Chapter 24: Flight

                                    

                                          
THE PRINCESS


The next few days are rife with the gossip of courtiers, tongues wagging at the display you and Daemon had made at the feast marking the end of your wedding celebrations. While your uncle weathers the whispers and stares with his usual roguish swagger and unapologetic bravado, you elect to retreat into the comfort of familiar routine. 
Visiting with your family and taking tea with Ser Lysan in your brand new solar has become your pastime during waking hours. It is far easier to converse with Ser Lysan than it is with the King and Queen, however, for your father has taken to an odd pattern of observing you strangely and then glancing away when you seek eye contact, while Alicent merely stares with a look of mild disapproval. You almost wish they would just address their discomfort directly instead of hedging in this bizarre manner.
Yes, it is much easier to spend the morning with Ser Lysan, you think to yourself happily, taking in your surroundings with pleasure. 
Your solar, while being dim from a lack of natural light, is spacious and filled with many of your favourite commodities: plenty of books lining sturdy shelving, thick and dusty and overflowing with knowledge; scrolls of parchment, maps, a delightfully plush pair of armchairs stationed near the fireplace; and a set of two matching desks, one for you and the other for your husband. Daemon had claimed that the allocation of a private solar for his own purposes would be a useless endeavour—"I'll never use it, little girl"—and so you had gladly welcomed the addition of a second writing surface in your own.
"Ser Lysan," you say to the elderly man bent over parchment across from you, startling him from scrawling across the page in his spidery hand. "It may be unnecessary, but what do you think of conceptualising a new symbol for the 'tth' sound, as in 'atthirar'? Otherwise, we shall be forced to use three letters to describe one sound."
"Hm." He pores over his notes 
You look fondly at him. Since his arrival some five summers ago, he had been a steadfast friend and paternal guide to you, a welcome smile and genial demeanour inviting you to spend hours poring over the latest tomes sourced from all over the continent and beyond. 
He coughs; you frown. He had been doing that a lot as of late. "I suppose... we could, yes. What are your thoughts on the design?"
You pass the parchment with your idea inscribed upon it across the table. But, just as your tutor lifts the page to examine it with age-weakened eyes, the door bursts open. Ser Criston jerks to the side, armour clanging in the first audible sound from him in what may well have been hours. He had been dedicatedly surveying the wall at the opposite side of the room the entire time, ramrod spine and as blank-featured as he had been since the night he stood watch while you and Daemon had... well . It is fairly safe to say that your interactions with your own husband have perturbed more than just your father and his wife.
Daemon exclaims your name jubilantly, striding into the room with hair mussed and eyes bright with excitement. He leans down to press his mouth to yours, hand pressed against your jaw. You beam into the kiss, laughing lightly as his upbeat mood lifts your own.
His fingers fall to your neck to stroke along the necklace he had gifted you. You shiver lightly as the digits brush against your skin. "Sweetling. Your Athfiezar has been sighted flying towards the Dragonpit." It warms you to hear him pronounce your dragon's name correctly; he has worked hard to learn it. "If you wish to enact your little plan, now is the time." 
Your eyes widen with excitement as you process the news. It has been some days since Athfiezar had made his way to you, choosing instead to roam the skies and hunt along the coast as he is wont to do. You glance to Ser Lysan apologetically. He is already peering at you mischievously from over the top of the scroll he holds aloft.