THE PRINCESS
You are awoken far too early the next day. Though the sun has well and truly crested over the horizon, you feel as though you have barely closed your eyes. You squint muzzily at the encroaching light forcing your lids open, your head lifting slowly as consciousness takes over. You do not feel ready to wake.
Groaning, you turn lightly, burying your face into the pillow to block out the sun. The events of the previous day rush over you.
You are married. You are married. You are married. To Daemon.
You had not been lying to yourself when you reminded yourself of the alternative—one afternoon with Lord Jason of House Lannister was enough to make you scream with frustration. You did not care about gold or riches. And why would you care so greatly for Casterly Rock? You live in the capital. It is no surprise to you that the man, who had even once tried and failed to pay court to your sister some summers back, still had not found himself a bride. But even so, the notion of wedding your notoriously hot-headed uncle had been the cause of great trepidation over the weeks of your courtship.
You did not understand why he was bothering—save for an heir or two, he had no need for a wife, and even less need to woo her with pretty words and rare trinkets. Ladies are to do as they are bid by their fathers, after all. Back in the capital after an extended stay across the Narrow Sea, your uncle was free to do as he liked. With whom he liked. And yet, he chose to spend his time in your company.
A voice calls out across the garden. "Niece."
Your head snaps up from your book in alarm, casting about for the intruder. You relax only minutely when you see your uncle across the path. Your brow furrows.
What is he after this time? you wonder.
He had been interrupting your routine for days now, and while it is kind of him to take interest in your pastimes—having accompanied you to visit Athfiezar, joined you in the Godswood, taken tea with you and your family—you are unsure of his motives.
"Uncle," you say, a note of caution in your reply.
It is no matter. He takes this as permission to proceed forward, strolling across the grass to stand before you with his arms resting behind his back and his gaze lowered upon you. He blocks the afternoon light, and it haloes violently around his figure, casting him into shadow. You squint up at him to try and gauge his expression—you have no intention of standing up.
There is a moment of silence as you look upon each other. He moves, settling beside you, a little closer than you are comfortable with. You squirm slightly but make no move to back away—you were here first.
"What are you reading?" he asks.
You glance up from the page. His eyes are directed down toward you, but you have no idea what exactly he's looking...
You snap the book toward your chest abruptly when you realise. He has positioned himself cleverly; such is the difference between your respective heights that he is quite comfortably able to peer down the neck of your gown. You blush scarlet and curse yourself for wearing something loose-fitting enough for his impropriety to take advantage of. For a moment, you ponder upon the reason for his looking; it is not as though you are one of his paramours.
You stammer your reply. "Ah—a book of Northern legends."
Your uncle smirks knowingly, gently tugging the book from your hands, and you know he knows you caught him in the act. He does not attempt to address it, though; instead, he merely chooses to flick idly through the pages, humming with interest. "Hm. What drew you to it?"
Inanity is not his style. What is he really asking? What does he want from you?
"I like to learn," you say, staring confusedly at him as he turns the pages, "and Northern culture is one I am unfamiliar with."
He smiles. The breeze from the sea rustles through the garden, tousling your hair softly. It is unbound today, cresting in waves down your back.
"A good quality to have." He closes the book with a thud, offering the tome to you; you make to take it back, but he does not let go. "Though, remember what I told you—books will only get you so far."
You remember. You remember being a child, back when the world was brighter and made just a little more sense, though it grows hazier by the day. You remember being your uncle's little princess, his small chattering companion, though the years had distanced you to strangers. You remember the warmth of his love, how safe he had made you feel; now, it seems an undercurrent of something dark, something dangerous lingers in every look and word.
"Well, books are what I have, and I take what I can get," you say grumpily.
This conversation is bewildering you—you can feel an oncoming headache threaten your peace. You have no idea what he is after. You successfully pull the book from your uncle, holding it firmly in your lap. He chuckles. He is staring at you once again, and you are tongue-tied still. He makes you nervous.
"I have something for you." He reaches into a pocket and pulling out his mystery gift.
He offers his hand to you; you reach out hesitantly, and he drops a chain into your palm. Your eyes widen—it is a necklace, dark metal inlaid with gold, shards of onyx and diamonds.
"Valyrian steel." Your fingers brush along the pendants that drop from the centerpiece. "I remember being obsessed with the necklace you gave Rhaenyra," you divulge, struck with rare verbosity and a need to impart something of your life that he might recall. "During feasts, Rhaenyra would sometimes sit me in her lap. That necklace was the only way to keep me still as a child—I loved playing with it as it hung around her throat. One day, she just... stopped wearing it. She stopped holding me in her lap at feasts after that, too. It felt like the world was suddenly ... lonely."
You swallow reflexively, the feeling as though you are doing something wrong rising in your gut. It is poor taste to engage in whatever this is with the long-held object of your older sister's affections.
You look up at Daemon. He has not responded to your confession, but merely stares pensively at the glitter of precious stone and metal in your hand. Jewels are not your gift of choice, but a piece of your Valyrian ancestry is hard to come by.
"Thank you, Uncle," you say softly, interrupting his contemplation. "I will treasure it."
His eyes flicker up. He smiles, moving closer to you and grasping for the chain held loosely in your hand. "Lift your hair for me, riñītsos."
You oblige, shifting your hair up and to the side and turning away obediently so that he may have an unhindered view of your neck. The chain swings softly, settling into the hollow of your throat. Daemon is hot at your back, and the scent of sun-warm leather and spice tickles your senses as he fastens the clasp. It slides down slightly when he settles it against your skin, and you shiver as his fingers trail against the fuzz of hairs at your nape.
"Lovely," he whispers.
He is near enough that the sensation of exhaled breath whistles across the raised skin of your upper back, just barely concealed by the neckline of your gown. You drop your hair, startled.
"Princess," calls Ser Criston.
You cringe internally when you realise the scene he is like to think he has come across, but make no move to distance yourself from your uncle. That would be an admission of guilt, and—technically—nothing of note has occurred; a family member giving a family member a gift, nothing more or less.
The knight stands at the garden entry, face blank with the staunch professionalism you have grown accustomed to since Alicent assigned him to your service years ago. "Your sister looks for you."
"Which one?" you ask, casually collecting your things—placing the book into the light pack you use to carry precious items to and from your favourite leisure spots—as you speak. You elect to ignore Daemon, who has not moved from his place behind you. "I have two."
"The elder," Ser Criston answers stiffly.
You know he dislikes Rhaenyra greatly, though have not yet learned the reason. All of your attempts to subtly glean this information from him—and from your sister, and even from Alicent and Papa—has been met with naught but avoidance or placid redirection. It has something to do with the death of Ser Joffrey at Rhaenyra's wedding, but you had been preoccupied by trailing after your disappearing uncle at the time. Thus, you had only ever heard rumours and hearsay of the event.
He clears his throat, startling you. "She is waiting in her solar for you."
"I will go now, then," you say, pulling the strap of your pack over your shoulder and standing.
You turn back to your uncle, still seated; he is the very picture of roguish disregard, settled comfortably on the grass, without a care. You envy him—what it must be like, to be a man in a man's world. You cast about for the right word to denote this time with your uncle. You cannot say 'enjoy', for this entire exchange has been too confusing for you to claim any delight in. In a way, you suppose, you have welcomed this window into a man from nebulous recollections of girlhood, from stories told at court and fond reminiscences of Rhaenyra.
"Thank you, Uncle. I have—appreciated your company."
"Take care, niece," is all that he says in response, eyes glittering with mischief and mysterious intent.
You wonder what he is up to as you walk to Ser Criston, out of the garden and toward your sister's rooms. How confusing.
The bed shifts, breaking you from your musings. You turn upright to face your interrupter. Daemon is seated on the edge of the mattress, looking down upon you. He is already dressed in a doublet of sable damask over a burgundy shirt, his pale hair neatly pulled back, as princely as always.
"Good morrow, Uncle," you say uncertainly, unsure as to how you will be received. You have been intimate with his body—he has been inside you—but you do not know his mind.
The corner of his mouth quirks. "Sȳz ñāqes, dōnus riñus." Good morning, sweet girl.
You blush as you recall his words from the previous night. Sh, little girl. His hand comes to rest on your head, brushing the hair from your eyes, stroking down the back of your neck. It feels safe—it feels almost paternal.
"How did you sleep?" he asks.
"Well, I think," you say. Truthfully, you have no idea—it is too early to tell. It is only polite to ask him the same. "How was your rest?"
"My slumber was... gratifying." He pauses, and the innuendo is obvious. Your eye twitches lightly. "I always sleep deeply after thorough exertion."
He is teasing you now, and you sit up to escape the feeling that he is looming over you. His hand drops to the outline of your waist beneath the sheets.
You falter as he turns further to face you, leans in. "I'm—glad."
"Do I make you nervous, little girl?" he murmurs, cheek against the shell of your ear. His voice thrums through your skull, almost like a cat's purr. His hand presses tighter against your covered body.
You nod. You have always been possessed of a contradictory nature. The curiosity of youth and a keen desire to understand new things had overridden any lingering uneasiness over the act of coupling itself the previous night, your anxieties focused more on the prospect of performing for your father and his councilmen, for Rhaenyra and Laenor and Alicent. But direct confrontation is hardly your strong suit, and the authoritarian presence of your husband hovering over you in your marital bed feels like a battle to be fought.
Daemon laughs, mouth upturned in a cynical smirk. "You are sweet, aren't you?"
His lips surge against yours, and his calloused palm is hot against the flesh of your throat as he controls the angle of your head. The motion itself is threatening—but it feels warm, safe with his hand there, taking your control, letting him lead you where he would.
He parts from you abruptly, his face just inches before yours.
"Fuck," he says quietly. He grins apologetically at you when you look upon him with concern, tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. "It isn't a good idea to start something we cannot finish," he explains.
You don't understand—you had been enjoying that.
"But why?" you ask, pressing your lips together to force away the tingling sensation his kiss has left upon them.
"Eager, too." He smirks. "My, haven't I won myself a prize?" The flattery warms you. "Nonetheless, it would not be wise to press my husbandly rights upon my freshly broken-in bride. I don't want to pain you further."
You redden at his crass reference to last night's activities.
He pulls away from you, standing and turning to you. He holds his arm to you, palm up, inviting you to take his hand. "Besides—my brother has requested our presence in the King's solar, to break our fast with our beloved family. Though," he adds, his tone shifting to humour as he helps you from the bed, "I suppose I can start calling him 'goodfather' now. That should annoy him endlessly, and provide me with the entertainment I've been lacking."
You wince as the pains from last night make themselves obvious, balking at the joke—it had not occurred to you that your father is now your goodbrother, too. What a mess.
You resist the urge to sigh as Daemon makes good on his goal to irritate your father upon entering the solar, arm clasped tightly with yours.
"Happy morning, goodfather!" he says, leading you to the table and pulling out a chair for you.
Rhaenyra snorts across from you; Papa sighs. Your uncle tucks you in before claiming the chair next to yours, pulling himself closer and already taking his selection of the fruits, cheeses and cold meats laid out.
"Brother." The King's greeting is gritted out through clenched teeth. He turns to you, much warmer. "Daughter. Did you sleep well?"
You ignore Aegon snickering down the other end of the table; he has been glancing at you oddly since you arrived. You do your best to ignore him as usual.
"Yes," is your response.
"Good."
The conversation lulls. No one has anything to say.
How does one converse with the people that watched me couple with my uncle in my marriage bed?
"The wedding was so lovely." Helaena interrupts the discomfort. "Everything was so extravagant, even the food! And you looked perfect together."
You are overcome with grateful affection for your sister—you know not if she has piped up in ignorance of the aura permeating the room, or if she has made a deliberate move to break the stand-still that has overtaken your family. Helaena exists often within her own world, ethereal and strange, but she is not ignorant; she uses it to her advantage from time to time.
"Thank you, Princess," Daemon says to her. He turns to you, winking. "I happen to think we're well-suited together, also."
Aegon snickers again. You blush.
"I hope my wedding someday is as lovely as yours was." Helaena sighs.
Alicent has been watching you and Daemon with narrowed eyes, silent and judging. She reassures her daughter from beside the King. "Of course it will be."
"It is particularly delightful to have a royal wedding without any... unfortunate displays," Laenor says weakly, sandwiched between Rhaenyra and young Lucerys. The jest falls flat; ten years, and the court still remembers the horror of Joffrey Lonmouth being beaten to death by Ser Criston Cole at the royal heir's wedding.
"Yes." Rhaenyra is uncharacteristically quiet, though she smiles reassuringly at you when you look upon her in question. "Delightful."
"And were the proceedings afterward delightful, sister?" Aegon asks. He has finally decided to speak what is on his mind. You can hardly believe he would ask such a question, and then you remember who he is. Of course he would.
"Excuse me?" Your refuse to address the insinuation without direct confirmation.
"I heard it was an entertaining spectacle, 'tis all," he says, leering. You stare in shock. He would dare say such a thing in front of everyone? "I heard you were particularly—"
"Is everything in order, then?" Your uncle turns abruptly to your father. The King hums in question, eyes fixed upon his meal; with only one hand, he must focus on his plate to ensure the food does not fly off as he pierces the morsels with his fork. "The bedding. Everything to you and your Council's satisfaction?"
The King coughs on his grape. Alicent is already moving to refill his goblet of wine, rubbing his back and pressing the cup to his mouth. Your father pushes her away gently, clearing his throat. "Ahem—yes."
"Good. I do hope you've not thrown away the sheets." Daemon's words are acerbic. You sit silently beside him, looking down at your plate, wishing you were not in the room. "I'd like them back, I think—a souvenir for an evening well-spent."
You long desperately for the chair to swallow you whole.
"Kepus," you hiss. What a vulgar thing to say.
"My apologies, wife," he says instantly, his hand coming to rest over your own clasped on the edge of the table, your knuckles white with the force of your grip. You relax despite yourself. "That was indelicate of me."
Your family resumes the meal, the only noises in the room being the scrapes of utensils across plates and the sound of eating. Then Aegon pipes up again.
"I assume you will be travelling with Rhaenyra to Dragonstone, Uncle." Aegon's eyes glitter with ill intent. "Now that she is leaving."
You have heard all about this—Alicent has complained to your father yet again about the long-standing conflict between her sons and Rhaenyra's, carefully ignoring the role Aegon often plays in joining his nephews in teasing Aemond. Evidently, Rhaenyra has decided to depart the capital for the ancestral seat of the Targaryens. You frown lightly at Aegon's question. It is loaded with unspoken intimation, and you think he means to imply that your sister and your uncle are... well.
"Why ever would I do that, nephew?" Daemon's reply is too polite. "My wife hasn't informed me of any wish to accompany Rhaenyra."
"I did not know she was intending to depart so soon," you say quietly.
"You are welcome to come with us," Laenor offers, brightening. He would enjoy sparring with your uncle in peace, you think.
"Of course," your sister echoes.
Aegon grins nastily. "I do hope you and Lord Laenor are well-versed in entertaining yourselves, sister. It is clear to see why our uncle thought marrying you was such a good idea—you and Rhaenyra are so close."
"You ought to watch your mouth, boy." Your uncle's voice cuts across Aegon's. His disposition is relaxed, but you can tell this is a carefully-crafted display; there is an undercurrent of danger about him, and the rest of your party is tense in their silence as they look on in witness. "Lest something unfortunate should occur to your tongue."
"That's enough!" your father snaps, banging his remaining fist against the wood of the table. "Let us have one—one—meal in peace, damn it all!"
Your husband wisely chooses to resume eating. Aegon does the same, though his petulant expression and glares at Daemon and yourself across the table make you all too aware that this is not over.
Wonderful.
"Why did you marry me?"
You are safely ensconced in your chambers once more, and Ceryse and Senna have readied a bath. You had sunk in appreciatively, eager to wash away the remnants of last night—the fluids and dried blood that have coalesced in the crevices down below, chafing uncomfortably as you had walked to and from the King's solar—and the crawling sensation that had settled upon you during that awful meal. It was not until you had heard the scrape of chair upon stone and opened your relaxed eyes to see Daemon had settled himself behind you on a stool, goblet of wine placed on the table beside the tub, solicitously gathering your hair and winding it up so that it would not become wet.
"You oughtn't listen to that twat of a brother of yours," Daemon says shortly.
He grabs the soap and cloth, gently beginning to wash the skin of your neck and upper back, so often hard to reach without help from your ladies. You suppose a husband would work just as well in this endeavour.
"Please," is your entreaty.
Am I just a replacement for Rhaenyra? A way to get close to her? The words are stuck in your throat, and you do not have the courage to bring them forth. You know you will not avoid this conversation forever—but it can wait for now.
He sighs; pauses; his brow furrows in thought. You would be embarrassed at the way his eyes fall on your form, distorted by the water but bared to his view nonetheless—however, it is clear that he is not actually looking at you in this moment.
You turn more fully to him, and wait for him to consider his words. Silence reigns for a time.
"As a young man, I lived for... violence, chaos. I sought it in the battles I pursued, in the whores I fucked, the games I played at court. I enjoyed a certain senselessness in the people I surrounded myself with. But I am older now; wiser, too."
He sighs, leaning forward to grasp his goblet from its place on the table beside the bath. He takes a swig of his wine, coughing lightly. He returns to his previous task, now running the soapy cloth down your arms. You oblige him by lifting your arms for his roaming hand and then immersing them in the water, rinsing away the lather.
You barely breathe, fearful of shattering this spell. It is the most you have ever heard him talk and speak something real.
He continues. "I've grown weary of it—the vicious cycle of fighting and drinking and fucking without a damn for anyone or anything. Of... chaos, and destruction. But you." He looks up at your face, eyes luminous. "You are bright, and beautiful, and good. Unspoiled. I look at you and I see... hope. The promise of something better. A future where I can be happy."
You are suddenly desperately sad for this man, your husband; the longing in his voice for that unknown contentment is so palpable you feel it worm its way into your throat, settling to an ache in your chest. He sounds lonely, and you can understand that feeling. Caught between two sides of a family conflict, you have been alone in weathering the storm of Alicent and Rhaenyra's bitter feud, too old to play a part in the domesticity Alicent has created with your father and her children, a family unfractured by circumstance—and too young to understand why. It eases you somehow, that this was not a confession of a love that could not possibly have grown in so short a time. You are immeasurably thankful to him. It would have been easy for him to lay thick pretty words of ardent devotion and tender adoration.
You do not have his love, and nor had you been expecting it—but you could be his happiness.
You lay your hand over his, where it rests on the edge of the tub. You look at your hands, your smaller one laid over his, as he turns his palm up. Your fingers clasp together softly.
"I will make you happy, valzȳrys," you whisper. Husband.
It is a promise.
"I know you will, sweetling." He smiles at you, at your words, spoken in that soft, shy voice, the steel undercurrent of your oath contradicting the childish innocence of the pronouncement. "And I'll do my very best to deserve that—and you."
You sit for a while in the tepid bath water, your husband holding your hand, saying nothing.
It is not love, not yet. It could be.
It will be.