Chapter 7
Some mornings, like today, he awoke feeling altogether ghastly, washed over with dread as he was, and made even more tired by the grey ambience. It wasn't an ill-omen, nor was it a symptom of real discomfort . . . or distrust even. No, it wasn't—couldn't ever be that. Above all else, he knew he could sleep fitfully, with both eyes closed under the very roof and safeguard of the Starks. In fact, he slept sounder last night further then he had remembrance of such things.
He was alone here. Rhaenyra's quarters were separate from his own, as not to raise suspicions amongst the northerners. Her generous bedchambers were adjacent from his, and he found solace knowing she was safe within these welcoming, granite walls.
He rolled over to grimace at the dark. First light had still yet arisen, but it made little difference to him now. His present accommodations had just one plain embrasure covered by wooden shutters. It was simple . . . but effective, he noted. There was little reason to let the northern chill escape inside these walls. And warm it was, as he'd heard the entire castle keep was keenly built over numerous hot springs. An intricate piping system allowed the scorching waters to travel through its walls and chambers almost naturally. It is certainly ingenious, he thought.
And yet, Daemon Targaryen was no man of the north. He'd grown up in the southern crownlands, where the white of snow fell only in the harshest winters. Here amongst the Starks of Winterfell, summer snowfall was commonplace, and currently the end of autumn was nigh.
He sat now on the edge of his cosy featherbed, wrapped up in the warm furs he'd been given for blankets. There needn't be a fire here, so his chamber was bleak and dreary, sapped of all the vibrant southern colours he'd been accustomed to. And the Stark home had an austere elegance to it, which furthered his own queer discomfort. It would take some getting used to, certainly.
With that thought, Daemon found it was finally time to rise for the day, and he fiddled around his quarters for a spell. He'd polished his riding leathers; ran a swatch of oiled leather up and down Dark Sister, breathing new life into its steel. After one or two generous rubs, it glowed darkly, appearing pleased under his very care. It had never once dulled; whether to bite against flesh, bone, or even plate—it seemed to only grow sharper with use.
Afterwards, he found his bath scalding, fuelled by the teeming hot springs below. Dressed down naked and submerging himself pleasantly into it, he'd suddenly realized he might come to fancy the north. He leaned back to relax, with a damp, warm rag laid over his forehead and aching arms outstretched around the edges of the tub as he'd do in the stewhouses of Flea Bottom after dallying with the mistresses. He closed his eyes, breathing in the soothing steam to heal his damaged lungs. His silver lashes fluttered with his deep sigh. Yes, he thought, I may oft make travel to these wilder lands.
And still, he felt oddly alone. He heard himself chuckle. Not too long ago, such thinking had been beneath him. He was becoming weak, he knew. Little could he do to fight and thrash against such bothersome enfeeblement. She had become his weakness, he mused.
Daemon's thoughts returned to that cold, misty morning beneath the weirwood. Mist drifted upwards to cloak them in a hazy, damp sheet of fresh dew. He had been nude, and so was she. He'd awoken to the prodding of another, and it hadn't been the indisposed girl sprawled over him like a whore after a good romp. It had been Rhaenyra's sworn shield, the good and noble Ser Erryk.
Drunk as a man could be, he could scarcely remember what transpired the night before. Yet, with little guesswork, one could surmise how they'd ended up like that. It had been an embarrassing affair. Her sworn shield—ever protective as he was—tried his mightiest to keep the rumours at bay, but in the Red Keep, even a mute found difficulty keeping secrets. It wasn't long until the small council became privy to their misdeeds, sooner still the royal patrons, with even the castle servants spreading word of a salacious incestuous union.
Daemon heard whispers—extravagantly tall tales which pervaded the very halls with scandal. The maids talked about how they had wed beneath the weirwood, much like the savages of the north who kept the old gods still do. Deacon, the cook, said he'd seen the regent take his niece up against the weirwood from behind as a dog might a bitch. For that, Daemon had him branded with a heated poker, tongue removed and tossed into the dungeon to starve slowly. Glynnes of the outer guard—a deviant and most degenerate mind—boasted how he could see them coupling in the godswood from a guard turret atop the outer wall. He later claimed he'd seen the court jester, Mushroom, sodomizing Rhaenyra. "The regent only watched," he'd told another man one night. "He watched—pleasured himself accordingly as the imp deflowered the young thing with his enormous cock." Daemon had grown most wroth from this claim in particular, and he fed the guardsman to Caraxes, but not before he had him whipped, gelded, and his very face flayed from his flesh. He took pleasure in that exercise himself. And the unfortunate armourer he'd shared this most debased rumour with had been tortured to confession, covered in pitch, and burnt alive. His charred remains were impaled upon a spike in front of the holdfast as warning.
The repercussions of their union spread violently, as a torrid flame against dry tender. Lord Corlys soon abdicated his post as Master of Ships, and returned to Driftmark, where Lady Rhaenys, his son, Laenor, and daughter, Laena, awaited his startling return. It had been a shocking blow, even to Daemon himself. He'd tried to persuade him to stay, but the man was livid—he wouldn't have it.
The Sea Snake was an unparalleled asset; their dragons Meleys and Seasmoke together with the driftwood fleet providing great strategic value. He ordered Maester Gerardys to send swift ravens to Driftmark bearing cordial word to beggar his support. It had seemed unfit for his station, begetting scorn of his pride—his very manhood itself, but the Master of Driftmark was most important an ally, and a dear friend of his. They had starved together, shed blood, spilt it even under one banner and cause. He would sooner wed their children, bind their houses in blood once more, than lose him entirely.
Daemon dunked his head into the hot waters, then stayed like that for a moment. He'd already grown tired of ruminating over such things. He needed only to forget them for a time, as new matters here needed tending to.
As they made their progress in the north, Lord Beesbury was given command and Ser Harwin Strong made castellan of the Red Keep. Ser Harwin had proven himself a competent leader in his new dominion over the City Watch, his fellow and loyal gold cloaks shared with him. Of course, the man paled in comparison to himself, but a job well done was to be rewarded. Rhaenyra too, spoke in favour of the young ser, and he made the appointments promptly before their departure.
He arose from the tub. He leaned back once more, letting the warm waters spill gently down his face. He flicked his long, pale-silver hair behind him, and pushed his bangs from his eyes. His brow furrowed, eyes steady on the dark walls in front of him.
There had been mornings like this one in the year gone by, when he'd awakened in deep introspection, wondering far more often than one should. Such loneliness begets these reflections, he thought.
They had sent a raven to Winterfell ahead of their arrival, and it had taken them several days to make the long trip on dragonback. Their dragons—Caraxes especially—held a strong disdain for the biting winds of the north. To make rest, they'd stopped in White Harbour where they were received warmly by Lord Theomore of House Manderly. He was quite of advanced aged now, numbering six-and-seventy, but he held a keen mind, and a strong sense of showmanship.
Large bulls were made readily available for their starving dragons to devour. The lord went further, welcoming them with a lavish feast in the Merman's Court, with wild boar, seared aurochs, and crispy chickens numbering twenty roasting upon wooden spits, peppered and herbed by the head steward himself. There were fresh breads, various strong meads, the sweetest wines, and drink aplenty. Rhaenyra herself took strong interest in the many singers, jugglers, and other festivities played as entertainment for the occasion. There had been little talk of politics—rather merrymaking and pleasant conversation. Even without discussing it, Daemon knew they were wise to the growing discord in the Reach.
The infatuated Rhaenyra loved White Harbour—had even expressed her desire to stay longer, but pressing matters awaited. Mayhaps the elderly Manderly had been smitten by her charms, or fascinated by the young queen's wit and womanly intellect. Come their time to bid farewell, Theomore conveyed his unquestioning desire to support the queen's ascension to the Iron Throne. But, as a patron house and vassal to the Starks, he would await their imminent command. He'd half-expected such unwavering support, due to his close ties with his own grandmother, Queen Alysanne, but his gay company was much appreciated. He told the old lord his loyalty and generosity would not go forgotten, and then they mounted their dragons and rode further north.
Their welcoming by Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, was no less generous. He'd bid them a queen's respect, though regrettably, refused their dragons from making rest inside the warmer castle walls. After surveying the old seat of the Starks, such a request had become understandable. Winterfell was busy in its design, and ill-equipped to house even a young dragon. And the burning of Harrenhal no doubt pervaded the minds of the northern lords. As they walked amongst the snow, Lord Rickon had said, "My great grandsire, Alaric Stark, warned my father of the dangerous beasts. When the Good Queen Alysanne sojourned within these very walls, even her own she-dragon, Silverwing, had been denied admittance."
He'd figured the dragons now nested somewhere on the outskirts of the winter town, away from the trifles of the village folk, and free to hunt the rich lands surrounding the wolfswood. He needn't worry about them. It was unlikely they'd steal a bull or even sheep from the terraced farms permeating the land. Syrax herself was well into her early years of maturity, and the full-grown Caraxes was no less well behaved. He knew better than to meddle with the commoners.
His thoughts ceased. Could hear a shuffling of footsteps outside his chamber doors. Daemon sighed, leaning back further to look up at the pitch-dark ceiling. He'd lit a few scented candles which circled the tub to give a dim light to the place. He breathed in deeply . . . heard a click and a pop as the door to his bedchambers creaked open and closed.
His lilac eyes narrowed, and he turned his head slowly to identify his intruder.
She gave him a sidelong glance. "Hasn't it been boring, alone as you are? Mayhaps I could remedy that?" she teased sweetly, then went on before he could reply: "If we are quick, none will notice."
Daemon had been thinking the same thing, actually.
He decided he was bored with solitude, decided it was better to have her warming his bed instead of another whore. They had already gone so far, what was the point in pretending otherwise? He then saw Rhaenyra take careful steps toward him. Her long, pale-silver hair was loose and free to spill down her creamy shoulders and back. She was dressed down to her see-through gown. She was even barefooted, and that was his last thought before said gown dropped pitifully to the stone floor.
The image of her naked flesh seemed to hang upon the air in the morning twilight. He was wordless to look upon her, mouth slightly ajar, and weak countenance pleading for more. He gazed with a lecher's eyes upon his niece's forbidden beauty of three-and-ten. Damned he was to the hells, and he didn't care. The despoiled maiden standing here, her scent of jasmine vivid and distracting, her colourless complexion and white skin flawless. Such was his only focus. He wondered if she knew just how much he desired her, how much he loved seeing her here in this moment. The silent pleading from her own eyes beckoned such thoughts.
"You truly think this wise, don't you?" he asked at length, uncharacteristically meek. The better part of himself was thrashing in the back of his skull, begging for him to send her away. That part was losing, he mused.
"I will bear you many sons," she declared calmly. "Isn't this what you desire most, Daemon?" Her footsteps were silent as she crept closer to the tub. He could see her most serious expression beneath plum-coloured eyes which bespoke countless emotions. "It is what I myself have desired, too, for as long as I can remember."
And that, he had not expected.
He could only nod his head assuredly. "Come, if you wish. Find pleasures in these soothing waters, my dearest flesh and blood."
She granted him a smile for that. "Good, then," said Rhaenyra, and rising on her toes, she stepped into the bath, slowly—tantalizingly so—to display every inch of her pristine body to him.
He stared, mesmerized by her beauty, watched her immerse herself bewitchingly into the welcoming waters with considerable expertise. She was descended from the purest Valyrian line, endowed by all its wonderous traits. He loved wholly her for that. She is far too alluring for me to resist, he wondered. And with the curious musing, he eyed her hands reaching downward . . .
His throat was suddenly dry. His voice quivered in his mind. Daemon writhed harshly as his sex grew long and rigid under the soft workings of her fingers. The stilled waters splashed. He groaned out a pleasurable sound. Panicked hands grasped for anything, before one settled on her shoulder and the other her slim waist. He moaned again as she worked his painfully large, full hardened length up and down. Her hands invited him into madness. The girl had talent . . . and where had she learned such a skill? Not from himself, surely . . .
Such thoughts dissipated, he himself cowering underneath her knowing smirk. His rapturous pleasure only grew as she stroked him more diligently. He twisted into the waters, relaxed deeper against the tub as his loins tightened further.
"That's enough!" Daemon barked. His hand grasped to still her own. "Needs must I finish so soon?"
He saw a mischievous glint in her eye. "Still bored are you, Nuncle?" Rhaenyra asked coyly. His eyes widened to saucers, feeling her tiny fingers curl further around his expansive girth.
It did occur to him then she was far more devious than he'd ever imagined.
It did not occur to him she'd always been like this, secretly lusting after him, and even honing her womanly arts of charm and bedding. He had always known of her love for him, never doubted it even once. He reached around the small of her back, pulled her tight to his chest. The soft pillows of her pear-shaped breasts flattened against him. The scent of her filled his very senses, the bathwater steam enveloping them both to meld together as one. Her fingers were about his neck, his own to knead her in various places lovingly. Tender was her touch, and longing was his desire.
He scarcely remembered that moment beneath the weirwood. He wished to experience it fully, here, now. He'd etch every second of it into the firmament of his memory: her face in pleasure, the sounds of their lovemaking, and the very scent of it all. He breathed in.
His lips moved with a strong sigh. "Will you mount me again?" he asked.
Seconds passed. Rhaenyra smiled wide, straddled him with both legs, raising up slightly to say: "As you command, my love . . ."
And she lowered herself upon his sex, slowly, gently—with indelible care even. Both of his hands went immediately to her face, enveloping her in his grasp, holding her there to stare deep into her very soul. Lilac eyes gazed intently at one another. She lowered further, stilled, and then relaxed. He felt himself penetrate her fleshy folds—an inch or two maybe. She gritted her teeth, eked out a moan and shuttered her eyes. She puled like a new-born dragon would, craned her hips further back, and then he found his ingress.
"Daemon," she whispered, her voice was distant and difficult.
"Hush," he murmured, tongue to her ear to taste. "Oh, hush now dear, let me fill you."
"Daemon . . ." she murmured once more.
He shifted then, guiding himself into the portal he'd desperately longed for. She went tense as his manhood sheathed deep between her narrow, fleshy walls. Her lips formed soundless words, her breath smelt of mint sprigs. He breathed it intensely. They stayed like that, as she adjusted accordingly to his size. He nipped at an ear lobe, his tongue lapping her to taste sweet skin. She shifted then, and her movements were as the rise and fall of a calm ocean's waves, smooth and deliberately natural.
He brushed a pink nipple with his tongue, gliding it between his teeth, testing these newfound waters. Her pace quickened then, her desperate fingers finding his wild mane to twist themselves into. She craned her head to the side, rocked her hips furiously. He gasped.
And leaned back to stare upwards.
His hands slid down to her buttocks, and with some effort, grasped harshly, earning him a rapturous gasp. She rode him vigorously, hastened her pace. In the darkness he tried to see the ceiling, but could only discern vague shapes and shadows, smoke, and misty steam.
"Rhaenyra," he then said aloud, with an unexpected tinge of emotion within it, "gods and goddesses be good, if they still persist! They've bestowed myself with their good daughter to claim as mine own . . ."
With that utterance his own hips came alive. Her spoiled sex was wet and accommodating. With every thrust he reached deeper inside her. She stiffened every time he touched her netherest regions. Her body arched backwards in pleasure, she moaned his name quietly. Hells, the sound of it almost sent him over. She needn't worry in this place. In fact, he loved it when she crooned as a bawdy whore would. Scream my name, he told himself, let it out with your ecstasy you perverse thing. "Say it again . . . !" he hissed darkly. He grasped at her breasts, pinched a pink nipple then ran his very large hands upward her neck to clutch her jaw and thumb at her agape mouth.
"Daemon," she said, louder, eyes shuttering with pleasure.
"Try it once more," he commanded, drawing the outer edges of her lips with a thumb.
"Daemon!" Rhaenyra whined.
Water splashed, lit candles extinguished helplessly. He flailed against her, mouthed her own name with his very lips. He pulled her tight against his chest, arched his hips upwards, legs braced against the tub to silence her moans with pure bliss. In the newfound darkness he tried to see her eyes, but could only see a shadow of a face and a curtain of pale-silver hair.
"Rhaenyra," he cooed.
An utterly unforeseen and amorous sound which surprised himself. His own elation stirred him to pump harder. She wailed loudly then. He knew the Starks heard that one; didn't give a shit. He was nearing release, and she was too. Her fleshy walls stiffened. His own loins grew horribly tight, ready to burst any second. He reached further than ever before . . .
His entire world shook. Ecstasy obliterated thought, common-sense, and everything in-between that. He hadn't much energy left then. She'd gone limp too, he felt. So he gave her one, two, maybe three listless pumps, filling her swollen sex wholly to the brim with his own seed.
He heard her grunt with those last thrusts. She was spent and so was he. "Have you finished . . . ? I have . . ." he uttered, bemused.
Rhaenyra said nothing. Just breathed haggardly, rest her head on his chest as it rose and fell with laboured gasps of his own. Her quivering legs were still wrapped meekly around his body, and his now dwindling, satiated sex still enclosed within her, sheathed in lukewarm liquescence.
He leaned back, his hands guiding themselves along the small of her back to cradle her head. She lay there along the length of him like so, soundless and unmoving. And in the darkness of that room, in the hour of morningfall, he'd come to caress her with newfound duty and purpose. She was to be the mother of his trueborn sons, he realized: the queenmother of kings, a pure line of Targaryen lineage descended from Aegon the Dragon himself. His progeny would rule in dominion over these lands—all of Westeros truly. Nay, he mused, perhaps even further than that.
His mind was addled in the afterglow of his rapturous coupling. The world was indeed interesting, after all. He, Daemon Targaryen, son of Baelon the Brave, had been undone by his lustful niece of three-and-ten.
The regent suddenly laughed. It was tinged with feeling, a mixture of many unidentifiable emotions. The muddled Rhaenyra cared little, so winded by their furious lovemaking as she was. He himself still struggled to form coherent thoughts, and the steamy bath now did little for him. He'd soaked in the heat for far too long, he surmised.
Daemon rose from the tub, standing upright with Rhaenyra clutched in his arms. He stood there for a time, gazing at her with tender eyes. The chambers were silent, save for the plop-plop of water droplets falling from their naked bodies.
There, in those pools of lilac, he saw the world. He saw his world, and with that feeling captured in his very mind, he held her tighter than ever before.
Time passed slowly. The two of them never left each other that early morning. They were mute then, and spoke only with action. Even after they'd dried each other's bodies, dressed one another, combed their hair neat, and powdered their faces, their silence conveyed everything. Afterward, they sat by candlelight, stared at one another upon the featherbed in comfortable silence. Then, Daemon, knowing she'd desired it all her life, set a sleeping Dark Sister in her hands.
Her widened eyes poured over the ancestral blade. She smiled brightly, said with great mirth, "Oh, my loving prince . . . it's an heirloom of the highest beauty." The shutters were open now. Morning light had entered the chamber by then. Snow shrikes could be heard from outside; a curious birdcall, if any.
"Go on now, let's see it," Daemon said, motioning for her to unsheathe it. "You needs not be shy with the thing."
Rhraenyra nodded fervently. With a good tug, she wrest the vaunted blade from its pitch-black scabbard. It shimmered in the grey half-light suffusing the room. Her smile stretched from ear to ear then. "It's so light," she said wondrously.
"Isn't it?" he replied shortly.
It brought Daemon joy, warm-hearted feelings too as he watched his niece look upon his ancestral sword with child-like wonder and amusement. He remembered the first time his own fingers grasped its dark leathers around the pommel. Moreso, he could still feel the flat of the blade brush his shoulders as King Jaehaerys knighted him. Feelings from a bygone time flooded in . . . and, it was my greatest honour, he thought.
Rhaenyra took a stance, and with outstretched arms, held the sword dangling overhead. She let out her fiercest yelp and swung it downward to swish as it cut effortlessly the air. To say it was an endearing sight could only be an understatement.
"Very good, dear!" Daemon said cheerfully, clapping with amusement. "Such a pleasant whistle . . . Yes, Dark Sister is most pleased. Mayhaps she's misjudged you for Visenya herself?"
Rhaenyra held the blade steady, smirked mischievously. "Must you always tease me so?" she asked. "You should be most careful, my dearest uncle. The stories tell she has a mind all her own." Her smile only spread wider as she slowly lowered the blade to point at him.
Daemon raised his arms in mock surrender. "Oh, please, grant us mercy, Your Grace!" His own toothy grin morphed into something roguish. Rhaenyra hadn't noticed. He gave her no warning before he lunged.
The sword changed owners fast. He had Rhaenyra scurrying around the room something mad then. The room steeped deeply in giggling, and his rough laughter—altogether too rare—mixed with her own. She was little, quick even, and he just clumsy enough, given the mood. She'd slipped from his grasp more than twice before he trapped her on the featherbed. She glared at him from underneath, her tiny hands made to fists against his padded doublet.
Daemon smirked as she pouted. And her look of annoyance only deepened. He needn't draw her greatest ire in the early hours of the morning, he figured. Instead of goading her further, he retreated backwards and reached his hands out for hers to take. She acquiesced; he helped her to her feet. "We are to break our fast with Rickon Stark, come soon," he said at length.
She turned her shoulder, smiled wanly, and fixed her appearance. Her very large, bright lilac eyes, fixed on his own afterwards. "Like as not, we are to make ourselves presentable, then," she said evenly.
"Go on, then."
His voice had been somewhat muted. She smiled, gesturing goodbye with lamenting fingers. He watched her go then. His eyes were steady on her departing form—her bouncing pale-silver hair as she took playful steps toward her adjoined bedchambers. His smile waned as she vanished behind a large, sentinel wood door.
He truly had not realized. She was to be his, he concluded plainly. He had half-expected to keep her advances at bay, to secure his own desires behind a pleated smile. Now, he was to sire her children, to find comforts of family by her side. Hearth and home, he thought humorously. Such notions he'd considered folly only a few years whence. He hadn't allowed himself to feel such things, to yearn for home, to think much about Rhaenyra, settling down, or even fathering children born of his seed.
He suddenly felt ill, dizzied even. He steadied himself on a desk, palmed his face and ran a trembling hand through his long hair. It took him a moment to steady his laboured breath, to centre himself enough to continue onward. Such feelings beget weakness, he thought miserably.
In the meantime, he took his time to prepare himself for their most important meal. Daemon knew Rickon to be a friend, and most dear ally of his House. They owed the Lord of Winterfell a lord's respect, and to that end he fixed himself to appear regal again. He wore his best dark silk-padded doublet, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon. Dark Sister clung tight to his side again, and he felt altogether well, the steam bath soothing him as it did. His reflection looked kingly in the mirror. He himself was a Targaryen prince—regent even, and he must be kept to such a standard.
After some time, Rhaenyra appeared from her chambers again. She was dressed up in her most decadent gown of flowing silk which gleamed as gold would, with gems encrusted on the bodice to highlight her majestic beauty. Over her shoulders draped a crimson-red cloak to drag along the floor. Her long silver hair was pinned at the bangs and let down to flow below her shoulders. Atop her silver mane was the glittering crown of Jaehaerys. Her face was puffed and powdered, with hypnotically striking eyes and long lashes made to be dark and beautiful against her smooth, pale-cream, and flawless skin. Dangling from her neck to rest between her pronounced breasts was the necklace he'd given her all those years ago. Men's eyes—and there were so few who'd been so lucky—which set themselves upon her exalted form struggled to look away. And he was wholly a man.
He felt his mouth curl to a smirk. His fingers went to the pendant between her breasts. He said, breathlessly so, "You are ravishing, my dearest flesh and blood."
She had a warm complexion then. Her smile was bashful. "Must you lavish me with such pleasantries?" she asked timidly.
"I must insist," he replied shortly.
Taking her small hand in his own, he brought it to his lips to kiss for polite greeting. Eyeing her from his position, he could see her most pleased and natural smile. Upright once more, he gazed intently at her.
First sunlight was upon them, and there was a single ray of golds and yellows spilling through the lone embrasure of their quarters. It had snowed horribly overnight, and such weathers would persist until the next summer, whenever that will be.
Rhaenyra looked up at him. "Shall we go to them, then?"
Daemon nodded, said sternly, "Let us go to them as their liege and master would, with head held high, and postured with poise begetting our rule."
He saw her cock her head. "Our rule, you say?" she asked. There was a light-hearted glint in her eyes then. "Perhaps it should be your rule, as my most loving husband, and truest king."
"Now, that is a cruel jape," he replied nervously.
Rhaenyra frowned, said, "I would never make japes at you, my love. Least of all about such matters. I desire not only the throne, but to bear you many sons and daughters. It should make for difficult rule to be with child so oft, wouldn't you agree?"
He shook his head. "Let's not discuss these matters now. Come, take my hand, and let us depart."
And with a smile she did, and they left their chambers. Their walk through the courtyard was a pleasant one. A hot stream ran through the centre of it, further channelled to pass through the garden amidst trees, and flowers too, if they hadn't been covered in a thick, sheet of snow. Stone walkways laid out their pathway to the great hall. Meeting them halfway was the good and noble Ser Waldemar Cassel, master-at-arms, and friend to his liege lord. Daemon raised a gloved hand to greet him. "Good morrow, Ser Waldemar!" he greeted joyously.
Waldemar was no man of the south. He was big, burly, well-muscled, and thick of beard white as the freshest snows of the courtyard. At his hip was a wide, northern broadsword, and the braids of his long curls and mutton chops spoke a man of great hardiness. He bowed his head, a greeting in the deepest respect. After he raised, he said, "Lord Stark awaits Her Grace's presence in the halls of his fathers."
"Walk with us, then," Daemon replied, and kept their path.
The master-at-arms nodded once more and followed, trailing just behind them on their way to the hall. Snow shrikes flitted in the branches overhead. The sun was young, and pleasant to feel in contrast to the bitter, cold air. Nearing the end of the courtyard, they approached two, very large wooden double doors. Guards on both sides pushed them hard to open. Heavy as they were, mere moments passed before they could enter. The trio then set foot into a long hallway, lit only by a half-dozen sconces which dotted the granite walls. Little sunlight found these corridors, and it flowed into an ingress, where a dozen more guards bearing the direwolf sigil greeted them. They lined each side of the walls as they walked between, saluting with their swords pointed upwards, and fall to sheathe as they passed. As they neared the end of the hallway, two guardsmen pulled open the doors to allow them entry.
The Great Hall of Winterfell had been hazy with smoke made to be thick by the scent of roasted meats and freshly-baked breads. The grey and expansive stone walls were draped with numerous banners. White, red, and black: the direwolf of Stark, and the three-headed-dragon of Targaryen. Musicians played a royal tune as they entered; knights of the north bellowed their titles. The roaring of a fierce fire in a massive stone hearth crackled amidst them, and near the end he saw the Starks stand from their own throne of stone.
Daemon held Rhaenyra's hand high in escort as they traversed the centre aisle. Her cloak dragged along the floor, and his boots, polished dark, clicked quietly on the muted carpet. He saw Rickon then, an older lord of eight-and-fifty, lower his head in greeting. He stepped down from the raised terrace holding the hand of his own wife, Gilliane Glover, who was half his age or less. She hadn't taken the Stark name, and she was wholly beautiful. Her skin was fair, with long nut-brown hair to flow around her gentle features magnificently. The brown-eyed Rickon himself had snow-white hair, unkempt looking and uncrowned. His warm furs cascaded from his shoulders to form a cloak, and his leathers, embroidered with the direwolf, were dark and comfortable.
Most of the court was staring at Rhaenyra, however. Her exotic beauty captured the hearts and minds of the northerners, the very moment—no, second—she stepped into these halls. And the Lord of Winterfell knelt in greeting, uttering, "Winterfell is yours, Your Grace."
Rhaenyra smiled down at him. "Rise, Lord Stark. You have been most gracious in your affairs. We are not but guests. Let us now dine, as warm friends would."
And so did Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, stand. He then frowned, and his old skin creased to a darkened visage. "Dark wings, dark words," he murmured. His voice was grave, and heavily toned. "Her Grace's much joyous arrival is marred by a raven's ill tidings. We have much to discuss . . . but let us fill our bellies first."
"You are most kind," the queen murmured.
He'd sense a sudden growing tension in the hall, though he didn't acknowledge it. The courtiers of the long hall stood by their seats, awaiting them. He watched Rickon lead his wife away and find their seats nearest the end. They too found their place of honour on the very edge the table, where the lord and lady normally sat.
Rhaenyra straightened her shoulders. "Please, sit your chairs and eat, everyone," she then commanded.
Everyone about the hall obeyed, taking their seats along the table, Rickon and Gilliane included. Daemon then leaned comfortably into the cushions of his own padded seat, and Rhaenyra herself followed last.
Cups and pewter plates clanged and clicked; conversation began. There needn't be any longwinded speeches in the north, he realized. And he found himself both parched and famished, as he looked upon the glorious feast.
The banquet before them was lush with northern cooking. Oxen had been butchered, spiced, and quartered palatably. There was a goose glazed with honey, generous cuts of goat, sheep, and even an auroch to spare. Stewards turned two-dozen crispy chickens on thin spits above a roaring fire. There was elk and wild boar too, and freshly-baked bread to permeate the halls with a dozen more scents, all equally delectable. And to top it all off, there was a half-dozen kegs of fresh mead, and servants to pour them a mug.
He turned his head to see Rhaenyra take a large hunk of the oxen. She looked at it curiously, before picking it up with both hands to bite a chunk from it. They lacked in knives and forks in these halls, he guessed. Daemon himself grabbed a piece of the boar. Roasted to perfection, it smelled wonderful, and tasted even better.
Rickon smiled through his own chewing. "Strong bastard that one was," he jawed. "Speared his heart out during yesterday's hunt I did. Well, look at him now. He feeds royalty, and that'd be any boar's highest honour, if you ask me."
"Fair enough," Daemon replied as he chewed. No need for courtly etiquette in these halls, he surmised.
Rickon set his slab of mutton down. "Forgive myself for my lacking in manners, Your Grace," he then said evenly. "We are Starks, and of the north. We've little experience in the practices and decorum of your lands, and winter is coming."
A Stark's words, he thought. The regent shook his head. "There's no need for apology," he said at length. His own voice was softer than it usually was. He'd been disarmed by the warm generosity of these northerners. They seemed more genuine than the folk he'd become accustomed to. He grasped a healthy mug of mead in his hand. It was freshly poured and brimmed to foam at the top. With a teeming gulp, he felt it burn sweetly as it trickled down his throat.
Rickon smiled then. "I take it you've found enjoyment in your accommodations?"
Rhaenyra exchanged a glance with Daemon, then said, "Oh, you've been most kind to us. Your generosity will not go unnoticed, Lord Stark." She took a small sip from her own mug to wash down her meal.
"Very well!" the Lord of Winterfell replied with excitement. He took another big gulp from his drink, pointed at the lady next to him. "I have been remiss in my pleasantries. This here is my good and loving lady wife, Gilliane."
Daemon smiled and nodded in greeting. The young lady seemed shy, and she simply held up her hand to hail them in her own way. Rhaenyra smiled brightly, saying, "The lady is very beautiful, my lord."
Rickon plopped his mug on the table. Mead splattered. "Isn't she?" he bellowed. "And we've been trying for a son. We've prayed many nights beneath the heart tree; the gods watch us!"
Rhaenyra raised her mug. "And we shall make prayer of our own for your good fortunes."
"I'll drink to that!" Rickon exclaimed, and he downed all his mead in one big quaff.
Daemon in turn sipped from his to join the cheer. It was still early morning, and he hadn't quite found the commitment to drink himself into an early stupor. The Starks are a breed apart, he mused humorously. Perhaps a hard drink in the mornings was the norm here.
If the Lord of Winterfell could slam his mug on the table any harder, he did. After one big belch, he exclaimed, "And I do wish His Grace a great many sons of his own! Strong sons to herald a new age of dragonlords, and dominion of the skies!" He waved a large hand up to summon his servants to fill his cups again. "Hear now! The morning is still young! Let us drink to these many joys!"
The entire hall cheered then. There was raucous roaring as mugs clanked against one another. Even the stern Ser Waldemar had partaken in the festivities. He'd grown red-faced already, having finished a half-dozen mugs of his own.
Next to him, Gilliane only smiled meekly, sipping lightly from her cup. Daemon, however, had found Lord Stark's choice of words curious. He did little to bring any attention to them, just raised his cup for further cheer, and gulped it down.
The festivities and merrymaking continued. Every man about the hall had emptied the kegs, cleared the very tables themselves. Rhaenyra herself was busied by the company of the good lady Gilliane. Drunken chatter now pervaded over anything else, and Daemon—scarily so—had become the most sober man around.
As if on cue to this distressing line of thought, Lord Stark suddenly became very serious. His coarse, long white brows furrowed. "Maester Ulfilas!" he roared, holding out his hand in the direction of whom he called. Daemon's own mouth turned to a grimace as he watched a cloaked, old man step toward the lord, thick chain about his neck jingling and all. The maester retrieved a letter from his robe and placed it in his lord's hands. "Dark wings, dark words," Rickon repeated, and tossed the piece of parchment over to the regent.
Daemon took it in his hands and unfolded it. Lilac eyes poured slowly over the letter. It was signed and stamped by Matthos Tyrell, and dated the twenty-fourth day of the eighth moon.
The greens had struck first, he saw. They were far too callous in their doings. Daemon glanced sidelong at Lord Rickon, frowning deeper.
"Fret not, Prince Daemon," Rickon said gravely. "The southern lords take us Starks for fools, I see. But they're mistaken in such a sentiment, drowned in their petty schemes as they are." He gestured for his servant to take his plates and cups away. "Come now, let's hear the truth of things."
Daemon had spent far too long in the courts of the south. He'd forgotten how refreshing such candour was. He frowned deeply. "After the death of my brother, the Dowager Queen stole relics of my House for kingmaking, his young children, and then fled to Oldtown," he described at length, swishing his spoiled mead around his mug. "They deigned to claim my brother made his firstborn son, Aegon, his rightful heir in his dying hour. We then travelled long to the Hightower only as envoy. After our arrival, Lord Ormund himself made an illegitimate order for my detainment based on frivolous claims. Our dragons did not appreciate such an order."
The lord laughed quietly. He hadn't meant him to. "And the other lords of the land believe these claims to be true?" Rickon asked in a whisper. He scratched the scruff of his chin in thought.
The regent shook his head. "I do not think truth holds any weight here. Many have chosen to turn a blind eye, simply because they'd sooner fall on their own sword before they see a queen sit the throne."
Rickon was silent for a moment, then he sighed. "The lords south of the Neck lack for both wit and honour, then."
"Truer words have scarcely been uttered," Daemon replied harshly. He'd suddenly been taken by a furious anger.
Rickon drained another half mug of mead, saying, "And the Crown's recourse in this dire hour?"
Daemon cleared his throat. "That depends on our enemies' intent," he answered—much too quickly. He already knew what was to come. "This is no small treason. We've travelled to this far-off land not merely to break bread, but to have your allegiance—of both his lordship, and his patron banners."
He saw the elder Stark's mind work rapidly then. His gaze fell pointedly to his empty mug, and he pushed the thing aside. "My late father, Benjen Stark, raised issue with the New Gift," he said evenly. "The territory has met with deterioration in years past, and the enlargement of lands only rendered things more dire." His hazel eyes narrowed then, and he appeared grim. "Even now, my dearest brother, Bennard, rides north to subjugate a wildling party who've overwhelmed Deep Lake at the Wall."
He pondered this a moment. "The New Gift is yours, Lord Stark," Daemon then replied. "Pledge your sword to be mine own. Make vows anew to defend the crownlands when summoned. Beneath a heart tree, or here, now; it matters not."
Rickon laughed heartily then. "I've already made vows sworn before the very gods to defend Her Grace's right to rule! I'd be dead and gone before I see a Stark break oaths so freely! Rest easy, young Dragonlord . . . Rickon Stark, son of Benjen and Lord of Winterfell, has not grown so old he shirks duty and honour. You will have your swords; my banners are to be yours! But I do have just one parting request . . ."
"Speak your peace," Daemon said curtly.
The Lord of Winterfell stayed silent for a moment. He then cleared his throat, saying, "These wildlings are no ordinary pack of animals, as one might expect. They say they're learned in the many arts of war, savagery, and pillaging." He withdrew a piece of parchment and tossed it on the table. "Word from the Sworn Brothers tell they're led by a most wretched foe: Havard Wolfseer, a close ally of the King Beyond the Wall. He's said to be a hulking man who stands a height double that of any other; a monstrous direwolf with fur black as pitch, his most bloodthirsty companion. The villagers claim him to be a warg; says he rapes and pillages the smallfolk only to drink the blood of new-born babes. They've put several villages south of the Queenscrown to the torch, and have made camp within the wolfswood, just beneath the mountains."
"And what would you have me do?" asked Daemon.
Rickon smiled wickedly. He seemingly grew ten years younger in an instant. "Ride north with me," he replied sternly. There were fires in his old eyes then. "We ride and give aid to my brother. Let us draw swords together, spill blood even . . . and see if these smallfolk tales of a wildling bastard hold weight after I've taken his head with Ice!"
The Stark's words had suddenly stirred something deep within him.
Daemon felt his lips malform into something bloodthirsty. "Yes!" he hissed. He stood upright then, shoulders back and head up high. "Let us ride together as brothers would!"
Dragons roared and wolves howled.
Two swords shrieked from their scabbards, pointing to the pitch-dark ceiling above them to make vows.
Rhaenyra finds this godswood strange.
The godswood of the Red Keep is a peaceful place, made serene by neat gardens, bushes, and kept austere within the castle walls.
This place is something else entirely. It is dark, primal looking. Thousands of towering sentinel trees dot the forest surrounding the weirwood tree, like grey-green thorns with canopies made to be unkempt and knotted by old age. Beneath the tree is a black pool, frozen over and lifeless. Malformed roots jut from the dark and gloomy soil upwards to trip on. The weirwood looks especially forlorn here, now, where nature dares not dwell, and the only life is of the old gods. There is silence all around them, too.
Gilliane, Lady of Winterfell and wife to Rickon Stark, leads her into this frightening place. She's told her dearest love, Daemon, is to ride north with her lord husband to quell a band of savages. She wants to join him, to aid him—do what she can to keep him safe, but he is stern in his refusal. He says Caraxes and Syrax would be of little use; the thick oaks, evergreens, and ironwoods too matted and thick for them to traverse.
The day grows late now. She's spent the afternoon with the lady amongst the castle grounds.
Gilliane showed her how to sew, shared her poetry, sung traditional songs of her House and land for her. She even taught her how to prepare a few northern dishes and delicacies for her lord uncle—one being a sweet soup of turnips and barley.
The northern air is frigid now. The sky is a gloomy mixture of blues and greys, though mostly clear, and the sun on its path to set for the day. She's wearing something more formidable against the icy winds: comfortable furs, wool, and a warm cloak to pull over her ears.
With hands on her knees, she peers down at the queer visage of the tree. Its bark is whiter than bone, more so than the one she's accustomed to. Its blood-red leaves are dark and dreary looking, painted against the grey canvass of the wood. The tree seems sad, or in mourning, she thinks. Its eyes are tired-looking, dripping with frozen sap, and ever-watchful.
"The tales tell a strange story," Gilliane says thoughtfully, cutting through her thoughts. "They say these very walls were built around this heart tree. More still, the children of the forest carved the face into this tree, leaving their unusual mark on it during the first centuries of dawn."
Rhaenyra ruminates over her words, stares more intently at the unnerving expression. She swears before the very gods she sees its eyes quiver.
Something stirs. Leaves whisper.
"You love him," she hears from behind her. She turns around immediately, sees Gilliane gazing at her intently.
"My pardons?" she replies. "I do not understand your meaning."
"You love him as a woman loves a man," she says evenly.
Rhaenyra feels her heart flutter then. Her lip quivers slightly. She steadies her mind, saying, "Mayhaps."
She is silent afterwards, and the lady is as well. Rhaenyra watches her take careful steps toward the weirwood tree. She looks it over intently, and then turns her head. Her brown hair dances about her shoulders with a gust of wind. Rhaenyra shivers, pulls her hood over further.
Gilliane's eyes narrow sombrely. "Share your undying love for him with me," she asks.
She smiles sadly herself, saying, "Have we been made to appear so obvious?"
The lady looks at her for a long time. Her lips finally move, saying, "One can see how you gaze at one another. I see how the regent cares for you, as one might their greatest treasure. Such a love may seem invisible to my lord husband . . . but I have seen it."
Rhaenyra's expression softens. "Yes, it is true," she says relentingly. "My lord uncle and I are bound by vows of love and courtship. We are to be wed soon, though we know not the time."
She can see Gilliane smile. There's a gentle longing in the glow of her hazel pools. "And why is it have you not married?" she asks softly.
Hearing this, Rhaenyra gazes upwards to look into the awning of crimson leaves. She finds them interesting, beautiful even. This place is wholly beautiful, she thinks, just like him . . .
Still looking up, Rhaenyra says, "The lords and ladies of the land are not keen to see my uncle and I bound like so." She isn't speaking to Gilliane, but the old gods themselves. She breathes in deeply, tears cold and crisp fall as she blinks. "Our union will only sow further chaos into these tumultuous soils . . ."
Gilliane sees her sadness. She knows this, hears, "I was made to wed to my lord husband at a dreadfully young age. I hadn't the chance to love so innocently as you do. Forget the realm for a time. It matters not, certainly against matters of love."
"The High Septon may not allow it . . ."
Her meek voice trails away amidst quiet of the stilled godswood. There is a silence between them. She shivers, feels a gale from the west, rustling the many leaves of the old forest. The wood moves for them, she realizes. They're listening to us, she thinks.
"We keep the old gods here," Gilliane then says,
"You may wed here, beneath this very heart tree."