Chapter Text
Corlys’ Chambers, 95 A.C.
He wakes in his bed with thoughts of Rhaenys.
Corlys rolls onto his side, sleepy and sated, with a smile on his mouth. He can smell her perfume, the floral scent lingering in his nose: it leaves him eager for the gentle heat of her body beneath his hands, her soft contented sighs in his ear. He has always missed the warmth of a lover in his bed during a voyage, but the prospect of this journey in particular feels somehow colder than those that had come before. Two weeks with the princess had not been long enough, not when so many of their days had been darkened by unsurety.
Humming with content, he stretches out an arm blindly, intent on pulling his lady closer.
Empty sheets greet him.
He opens his eyes: she is gone. His bed lies cold and bare before him, rumpled bedding in the place where his betrothed should be. Panic hits his stomach like an armoured fist, a heady burst of adrenaline pumping through his veins. He sits bolt upright, thoughts thick with sleep, hands throwing back the covers, and he has one large foot flat upon the cold stone floor before reason finally pierces through.
She was never here.
Rhaenys had left the library before him. He knows this, he thinks with frustration: he had been the one to send her away. His pulse races, remembering how she had touched him, asked him to consummate his promises to her there, and then bound herself to him with satin and sworn vows. How pretty those hazel eyes had been, blinking up at him as she had begged; and how inviting the slow sway of her hips as she had conceded defeat and walked away.
She had parted from him, her smile guileful and words heavy with promises, to the safety of her own bed.
Corlys sighs, elbows braced atop his knees, and brings his head to his hands. As his fingers scrub over his eyes, his nose, his beard, his body slowly accepts that the warmth of her next to him had only been a dream.
A perfect dream, he muses. The promise of what’s to come.
His stomach lurches again, his heart fearing for a moment that their declarations of love too had been but a nighttime imagining. It is with relief that he finds his mouth still tender from her teeth, the scent of her perfume lingering on his skin. He closes his eyes, savouring the memory for a moment.
I am hers and she is mine.
Dawn has barely begun. The faintest glow of morning creeps along the edges of the heavy curtains, a thin sliver of the stonework illuminated at the hem. Regardless, he does not return to his bed. He is a sailor, after all: the predawn belongs to him. This hour of preparation, of anticipation, is his time of day; a time for the readying of sails and the surveying of the horizon. Corlys rises, stretching out the tension in his shoulders, arching his back, before crossing his chambers in three long strides. He throws open the curtain and the window beyond. Birdsong heralds the new dawn and a growing indistinct chorus of workmen and traders rises from the city below.
King’s Landing wakens to find the Sea Snake ready for departure; yet the man has much to attend to before the anchor is weighed.
Corlys turns to the nearby washbasin. The frigidity of the water on his skin clears the last of slumber’s fog from his mind. He gasps, splashing his face once, twice, thrice, savouring each shiver of clarity before patting himself dry. Though his beard had been cut for the tourney not two morns ago, he takes both comb and razor to it, smooths it with oil of rosehip when he is done. He then unwraps his locs from their silk covering and works the last of the oil through these too, pulling them back neatly away from his face. Checking his reflection in the looking glass, Corlys cannot help but grin at the man reflected back at him.
But two weeks ago you were but an adventurer, he thinks, studying his posture, the tilt of his jaw. An outsider at court with a new lordship and an unfinished castle. Now you have the hand of a princess.
Pride swells in his chest. He had won her: he above all the countless lordlings who desired her, he above all other men. He alone had possessed that which she wanted. Where others had seen fault, she had seen charm: his daring, his ambition, his reluctance to fall blindly in step with the dance of court. She had let him mark her as his with jewels and dances and the braids she had begun to weave in her hair. His smug grin widens. Pausing for a moment, Corlys pulls his very frontmost locs - the ones adorned with gold - free from their tie. Rhaenys had admired them with such curiosity the night they had met: after their vows, he is loath to deny her any joy.
He had lasted five minutes after her departure. Five minutes before he had fled the confines of the library for the privacy of his rooms. Propriety should have stayed him a little longer - slowed his step, reasoned with his mind - but he had not been able to bear the thought of losing the taste of her upon his mouth, the feel of her body against his, before he could finish what her touches had begun. In the end, he had not even retired to his personal chamber, let alone his bed. Upon crossing the threshold of his guest quarters and slamming the door closed behind him, he had simply loosened the laces of his breeches far enough to permit his hand and gratified himself then and there.
It is not the taking of his pleasure that vexes him in the light of morning. It had not been the first time he had done so amidst thoughts of Rhaenys, nor indeed would it be the last: she had been his only desire ever since that morning on the docks. Even that first night, sequestered in the splendour of the chambers provided by his King and Queen, he had sought his release with her voice inside his head. He had remembered her sweet blush as he had kissed her hand, the way she had squeezed tight upon the very fingers now fisted about his cock. He had worked himself to the brink with imaginings of her above him - of the princess open-mouthed, head thrown back with pleasure, hands braced upon his chest as she rode him to her completion - and he had spent himself to the echo of her voice calling him husband.
No, it is not his desires that give him pause: it is rather his own lack of caution, his foolhardiness, that settles uncomfortably upon his chest. He had allowed himself to be reckless with her. After all he had already brought upon her, he should have known better than to risk her honour. How long had he spent trading kisses with Rhaenys held in his arms, or writhing atop his lap, or lying with her legs caught about his hips as though she were already his wife? How long had they spent in temptation, all with but an unlocked door as a shield from those who would hurt her? His mouth sours. Even when they had both retired, he had threatened her still: with a hand about his cock, he had cried out with her name upon his lips, loud enough that any passing guard or courtier might have heard from the corridor beyond. Her name, painted in moans of pleasure, choked on grunts of desire. He had thought of his Rhaenys - of how sweet and pliant and willing she had been beneath him, of her words of love, of her promises for the future - and spilt over his hand like a fumbling youth.
He grimaces.
Never before had he been so foolish, not even when he had been an eager and inexperienced boy. He had not forgotten himself so easily during those first tastes of pleasure with the bawdy girls of Hull; nor had he ever been so brazen, not even after falling into the beds of Essosi women, so unconventional and liberated when it came to desire. To think he had been proud of his restraint in the library: of his gentlemanly conduct, of his refusal of her advances. A lesser man would have taken her maidenhead, he had told himself. A lesser man would have listened to his desires.
But he had listened to them, had he not? He might not have bedded her, but he had encouraged her touches, had held her close as she had moved above him, had taught her the overture of lovemaking. He had tasted her as her sweet, curious movements turned hungry and bold. Even as she had left, there had been a heady joy pounding through him with each pump of his heart: knowing his passions were shared, that she too would soon be falling apart under her own touch, shuddering with thoughts of him.
He had fallen into slumber with thoughts of her too: sweet thoughts, far more innocent than anything that had come before. Thoughts of what she might look like dozing against his shoulder or curled upon her side; thoughts of his bedchamber in High Tide and the seaside sun pouring in through the window to bathe her in its glow; thoughts of holding her as she sleeps, all with the satisfaction of knowing that she belongs to him, his wife. And now, in the light of morning, he entertains their counterpart: the arch of her back as she stretches awake and the sleepy, satisfied smile she would give him the morning after their pleasures.
Corlys feels the stirring of his ardour again. Immediately, he leans down and scoops up another handful of cold water, cooling the back of his neck, his throat. He would show restraint now. There would be mornings to come to spend in the pleasure of his thoughts. He would not make Rhaenys the offer of his hand knowing he had covered it with his seed but an hour prior. That and he would have difficulty enough looking her mother and father in the eye - knowing as he did how close their daughter had come to ruin the night prior - without such vivid imaginings to add to his guilt.
He dresses himself quickly. Clothes had been laid out for him, a fine compromise between the practical fare of a sailor and the finery of a lord: simple cuts in rich fabrics. He stands afore the looking glass, draped in the maritime hues of his house, and feels that surge of pride once more. With another small, satisfied look to himself, he reaches for the golden pin resting upon the dresser: his gift from Queen Alysanne. He studies it for a moment, admiring the way the morning light catches upon the ruby, intensifies the hue of the metal. The mismatch of colours with those of his attire is a small price to pay for such a token.
Fastening the pin upon his breast, his gaze sweeps across his bedchamber. The room is austere, albeit not as it had been upon his arrival: though his immediate belongings had been repacked and stowed back aboard the Sea Snake, there lingered still other signs of the man who had enjoyed a fortnight of its comforts. A new writing desk and matching chair stand in the corner and an ornate storage chest lies at the foot of his bed; more furniture was to come too during his absence, alongside tapestries for the bare walls and elaborate rugs for the flagstones. Even some of his treasures - the ones of lesser value, of course, with his greatest prizes saved for his own hall - were to be sent from Driftmark to King’s Landing, for this room and those beyond were to be guest chambers no longer. They belonged to House Velaryon now—
No, he corrects himself, adjusting the pin on his chest. They belong to me. They belong to Lord Corlys, Master of Ships. They belong to Lord Corlys, betrothed of the Princess Rhaenys. They belong to the future King Consort.
His thoughts are loud in his mind as he leaves both his chamber and the next in search of the castle beyond.
As his fingertips brush upon the door handle, he pauses upon the threshold. It is then that he turns, stood so dangerously close to how he had been the previous night, to consider his quarters one last time. Unlike his private rooms, the antechamber does show little sign of use, having hosted but a single occupant in a space made for many. The emptiness before him is as a blank canvas, an unwoven thread. His pulse thrums. Would these walls bear witness to all that was to come? Would they see the consummation of his marriage, his years by her side, the birth of his children? Would these rooms one day be home to the sound of laughing babes, the next generation of Velaryons restored to their rightful place at court?
His eyes fall upon a handsome chaise longue, upholstered in the dark reds of House Targaryen. In an instant, he sees Rhaenys seated upon it; how she would recline, a book in one hand and the other resting protectively upon a belly heavy with child. Indulging himself a little further, he sees his sons upon the floor by her side, playing under her watchful eye, little fists clutching wooden ships and carven dragons.
Would Rhaenys make these chambers her own? Would she forsake the rooms of her childhood to build their courtly life here? Would he return at night to find her waiting in his bed? Seven above, he hopes it shall be so. She would have her own chambers still, of course - a lady always did - and in this, her grandfather’s castle, hers would be familiar and far grander; yet they would also be those of a girl, of a maiden who had never known a husband’s touch. Surely, he thinks, she would not wish to linger in the past; surely, she would wish to raise their family here. He cannot bear the thought of a home devoid of her, of their babes.
Gods, how he wants that future now. He wishes he could return to these chambers this coming night and find his family waiting for him, wishes he could gather Rhaenys close and learn all he had yet to discover; for how many years would they have to spend within its walls before the time came for her to ascend the Iron Throne?
Corlys seizes open the door.
“You there.”
“My lord,” the passing guard acknowledges with a sharp bow, his armour clinking.
“Send word to Prince Aemon and his lady wife - their daughter too - and to Her Majesty the Queen also. Tell them that Lord Corlys begs an audience for a matter of great import.”
~
The Red Keep
The reply comes swiftly.
Corlys leaves his rooms early for want of a task to occupy his mind. He had never done well lingering in anticipation: it turned all about him to a cage and most often, he found that nought but the sea could calm the unease in his body. Trapped within the walls of the Red Keep, he focuses instead on his purposeful stride, moving at a brisk pace past the frescoes of the courtyard balconies and the carved panelled walls lining the corridors of the castle’s interior.
The Queen had summoned him not to the Great Hall containing the Iron Throne, nor to the Small Council chambers, nor indeed to any hall with which he is familiar. Instead, he had been summoned to the hall at the base of the Tower of the Hand, too small to have been of any use during these weeks of hosting of so many guests. Corlys likes not this unknown landscape, would rather the sinister familiarity of the Iron Throne. So distracted is he by his thoughts, head full of fretting rather than the path ahead, that the pale hand manifesting from the depths of a tapestry, its fingers twisting in his doublet, catches him completely off guard. With a startled grunt, he is pulled into the dark, his back colliding with cold stone wall.
There is a soft laugh and the scent of roses and berry soap.
“Rhaenys.”
He knows it is her by the taste of her lips and the pretty little sigh against his mouth. The passageway in which he finds himself is dark and dank, poorly illuminated by a torch several feet away. The flames are but enough to reveal half his princess to him, one side of her silver hair turned yellow, mischief glinting in a single eye.
She grins up at him, fingers toying with the buttons upon his chest.
“What is this I hear of an audience with the Queen and Crown Prince?”
He returns her look, his smile so broad it aches, bringing up a hand to cup the half of her face hidden by shadow, stroking his thumb across the memory of rosy cheeks.
“I have terribly important business to discuss, my princess.”
“Hmm, terribly important.”
She leans into him, her soft body fitting perfectly against the hard planes of his torso, and kisses him again.
“I missed you.”
Her words are breathed into her embrace, her fingers tightening as they grasp his tunic.
“It has been but a few hours since last I held you,” he reminds her, voice softened by amusement. Deepening their kiss, he anchors his other hand on the small of her back, savouring both the heat of her body and the velvet of her dress beneath his palm.
“Yet I missed you all the same,” she sighs, meeting his passion with delight. “I could hardly sleep for thoughts of you.”
“You were in my mind also, Rhaenys, as you have been every night I have slept in these halls, as you shall be for all my nights to come.”
She pulls back, crooking an eyebrow.
“All your nights?”
“All.”
His answer delights her and she rewards him with the inexpert tangling of her tongue with his, pushing him a little further into the cold stone wall.
“For too many, we shall be parted,” she whispers, hopping up onto her toes to decorate further kisses upon his nose, his cheek, his jaw. “My every night and day spent in the absence of you.”
“Do not phrase it so, Rhaenys,” he counters with urgency. “I would not have you while away my absence in melancholy, not now nor in the years to come. Think of happier things, love: of the days we shall spend as man and wife.”
“As lord and lady,” she elaborates, her voice but a breath, “as princess and consort.”
“Aye,” he grins, “that too.”
Rhaenys laughs.
“Ambition is handsome upon your face,” she teases, “but I like your look of love best of all.”
She pulls him down for yet another embrace. He smiles at her vigour, her tenacity, the happy noises in her throat, even as he moves to pull away.
“We cannot— while away — the morn— with— mmph— kisses.”
“I must have my fill before you leave, my lord,” she grins, teeth tugging on his bottom lip, her arms reaching up just as insistently to twine about his neck. “A kiss for every day - nay, for every hour - of the journey that takes you from my side.”
He chuckles and, unable to resist, ducks back down to grant his princess another boon.
“In the songs, it is the lord who begs kisses from his lady.”
Her arms tighten about him.
“In the songs, ladies are shy, retiring things with faint hearts,” she returns without pause, her words painted against his mouth. “They are prey for white walkers and bears and dragons, or else prizes for the posturing of knights, kept meek within a castle’s spire. Should you wish for such a lady, my lord, then relinquish my hand: for here, the dragon answers to me and no high tower shall keep me prisoner.”
“What need have I for songs when I have such a woman before me? I’ll not seek to change you, my love: I came back from the ends of the earth for you.”
“We can go back to the ends of the earth together,” she promises, the sincerity of her vow tangled in her laugh, “but I’ll get there first, as I’ll be flying.”
He wraps his arms about her then and pulls her tight against his chest. Somehow it is more intimate than their kisses, the cradling of her close, the gentle wash and subside of her breath upon his neck. She truly is so very warm. How pleasant it shall be to hold her, he muses, when the nights grow cold upon Driftmark’s shores.
Rhaenys sighs happily and presses her cheek a little further into the fabric of his tunic. Her hand moves to rest delicately upon his opposite shoulder. Dissatisfied, he reaches up and secures those fingers within his own, brings them to his lips for a kiss. She sighs again, brushing her thumb against his skin.
He considers the sight of her hand against his, comparing the size of their fingers, their reach, the sheer scope of his palm over hers; even the golden rings he favours look gargantuan beside her own thin bands of rubies and garnets. He dips down and kisses each finger so very delicately; the brief, gentle brushing of his lips upon her knuckles. All the while, he dares not utter a word, for fear that he might voice the one thought echoing about his mind.
Had this hand given her her pleasure yesternight? Could he scent the sharp tang of desire upon her fingertips? Gods above, had she retreated to her chambers - mind racing, pulse beating, lust pounding - and sought her release with fingers slick from her own longing?
She must have, he thinks, if she aches for me the way I do for her.
Had she taken the time to undress, he wonders, unlacing herself with shaking hands; or had she been as impatient as he, her skirts about her waist, her legs spread wide to cradle him even in his absence? He kisses her fingers again. He wants to ask, wants the proof of her hunger for him, that at least he had not been alone in his indiscretions.
“Ask me,” Rhaenys breathes in his ear. “Do not be shy, my lord. I know you wish to.”
He pulls back, the better to gaze upon the face he so adores. She looks at him with eyes darkened by desire, lips parted in anticipation.
Her honour, boy. You know better.
“What’s this?” he notes, distracting himself with the pearls and rubies and onyx woven together in a tight, thick band across her pale throat. He releases her to brush a finger upon the unfamiliar jewels. “You do not wear my gift today.”
“Indeed, my lord,” she answers wryly, noting his retreat, her hands reaching to the nape of her neck. “I did not think these an appropriate display.”
The necklace falls to one side, caught in one hand, to reveal another worked into her very flesh, purple and red stark against the pale column of her throat.
“Pretty as your jewels are, they are a poor disguise for your affections.”
“I will buy you more adequate disguises,” he promises, leaning down to press gentle kisses to each bruise he had left on her skin, “and learn to temper my passions.”
“Seven forbid,” she drawls, quirking that mischievous eyebrow at him again. “Who is Corlys Velaryon without his passions? Do not withhold from me the very man to whom my heart belongs.”
He chuckles and she holds out her necklace to him.
“Might I ask my lord’s assistance?”
She twists her loose hair up in her hands and turns expectantly, offering her bared neck. Corlys fixes the clasp with ease and drops a quick kiss to the soft skin above. He delights in her shudder, grinning to himself.
“I thought of this,” he confesses into her hair, “that second night in the library. You were stood before me just like this, lost in your thoughts, and all I could think of was bringing you back to the present with my lips upon your neck.”
He wraps his arms around her waist and brings her back flush to his chest, a closeness he had not dared ask for on that night both so many and so few days past. Once more, he presses his lips to her skin, as if to emphasise his tale. Rhaenys leans back into him with a smile and a sigh, turning herself towards his embrace.
“My thoughts were of you,” she admits with a blush. “Of what you might do if I pulled up my skirts and begged you to take me.”
He lets out a bark of disbelieving laughter and she grins, chuckling too, hands resting upon his. Tipping up her chin, she allows him to kiss her, thoroughly and hungrily, her breathy sighs turned to wanton moans by the echoing passageway.
“One day,” he promises with a grin. “One day soon. But for now, we must away, princess.”
She makes a noise of complaint, rolling her shoulder against him in admonishment.
“,” she corrects, tightening her grip upon his arms. ".”
He whispers the question in the shell of her ear.
“Then we should go seek your father’s blessing.”
She protests again, head thumping back against his shoulder. Her body grows heavier in his arms and he realises she has sagged against him, holding him captive under her weight.
“Stay a little longer, Corlys,” she begs prettily, her mouth pouting. “You will leave me soon enough.”
“I am to meet your father at the ninth bell.”
“And the eighth is yet young.”
“We cannot arrive together, you know that,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to her temple. “There can be no whisper that you have met me unchaperoned and your absence will surely have been noted by now. Better you away first, back to your family’s side; I shall follow.”
She sighs, releasing his touch, turning to look at him with a churlish reluctance.
“I dislike this new cautious lord. Where is my rogue, my mariner?”
He cups her face in a hand, brushes the apple of her cheek with his thumb.
“He is here, underneath the mask he must wear to win his lady’s hand.”
She tilts her head coquettishly, straightening the pin upon his doublet, her dainty pink lips curving in a sly smile.
“Then might I ask one last favour of him before I leave?”
“Name it.”
The corner of her mouth twitches.
“Kiss me goodbye.”
~
The Small Hall
“I shall not be coy, my prince, my lady,” Corlys begins, “my Queen. It ill becomes me and I would be a fool to think you know not the extent of my regard for the Princess Rhaenys.”
He did not kneel, she thinks with exasperated fondness. Any other lord would have knelt.
Rhaenys stands, hands clasped neatly at her waist, by her grandmother’s side. Her lord father and lady mother stand too, a reflection of their daughter, upon the Queen’s right. Prince Aemon wears his golden dragons in his hair and the Lady Jocelyn has forsaken her Baratheon yellows for a dress of red and black. Rhaenys has seen her mother in Targaryen colours before, yet still the sight is jarring: a conspicuous display of her ultimate allegiance, the surrender of the house of her father manifest in silk brocade and velvet. It was not Prince Aemon’s habit to demand such gestures from his wife, nor was it the Lady Jocelyn’s to yield her last connection to the family of her birth, and Rhaenys has lived too long at court to be ignorant of sartorial gestures.
This is what it means to marry into the House of the Dragon, whisper the scales on her mother’s bodice. Fundamental devotion to the Crown: at the cost of your own house, your own flesh and blood.
She cannot help but think her parents had known Corlys’ intent when the message came.
“I had thought to achieve many things upon my return to court,” Corlys continues, hands clasped behind his back. “Honour for my family, allegiances for my house, a place upon the Small Council: those were my tasks, my duties as my father’s heir. The possibility of a betrothal too lingered in my mind; but as a mere possibility, mayhaps the beginnings of a courtship. I had not thought to win a woman’s hand, let alone her heart.”
That same heart flutters within her breast like a bird in its cage.
“Yet from the moment of our first meeting, it has superseded all other ambition in my mind.”
He catches her eye and she hopes he is not discouraged by the neutrality upon her face, her body. She had sought him that morn for this very reason, knowing as she did that she would need to be the princess when the question was to be asked. She had had to see him first, reassure him, reaffirm all their vows from the night before with the union of their mouths.
He knows my heart, she thinks nervously, twirling a ring idly about a finger. He will not resent me for the role I must play.
“That I must take a wife, I knew: I am the eldest of my father’s line, the future of my house is held within my hands. Yet I knew not - expected not - that I would find a bride with whom I am so utterly aligned. From our meeting on the docks, I—”
“For a man who claimed he would not prevaricate, you have already given us quite the overture, my dear Lord Corlys.”
Her grandmother’s voice is dry; yet it is also full of a fondness Rhaenys knows well.
Corlys bows.
“I apologise, my Queen, I did not—”
“Now, now, Lord Corlys, do not pander to me - you had the right of it, it flatters you not. Mayhaps you would do us all a kindness and simply ask for our little Nysa’s hand instead: for that is why you are here, is it not?”
Rhaenys sees Corlys look to her for reassurance; she stands resolute, the twist of her fingers afore her on the brink of pain, though she tries her best to pour all her love for him into her eyes, willing him to take courage from her gaze upon him.
Her grandmother taps her upon the thigh with the back of her hand.
“Why do you not join your love, my darling?”
The princess hesitates, suspecting a trick.
“Lord Corlys is about to ask for your hand, ,” the Queen continues, undaunted, “perhaps you should move close enough that you might give it.”
Rhaenys’ eyes flicker past her Queen. With a twinge in her stomach, fearing her mother’s disapproval, she looks to her father for reassurance: Prince Aemon gives it, indicating Corlys with the tilt of his head and the briefest hint of a wink.
Her mother steps closer to his side, linking her arm through his. The movement forces her into Rhaenys’ line of vision, demands the look she had been hesitant to give. Her heart pounds, held prisoner beneath her ribs, thundering through her veins so fiercely she fears she might be sick. Mother and child stare at each other for a moment, for an eternity; and then the Lady Jocelyn nods, however stiffly, to her daughter.
With a tremulous breath, Rhaenys smiles.
She steps free of her family. Never has she been so aware of all about her: the trail of her skirts, the scent of her own hair, the faintest hint of birdsong from the world outside her grandfather’s halls. Most of all, she feels the weight of three pairs of eyes upon her back: it feels far heavier than it ought to, as though the entire court were watching her in their stead. Rhaenys steels herself against the prickling feeling, descending the steps with a contained kind of grace, the staccato of her boots magnified by the emptiness of the hall.
Corlys waits for her. She raises her gaze hesitantly and her worries fade when she sees the bloom of love in his eyes. Already she can feel his warmth, already she can feel his conviction. As she stands by his side, they do not lace hands, do not link arms, do not even touch. She has no need to touch him, not now; his presence beside her is all she needs to draw courage.
“Ah, that is much better,” the Queen praises through curved lips. “You are well-suited to standing at one another’s side. I think I could not have endured your choosing a man of poor stature, ; a princess should stand tall and proud next to her betrothed. How glad I am that Lord Corlys possesses such regal bearing.”
“Betrothed?” the Lady Jocelyn seizes upon the word like a hawk. “They are not yet betrothed, good mother. I have heard no offer, no promise made; nor have our own blessings yet been given.”
The Queen’s head tilts in consideration.
“They have already made their promises to one another, Joss,” Queen Alysanne says airily, dismissing her good daughter with a nonchalant hand. “A blind man could see the change betwixt them. See how she stands firm, how high he holds his head; yesternight, she fidgeted and he hid his face for fear of his own ambitions.”
The Lady Jocelyn frowns, the angle of her jaw sharp; her husband merely has a pleasant set to his mouth, blue eyes fond in their consideration of his daughter and her suitor.
“Give your lord a kiss, Nysa,” the Queen commands, though her voice is wry and teasing. “Give him a kiss and we shall see whether or not some secret vow has been made.”
Her grandmother’s brow quirks in a challenge. Rhaenys meets it with reluctance, pausing but a beat before turning to better hide her flustered blush; then Corlys looks down at her, those dark brown eyes reverent, and again her world becomes him before her. Her pulse quickens, from delight, from anticipation, from the prospect of a life by his side warm and real in front of her. How suddenly she cares not that her mother and father stand but ten paces away, cares not that the Queen watches them with such triumph in her eyes.
Their lips meet chastely. Her hand brushes gently against his neck, her eyes fluttering shut, delighting in the thrum of his pulse beneath her fingertips. It is nothing like the messy, impassioned kisses of the night prior, nor the hour so recently passed; yet still, it is perfect.
“There, Jocelyn: that is no first embrace,” she hears her grandmother say. “Such things are not performed with such surety.”
They part. Taking his hands within hers, she smiles warmly, bumping the tip of her nose upon his. His thumbs soothe over her fingers and she feels safe.
“Might we know when such promises were made?” the Lady Jocelyn inquires, a familiar crease between her brow appearing. “Might we know when and where such conference could have been held, when yesternight my daughter retired so early and Lord Corlys remained our entertainment til near the tenth bell?”
“The library,” someone replies and Rhaenys is surprised to find it is her own voice. Her words are smooth and confident, her voice resonant but not defiant as she turns her head to consider her mother.
“The library?”
The Lady Jocelyn’s voice is weary as her dark eyes narrow.
“Yes, mother. The library.”
Her mother pauses for a moment, mouth thin. Then she casts her gaze to the ceiling and mutters under her breath; her words are imperceptible to the princess and her suitor, but leave Prince Aemon chuckling with amusement. He turns to smile at his wife, pulling the hand on his arm up to his lips for a fond, mollifying kiss.
“Our Nysa is a scholar like her father,” Queen Alysanne teases, “and a determined spirit like her mother. I’ll warrant she secured Lord Corlys’ oaths in that library yesternight before the ringing of the last bell. Have I the right of it?”
“We are hand-fasted,” Rhaenys confirms, turning to look at her beloved. He holds her gaze and she feels her conviction grow ever stronger with her lord so close. “The Gods have heard our oaths.”
The lines upon her grandmother’s face deepen in amusement.
“It would seem then that you come here not to ask our permission, but to inform us of your impending nuptials?”
Corlys shakes his head sharply, his eyes earnest upon his Queen.
“I would not wed the princess without the blessings of those she holds most dear.”
“I think you lie, Lord Corlys,” Queen Alysanne grins wickedly. “You would wed Rhaenys to the opposition of all, if need be; and she you. Fortunate, then, that you find me most amenable to the match.”
He bows.
“And I thank you for your words, Your Grace; but I will not wed Rhaenys with your approval alone. I would have the blessing of her father and mother too.”
The Queen lounges to one side in her chair, propping her elbow upon its arm and her chin upon her hand as she turns to fix her son with a mischievous smile.
“What say you, Aemon? Jocelyn?”
Husband and wife regard one another. With adoration in his eyes, the prince wraps an arm about his lady’s waist, pulling her near; the Lady Jocelyn flushes slightly and rests her hands upon his chest, offering him a steadfast look. Rhaenys nearly laughs with giddy relief as she recognises expressions woven through the memories of her childhood: fondness, harmony, agreement.
“We are of one mind,” the prince confirms. “We would see our daughter as happy as we have been. After so many years, we had begun to fear we might never see this day; that Rhaenys would be bound to a suitor that was not of her choosing, that she would be taken to wife for her position and not for love.”
Rhaenys squeezes Corlys’ fingers.
“I thanks the Gods that it shall not be so. I have ne’er seen my daughter so…”
Prince Aemon pauses, caught in the search for a perfect word. Silent by her husband’s side, the Lady Jocelyn smiles - perhaps a little ruefully - for the first time and pats her husband upon the chest. He blinks, jolted back to the present.
“So herself,” he concludes, a self-deprecating smile upon his face. “Take of me my daughter, Lord Corlys. You have our blessing.”
The world about her twirls. For a moment, she thinks she might have become a princess of the tales - trembling and timorous, overwrought by her own emotions - and collapsed under the sudden rush of relief. But there is no thud of stone against flesh, no painful crack of bone: there is instead only the security of Corlys’ hold upon her. He spins her about as he had not twelve hours ago, his smile just as broad, his laugh just as joyful.
She clings tight about his neck.
“Have you not some question you wish to ask me?” she teases, liking very much this view from his arms. “One last time.”
“Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen,” he grins, “would you do me the exceptional honour of giving me your hand in marriage?”
Her answer is her mouth upon his.
“And I’ll warrant that is no second embrace,” she hears the Queen laugh. “No second embrace at all.”
~
The Docks
“Do not weep, Rhaenys.”
The princess and her mariner find themselves standing as they had been the day they met: upon the docks, her hand caught within his, eyes only for each other.
“I know not when I shall see you again,” she protests softly. “How can I not weep?”
She quivers with the effort, every muscle and tendon taut with the holding back of her tears. The lump in her throat threatens to choke her, every breath painful. Despite their stinging, she keeps her eyes fixed upon him, reluctant to even blink: she would have time enough for such trivialities when he was no longer afore her. For now, she would map all: the way the clouds above dapple the sunlight upon his skin, the sway of his locs in the sea breeze, the way fondness settles in the crease between his dark brows.
“It is two weeks’ sailing to the Shield Islands,” he murmurs, squeezing her fingers, “and two for the return journey. A moon is not so long a time.”
“You make it sound as though you shall simply disembark your royal charge and leave him upon the docks,” she replies, offering him a watery smile. “‘Tis not good manners to treat your uncle so.”
“My facetious Targaryen bride,” he chuckles warmly, raising a finger to her cheek, soothing at its wind-whipped blush. “I concede that mayhaps I shall linger for a time - a week at most - before I make the return journey. I must broach the subject of our marriage to my father. I shall need know too his immediate will for my brothers and I before the preparations can begin— you will write to your grandfather, will you not? I should like for him to know by my arrival.”
“I shall tell him,” she vows. “Fear not, you shall have the Crown’s allegiance when the time comes to parlay with your lord father and brothers.”
His grin turns furtive.
“I shall need all the allies you can muster in the face of so ill-tempered a foe as Vaemond.”
“I could always feed him to Meleys, should his manner displease you.”
Corlys laughs.
“And leave her hungering for more of my father’s sons? No, love, it shall not do; I will deal with Vaemond, if it be warranted.”
Their shared grins fade into reluctant silence. Brown gazes into hazel, both willing words to come so that his departure may be stayed but a little longer.
“A week’s stay brings it to five stolen away from court,” she notes, looking up at him through her lashes. “Will you prolong your absence further by making port along your return journey?”
His look turns part amused, part guilty. Shuffling his feet, one corner of his smile deepens to contrition, perhaps from the shame of being so easily read. His thumb traces about the back of her hand again, as if to soothe away any possible wrath invoked.
“I had thought we might detour to the Arbor. Their fare trades well across the Narrow Sea and I have a vessel setting sail for Lys; that, and High Tide’s own stores lie empty. I must have only the best in wait for my lady.”
“I care more for my lord than I do Arbor gold.”
A brow twitches.
“And what of Dornish red? Perhaps my lady has a taste for a heavier body?”
“I have a taste for but one, my lord,” she grins, savouring the clever words upon her tongue, “and it is not of a Dornish kind. My tastes are Valyrian.”
Corlys’ eyes darken, fingers tightening upon hers as his gaze flickers to her mouth,
“Besides,” she continues, “women of my name fare not well in Dorne.”
He hums, dark amusement in his throat, as he relents to the truth of her statement.
“Will you return to me directly?” she asks again. “Or must you yield first to Driftmark’s yoke?”
“It is as I said, Rhaenys,” he answers with rue in his voice. “I must need know my father’s desires. I must know when he plans to return to Driftmark and my lady mother, of where Vaemond and Vaenor are to be sent, before I can make you any promise, my love.”
“And thus, I had the right of it: I know not when I shall see you again.”
He pulls her hands to his heart, his brow creased.
“High Tide needs no lord at present, but I have a duty to my father’s lands whilst he absences himself.”
“I know all too well the weight of duty.”
Corlys bows his head in acknowledgement, her touch still secured to his chest.
“But should I linger upon Driftmark’s shores… I recall you once telling me that such distance means little upon dragonback. My mother shall wish to know you all the better once the raven is sent; mayhaps you might be her honoured guest for a time.”
Her heart thuds with sudden delight. As if at the whim of her joys, the sun above their heads reappears from behind a passing cloud, bathing them both in its buttery yellow rays.
“I should like that very much, Corlys.”
His smile is brilliant in the morning light.
She wishes so dearly that she might kiss him again, savour one last taste of his affections. As a distraction, she frees her hands and reaches for a pocket hidden within her cloak, revealing from its depths a sealed letter. The sigil of House Targaryen lies embossed upon the red wax, imprinted as surely as he was upon her own soul.
“What is this?” he asks curiously, accepting the press of the paper against his palm, turning it over in search of further explanation.
“It is a cipher,” she says, words eager. “So that you might write to me - freely - whilst you are gone. I designed it myself, so you need not fear— so you might be honest when you write.”
Her voice is thick with meaning as he meets her gaze, tucking the missive into his own jerkin.
“To hear from you would be a great comfort, princess.”
“A greater comfort to me, I think. A man at sea has much with which to keep his mind occupied; a princess within her castle has not so many diversions. I will—”
The docks quiver.
Raising their faces to the sky, a mighty shadow appears from the precipice of the Hill of Rhaenys. Silhouetted, the shape hangs suspended for a moment: then a low, tremulous cry ripples across the Blackwater as Vhagar descends, wings outstretched, to the bay below.
Quickly, the princess turns to her betrothed.
“Shall you—”
“Rhaenys,” he interrupts her softly, sad smile upon his face. “It is time.”
Vision blurred with fresh tears, she presses her lips together and nods. She squeezes her eyes shut as he ducks to press a chaste kiss to her cheek and she is grateful for the staccato click of an approaching cane as he withdraws.
“Safe travels for your journey, my dear Lord Corlys.”
“I thank you, Your Grace, both for your blessings and the hospitality you have shown me these last weeks.”
The Queen’s wiry fingers settle upon the crook of her granddaughter’s elbow.
“I have come to claim our little Nysa back, lest her siren song leave you ever moored upon our shores.”
Rhaenys keeps her gaze fixed upon the boards below her feet, the thought of his face too painful, knowing she should break should she look upon him again.
“Hers is the sweetest I have e’er heard.”
Queen Alysanne chuckles, her grip strengthening.
“And I have no doubt it shall lure you back before long — until then, I bid you farewell.”
“Farewell, my Queen.”
Two large fingers tuck beneath her chin, tilting up her face until she must look at him again. The first tear falls and Corlys wipes it away with sorrow in his brow.
“Safe travels, my lord,” she curtseys. “May the Crone light your path.”
The second tear falls and she has no love before her to soothe it away.
The Queen tugs upon her elbow, steering her granddaughter with a gentle kind of firmness, hand patting sympathetically on her arm.
“It becomes easier, little love,” she reassures kindly. “The wound will not always be so grievous.”
Words stolen, the princess nods, lips turned white with effort. The tears do not allow themselves to be held any longer, falling freely upon her cheek, sliding down her jaw, dropping to splash upon her chest. She allows herself to be guided away from the Sea Snake to the viewpoint of the main docks, where her father, mother, aunt, and cousins all watch as the fleet begins its departure.
Aemma and Gael both step forward to wrap their arms about Rhaenys’ waist; she can do nought but allow them to hold her tight, resting her head briefly against Gael, the taller of the two. When they release her, her mother takes her hand, guiding her daughter to her place beside her. Her free hand reaches to adjust the sit of Rhaenys’ necklace upon her throat.
“I must teach you to hide these a little better, hmm?”
Rhaenys’ mouth but twitches, fingers brushing self consciously upon the jewels. The Lady Jocelyn sighs regretfully and presses a kiss to her daughter’s temple, hand soothing upon her silver hair.
“Your father has something to say to you.”
The princess frowns, no time to even look before she hears father’s voice, warm and adoring, in her ear.
“Meleys has been readied.”
Rhaenys turns quickly, staring up at him, startled, questioning.
“Give your lord a proper send-off,” Prince Aemon smiles, gently wiping a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Let his parting memory be of joy, not of sadness.”
She seizes his hand giddily.
“Do you mean it, father?” she asks, another tear falling free, catching on the beginnings of a smile. “Truly?”
“Go,” he insists, placing a kiss on her brow. “Escort him as far as Bywater, just as we did .”
With a strangled sound of delight, she throws her arms around her father’s neck.
“Thank you, papa.”
Prince Aemon smiles at his daughter and taps her fondly upon the end of her nose.
“Off with you, then.”
She does not need telling twice.
~
The Skies
They fly much as they had done the day Meleys became hers. There is no time to waste on returning to her rooms for breeches, for a riding blouse; skidding breathlessly to a halt in the forecourt of the Dragonpit, the Red Queen announcing her arrival with sweet little chirrups, Rhaenys throws her cloak to the ground without care for the dirt, accepts a pair of worn leather gloves from a nearby Dragonkeeper, and hitches her skirts to her knees.
Meleys extends a wing without question, only turning her head but a little so that she might be assured her little mistress had safely clambered upon her back.
“,” Rhaenys urges, still working the gloves upon her fingers. “.”
The wind bites at her flesh during their ascent, far more exposed in her court dress than in her riding habit: she cares not. All she cares for is the ships on the horizon, the vessel at the very forefront of the fleet. They climb ever higher in the sky, up almost to the clouds, before Meleys screeches and tips forward, her wings tucked in close.
Below, a second voice bellows in recognition, answering Meleys’ cry.
As dragon and rider approach the departing fleet, she catches sight of her uncle atop Vhagar’s back. White hair fluttering in the wind, he raises a hand and waves jovially, before gesturing in dragonrider’s hand talk.
Are you lost?
Rhaenys grins, spying a familiar figure upon the ship below.
No longer, she answers.
She dares not bring her dragon too close to the Sea Snake, fearing her wings might disturb the water too greatly, or else her tail catch upon the sails, the mast. For all she might wish to keep Corlys by her side, it would be as to cruel to deny him the seas as her the skies. Instead, they descend just far enough that she can make out the look on her betrothed’s face. She waves, face aching with both cold and joy.
He wears her favourite smile.
Meleys sings, the echo of her cry seemingly endless across the water. They circle about, a constant guardian above the fleet, her heart pounding in her chest as though this were her first journey on dragonback.
The refrain repeats, supported by Vhagar’s low counterpoint.
Finding her love still watching her, she leans to one side, one gloved hand clutching the mighty pommel of her saddle, and blows a kiss down to him. She fancies she can hear the laughter she sees blossom across his companions. One figure elbows Corlys’ good naturedly, another claps him upon the back, yet still his eyes never leave her; and despite their jests, he mimes catching her kiss and holding it to his heart.
The Bywater approaches all too soon.
She looks at him one final time, determined to make it a moment of happiness, a picture that she might recall at night in her empty bed, a comfort from which to draw upon. Meleys suspends herself in the air and all the world seems to still: how magnificent her husband-to-be looks stood at the prow of his vessel, the wind in his hair, proud and determined and glorious in his element.
And he was hers. He would always be hers.
She thinks back upon that first morning, that day when she had been denied such a flight across the Blackwater. How reluctant she had been, how churlish, to be resigned to greeting their guests upon the humble earth instead of the heavens above. Rhaenys smiles. She had known so little then and seen so much in those fourteen days hence.
Sunlight scatters upon the waves, white froth foaming in the wake of each vessel. How grateful she is, watching her betrothed sail away, that her father had allowed her to fly today; and how grateful she is, thinking on the first brush of Corlys’ lips upon her fingers, that such a thing had once been forbidden.
Yes, she thinks, alone against the sky. I would gladly trade a hundred such flights to meet my lord again.
~Fin~