Chapter Text
Rhaenys' thoughts are troubled as she moves through the Red Keep. The castle which once was the only home she had ever known now feels foreign to her, even as she allows her hands to trail across the stone walls she had known so well.
It is subtle, the ways in which the keep has changed. Rhaenys doubts anyone else might notice, save perhaps her cousins. Though Viserys' actions this night have inspired little hope in her. No doubt Daemon's shrewd eyes have marked every change, every tapestry removed. In her youth, Rhaenys had embraced the Seven, believing the Iron Throne would someday be hers. It is a dream she has long since relinquished, though some of the old bitterness remains. Her father had held her in his arms, whispering of his dreams, whispering of the future he envisioned for her. It remains naught but a memory, and yet some vestiges of the Queen Who Never Was remain.
The Faith of the Seven was a religion Rhaenys had worn as a cloak, a premeditated display in anticipation for the crown that would have eventually been placed upon her brow. It was a careful line she would be forced to tread, Aemon had warned her once. She would be tasked with balancing the demands of the Faith and its Westerosi followers with the call of her own culture and heritage.
She had been dutiful, though her lord husband had often scoffed about the traditions of the Faith. Rhaenys had kept the feast days and celebrations, though she had not applied the same piety to the precepts and practices. When she had been passed over, not once, but twice in favor of her male relations, Rhaenys had soured on the Faith. After her son had been born, and Rhaenys had come to recognize his true nature, she had fallen away from it entirely.
It is toward her son she walks now, relief lapping at her heart like the familiar waves of Driftmark with every step that carries her closer to the quarters her son occupies. Laenor will not marry Rhaenyra. Laenor will never sit upon the Iron Throne. The thought that had once rankled her very soul is a balm to her fearful heart. In the home she had once known like it had been carved into her bones, heraldry of her house has been steadily and meticulously stripped away in favor of icons of the Seven. The very same gods that would condemn Laenor for who he is are those upon the walls of the Red Keep.
Balance, her father had insisted, was the key. She sees the truth and wisdom in his words, even now, as she thinks upon Daemon, her fierce, impulsive younger cousin who has rejected the Seven entirely, spitting upon the Faith and eliciting its ire. Viserys, however, capitulates to its servants, becoming a servant himself more than a king. There is no balance to be found in the House of the Dragon. Rhaenys might pray for her youngest cousin, for Rhaenyra, but prayer, as the sailors of her husband's House claim, does little. One does not have need for prayer, but rather to prepare.
Rhaenys' feet carry her to the threshold of her son's quarters, and she pauses. Even through the thick, stone walls, she can hear his sobs. Her eyes close, and her palm flattens against the heavy wooden door. She will close her eyes this night and see the image of her son's face, twisted into grief that wrenches at her very heart. Her son mourns for the one who he had foolishly given his heart to, and there is nothing Rhaenys might offer.
Rhaenys had seen the way her son looked at his sworn shield long ago. Even before the Knight of Kisses had followed Laenor to the Stepstones, her son had cast longing glances at the handsome youth sent to squire with the Velaryons, a way of strengthening the ties between Driftmark and the Stormlands. Rhaenys had never been so foolish to believe that her connection to the Baratheons through her mother would be long respected. She had once been raised to be queen. She knows the ways in which men fall to their whims, and the hollowness of vows spoken before the Seven they claim as their gods.
By the time Laenor had returned from the Stepstones, Joffrey in tow, Rhaenys' heart had sunk low within her chest. She had recognized the look upon her son's face, the love in his eyes. He was the image of his father, and Rhaenys had known what it was to have Corlys Velaryon look on with love since she was a girl of seven and ten.
She approaches her son's door carefully, but she does not bother to knock. She doubts her son will hear it over the strength of his sobs. When she enters the room, she finds only despair. Laenor is sat upon the ground, his hands pressed to the sides of his head, his right fist clenched tightly around a shirt she suspects to belong to the fallen knight. Laenor scarcely looks up, and Rhaenys despairs for her son and the grief he feels in his heart.
But Rhaenys is no fool. Though she might wish she could grant her son permission to grieve as he longs to do, she cannot. The world is not kind to those whom the gods have fashioned in the way of Laenor. Westeros frowns upon his ways of his heart; the kind souls call them proclivities. Those that kneel upon the cold, stone floors of the sept until their hypocrisy bleeds out call them deviancies. He is the only son of one of the greatest houses in the realm. There are duties that are to be expected of him, and Rhaenys knows he cannot perform them. What is more, she knows her husband will never accept this.
Laenor will not be wedded to Rhaenyra Targaryen. The night alone is proof of the danger that might befall her family, should they grow more entangled with the princess. In truth, Rhaenys cares for the impudent girl. She has no wish to see her suffer. She even looks forward to seeing the princess sit upon the Iron Throne, should the odious lords of Westeros allow such a thing to happen. But such a path will be long and treacherous. Laenor cannot stand at her side, for her sake as much as his own. It is for the both of them that Rhaenys will step forward, but it is her son she shall protect with her every breath.
"Mother," Laenor croaks, and Rhaenys' heart breaks.
She moves toward him swiftly, crouching down where he is pressed against the frame of his featherbed, and she reaches for him, stilling when she sees how he flinches from her movement. She sees the blood glimmering like rubies in the firelight, and her breath catches in her lungs, for Rhaenys does not know if it belongs to her son or to his lover. He had been injured too, though it was Ser Joffrey that had borne the brunt of the mad knight's blows. Rhaenys is seized with a sudden fury for her cousin, wishing Criston Cole were still alive, so that he might be made to answer for his crimes a thousand times over. But she will have to settle for the public beheading, crude and gruesome though it had been.
"My son," Rhaenys responds, her tone soft. "I am so sorry. I am so very sorry this happened."
Laenor lets out another strangled sob.
"It isn't fair," he wails. "I brought him here. It was me. He didn't want to come. He didn't want to watch me pretending to be happy with the princess, but I made him."
And we made you, Rhaenys thinks silently, cursing herself and her husband for their foolishness. Rhaenys has always known her son's nature, and yet she too was swayed by the temptation offered by the prospect of a union between Rhaenyra and Laenor. It would not be her nor her son upon the throne, but someday the children born of their union. It had been easy enough to let her husband's dreams and her own ambition push her down this path.
Rhaenys had meant what she said to her cousin just hours ago. Laenor never would have sired any children upon Rhaenyra. She would have given birth to bastards that carried the Velaryon name. Would Rhaenys have loved them as if they were her grandchildren in truth? The part that craved to see a crown upon her son's head seemed certain, yet when Rhaenys forced herself to consider the question frankly, she was less so.
"You will not marry Rhaenyra," Rhaenys says instead, her voice solid, an anchor for her son to grasp. He lifts his tearstained face, swollen with sorrow and the bruises he earned in the melee of the night, and he stares at her, agog.
"What?"
"You shall not marry Rhaenyra, nor any woman, Laenor. I will protect you, as I should have before this night."
It is a testament to the exhaustion and grief her son bears that he does not question her further. A crease of confusion appears along his brow, but Laenor seems content to accept her words as dogma, and merely nods, eventually leaning his head back to rest against the bed, his gaze locking sightlessly ahead as he withdraws.
Rhaenys sighs to herself. Her sweet son. He has always placed such unwavering trust before her. When even Rhaenys doubted herself, she knew she would always find Laenor, his eyes shining guilelessly at her, trust offered in the palm of his hand. She shall not betray it again.
She leans over to press a gentle kiss to the crown of Laenor's head, before she rises. She is loathe to leave her son in the eye of his grief, but she senses his yearning for solitude. His is a burden he must carry alone and in silence. It is a pain that can never be spoken, for their world is shaped by the prejudices and cruelties of men who would sooner put her son to the torch than allow her boy a modicum of power. Much as she wants to, Rhaenys cannot lift this pain from her son. She cannot even stand beside him as he is forced to weather the storm. She only casts a single, despondent look at Laenor, the shock beginning to settle over his features, before she finally leaves his quarters in search of her husband.
He will not be pleased. She knows this. Corlys has long wished to see his blood upon the Iron Throne. Rhaenys is no fool. She knows it played a large role in their courtship. Rhaenys was the only daughter of the heir to the Iron Throne. Few also knew that she would be her father’s only heir. Her mother had very nearly died to bring her into the world. Though they had attempted for another child, the efforts of Aemon and Jocelyn had borne no fruit. When her beloved aunt had lost her battle to the birthing bed ten years after Rhaenys’ birth, Aemon had been firm in his decision that Rhaenys would be his sole heir. He had seen what the loss of his lady wife had done to Baelon, and he would not force such a fate upon his own.
Rhaenys had thought of her father often when she faced her own difficulties bringing her children forth into the world. Her husband, fierce and loyal though he was, was not quite so honorable as the Pale Prince. And yet they too saw the cursed providence that befell Aemma Arryn as she tried, year after year to bring forth a male heir for her husband.
At the time of their courtship, Corlys could not have known of her father’s oath, yet it had been widely speculated throughout the realm that Aemon intended to sire no more children upon his lady wife. No matter the love that existed between the princess and her sailor, there was prudence and wisdom in the match — and the promise of great power.
In many ways, Rhaenys believes the decision of the Great Council wounded her husband more deeply than the scars it left upon her . She had grown with the name Rhaena hovering like a dark specter at the doorway. She recalls the pall of guilt that descended over her grandmother’s eyes whenever mention was made of her sister — the sister who should have sat upon the Iron Throne. Rhaenys had long suspected she was meant to be penance for the sins of her grandparents, and yet it was her grandsire who perpetuated them further. Rhaenys never spoke with him again, not even shedding a tear at the funeral that made her cousin king.
And yet, she had suspected. It had not stopped her hoping, nor her wanting, but Rhaenys had never pretended the decision of the Council came as some great surprise. More surprising, she found, was her husband’s shock at the outcome.
The years that followed the Council had been dark and bitter. Corlys’ anger and resentment had cast him out to sea once more, and Rhaenys had wallowed in her own despair. The love between the princess and the Sea Snake had been stretched to its very limits, threadbare and tattered by the time he had finally returned.
It has taken much work to recapture the days of early courtship between the two. Rhaenys feared, when her cousin rejected their daughter in favor of the daughter of a second son — hardly a few steps above the station of servitude — that Corlys’ darkness would return. Instead, it had united them more than ever.
Now, she fears what might come of her husband’s ambition, but she refuses to allow her fear to condemn her son. Corlys will not admit to himself what Laenor is, what his nature dictates. He will sell him off like chattel, in search of a crown, and Rhaenys cannot allow it.
Nor, she finds, does she wish to see her cousin beholden to such a life.
Rhaenyra Targaryen is a petulant, impudent girl. She ought to have been taken to task a dozen times over, and she lacks the discipline necessary to rule. Rhaenys has spewed this fire on more than one occasion to her husband. She is selfish and arrogant, and convinced the world shall bow to her when it has drawn blades time and time again to prevent a woman from ever ascending the throne. She is foolish and naive, and knows nothing of the world.
And yet, something within the princess gives Rhaenys pause. The girl contains a fire she has not often seen. Certainly not within the king — neither the Old, nor the Young. It is a fire she recognizes as belonging to the cousin that raised an army for his brother’s claim, the fire she saw burning within the Queen in the East.
It is a fire that might very well raze Westeros to ash.
Nevertheless, Rhaenys finds within herself greater confidence in the girl than when she had first been named heir. The girl has much to learn still, yet Rhaenys can admit she ought to have been a part of her education. Shame fills her when she thinks of her sweet cousin’s death, and the vipers she left Aemma’s daughter to face on her own. She had scoffed at Rhaenyra’s arrogance, and turned her back on her following Viserys’ slight. Yet in spite of the obvious negligence and lack of proper discipline, the young princess had comported herself well throughout the business with Laenor, save for the mere whispers of scandal that swirled like smoke about her head. Rhaenys can see within her, the shade of a queen who might someday be.
Undoubtedly, so does her husband, and he means to tie their son to the crown, no matter the cost to Laenor or the House of Rhaenys’ ancestors.
She finds her husband pacing the length of the apartments they have been granted, just as Rhaenys suspected. They are located in the wing of the Red Keep set aside for noble guests — not in the Holdfast. The arrangements of the Keep fall under the purview of the queen. Is it slight, or oversight, that led the foolish girl to place a princess of the blood in such rooms well below her station? Prior to this evening, Rhaenys would have suspected the latter. Now, having seen the mockery Alicent Hightower was determined to make of the House of the Dragon, Rhaenys could not be so sure it was not the former.
At her approach, Corlys glances up, but nearly six and twenty years of marriage have taught Rhaenys how to handle her husband, and she speaks before her husband can even open his mouth.
“I have spoken with Viserys and Laenor both. He shall not wed Rhaenyra.”
Corlys bristles, drawing himself to his full height. He looms larger than nearly every man, save perhaps Lyonel Strong’s eldest son, and the Rogue Prince himself. The latter stands an inch or two shorter than the Sea Snake, yet in matters of their preceding reputations, it is truly only Rhaenys’ cousin who might rival her husband.
“He dares to refuse this match? Another humiliation? After blood was shed? After his whore of a queen dared to —”
“Hold your tongue!” Rhaenys snaps. Her nostrils flare with anger.
“You know as well as I that the walls of this keep have ears.”
Corlys huffs, yet falls silent. Rhaenys draws herself up to meet the man she married. Though Jocelyn Baratheon was only laid to rest a decade ago, many forget that she stood taller than nearly all the women of Westeros — many of the men too. Rhaenys has always been able to look her husband in the eye, and tonight is no exception.
“It was not Viserys’ decree. It was mine.”
Her husband’s jaw clenched.
“What?”
“Laenor is not fit to be the prince consort. You know this, husband.”
Corlys’ hands clench into fists at his sides.
“The boy knows what is expected of him! He would do his duty! And if he could not, well, history does not remember blood. Only names.”
Rhaenys’ lips part in genuine shock, staring at her husband in horror.
“You would truly have Rhaenyra sire bastards all to bear your name? A name that would be lost the moment her son took the Iron Throne?”
Her voice is a low whisper, a hiss that Corlys turns from, glaring into the fire. It is answer enough, and Rhaenys’ jaw tightens in anger. She had suggested a similar fate to Viserys in order to force her foolish cousin to see reason. Such a life would bring about damnation for the young princess. It might very well topple their House, should the queen’s cause prove to be as insidious as she suspects.
“You would damn her,” Rhaenys hisses furiously. “There is no guarantee her children would inherit from their mother, and should they not have Laenor’s coloring, people will talk. It will spread unrest throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Her reign might as well end before it has even begun, if she is to survive it.”
Corlys’ expression remains unchanged, and Rhaenys’ eyes narrow.
“Our quarrel is with Viserys, not Rhaenyra,” she points out, and her husband grunts. “I must think, not just of your House, Corlys, but mine. Laenor and Rhaenyra will not wed. But that does not mean all is lost.”
Finally, Corlys turns from the fire to meet her gaze, eyes narrowed in suspicion and askance. Rhaenys sighs.
“The events of the night have left a position open within the Kingsguard. Laenor shall fill it.”
Corlys’ eyes widen, caught off guard, but Rhaenys is not finished.
“There is great honor in the position, and it shall protect him. Name Laena your heir in his stead. We shall help set a precedent to ease Rhaenyra’s path to the throne. The Crown shall be further indebted to our family. We shall guarantee that Rhaenyra’s children wed those that Laena brings forth. In a generation’s time, it will be a Velaryon in blood and name who wears a crown.”
The plan is a good one. Rhaenys can see it in her husband’s eyes. It is not what he wanted, nor is it what Rhaenys would have carved for herself, had the gods handed her Shrykos’ scythe, yet she cannot allow her son to be whittled away in the role her husband seems determined for him to play.
“And have you given the matter of Laena’s marriage any thought, as you were busy deciding our fates?” Corlys asks, sarcasm lacing his tone, and Rhaenys’ brows arch.
“Have you?” His words implies that he has, a surprise, given his initial eagerness for the marriage pact he had made — without Rhaenys’ input — between his daughter and the son of the Braavosi Sea Lord.
“She seemed quite taken with Daemon tonight.”
Rhaenys pauses. She too had seen her daughter dancing with her cousin. She had indeed seemed taken with the prince, like nearly every young woman. He rode a dragon and carried Valyrian steel at his hip. He was a Targaryen prince, a remnant of Old Valyria, and the hero of the Stepstones, to say nothing of the impressive and handsome figure he cut. Rhaenys had lost sight of Daemon as the dancers had circled, but she had not missed the way Laena had departed from her dance with wide, shining eyes. Perhaps it would be a smart match, and yet something within her seems to recoil at the very thought. Yet she has dealt enough blows to her husband’s pride this night, and she finds herself merely dipping her head low in acknowledgement.
“It may be a wise match, one worth exploring.”
Corlys nods his head, neither fully satisfied, yet an easement to the tension is granted, and Rhaenys draws closer, laying her hand flat against her husband’s muscled chest. It is only a moment of hesitation before Corlys covers her hand with his own, dipping his head to rest against Rhaenys’.
“This means we must return to court. More permanently.”
He lets out a grumble, one that echoes in her own heart. Though Rhaenys had grown in the Red Keep, High Tide has been her home for a quarter of a century. She hardly recognizes the keep she once imagined would be hers. She is not eager to leave behind the comforts of Driftmark for the calling of the viper’s nest, and yet she knows she cannot abandon the work that is to be done here. She will see her son named to the White Cloaks — a great honor. She will see her daughter happily married to a lord or prince of her choosing. She will see her cousin educated in what it truly means to be queen. Those things cannot happen if Rhaenys retreats to Driftmark once again, and yet she is not eager to make the Red Keep a permanent residence. Nor is her husband.
“Had I known the trouble a dragonriding princess would cause me all those years ago,” Corlys grumbles aloud, and Rhaenys’ brow raises again.
“Had you known, you would have forsworn the dowry to wed me then and there,” Rhaenys reminds him sharply. “For there would have been no greater adventure for a man like you.”
Finally, after long last, she sees the flash of his teeth, mouth bearing into a true smile. It is one that has always struck fear in the hearts of men, yet Rhaenys has only ever loved it.
She sighs and tucks her head against her husband’s chest, feeling his fingers come to stroke her hair, a familiar gesture after so many years of marriage.
“There is another dragonriding princess whose marriage we must attend to,” Rhaenys murmurs. “If not Laenor, perhaps we might be able to arrange a match that will still benefit our House.” Her husband hums his assent, and Rhaenys feels her lids beginning to droop, the exhaustion and weight of the night finally pressing down upon her.
“Such matters must wait until morning, however. For now, let us retire.”
Wordlessly, Rhaenys moves toward the featherbed in the center of the modest chambers, readying herself for sleep and finally climbing into the bed at her husband’s side, her dreams full of dragons rising from oceans of blood.
Rhaenyra does not quite recognize she has stumbled into wakefulness until she hears the soft snores coming from above her. For a moment, she lies, frozen upon her featherbed, until she recognizes the arms that are wound around her tightly, the broadness of the chest pressed against her back. She feels the tickle of silver hair that is not her own, falling upon her cheek.
Daemon.
Her uncle is in her bed, holding her tight. Rhaenyra moves, ever so slightly, and the painful twinge between her legs brings the memories of the previous night rushing back in a cascade. The feast, Alicent’s arrival in her emerald dress, the dancing, the fight, Daemon. The screams and sounds of shattered glass and Daemon disappearing into the fray. The silence of her quarters, and Daemon’s appearance. His words, the priest, the shrine to Balerion. Daemon, Daemon, Daemon.
She is a maiden no more. She is a wife now, married to the Rogue Prince himself. Delight rises from deep within her. She once begged her mother, as a child, that she might be allowed to marry Daemon. Rhaenyra had asked her uncle first, but he had been unusually firm in his no — ordinarily a word he did not have in his vocabulary for her. Aemma had explained to Rhaenyra that her uncle already was married, and she had wept herself to sleep for a fortnight. It was only when Daemon returned from another one of Viserys’ banishments, bringing with him a jade tiara said to belong to the Empress of Leng herself that Rhaenyra’s tears had finally abated. The longing never had.
Now though, she lies in his arms, the proof of their love and consummation throbbing between her legs. She shifts again, experimentally, and is forced to bite back a groan. It is only then that a knock rings out against the door, and Rhaenyra realizes what has woken her in the first place.
Though Daemon had seemingly slept through Rhaenyra’s movements, the knock rouses him from sleep too. Panic flares hot within Rhaenyra’s breast, her heart racing as she realizes it will not be long before the door is opened, her Kingsguard striding through to inspect her quarters. She will be found with her uncle in her bed, his nude form wrapped around her own. It will not matter that they have wedded in the ancient traditions of their House. It will not matter that Rhaenyra was not a maiden before she entered the marriage bed. It is, as her father said, a matter of perception. By the noon hour, all of Westeros will know her as a whore.
She has half turned, and Daemon must see the panic within her eyes, for his movements are so swift, she hardly registers them. The blankets of her featherbed are pulled tightly to her chin, and in the span of two heartbeats, Daemon has silently slipped from her bed, slinking in the shadows toward the armoire large enough to hide him from the view of the door.
“Princess?”
Rhaenyra blinks. It is Harwin Strong’s voice that rings out. Criston Cole does not come bursting through her door, eyes alight with determination and suspicion twined in deep brown eyes, and it is only then that Rhaenyra remembers her uncle’s words. He had taken the head of her sworn shield. The man who had started the riot the night before, killing a fellow knight in her father’s hall. Harwin was the one who pulled Rhaenyra from the melee, hoisting her over his broad shoulders, paying no mind to how her limbs flailed and kicked as she screamed at him to put her down, unwilling to be dragged away when she knew not the fate of her father nor uncle. He carried her all the way to her rooms, then stood guard at her door. It is Ser Harwin at her door, and he shall not enter until Rhaenyra gives permission. He was the one to let her uncle in, after all.
Her inaudible sigh of relief is threaded with guilt. The realization comes with the understanding that Criston Cole’s understanding of their relationship had become vastly warped over the years. He had thought himself entitled to a great deal more than any other man of his station ought. It had become increasingly obvious to Rhaenyra that she had perhaps chosen the worst possible man to whom she might lose her maidenhead. So consumed was she with regret and rejection, that she had not spared much thought to her actions. Her eyes sought out Daemon’s in the shadows, wondering if he held resentment for her choice. Rhaenyra had not thought much beyond the fact that Cole had been there .
That is not entirely true, a small voice from within chastises. There had been more thought granted. Criston Cole was, after all, one of the very few men who had ever succeeded in truly besting her uncle, a fact which she knew still chafed, even years later. There had been pettiness in Rhaenyra’s decision, a determination to make Daemon hurt, just as he had made her heart ache.
And now Criston Cole is dead, and it is another Kingsguard who stands outside her door, waiting.
“Just a moment!” Rhaenyra calls, praying Ser Harwin does not hear the panic in her voice.
She squints in the darkness, suddenly realizing the inky clouds of night have not yet receded to make way for the sun. It is still the night, the hour of the nightingale, if she is to guess. She blinks in confusion, head turning toward Daemon who has begun to creep forward, silently, his own brow furrowed.
“Princess, your father has summoned you to his solar,” Ser Harwin calls out again, and Rhaenyra’s eyes widen.
What could her father possibly want in the middle of the night? Her eyes again meet Daemon’s, but he seems to have no answer in his gaze, as curious as Rhaenyra herself.
“Can it not wait until morning?” Rhaenyra calls out, adopting the petulant tone of a spoiled princess, put out at being woken in the middle of the night, hoping the knight cannot hear the bleed of curiosity in her tone.
“I’m afraid not, princess,” Harwin says through the heavy wooden door. “The king has said it is urgent.”
Again, Rhaenyra meets the gaze of her husband. The word, even in her mind, sends a jolt of electricity running down her spine. Husband. She and Daemon have married. Never again shall he only bear the title of her uncle, for they have marked each other, shared in each other’s blood and bodies. The scar along her palm throbs with the proof of it, as does the scar upon her lower lip.
Realization coils around her heart, heavy with dread, and Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, a gasp slipping from her lips. Daemon cocks his head curiously, and Rhaenyra swallows.
“Then I shall be ready in a few minutes, Ser Harwin.”
“Very good, princess.”
She hears his footsteps retreating from her door, and she turns back to Daemon.
“You must strike me,” she hisses, and in the darkness, she sees Daemon’s eyes narrow.
“What?”
“Our scars. I can hide the one on my palm, but not my lips. Father will notice. He may have abandoned our customs, but it does not mean he has forgotten them. He will know what it means.”
Daemon’s eyes widen with understanding, before narrowing to slits once again.
“You mean to claim you were injured in the madness of the night. He will believe it to be an injury.”
Rhaenyra shakes her head.
“A perfect cut, right along the seam of a marriage scar? You do not understand, Daemon. Everything I do, he now looks upon with suspicion. He saw us together last night. He saw how you held me. He will never believe this to be a coincidence on its own.”
Daemon seems to discern the truth of Rhaenyra’s words, though it angers him. Rhaenyra cannot claim great joy herself. She has never been overly fond of pain. She is a princess, raised in the comforts and luxuries of the Red Keep. She is no warrior like Daemon or Laenor, though she once dreamed of carrying a blade in her hand, rather than a needle. The greatest pains she had faced in her life were the pricks of blood along her fingertips from ill-fated attempts at embroidery, and the soreness between her legs from a day full of riding.
Now though, the soreness that lingers at the apex of her thighs is wholly more pleasant.
“We do not have much time,” Rhaenyra pleads, glancing between Daemon’s moonlit form — still nude, standing before her — and the door. “I must dress and ready myself.”
An internal battle plays across Daemon’s face in the span of a second, before he finally nods, straightening, finger running over the heavy metal ring he wears on the pinky finger of his left hand.
Rhaenyra has no warning before he strikes, and it is a miracle she manages to keep from crying out. She knows Daemon only struck with a tenth of the force he is capable of, and yet tears instantly spring to her eyes, the throbbing pain on her lower lip immediately intensified. Yet the pain is followed just as swiftly with soft, soothing gestures, the pads of Daemon’s fingertips running gently over the injury, chased by his own lips, his tongue. He is delicate with Rhaenyra in a way he is with nothing else, and as Daemon continues to plead forgiveness with the careful ministrations of his tongue, the pain along Rhaenyra’s mouth quickly gives way to a hunger that has already grown familiar deep in her loins.
She pulls away with a gasp, knowing her cheeks are stained red with embarrassment and arousal. Daemon’s eyes are dark and heady, but they immediately fall upon the swelling of her lip, and Rhaenyra squeezes her hand against Daemon’s arms where she has her fingers digging into his bare flesh.
“Thank you,” she whispers. She sees the apology and regret in her husband’s gaze, but after a moment, he only nods.
The exchange ate away at the precious minutes Rhaenyra had earned herself, and so she readies with haste. Daemon assists her, tugging on his own breeches, before pulling out one of Rhaenyra’s simpler gowns, a piece that laces in the front, allowing Rhaenyra to dress without the aid of her ladies or servants. And yet it is Daemon’s fingers that nimbly ties the criss-cross laces across her chest as Rhaenyra blindly tugs her hair into a simple braid that falls down her back. She feels tingles running down her spine with every brush of Daemon’s fingers against her breasts, through her chemise. She begins to suspect the touches are intentional, and his actions only confirm it, as he finishes the final knot, and lets his hand drift across her ribcage to cup her breast over the fabric of her gown.
Rhaenyra lets out another gasp, feeling herself dizzy with desire, and her breathing becomes shallow. A single glance down confirms that Daemon, despite his nonchalant appearance, is just as affected as she is, drawing a smirk to her lips.
She almost leans forward for another kiss, when another knock rings out against the door, and she closes her eyes. Harwin would have granted her as much time as he could possibly allow, she knows that.
Without any more cause for delay, fear eventually begins to settle in her bones. Whatever cause her father has to pull her from her slumber in the middle of the night must surely bear ill tidings. Rhaenyra wonders, shall this finally be the night her father casts her from his line, and names Aegon his heir in her stead?
She feels a single tear trickle from the corner of her eye, and Daemon leans in, brushing his lips against the trail it makes upon her cheek.
“Do not fear, ābrazȳrys. I will be here for you, when you return.”
Swallowing, Rhaenyra nods, forcing a smile upon aching, trembling lips, and as Daemon slinks back into the shadows of her room, she strides to her door, preparing herself for what is to come.