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

Chapter 33: Hush

"Prince Daemon was a character of paradoxical nature, being well-known for his brutality on and off the battlefield, his callous disregard of the rule of his brother the King, his dearth of courtly propriety and his lustiness for women of all stations, heedless of decorum or tact. However, the author cannot dispute the curious, almost obsessive, regard he bore for his young bride and the degree to which he maintained uncharacteristic fidelity to her. For all the Prince's flaws, it is this that lends the most credence to the more favourable descriptors of his person that persist across the Realm."

- 'The Reign of King Viserys, First of His Name, and the Dance of the Dragons That Came After' by Septon Eustace  

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THE ROGUE

Ah, the evening, he thinks. The best time for training.

It is a cold, misty afternoon on his island homeland—though if he is being honest, all the days in this place are cold and misty, for the weather never fucking changes—as Daemon barks orders at the Second Company of the garrison stationed on Dragonstone. Farmers, shepherds, docker's sons and stonemason's boys, the grouping isn't much; most of them had never even seen a weapon before being employed by the Crown to defend the royal Keep. Each day brings a new set of challenges with it.

Like today. Daemon sighs in consternation. "For fuck's sake, Rodrick! Are you deaf, or just stupid?"

He strides forward to snatch the training sword from a pimple-faced boy of a mere sixteen years, anxious and bumbling. The son of a local fisherman, the boy had been raised with hooks and spears, and was doing his level best to enact his father's teachings upon his sparring partner's person.

"It's not a fucking needle, it's a sword," Daemon says, cuffing the boy across the back of the head. "Strike, not poke. Where are the forms I've taught you?"

He drags the lad upright and returns the blade to him hilt-first, tugging him into the correct position and nudging his leg back with a foot. Better. Still a lot left to be desired, but an improvement for sure. The juvenile shifts imperceptibly, nervous swallowing as he watches the Rogue Prince from the corner of his eye.

"Now," he says firmly, "again. And do it right this time, else I'll make you spar with me."

The other men snicker and jeer softly. Daemon casts a forbidding look over them. He can jape at Rodrick as his commander; these fuckwits certainly cannot. They are barely adequate as it is.

"Back to it!" he shouts, lip curling with satisfaction as the company jolts, standing to attention and dutifully returning to their drills.

"My Prince! My Prince!"

Daemon jerks, eyeing the runner stumbling down the steps into the courtyard. Why the fuck are there so many spotty youths on this isle? A harsh, dismal place, he twitches imperceptibly as he considers the fact that—in the absence of other things to do—procreation is likely the primary pastime of the residents here.

"What? I'm busy," he snaps, arms folded.

Breakbones snorts from across the courtyard, in the process of correcting forms, walking down the line to examine the efforts of the men and boys gathered.

Fuck off, he thinks irritably. Just because he's standing here and watching doesn't mean he is idle.

"It—It's the Princess," the messenger stammers, catching his breath. He zeroes in on the boy's face sharply at the words. "Your lady wife—there's been an incident. She's in your rooms—"