What kind of husband could a man possibly be, if he cannot begin to protect his wife from even the basest of threats?" Betty smirked, rising to the challenge. "A man who cannot wield sword or lance – such long, strong, manly weapons! Whatever must he make do with instead?"
"A short, stunted dagger?" Betty caught on quickly, blinking her eyes with exaggerated innocence.
"No. Not a dagger. Steel seems too hard," Martha decided, giving Hensen a sidelong glance.
"A knife?" Ysabella piped up, likely unaware of the game at hand.
"Hmm, no. Not a knife," Martha snickered.
"A pen," Daenerys pronounced, as though the matter were settled with a single stroke. "To send parchments to put other men in harm's way, and take care of what needs be done." A brief but telling silence dissolved into fits of the giggles, sending all four girls into gales of laughter hearty enough to lure Jon Hightower back in their direction. The Hand waddled over, smiling under his wispy mustache, likely assuming his son was winning the favor of the young girls of court.
If only he knew.
Hensen recovered himself, or at least recovered his manners. "I'd say it was a pleasure –" he began, bowing stiffly.
"You did, before so much a word was spoken," Daenerys interrupted, gaining confidence in her ability to assert herself. "I pray you enjoy your visit to King's Landing. I'm sure you'll understand why we're far more interested in the tilts than in keeping company with a boy like you." Septa would have had her by the ear by now, but Septa wasn't here. Turning her attention back to the lists, Dany tossed a parting shot in the direction of the thoroughly irritating lording. "Down there, Hensen Hightower, is where real men are made."
The young lordling's face flushed in shame and anger, though he bowed once more to Daenerys and her ladies before scurrying off with his flustered father. He is far too haughty, Daenerys thought, taking another sip from her goblet. Good riddance to him, and not a second too soon.
For the crowd cheered, and the heralds cried the name that had her holding her breath.
Here he comes. My Florian.
A single, beautiful, black and golden vision, galloped into view, lifting his lance to salute the stands. His heels sent his glorious grey rearing and tossing her head, the masses rewarded their favorite with a roar, and a thrill went through Daenerys all the way to the tips of her toes.
My Daemon.
For as long as she could remember, Daemon had been hers. She couldn't have been more than four or five when they played at the Dance, when she would take Rhaenyra's part while Daemon and Baelor took turns being the Rogue Prince and Aemond One Eye. When it was Daemon's turn to play his namesake, Dany would always insist that her Queen's consort kiss her cheek before departing for 'battle'. "I love you, my Rogue Prince," she would sometimes say in the pretense, not knowing at all what it meant, truly.
He'd always been beautiful, long before his shoulders had grown broad enough for a man's armor, but theirs was a bond based on more than what their purple eyes could see. Even when they were too young to understand, they were connected deeper, as their hearts and souls were intertwined.
When her life was too hard, when her father was too vile, when her mother was too ill, it was Daemon who gave her his ear or stroked her hair as she cried in his arms. His humble sweetness, seeing the world through a bastard's eyes, helped keep Daenerys from despair.
The dawn of the tournament had seen them meeting in secret, deep within the labyrinth of unmarked passages snaking through the Red Keep. Skilled as she knew him to be, Daenerys was nervous of what might befall her champion. So, she'd gifted him her favor for good luck. Tied with a silken ribbon, the small lock her hair shone like beaten gold spun with silver, and curled around Daemon's index finger when she pressed it into his palm.
He swore at once to wear it next to his heart. "With this piece of you beneath my armor, I am unstoppable. Your smile will guide my lance true and your eyes have melted me, forging me stronger and harder anew."
Dany nearly kissed him for saying so, not that she'd done anything of the sort since they'd played at the Dance years ago. Did Florian not deserve a proper Jonquil?
"If you win, you win a kiss," she whispered, gently slipping her fingers between his, her skin tingling at the touch of his.
"You know that our parents have forbidden it, Dany," Daemon clasped her hands in his, and with his other hand, brushed a stray hair behind her ear. The caress of his calloused fingers prompted a pleasing shiver, cold and warm at once. "Your father and my mother would never allow it." As his soft deep voice left his full lips, she leaned closer, thinking of them.
"What they don't know can't trouble them," she said, in a warm voice nigh above a whisper. "What's between us, need only stay between us." She leaned as close as she could without giving her champion his reward prematurely. She was tall for her age, How is he so much taller?
"Then I will win, my Princess," Daemon grinned. "I will crush every squire I face, nay, every man in the realm!" His deep purple eyes burned with promise.
"Then take my favor and go, before someone finds us together! There's only so long I can ditch Ser Uthor."
Holding Dany's hand in his for just a moment longer, Daemon turned and vanished into the darkness, having no need of a torch to light his way.
Her protector, Ser Uthor Bulwer, was a stout, stone wall of a man who'd gained esteem in the tournament her father held upon his coronation. Besides her uncle Aemon, the Dragonknight, he was one of her father's most loyal men. Even so, Daenerys felt a Kingsguard Knight should have been more capable of tracking a girl of eleven through the tight passageways of the Red Keep.
Luckily, Daemon is no threat.
As the tournament began, her fears for Daemon faded. From the moment the heralds had sounded his entrance, Daemon had proven nothing short of miraculous. He'd won over every member of the crowd, along with more young ladies than she cared to admit. She could hardly fault their taste.
In her daydreams, Daena's bastard son was Dany's perfect prince. Could Jonquil's Florian have been any more dashing or handsome?
Now, if he won just once more, he would face the Prince in the final tilt, her very own nephew, Baelor. Daenerys balled her fists in the silk of her skirts, her eyes never once leaving Daemon as he chose his lance and prepared to face his next opponent. All around her, people were chattering that her squire was the finest sight astride a horse since the Dragonknight in his younger days.
Some insisted he was the image of the Conqueror. Some, that he had the same magnificence as Maegor the Cruel.
To me, he's still the little boy who loved me when no one else would. He'll always be that same source of kindness. Of sweetness. Of joy.
Her heart gave a flutter at the herald's cry: "Daemon Waters and Gwayne Cobray, to the lists!"
Daenerys stood, claiming the edge of the handrail overlooking the field. From high above in the King's Box, she wished herself closer, though the drunken throngs below would surely block her view of Daemon's triumph.
Which would never do. Not for even a moment.
Her girls knew enough not to drool over Daemon enough that she'd notice. In truth, it was their ilk he would likely end up wedding when the time came, but until her parents forced her into a marriage she was not free to choose, Daemon was hers. Hers alone.
Knowing his prowess, she'd almost forgotten to be nervous before his match with Morgan Moonton in the first round, though watching him spar with other boys in the yard felt different from watching him in front of all these people, let alone against squires she knew nothing of save for their heraldry.
When Daemon displaced the salmon squire with little more than a flick of his lance, she was instantly at ease, and not a little thrilled to witness his mastery.
"Gwayne Cobray is known as a fine jouster. He's proven it today. I do hope Daemon leaves him in one piece and able to speak with privately later, when the King begins his nightly festivities," said Martha hopefully, bringing her back to the present.
"Who's to say he'd want that private word?" Betty giggled, taunting Martha over her interest in Gwayne, just as Martha had over her fawning over Baelor.
"Shut it," Daenerys ordered, her courtesy slipping with her energy focused on her handsome squire instead of on holding her tongue.
"Apologies, your Grace. Enjoy the show." Martha flashed her an understanding smile.
I hope I will.
As he had done throughout the day, Daemon saluted the crowds with his lance, prompting the masses to roar their approval. Those in the King's high box shouted along with them, many of them buzzing around Daemon's mother like bees that had always been devoted to her. They had not, and Daena was ignoring them as far as Dany could tell. Just like her, all the Defiant had eyes for was her son.
Gods be with him. Help him win.
When she opened her eyes, Daemon had already begun his charge. Dany could feel her body tense as the two squires sent their mounts racing towards each other. Daemon lowered his lance first and, as in all his other jousts, he landed his strike, splintering his lance on Cobray's black chest plate. However, in the fraction of a moment that followed, Cobray landed his own lance as well.
Daemon was forced backward but remained unfazed, settling back into his saddle as though nothing was amiss. Cobray was unhorsed though, landing hard on the ground after a failed attempt to regain his seat. When Daemon raised his broken lance in the direction of the King's box, the crowd obeyed his decree with boisterous cheers.
"He looks so big in that armor," Ysabella mused, twisting a strand of her curled brown hair around her little finger.
"You've said two words all day, and now you speak? That one's not yours to look at, Darklyn. Not yours," Betty waggled her finger in warning, purely to tease Daenerys.
"I just said he's big. He's big, is he not?" Ysabella asked, furrowing her brow.
"Huge," Martha agreed, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
He's mine, Daenerys fumed in silent jealousy, as the girls laughed innocently enough at her expense. She knew her companions jested, but that didn't mean she cared for the thought of Daemon with another.
"He's won," Daenerys reminded them, intending to change the course of the conversation as it suited her. She flashed her friends a conspiratorial smile, wrinkling her nose in the direction of Alysse Hightower's obviously drunken flirting. "Come, let's try to sneak some wine. There's to be an intermission, and a fool's performance before the final tilt. That serving girl might just pour us some if we promise her a chance with Baelor."
"Then I'm not coming," Betty pouted, folding her arms across her chest and sulking as though the Princess would actually follow through.
"Dany would never allow it, Betty," Martha said, taking Betty by the shoulders and playfully pretending to console her. "Not any more than she'd promise you a chance!"
Betty rolled her eyes and laughed, and the three girls rose from their seats to follow the Princess into whatever trouble they could find in the midst of drunken and distracted adults.
Crouched on an iron spiral staircase winding its way to the King's box, Daenerys, Betty, Martha, and Ysabella took turns sharing the wineskin they'd liberated from the grasp of the sleeping Lord Hayford, who lay sprawled in his seat, snoring drunk, off to the corner of the box nearest the Dragon Pit's wall.
Daenerys had felt alive as she'd reached for the skin, fingers inching closer to her prize as Hayford's chest rose up and down. A sudden jerk of a snore startled Martha almost out of her corset, and her eyes widened in surprise when Dany snagged the skin and stuffed it under her skirts.
It was easy enough to accomplish, with the other girls standing sentry. Besides, the adults around them were inattentive, too concerned with matters of state or revelry to pay them any heed. Dany's mother was not there. Her father wasn't, either. It was fun to be the daughter of parents who didn't care. Fun, to a point.
Daenerys never behaved this way without an audience to impress. It didn't feel natural to her at all, but the rush of excitement she felt when they praised her for her daring, or compared her to Daemon's mother, almost made her wish it was truly in her nature.
I can be defiant.
"Are you going to take your sip or not?" Martha pressured the Princess. "If not, I'll take it for you." Martha Darry was five and ten, six and ten in little more than a moon's turn. It was not her first time drinking wine. Unlike Daenerys, who'd never snuck a sip before. The Princess wrinkled her nose at the unfamiliar sweet and sour aroma.
Why are adults so fond of this drink? Curious, she tilted back the skin, and a bubbling zing struck her tongue. It was far from pleasant, but she swilled it around her mouth like the others had before swallowing it in a single gulp. She sputtered, fighting the feeling of choking, but salvaged her dignity by keeping back whatever heat it was that rose from her gut.
"First time?" Betty asked with a knowing smile, reaching across Martha for her turn at the skin in Dany's hands.
"Louse," Martha batted Betty's arm back. "My turn."
"No," Daenerys lied.
"There's no shame in it, Dany. It's my first time, too. Not every girl in the capitol is as bad as these two," Ysabella remarked, sounding as confident as she was usually sweet.
"Well, I did have a sip once at dinner, but this would be my first time trying to get drunk," Daenerys confessed.
"We'll need more than one skin for that, love," Martha laughed.
Instead of passing the skin to the Darry girl, Dany yanked it back. "Well, if anyone gets drunk, it should be me."
I can be defiant.
She took a longer drink, forcing it down her throat with a hard gulp that felt sharp as the liquid slid down. She coughed after finishing, covering her mouth so she didn't launch spittle all over her friends.
"Like it?" Betty asked with a grin.
Dany shook her head before replying, shaking off the shiver the wine sent through her. "No."
"It's probably Dornish," Martha replied, as though she was an expert. "A lord like Hayford's too cheap for anything from the Arbor."
The Princess took another sip, finding each additional go of it a bit easier. "We'd best not give it to Betty then. She'll think her chances with my half Dornish nephew all the better."
"Shut up, royal twit," Betty said, playfully slapping at Daenerys' shoulder from above the Princess on the corkscrew stairs. "I know I'll never marry him, but the way it goes these days, a royal bastard wouldn't hurt me none."
Bastard.
A sharp joltcoursed through Daenerys at the word. My father's made birthing bastards near honorable in this twisted realm. My Daemon is Daena's bastard. The Otherys bastards, my father sowed on the Black Pearl. That Bracken Boy. The Blackwoods, three of them. Even that beautiful witch up there's due to give us another.
Yet it would be moon tea for me. That, or being sent off to the Silent Sisters, like the Old King did with Saera.
Sitting up as regally as she could manage with them all crammed together on a stairway, Daenerys proclaimed, "As I've already told you, my nephew is more like his namesake, and nothing at all like his grandsire. The only one planting any Targaryen bastards is the King."
"Maybe that's what I should try for, then?"
An awkward silence fell. Betty was jesting, yet there was something about hearing the truth spoken that disquieted the lot of them. Even Betty herself, for no sooner had she said it than she looked down at her lap and reddened in shame.
Hot wine rose in Dany's throat at the image of her father using one of her friends in his rotation of playthings.
Her hand tightened around the wineskin.
"None of us have a chance with Baelor, do we, Princess?" asked Ysabella softly, recognizing her agitation, even if she mistook its cause. "There's no rumor of any betrothal for the prince, though he is close to being of age for one. Is that because Baelor is meant for you? Blood calls to blood with Targaryens, or so the saying goes –"
Blood calls to blood.
She'd nearly cried. Her mother had.
When Daenerys had first flowered, Naerys wept. Mothers were said to weep tears of joy for their daughter's moonblood. Queen Naerys had fallen to her knees, sobbing.
She warned Dany not to tell a living soul, that the Seven might yet see fit to spare her what her mother feared might come once her royal father knew. Then, her mother had taken herself off to the Sept, praying for days, until she'd collapsed from grief and exhaustion.
Something urged Dany to finish the wineskin, and after the last drop, she rose and stumbled past her companions, down the winding staircase, waiting to cry until she reached the bottom.
The sound of her descent caused some of those crowding the lower level of lord's boxes to look her way. She swallowed her tears, as she had the wine before, and held her silence until the moment passed and the fools on the arena floor drew all eyes. Blinking away tears, she sought a new place near the rail.
"Found more than a little wine, it seems," Daena said lightly as she joined her niece at the rail, the silver bells in her hair tinkling. The Defiant scanned the ring for any sign of her son. "I'd scold you for it, but when I was your age, I was already kissing boys and freeing all the horses from the stables to pester Wat the Horsehand, who kept me from riding whenever I chose." Daemon's mother blinked, studying Daenerys for what felt like a very long time. if she noticed tear-streaked cheeks or red-rimmed eyes, she made no comment.
Can she see that I bind my breast beneath my gowns? That my necklines are higher than they should be? Does she know?
Daena said nothing. At that moment Daemon came into view, proud, strong, and magnificent. "It seems they're about to start," Daena's glance flicked upward to the King's box. "Time to take my place. As should you. And sweet one, just stay away from the rail. Don't want you falling."
But I've already fallen.
Daemon.
One sight of him, and Dany's mind was once again at ease, dreaming as she drank in the beauty of him before his helm was put in place and fastened. When she turned to Daena again, the Defiant was gone.
She ran up the staircase as quickly as she could in her gown. As the effects of the wine made her head feel lighter, her thoughts went back to Daemon and the jousts at hand, making her bows and courtesies on her way to the rail easy enough to feign. After them all, she felt as if the world was slightly spinning, but she looked down to the lists, and the world stopped again.
Daemon. Her hero.
Her champion.
When Dany's mother left her, bleeding, to speak to the gods instead of comforting her child, the princess was to tell no one. Not a soul. Not even the servants. She was simply instructed to change her small clothes and wash them as oft as she could without causing suspicion.
She was left with her blood. Alone.
As always, all she had was Daemon
"He is abhorrent, to be sure, but the King would never," Daemon assured her, tucking her under his chin. In his arms, she was safe. She nestled into them, her insides throbbing from a new and stabbing pain, at the same time melting from his warm embrace.
"If he ever does," he continued, his tone darker. His face grim. "I'll kill him where he stands."
A/N
I would like to thank all of you for reading and hope you continue to. This chapter was co-authored with The Silent Sister, who is helping me with this fic. Thanks to The Silent Sister and I hope you enjoyed it.