Terms of Endearment │Part I: The Princess and the Rogue

Chapter 21: Morning

THE PRINCESS

You are awoken far too early the next day. Though the sun has well and truly crested over the horizon, you feel as though you have barely closed your eyes. You squint muzzily at the encroaching light forcing your lids open, your head lifting slowly as consciousness takes over. You do not feel ready to wake.

Groaning, you turn lightly, burying your face into the pillow to block out the sun. The events of the previous day rush over you.

You are married. You are married. You are married. To Daemon.

You had not been lying to yourself when you reminded yourself of the alternative—one afternoon with Lord Jason of House Lannister was enough to make you scream with frustration. You did not care about gold or riches. And why would you care so greatly for Casterly Rock? You live in the capital. It is no surprise to you that the man, who had even once tried and failed to pay court to your sister some summers back, still had not found himself a bride. But even so, the notion of wedding your notoriously hot-headed uncle had been the cause of great trepidation over the weeks of your courtship.

You did not understand why he was bothering—save for an heir or two, he had no need for a wife, and even less need to woo her with pretty words and rare trinkets. Ladies are to do as they are bid by their fathers, after all. Back in the capital after an extended stay across the Narrow Sea, your uncle was free to do as he liked. With whom he liked. And yet, he chose to spend his time in your company.

A voice calls out across the garden. "Niece."

Your head snaps up from your book in alarm, casting about for the intruder. You relax only minutely when you see your uncle across the path. Your brow furrows.

What is he after this time? you wonder.

He had been interrupting your routine for days now, and while it is kind of him to take interest in your pastimes—having accompanied you to visit Athfiezar, joined you in the Godswood, taken tea with you and your family—you are unsure of his motives.

"Uncle," you say, a note of caution in your reply.

It is no matter. He takes this as permission to proceed forward, strolling across the grass to stand before you with his arms resting behind his back and his gaze lowered upon you. He blocks the afternoon light, and it haloes violently around his figure, casting him into shadow. You squint up at him to try and gauge his expression—you have no intention of standing up.

There is a moment of silence as you look upon each other. He moves, settling beside you, a little closer than you are comfortable with. You squirm slightly but make no move to back away—you were here first.

"What are you reading?" he asks.

You glance up from the page. His eyes are directed down toward you, but you have no idea what exactly he's looking...

You snap the book toward your chest abruptly when you realise. He has positioned himself cleverly; such is the difference between your respective heights that he is quite comfortably able to peer down the neck of your gown. You blush scarlet and curse yourself for wearing something loose-fitting enough for his impropriety to take advantage of. For a moment, you ponder upon the reason for his looking; it is not as though you are one of his paramours.

You stammer your reply. "Ah—a book of Northern legends."

Your uncle smirks knowingly, gently tugging the book from your hands, and you know he knows you caught him in the act. He does not attempt to address it, though; instead, he merely chooses to flick idly through the pages, humming with interest. "Hm. What drew you to it?"