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

Chapter 44: Announcement

THE ROGUE

There's something you're not telling him.

You are quiet, reserved in a way you only get when you are troubled. He sees it in the wan little grin you offer him as he assists you in shaking the sand from your smallclothes, drawing them up over your legs to settle across your belly (twins, twins). He feels it in the way you cling to him on the walk back to the Keep, a tight clutch of small fingers clasped in his own larger ones and a pressing of your body far closer to his than you would normally allow in the open. Your breathless excitement over your books or your babes is naught but a scarce few words here and there, and only when prompted. Your silence speaks loudest of all. That something is bothering you is evident, but he cannot coax from you the truth of it.

It is only upon observing your reaction to the messenger's announcement during the evening meal that he understands.

"The Princess Rhaenyra will be taking her meal in her quarters this evening," the nervous lad says in a thin, reedy voice.

As the most senior royal of age, the address is clearly directed to you. Once, Daemon might have been insulted by the notion that he must defer to you, his docile wife, a girl barely out from under the yoke of her nursemaids, but he finds he cannot seem to care these days. Now, with the successes of negotiation and the burden of assisting in Dragonstone's management—and the rounding prominence of his babes (twins, by the gods) within you—you have evolved beyond that naïve little thing he first encountered moons ago. You are sweet and pure and suggestible, 'tis true, but there is a spine of steel beneath the pretty-girl softness of youth, a budding decisiveness that promises to flourish fierce and formidable.

His interest peaks at the prospect of watching how you will choose to approach this missive.

"Her reasoning, Merryn?" you ask, expression carefully blank.

He watches Laenor and Breakbones glance at each other over the top of Lucerys's head, and he observes you as you carefully dab at your lips with a cloth, turning to face the youth. Ah, fuck. You're usually much more polite than this, and never one to offer the casual disdain of the aristocracy toward those that are lesser.

"She—the Princess has many duties to attend to, but will make herself available to settle the children," Merryn says, swallowing nervously under your gaze.

"Hm" Nodding your head, you look once more to the plate before you. It is as clear a dismissal if ever there was one. "You may go. Thank you."

Not even a smile. You are chilled, aloof in the way you only get when you are truly angry. He recalls that uncomfortable business over the journey to Dorne, how detached and taciturn you had been as he'd struggled to persuade you that he had only your best interests in mind. It is most unlike his rage, Rhaenyra's scorn, Viserys's indignation, even Aemma's own brand of decorous displeasure—each burning hot as the Fourteen Flames across Valyria. Yours is ice, a stark cheerlessness that douses the fire with frost, leaving only the guilt and the hurt of the misdeed.

After the boy leaves, Daemon looks to you. "What was that about?" he asks under his breath, gaze trained upon your face.

"Nothing." Your mask of impassivity lingers still in your eyes, a glaze of ice that gives your polite smile an impression of distinct detachment. Mouth twisting sullenly as you return to your meal, you steadfastly refuse to look upon the empty chair where your sister normally sits. "Rhaenyra is welcome to do as she likes—not that she needs approval to do so."