ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ - House of the Dragon

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Death never scared me.

In fact, there wasn't many things that scared me.

I was raised by Ser Harwin Strong, Ser Laenor Velaryon and Prince Daemon Targaryen. I was raised to be a warrior, to kill and torture men and women (and children, if I were feeling quite angry) with no compassion. To conquest lands and win battles, a war even, if the gods were boring enough.

But seeing my mother awkwardly sitting between my two stepsisters in my dark chambers in King's Landing after my afternoon with Finan through the gardens (and my encounter with Aemond in our wardrobe no one knew about), did scare me.

Rhaenyra was stroking her swollen stomach anxiously, avoiding to stare for too long at the female version of her husband that seemed devoted to tearing her hair out from the force with which she pulled from it, and briefly smiling at Rhaena from time to time, eyeing the anxious motion she turned and turned her silver rings.

Emory was there too, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, holding her hands behind her back in the lady-in-waiting pose she had managed to learn even though I told her there was no need, and staring at her feet with such an intensity I thought she was to put a hole in her shoes.

"I must admit my confusion."

Mother stood up, silently gritting her teeth against each other and doing a poor job in hiding the sudden hiss that escaped her lips, and the hand that wasn't on her belly flew to Rhaena's shoulder, gripping with such a strength that made my sister hold a grimace.

"I know this may unsettle you two, but you need to understand why I am doing this."

"Doing what, mother?" I asked with frowned brows.

I was tired, hungry, upset because of Aemond and in desperate need of a bath. I was not in the mood to figured out what she was talking about as if it was one of Helaena's riddles I never understood no matter how hard I tried.

"Your father tried to do i-."

"My father." Baela interrupted her, briefly bringing her violet eyes to my own. "Daemon is my father, not hers."

I couldn't help it but smirk as my mother loudly sighed. Rhaena shook her head in discomfort and cleared her throat, widely opening her eyes in her twin sister's direction with a silent pray shining in her violet irises.

She was in her nightgown, a light blue dress that reminded me of Arrax's scales in the daylight, and only wore my dark robe atop it. I could've had complained for her to steal my clothing, but it was a normal thing with Rhaena.

"Baela..."

"What? I did not say any lies. He is our father. Mine and Rhaena's. Not hers."

"Careful now, Baela. That is my mother you are speaking to."

Her puzzle gaze flew from the Heir to the Iron Throne to me again, turning her hands into fists and abruptly standing up as if she expected me to flinch or even apologize. I did not. I simply raised my eyebrows, crossing my arms over my chest and scoffing with an amused smirk on my lips. I was not in the mood, but I could handle a fight before sleep.

"See? This is exactly what I meant. We have been here for less than five minutes and yet you two already found something to argue about."

Rhaenyra's violet eyes, as violet as everyone else's (except Emory's) in the room, shone with concern and annoyance. She kept her fierce gaze freely dancing between Baela, who bowed her head with blushed cheeks and clenched jaw, and me, who did my best to not shown any emotion.

I understood Baela's reaction, she grew up on Driftmark, she never saw the harsh version of the Realm's Delight. I didn't either. My mother was not the one of losing her composure, less said with her children. But there were times where her anxiety and discomfort took over her and made her raise her voice at one of us. Me, rather said. I never saw her yelling at any of my brothers or Rhaena.