THE PRINCESS
"Shoulders back," Septa hisses from above you.
Although there are so many people around you, you are the only one that hears her. Everyone else is too busy whispering among themselves, wondering why Papa has called the lords and ladies staying in the Keep to attend him—and why they are being made to stand outside the Great Hall.
You can feel Septa looking at you, so you do as you are told and straighten your back, pushing your shoulders into place the way she wants. She hates it when you slouch. Usually, you're better at keeping to her rules, at being a good lady, but you find yourself distracted today.
Is that 'Nyra? you wonder, trying to look past the rather wide nobleman's form beside you to further back in the crowd, to where you are sure you'd seen a head of silver hair far too tall to be Aegon or Helaena.
It shouldn't be her. 'Nyra has been on a tour for moons now, sailing around the kingdom in search of a husband. According to Papa, she has rejected every single one. That doesn't surprise you—she has always said that she would never want to marry and have many babies like some ladies are made to do. Still, an order is an order, and Papa is King. That means that 'Nyra has to do as he says, and so she must find a man to marry and have babies with whether she likes it or not.
She cannot be back, then. She still has two more moons left.
Suddenly, the doors swing open. The Kingsguard at the front of the crowd march into the Great Hall, clearing the way for you and Septa to follow. She takes a firm hold of your arm as you walk to the steps leading to the Iron Throne, to where Papa stands holding onto Blackfyre. Because Lord Hightower has taken his station to the right of the Throne, you go to the left, where Ser Harrold has made a space for you. Septa releases you and makes herself invisible in the crowd, leaving you alone. You clasp your hands together tightly, trying your best not to bury your fingers into your skirts and twist like you do when you are always nervous. You do not like crowds very much, even though you are a Princess and all Princesses ought to enjoy the attention.
You watch the lords and ladies fill each side of the Hall, and you see it again. The silver-haired head. Her. It is 'Nyra, you realise.
A part of you wants to shout her name, to smile so wide your face hurts and run to her and give her a hug so strong it nearly cracks her bones into pieces—but you won't. Septa Marlow would be terribly angry if you behaved so poorly. And, from the way she won't look at Papa, and the way he is frowning at her, she is in plenty of trouble. You do not think he knew she was coming back, so she must have done so without him allowing her to.
A great clang comes from beyond the entry, getting yours and everyone else's attention. All eyes turn to the doors as footsteps echo out, fast at first, and the room falls quiet. Then, a new set of steps can be heard, slower and quieter.
He appears. Uncle.
The first thing you notice is his hair. It used to be long, you think. It isn't anymore. You are sure you very much liked to play with his long hair when you were smaller. Most of his hair—short now, shorter than even Ser Criston's—is covered by a strange crown that looks like it's been tied together rather than forged like gold ones are. His armour is plain, with only a dragon scale pattern showing that he is a Targaryen. The grandest and most familiar thing about him is his sword, Dark Sister, shining bright at his hip and in his hold around the grip. A heavy-looking hammer swings from his other hand.
When he sees you, he smiles. You wish you could do the same.
You were so little before, when he knew you and you knew him. You don't remember it well. One thing you do remember is how your sadness at him leaving turned to anger. He never said goodbye. He never even wrote to you. He could have written. He could have, and he didn't.
Ser Harrold draws his blade when Uncle comes near, pointing the tip into his breastplate. The other Kingsguard draw theirs, too. Uncle Daemon stops, staring down at where the steel meets his own body. He gazes up to Papa behind you.
Holding out the hammer, he says, "Add it to the chair."
It makes a loud clattering sound when it falls heavy upon the stone floor. You want to hold your hands to your ears, but it'd do naught but earn you a scolding from Septa later. As he steps back, you notice that 'Nyra has moved further up in the crowd. She is fighting not to smile as she stares at him.
Ser Harrold sheathes his sword and picks up the hammer, moving back to where he was previously.
"You wear a crown." Papa looks very grand in his robes, his own crown making Uncle Daemon's look silly indeed. "Do you also call yourself 'King'?"
"Once we smashed the Triarchy, they named me 'King of the Narrow Sea'." Uncle's smile is what Septa would call arrogant as his words set off gasps in the crowd. You do not think she likes him very much. "But I know there is only one true king, Your Grace."
He kneels. The other Kingsguards' blades follow him down. "My crown and the Stepstones," he says, taking off his crown, "are yours."
Papa looks to the door. "Where is Lord Corlys?"
"He sailed home to Driftmark."
"Who holds the Stepstones?"
"The tides... the crabs, and two thousand dead Triarchy corsairs, staked to the sand to warn those who might follow."
You shiver. How awful. What a frightfully monstrous thing to do to another person, and he did it to two whole thousand of them. Septa says that noble knights treat their enemies with respect—you are not sure if Uncle Daemon would count as a noble knight, then.
Papa walks down the stairs to the Iron Throne, using Blackfyre as a sort of cane. It clacks against the ground as it hits each step. He stills right before Uncle, accepting the crown and passing it to a nearby Kingsguard. "Rise," he says.
For a moment, you are not sure what he means to do. He'd looked unhappy. Perhaps he is going to hit Uncle. Maybe he'll have him thrown in the cells.
But, after Uncle stands, Papa's hand comes to rest on his arm, and then up further to his shoulder. Uncle moves forward, his head falling onto Papa's shoulder in a hug. The lords and ladies in the room applaud.
You follow along, though you are sure the sound of your own claps are very quiet compared to all the others. Truthfully, you don't know if you are as happy as everyone else seems to be.
Septa Marlow does not let you stay back to speak to 'Nyra. Instead, you are made to go back to your chambers and find an appropriate dress for the feast Papa has announced is to happen in an hour's time in the Godswood. All the while you are being dressed by your maids, you can hear her muttering about how unseemly it is that a party is to be held in such a godsless place. You tell her in your mind that the Godswood is not godsless, but rather is for gods that she doesn't believe in. Saying such a thing aloud will only earn you a strike to the palm with her willow switch, though. You've only ever been struck once for asking Alicent why she named your youngest brother Aemond when it is almost the same as Daemon, and so she ought to have named him that instead. It is not a lesson you want to repeat.
By the time Septa allows you to go down to the Godswood—thankfully, you get to go without her, because she refuses to 'step foot in that blasphemous space'—the nobles are wandering around, laughing and drinking as they celebrate the return of the King's brother. You spy platters of lemon cakes, pastries, cheeses and breads undercover and to the right. Papa, Alicent and Uncle Daemon stand closer to the heart tree, appearing merry in their conversation.
Before you can decide where to go, you are set upon by 'Nyra. "Little sister," she says, stepping in front of you with a smile on her face. She looks very well in her rose-coloured gown, her hair pulled back like always.
Your own mouth curves to match hers as you fling your arms around her, breathing in the smell of her, of seawater and flowers and something that you cannot describe, but is just part of who she is. Her hands press warm against your back and you don't think you've ever missed anything, anyone this much before. She is home.
She laughs as she pulls back. "I missed you, too."
If you speak all the words on the tip of your tongue—I am so glad you are back, I love you, please please don't ever leave me alone here again—you think you might cry. If you cry, you will be sent back to your rooms, back to Septa Marlow. You do not wish for that to happen.
"Are you done already?" is what you decide to ask, squeezing her hand so as to tell her the things you cannot say. She squeezes back, so she understands, though at the same time she is tilting her head a bit like she does when she's confused. You realise that your question probably does not make much sense to her. Septa says you must learn to be clearer when asking things. "With the tour?" you add, to help her see what you mean.
'Nyra shrugs. "I found little to be desired in the men of the Stormlands. Or the North. Or the Westerlands. The entire Realm seems to be made up of insipid little beasts masquerading as suitors." She sniffs, scowling. Her hand tightens on yours, but it does not hurt. You think she can tell that you don't really know what she means, because she smiles down at you and gives you another, different answer. "I am done with the tour. But I have not found a husband, no."
Your sister pulls you along to the table away from the lords and ladies gathered, grabbing a lemon cake and handing it to you. You frown—there is no candied lemon slice on top, like there is usually. In fact, none of the lemon cakes have candied lemon slices on them. They are your favourite part. You hope the cooks are not trying something new. It does not stop you from eating it, though.
"Will Papa be very angry with you?" you ask her in between bites, taking care not to speak with your mouth full.
"Most likely," 'Nyra says. She does not sound concerned by it. You must look bothered, because she laughs and adds, "Do not worry yourself about it—I'll be fine, as I always am."
You wish you were as brave as her. If Papa is ever as upset at you as he sometimes is at 'Nyra, you would cry.
As you watch her, you realise she is staring over your head at something. You glance behind you. It is very easy to see Uncle and Papa and Alicent from here. No wonder she is so focused on them.
'Nyra pats your head without looking at you. "Wait here a moment."
She walks away, leaving you by yourself at the table to go and speak to Alicent and Papa and Uncle. From here, it looks like Uncle is the only one who appreciates her walking over. You wish she'd brought you along. Being by yourself makes you feel afraid sometimes.
A nobleman strolls over, his laughter booming and making your heart race quick. You slowly edge your way towards one of the pillars, hoping to use it to hide behind. When you were smaller, it worked. But you are too old now, you think, because the nobleman pauses in reaching for some of the food and stares at you even though the pillar shields most of you from his view. He smiles. You smile back because it is polite, but you don't know him. Still, it makes him chuckle, take his food and leave, so there must be something useful about being polite all the time anyway.
Gazing out at all the people is making your head feel funny again, like panic, so you turn around and face the climbing plant that is scaling the wall. You wonder if the heat from the brazier will make it less green, if the fire can burn all those leaves even from here. Does fire have to be touching something to burn it? you wonder.
It is an interesting thought, and one you might try to find an answer from Septa for later. She can be stern and even mean, but she does like your curiosity. That means wanting to know things, she says.
"As far as hiding places go, this one is terrible."
You jump, startled by the closeness of the voice. You have to look up to see who has disturbed you.
"Uncle Daemon," you whisper.
He grins, a piece of his hair flopping over his face in a way that you think the ladies might like. You try not to think about that, though, because it only leads you to remembering what Papa had made Septa Marlow tell you only a moon's turn ago about how men's parts and women's parts go together to make a baby. It is enough to make you want to avoid all men forever.
"That's right," Uncle says, getting your attention once more. He makes no move to come closer, just stands there and looks at you. It gives you a chance to watch him back.
His face is very stern, you think. You don't know if it was always that way, or if his war made him more frightening. When you try to bring those memories back, there is nothing but feelings of happy-fun-love. You don't think you and he look very much alike, even though you are both Targaryens, but there are parts of him that match you. The hair, silver like yours. The purple eyes. It makes him a little less strange to you.
"Did you miss me?" he asks. That hollow-feeling soreness in your chest seems suddenly wide open, throbbing and aching.
I did. Sometimes I used to think I dreamed you up in my head. Like you were the person I had to pretend was real so that there was someone in the world I could talk to. Someone who would listen to what I was saying, like I really meant something.
I don't even know if I remember you, or if I've just spent so long waiting for you.
These are all the things you keep locked inside you, wishes like sand in an hourglass that swirl around in their glass prison. And, like the sand, they will never get to escape from where they are trapped.
"Your hair is different," is what you say instead, quiet and sad-sounding. You try not to pout as the words come out. "I don't like it."
It is how you try to say what must stay hidden, words that secretly mean other words. You think he understands, though, what is stuck in your chest and in your heart, because his smile fades. He sighs, something soft making its way onto his face.
"It'll grow back," he murmurs. "Time heals all wounds."
He twitches after saying that. For a moment, you swear you can see something red and angry peek out from under the collar of his coat, like a scar or a burn. It is there and gone in an instant. You wonder if you ever really saw it at all.
Then, he stands up a little straighter. "Come out from there," he says, brow furrowing even as one side of his mouth turns up. "Let me look at you."
This is what all the adults who Papa says used to know you ask of you when they meet you again. For some reason, they like to make a kind of list in their minds of all the ways you have changed, as though it is a good thing that you're so different from when you were very small. To you, it just means that they never really cared to keep knowing you the whole time.
You inch your way out from behind the pillar so that you are facing him, so that you are close enough now for him to reach out and touch. He takes hold of your chin, pulling your face up so that he can inspect it. You are tilted side to side, all angles being carefully examined in a way that makes you nervous, almost like you want to run away.
"Ūbrilta iksā, riñītsos." You've grown, little girl.
It sounds like praise. His palm is soft on your cheek as he strokes away one of the strands of your hair that won't stay put, calling up a wisp of a memory of gentle hands and deep laughter and love love love, a spark just out of reach.
You tremble. The sand threatens to explode out of its glass trappings.
"I learned my letters," you whisper, eyes stinging furiously. A group of ladies walks by. You do not want them to know what you are saying, what should be kept secret, just between you and Uncle. "Ynot bardutos daor." You did not write to me.
Now, he frowns.
"Gimin," he says, crouching down. I know. Balanced on one knee before you, his eyes and yours can meet so much easier—but he doesn't let them. Instead, his stare slides past yours. You feel his fingers playing with the loose tendrils that escape your braids. "Ñuhe vīlībāzme vīlīptan... harrī aō bē olvī iotāptan. Nēdenka sagon yne beldā." I thought of you often, while I was fighting my war. You helped me to be brave.
You cannot even imagine it—how someone silly and small like you could ever help someone so strong like him. Warmth floods through you, so quick that you wonder if your skin has flushed for him to see. "Really?"
He taps you on the nose. "Would I lie?" he asks.
You think about it. From all you can remember, he has never been anything but truthful, even with the hard questions. One of the things you can recall is when you asked where Mother had gone after Papa told you she was dead. Back then, you didn't understand what dying was. Now, though, you know it as one of all the different ways that people can be taken away from other people, from those they love and who love them.
Uncle told you that Mother was never coming back, and he was right. He never lied to you then. He cannot be lying to you now.
"Ūndegon avy arlī, rōvēgrie biarves issa," he tells you, cupping either side of your face with his hands. To see you again... it is a great happiness.
Your eyes are burning again, blurring your sight. You can still see how kind he looks, though, all the hard lines of his face made soft and glad by simply speaking with you, like you are the only thing that matters to him. Maybe your dreams and play-pretence were more real than you ever thought.
"Are—" You swallow hard. "Are you staying?"
It is suddenly all you wish. Please, please, please, please please please...
Uncle Daemon nods. "For as long as you want."
You don't know if he pulls you to him or if you push forward. All you know is that he smells the same as he did, even though you cannot possibly still remember that, like smoke and leather, and his arms feel solid and safe around you, like love. Like home.
Uncle makes good on his promise to you. He stays in the Red Keep, in his old rooms, and soon your days are filled up with more than just Septa and 'Nyra and the evening meal with Alicent and Papa.
You become very good at sneaking away from Septa. It is not difficult. Since Uncle has come back, Alicent has been asking for you in the nursery more often. You don't think she likes that he has returned, but it is still nice to have her asking about your lessons, about your needlework or your prayers or your sums. Baby Aemond often gets upset when he hears voices talking—he likes silence most of all—so your visits never last long. Alicent always tells you to go back to your rooms when he starts, which gives you the chance to give Helaena a kiss on her cheek and slip off to find Uncle. Septa Marlow never need learn that you did not spend the entire time with your lady stepmother.
Uncle Daemon is usually with 'Nyra, sometimes out in the gardens or walking in the halls. It isn't strange, exactly, but the way that your sister jumps away from him when you arrive makes you wonder what they are talking about at times. The only thing that stops you from thinking too much about it is that Uncle never seems very bothered. He just smiles like nothing at all has happened and asks how you are.
He watches 'Nyra with a heavy stare as she leaves for Council or to see Syrax or simply to give you time with Uncle, too. Sometimes, she looks back, and her stare is just as heavy on him. But then, he always says, "Yne aōlo bē tolī ivestrās"—tell me more about yourself—and you forget why it bothered you so much.
You realise there's not a lot of 'yourself' that would be interesting. You talk about your lessons with Septa and how you are already very good at adding and subtracting numbers, so she is showing you how to multiply them and divide them. You talk about how you can embroider the Targaryen sigil on handkerchiefs, though sometimes the stitches aren't as neat and even as they could be. You talk about how you've learned all the names and House words of the Lords Paramount, and what they supply Papa's kingdom with—how the Reach has lots of grain and the Westerlands has lots of gold mines and the North has lots of lumber and timber for building things. You talk about how you can sing all the hymns and you pray in the Sept every sennight like a good lady, though this only makes him scoff and shake his head. You talk about how good you are at showing the courtesies of a lady like curtseying and only speaking when you are spoken to and keeping your back straight and chin up so everyone knows you are of good breeding.
When you hear these things aloud, you are sure it is very boring. It makes you think that the only thing that has him listening so closely is that you tell him all of this in High Valyrian.
"Gīmije suene ābrāzma. Drējī sȳz," he says on one day, sitting side by side with you on a bench looking out into the Godswood. An accomplished young lady. Very good. With lips tipped up at one corner, he does not look exactly pleased by all you have been taught. But when he adds, "Muño ēngos aōhi sȳrktys ȳdrā," you know that there is at least something he is happy with. Your mother tongue has improved.
Pride flushes you from head to toe, warm and exciting. "Rhaenyrosa gūrēñan." I am learning from Rhaenyra.
You don't find it as hard to say her full name anymore, but she always looks at you funny when you call her 'Rhaenyra'. It is important that you use the proper words in front of Uncle, though. You hope he doesn't notice when you stumble over some of the rolling 'r' sounds.
"Skorion Alysanno bē?" is his next question. What of Alysanne?
It takes you a moment to understand what he is talking about. At first, you wonder if he's asking you about your great-grandmother, and you have no idea why he would. Then, an image of a doll with violet eyes and silver hair flashes through your mind, 'perhaps—Marya and Hana, was it?—could do with another friend', and you think to the three little ladies you used to carry around everywhere until you were made to leave them sitting on the chest at the foot of your bed, then inside the chest, stuck in the dark and left to be forgotten.
There is something about that which makes you terribly, terribly sad.
"I am not allowed to play with dolls." It is like Septa is speaking through you, though you are soft where she would be stern and hard. "I am too old."
This makes him freeze, but not like ice. Like something burning hot and angry, only it is shown in the fire of his eyes and the clenching of his fists and nothing else. When he nods, it is as though he is a puppet and someone else is pulling his strings jerkily. "Se zaldrīzesse? Kipagon vasīr gūrēntō daor?" And dragons? Have you learned to ride yet?
You shake your head. "I am too young."
Too young, too old... No matter what, I am never exactly right as I am.
Normally, you can ignore the twisting of your tummy when you think about how 'Nyra had claimed Syrax already when she was your age. But now, with your thoughts turning over and over about all the things that Uncle wants to ask that you cannot give a good answer to, it only makes you feel worse.
At that, he stands and holds out his hand. You make no move to grab onto it—you just look up at him, confused.
"Well?" he asks, brow lifting. "Do you want to learn?"
"To ride?" You frown. "How?"
He rolls his eyes. "By riding a dragon, silly girl. As it happens, I've claimed one of my own. Perhaps you've heard of him."
"You'll... you'll let me ride Caraxes?" Your breath comes out funny, in rhythm with the skipping beat of your heart.
"Not alone. But you ought to know what it feels like to take flight before you claim your own mighty beast." He mutters something under his breath, too low for you to hear. It sounds frustrated, and quite possibly rude. Then, he lifts his eyes back to you and shakes the arm he has held out. "Are you coming, then? Or will I be going to the Dragonpit alone?"
You take his hand.
"Are you sure he will like me?" you ask Uncle, biting your lip as he pulls you closer and closer to the entrance of the Dragonpit.
As always, it is a big, frightening hulk of stone, with columns that look like they've been standing tall since the beginning of time. A hundred of you wouldn't be enough to match its height. When 'Nyra takes you to see Syrax, sometimes you try to count how many of you would be needed to reach the top, but you always lose track after ten. You know from far away that the dome of it arcs high, high above, though from where you are, you cannot see it. A dark black hole looms between the two main pillars, seeming larger the longer you stare into it. From within, you can hear the growls and shrieks of a dragon, maybe two, maybe three—Syrax and Caraxes, and perhaps others, for it seems too much noise to only be the pair inside.
"He does as I command," he says. "You will not be harmed."
Uncle Daemon tugs you forward, into the blackness. Dark turns to dim light.
There, not far from the entry, stands Caraxes. That he is out and not hiding away in one of the dens already makes this a much different visit than usual, for Syrax is not often found in the open like this. It has been a long time since you saw him properly, though you know from stories that Uncle used to take you to visit him when you were a baby, then when you were little. Papa never let him take you riding, though. You wonder how he got permission now.
The dragon has a long, long neck, almost the same amount of long as his body. It makes him look amusing, though you will never laugh at him, for he is also fearsome. Jagged spikes jut out along ridges that go all the way from his shoulders to his head, turning into large horns above each eye. His teeth are sharp, and there is more than one row of them, which you can see when he opens his mouth to make a hooting noise in your direction. He is deep red in colour, scales glittering black and orange in the torch flame that shines across his form, darker around his mouth. You don't know if it is how he usually looks, or if it is blood. You hope he has already eaten.
"Come along." Uncle seems annoyed by your slowness. He lets go of your hand and pushes his palm between your shoulder blades, forcing you forward. "We've not got all day."
One of the robed men, the Dragonkeepers, moves in step with you, gaze switching nervously from you to your uncle. "Dārilaros ñuhys! Avy māzīlē gīmīloty daor—se aōha tala—" My Prince! We did not know to expect you—and your niece—
Uncle waves him off impatiently, glaring. "Īlon henujās! Avy baelagon ajorrāeloty daor." Leave us! We do not require your assistance.
The Keeper bows, edging backward. You try to turn your head to see where he came from, where he has gone, but the strength of Uncle's hand pushing you on and the way his body blocks your view prevents you from glimpsing anything properly.
Caraxes makes an odd sort of whistle-hoot noise when his head bends before you, his giant nostrils flaring as he scents his visitor. You try to keep your heart beating slow and steady. If he smells fear, he might attack.
"Calm, calm," Uncle is murmuring, though you don't know if he's saying it in the Common Tongue or in High Valyrian. "That's it..."
The dragon nudges you softly, snout pressing against you in a way that you find familiar. Syrax does the same when you go to see her. It brings a smile to your face, and you are laying your hands on his scaled flesh to stroke him before you can remember why you were ever afraid in the first place. He allows you to pat him for a few moments. Then, he seems to grow bored, turning away at the sound of distant echoing roars. His claws skitter on the stone.
Uncle Daemon takes hold of your shoulders and steers you to the side, along Caraxes's body. "Iōrās," he calls out. Stand.
Caraxes shifts his weight with a grumble, unfolding the wing closest to you all the way out. You look on, fascinated. Uncle prods you with his foot.
"Well?" he asks. You glance up. He appears to be waiting for something. When you offer no response, he jerks his head toward the dragon and says, "I cannot mount him for you. Climb up."
"By myself?"
His expression makes you think he finds you dim-witted. "I will follow. There are some things you must do yourself, little girl."
There is something about it—'little girl'—that makes you feel better, somehow, as though he is reminding you that he knows you are only small, that he knows he is not asking too much of you. It helps you to feel brave. When you step onto Caraxes's wing, you know he is right behind you. For how thin wings look, they are surprisingly strong, because it is easier than you thought to make your way up and up to where the saddle is buckled. There is enough room for you to slip onto the very front, behind the horn, as you wait for Uncle to settle behind you. Because you don't have a riding habit yet, you must gather your skirts to either side to make sure your knees are covered.
Uncle's body is warm, his arms folding around you to hold onto the grips either side of the horn. There are no reins like 'Nyra used to have when she was younger for Syrax, but that makes sense. Not only is Uncle old, but Caraxes's neck is so, so long that you don't think reins would really work anyway.
His chin comes to rest beside your head. "Ready?"
I have been ready for my whole life, you want to say.
You grab onto his hands and close your eyes, feeling the way his legs bracket you in and his chest presses firm against your back, like a shield. "Yeah."
"Sōvēs!" Fly!
Your brain rattles and your limbs shake as Caraxes lunges forward, faster, faster, through the entry of the Dragonpit and out into the open air, faster, toward the edge, and then—
He—
Drops—
And you are flying.
Your belly swoops low, but your heart is in your throat and there are tears in your eyes because this, this is all you ever wanted and never even knew you could have, not really. Wind rushes in your ears, drowning out all other noise, and your legs feel impossibly cold, stockings doing little to protect you from the speed and height, but the sky is bright and blue and the sun shines golden and it bathes you in light, white, freedom. Beneath your heels, you can feel the heat of the dragon, the flex of his muscles as he takes you on and on and on.
Laughter bubbles up, up, up and out of your throat, given to the air, heard by none but felt so deep in your bones, no, past your bones, to the very very centre of you where you are something truer and greater than just a Princess, just a girl. Like magic. Like fire. You fling your arms out wide, forearms resting on your uncle's, and you cannot hear his own laughter, but you can feel it in the way his skin thrums against yours, and oh, no one has ever understood you as much as he does now, in this moment. He knows. He knows.
There is no direction, no goal, no end point. You fly across the city you have lived in all your life, and even the Keep looks like a dollhouse, like Papa's miniature that he tends to in his rooms. The streets look like string winding together and apart and around houses the size of sand grains, fading in and out among the clouds. You fly across open fields where there is so, so much space, more than you ever thought could be real, and more green than has ever been in one place at one time. You fly across trees packed so tightly together that you cannot see the ground below their tops, forests of leaves so dark that even the sun cannot make them glow in the daylight. The air tastes like salt and then earth and then something sweeter, purer, more real than books or hymns or dances.
It may be minutes. It may be hours. It may be days afterward, but one of the things you have learned is that everything good must come to an end.
The Dragonpit draws closer, closer, closer. With each drag onward, bits of who you are, who you must be, return to you. The Princess. The girl. The lonely soul crying out for someone, anyone. They burrow their way inside your blood where they have been made to belong.
Caraxes slows, and the world seeps back in. You can hear Uncle's voice again. "Ninkiot!" Land!
The shock of the thud as the dragon hits ground jolts you forward, but Uncle Daemon's arms are firm around you. Sand and dust fling up all around you from the damage Caraxes has done to the stone ground below. 'Nyra says it is because they are very heavy creatures, and stone isn't as hard to something so strong, but like paper. Your teeth clack together painfully and your eyes feel suddenly too tight for your skull for a moment, and then it is over.
Uncle ignores the Keepers yelling from below. "Paerī, paerī..." Slow, slow...
Caraxes growls as he follows the command, snapping his teeth at the Keepers who come forth to grab at the buckles wrapping under his wings to restrain him.
"Kelītīs." Halt. The dragon lumbers to a stop, hooting and shaking his head like a hound might. Your whole body wobbles with the movement, making you giggle. Uncle chuckles, slapping the exposed side of his mount with a smile. "Sȳres taobus." Good boy.
"Thank you, Uncle!" It comes out in a breathless rush. You twist yourself to the side as best you can so that you are able to show him just how grateful you are. You are sure your eyes shine bright and wild. He smiles as he takes in your expression. "Thank you, thank you!" you say.
"You had fun?" His palm strokes along your back in a comforting rhythm.
"Yeah!"
Words escape you. There is no way to describe what it means to you. All you can do is lean into him, wind your arms around his waist and hug him as tight as you can, which is not very much at all. Still, it makes him grip you back, his breath puffing hot through your hair all the way to your scalp, the firm imprint of lips falling there like 'Nyra's do when she kisses you goodnight.
He releases you with a grunt, patting just above your rear. "Go on, then," he tells you, nodding toward Caraxes's flattened wing. "Get down there. I'll be a moment longer."
"Yes, Uncle."
Dismounting is not the same as climbing up; you try to plant your feet and walk your way down, but you feel yourself tipping forward when you try. Eventually—and not without Uncle laughing at you as you figure it out—you learn to sit on your bottom and almost slide your way down, using your legs to slow your speed. It is terribly fun. You nearly try walking back up so that you can do it all over again, but then you think about how you are putting all your weight on Caraxes's arm, and what it would feel like if someone was stepping all over your arm like that. It wouldn't be fair to the dragon to do something so unkind when he had taken you on such a lovely trip in the sky.
You stand up, jumping just before you reach the joint of his hand. In your excitement, you do not see how close Caraxes's tail is, how easy it would be to tangle one's skirts on the ridged tip.
What happens after comes in flashes. A sharp, scorching pain up your arm. A feeling of wet bursting across your skin. Deep, deep red, spilling across the stone. A throbbing that goes straight to your bone, beating in time with the sound of the sobs that burst from your chest, no, lower, somewhere where pain lives. Panicked whistling noises. A vision of wide-eyed, fearful Uncle Daemon, a bumpy wheelhouse ride and a soothing melody vibrating from the person holding you so, so tight.
The next thing you know, there is more pain, there is a needle, and a maester, and Papa and Alicent and Lord Otto, and you are bundled up on Uncle's lap while the tug-tug of thread goes in and out of your skin.
"... she tripped, brother," Uncle is saying, keeping his words low even though you can tell he is angry. "It's not like she was maimed dragonriding, for fuck's sake—"
Lord Otto sounds far away from his place near the door. "It was wildly irresponsible of you, Prince Daemon. She is but a child—"
"How dare you disobey me!" Papa stands above Uncle, growling, teeth gritting with fury. "I told you she was too young, and you took her anyway!"
Alicent places her hand on his arm, trying to pull him away. "Husband, perhaps—"
"Can you all shut up," Uncle snaps, hand cupped over your head and turning your face into his neck so that you cannot see, you cannot see. "Do you really think now is the time to—"
"Kepus," you cry, and you feel the pressure of a hand that is not Uncle's on your back, a yes, my girl, but you did not ask for Papa, you asked for kepus, Uncle, you want the soft melody back and the quiet, so you shrug it away and press your nose closer to the man in front of you, the sting-pull hurt of something cold and wet splashing over your arm bringing even more tears.
"Sh, precious, you're alright," Uncle murmurs, and you can feel his voice as well as hear it, tingling through your skin. "The maester is nearly finished."
"Hurts." The tug-sting is over, but it is followed by a press-sting as the bandage is wrapped around and around.
"I know." His hand keeps your face turned into him, solid against the back of your skull. "Drējī usōven, dōnītsos." I am sorry, sweetling.
"Not your fault," you tell him, or maybe you only think it, or maybe you say it over and over again on repeat as he carries you to your rooms, puts you to bed, hums you to sleep.
Septa is terribly angry when she learns that you have been sneaking off.
"No more of that, young madam." Her stare feels like a leaden weight on your chest, disapproval washing over you like the waves of Blackwater Bay. "I shall be accompanying you to all your extracurriculars for the foreseeable future." As she turns back to her knitting, she shakes her head, muttering, "Wilful, disobedient girl!" You think if Papa were not there, she would have struck you.
"Your uncle is a wretched influence," he tells you. His eyes search yours like he is trying to find some sort of agreement from you, but you cannot obey him, not in this. It is the first time you have ever gone against something he has said, and it makes you feel terribly naughty. "He injured you—"
"No!" you protest. "I fell over, I promise! I was not watching where I was going, and I tripped—"
"That matters not." His tone is forbidding. "He never should have taken you without permission—"
"I just wanted to fly." You cannot explain it to him; the need that you feel now that you know what it is like to leave who you are behind and join the skies, to feel the strength and the heat of a dragon below you and know you are just as powerful as he. He wouldn't understand. He'd ridden Balerion for less than a year, and never again did he seek out dragon-flight. "Uncle showed me," you say. "I wanted to, Papa. Please."
He sighs, goes silent for a time. When he lifts his head to watch you again, something sad and yet amused plays upon his expression. "You look so like your mother when you make that face."
It is not the first time he has said so, and you know it won't be the last. Still, you smile, because little girls who have lost their mothers are supposed to smile when people tell them how alike she is to the woman who has died. Sometimes, you feel like a ghost of her, like you aren't really meant to exist as yourself.
"When you are bigger, you can claim a dragon. I swear it." Papa takes your hand, the one that is not attached to your injured arm. "But you will need to give your old Papa some time, for his heart cannot take all this stress."
He winks, and you giggle. Still, you cannot help asking. "Why?"
Why was 'Nyra allowed at my age and not me? Am I not good enough? Not Targaryen enough?
All that stops you from speaking these things aloud is that, deep down, you know it is not that you are not Targaryen enough. It might be that, for the first time, Papa has seen that you are too Targaryen.
"You are my little girl," Papa says, and you think you can almost see a tremble to his lips. He must have been very worried, more than you realised. "My little Aemma. The thought of losing you... I cannot bear it."
So, you hug him and tell him that you will not try it again, not yet, and you feel the anger and the worry and the fear flee him as he relaxes bit by bit. In your head, though, you are thinking about a time—somewhere far in the future, or perhaps nearer than you know—when you can be a dragonrider too.
Septa is true to her word. Most of the time, you are made to stay in your chambers, even though the wound on your arm isn't all that large and the maesters say that it will not scar over too terribly. "The Prince conveyed you here swiftly, Princess," they tell you as they clean and redress the ragged cut. In all, it is only the size of two gold coins put side-by-side. "You are very fortunate, indeed!"
You do not feel fortunate. Septa's eyes remain fixed on you, so sharp that the hairs on the back of your neck stay upright. She watches you as you sound out your letters, as you embroider more dragon sigils, as you practice the hymns she has made you learn. She watches 'Nyra with a stern face as she sits in to visit with you in the afternoons—not even your sister is allowed to bend the rules of your punishment. Still, it is better than spending each day entirely with Septa and Septa alone.
Uncle comes in the evenings. That first night after you cut open your arm, he voiced the notes to an old song you think you can remember from when you were really little. Every night since, though, he comes to read you a story in High Valyrian and kiss you on the cheek and say goodnight. You think he might feel guilty about you hurting yourself, so you make sure to give him a very tight hug every time he arrives to your rooms. Sometimes, you see him in the day when he drops 'Nyra to your door, their conversation low and their heads bent close together. If he wasn't Uncle and she wasn't 'Nyra, it would look like they were courting, which is when a lord and lady spend time together to see if they are a good fit to be married. You know better.
But, one day, 'Nyra does not visit in the afternoon. Uncle does not come to read you a story or kiss you goodnight. It feels like you have faded from the world, like you only exist in these chambers and nowhere else. But you wait. You wait. You go to bed wide-eyed, trying to stay awake in case she wishes to see you off before you sleep, in case he is just running very late. You are not successful.
A muffled crackling noise and the feeling of something rough against your cheek is what wakes you in the morning, the sun casting weak rays through your balcony. You lift your head from the pillow; blink the crust from your eyes. Looking down, you take in what has disturbed you. A note.
It does not say who it is from, but you know. You know.