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Rhaenyra sat straight-backed on the stool, fingers curling in her silken skirts, as men raised their hands to bid on her maidenhead.
She was not the first Targaryen princess to find herself in a Lysene pillow house. She was, however, the first one to find herself a captive in one. Her great-aunt Saera Targaryen, whose appetites disgraced her in Westeros, fled to Lys rather than serve the Faith and made a name for herself here. Much to her mother’s sorrow, her father, King Jaeherys, had disowned her for it.
But Rhaenyra had not come to Lys to slake her thirst. Agents of the Triarchy who had infiltrated Kings Landing in the night stole her from her own bedchamber, smuggling her across the Narrow Sea. They docked first in Myr, then took her to Lys, where she could be better hidden among the pillow houses and pleasure gardens. She assumed she was meant to be used as a bargaining chip, something to make her uncle, Prince Daemon, and Corlys Velaryon cease their war for the Stepstones.
She also knew her abduction put her father in an impossible position: she was his heir, and he needed her badly, but any ransom paid would make him look weak. The auction was meant to force his hand, she assumed. Surely he would want her back before she was defiled.
Perhaps he didn’t need her so badly now that Alicent had given him a son.
She half-listened as the proprietress drove the bidding higher, keeping her eyes fixed on the back wall behind her audience, determined not to show fear, or fury, or any emotion that could be used against her. The bastardized High Valyrian that the Lyseni spoke was lyrical, might have, under other circumstances, been beautiful to hear. Not these circumstances. Rhaenyra, in her beautiful Lysene silks with gold brocade, in her gold bangles, perfumed from head to toe, her hair half-up and interwoven with gold chain, half-down and curled, made herself a statue. Her looks were not so exotic in Lys, where the blood of Valyria still flowed strongly in people’s veins; she could be as stony as she wanted, and she would still have value.
The only comfort she had was the silver dagger, its hilt studded with tiny crystals, which she had hidden down the back of her dress. A bed slave called Norra slipped it to her, having stolen it from one of her patrons, who had kept it on him in spite of house rules.
“You can use it on him, Nyra,” she’d whispered. Everyone called her “Nyra” here, not Princess. “Or on yourself, if you feel you must.”
Rhaenyra had accepted the dagger. She wasn’t so attached to her maidenhood that she would die if she was parted from it. She liked the idea of killing the man who would put hands on her, though. She remembered the catharsis she’d felt from her own dagger stabbing again and again into the flesh of a wild boar that would have killed her, until the boar ceased moving. Perhaps she liked the idea more than she should, but only flesh could satiate a dragon.
At last, when the bidding reached a sum that would surely pay half her ransom, no more hands were raised. Before she could see who had won her for the evening, Rhaenrya was ushered behind the auction stage and through the hallway behind, her slippered feet nearly silent against the stone. Her guards, broad-shouldered and taciturn, held her tightly between them. She tried to keep her head held high, knowing that in a pillow house, one was never unobserved.
They pushed her through a doorway, which shut fast behind her. She threw herself against it, tried to pull it open, but it didn’t budge. No surprise there. Steadying her breath, she turned to examine her surroundings.
The chamber was of medium size, well-lit by many candles; the walls were draped in silks of all colors. A small table had been set with a pitcher of wine and two goblets, and a platter laden with grapes, figs, dried apricots, and nuts. Rather than a bed, large velvet cushions were piled at the far side of the room for the act of love. Rhaenyra’s mouth felt suddenly dry, but she drew the dagger out of her dress. The silk clung tightly to her skin. She wore no smallclothes under it; she supposed they weren’t needed.
She stepped back to the center of the room, turned to face the door, then waited.
The wait was longer than she thought. The buyer must need to settle the issue of payment before claiming her. But after ten, or maybe fifteen minutes, the door was opened by a young boy, who showed a man in. The boy asked whether anything further was needed and was refused with a terse shake of the head. He bowed, then closed the door behind him.
Rhaenyra tried to assess her buyer. It was difficult. He hadn’t removed his dark cloak. She thought that underneath it she glimpsed an empty scabbard at his belt; he would have had to surrender his weapon at the door. He made no move to approach her, and said nothing.
“Do you not speak, my lord?” Rhaenyra asked innocently.
The hooded figure regarded her silently from where he stood.
“You’ve paid a fair price for me. Did you only wish to stand in my presence?” She kept her arms behind her back, dagger flattened against her forearm. With her chest pushed out, she took a few swaying steps toward the stranger. Nobody taught princesses to walk with their hips, but it was one of the first things courtesans learned. The silk dress rustled as she moved.
The stranger was still, his head cocked. The hood of his cloak shadowed his face, and Rhaenyra thought it strange that he didn’t move to draw it down. All she could tell was that he had a strong chin, that he was clean-shaven, and that he wasn’t old. He had strong shoulders and a solid bearing, which meant he had either seen combat or his fair share of tourneys, or the Essos equivalent of tourneys. Rhaenyra thought, based on what the other whores had taught her, that he was likely married. A younger man with the resources to purchase a princess’ maidenhead wouldn’t want for eager prospective brides.
“I can’t blame you for wanting to buy an audience,” she continued. “Not when I’m to be the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You may plead your case, if you wish, but I was given to understand…” She kept her eyes averted coyly as she drew close to him, rested her empty hand lightly on his chest. “... that my buyer would have a different purpose in mind.”
The man was still for another moment, and then he moved swiftly, taking her chin in his hand and jerking it upward. Startled by the sudden touch, Rhaenrya tried to pull back, and raised the dagger, preparing to plunge it into his heart. Then she caught her first good look at his face under the hood, and faltered.
With quick reflexes, a warrior’s reflexes, the man grabbed her wrist and held it in place for a moment, twisting it until she dropped the dagger on the floor with a cry of pain. Then he spun her around, holding her with her back to his chest. In the brief struggle, his hood slipped off.
“Oh, you wanted to kill me,” Daemon said against her ear in a low voice. He spoke to her in the Common Tongue. There was irony in how their private language gave them no privacy here. “That makes more sense. Keep fighting.”
Rhaenrya didn’t need to be told twice. He was holding her so tightly that it would have been painful if he was anyone else. She tried to lurch away and was jerked back against him in turn.
“You hurt me,” she hissed, flexing her sore wrist.
“You were going to stab me.”
“I was going to stop.”
“Not soon enough.”
Rhaenyra huffed, but made sure to keep her own voice quiet. “How long must we do this?”
“Careful,” Daemon said. “These walls have eyes and ears. Pull away again.”
She did, adding in a kick at his shin for good measure. He grunted, and when he reestablished his hold on her, a very large part of her wanted to sag against him. Of all people, it was Daemon who had come for her.
“A while longer, Princess,” he said, craning his head so far down that his lips actually brushed the shell of her ear. Rhaenyra shivered. In the story they were weaving, he was probably whispering all the filthy things he wanted to do to her. She tried to look concerned about it. “Better to slip away when there are fewer people about. Fortunately, I’ve won an entire night with you, but we’ll have to feign impropriety for a time. Can you manage that?”
She nodded once.
“Remember, you don’t know me,” he murmured. “You’re still feeling murderous.”
“Bastard,” she spat in High Valyrian. He was the one who’d taught her to swear.
His face was still so close to her ear that she felt him smile. “Yes,” he said. “Just like that.”
Abruptly, he shoved her forward toward the cushions. Rhaenrya put her hands out to take the brunt of the fall. She made a great show of looking over her shoulder for where the dagger had fallen, but Daemon kicked it so that it skittered across the floor and hit the wall. He took slow, deliberate steps toward her, and she started crawling away from her. Her heart thudded, and she reminded herself that it wasn’t real. She’d lived so long in a heightened state of alertness that her body didn’t seem able to tell the difference.
This was Daemon, she thought. He wouldn’t hurt her. And when her wrist protested, she amended that he wouldn’t hurt her in any way that mattered.
Before she got far, Daemon got his hand on the back of her dress, gripped it, and threw her face-first into the pile of cushions. She tried to turn over, but he put his knee in the middle of her back, though he was careful not to lean too much weight on it. “Stay on your front,” he ordered.
Rhaenyra made another show of struggling, but did as he said. She felt him kneel over her, straddling her hips, and went rigid. One of his hands gripped her hair, but as with his knee pressing her down, not forcefully. She tried to turn her head to look back at him. “Stop,” she ordered, trying to imbue it with the shaky haughtiness of a princess. “Don’t. It’s not too late. My father will pay—”
She was interrupted by a rending sound—he had ripped the silk of her dress. Craning her head over her shoulder, Rhaenyra noticed for the first time that he’d cut and dyed his hair. Brown hair looked strange on him. He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes briefly, then pushed her head back into the pillow. Terror crept into her belly, terror and something not far from arousal. He wasn’t really going to—
Daemon settled his weight on top of her, trapping her underneath him. Rhaenyra remembered being shut in the belly of the Myrish ship that had borne her away from home and had to force herself to breathe. “Daemon,” she whispered.
He must have felt the tension in her body, or she must have sounded fearful, because he whispered back, “I have you.”
She believed him, but she couldn’t make herself relax. He wouldn’t harm her. She’d known that when she flew Syrax to Dragonstone to reclaim her brother’s egg, daring him to strike her down. But too much had happened to her in the last two months for her to blindly trust that all would be well.
Rhaenrya felt him line his hips up with hers and slide his other hand between them, as if to undo the laces of his trousers and free his cock, but he just feigned the motion for a few moments. Nothing happened. He put his mouth back to her ear. “Do you know what to do?”
She whimpered like he’d said something cruel, and nodded.
“Good. On my count. Three, two—”
On one, he pushed his hips against hers, keeping his hand between them a moment longer as if he was using it to guide himself inside of her. Rhaenyra squeezed her eyes shut and gasped, then groaned. Her hands gripped the cushion so tightly her knuckles went white. She was a maiden and he hadn’t bothered preparing her. It should hurt.
Daemon exhaled into her curled hair. He brought his hand up and gripped her shoulder. “Again,” he said, sounding slightly breathless himself, and rocked his hips against her as she made a small sound that wasn’t unlike a yelp of pain.
Soon he established a rhythm that she could anticipate, making her fake sounds in time with his fake thrusts. They never really moved away from sounding like injury, but from what Rhaenyra had observed at the pillow house, sometimes it was difficult to tell the difference between pain and pleasure by just the noises a person made.
She began growing flustered, though. Heat was gathering below her belly even though her legs were nearly closed, so he wasn’t grinding down on any part of her that should elicit that reaction. It was the feeling of his weight on top of her, the warmth of his body even through his clothes, and hers. It was the way he was breathing so heavily against her hair, which he should have been feigning too, except she could now feel him actually growing hard against her ass. Apparently, she wasn’t the only person who was having trouble telling the difference between truth and lie.
Unprompted, Daemon slid his hand down underneath her to rest on her lower belly. In the story they were telling, she supposed it would be between her legs, and the heat in her grew more needy. “We can stop soon,” he promised, definitely breathless now. “Just—sound a bit more enthusiastic.”
“Why,” she breathed. That hand rested against the silk of her dress, but its presence was very distracting.
“So we can be friends after.”
Rhaenyra was fairly certain that was not the actual reason. She also knew she’d never be friendly with a man who forced himself on her, even if he did manage to coax some pleasure from her during the act, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. His hand was there. He was so close, he could just—
Loosening her death grip on the cushion, she grabbed his wrist and shoved it down between her thighs.
She heard his breath catch as he felt, even through the silk, how warm she already was for him. With the next push of his hips, she pressed against his hand, groaning at the friction, the pressure. Seven hells, that felt good. More than good, it felt necessary.
“Rhaenyra,” Daemon said, sounding shocked, almost as if she had scandalized him somehow, which was impossible. He began gathering up the fabric of her dress, and she helped, pushing it out of the way until she could pull his hand back into place, this time unhampered by silk. He cupped her sex, then slipped a finger inside of her.
This time, her moan was very real. He had long fingers, and if she had had no experience with this act she would have been completely overwhelmed by him. As it was, she hid her face in the cushion as his finger slid in and out of her, and when it was joined by a second she said, “Dae—”
“Hush,” Daemon admonished. He almost sounded peevish, though she couldn’t imagine why.
She didn’t forget herself again. She was much more vocal now that she wasn’t pretending anymore, writhing and squirming under him as he worked at her with his fingers. She clenched around them, headily wondering what it would have felt like if he’d actually chosen to deflower her. But this was enough. It was more than enough. Just him pretending to fuck her had aroused her enough that very little was needed to tip her over the edge.
Rhaenyra arced into his hand, smothering her cries in the velvet, her climax powerful enough to make her tremble. When it ran its course, Daemon withdrew his hand and went slack on top of her. It was only once her senses began to uncloud, blinking with dewy eyelashes, that Rhaenrya realized she hadn’t felt him finish too.
Daemon rolled himself off of her and fiddled again with his trousers, pretending now to be setting them to rights. Feeling slightly delirious, Rhaenyra pushed herself onto her side to watch him. His shorter hair was still long enough to fall over his forehead, which made him look oddly boyish.
“Was that what you wanted?” she demanded, remembering the part she was supposed to play. She wrapped an arm around her belly and attempted to pull her torn dress back into place, trying to act like he’d hurt her, maybe even hurt her the worse for making her come.
Without a word, Daemon stood up and walked over to the small table with the fruit and the wine pitcher. He poured a healthy amount into one goblet, glanced over his shoulder at her, and filled the second, bringing them both back to the cushions. He sat down heavily and handed her one of the goblets without looking her way. Smoothing his hair back from his face, he drank deeply.
“I was promised a maiden,” he said, at last.
Rhaenyra’s jaw dropped. It occurred to her belatedly that he might still be playing his role, the role of the entitled ass, but by then she had already said, “You had one.”
Daemon looked at her sideways. “If I did, she was very bold.”
Angrily, Rhaenyra sat up, setting the wine aside without drinking from it. “I have been in this place for a month,” she snapped. “Do you think anyone spends time in a Lysene pillow house without learning something of pleasure? Without being taught how to give it? How to receive it? Especially if they are to be sold?”
His expression was stormy, but he didn’t interrupt her.
“I have learned so much since I was brought here,” she continued, feeling almost on the edge of hysteria, “because there is so much a person can do without surrendering her maidenhead. I can satisfy a man or a woman with my hands or my mouth, or both, in tandem. I have been taught the ways I should be touched if I’m to derive my own satisfaction, what it feels like. That’s important because, in being sold, my pleasure will be secondary, so I should know how to feign—”
Daemon reached over and took her jaw in his hand, holding her mouth shut. “Stop,” he said. He sounded furious.
Rhaenrya stopped. It was only then that she realized that she might be of little use to him if he brought her home so devalued.
With one gulp, Daemon finished the wine in his goblet before setting it on the floor. He moved to sit beside her, his grip on her jaw loosening. He brushed her hair back from her face, trailing his fingers over the gold chain in her hair, then cupped her cheeks in his hands. “I believe that you have been well trained,” he said, loudly enough for anyone eavesdropping to hear.
In a lethal whisper, he added, “When we leave here, you and I will be the only ones left alive.”
She blinked at him, speechless, unsure of what she was feeling or what she was supposed to feel.
His expression was thunderous. “In the Stepstones, I cut my way through dozens of men to reach Craghas Drahar before I took his head. These people are nothing. They will die for putting their hands on you.”
Rhaenyra swallowed, her heart beating fast. She had dreams of murder, of summoning Syrax to burn every single pleasure garden in Lys to ashes, but she never imagined she would be able to cut her way out of here in truth. Then again, she hadn’t imagined Daemon would come for her, especially given that she hadn’t seen him for years. She thought she would be ransomed back to her father, in disgrace.
Even so, she said, “The bed slaves bear no guilt in this. They were responsible for much of my… training, but they had as much say in the matter as I did. We were always watched.”
“Give me the names of the guilty, then.”
She nodded once, slowly, and then again. She had not wept over the course of this entire ordeal, lest she be seen, but she felt like weeping now. She wanted to slump forward and rest her head against his shoulder.
Daemon stroked his thumbs back and forth over her cheeks, and then he leaned in and kissed her on the lips. She opened her mouth to him instinctively even before bringing her hands up to his shoulders, and while part of her wished she had not been kissed enough to know that he was good at it, another part was glad of that knowledge. He held her in his hands like he was afraid someone would steal her away again, and he kissed her like the only way to keep her safe was consuming her.
She knew the feeling. She wanted to devour him, too. Now that she thought about it, she always had. It was only that before coming here, she didn’t know what that meant.
When he broke off the kiss, he sighed, resting his forehead against hers. “I should bed you again,” he murmured.
He sounded almost contrite, which didn’t suit him at all. Could it be anything like guilt? Did he think he was inflicting more punishment on her after all she’d been through? Rhaenrya, for her part, felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Don’t make it sound like such a chore,” she teased. She nuzzled her nose into his. “Bed me in truth this time.”
Daemon pulled back and looked at her. All of his questions were unspoken.
“There’s supposed to be pleasure in the act. For women too, as I’ve learned. I’d like to be with someone who pleases me.”
“You’re sure.” His eyes searched her face. “I’ll only ask once, Rhaenyra.”
“I am. Even if I didn’t choose the rest, I choose this.”
He smirked. “Your father will be furious.”
“Then he shouldn’t have taken his time.” She didn’t flinch away from that, or from him, or from less pleasant truths. “When word gets out of what I’ve been made to do here, everyone will whisper that I’m another Saera. I don’t have any use for virtue that failed to protect me, virtue that none will believe anyway.”
Daemon raised his eyebrows. They hadn’t been dyed along with his hair, and were so pale that by contrast he didn’t seem to have any at all. He kissed her again, then released her and raised his voice to continue the conversation. “See, Princess, we need not disagree. Isn’t it much more pleasurable when you relent?”
Rhaenyra pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.
Noticing her amusement, he pinched her thigh. “Hush,” he murmured. “Behave.”
“You should know better than to ask that of me.”
“True. I might as well ask it of myself.” He stood, collecting the goblets and bringing them back to the table before loping over to the corner of the chamber to retrieve the little silver dagger. Then, kneeling beside her, he used it to cut away her ruined dress, drawing a line from her sternum to her navel. The cold point of the blade grazed her skin, but never broke it.
Rhaenyra pushed the dress off her shoulders and down her legs, shedding the fine fabric until she was bare before him. A few short weeks ago she might have been shocked and exhilarated by her own audacity; now it seemed a matter of course. Even so, the way he looked at her like she was something he craved was exciting enough on its own. Her breasts and hips seemed to fascinate him.
“The last time I saw you, you weren’t yet a woman grown,” he marveled, running a hand over her right leg.
She began removing some of the pins from her elaborately coiffed hair, half of which was still piled on top of her head. “I still bested you.”
“I allowed your victory.”
“Isn’t that a very fancy way of saying ‘surrendered?’”
“It was a tactic.”
The rest of Rhaenyra’s hair, wavy from its braids, spilled down over her shoulders. She ran a hand through it, noticing the way he followed her fingers, apparently very interested in how the candlelight made her locks seem golden instead of silvery. “Forgive me, my Prince. I am but a silly girl. What know I of tactics?”
“Apparently very little, because mocking your rescuer isn’t a sound one. Lie back, Rhaenyra.”
“I’m not rescued yet.” But with a closed-lipped smile, she obeyed, reclining back on the cushion. Rhaenyra was a keen observer and a quick study, and she had seen others in the pillow house display themselves to advantage. She cocked her head, exposing her neck to him, waiting to see what Daemon would do.
With something like a grin, he pulled off his shirt.
She only stared a little. And it was only to note what looked like newer wounds, still pinkish from acquisition. Places where an arrow pierced his armor, maybe, on the right side of his chest and abdomen. They seemed to be healing well, and didn’t hinder him.
Daemon was powerfully built in a way she had always taken for granted, but she’d never before seen him in any state of undress. The men with her at this pillow house tended toward extremes: either boyish, slight and slender, or large, with muscles so large they almost seemed swollen. Daemon was between those extremes and she found that very much to her liking. That and him. Her attraction to him, the reason she wanted to do this with him, actually had little to do with the physical. She was drawn to him because they were so alike. She wanted to do this because she trusted him.
Still, Rhaenyra looked. “Where were you hiding all this?” she asked. Her tongue darted out between her lips of its own volition, wetting them. “Did the Stepstones change you? Perhaps you should spend more time there.”
“I suppose you just weren’t looking hard enough, niece.” He nudged her legs apart, then got back on his hands and knees, holding himself above her. She wanted to reach for him, to pull him down to her. She wanted to turn him onto his back and climb on top of him, sink her nails into his chest, give him new scars to remember her by.
Instead, she asked, “If we’ve come to some kind of accord, how enthusiastic should I be? I would imagine I’m still less than thrilled.”
“Probably.” He bent to kiss her neck, and she closed her eyes. “But if you enjoy yourself in spite of your reservations, I’m sure no one would fault you for it.”
When he laid himself on top of her this time, his bare skin on hers made her feel feverish. She groaned when he reached back down between her legs to ready her, sliding one of her hands to the nape of his neck to hold on. She was warm already, and his touch made her heady.
As it transpired, he needed more readying than she did. When he withdrew his fingers from her he unlaced his trousers in truth and turned his attention to himself. She felt his knuckles brush the inside of her thigh as he stroked himself, felt his breathing change. What vexed him? She had no idea what was going on in his mind, and worry cut through her haze of pleasure.
“Say you cede yourself to me, Rhaenyra.” His voice was rough, strained.
“I do.” She wrapped her arm around his shoulders. It was her choice. Her freedom. “I cede my body to you. I put myself in your hands.”
A frustrated growl tore from his lips.
“Daemon,” she whispered. “Please.”
After a moment, he nodded, pressed two quick kisses just below her ear, and sheathed himself inside of her.
Rhaenyra held fast to him, her eyes snapping open, her nails digging into his skin. His cock was so much more than his fingers had been—than anyone’s fingers. Her groaning was genuine this time; she was ready enough that it didn’t exactly cause her pain, but the sensation, the fullness of him, still surprised her. She’d learned since her arrival here that she’d probably already ceded her maidenhead to horseback riding or, more likely, a dragon saddle, and she thanked all the gods for it now because she could only imagine how much this would hurt if she hadn’t.
“Seven hells,” she swore aloud. “Dae—”
He clapped a hand over her mouth. “No,” he managed. “Soon—” He grunted as he thrust into her again, and she moaned into his palm. “Soon you’ll be mine in truth—”
As he kept moving, Rhaenyra planted her feet on the cushion, canting her hips up into him to receive him better. She closed her eyes and felt everything: his muscles moving under her hand, his breath hot on her ear, his chest against hers, his cock moving in and out of her with a little more ease now that she was becoming more accustomed to him. More accustomed, as if she ever could become used to this. There was such a tightness in her belly, in her thighs, as she tried to fuck him back.
Daemon was still telling her what he planned, somehow. “When we’re wed—when we’ve taken up residence—in Dragonstone—you may call my name as loud as you like.” His hand slipped away from her mouth to palm one of her breasts instead. “Not yet.” He squeezed, and she moaned again. “Not just yet.”
She nodded, then used her free hand to turn his face to hers so she could kiss him, her tongue sliding into his mouth. They were so tangled she didn’t know if they would ever be able to extricate themselves. He kept moving, taking from her as he’d paid to do, although it seemed to her that was the wrong word, “taking” her. He gave to her, and gave, and though he didn’t touch her again, she found her climax, locking her legs around his hips, just as he spilled his seed inside of her.
Rhaenyra gave no thought to the consequences. They could be dealt with later.
Afterward, he eased out of her, off of her, rolling onto his back beside her. Neither of them spoke as they caught their breaths, looking up at the carved ceiling. Rhaenyra stole glances at him, at his flushed face, when he wasn’t looking; out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed him doing the same.
“You plan to wed me?” she asked in a breathy whisper, once she could.
“I think it is my due.”
“Your—” She picked up her head. “Your due?”
Daemon inhaled sharply.
“Is that why you’re here?” Rhaenyra demanded. “Because this is the way to win me? To win back—”
He was quiet for longer than he should have been. “No, Rhaenyra,” he said. “It isn’t why I’m here. Not all of why, not even half.”
She put her head back down and wrapped one of her arms around herself, covering her breasts, simmering still.
“I was frustrated by the inaction of your father,” he continued. “With the deadlock in his small council. I was afraid further hesitation would kill you. Someone had to act, and no one else was going to. I wanted you safe.”
“You wanted me.” Her voice was bitter. “As a means to an end?”
“I’ve always wanted you.” He turned his head to look at her. “Perhaps not always in this exact way, but from the moment I saw you as a babe in your mothers arms, I knew you were meant for me.” He shifted onto his side, draping an arm over her stomach.
Rhaenyra looked away from him.
“My brother and I had no sisters to take to wife. My own marriage is a farce. You—”
“Stop talking, Uncle.”
Her voice must have held enough ice, because he did. He also pressed his face against her shoulder, though. Rhaenyra let her eyes trace over the leaves and swirls embedded in the stone over their heads, oddly numbed.
“I don’t want to wed without my father’s leave,” she said slowly. “My reputation will be sullied enough as it is when I return. If I incur his wrath, I will be disinherited. He’ll have no choice.”
Daemon nodded into her skin.
“And I don’t want to go to Dragonstone. Not first. I want to—” Her voice broke, and she swallowed. She would be queen. She would not cry. There was so much that she wanted—to see her father again, to ride Syrax through a cloud and feel ice sting her cheeks, to sit in the godswood with the sun warming her skin, even to see Alicent—but most of all she wanted none of this to have happened, even if she’d managed to carve a few moments of pleasure out of it. She didn’t know if Daemon understood that.
“I want to go home,” she managed. “I want to go home.”
Daemon reached up to cup her cheek in his hand, to turn her face back to his. When his eyes met hers, solemn and serious for once, he seemed to understand more than she thought.
“Of course, ñuha prūmia,” he murmured. “We will right the wrongs done to you, and then I’ll take you home.”