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

Chapter 22: Quarrel

THE PRINCESS

You enjoy the festivities that take place over the next days, a week-long celebration of your wedding that brings lords, ladies, knights and maidens from all over the Seven Kingdoms.

Spending much of your time in the stands, you are seated in pride of place by your father, surrounded by your family as you watch the tourney held in honour of your marriage to Daemon. The man in question is absent, having gleefully kissed you on the forehead and proclaimed his intent to join the event, a grand return for the Rogue Prince after years of absence. Soon, the chair reserved for him beside you—originally empty after his departure—is occupied by your littlest brother.

Daeron, a wide-eyed cherub of nine summers, beams up at you as you idly fix the collar of his shirt, carrying the naivete of youth with him still. He is your favourite of your three brothers, though you privately acknowledge that between he and Aegon and Aemond, there is hardly much choice to be had.

"Are you excited to see Daemon joust, Princess?"

You turn. Laenor sits with his father, mother and his sister Laena, baby Joffrey in the Princess Rhaenys's arms.

He had entreated your sister to be allowed to join the lists with his good-uncle by marriage, and she had refused. "I will not be left to wrangle three boys without assistance," she'd retorted crossly. When Laenor had enquired as to why she could not enlist Laena's assistance, the look Rhaenyra levelled upon him made even you quail—that was the end of that conversation. Rhaenyra is especially protective of her Velaryon goodsister, and had fussed constantly over her as her belly grew. No wonder she'd all but bitten Laenor's head off.

"Yes," you say enthusiastically.

You are eager to support your husband, though you detest violence. As one of the finest knights in the Realm, you know it is sure to be a good showing, and you are happy to allow him the freedom to show off. He does love it so.

You add, "It has been a long time since Uncle has been in the lists."

"The Prince of the City's grand return." You smile at Lord Corlys's remark but avoid eye-contact—a bold, decisive man, he had always unnerved you, your quiet and reserved nature hindering you from truly finding comfort in his presence.

"Let us hope he doesn't murder anyone this time," Rhaenyra says.

Unlike Laenor, she is sat toward the front of the royal compartment, the Princess of Dragonstone glittering in a striking gown of ebony with shining crimson thread, etched dragon-scale patterns winding up the skirt and thickening in intensity through the bodice. The effect is dazzling, making her appear as reptilian as the mascots of your House. She and Laenor are still preparing for their departure to the Targaryen fortress, but you know they will not leave until the merriment is concluded.

"Is that... a possibility?" you ask, dreading the idea of having to cheer on meaningless death. You had always believed a wedding should not be marked by slaughter, no matter the court's bloodthirsty affection for the sport.

Rhaenyra shrugs. "Last time uncle Daemon competed, he nearly slew Ser Criston."

"When was this?" You cannot recall such an event.

Rhaenyra grins, and you are struck by her loveliness. She is a hypnotising presence, and you feel pale and small beside her.

"You were very young, sweetling," she says. "The last time Daemon joined the lists was—"