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

Chapter 22: Quarrel

"Baelon." Your father sighs from beside you.

You comprehend instantly. The day your mother died is a story you know well, though you have never heard it mentioned by the King. He avoids all talk of it.

You stay silent, contemplating a day you can barely remember, the day that—in many respects—began all this discord within your family.

Your father starts coughing. "When will this thing start?"

You gaze at him, then across him to Alicent's concerned visage, and can do nothing but pat his back gently as he leans forward, hacking into a gilt-edged cloth. The fabric is stained with blood after he is done. When he catches you eyeing it, he quickly crumples it in his fist and tucks it under the hanging drapery of his doublet. Alicent passes him wine, which he gulps gratefully.

You are interrupted by the sound of the trumpets as the riders enter the field, the crowd cheering at the knights as they strut their horses past and pay homage to you, the bride and her kingly father. You smile when you see Daemon arrive on a roan steed, the golden dragon wings of his helmet glittering in the midday light; the glare is almost obscene.

"Fuck me," you can hear Laenor say. "Any more ridiculous and he'd be a Lannister."

Princess Rhaenys scolds him under her breath—he was hardly quiet in this pronouncement. You giggle.

"Would that he were," the King mutters, taking another gulp of wine. "Perhaps this wedding wouldn't have hurt the Crown's pockets quite so much if he brought the gold of Casterly Rock with him."

"I am glad he is not a Lannister," you say. "I was successful in avoiding the attentions of Lord Jason, and I have no need for yet another member of that House to regale me with tales of lions and valour."

Rhaenyra snickers. Daeron has started chewing on his nails, Alicent leaning over you and your father to dissuade him. The boy looks up at you and she with blank eyes; you gently take his hand from his mouth and hold it in yours for a moment.

Daemon approaches the royal box to cheers from the people gathered. He really has exceeded expectations with that monstrosity he wears, you think.

Lifting his visor, he looks up at you and smirks confidently, sending a flutter of girlish infatuation through you. He is the very image of a princely groom, his armour a grandiose combination of silver and gold adorned with red along the edges of his pauldrons, his helmet crafted in the shape of a dragon; with wings fanning from the sides and a brilliant red-and-black plume decorating the back, he makes for every lady's dream knight.

"Might I beg the favour of my lady wife?" he calls up, brandishing his jousting pole high.

There is a flutter of emotion from the assembled ladies of court decorating the stand. Having made it ready in anticipation of this question, you take hold of it where you lay it upon the arm of your seat, obligingly standing and slotting the wreath of ribbon, fabric and flowers over the spear.

You expect Daemon to ride off—but he is not finished. "When I win this tourney, niece, I expect you to venture down from your tower so that I may crown you my Queen of Love and Beauty."

There is a second rumble of whispers, and you know your uncle fully intends to leverage the discomfort of the nobles in your close relation for some time yet. This does not bother you; you are born and raised Valyrian, and you are above the laws and the limitations of the Faith of the Seven.

"I look forward to it, kepus," you say, playing along with his fun. He smiles wickedly up at you as he shuts the visor, digging his heels into the sides of his steed to prompt the horse onwards and away.