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

Chapter 25: Fear

THE PRINCESS

The morning of Lord Hightower's arrival to the Red Keep is cold and grey, a ghostly mist creeping across the stone courtyard as the man disembarks from his wheelhouse.

You stand stiffly on the steps between Rhaenyra and Aegon, arms folded behind your back as Alicent strides down to welcome her father back to court, gritting your teeth in frustration while you weather your half-brother's finger poking into your side in an attempt to rile you. It is utterly immature, ridiculously dim-witted, completely unbefitting the eldest son of the King.

When he jabs you again, you strike out at him, gripping his questing finger tightly behind you and bending it upwards. He chokes out a cry as you stare straight-faced ahead at the sight of the Queen embracing the reinstated Lord Hand.

"Fuck—let go!" he hisses at you, subtly attempting to pull his hand away. You hang on, for you are stronger than you look. The movement jostles you into Rhaenyra lightly, who is pressing her lips together to avoid showing her amusement at your antics.

You had heard from your sister that Laena had gone into labour yesterday morning, the court eagerly awaiting the news of the birth. You are surprised she had ventured out of the birthing chamber long enough to make a pretence of gladness at Lord Hightower's arrival.

"Stop it, then," you say to your brother, twisting his finger a final time to hear him let out a barely audible yelp before retracting to your previous stance. Aegon rubs at his beleaguered index with a mulish scowl.

Lord Otto has noticed the exchange, it seems. He has levelled a cold, unimpressed look upon his grandson, and you can almost feel Aegon cringe beside you. His gaze jerks to you briefly before settling on your father.

"Welcome back, Lord Hightower." Your father limps forward to clap the man on the shoulder.

Otto smiles respectfully, nodding his head in deference to the King. "I am grateful for your renewed faith in me, Your Grace." Rhaenyra huffs lightly next to you. Otto glances minutely at her before flicking to you once more. "I heard tell that Prince Daemon had returned to King's Landing?"

It is an obvious understatement. There are surely none in Westeros who are not aware of your marriage, and so the Lord Hand's pronouncement is merely a query as to your husband's current whereabouts. Daemon had been furious to hear of Otto Hightower's reinstatement, and you know that he had stormed into Viserys's rooms to berate him in what had turned out to be a magnificent row. Your father had called you into his solar later that day to chide you for allowing your husband to disrespect his King in such a manner. You have no idea why he felt it necessary to castigate you for the actions of a man famed for his ill temper, a fact you reminded him of civilly when he paused to take breath. Daemon had refused to greet the man, forcing you to weather this salutation by yourself.

"My husband is indisposed, my Lord." It is clear from the glimmer of surprise on his visage that he had not been expecting a response from you. You have always been reticent in his presence, shy and mute, and so the evolution is obvious. "He sends his apologies."

"I'm sure," Lord Hightower mutters.

He steps away from you, allowing the King and Queen to usher him indoors. You are surprised that he has made no effort to engage with Aegon, Aemond or Helaena. The slight is unmistakable, and you depart quickly before Aegon's angered outburst makes itself evident.

Safely ensconced within your chambers, you raise a brow at your husband laying listlessly upon the bed, arms folded under his head and staring at the canopy blankly. He is attired for luncheon in a coat the shade of soot, smoky dragons embroidered along the hem with ash-grey sleeves rippling like dragon scales, silver buckles done up save for the topmost clasp at his neck; the fabric folds out and exposes a sliver of upper chest.