THE ROGUE
Luring you in is easier said than done.
He finds you when and where he can, your seemingly untraceable movements easily resolved through quick conversation with Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander himself. A stolid, serious man, he'd taken little issue to his prince's request, providing Cole's whereabouts with an ease that speaks to the white cloak's acclimatisation to your routine. He does not particularly enjoy searching you out by means of the stormlander knight, but needs must.
Daemon does it all, too. He spends what time he is able in your company, taking care not to press his suit too forcefully and scare you off; he regales you with tales of his nobler deeds and escorts you to meals with your family; he unearths his old stockpiles of accrued riches and selects the few among them he thinks you might like; he plies you with adulation and declares you to be the fairest maiden in all the known world, the envy of every creature fortunate enough to lay eyes upon you. He gives this endeavour all the effort he possesses, more so than any past conquest, for you are infinitely more valuable than some cheap fuck, and he is so sure that you will receive his attentions with a sweet smile and a ready spirit, all too willing to take the hand he is silently offering with every look and every word, urging you to accept him and—
And nothing. It drives him mad. So distracted is he that he begins to draw further and further away from his old associates, declining their entreaties wherever he might. The most recent occasion had left a rather sour taste in his mouth.
"Come on, man! Where is your head tonight?" Dargood asks, leaning across one of his many acquaintances to yell over the din. "You've not said a word all evening!"
Daemon lifts the tankard and takes a lengthy draught. "Ah—perhaps you bore me, then." A wan smile curves as their gathered companions roar with laughter.
Truthfully, he's been avoiding the lot of them. They desire little else than to drink and fight and fuck. While his taste for such pastimes hasn't exactly waned, his enthusiasm has taken a great blow. He can only presume it has something to do with you, blasted tempting girl you are. Each time he resigns himself to one of these outings—each time he must playact at interest in the whores Dargood parades before him in yet another reputed establishment—all he sees in his mind's eye is your face, wounded disappointment clouding your beauty and transforming it into something haunted and sorrowful.
Kettleblack snorts. "Of course he's bored, what with his Delight waiting for him in the keep! Probably wishing he was back in her right now!"
"Or is it his Delight in that shithole that he's craving?" Hollard asks. The reminder of the whore—of that embarrassingly public affair in which he'd shouted your name in a fucking brothel, of all places—churns in Daemon's gut.
He looks suspiciously towards Dargood, who shrugs innocently. Dargood had been the only one to pay attention as the whore had led him away and up the stairs; and, when he'd lurched from that shabby chamber after spilling himself like a green boy, he'd come across the other man loitering in the hall outside, expression alight as though he'd just learned some great secret.
He'd have to impress the importance of silence upon his longtime comrade a little more forcefully, it seems.
"Whatever will he do—two silver-haired lasses ready to spread their legs for him?" One of the men whose name he cannot recall grins, revealing his missing front teeth in all their hideous glory. Eyes glittering meanly, he adds, "Who has the time?"
Daemon dislikes the turn in conversation. "Now, now, lads," he says with a conceited sneer, though his heart isn't in it. "It's poor form to tell tales of the royal bedchamber. Or one's exploits in them."
"Lucky bastard!"
He levels a look at this unknown. "I assure you, my mother and father were wed." The manner in which he emphasises it, with a raise of the brow to accentuate, leaves no man unaware of his intent.
"Oi!" he exclaims, indignant even as the others guffaw. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
"Nothing at all. Only, they say bastards have a certain"—here, Daemon pauses and lets his gaze travel assessingly over his form, settling back with a smirk after completing his observation—" look about them."
Uproarious mirth follows his pronouncement, though it did not nearly warrant the volume with which the varied cackles and chortles now ring in his ears.
Hollard slaps his back, guffawing all the while. "Stop terrorising him, my prince! He's wroth enough as it is, what with you getting to tumble two Valyrian whores!"
"One cost me a single silver." Daemon waves him off drolly. "You're welcome to her. The other"—he thinks of Rhaenyra's penchant for glittering jewels with a snide sort of affection—"well, you cannot afford her."
"Tell you who I'd like to have a go with, eh," Kettleblack slurs, having been in his cups for far longer than the gathering had taken place. "Our People's Princess." Daemon's chest tightens at the mention of you. "Reckon she'd be a first-rate fuck, don't you?"
"Mm." Dargood smacks his lips after slamming his tankard back on the table, an unreadable stare trained upon his prince. "She's a shy little thing, isn't she? Thought the confident ones were your type."
"If there's a cunt between its legs, it's my type." This ignites a wave of jeers and more than one crass comment about whether or not he's taken up horse-fucking. "Oh, fuck off!" Kettleblack says irritably. "Not what I meant. Besides, she's a looker. None of you would refuse, surely! Can you imagine? The sound of her—"
He's speaking before he even realises. "That's enough."
The harshness in his voice spurs them all to an abrupt silence.
Daemon had left not long after, unable to stomach spending longer than he had to their presence. Their ribald banter was by no means the most vulgar it had ever been—in fact, it was positively tame in comparison to some of the sentiments expressed in past encounters—but hearing them discuss you so crudely made him uncomfortably aware of how tasteless many of his own thoughts of you had been.
After this disturbing epiphany, he seeks distraction by throwing himself ever more into the task of winning you over, only to be thwarted at every turn.
His flattery is for naught. Your lips curve up shyly when you look at him, but so too does this occur when any other compliments you. You absorb yourself in his stories, probing where you will and exclaiming in pretty ahs of girlish fascination, but so too does this happen when your half-sister natters on about her own day to your keen ear. You accept his gifts with earnest solemnity, clutching them to you as a child with a prized doll, but so too do you hold tight the flowers young Jacaerys presents to you after a morn spent in the sun.
Ever agreeable, ever kind, ever polite you are to his overtures—but you do not warm to him in the way he expected you to. The way he wishes you would. In truth, he isn't entirely sure you are even aware of his motives, for you do not regard him with the same hesitance you do the Tyrell lord or Lannister or your idiot brother. Is that a terrible thing? he wonders. It is not as though you particularly like any of them. Nonetheless, he remains, frustratingly, your uncle and nothing more.
This is partly his own fault, he knows. The court had once had its pleasure in the scandal wrought by Daemon's calculated seduction of Rhaenyra, obvious to all but the king himself—and what had resulted? His banishment, her ruination, his years in exile and her marriage free of passion. No such occurrence is to be the conclusion of this attempt. Thus, he is resigned to stepping out from the shadows, conducting his business in the safe light of day. Never once does he dare to hint at anything less than what is proper in the presence of others—and never once does he dare meet with you alone. There can be no errors this time.
As such, his suit remains overlooked. He can do nothing else but persist, waiting for you to finally realise his intentions.
How tedious it is to lower himself to such a competition with no real opponent! He is the only one worthy of your pedigree, a man of high enough birth that you would not be ridiculed by wedding below your station. A man who could ensure you kept your familiar life in King's Landing with your family, who could garb you in the finest velvets and silks and jewels this side of the Narrow Sea, who could give you trueborn Targaryen children worthy of your royal womb.
And yet, strangely, wooing you excites him. For all his many pursuits and passions, he had never once played the role of valiant suitor, and the sight of your pleased face as he offers you presents or walks you around your garden in amiable conversation tugs at a long-buried part of his soul. He wants to be your hero, wants you to worship him. In the bedchamber, yes, but also on his arm for all to see, to know that he has won your affections as assuredly as he has won your hand.
It is this that goads him to seek you out today.
You had welcomed his presence in the dank library, the scent of stale leather and rotting parchment permeating the echoing space. It's fucking cold, too, in a tower so high up in the Red Keep he can swear the air feels thinner. You'd pulled out your winter furs, draping them over your shoulders to stave off the chill, and he'd noted with amusement that you'd done the same to your guard. Ser Crispin is fetchingly shrouded in flaxen hide, complementing his armour rather stunningly. His attempts to get a rise from the man at this had failed, with the cunt obstinately refusing to acknowledge his existence.
"Finnaan anha ezak sewafikh," you say, grinning at the dubious twist of his lips. He has come to find that, for all your solemnity, it is easy to amuse you. "Go on, kepus—try."
"Finnaan... anha—ezak swafeek." He grimaces at the words as they leave his mouth. The flavour feels distinctly wrong.
"Seh—wa—fikh." You correct him gently, nodding at him to try again.
Your Ser Lysan Marios is in the corner of the room, chin to chest as he snores in the only comfortable chair in the room. He truly is an old man. With dark skin and white hair, Daemon has never seen a person with so many lines on their face, looking more like the craggy hills of his dead bronze bitch's prized Runestone than actual human flesh. A man of acuity and hilarity, it is no wonder you enjoy his company.
"It is best to let him rest," you had said as the man's lids had drooped and his head had lowered forward, slumping in his seat. "He has been unwell lately—I worry for him."
You had since obliged with his entreaties to teach him some phrases in Dothraki. It is a hard-won process. His jaw and tongue are unused to situating themselves for throaty dialogue, being far too used to the lyrical fullness of his ancestral native speech, but it is entirely worth it to watch your sweet face light up.
"Sewafikh," he says.
You gasp excitedly, wiggling in your seat. "The whole thing!"
"Finnaan anha ezak sewafikh," he says, smirking at you when you clap. He can't help but find you endearing in your joy, eyes shining and smiling bright. "Now, little girl—what have you just made me say?"
"I thought you would find this phrase most useful." You grin impishly. He narrows his eyes at you.
"And this useful phrase is?" His brow quirks.
You're already giggling. "You can now ask 'where can I find the wine?' should you discover yourself surrounded by a khalasar."
A startled guffaw bursts from him at your cheek. You are a surprisingly witty little thing, and he has found himself more and more charmed with each hour he spends in your presence. A consummate royal youth, you are exceedingly well-versed in the politics of social niceties, navigating your exchanges so expediently that he has learned he must actively work to keep up.
"Impudent brat." He chuckles, eyeing you as you catch your breath and making a list of all the parts of you he intends to get his hands on when you are his.
Curls of silver bundled into a braided coiffure, strands threatening to escape—and he finds this more and more apt a metaphor for your character, a timid little bird just waiting to be set forth from its cage. The damnable temptation of your throat thankfully encircled with the abundance of precious stones forming the Valyrian steel necklace he had gifted you some days prior, a welcome respite from being besieged by the involuntary seduction of pale skin. Voluptuous waist and widened hips in perfect shape for his hands to span. Rounded cheeks and pouty pucker and dewy-eyed gaze...
You are a maiden strumpet waiting for her first lesson in the art of carnality. He is determined to be your instructor in this. Your only instructor.
"Here," Daemon murmurs, withdrawing the reason for his visit from under his chair. He leans forward and places the item upon the desk before you.
You had paid little attention to the wooden case tucked under his right arm as he sauntered in, instead keeping your eyes fixed upon his as you uttered a courteous greeting, mildly perplexed as you always are when he seeks you out. He watches you as you open the chest now and lift out the carving inside, the same size as the little book before you. Your small hands turn the object curiously as you ogle the fine details of the gift, a soft little gasp of wonder escaping bow-lips.
You glance back at him. "Is this Caraxes and Athfiezar?" you ask softly.
He nods.
It had not taken long to realise your partiality lay less along the lines of ostentation and more meaningful simplicity. He'd only need to recall your lacklustre enthusiasm for Jason Lannister's lion pendant to form such a notion. (Though, it may very well be that the gift had come from Lannister that had inspired such indifference, he thinks amusedly.) He had solicited the services of a common toymaker entirely by accident, having taken notice of the man's goods during a nightly stroll through the city.
Daemon had been absent-mindedly making his way back from that eve of tension with Dargood and his crooked companions, only to find that his feet had taken him entirely past the route to the keep. Instead, he'd moved north along the kingsroad to Cobbler's Square, idly observing the shopkeepers flog their wares along the street. One look at the stall upon which were arranged brightly-coloured carvings—an array of lions and horses and dragons, of knights and ladies and kings in an assortment of sizes, shapes and poses—and he had known that the skill of the man would be something you'd enjoy, honest and artful. The peasant had been overawed when met with a request from the Prince of the City, eagerly accepting the task of producing a miniature replica of your dragons.
The man really had spared no detail, he muses as he surveys your inspection of the sculpture. It is truly a fine piece, carefully depicting his crimson mount snarling and wound around the central figure of your own reptilian steed. They are posed as though they are about to take flight. From the whittled minutiae to the meticulously applied paints, it is a worthy representation of the pair. He would have to make further commissions of him.
"It is beautiful, Uncle," you breathe, running the tips of your fingers over the hewn surface in concealed awe. You are careful not to disturb the layers of colour affixed to the wood. "I love it. But you should not have bought me anything"—you look back up at him with a frown as your hand lightly reaches up to touch his previous gift fastened at your nape—"for you have already given me something very valuable."
("I will treasure it," you had said, stunned wonder muted by the veil of decorum. He has yet to see you without it. He likes to view it as almost a brand marking you as his.)
Cole is glaring at him from the entry to the library. Daemon sneers, lip twitching in smug enjoyment as the man looks away.
"Why ever not? I was thinking of you," he asks gently, reprovingly. If I push too hard, she will withdraw. "I enjoy giving you things. Allow your old uncle to indulge, sweet girl."
You smile unbidden, a flush blooming on the tip of your nose.
"You are not old, kepus," you whisper, refusing to look at him, and a thrill tingles at the top of his spine at your receptiveness.
He is about to respond when there is a knock upon the door. It reverberates through the room, the bare stone floors serving to propel the noise around. Cole opens it to reveal the mousy form of a servant girl, the plain red linen of her dress and the cream caul adorning her head denoting her as one of the royal staff members. She colours as she notices his presence, quickly glancing away.
"Forgive me, princess," she says, bobbing a curtsey to you and lowering her head, "but the Lord Tyrell is awaiting your presence."
He seethes internally as you resignedly stow away his gift, giving it a final caress before latching the box closed. Fucking Denys. He'll be damned if you dare entertain the notion of wedding that flowery cunt, all too eager to bend over for the Hightowers as he is.
"I'll escort you, niece," he chooses to say, solicitously stowing the chest under his arm once more as he heads off your weak protestations. He walks around the desk to offer his arm to you.
"I think you'll find that I will be escorting her, my prince," Cole says stiffly, striding forward several paces. The knight stops when you turn to face him.
"Actually, Ser Criston—could you ensure that Ser Lysan makes it safely back to his chambers?" You beseech him quietly, and from the look of the man, he has no doubt you are gazing up at him with wide, imploring eyes. It is entirely too winsome an expression on you, and he deliberates whether there is a being alive or otherwise who could resist the power of your pleading. "I would hate to awaken him, and my uncle can surely manage to escort me to my sister's solar to meet with Lord Denys."
The fastidious man insisted on meeting you for tea, of all things. Fucking ridiculous. Loath to leave you to contend with the obnoxiousness of his presence alone, Rhaenyra had insisted on playing host to the courting. Needless to say, the food and drink were to be the best part of the event each time he paid a visit to you.
Cole nods yieldingly as you thank him, sighing a defeat as he steps back and allows you to pass with Daemon.
Your hand is firmly wrapped underneath his arm, grip tight. The journey is quiet, and he notes that you have retreated into yourself once more. Though he hates to see you unhappy, he cannot deny how well it bodes for him that you are.
"Chin up, sweetling," he whispers conspiratorially to you as you approach the Princess of Dragonstone's solar—the room adjoining the chambers of the royal heir to the right—and stop.
You smile weakly at his attempt to cheer you, though it does not reach your eyes, as he knocks on the door for you. Rhaenyra appears in the opening, her countenance morphing into perplexity at the sight of you and Daemon. It is clear she had been expecting Cole instead.
"Uncle," she says with a wrinkle of confusion. "I didn't think—why are you here?"
Her gaze shifts between you and him, noting the grip of your hand upon his arm and the manner in which he is angled toward you.
"Cole's been tasked with an obligation by our princess," he replies, and it is a breath of fresh air to be able to look her in the eye and feel nothing but affection and the throb of old guilt and hurt. The desire has finally worn itself out, though the memory of it still lingers. He supposes you may have had something to do with that. "I felt it best to accompany her to your rooms myself."
Rhaenyra nods, brow raised and mouth pressed in a thin line as she opens the door wide to let you both in. You whisper a small thank-you to him as you slip away from him, politely moving forward for the visitor to make his introductions to you.
Denys Tyrell is surely the most repulsive man to grace Westeros, Daemon thinks disfavourably.
The man stands aimlessly in the centre of the room, appearing to be idly examining the tapestries depicting the Targaryen Conquest adorning the walls. A stout, rotund lad, he is encased in a garish, ill-fitting doublet of pale sky brocade with gold flowers, straining mightily at the buttons. His features are diminutive among ruddy flesh, save for the huge, meticulously groomed moustache decorating his upper lip. The son of the late Lord Matthos, he is probably one of the few suitors close enough in age to you to bond with over the delight of being young.
And yet, he is still not good enough for you.
"Princess." He bows dramatically, a ridiculous flourish of the hand punctuating the finish.
Daemon has to restrain the urge to scoff at the fawning grandiosity of the gesture. He observes with half-hearted intrigue as the lad's eyes flick to him and his lip curls in an abortive sneer before quickly returning to you. Another one of his 'supporters', he expects.
You politely tip your head and engage in small talk, asking after the quality of his lodgings and the welfare of his family in a manner that suggests you have gotten this routine perfected over the course of these meetings. He wants to roll his eyes as the man brightens, loudly beginning to chatter his poor niece's ear off.
"Daemon," Rhaenyra hisses from next to him.
Glancing over at her, he sees she has a forbidding look upon her face as she jerks her head towards the open door. Bemused, he follows her out of the room, casting a brief look back at you as you engage in conversation with your suitor. Flowery cunt.
Rhaenyra shuts the door quietly before rounding on him in the middle of the hallway.
"What in the name of the Seven are you doing, Daemon?" she asks, looking around quickly for any loiterers. The corridor is silent.
"Can I not walk with my own niece now, Rhaenyra? You really must apprise me of the new laws. I wasn't aware that it was now a crime to chaperone my own blood—"
"Oh, do shut the fuck up." She scoffs, waving her hand toward the closed door. "Finding her all over the keep? Staring at her constantly? The gifts? The flattery?" She steps forward threateningly, though her womanly disposition and her lack of height serve to diminish the effect. "She has told me all about it—I know what this is."
He smirks down at her, arms crossing. "And what do you think this is, then?"
Her hand clenches into a fist. He wonders, entertained, if she would dare to hit him. "Do not play the fool, Uncle. It doesn't suit you. I will not let you spoil my sister the way you did me."
He scoffs. "As I recall, princess, I took no part in your spoiling." He is callously satisfied by her spreading flush at the imputation of his words.
Oh, yes. I know about Cole.
He continues, timbre colouring with aggravation. "And I have no intention of ruining her." Well, not yet—not until the wedding night. "Why does everyone in this fucking city always assume the worst of me?"
"Because that is what you do!"
She has escalated to a near yell now, whipping around in her frustration, the end of her braid lashing across his chest with a thump as she moves away. When she turns around, her eyes are bright with the gradual swell of moisture.
"You pick a target, lay them thick with pretty words and affection, and then cast them away when you have grown bored. You do it with Father, with your lickspittles and your precious City Watch, with your whores and your women... You did it to me, and now you are going after my sister—"
It infuriates him to hear her slander his character so thoroughly, for all that it is true. Perhaps it is this fact that upsets him more.
"Is that jealousy I hear?" he asks cruelly, turning the attack upon her. He presses forward, allowing the fury to infuse his step, his words, his countenance. "Such a bitter shrew you've become. It's no wonder I've moved on to more enjoyable pastimes. After all, your sweet sister really is exquisite—she'll make a fine little bride for me."
He watches with vicious gratification at the unmitigated outrage that overtakes her.
"How dare you—"
Suddenly, the door opens. Lord Tyrell steps into the doorway, lip curled and cheeks red. "I believe this meeting is at an end, princess."
The man sneers, shoving past him as he exits. Behind him, Daemon can see your distress clearly. You are still in the middle of the solar, wringing your hands and biting your lip, refusing to look at anything other than the floor before you.
Rhaenyra tries to gather herself in affecting a disposition of regal indifference, though the cracks in her façade are clear to see. "You are leaving so soon, my lord? I am sure my sister would so enjoy—"
"I think I understand what the princess... enjoys." He scrutinises you, then turns to Daemon and looks him over disdainfully. The insinuation is obvious. It is clear that he and Rhaenyra have been quarrelling louder than intended. "And who she enjoys it with. I'll suffer no harlot as my wife, royal or otherwise."
How dare he. How fucking...
It is a flagrant offence to one so pure as you. Of all the women in the city, you deserve such affront least of all.
At the sight of tears welling in your eyes—brows drawn, lilac blurred by the tear-sheen collecting on your lashes, "will I ever see you again?"—the familiar, burning fire of rage overtakes him completely, the dam bursting and breaking as he swings his fist directly into the foppish lord's face.
"How dare you insult the princess's honour!"
The bestial part of his nature revels in the satisfaction of feeling the man's flesh tear under the force of his knuckles as he drags him to the floor, of feeling the grinding frisson of pain in his bones as they collide with the insipid cunt's nose. The blood spills hot and wet over that ridiculous outfit, over his fists and clothes, spraying over the floor. The lord can only cry out as Daemon rains down punches upon him, seeking to erase the image of the man who'd dared to malign you so. The Rogue Prince thinks he can hear voices, but the sound is muted, muffled, like listening to a scream underwater.
"You stupid piece of shit, how dare you—"
He aims for Denys's nose, hoping to smash it in entirely, when he is abruptly dragged off the man and forcefully shoved away. He presses forward wildly, attempting to finish his mission, straining against the hold of Breakbones—and by the gods, the Strong boy really lives up to his name, does he not?—until he takes in the sight before him.
He slows as he views the scene. The Tyrell attendants have run in to kneel next to their lord with rags already mopping at the blood oozing from his face, Ser Willas Fell and Ser Rickard Thorne of the Kingsguard stand with hands on pommels, and several servants are looking on with curiosity and fear at the sight before them.
And you. You are enfolded in the arms of Rhaenyra, a look of abject horror on your sweet face. His heart clenches.
—the horror in your expression feels like the edge of a blade carving to his very soul. "But... you promised—"
This is not what he wanted. He has made you fear him, he can see it. He knows you are afraid. How could he? How could he?
"The prince attacked me—this is the gravest of abuses, ser—" cries Lord Denys in response to Ser Rickard's quiet inquiries, clutching a cloth to his swelling and bloodied eye.
I have to get out of here, he thinks rashly, pulling out of the City Watch commander's hold and spinning away, stalking out of the hall—
"My prince, you cannot leave while—"
"Daemon, stop—"
"Kepus—"
He runs.