THE PRINCESS
You leave under the cover of darkness.
So scattered and stunned are you that you do not think to question being roused by a wide-eyed Bethany and dressed by a yawning Jeyne, led slowly from your chambers with Daeron all but nodding off at your side, conveyed down the stairs and out to the courtyard where Daemon and the wheelhouse await. The particulars seem unimportant. You drowse on his shoulder all the way to the harbour, where the ship is docked and ready. When you are brought aboard and borne to your quarters for the journey, you fall immediately back to sleep.
It is as though some kind of spell has lifted when you awaken once again. You blink as you take in your surroundings: the wood-grain slats spanning up the walls and along the ceiling in shades of tawny richness; the light streaming brightly through the windows adorned with damask curtains of crimson, in complement to the vast rug of Targaryen red and black rolled across the floor; and the subtle signs of Daemon's presence, from the overcoat carelessly tossed across the back of a chair to Dark Sister placed in her sheath on the table, belt and all. It is the first time in days that you truly see the world around you.
There is something cursed about the capital, you muse absently to yourself. Something strange and unnatural that seeks to steal the joy from all who enter it.
You startle slightly at the sound of your name. "You frightened me."
Truthfully, you are more than a little relieved to have Daemon in your presence, wanting little else but the surety of your husband by your side. He smiles as he approaches, gentle steps rather than the strident thud of boots against the floor that you are so used to. Your mournful mood has unnerved him greatly.
Poor, poor kepa.
"How do you feel?" he asks, obligingly slotting a hand behind your back as you struggle to pull yourself upright. You wince at the catch and snarl of fabric over your nipples, the sensation of something sticky being ripped from flesh too quickly, sharp and stinging. At the sight of your grimace and the sound of your frustrated huffs as you try and fail to find a comfortable position to sit in, he settles himself along the pillows behind you and coaxes you to lean back against him. He is warm and firm and smells of all the things you love, of smoke and leather and something intrinsically masculine and safe. His lips find the shell of your ear. "Hm?"
You had forgotten to answer. "I am well," you say.
Grabbing for his hand, you lead him to the place where one of the babes has decided to make themselves known, kicking indignantly out at the side of your belly from within. He laughs at the sensation, pressing back against the assault and engaging in a tussle with the audacious little rascal.
You elbow him gently, frowning up at him. "Do not encourage his behaviour, kepus! He is being terribly rude."
"She's just being her father's daughter, little girl." Using his free hand to cradle beneath your chin, he leans down to kiss you. It is a soft brush of lips upon lips, barely there, the heat of his thumb tracing a line across your jaw. His eyes glow like vivid spring in the morning sun, vivid beneath his browbone. "No harm in that."
"They are both free to be their father's children after they come into the world," you say, though it is more of a whisper than anything else. "Not while they can use my insides as target practice."
"Of course." It sounds distinctly mocking, but not quite insulting. You roll your eyes.
With the heaviness of your middle making it taxing enough to move about on land, it seems all but impossible to take the fresh air while on board a steadily rocking ship. Thus, Ūlla decrees that you are to stay abed for the sennight's voyage back to your island home. The thought of hauling your body—rife with aches and pains across your spine, your chest, your knees, and swelling unpleasantly at the ankles—around such unstable terrain sounds positively exhausting, and so you submit to her directive with little fuss. You cannot claim boredom, however, for your temporary apartments are a revolving door of visitors come to break up the monotony of each day.
Your new ladies are a near constant presence, which provides you the opportunity to get to know them better. It had grieved you greatly to dismiss Senna, especially so soon after the passing of Miriam, but you knew you could not keep someone capable of such treachery in your service. You had asked Helaena to make enquiries to the court; Bethany and Jeyne were the very first parties to express their enthusiasm for the role. Being from minor Houses, their families bear no particular allegiance in the strife between Green and Black. Your initial meeting with the girls proved them to be every bit as guileless and courteous as you would have hoped.
Mayhaps they are a little dull, you think as you listen to them chatter about the new gowns their fathers had paid for as going-away presents, but there is time to remedy that.
You are gladdened to have Ser Alton also make an appearance, scarred and limping heavily with the use of a cane. He will remain in your service, perhaps as guard to your babes' nursery when the time comes. Whatever use Daemon finds for him, you are insistent that he be given a worthy stipend for the remainder of his life, though it will be but a mere pittance compared to his great sacrifice. You feel guilty when he grins at your pronouncement of this, for he would not be in such a predicament were it not for you.
You cast the thought aside. What is done is done.
Daeron is your favourite guest of all, though. He reads to you in halting Valyrian, childish cadence shaping around unfamiliar sounds. Though he struggles so, his stubborn perseverance is adorable. He babbles about the 'tricks' Athfiezar has taken to the skies to perform, your boy dutifully flying back and forth from his roost to observe your progress home. Your heart aches at the fact that you are missing his little routine, that you are unable to get up and see him as you have craved since first hearing his almighty caterwauling from the highest parapet of the Red Keep, your devoted mount always protecting you from afar. But mostly, your young brother lays about with you, cheek to your belly so that he can feel the babes' kicks upon his skin.
"Ouch!" He jerks back, glaring at your middle and looking so comically outraged that you cannot help but to laugh. "That one hurt!"
"I am sure they did not mean to," you say, hand reaching forth to card through his hair fondly. "They just want to say 'hello'."
In truth, the sensation is inexplicable. You understand now why it is so difficult for mothers to describe it to one who has not experienced the same. At times, it feels as though your body has become a host to something foreign and frightening, an arcane entity that saps your energy and threatens to burst out from within. But you are strangely relieved by the oddness of it, the bruising signs of lives that are thriving in spite of all that has occurred.
"There're better ways to say that," Daeron mutters, bringing you forth from your musing as he returns to his previous position. His next words are muffled into your gown, the sounds vibrating through to your skin and making you giggle. "Be gentle, baby."
When you arrive on the shores of Dragonstone, it takes everything within you not to cry at the familiar sight of sharp stone contours looming from grey mist, the salt and smoke in the air filling your nostrils with the scent of home. You have missed this place more than you realised. You are guided from the ship to the rowboat to the shore by Daemon and Harwin both, the latter taciturn to the extreme since the discovery of his brother's crimes. He cannot be faulted for this. You convey what gratitude you can in your silence, leaving him to his thoughts. The sway of the boat makes you queasy, and you are forced to a standstill upon reaching the dock so that you may bend as far as you are able to retch into the sea.
Daemon does his best to soothe you, patting your hip as you grip tightly to his arm for balance. "The worst is over, sweetling. There we go."
"Ugh." You wipe the bile from your mouth with the back of your hand. "Never again. Never—never again."
He chuckles. "If you say so. Hardly a loss. I've always fucking hated sea travel."
You side-eye him irritably. How infuriating he is with that grin stretched joyously across his face, his silver hair ruffling in the wind, expression gleaming with amusement and something wicked.
He is so handsome, you think. You despise him. No, I do not. I cannot.
Suddenly, there is a voice on the wind. You hear your name being called, high and frantic. You cast your gaze down the dock to see a cream-and-scarlet shape advancing quickly toward you, pale hair white and streaming in the weak light. Rhaenyra.
"Sister!"
She is wan and tearful when she reaches you, all but barrelling into you and folding her arms around your shoulders. The smell of her perfume—of jasmine and sandalwood and childhood and simplicity—transports you to another time, a time when you were small and she was so big and not just in stature, but in temperament too, and her embrace was the safest place in the whole entire world. In this moment, you cannot recall why you ever had cause to feel anger, why you had not spoken to her in what feels now like an age. You have missed her, you have missed her and she is with you and all is right and good. All the rest is ash and dust upon the breeze.
"I am here," you murmur into her shoulder, or perhaps you weep it, tears wetting the fabric of her gown and belly crushed to hers. "I am home."
"I wanted to come, but Father..." Rhaenyra's nostrils flare.
It is a profound relief to find yourself in familiar chambers, the rooms where you feel safe and most at ease. Little has changed. The same grim dark walls stand etched with screaming dragons above a stately bedframe swathed in wine-dark velvet, the same bookshelves are stacked with tomes shared between you and your uncle, the same balcony carved from stone is lit by the setting sun. The babes' eggs remain warmed in their braziers by the hearth, chasing the chill from the room and bringing a merry glow with the crackling flames. You take this all in from your place on the chaise.
"I know," you say quietly, uncertainly. Despite the fact that your hand is clutched in hers and her eyes are ringed red and raw with worry, you do not quite know where you stand. "Daemon told me."
She had tried to bully her way to King's Landing, or so you had been told. Having both witnessed and been on the receiving end of her temper, you do not envy the poor souls who had been made to inform the Princess that she could not mount Syrax to venture forth to your aid.
That she had made such fuss is encouraging, you think. A sister who means to break ties would not threaten to have her staff executed or destroy countless priceless artifacts or scream loud enough to wake the dragons on the other side of the island in her desperation to come to you.
Rhaenyra's grip tightens to the point of pain, her eyes shadowing with malcontent and the polychromatic thunder of untapped wrath.
"I cannot believe Larys fucking Strong. That he is capable of such—such—" She cuts herself off after a glance at you, huffing in lieu of what would no doubt have been an impressive string of profanities. Shaking her head, the corners of her lips curve up weakly. "I'm surprised Uncle allowed the cunt to live. And Father's sent ravens, you know—he's rather put out by the manner in which you left."
From what you have gathered, Daemon had readied your household with extreme discretion, taking only days to collect what he deemed essential so that he may deliver you from the city without so much as a by-your-leave in the earliest hours. Save for a cursory message passed along to the servants, there was no proclamation made of your departure to the King or the court.
"Yes, well." What arrogance he has to be wroth after the manner he had discarded my right to justice! "As for Lord Larys... I do not think Daemon intends to let the matter lie," you say. "He is going to... well, I do not know, exactly. I did not ask. I just—wanted to come home."
At that, her countenance lightens. "I'm glad you're back," she says, as though it is some great secret wrested from deep within her. You could have guessed such from the way she is looking at you like you are returned from beyond the veil.
And yet, it makes you frown. "Are you?" you ask, the memory of the garden threading through your mind, that terrible argument that had shaken the foundations of your bond with your sister.
You can almost hear her echoing words again, vicious and biting. You don't even realise how spoiled you are.
Rhaenyra closes her eyes and swallows, and you catch the faint shakiness to the exhalation that follows as she prepares to answer you. She extricates herself from your hold, though it carries no air of rejection, and gazes pensively down at her lap where her hands now lay. You notice that she is turning the ring upon her middle finger with her thumb over and over. She is nervous, you realise. You wonder how it is possible that you are able to elicit such uncertainty in one so unwavering. She suddenly scoffs, though from the brooding set of her brow you suppose she directs this to none but herself. "I'm sorry," she finally says. "I—hated myself the moment I said those awful things..."
"Why?" This is far kinder than she had been last time you spoke. You do not want to incite her displeasure now. "Why were you so cruel to me?"
As the days have passed, you have found this to be the query of paramount importance. It is not as though you had not known her capable of rage. She is a creature of passion, of fire, and she had rained flames down upon you for a reason. But you cannot—will not—accept the blame for it.
"I was angry. Jealous, even." Rhaenyra sighs at the expression on your face. "I know. It's horrible of me."
You are sure you appear every bit as bewildered as you feel. "But why? You're Rhaenyra."
"And you're very sweet, darling." A beat, then two; she hesitates, staring past you for a moment before refocusing, eyes returning to yours with steely resolve. "You... you know that Laenor is not like—other men. He prefers those of a... particular persuasion. Of which I am not."
Here, she pauses. You grasp for her hand again, squeezing encouragingly. She takes a breath. "We tried. Of course we did," she says. "But no child would come. I needed heirs if I was to ascend the Iron Throne one day. So, I... sought assistance elsewhere."
"Harwin."
She flushes at your prompt declaration, glancing down. "Yes, Harwin. And he's been good to me. They were both good to me. He and Laena."
It grieves you still to hear your cousin's name, but you keep yourself from lingering overlong upon the thought of dark skin and silver coils and merry laughter.
A wry, pained sort of smile curves Rhaenyra's lips as she speaks, drawing you further into the present. "But I always knew—I've always known, in the back of my mind, that the gossip is true," she says. Her eyes shine like polished glass, but you know she will not break. "My sons are the best part of my life, but they are not Laenor's. Everyone sees it. Everyone knows it. It's so... draining, living that lie."
Your sister is a proud woman. After having spent so many years denying your nephews' illegitimacy to the court, the people, the Greens, to Father, to the gods themselves, it must be dreadful indeed to admit to this truth, even if it is only to you.
"And you..."
She lifts her chin to look at you, forehead wrinkling with the drawing together of her brows. Her tone is not quite accusatory, though the hurt of past wounds brings a weak rise of defensiveness rushing over you. You pull away slightly.
Her countenance gentles. "You have a husband who can give you children. Children whose blood will never be questioned, never be whispered about or mocked or insulted. No one will ever dare accuse you of being a whore. I... It finally became too much for me."
You do not feel guilty for your response to Rhaenyra's malice, for the venom you had voiced in that argument from what seems like so many moons ago now. Despite this, you cannot help but to pity her.
'Tis the folly of youth to think her unmoved by the slander bandied about across the Realm, you chide yourself. You ought to have considered this. "I did not know," you whisper, regret bitter and tickling in the back of your throat. "I didn't realise. I thought—"
'I thought you wanted my husband.' You let the implication hang in the air. A swooping sensation in your gut heralds the uncomfortable reminder that you still—still—have not told him of this argument.
"Yes." She nods, anticipating the statement before it has even been made. "And I told you before, when first you were wed. That prospect died long ago. I have no need for Daemon." She rolls her eyes as though the idea of desiring your uncle is some great folly. You might be insulted on his behalf were it not for the relief that it brings. "None of this was your fault. My own recklessness has led me here, I realise that. I know I do not deserve it, but... please. You're my sister. If there is anyone I need, it is you. Please forgive me."
"Oh, 'Nyra." Your belly gets in the way, forcing you to contort awkwardly to the side as you move to wrap your arms around her. Her chin falls to the dip between your neck and shoulder, her laugh gusting across exposed skin at the sensation of the babe that is snugged between you kicking out against her body. You giggle with her, angling yourself toward her ear so that she may hear you fully. "Next time you are feeling this way, talk to me. Stop shutting me out. I can handle it, I'm old enough now—"
"I know, I know." Tugging out of your embrace, she lets her hands fall to your middle.
It is the first time she has truly felt the change in you of her own volition. You remember when you had forced her to touch the burgeoning swell upon first announcing the lives you bear, how reluctant and feather-light her palm had felt, how the strain had unveiled itself at the corners of her eyes and in the weak tilt of her mouth as you had chattered at her in excitement.
"Gods," she says, fingers mapping the span of flesh in interest, "but you truly are a woman grown now, aren't you? Look at this!"
"They are already unruly. I feel as though I am perpetually seated in the privy, such is their insistence on entertaining themselves with my insides."
And once my ablutions are complete, you think ruefully, I am not capable of seeking other locales until someone deigns to find me and help me up. It had not been the best task with which to induct your new ladies—but needs must.
"They're strong. That's good. Father must have been pleased."
"Hm."
"I'd love to have seen the look on Alicent's face when she first saw you."
You shift uncomfortably at the mention of your stepmother. I do not wish to think about her. Not here, not now.
Rhaenyra does not seem to notice your recalcitrance, persisting along her chosen avenue of oration. "She never could stand it whenever I announced another babe. Worried about her precious Aegon, no doubt..." She stops. "What? What's wrong?"
"I—I—"
At the sight of her concern, so warm and welcome after moons of silence and avoidance, your terrible secret spills forth like water breaking through a dam, unstoppable, rushing torrentially and obliterating everything in its path. You trip over your confession in your haste to get it out, to purge yourself of the burden of carrying it alone.
When you are done, the stillness lingers unnaturally, so quiet that you can almost hear the sound of your blood pumping through your veins.
"Alicent—she... what?" Rhaenyra's eyes are wide, horrified, face blanched.
"Yes—do tell."
You turn to see Daemon standing in the open doorway to your chambers, stiffer than the draconic stone carvings that man the entrances to the Keep. Scarcely stemmed rage emerges thunderous beneath the cracks in his control. It seems to vibrate out of him like the dust that quivers on the air after Athfiezar's landing, deceptively calm until you look closer. The forbidding cross of his arms and the violence that looms in the shadow beneath his brow is enough to tell you without risking inquiry that he has heard you. Has heard everything.
Oh. Your heart twists anxiously. Oh, dear.
"I—"
Speak, for the gods' sake, you urge yourself, but the sounds refuse to shape themselves into words. Your mettle has fled, leaving you all but a quailing child sitting silent before her elders, awaiting the burn of remonstration.
He advances like a soldier upon enemy territory. "Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps my little wife did not just say that that whore of a Queen has been dosing her with moon tea since who fucking knows when. Perhaps I've been struck with madness, or I'm hearing things."
The last time he was this angry with you...
A blast of inappropriate hilarity washes through your mind as you consider it. Does the instance where you had ignored him for days and danced with Lord Serrett at Helaena's wedding count? He had certainly been rather put out. You are unsure if it matches with the near tangible ferocity contorting his face into something bestial, barely suppressed and weathering severe hollows into his forehead.
He is already cross, you think. I could tell him about the fight with Rhaenyra. You have been meaning to. Now seems as good an occasion as any.
"Daemon—" Your sister jumps in her seat when he barks at her.
"Quiet!" he hisses, rounding back on you.
You discard your notion, deciding to not to bother divulging that particular secret here. Another time, then. No need to send him to his grave early. He is positively apoplectic. It cannot possibly be good for his heart.
"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" he asks. "I'm your husband! You don't answer to Rhaenyra. You answer to me!"
"Excuse me—"
"I wanted to prevent bloodshed," you say, cutting your sister off. You reach for the arm of the chaise, preparing yourself for the arduous task of rising from such a low surface. You keep your voice soft and light like one who is soothing an agitated stallion. "Kepus—"
He lets out a humourless chuckle, scowling and derisive. Standing in the middle of the room, he makes no move to close in upon you. You think you might prefer it if he would.
"Oh, so you're protecting her? Excellent." He laughs again, wild, as though it is a great joke. "She's murdered how many of our ba—"
You watch him break off at the end, swallowing convulsively.
"Shit." His eyes are bright and his teeth grind together beneath closed lips. "I cannot even say the words, and yet you're defending her? You'd better have—"
"I was not protecting her!"
Grunting, you gratefully accept Rhaenyra's mutely offered arm of support to hoist yourself up, her other hand pushing against your back. Daemon steps forward, arm outstretched as though to assist you in place of your sister, a rote movement borne from days and weeks of doing the same. It is not needed. The business of getting to your feet winds you for a moment, the uncomfortable bend of your upper half forcing the babes into your lungs and the breath from your body.
"I was protecting us!" You rub your belly with a grimace. "I was protecting you!"
"Protecting me?" He hangs frozen, fingers twitching. A battle rages plain upon his visage. He wars between the need to cosset and the desire to castigate, your loving, hot-tempered dragon of a man.
Sensing a shift in his disposition—or even a fissure through which you may slip through to gentle him with sweet words and a light touch—you make your tentative approach. "I know you," you say, wincing with each step as the weight pulls low in your spine. It is becoming far too difficult to move about in your current state. "If I had told you when I first found out, you would have slaughtered her."
"Too fucking right, I would have—"
"Stop. Listen to me." You lay your palm on his chest. He tenses under the contact, then releases, much larger hand coming up to blanket yours against his body. His chin dips down, eyes closing and brows contracting as though in great pain. "You would have stopped at nothing to take her life in recompense for... for what she has done. You would have killed her. And what then? The Queen dead, and the slayer in close quarters. Papa would have had no choice but to take your head for it."
You drop your volume low, too low for Rhaenyra to hear, letting bitterness suffuse your hushed tone. "Only a King can kill a Queen, after all."
It is an old hurt, a terror from so young an age that you had scarcely the words to describe what it was you dreaded.
Mama, whimpers the small, frightened girl locked away in the corner of your mind, snivelling to the echo of dimpled cheeks and crinkled eyes in the barest shape of a woman, a shade of a memory. Is this stabbing pain in my chest what betrayal feels like? Is this how you felt when Father held you down and let them cut you apart? Must I forever wish, hope, pray that he will choose me for once?
You shake your head. This is not the time nor place for such thoughts.
"And I... I would be alone. With child. Forced to contend with the world as a widow not yet twenty summers old. Without you. Without my kepa." A sharp, plaintive tremor colours your cadence, fear of the picture you paint too real and near to remain impassive. "And do you think Papa would allow his second daughter to remain unmarried with the others wed, even with a womb already full? I was protecting you. I am not sorry for it. I am only sorry that I had not yet had the occasion to tell you myself."
The world is still as he absorbs what you have said, gaze stormy and troubled and not quite meeting your own. Then, Daemon leans down, presses his forehead to yours, and you believe in this instant that the worst of it is over.
But he bears down harder, and for several moments it is too much, too forceful, and his hand upon your cheek feels less like love and more like punishment, stinging, branding. He shoves himself from you bodily. Taking deep, shuddering breaths, he strides away with his back to you.
"Daemon?"
"I—I cannot," he says, so low that at first you are unsure if you heard it. He does not turn to meet your stare, just tosses the words over his shoulder like you are someone unimportant, distant and detached.
This is not rage, you realise. This is something else. This is worse.
"We'll speak later." With that, he walks to the door, out, footsteps echoing along the hall outside, fainter, fainter, until they are wholly gone.
The first thing you proceed to do after Daemon's exit is invite Ser Lorent into the room.
You had not expected him to accompany you to Dragonstone, given the self-evident vocation of a Kingsguard to swear himself to the highest man in the Realm. However, he refused to return to his Commander upon discovering Daemon's intent to take you home, being entirely possessed of the belief that it was his sacred duty to defend those whom the King deems fit. Given that your father had named him your shield in the wake of Ser Alton's maiming and had not un-named him, it seems he had little desire to forsake this assignation when learning of your impending change in locales.
"Please make sure that my husband is not allowed to take to the skies," you tell the knight, ignoring the sound of Rhaenyra murmuring your name behind you. "He is not to mount Caraxes today."
He frowns. "With all due respect, Princess," he says slowly, "I don't think I am the one to tell Prince Daemon that—"
You wave him off impatiently. "I am the second-born of King Viserys. He is the brother of the King. Tell me, Ser—which of these is the higher station?"
It is a crass comparison to make, but effective. Ser Lorent's countenance smooths and he sighs, genuflecting before you in recognition of your case. He offers a cursory farewell and a solemn vow that 'it will be done', spinning on heeled boot to march himself off to his task. His golden armour gleams with each movement of limb.
"Sister." Rhaenyra is insistent.
You turn to her with as patient a countenance as you can muster. She is pallid, carved out to her core, and it plays out in the abrupt weathering of her face, supple-skinned youth mirroring the bone-deep weariness of a thousand summers past. Making your way to her, you decide not to risk sitting on the seat this time. Instead, you lean against the arm of the chair, from which lifting yourself will be a far easier undertaking to perform.
"Alicent is not—the Alicent I knew was not so vile as this," she says numbly, frozen.
You reach out to lay your palm upon her hunched back, the river of moonlight spilling from her head catching soft between your fingers. Her gaze is far-off, like she is not truly seeing what is before her, instead watching a mirage from another time play out upon the stone floors of your chamber. She lets out a chuckle, but it sounds more like a cough or a sob.
"When I was a girl, all I wanted to do was fly away with her. Far away, where babes and Lords and thrones and kingdoms meant little. I think she would've done it if I truly asked it of her. She was my best friend. Sometimes I wonder..." Her voice fizzles like the flame that has burned down to the very last of the wick.
You hush her. "The Alicent you knew is gone. She is not the girl from your childhood, Rhaenyra, not anymore. She... she is something else. Warped."
"She is the Queen."
It is all you need to hear to know that she understands in a way so few do.
Power destroys the goodness in people, even those upon whom it is forced. The promise of it had turned Maegor to madness; had made your father a coward content to spurn the needs of his children for the sake of satisfying others; had created a villain of the woman who had once helped you learn your letters from history books. It is slow-eating poison consuming its prey, unseen, unnoticed, until it is far too late and the person it has claimed is no more.
Rhaenyra's expression changes as she sits up, nostrils flaring and skin tightening around her eyes, flinty and dark.
"For now. Not forever." You marvel at how something delivered in such hushed volume can sound so much like a proclamation. She looks to you, taking your hands in hers with a rancorous glimmer in her stare. "Lo Sīkudo Dārȳti jemēban, ziry gūrotrir mazemilza. Drīvī aemilā, kese kīvio isān." When I rule the Seven Kingdoms, she'll get what she deserves. You will have justice, I swear.
You nod shakily, the tightness in your gut easing. Truthfully, you had been unsure if she would support you after having ignored you for weeks. The attack had served at least one good purpose, you think. It does not bring you much joy to consider for all that has come to light in its wake.
She leaves you with a kiss to the temple and a promise to return to your old routine. "I'll have dinner relocated to your solar until these two arrive," she says, stroking your cheeks with her thumbs and glancing down at your belly. "You won't have to go far, that way. Alright?"
You smile gratefully, acquiescing to her suggestion. Traversing the Keep in your condition just for the sake of a meal hardly seems worth it.
In the silence of your rooms, you contemplate searching for the caps you are stitching to protect the babes' heads in the cooler weather. They are among the luggage still being brought up from the ship, you remember. Damn.
You ponder upon seeking a tome from your solar next door—within which your ladies are currently installed for the sake of privacy with your sister—but you do not fancy carrying further weight for any measure of distance. Your books are far too heavy for the enterprise to be worth it. Sighing, you shuffle to the bed, always in eager anticipation of a nap to replenish the energy the twins sap for themselves.
Awakening an indeterminate amount of time later, you are bleary and fatigued, gown damp and back aching and stomach rumbling. Thankfully, your ladies seem to have ventured back into your rooms during your slumber.
"How long until the evening meal?" you ask through a yawn, using both arms to push yourself upright and bracing yourself for the rush of blood spotting your vision. You refocus a moment later upon the pair seated by the hearth, the fire lit and crackling merrily behind them.
They both startle lightly at the abruptness of your waking. "There are—some hours yet, Princess," Jeyne says nervously, eyes darting between you and Bethany.
I make her nervous, you realise. You do not wish to contend with fearful companions. Smiling, you try to settle her, though the learning of such unfortunate news as having to wait so long brings tears to your eyes. You are starved.
She begins to stammer at the sight. "If—If you'd like, I can ask for the kitchens to prepare you something small?"
"That would be lovely, Jeyne," you say, sure that the trails spilling down your cheeks coupled with the wide-set gleam of your teeth has only served to further frighten her. You must seem positively deranged.
You try to distract from the picture you make by requesting scones spread thick with honey and raspberry conserve, a staple in your diet as of late. The longing that arises at very thought of it speeds the trajectory of the moisture sliding down your face. You hurry to ensure she passes on a further request for honey-glazed goat with mashed turnips for supper.
I may just sprout black-and-yellow fuzz at this rate, you muse. You almost consider asking for a jar of honey to be brought with a spoon to consume by itself—but you are certain the imbibing of so much sweetness will only send you rushing to heave into a basin.
As Jeyne speeds off to fulfil the task you have set her, you turn to Bethany and petition her to arrange for a bath to be brought in. The relief at having something to do other than make stilted conversation with her new mistress appears to relax her greatly. She quite happily consents, placing her book of prayers upon her empty seat to make the necessary enquiries.
Soon enough, you are cleansed and steeped in warm water laced with milk and rose oil, leaning happily over the side of the tub to partake in the buttery desert. Your ladies leave you in peace after helping you into the bath before the hearth and scrubbing you down with soap, and so you are able to enjoy the simple joy of it without unfamiliar company to encumber you.
The scent of flowers and berries and floured goods swirl together in a haze of saccharine richness, calming you greatly and easing the last of your worries. Daemon could burst in this very moment and scream loud enough to be heard in the capital, and I do not think I would care overmuch.
You ought not to have.
"Looking rather pleased with yourself, aren't you?"
Eyes widening as you slosh about to face your uncle, you brace yourself for the fulfilment of your most recent deliberations. Instead, your gaze alights on his form leaning against the wall, relaxed in a manner that contradicts your suppositions. His lips curve at the display you make, crumbs strewn across the small table beside the bath and collected in the corner of your mouth. The smile does not reach his eyes.
"I was hungry," you say by way of explanation. "And sore."
"Hm." Daemon pushes himself forward, sauntering over at an unhurried pace. You watch him cautiously, attempting to gauge his mood through the mask of inscrutability. He reaches forward to—
"Hey!" You squawk in outrage as he swipes the last of your scones from the plate and lifts it to his lips, hand darting up to try and snatch it back.
"Ah-ah." He holds it up and out of your grasp. "Consider this payment for being barred from riding my own dragon this afternoon. Care to explain that?" His brow raises even as he stuffs the treat into his mouth, chewing smugly while you flail with indignation.
You pout up at him. "I was worried you would... fly to King's Landing," you say, scowling. To murder Alicent Hightower. The implication hangs heavy in the beat of silence after your sentence.
"I thought about it." Sucking the remnants of conserve from his thumb with obnoxious emphasis, he keeps his tone light, though it is belied by the piercing intensity of his stare. "I wasn't able to actually do anything, though, thanks to you."
"Good." That scone was mine. You sigh, resting your chin upon your hands over the rim of the tub. "I know you are angry—"
"Angry doesn't even begin to cover it." That performative gaiety in his voice persists, carrying with it the threat of heated censure should you misstep and say the wrong thing.
You swallow, measuring your words carefully as you grip onto his hand. "I know." You are encouraged when his fingers fold over yours. Despite the severity reflected in his eyes and the hard line of his lips, his touch is soft. "But you cannot touch her while she is Queen. When Father dies, Rhaenyra will rule, and then we can ensure that she will pay. Justice shall prevail, Daemon—when the time is right. Leave her be. Please?"
His hold tightens and he lets out a harsh breath, wrinkles forming between his brow as they contract. Peering up at him through your lashes, you wait. Then, a minute dip of his chin, a barely-there jerk of assent.
He does not like it, but he agrees.
"You shouldn't have kept it from me." There is no utterance of acquiescence. You had not expected it. His voice is low, cross, vibrating through your joined flesh, and the pale hairs on your arms stand upright at the sensation. "I shouldn't have had to eavesdrop on you to learn something this important."
"I know. I am sorry," you whisper.
He grunts. "I know you are."
"I will be truthful from now on."
"Good."
"And you will stop running from me each time we argue."
At this, he frowns. "I don't—"
"You do," you say firmly. "You get upset and walk out, and I have to sit about wondering where you are, if you are well, when or even if you intend on returning. I worry."
Daemon glances toward the fire pensively, clasp slackening around your hand. When his gaze returns to yours, it is serious, violet so deep that it is like lifting your head to look up at the night sky, profound and unknowable. "I'll try," he murmurs, palm ghosting over your cheek, callouses scratching comfortingly. "For you."
You allow the corners of your mouth to turn upward, cupping his hand with both of yours and turning your head to press your lips to his skin. He smells warm, like the salt-smoke of the isle and something earthy, wild. He smells like home.
You startle when he pulls away to fumble with the buttons on his doublet. "What are you doing?" you ask blankly.
"What does it look like?" Grinning, he tosses first his outerwear and then his undershirt to the floor. He kicks his boots off haphazardly, a movement so thoroughly ungainly that you cannot help but laugh as he stumbles a pace or two. He wiggles his brows, gesturing at you. "You've a large bath there. It so happens I'm in need of one, too."
You hesitate, glancing down at the opaque water, beneath which is your body thick with the weight of carrying two babes and scrawled dark with the evidence of skin forced to stretch too quickly. You do not feel attractive right now. "But—"
"But what? Are you in pain?" He stops for a moment with breeches at his knees, concerned, shaft half-plumped between his legs and ruddy with the rush of blood attending to its rise.
"No, I just—I am not at my most... inviting, currently."
"What utter shit." When he shucks off the rest of his clothing and bares his undressed form proudly, you bite your lip at the view, at wide shoulders and corded arms and firm thighs, skin swirled with old burns like a brand of savagery. He makes toward you. "Go on, there—there we go, sweetling. Ah"—he readjusts you to his liking, settling in before you—"not your usual temperature."
"I cannot have it hotter." You grumble as he tugs you to him, tilting you to the side so he can press his face to your bared neck. "The babes."
"Yes, don't want to roast the little dragons," he says, greedily caressing your belly below the water. His nose drags across your jaw. "Mm, you're soft. Smell good."
You shiver. "Daemon—"
"Nervous thing tonight, aren't you? A silly little girl with silly little thoughts."
He chuckles, mocking and mean, grasping at your wrist and drawing you down, down. His tongue laves a line up your throat even as he coaxes your fingers around his cock, using you to bring himself to full mast.
"Feel that? Fuck. Keep fucking going." His forehead presses to your temple, his length twitching in your grasp, iron, steel. "Doesn't feel like someone repulsed, does it?"
"No." Your eyes water, mortified and desperately aching. Why would I doubt him? Why is he not touching me ? Your breath comes quick like a rabbit's, puffed little exhales, frantic with desire.
"No," he says, roughly cupping and squeezing your breasts. You cry out, nipples tingling with a strange heaviness that you are unsure if painful or pleasurable. "Up"—he is already hoisting you by the waist—"show me your tits. There's a girl."
You gasp, scrabbling at his hair with your free hand as he dips down to swirl his tongue around a nipple, sweep the flat of it across your flesh, fix his lips over you and suck, hard pulls that shoot straight to your gut, pulsing. It feels good. It hurts. There is a tension climbing, climbing—
"Uh!" A foreign release clenches in your cunny and in your chest, not a climax but something intuitive, primordial, extending from your breast and radiating inward to the very heart of you.
Daemon pulls away with a noise of surprise. "How long has this been happening?" he asks lowly, quivering against you as though poised to strike, wild and barely restrained.
Glancing down perplexed, you spy the moisture collected in the corner of his mouth. You wonder why he has reacted so to the taste of the bathwater until you see the beads of gold-cream collected thickly right at your nipple, too dark to possibly be anything but mother's milk.
It is too early, you think, but in the same token you are also thinking my gowns, the stickiness on my gowns is from this, from my body preparing the way for the babes to come.
"I—I do not know, I—"
His cock lurches in your hand as he leans back down to collect the slow amber trickle from your skin, shuddering full-formed at the pooling of it on his palate. He mouths leisurely, covetously at you, tongue-tip tracing and prodding droplets from the hard peak. Your untouched breast hangs impossibly heavy, throbbing.
"If you taste like this now"—his lips scarcely leave your flesh to shape the words—"I'm hiring a fucking regiment of wet-nurses. They can feed the babes. This'll be for me."
You can do naught but keen as he returns to his task, taking great pulls to eke out the scant fluid. Each suck throbs molten in your core, as though someone has seized your pearl between thumb and finger and yanks in tandem with Daemon's avaricious swallows. His insistent fondling and gusty snuffles and obscene slurps ratchet you beyond the point of speech, feeling so much more than you recall.
He draws back with a slick pop, mouth as rosy and glistening as your flushing chest. "Gods, you're sweet all over, aren't you? I don't know which I prefer to sup from—your tits or your cunt." His voice is slurred, prompting memories of little Joff each time Rhaenyra had removed him drowsed and milk drunk from her own breast. Daemon looks the same now, eyes drooping and dazed as he stares up at you. His knee pushes between your thighs and knocks your grip away from his shaft, hands angling you to seat yourself firmly over him. "There. Ride my leg like the fucking slut you are. Go on."
You squirm in his hold, lips parting shakily as he proffers one final wet kiss to your cherry-tip nipple and abruptly switches tack, latching onto the other with a wordless growl. That same sensation akin to the bursting of a bubble radiates through your skin. The renewed greed in his nursing drags tells you that he has lured forth a fresh supply.
With a tremulous whimper, you brace yourself against his arms and slide your core over him, rutting mindlessly and allowing instinct to take over as the sparks coil hotter inside you. The wiry hairs on his flesh rasp against your bud like whetstone across a blade, a pure unadulterated sting that somersaults, swooping, between throbbingpoundingpleaseneverstop and something darker, a bite of agony that feeds into the mounting end. You slide, sticky, viscous, too thick to be water alone, helpless vocalisations escaping as you coat him in your wet. The bathwater splashes about with every movement, spilling over the edges of the tub and onto the floor.
"Kepus!"
Your entrance tightens and your belly tautens, convulsing and contracting with the intensity of a powerful crest, eliciting a roiling heat in your breasts and thighs and cunny. His eyes flick up to yours and dance roguishly in the firelight, his leg bouncing into your pearl so that you can ride out the waves of ecstasy.
Daemon's teeth graze over your nipple as he pulls away, crowding you back against the edge of the tub as he stands swiftly, sending bathwater careening wildly and swilling over the sides with a slick splatter. He drags you up by your braided hair, giving you clear access to the sight of his hand stripping frantically at his cock.
"Open your fucking mouth," he snaps, crouching slightly to dig his thumb into your mouth and force your jaw wide. He leers down at you with teeth bared, the head of his shaft burbling pearly white that he spreads across your open lips. "I've got my own milk to feed you with. No point dirtying the water when I've got a perfectly good hole to spend in right here, hm?"
You beam, rising up on your knees and batting his hand away so that you can take hold of his manhood, welcoming the familiar heft of it with a firm pump and glide of lips along the vein running underside. From the way it tremors at your touch, a flower reaching desperately for the sun, he is not long to finish.
"Uh-huh." You stick out your tongue and feed him into your mouth, wiggling happily into his groin as far as you are able. It is only when you gag hard enough to incite nausea that you withdraw, taking a breath even as you tongue the stray droplets of seed from the tip, hot and bitter. "'M all for you. All my holes—they're all yours."
He grunts, fingers twisting in your hair tight enough to hurt and cock spasming between your lips. "Fuck!"
You smile, fisting vigorously at the base and suckling over the head in draughts that mimic his earlier movements at your breast, moaning with delight as the syrupy astringence pumps onto your tongue in thick spurts. Daemon's head tips back above you, eyes closing and hips juddering into your face reflexively. You swallow it all, obedient and eternally eager to please.
"Fuck," he repeats emphatically, loosening his grip and nearly wheezing, winded and depleted.
You laugh. He hisses as the vibrations travel through his sensitive flesh, extracting himself with a weak groan. Flopping back into the tub with a huff, he seems to care little for the amount of water he has wasted in his endeavours.
"The bath is half-emptied now," you say, pressing your lips together to stave off the grin that tries to overtake your expression.
Daemon snorts, folding you against his chest like a child cradled by her father. He is firm and warm beneath you, so warm that the water seems cold by comparison, and you rub your cheek over his skin in contentment. "You'll live," he murmurs drolly, petting your belly once more. Mercifully, the babes are still.
"I have half a mind to get out and leave you here in this half-empty bath," you tell him, softening the blow of your snobbish tone with a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He smiles, angling his head to capture your lips more fully, tongue stroking against yours and blending the flavours of his seed and your milk in a strange, sweet-tart amalgamation. "Stay," he whispers into you, breath mingling with your own. His eyes shine, soft and affectionate in a manner he allows so few to see. "For a little longer, at least."
When he looks upon you like this—like you are a god incarnate, like you are a miracle brought to life, like you are everything he has ever wanted in all the world—you are hard-pressed to refuse him.
"Very well," you say, your hand joining his over the place where your family grows. "I will stay."