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

Chapter 21: Morning

Inanity is not his style. What is he really asking? What does he want from you?

"I like to learn," you say, staring confusedly at him as he turns the pages, "and Northern culture is one I am unfamiliar with."

He smiles. The breeze from the sea rustles through the garden, tousling your hair softly. It is unbound today, cresting in waves down your back.

"A good quality to have." He closes the book with a thud, offering the tome to you; you make to take it back, but he does not let go. "Though, remember what I told you—books will only get you so far."

You remember. You remember being a child, back when the world was brighter and made just a little more sense, though it grows hazier by the day. You remember being your uncle's little princess, his small chattering companion, though the years had distanced you to strangers. You remember the warmth of his love, how safe he had made you feel; now, it seems an undercurrent of something dark, something dangerous lingers in every look and word.

"Well, books are what I have, and I take what I can get," you say grumpily.

This conversation is bewildering you—you can feel an oncoming headache threaten your peace. You have no idea what he is after. You successfully pull the book from your uncle, holding it firmly in your lap. He chuckles. He is staring at you once again, and you are tongue-tied still. He makes you nervous.

"I have something for you." He reaches into a pocket and pulling out his mystery gift.

He offers his hand to you; you reach out hesitantly, and he drops a chain into your palm. Your eyes widen—it is a necklace, dark metal inlaid with gold, shards of onyx and diamonds.

"Valyrian steel." Your fingers brush along the pendants that drop from the centerpiece. "I remember being obsessed with the necklace you gave Rhaenyra," you divulge, struck with rare verbosity and a need to impart something of your life that he might recall. "During feasts, Rhaenyra would sometimes sit me in her lap. That necklace was the only way to keep me still as a child—I loved playing with it as it hung around her throat. One day, she just... stopped wearing it. She stopped holding me in her lap at feasts after that, too. It felt like the world was suddenly ... lonely."

You swallow reflexively, the feeling as though you are doing something wrong rising in your gut. It is poor taste to engage in whatever this is with the long-held object of your older sister's affections.

You look up at Daemon. He has not responded to your confession, but merely stares pensively at the glitter of precious stone and metal in your hand. Jewels are not your gift of choice, but a piece of your Valyrian ancestry is hard to come by.

"Thank you, Uncle," you say softly, interrupting his contemplation. "I will treasure it."

His eyes flicker up. He smiles, moving closer to you and grasping for the chain held loosely in your hand. "Lift your hair for me, riñītsos."

You oblige, shifting your hair up and to the side and turning away obediently so that he may have an unhindered view of your neck. The chain swings softly, settling into the hollow of your throat. Daemon is hot at your back, and the scent of sun-warm leather and spice tickles your senses as he fastens the clasp. It slides down slightly when he settles it against your skin, and you shiver as his fingers trail against the fuzz of hairs at your nape.

"Lovely," he whispers.

He is near enough that the sensation of exhaled breath whistles across the raised skin of your upper back, just barely concealed by the neckline of your gown. You drop your hair, startled.