Chapter Text
The name-day celebration of a princess could be no small event.
Neither could the name-day celebration of the heir to the throne.
Rhaenyra was happy to be both.
Name-day celebrations had always been some of the fondest memories she possessed, as while being a princess did afford her luxuries that one could only dream of, her name day was truly the one day that she got everything she wanted. Every whim or wish was catered to, every girlish demand given in to, even the absurd ones that the kitchen cooks had no choice but to listen to. It had been like that ever since she was a little girl who could be bribed with lemon cakes and dolls, and now that her tenth and sixth name-day was here—the age of majority, her mind happily reminded her— she wanted more.
And what she wanted couldn’t be bought, nor could it be made or handed to her on a silver platter.
What she wanted, what she truly wanted more than anything in the world, was for her uncle, the Rogue Prince, Captain of the City Watch, Prince Daemon, to fuck her.
An absurd wish to want on her tenth and sixth name day, but Rhaenyra had always gotten what she wanted, most of all on her name day, and she wasn’t about to break what was almost akin to an edict at this point. Not on a birthday that meant more to her than anyone would ever know.
Rhaenyra wasn’t sure where or when their dalliance had started, or who had made the first move—her uncle, she was sure of—but for moons now he had been nothing but fleeting touches and lingering lips, and it was driving her positively and absolutely mad. And when she would ask when such madness would cease, when he would finally give in to what she wanted, he would only remind her how far away her name-day was and nothing more.
Normally, Daemon would give in to her every wish.
Anything she could ever want, Daemon was the first to give it to her. Dolls when she was a little girl? Daemon was the first to bring her ones made of only the finest porcelain. Rhaenyra wanted dresses made of the finest silk. Daemon would be the one to not only procure the silk from foreign merchants but also hire his own seamstress, whom he insisted was the only one who could make dresses worthy of her title.
Of course, those tastes had changed as she had gotten older, and while she still enjoyed silks from Lys or jewels from Mereen, nothing had become more appreciated than her uncle warming her bed.
Rhaenyra saw it as a source of pride, knowing that the Rogue Prince could be painting the town red—literally and figuratively, knowing her uncle—but instead he wished to spend it with her. Although, despite her demands that he take what she was so graciously giving him, it seemed the one thing he refused to break on, the one thing he would not grant her until he deemed it so.
Rude.
And he tried to make her forget her pleas for him to take her too.
Ever since he had returned from the Stepstones, Daemon had been more and more than attentive to her, not a day going by without seeing him at least once, at least for those visits that the court wouldn’t raise an eyebrow towards. But alas, she could not spend all day with her uncle as she understood that many people demanded her uncle’s attention, and he would be remiss if he ignored his duties to the realm and the gold cloaks, which is why she was more than willing to overlook his transgressions if a gift arrived in his absence. They would be small things, trinkets and baubles that would be just enough to excuse him from being by her side. Daemon had quickly learned that his absence was something she would not permit, and her wrath at his absence without so much as a word about it was enough to make any seasoned knight shake in their boots.
So it didn’t surprise her in the slightest when she was greeted the morning of her tenth and sixth name day with a small chest that was overflowing with jewelry, the likes of which she had not seen before. Rhaenyra was accustomed to overwhelming luxury; her father and uncle both doted on and spoiled her to the point that she would never know what it was like not to be draped in finery. But it was another thing entirely to be greeted with such a sight, especially knowing that her uncle had likely hand-picked out every single piece.
Amethyst necklaces, jade brooches, and pearl earrings were only a few of the pieces she spied in such an overwhelming display of opulence. Daemon must have truly wanted to spare himself from her wrath, as he wouldn’t have sent such an assortment if he didn’t think that she would have spent the entire day ignoring him, birthday or not.
The chest itself had been brought by her uncle’s valet, William, the boy being granted access to her chambers by her ladies almost immediately after she had been woken up. Her ladies knew that there could only be one person brave enough to be requesting entrance to her chambers so early in the morning, and that they would be remiss if they refused entry, especially to someone carrying gifts for their mistress. William had been rather quick to come in, his feet carrying him to her bedside before opening the chest to reveal her bounty, letting her take in such a sight before spitting out words with a trembling lip.
“T-The Prince regrets to inform you, my Princess, that um…he won’t…he won’t be able to break his fast with you or luncheon b-but! H-He promises to attend your b-birthday feast this eve after the tourney,” William choked out, his eyes terrified to meet her own. Rhaenyra felt a twinge of pity for the boy, as the poor thing was perpetually terrified of her uncle, and was perhaps also terrified of her, if only because he assumed that if he upset her, Daemon would emerge from the shadows and drag him into the abyss, and he would never be heard from again.
In truth, the valet was in service to her father, but he was always sacrificed to serve her uncle whenever he remained in the capital for extended periods of time. Daemon had insisted enough that he didn’t need any valets or manservants to attend to him, but it had taken him a few days of missed meetings and an angry princess to realize that perhaps he did, and his pride wasn’t worth her wrath. Rhaenyra had seen William around often enough before he came into her uncle’s service, usually running between her father’s chambers and those of Otto Hightowers, but any interactions that they had were primarily when her uncle wanted to appease her with gifts and deliver clandestine messages urging her to use the passageways that ran behind their walls.
It was just unfortunate that Daemon had a habit of unintentionally scaring the poor boy.
Rhaenyra smiled warmly at her uncle’s valet, one whom he returned, albeit nervously, once she managed to catch his eye. “Do tell my uncle that I accept his apology, but also remind him that he promised me a much larger name day gift and I expect one before the end of the day. You can go now, William”
“Y-Yes, Princess, thank you, Princess, happy name-day, Princess,” the boy hurriedly blurted out, bowing his head in deference before scrambling out of her chambers, likely in search of her uncle.
It took only a beat after William had left before her ladies began giggling and cooing at his skittishness, only to turn their teasing towards her once they realized her flushed cheeks and broad smile as she picked over each and every last of Daemon’s gifts. Everyone knew how infatuated with her uncle she was, as any sort of secret about it had been thoroughly destroyed by her seven sunturns self, who had proudly declared she would marry Daemon, and had later been inconsolable upon learning that her favorite person was already married and it wasn’t to her. Rhaenyra often wondered how often her parents had prayed to whatever deity would take their pleas to make her obsession with her uncle end. Yet with each murmured prayer or shared look of concern they had made, her attachment had only grown and festered into what it was today, something she couldn’t even bother to be ashamed of even if she tried.
And truly, she did. But it had been just so hard to muster a tear for the death of a woman whom she had always considered a trespasser on what was rightfully hers.
Rhaenyra had always known she was possessive over the people she loved. It was one of the few dragonlike tendencies she seemed to share with her beloved Syrax, the two of them having a fierce possessiveness over one another…along with an even fiercer possessiveness over who they considered their mates. It did not matter if they happened to be older or battle-tested through fire and blood; they were theirs, and they wouldn’t give them up without fighting to the death for them.
Once, when her uncle would be openly admired by the unmarried–and married– ladies of court, he was now avoided, their eyes only being brave enough to catch fleeting glances and not much more. They knew who the Rogue Prince belonged to, no matter how much Daemon would insist otherwise that he was a free man now that his bronze shackles were gone and that no woman could hold him down. Rhaenyra had laughed at that particular declaration, or at least she had until her brain turned to mush and her focus whittled down to the sight of Daemon’s face between her thighs. The rest of that night had been a blur of pleasure, one that she had been happy to lose herself in.
The newer arrivals at court, however, or ones who thought themselves better than a dragon, were quickly informed that Daemon was hers, and she did not share.
The spot in his bed where his Bronze Bitch once coldly lay was now occupied by a dragon, and the ladies of her father’s court were fools to think they could compare to her in her uncle’s eyes. Truly, she had no reason to worry, her uncle’s devotion to her being second to none, but still, she couldn’t help but bare her fangs whenever a particularly bold woman decided to test their luck against a dragon.
And if they got burnt, it was their own fault.
Her ladies were quick to dress her afterwards, dressing her in a dark red silk dress that was stitched with golden thread along the edges, with a slit down the middle that gave way to a white skirt with similar golden embroidery that featured her beloved Syrax dancing along the hem. Her chemise was pulled through to make small puffs along her arms, creating a striking contrast between the maroon fabric and the paleness of her white chemise. However, what she loved the most was how low the cut of her dress was. Rhaenyra knew that she was well endowed. Daemon had certainly commented more than enough about how he would have been happy to die smothered between her breasts, and it was certainly a feature of hers that she wasn’t shy about expressing.
Of course, not everyone was as enthusiastic about her generous show of décolletage as her uncle, her stepmother the loudest of them all, but Rhaenyra found herself not caring. Alicent was just a bitter old woman, and it wasn’t her fault that the Seven Who Are One decided not to bless her with actual curves and instead give her a sticky thin frame that would have looked better under the scratchy and plain robes of a septa than the fine gowns Rhaenyra’s father afforded her.
Her hair was quickly braided, but only into two small strands that were combined to form a circlet around her head, the rest of her hair falling down her back in loose curls. Purposefully, she didn’t wear a tiara, knowing in her heart that there was no finer crown or tiara to be found on her name-day than the bright red roses of the crown of love and beauty that would surely be sitting upon her brow by the end of the day.
There was no other maiden deserving of such a title, especially on her name-day, so Daemon had to win. Otherwise, she would never forgive him for such a slight.
It was the last thought she had as she was whisked out of her chambers to break her fast with her father, already dreading the forced niceties and choked out compliments she would be forced to pay to her stepmother. But it would be all worth it when she got to see her uncle atop his black stallion, crushing and pummeling any opponent that stood in his way, all for the chance to see her smile when he proclaimed her queen of love and beauty.
Daemon would never say it, not outwardly, but he always fought for her smile. For her praise, for her adoration. Both on and off the tourney field, her eyes were the ones he sought most, her favor the one he held in the highest regard. Everyone knew it, they would have to be blind—or her father—not to see the shining adoration between the two of them hidden behind shared whispers and traded barbs that were comparable to love sonnets and declarations of love.
Rhaenyra just had to endure a morning of thinly veiled insults for them.
And she could easily do that, for the prize that was awaiting her under the cover of night was more than enough to make her suffering worth it.
Besides, it was her name-day, and Daemon would give her everything she wanted.
୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧
Rhaenyra did not see Daemon until just before the tourney.
In truth, she didn’t expect to see him at all, not until he was down on the tourney grounds, yards away from her, displaying the might of House Targaryen on horseback. Daemon was the pride of their house, its fiercest defender and champion, no matter how much her father would mutter and drone on about him being a plague upon their family and house. Rhaenyra just thought that her father didn’t understand her uncle, and she had yet to be proven wrong in such a matter, having witnessed too many fights and banishments to think otherwise.
But somehow, someway, Daemon would find his way back to her father’s side. It confounded her to no end how he managed to accomplish such a feat time and time again, but she wasn’t one to question it too closely. Not when Daemon would always return to her side, no matter how much he should be really kissing up to his brother and getting into his good graces before he inevitably did something to anger him again.
Like deflowering his brother’s one and only daughter.
Even if it wasn’t objectively true anymore, it may as well have been with how little attention her father paid to any of his other children.
Not that he paid her much thought either. There was a reason she was walking with her ladies rather than with her father, but her ladies' company was a much more welcome one compared to her half-siblings and stepmother. Rhaenyra had been very particular in accepting noble ladies into her retinue, only taking ladies who would be loyal to her and her alone, refusing any lady that Otto Hightower or Alicent sent her way. She didn’t need spies dressed in green silk attending to her who would report her every single waking moment to people who would rather see her half-brother on the throne instead of her. No, she much preferred the ladies she had met across the realm, ones that would support her and uphold her claim no matter what. Ones that she found true companionship with, who did not seek to undermine her and belittle her.
Rhaenyra’s ladies had become true friends, and she wouldn’t have traded them for anything in the realm.
And much like true friends, they were merciless when it came to her infatuation with her uncle. They could not insult the crown princess, but they most definitely could tease her about Daemon, and they never passed up an opportunity to do so.
It was probably why she wouldn’t have even noticed Daemon standing in the shadows like some sort of rogue had her ladies not burst into a symphony of hidden giggles and snickers at the sight of him.
Confusion consumed her features at the sight of her ladies' faces twisted in poorly hidden amusement, only turning to face the source of their mirth once she realized that their gazes were not fixed on her, but rather past her. A pair of strong gauntlet-clad hands settled on her waist before she had any time to properly react, holding her in place much like a dragon would their prey. Only one person would have the audacity or that much of a death wish to manhandle her in such a manner, and only one person in the entire realm could make her ladies giggle instead of worrying about her own well-being when it came to their crown princess. There was a firm press of metal against her back, armor, her mind supplied, armor that she was sure that if she were to look at head-on, she would see the engravings of Caraxes on.
“Run along, ladies,” An infuriatingly silky smooth voice demanded, his breath tickling her neck, sending shivers down her back as he spoke. “I have an audience with the princess that simply cannot wait”
Laena, her beloved cousin and head lady-in-waiting, only smiled at the dragon turned human who was more or less holding her hostage. “I do not recall the princess having any private audiences scheduled for today,” she replied coolly.
Rhaenyra couldn’t see him, but she swore she could hear the dragon-like grin that spread across his lips at her cousin’s teasing. “I’m sure the princess will make an exception for her beloved uncle.” Daemon sank lower, his lips now barely brushing the shell of her ear. “Won’t she?”
“I-It’s okay, Laena,” Rhaenyra hated how her voice quivered. Damn him. “Go on, I’ll be there shortly”
Her cousin gave her a knowing look, unadulterated mirth flashing in her beautiful lilac eyes as she merely shrugged in acceptance of her words. “I’ll tell your father the cooks held you up. I’m sure he won’t mind your absence for long,” she surmised before turning her attention to Daemon. “Please take care to see our Princess safely delivered to us without any marks, would you, Prince Daemon?”
“I’ll do my best, Lady Velaryon”
Laena seemed adequately pleased enough by his promise, even though they all knew it would be nothing short of a miracle if she managed to come back with all of her wits about her. Her cousin gave her one last look, as if she was savoring the last few moments she would see all of her and the other ladies’ hard work completely composed and put together, before corralling the rest of her ladies towards the royal box, leaving the two of them completely and utterly alone.
Rhaenyra had never wanted anything more.
Daemon was quick to spin her around until their chests were pressed up against one another, one of his hands settling possessively on the small of her back with a look of satisfaction clear across his face. He didn’t say anything, instead opting to openly admire her, one who, despite his earlier coy touches and fleeting lips, visibly preened at. She was vain, and she wouldn’t pretend otherwise. Everyone knew it, so why bother to hide something that her uncle was more than happy to encourage? Seven hells, he was probably half the reason she was as vain as she was, dubbing her the Realm’s Delight at seven summers old had certainly not done any favors for her being humble.
“Is there something you’re forgetting to say, Kepus?” Rhaenyra taunted after a moment, eager for his attention. She always found herself emboldened by Daemon’s presence; her tendency for recklessness and disregard for propriety multiplied tenfold whenever he was around. “Perhaps a well wish?”
“Is there?” Daemon asked slyly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What could I possibly have to say to my niece on a day like today?”
Rhaenyra hummed thoughtfully at his words. “I’m sure you can think of something, Kepus. You are a smart man after all, I wouldn’t want to insult your intelligence by reminding you what today is”
“So you would leave your poor uncle out in the cold?”
“I would”
“Such a cruel mistress,” Daemon purred. “Do you treat your ladies with such cruelty?”
A playful smile bloomed across her features, a certain haughtiness taking over her words. “No, but my ladies at least know how to greet their princess appropriately. Hiding in the shadows and refusing to properly acknowledge what today is isn’t befitting of a Prince of the realm, especially towards the Heir to the Throne”
“You are one to talk, Princess, I recall you being the one hiding in the shadows just the other night—”
“It’s rude to gossip, Kepus. You’re setting a bad example, and you’re insinuating that I would compromise my virtue by traversing around at all hours of the night. And that would be even more insulting, wouldn’t it be, Kepus? And on such an important day too. I don’t think I would be able to forgive you if you keep making such vile accusations”
Daemon gave her a devilish look, one that screamed she would live to regret her words. How delightful.
“Did you not get my gift then?” He asked after a moment, his glowering becoming that much more prominent on his face. “I recall sending William to your chambers this morning”
“I did, though father—”
An inelegant snort left her uncle’s lips, his furrowed expression dropping at the mention of her father and turning into one of amusement. “You would have to be quite the court fool, zaldrītsos, if you think you can convince me that your father got you something better than what I gave you”
“Well, father was more than happy to shower me with gifts and his attention.” Rhaenyra looked him up and down, or as much as she could given his hold on her. “You could’ve done the same, but you were noticeably absent from our morning meal. Father was complaining about it practically the entire time”
“Someone has to win his bets, and I can’t do that while feasting,” Daemon drawled, his hand abandoning her back in favor of settling on her cheek and cupping it, holding her as if she were something precious. The metal of his gauntlet was biting against her skin, the coolness singeing and brutal, but the warmth that his hand provided only made her lean into it more. “And besides, what kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t win the crown of love and beauty for my dear niece?”
“A horrible one,” she grumbled, side-eyeing him at every opportunity she could. “So, shouldn’t you be at the tourney grounds? You certainly can’t win father’s bets here”
“On the contrary, sweet princess,” he cooed, his other hand reaching up and coming to cradle the back of her head. “I’ve come to ask for your favor”
Knights often asked for her favor; the number of times some proud, nameless knight had come up to beg for the very thing that would insist would see them to victory had truly been too many times to count. Rhaenyra had never believed such pretty words, as they always came from men who would rather have her as a wife than a queen. All they saw was a prize to be won, a sweet docile princess that would fawn over their keeps and stories that truly weren’t funny at all. They had nothing to offer except for their hands and anything else her father might deem worthy enough to sell her away for, and even then, it was a pitiful assortment of simpering lords that were more worthy of serving her cake than being her husband.
Daemon, however, was more.
More worthy, more talented, more deserving than any man her father and his Lord Hand could ever attempt to push her way.
Daemon was a Targaryen prince, the grandson of one king and brother of another. A dragonrider and the fiercest swordsman the realm had ever seen, knighted at six and ten by King Jaehaerys himself. And even then, despite everything that would argue that a man sixteen summers older than her would want nothing to do with her, he understood her in a way that she had yet to be able to properly name.
The same chaotic fire that burned in her veins burned in his, too. Everything that made Daemon himself was the same things that made her herself, too. Their shared blood should have been enough to betroth them when she was but a girl, and she wasn’t simple enough to think that her father’s proposal that she be able to choose a husband of her own liking did not come with strings attached.
But her father had given her a choice, and never did his edict stipulate that she couldn’t force his hand.
And giving him her favor was just another step towards it.
“Usually knights ask for my favor after they’ve shown me they’re worthy of it,” Rhaenyra softly reminded him, reveling in the shiver of excitement that ran down her back when she noticed her uncle’s half-lidded eyes.
No amount of feigned ease or practiced nonchalance could hide the subtle twitch of his lips or the way his eyes became alight with a burning desire that threatened to set her aflame alongside him, not when she knew him as well as she knew herself. “Have I not proven myself to you, princess?”
“Have you?” She challenged, unafraid that she would give him her favor and more if he only asked for it. “I thought knights were supposed to be gallant”
A low chuckle escaped his lips. “Any so-called gallant knight out there would bore you, princess.
“Is that so?” Her hand lightly traced the engravings of his armor, her focus anywhere but his piercing gaze, as she feared she would lose all composure before him if she dared to look in the violet gaze that spelled her destruction.
“Yes,” Daemon did not leave any room for minced words; instead, he merely hissed what he saw as an undeniable fact. “You would get bored with them before they even had the chance to compliment your gown”
“You sound so sure of yourself, Kepus”
“I know you, little niece of mine.” Daemon’s voice melted into smoke, caressing her with his words as it demanded that she meet his gaze head-on. “I’ve known you for your entire life, zaldrītsos, and there is nothing you can say or do to convince me that I don’t.”
“I never said you didn’t,” Rhaenyra haughtily replied, her lavender eyes finally meeting his own violet ones with a burning gaze of her own. “But I do not reward knights who can’t even be bothered to wish me—”
Her breath was stolen from her before she could even utter another word, her lips captured in the sweetest assault she couldn’t even begin to describe, as any words that could seem lackluster compared to what the press of his lips against her own felt like.
Daemon did not relent, her lips claimed over and over again until she found it difficult to distinguish where she ended and he began. Although perhaps it had always been like that, the two of them were harbingers of the other’s chaos, a mirror that only reflected themselves in the other. Rhaenyra clung to him too, her hand finally settling on his shoulder, her fingers burrowing around the gaps in his armor, desperate to hold him closer.
“Happy name-day, Princess,” he murmured against her lips, smugness clear as day in his voice. “Have I won the right to ask for your favor now?”
Rhaenyra surged forward, not daring to answer him with words as she captured his lips for her own sake and pleasure. Anyone could see them. Anyone could see them and tell her father, have them separated and locked away on either side of the world, without so much as a glimmer of hope they would see one another.
She just didn’t care.
“I expect you to win, Kepus,” she breathed out once she had managed to drag herself from his lips, an impossible task that pulled at her no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. “I will not tolerate you losing, especially on my name day”
“Have a little more trust in your Kepus, hm? When have I ever disappointed you?” Daemon cooed, arrogance prominent in his voice as he pressed a soft kiss against her forehead.
“Well–”
“Don’t answer that,” He scowled. “Now run along, sweet niece of mine, I’m sure your ladies are fearing for their handiwork”
Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile at his teasing of her ladies, fully well knowing that they had every right to fear her uncle and his penchant for ruining her dresses far beyond any hope of repair. “Good luck, Kepus,” she murmured, raising to the tips of her toes and pressing her lips just against the corner of his mouth to bid him farewell just as much as it was to tease him.
Before Daemon could even respond, she turned on her heel and left, scurrying out of the castle walls and racing onto the tourney grounds—as much as she could given her station—towards the royal box. The guards stationed at the entrance bowed their heads to her, their murmured name-day wishes following her as her father and ladies came into view.
They were all waiting for her, completely oblivious to her swollen lips and tussled hair. Well, Laena wasn’t, nor were her ladies. Really, it was just her father, his jovial smile moving only to ask if everything was settled with the cooks for the feast. He didn’t need to know why Laena was hiding a smile behind her fan, or why her ladies were firmly looking ahead to the tourney grounds to hide their knowing looks. Even now, it surprised her to no end how oblivious her father was. To him, their constant hours spent together, alone at that, was simply an uncle doting on his beloved niece and nothing more.
How wrong he was.
Of course, it was not just her ladies and her father occupying the royal box. There were other nobles deemed worthy of having such a place of prestige, along with the men on her father’s council. While she didn’t love a majority of the men on her father’s council, she knew she could always count on Lord Strong and Lord Beesbury to, at the very least, support her and wish her a happy name-day and actually mean it. The words from the Queen Consort and the Lord Hand were infinitely more strained and fake, something she wasn’t surprised about in the slightest. The two of them despised her, and she was happy to reciprocate such a feeling, especially when they were forced to be nice to her in front of her father.
She took her seat next to Laena before her father signaled to the Master of Games to announce the start of the tourney. Challengers from the great houses began to take the grounds, the roars of the crowd varying between each knight as they began to show off, hoping to win over the crowd to their side, and more importantly, win her over to their side. The tourney was being held in her honor, and thus, they had such a ridiculous notion in their heads that they could prove their worthiness to her with martial skills alone. Not that any of them had truly seen anything close to a war, as that honor belonged distinctly to her uncle and the few highborn second and third sons that had followed him to the Stepstones.
No matter how much her father likely had insisted to each little lordling that she would be impressed with their jousting skills, there was simply no competition, not when it came to her uncle.
Daemon commanded each room he entered, no matter if it was a lowly ale house or the throne room, and the tourney grounds were most certainly not an exception.
Rhaenyra knew the minute her uncle came riding out onto the field, his presence too large for even an open grounds to contain. She didn’t even have to look.
The thundering of his stallion’s hooves, the deafening cheers that erupted around her, and most importantly, the audible eye rolls that came from her beloved stepmother and her father. Perhaps the most damning one of all was the whistling that came from her own father, because despite how much he refused to even begin to understand his brother, he still loved him. Albeit, in his own way, that was impossible for everyone around him to understand.
Rhaenyra watched as her uncle came stampeding in, his black and red-tipped plume dancing in the wind as he paraded around the tourney grounds, reveling in the screams of delight and devotion that came from smallfolk and nobles alike. To her, he looked like a Valyrian god of old, fire and blood on horseback, and his armor did nothing to dissuade such a fact. No matter how often she had seen his armor, up close or far away, it never failed to take her aback, especially when paired with his dragon-winged helm.
Matches were soon set, and one by one, Rhaenyra watched as Daemon decimated the competition.
The first match was against Ser Leo Tyrell, who was knocked from his horse within the first round, her uncle’s lance hitting true against the man’s chest, sending him flying.
Ser Samwell Bracken fought against her uncle next, the two of them breaking a combined ten lances before her uncle was finally able to unhorse him.
And after that, she lost count, the knights in between becoming blurs of silver as she watched one by one as they eventually landed in the dust with her uncle emerging victorious. There were other matches, ones that the victors of would eventually face her uncle, but Rhaenyra struggled to truly pay attention to them. She found it difficult to afford such attention to them when all they could do was gloat to her afterwards, declaring how they would win the tourney and crown her their queen of love and beauty, only to lose in the next tilt. At times, it left her wondering if common sense and decency had abandoned the men of Westeros and been replaced by arrogance. Not that her uncle was truly any better, but at the very least, he had the skills to support such arrogance, unlike the others.
It wasn’t until Bethany nudged her out of her daze that she saw the next opponent who had the honor of facing her uncle in the second-to-last match.
Ser Harwin Strong, much to her uncle’s disappointment, was a familiar face to her.
While Daemon respected the man, and dare she say that he might even call that man a friend, it was a point of contention for him that Harwin seemed to carry a flame for her. It didn’t matter how much Harwin had explained that he knew her affection was something that would never be reciprocated, and that he was more than happy to support her as a friend and his future queen, Daemon was still protective of her. And Rhaenyra considered it fair, given her own feelings towards the growing list of women who still ogled at her uncle despite her own thinly veiled threats.
And even though she couldn’t see her uncle’s expression, she did not doubt that it was one of pure, unadulterated jealousy and vengeance. She just hoped that he didn’t unintentionally–or worse, intentionally–kill the man. She wasn’t sure how she could spin such an event to his sisters–two of her own ladies at that–and explain in minced words that her uncle had more or less killed their brother in a jealous rage. Especially since earlier in the week, Harwin had felt unashamed in openly flirting with her while Daemon had looked on, unable to do or say anything as it had been at a feast, with a murderous gaze.
Rhaenyra watched with bated breath as the two men charged their horses towards one another, the tips of their lances pointed squarely in the direction of the other man’s chest, a game of chicken to see who would raise their shields first. Neither did. Instead, Daemon let himself fall back, letting Harwin’s lance spear over him while his own landed firmly in the man’s chest, although slightly askew, inches away from potentially striking the man in his flesh. Bethany’s hand had found her own, the two of them holding onto one another for what felt like dear life without so much as a word exchanged between them.
The scene practically repeated itself seven more times, the two men being more or less evenly matched in sheer determination and prowess, until Daemon was able to land a blow in Harwin’s arm that caused him to not only drop his lance but the impact of the lance sent him flying from his horse, landing with a crunch that surely spelled a broken arm, if not worse. Rhaenyra let out a cry of victory, unintentionally yanking her hand free from Bethany’s grasp as she stood up and cheered for her uncle. Her cries were likely drowned out by the cheers of her father, or even the cheers of the crowds around them, but she yelled all the same. She would make it up to Bethany and Myra somehow, perhaps a new dress for each of them, or letting them take a few pieces of jewelry from her collection, she wouldn’t be bereft parting with.
A breath she hadn’t even known she was holding escaped her chest once she saw Harwin being helped off the grounds, upright on his own and walking, albeit with his arm being cradled close to his body. Rhaenyra could only imagine it was broken, and it would take a while before he was able to properly train or patrol with the City Watch again.
However, Daemon, not one to gloat, merely guided his horse over towards the royal box, stopping a few feet short as he raised his lance and jutted out the tip towards her. Rhaenyra found herself getting up and approaching the railing, her red silk ribboned favor laced in her fingertips, only for heat to rise to her cheeks once she saw the lewdness of how his lance was positioned. Daemon, ever the gentleman, had placed the handle at his groin, as if the lance itself was a crude extension of his cock. Not that he needed it, her mind decided to happily remind her. The lengths her uncle went to tease and render her speechless was truly something to be admired, as not in her wildest dreams would she imagine such an image, at least especially not when they were in public, where everyone could see them.
“Victory is practically in my hands, sweet princess,” Daemon tilted the lance further, just so it would be in reach. “But having your favor would all but assure it”
Rhaenyra looked down at him, tilting her head in amusement as their eyes met. An inferno would have been more subtle, kinder than the destruction their eyes promised one another. Their relationship had always thrived on the unspoken, the knowing looks shot across from tables, fleeting touches that to anyone around them looked like nothing more than what they appeared as on the surface.
Briefly, as she began tying her ribbon to his lance, she wondered what they saw.
If they saw merely a doting uncle and a grateful niece, maybe a gallant knight and his princess, or even a rogue coveting his brother’s throne. To her, none of it mattered.
“Good fortune, uncle”
All she saw was Daemon.
Daemon smiled at her words, his arrogance and smugness palpable even from what felt like yards away. Without so much as breaking eye contact with her, he moved his hips forward, signaling his horse to move as he guided the stallion back towards the grounds proper. Rhaenyra did not dare to name the feeling that was settling low in her stomach, one that Daemon had become rather adept at causing, in fear that it would fester. The Master of Games was quick to announce the last match to determine who would go against her uncle the moment he had stilled his horse off to the side next to the poor squire that had been selected to assist him. Even though her uncle had been permanently residing in Kings Landing now for almost two sunturns, he still refused to take a squire, insisting that a Prince of the Blood wasn’t some wet nurse to look after greenboys who pissed grass. Of course, it seemed completely lost on him—or perhaps he knew and just didn’t care, a much more likely conclusion—that he had once been a squire for his uncle, who had been heir to the throne in those days.
In some convoluted way, she had always imagined herself as Daemon’s squire, especially as a girl. She had wanted to be a knight, just as fearless as her uncle, and she saw no better way to accomplish such a feat than at the feet of her uncle. Nowadays, she found herself much more interested in being his lover than his squire, even if she found herself occasionally doing things a squire would do, such as removing her uncle’s armor from his body. That, of course, always led to much more pleasurable things, seeing him more as a present to unwrap than a knight needing to be freed from his armor.
The next match itself was nothing like the match prior; the entire event played out rather quickly. It took only two rounds and a single well-placed blow for Jason Lannister to knock Borros Baratheon from his mount. It was insulting, really, but she wasn’t entirely sure for whom, the audience, Lord Borros, or Lord Jason. Either way, it didn’t matter, as her uncle was out for blood and she was more than happy to see the spectacle her uncle was sure to provide her with.
Rhaenyra watched as the two of them took their places on either side of the tilt, her uncle’s black stallion stomping with impatience as the drums got louder, a thundering heartbeat that echoed the cheers of the crowds around them. Each beat reverberated in her chest, breathing becoming that much more of a conscious effort as her eyes refused to part with the scene before her.
It took a single blare of a horn for their horses to charge forward, each man seemingly intent on destroying the other, as each lance seemed aimed to at least maim, if not outright kill.
Their lances shattered against the other man’s shield, Lord Jason’s splintering into tiny pieces that the man was visibly and audibly infuriated about, as even from the royal box, she could hear the man’s vulgar screams. Daemon’s distinct cackling soon overwhelmed the cursing, and was the only thing she heard before the sound of hoofbeats drowned out any other noise other than the roar of the crowd. There was no doubt that the two of them were giving the realm something to speak of for days; the number of broken and discarded lances and shields alone certainly being enough to be talked about for at least the rest of the day, if not longer.
However, it became apparent that the longer the two dueled, Daemon was merely playing with the Lannister Lord. Everyone could see it, the way Daemon was intentionally angling his lance to purposefully avoid knocking the man off his saddle was blatantly obvious. A lion was no match for a dragon, and it was almost dizzying to see the proof of it before her eyes. It invigorated her like nothing else had, having long abandoned her chair in favor of watching with her hands wrapped tightly around the railing. Her father was no better, as it was the most energetic she had seen her father in moons, his cheers being just as loud as the crowds around them, despite the sour-faced look his wife seemed intent on giving him each time he screamed.
Rhaenyra could not blame Daemon for wanting to have a little fun, especially when with each narrow miss, the crowd became more and more restless, with anticipation for the next blow roaring through their veins. Her uncle had always enjoyed an audience, preferring to show off whenever he was given the chance, never afraid to remind the realm who their prince was, and this was no different.
Although her uncle eventually tired of it, rather his patience wore thin with Lord Jason who seemed intent on giving it his all when his all was, in reality, a pathetic excuse of skill, or that Daemon was simply bored and decided to end this mummer’s farce. Rhaenyra truly didn’t know how he had made it this far, even though she had watched each tilt from beginning to end. Jason Lannister was no great duelist despite the defeated competitors that suggested otherwise, and it was made abundantly clear when on the last bout, her uncle successfully unhorsed him with little to no effort on his own end.
A deafening roar was heard from all around as Daemon began to celebrate, and she could have sworn on her father’s crown that she heard the clicks and whistles of Caraxes all the way in the dragonpit. She just hoped that her darling Syrax wasn’t deafened by such noise, knowing that they were likely curled up together in the same nest. Daemon did not celebrate small by any means, riding around the tourney ground walls, boasting the red fabric that had been torn from his opponent on his lance. To her, there was nothing like watching him celebrate. The smile that he kept hidden from most of the court was put on full display, and she could not help but smile back at it, even if it wasn’t entirely directed at her.
But then their eyes met, and his smile grew.
More cocky and arrogant, for sure, but it grew nonetheless.
To anyone else, it would have looked unsettling, terrifying even. Daemon Targaryen did not smile, especially not with such grandeur, and she was sure that all people saw when they looked upon him was the toothy, bloodthirsty grin of Caraxes plastered on his face. Rhaenyra only found it endearing, as much like Caraxes, she insisted that her uncle was simply misunderstood, even if he did delight in scaring people. It was perhaps why rider and dragon were meant for one another, as she could not imagine her uncle riding another dragon, not when Caraxes seemed to embody Daemon perfectly.
The Master of Games loudly declared him the winner, much to the delight of her father and every single man and woman who had put golden dragons on his victory. It never failed to amuse her how her father’s men would be the first to complain about the cost the Prince brought to the realm, but would also be the first to place bets on his victory. Six men or sixty, he was still Daemon Targaryen, and the lords of the realm were not one to forget it.
A crown of blood red roses was presented to her uncle, and a cry of desperation rang out from the maidens of the realm, echoing throughout the grounds. While the reign of the Queen of Love and Beauty was short, only lasting a single day, if even that, such a title was a coveted one, especially when it was bestowed upon them by the Rogue Prince himself.
Of course, none of them would ever get such an honor.
Dragons did not mate with sheep, after all.
And sure, Daemon might entertain them, indulge in their fantasies if even only by glancing their way, but it was never real. The way he paraded himself around the tourney grounds, his stallion at a mere trot as his eyes swept over the crowd, was a farce. His lips forming into a thin smirk that she knew so intrinsically that she could see it even from a distance was nothing but a tool to fool each and every maiden into believing that it was some secret reserved just for them. That the crown of roses would be placed upon their brows, and they would finally be able to taste the sweet poison that was his lips.
They were fools to think that the Rogue Prince’s heart was without an owner.
Daemon did not stop until he reached the royal box, the eyes that had been wandering, tempting each maiden and lady with their pools of violet, now solely focused on her. His eyes had always been so easy to drown in, so easy to get swept away until existence began and ended in shades of violet.
No words were needed between them, not when their eyes spoke a language that only the two of them could understand.
Silence reigned as he dismounted, his lance all but forgotten as he plucked the circlet of roses from its tip and threaded his arm through. The realm held its breath as her uncle dismounted his stallion and began to climb, his queen of love and beauty deserving to be crowned by no other than his own hand. Rhaenyra would have equated him to some lover of old, an intruder in the night, desperate to see his lover that had been forbidden by virtue of slight. A desperate man who clung to the stones as if they were his lover herself, facing peril in the name of love and devotion.
Daemon had always insisted that he was no gallant knight, that he was a rogue, and she would do well to learn it. But every sweet kiss, every line of poetry he would recite underneath the weirwood tree for her enjoyment, and every candied lemon slice surrendered at her lips convinced her otherwise. His scaling the wall of the royal box to crown her queen of love and beauty convinced her otherwise. Her uncle would never be the gallant knight of her nursery stories, one that any lord father would want for their daughter, but she wanted him. It did not matter if the lords of the realm considered her uncle a rogue; to her, he was more gallant than the likes of Florian the Fool, if only in his own way.
Rhaenyra watched as he pulled himself up, his feet landing with a firm thud against the wooden floors as he pressed his body against the railing. And she met him there too, her feet carrying her towards the railing once more before she could even stop herself. Not that she would have wanted to. There was a look of utter satisfaction upon his face, a wicked smile that would have seemed cruel to anyone who didn’t know him, but sweet to her.
“Princess”
“Uncle”
Daemon let the crown of flowers fall down his arm until it was in his hand once more, the delicate petals looking almost out of place against such calloused hands. “I do believe I have something for you, sweet princess.”
She let her brow raise in mock surprise, a playful smile coming to her lips as she rested her hands on the railing and leaned forward until there was barely a breath of air to be shared between them. “Is that so?”
“The crown of the queen of love and beauty is to go only to the finest maiden in the realm,” Daemon announced in no uncertain breath. “And I can think of no finer maiden than my niece on her name day”
His last words were whispered, an act of reverence upon his lips that were only for her and no one else. With more delicateness than she had ever known her uncle capable of possessing, the crown of roses was placed upon her brow, the soft petals falling against her skin as Daemon pressed a chaste kiss on the corner of her lips, not unlike the one she had given him only hours earlier.
The moment could not last, lest her father become suspicious of how close uncle and niece were standing to one another. Daemon drew away from her, a whisper of his kiss lingering against her skin.
“I declare my niece, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne and Princess of Dragonstone as my Queen of Love and Beauty!” Daemon practically screamed to the realm, his voice eventually being drowned by the eruption of cheers and thunderous applause that followed.
Instead of returning to his horse, Daemon merely hoisted himself over the railing, much to the shock of her stepmother and father, albeit for likely very different reasons. A quick glance around told her that Daemon’s general disregard and contempt for propriety had once again left everyone momentarily baffled, which for her uncle wasn’t anything new. Of course, her ladies weren’t scandalized in the slightest, Laena most of all. Too often, they had been the unwilling voyeur of her and Daemon’s more scandalous…activities, and the mere sight of her uncle disrupting a box of honored guests was not something out of the realm of normalcy when it came to her uncle. Their eyes met, Laena’s lilac eyes flashing with amusement at the scene as she beckoned them along, the words ‘go’ on her lips as the sounds of her father rushing and stumbling over himself to try and stop them became ever more present. Rhaenyra glanced towards her uncle, only for his hand to already be out, awaiting hers. Her father barely had the chance to sputter out a word before her hand was already firmly in Daemon’s, and she was being led away, her ladies quickly following behind and brushing off the king as nicely as they could without it being considered treason.
Her own girlish laughter followed them out of the tourney grounds and far down the hallways, her ladies clamoring at them to hide as there was an approaching Kingsguard—Ser Steffon, she was sure, as he was usually the one who her father sent whenever he was convinced that Daemon might be taking certain liberties with her—only for Daemon to yank her into a hidden alcove and silence her with a bruising press of his lips against her own.
The Rogue Prince did not stop there, oh no, he had a reputation to uphold, and his fingers were all the more happy to comply. Rhaenyra found herself pushed up against the wall, Daemon’s lips relentless in their pursuit to steal her breath and her sanity well along with it. Slowly, she felt the fabric of her skirts being hiked up, the warm summer air kissing her now exposed stocking-clad leg, only for the brutal bite of his cold steel armor to practically hiss against her overheated skin. His hand cupped the underside of her bare thigh, hiking her leg up just enough so that he could nestle himself against her hips.
It would be too easy for someone to see them. They were not hidden well; anyone could walk by and spy their distinct silver blonde hair or the red of her gown. They could easily accidentally overhear the violent dance of their tongues and the soft whimpers or the gentle clink of his armor as he pressed himself against her more, as if he were trying to meld them into one being. Rhaenyra found that she wouldn’t have minded such a prospect, as everything in that moment seemed to start and end with Daemon and nothing more. Perhaps if anyone did see them, all they would see was two lovers intertwined, two people sharing the same space, the same breath, loath to be apart.
His lips burned against her own, sending hot shocks of pleasure down her spine that only added to the pleasure that had been mounting ever since their lips had first met. The firm squeeze of her thigh had only added to her desire, as nimble fingers had only gotten closer and closer to the hem of her small clothes with each breath, every inch closer making her heart beat faster and faster until she couldn’t even be certain it was beating anymore.
Daemon had abandoned her lips in favor of the delicate skin that covered her neck, his teeth scraping against the most sensitive spots that he had likely committed to memory. He was fervorous in his devotion, each kiss—if she could even call them kisses anymore—a prayer against her skin, a promise of what was to come. Would he do it, her traitorous mind dared to ask, take her right against the wall like a man possessed? Did he feel her heart, pounding with each press against her skin? And did his heart beat the same? Was it thundering against his chest, driving every last decision with wanton desire that could not be satisfied by a kiss alone?
As if in a drunken daze, she thought of how many high-collared dresses she possessed, a clarifying thought in a turbulent sea of pleasure and bruises upon her skin. Investing in high-collared gowns had become a necessary evil, as her uncle took too much pleasure in marking her in purples and reds for all to see. A soft moan slipped through her lips at the sensation, one that she hastily tried to muffle by pressing her palm against her mouth. She could feel the smile that grew from such a slip, his lips moving against her skin as a low chuckle reverberated against her skin. “What’s the matter, princess?” the bastard dared to ask. “Is something wrong?”
“Daemon,” she nearly hissed, her breath having become just as rapid as her heart. “I-I…I-I…”
He only hushed her, placing a tender kiss against what she could only assume was his latest assault on her skin. “Don’t worry, zaldrītsos, Kepus will take care of you, be a good girl for Kepus, hm?”
Rhaenyra could only watch as her uncle sank to one knee, his mouth finding the exposed skin of her upper thigh almost immediately. It took everything in her to suppress the moan that was threatening to escape as his teeth sank into the tender flesh and began to suck at it. Desperately, her fingers clung to the stony wall, trying (and failing) to find purchase and keep herself upright. A metallic taste soon filled her mouth, her teeth having broken skin from attempting to keep herself quiet, but with each lingering kiss that dragged him further and further up her thigh, she was finding such a feat near impossible.
Distantly, ever so faintly but growing louder with each passing second, she could hear the rhythmic march of what her brain could only conjure as the Kingsguard. Perhaps she should care more, find some sort of shame as her stepmother was always insisting she do, and have the decency to shove her uncle off before things truly spiraled out of control. It was worth noting that they had long passed such a threshold, but it wasn’t anything she felt capable of dwelling on, not when Daemon decided to move his lips to a much worthier prize.
The soft press of his lips against the gusset of her smallclothes made her jolt, and she could have sworn to everything that was righteous that a pleased smile bloomed upon his face at such a movement. At times, it felt like Daemon knew her body better than she ever could, his lips always finding the most sensitive spots to torment. Because he would always make her fall apart to where she was a babbling mess and wasn’t any better than a well-spent whore. Even now, Rhaenyra truly did not know how she continued to remain upright, as her legs had been trembling ever since Daemon’s lips had descended upon her thigh.
Unintelligible noises became commonplace as Daemon continued to lap at her through her smallclothes, his teeth just barely grazing against the sensitive flesh obscured by white linen. The wetness that had already been pooling there ever since her lips had been pillaged had seemingly increased tenfold due to her uncle’s ministrations, and she doubted he would stop anytime soon. Even if he should, as the sounds of the Kingsguard approaching only became louder, and her inability to be quiet was going to cause them to get discovered.
“D-Daemon.” Her lips were trembling, her breath just barely managing to keep up with her words. “T-They’re gonna find us, w-we…w-we have to ah—” A moan forced its way through her, strangling her in a chokehold until she had no choice but to let it go. “W-We have to s-stop”
A dark chuckle vibrated against her skin, an acknowledgment of her words, but he continued his pursuit nonetheless. In fact, he did it with greater ardor than before, as if he was happy to tempt fate itself by feasting upon her in broad daylight. Another jolt wracked through her body as the cold press of his gauntlet-clad fingers sizzled against overheated skin, his fingers having hooked around the gusset of her small clothes and exposed her bare skin for his viewing pleasure. She squirmed under his gaze, not even needing to physically see him to know that there was an insatiable desire burning just behind his eyes at such a sight.
His lips sought her skin, the pad of his tongue making quick work to press against her slit and lap at her as if she were some trussed-up dessert for his enjoyment. Desperately, her hips sought friction, rocking against his face without so much as a care to who could walk in, her mind completely and utterly consumed by the pleasure to where any other thought was but a mere suggestion, a whisper against the devastating rapture that he brought upon her. Already, he had begun toying with her clit, suckling at the exposed bundle of nerves that had her trembling underneath him while he continued his assault on her very being in the most pleasurably aching way possible.
Then she felt it, the tautness that had been steadily growing far below her stomach, a bow string made up of an aching desire that was threatening to snap in no uncertain terms. Daemon did not stop either, in fact, he only doubled down on his efforts, letting her come apart on his tongue as if her trembling leg that had been hitched atop his shoulder was merely a sign that he needed to ruin what little composure she had left. His tongue dipped in and out of her folds, a lewd and devastatingly cruel imitation of what she wanted most that made her cry in desperation. Any words that she could possibly begin to muster were caught in her throat, unable to choke out more than just a series of moans that grew louder with each passing second.
The mounting feeling in her abdomen did not go away, making her last shreds of sanity nearly impossible to cling to as he continued to lap at her. It hadn’t been the first time Daemon had decided to turn his hungry mouth in the direction of her cunt, but everything seemed more intense, as if Daemon was more than eager to dismantle her piece by piece until she was nothing but moans and sobs for everyone to hear. A dangerous game, yes, but when hadn’t her uncle been a willing participant in antics that were doomed to get him banished, or worse, killed for treason?
She threw her head back in absolute ecstasy as her moans echoed around them, practically on the precipice of her peak, while in turn, Daemon became a man possessed, wanting to desperately ruin her in the best possible way. Rhaenyra was sure that her moans were not contained to the little alcove they found themselves in, not anymore at least, as her cries and pleas likely carried down the halls for anyone to hear. If she heard the hurried steps of the Kingsguard, her mind paid no attention to it, completely focused on where Daemon’s mouth was and nothing else.
She was close, her body primed and on the precipice of ruin, a moment away from reaching new heights of pleasure and shattering because of it, all brought on by Daemon's lips.
But then, without any warning, he took his mouth away.
Just as she was about to reach her peak, the bastard took his mouth away and removed himself from her, leaving her a shaking mess against the wall, only for the glaring presence of the Kingsguard to appear in the entryway.
In her heightened state, she could barely make out what poor souls had been sent to interrupt them, her vision having yet to stop swimming after being denied what was so rightfully hers, and she struggled to regain some sort of composure that she was very blatantly failing at. Daemon had moved in front of her, blocking her wrecked form from any prying eyes that would seek to unravel her with their sight alone.
“—The Crown Princess is catching her breath. You may leave. Daemon’s voice came to her firm and steady, a far cry from how she felt herself.
“With all due respect, My Prince, we heard some concerning noises—” That was Ser Steffon. “—and already His Grace bid us to go after the princess since she left the tourney grounds in such a hurry. He wanted to request an audience with her before the feast”
Daemon scoffed. “His Grace can wait like the rest of us”
“Prince Daemon—” the other knight, Ser Lorent, tried to argue.
“Go, Ser Steffon, Ser Lorent,” Daemon barked, cutting the man off. “I will escort the princess to her father”
Yeah right
Even though she couldn’t see the Kingsguard from behind the wide expanse of Daemon’s back, she was sure that the two men did not believe a word her uncle said. Hells, she wouldn’t have either.
“Princess?” Ser Steffon had the courage to ask. “Are you alright?”
Rhaenyra took a shaky breath, mustering everything in her to respond to the man, lest they get into a fight with her uncle over it. “I-I’m alright, sers,” she managed. “I-I just tripped, that’s all. Tell my father I’ll meet with him shortly”
A tense silence followed, and she could only imagine the glares being exchanged by the men before her before Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent finally decided to cut their losses and leave, the gentle clink of their armor receding until she could hear it no more. Daemon finally turned to her, and it was to her horror that she could see a fine sheen of wetness that coated his mouth and the areas around it. There was a self-satisfied smile upon his face, one that she wanted to smack from his face for even daring to show such a thing after leaving her wanting.
Instead, he merely licked his lips, wiping off his face shortly afterwards before leaning down and pressing the faintest of kisses against the juncture of her neck and jaw. “Until tonight, sweet princess,” he cooed, his words sending shivers down her spine despite how much she wanted to strangle him at that very moment.
She didn’t have a moment to respond before he was already walking away, a pleasant tune coming from his lips as if he hadn’t just shattered her very being with those same lips.
And he still hadn’t given her her name-day gift yet.
Asshole
୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧
The feast celebrating both her name-day and Daemon’s success in the tourney grounds was no small affair, nor could it be without raising the suspicions of the lords and ladies of Westeros. Not that it ever would be, as her father loved a feast more than any lord she had ever had the pleasure or displeasure of meeting, and he wouldn’t let an opportunity to feast go by without taking full advantage of it. Especially not when his daughter and heir was of marriageable age, and to him, any large gathering was reason enough to parade her in front of suitors while they boasted on about her beauty and tried to woo her with their paltry excuses of exquisite gifts that they thought were worthy of a daughter of House Targaryen.
They never were.
Those lords could call her spoiled, vain, petulant, any other name in the book for not liking their gift, but it wouldn’t change her mind. She would still do no more than smile and thank them for their generous gift before putting them in a pile for her ladies to ransack later. Rhaenyra had standards, ones that she wasn’t willing to sacrifice, especially not to appease some self-important lord. The only gift she truly treasured from the endless gifts of cheap baubles was the gift from the Arryn retinue, who had presented her with a diadem that had been commissioned for her grandmother by her Arryn grandfather. No gaudy golden choker that resembled a collar more than anything could compare to the likes of such a well-thought-out gift, so she had no problem embracing her Arryn aunts despite court rules dictating otherwise.
As much as Rhaenyra did enjoy feasts, she could still realize what they were, and that being just a feast. Not that she didn’t like them, she did, but there were only so many times she could dance with her ladies or any other men she was willing to pity for the night that wouldn’t bore her to death. So as the hours continued to pass with no respect for her want for her name-day to never end, she unexpectedly found herself rather bored. To the point where she could not truly discern what happened during the rest of her name-day feast, as for the remainder of the night, her mind was far down the table with her uncle, who, contrary to any other feast he had attended, seemed to be enjoying himself. Even going as far as to make conversation with one of her father’s council members, all while ignoring her pointed glares that she knew he felt against his thick skull.
Ever since he had left her aching and wanting, on her name day no less, she had been torn between wanting to feed him to Syrax or making him pick up where he had left off, or perhaps both. And it didn’t help that it felt like he was practically ignoring her, even if he had danced with her multiple times throughout the night, kissing her whenever her father or any other lords or ladies with a penchant for gossip were distracted and being everything a devoted uncle and lover should be. Except for apologizing. So it hadn’t surprised her in the slightest that she had actually accepted a dance from Ser Harwin, right in front of her uncle, too. If he was going to torture her, she could torture him right back. Unfortunately, it had backfired, if only because Harwin seemed to think more of it than she actually meant it to. However, she was sure that he had gotten the message when she thanked him for his dance and didn’t invite him to continue talking or share a goblet of pear brandy with her.
But it had all seemed for naught, as when she had looked back to see her uncle’s reaction, he was gone.
And by that point, there was no use staying, not when the one person she cared for the most wasn’t even there to be tormented by her. So by the hour of the bat, she had elected to retire for the night, her mood souring with each minute that brought her closer and closer to the end of the day without getting the name-day gift she had practically been promised by her uncle.
If her ladies noticed her shift in demeanor as they helped her undress from her court gown and into her nightgown, they did not say a word; instead deciding to focus on the courtly gossip she had yet to hear, or scandalous things that had occurred while she had been stuck receiving gifts. Of course, they were smart enough not to outwardly make the connection to the court gossip of the alleged pair of lovers that the Kingsguard had caught after the tourney, even if it was the most obvious thing in the realm who those lovers were. However, they soon left, leaving her with their final name-day wishes and bids for a restful sleep, but nothing more.
Rhaenyra found herself stewing in her anger not long after, furious that her uncle had elected to leave her name-day feast without so much as a word to her about it. And now, he was nowhere to be seen, and any hope of her name-day gift being given to her on her actual birthday was quickly fleeting. This, Rhaenyra had decided, would be the one atrocity that she would never forgive her uncle for, no matter how hard he begged or groveled at her feet. Forgoing her name-day gift–even if he had technically already gotten her one–was comparable to treason, and it felt more insulting to wait for him like some love-sick maid instead of the princess and heir to the throne that she was in the hopes that he might show up.
It would be his fault after all, she bitterly thought as she padded towards her bed, the soft linen blankets the only embrace she let herself sink into as she crawled into her bed. Rhaenyra had never considered herself vindictive; her thoughts as she drifted off into what she prayed would be a dreamless sleep could be considered nothing but.