Chapter Text
I did not look back as I left them.
Not at the King with his too-knowing smile, nor at my husband, whose presence I could still feel like heat lingering against my skin. Viserys’ words followed me nonetheless, light in tone, heavy in implication. He thought himself amusing. Perhaps he was. But I had neither the patience nor the position to answer him as I truly wished. So I walked.
The noise of the garden softened the farther I moved away; laughter, music, the clinking of cups and plates blending into something distant, almost harmless. My steps slowed when I found her.
Princess Rhaenyra stood alone near the long table, her attention fixed on nothing in particular, though her fingers idly traced the rim of a goblet. Untouched food lay before her. Alone, despite the crowd.
“May I join you?” I asked gently.
She looked up at once, as if pulled from deeper thoughts, and a faint smile touched her lips. “Of course.”
I inclined my head and reached for a small cluster of grapes, more out of habit than hunger. The sweetness burst softly between my teeth as I moved toward the shaded edge of the garden and seated myself upon a low stone bench. From here, I could still see everything – the shifting colors of silk and armor, the dance of sunlight on polished metal – but the trees offered a veil of quiet. A place to breathe.
A moment later, she joined me. Up close, it was easier to see what weighed on her. Not just the shadow of her father’s words – though that lingered, unmistakable – but something more restless. Unsettled.
I turned one grape between my fingers before speaking. “How was the tour?” I asked, my tone light, though my gaze lingered on her. “Your letters grew… scarce, these past months.”
A soft sigh escaped her, heavier than her years should have allowed. “Terrible,” she said without hesitation. “You would not believe the men they paraded before me. Old men… or children. Boys, truly.”
I huffed a quiet breath of agreement. I knew that reality well enough. I had seen the letters sent to my father… offers dressed as honor, alliances disguised as generosity. Lords twice his age, men who had buried wives already, men who sought nothing but a womb and a name to bind to theirs. Even now, I could recall the way my father’s jaw had tightened as he read them.
And yet… here I was. Married to a man older than I. But Daemon… Daemon was no old man. Not in presence. Not in spirit. Not in the way the world bent subtly around him when he entered a space. There was nothing dull or fading about him. He was something sharper. Something dangerous. Something alive.
“None of them caught your interest?” I asked, lifting my gaze back to her.
She shook her head at once. “No. No one.”
Her eyes drifted then, pulled by something beyond us. I followed her gaze without thinking. And found him. Daemon stood among the others, still with his brother, unmistakable even in a crowd; silver hair catching the light, posture loose but coiled beneath it. He spoke to someone, though his attention never seemed fully given.
And Rhaenyra watched him. Ah. Of course.
It was no secret. Among her House, such unions were not whispered of with shame but accepted as tradition. Expected, even. And the way her gaze lingered – not bold, but not entirely hidden either – spoke of something more than passing admiration. Hope, perhaps. Or something close to it.
She turned back to me suddenly, as if caught in the act of her own thoughts. “I am sorry, I should not…” she began, but I reached for her hand before she could finish.
“I understand,” I said softly, offering her a small, knowing smile. “He is a handsome man.”
That, at least, was a truth no one could deny.
She exhaled, though her tension did not fully leave her. “Still… you two are married. I know it was not… merely politics for him. But…” Her voice faltered.
“But you cannot help wondering what might have been,” I finished gently.
Her fingers tightened slightly in mine as she nodded.
“Daemon would have been good to me,” she said, quieter now. The certainty in her voice was not born of experience, but belief. Perhaps even longing. Then she swallowed, her composure slipping just enough for the truth beneath it to surface. “I… I am afraid, Rowena.”
That gave me pause. Her gaze met mine fully now, unguarded in a way few would ever see. “My mother… what my father did, what she endured…” Her voice wavered. “What if I end the same way?”
For a moment, I had no answer. Not one that would soothe her completely. Because I understood that fear. I had felt it before, felt it still, on quiet nights when the world stilled and left only thought behind. The weight placed upon us, upon our bodies, upon our futures… it was not a small thing. It was never a small thing.
“The marriage itself is a farce,” I said slowly, choosing my words with care. “Or so my husband claims.” A faint, humorless breath left me. “That one may do as they wish afterward.”
“But not for women.”
I nodded. “Precisely.”
Silence settled briefly between us; not empty, but heavy with shared understanding. I squeezed her hand lightly.
“We carry a greater burden,” I continued, my voice steady now. “All of us. You most of all.”
She stilled at that.
“Because it is your body that will bring forth the next king,” I said. “Or queen.” I allowed that correction to linger. “But that burden also grants you something few others possess.”
Her brows drew together slightly. “What is that?”
“Choice,” I answered.
A flicker of disbelief crossed her face, but I held her gaze.
“You are not merely a lady to be bartered away. You are Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. The King’s daughter. His named heir.” My voice softened, though its certainty did not. “The future of the Seven Kingdoms.”
She listened. Truly listened.
“You will choose the man who stands beside you,” I said. “Not one who overshadows you. Not one who seeks to rule through you. But one who understands what you are and does not fear it.”
“And if he does?” she asked quietly.
A small smile touched my lips, sharper now. “Then you do what rulers have always done.”
She tilted her head, curious.
“You choose another.”
A soft laugh escaped her then; surprised, almost disbelieving. “Is it truly so simple?”
“Perhaps not,” I admitted. “But if anyone may bend such rules… it is you.”
I let my thumb brush lightly over her knuckles. “And you will not stand alone,” I added. “You have your uncle. And you have me. And the North does not forget those it stands beside.”
Her grip on my hand tightened, gratitude plain in her expression. “Thank you,” she said. “Few speak to me so… honestly.”
“Few dare to,” I replied quietly.
She hesitated then, her gaze drifting once more, not toward Daemon this time, but inward.
“None tell me what to expect,” she admitted. “When… when the time comes.”
Ah. There it was. Not just fear of marriage. But of what came with it. Of what was demanded, without ever being explained. I knew that silence. That careful avoidance. The way girls were shaped into wives without ever being taught what that truly meant. It was a cruelty dressed as propriety.
“Perhaps,” I said after a moment, my tone gentler now, “you would come to me this evening.”
Her attention snapped back to mine.
“Daemon will be occupied,” I continued. “He meets with the men of the City Watch. I… would welcome the company.”
And she would have something more than company. She would have answers. Understanding. Truth.
Her face brightened almost at once, relief softening the tension I had first seen in her. “I would like that very much,” she said, nodding eagerly.
Good. Then she would not face it alone. Not while I remained in this city. Not while I still had breath to offer her something better than silence.
As the noise of the garden swelled again around us, I allowed myself a final glance across the crowd. Toward him. Daemon had not moved far, but his gaze had. And for the briefest moment, it found mine. Heat lingered there. Quiet. Unspoken. A promise for later.
The light had begun to fade into gold when I sat before the mirror, brush in hand, drawing it slowly through the length of my hair.
Each stroke was steady, deliberate; more to quiet my thoughts than to tame the dark strands falling over my shoulders. The chamber was warm, lit by the last breath of the sun slipping through the high windows, and the faint flicker of candles already lit along the walls.
Behind me, I could hear him. The quiet shift of leather. The soft, familiar sound of steel settling into place. Daemon had changed. Gone were the finer silks he had worn for the gathering, now replaced by something darker, simpler, more him. I watched him through the mirror as he fastened Dark Sister at his side, his movements unhurried, assured.
And his gaze, his gaze was not on the sword. It was on me. I felt it before I fully met it. That weight. That heat.
“Perhaps I should remain here,” he said at last.
His voice was low, thoughtful, but there was nothing uncertain in the way his eyes lingered. Something sharper flickered beneath his words. Something that made warmth curl low in my stomach.
A small smile touched my lips. “Rhaenyra will be here soon,” I replied, setting the brush through my hair once more. “I think it is best that you go.”
A soft sound; half amused, half disbelieving. “Would you be rid of your husband so quickly?”
I barely had time to answer before he moved. He crossed the room with quiet purpose, stopping behind me. I felt him before he touched me; the heat of his body, the closeness of his breath. Then his hand reached forward, taking the brush from my fingers with ease and placing it gently upon the table.
My pulse quickened.
“Daemon…” But my words faded as his other hand slid into my hair, drawing it slowly to one side, exposing the curve of my shoulder.
The fabric of my dress shifted. Lower. Just enough for the air to kiss skin that had been hidden moments before. And then his lips brushed against my shoulder, soft at first, almost testing. A slow trail of warmth followed, each kiss lingering just long enough to be felt… and missed.
I inhaled sharply, my fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the table.
“Daemon,” I breathed, though there was little protest in it.
His mouth moved higher, toward the curve of my neck, and instinctively I tilted my head, granting him more space, more of me.
A mistake. Or perhaps not.
His other hand came to rest against me, firm, possessive, drawing me back just slightly into him. I could feel the strength in his touch, the contrast between restraint and something far less controlled beneath it.
“My niece comes to you for counsel,” he murmured against my skin, his voice brushing just as much as his lips had. “Tell me… how better might she learn than through truth?”
A soft, disbelieving breath escaped me. “That cannot be your meaning.”
But I felt it then, the faint curve of his smile against my neck.
“Imagine it,” he continued, quieter now. “She sits there, watching… learning. Watching how breath changes. How touch lingers. How desire is not something to be feared… but understood.”
My breath betrayed me first. It deepened. Slowed. Then quickened again. My eyes closed without thought, my body leaning back against his of its own accord.
“Daemon…” His name slipped from my lips softer this time, less warning, more something else entirely.
“Would it not ease her fears?” he pressed, his voice dipping lower, coaxing, tempting. “To know what awaits her is not only duty… but something more.”
Something in me faltered at that. Not at the image he painted, not truly. It was too absurd, too improper to take root fully. But the way he spoke… the way he touched me… that was what stirred something dangerous beneath my skin.
Because I could imagine that. Him. Not the watching. Not the lesson. Just him. The way his lips moved, unhurried, deliberate. The way his hands never quite settled between gentleness and something far rougher. I swallowed. And then a knock. Sharp. Immediate. Real. Everything vanished at once. His warmth. His hands. His lips. Gone as though they had never been. The door opened before I could even gather myself, and I forced my dress back into place with hurried fingers, my breath still uneven, my thoughts scattered.
“Ah, niece,” Daemon’s voice carried easily through the room, smooth as ever. “We were just speaking of you.”
I did not turn. I could not, not yet. My legs felt unsteady beneath me, and I cursed him silently for beginning something he had no intention of finishing.
“Were you?” Rhaenyra’s voice came, light with amusement. “I did not expect to find you here. I thought the streets already demanded their prince.” A low laugh answered her.
“They always do.”
“Oh, I am certain some curse your presence just as loudly.”
“Careful,” he replied, amusement threading through his tone. “You begin to sound like me.”
There was a pause, a shift in the air I could not see but felt nonetheless.
Then, louder, for both of us: “Enjoy your evening, the both of you.”
A beat. And then, softer, but not soft enough: “I shall see you tonight, wife.”
Heat flared anew beneath my skin despite myself. I did not need to see his expression to know the look that accompanied those words.
The door closed behind him. Silence followed.
I exhaled slowly, deeply, willing my body to settle, to remember itself. Only then did I rise, smoothing my dress, composing what remained of my dignity before I turned.
Rhaenyra was watching me. Closely. A grin spread across her lips, far too familiar. “I fear I have interrupted something.”
I stared at her for a moment… and then shook my head with a quiet, helpless amusement.
“Gods,” I murmured, more to myself than to her. “The two of you are far too alike.”
And somehow I knew this evening had only just begun.
Rhaenyra did not look away from me as I composed myself – if anything, her amusement only deepened, bright and curious.
I let out a quiet breath and gestured toward the bed. “Come,” I said, my tone softer now, steadier. “If we are to speak freely, we may as well be comfortable.”
She needed no further invitation. Together, we moved across the chamber, shedding the last remnants of formality with each step. I poured us both a glass of wine; deep red, rich in scent and placed them upon the small tables beside the bed. A large bowl of grapes sat between us, their dark skins catching the candlelight.
We settled not upon chairs nor couches, but against the head of the bed itself, backs supported by carved wood and layered cushions. It felt… easier, somehow. Removed from court and expectation. More honest.
Rhaenyra drew one knee slightly inward, cradling her goblet between her fingers, while I reached for a grape, rolling it absently between my thumb and forefinger before tasting it.
For a while, we spoke of nothing of consequence. The gardens. The music. The absurdity of certain lords and their attempts at wit. It came easily; light laughter, shared glances, the kind of conversation that softened the sharp edges of the day. But it did not last. It never did.
I turned slightly toward her, studying her expression as she stared into her wine, lost somewhere between thought and memory.
“How was the tour, truly?” I asked at last. “Not the polite answer.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, I thought she might deflect again, but then she exhaled, long and unguarded.
“Unpleasant,” she said plainly.
I waited.
“It was…” She searched for the word, her brows drawing together. “Humiliating.”
That gave me pause. Her fingers tightened faintly around the goblet.
“They did not see me,” she continued, quieter now. “Not truly. Only what stands behind me. The throne. My name. What I might give them.”
Her gaze lifted then, meeting mine with something sharper beneath it.
“An heir,” she said, the word edged with bitterness. “A crown. Power.”
I nodded slowly.
“Not one of them spoke to me as though I were… myself,” she went on. “They spoke around me. About what I would bring. What I would bear. What I would secure.” Her jaw tightened. “And I am meant to choose from them.”
Silence settled between us again, but this time, it was heavier.
“I know many women live this fate,” she added after a moment, her voice softer now, but no less firm. “I am not blind to it. But I am not just any woman.” Her chin lifted slightly. “I am the Princess of Dragonstone. The heir to the Iron Throne.”
There was something fierce in her then. Something rightful.
“May I not expect more?” she asked.
I held her gaze and nodded. “You may,” I said simply.
Her expression shifted, something like relief flickering beneath the frustration.
“I was promised the same, once,” I continued, my voice quieter now as memory surfaced. “My father told me I would have a say. That I would choose.” I let out a small breath. “And yet, he agreed to a match with Torrhen Karstark.”
Her eyes flickered with recognition at the name, though she said nothing.
“If Daemon had not come…” I paused briefly, the thought settling heavier than I expected. “If he had not challenged it, ended it…” I looked down at my hands. “I would now be nothing more than a vessel in another man’s hall.”
The truth of it lingered between us. Cold. Unyielding. Rhaenyra said nothing at first, but I felt the weight of her understanding. Because she saw it. Not just in me. In herself. We both fell quiet then, the air thick with something unspoken yet deeply known. The burden we carried was not visible, but it shaped everything. Everything.
“I would not have that life,” she said at last, her voice low but resolute. “Not for myself. Not for others.”
I glanced at her. There was something different in her now, not just frustration, not just fear. Purpose.
“I want to change it,” she continued, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of her gown. “When I am Queen… I do not wish for women to be treated as nothing more than vessels for heirs.”
Her gaze lifted again, steady and burning with quiet conviction.
“They should be able to be something,” she said. “To achieve. To stand beside men, not beneath them.”
I listened carefully. Because I heard the truth in it. And I also knew the world she wished to change.
“It will not be easy,” I said gently.
Her lips pressed together, but she did not look away. “No,” she agreed.
“The lords will resist it,” I continued. “Many already believe the very idea of a ruling queen is… unnatural.”
A faint, humorless breath left her. “I am aware.”
I reached for another grape, more for something to do than from hunger, before meeting her gaze again. “But that does not mean it cannot begin,” I added.
She stilled.
“Change does not come all at once,” I said. “Nor without resistance. But it begins somewhere. With someone willing to stand against what is expected.”
A small pause. “And you are already doing that, simply by existing as you are.”
That seemed to settle something within her. Not entirely, but enough. “You think it possible?” she asked quietly.
I considered her for a moment, not as a princess, not as an heir. But as the girl beside me.
“Yes,” I said at last. “I think it will cost you greatly. I think many will fight you for it.”
Her jaw set slightly.
“But I also think,” I continued, softer now, “that if anyone can force the world to bend… it is a Targaryen Queen with a dragon.”
Silence followed. Not empty this time, but full. Rhaenyra let out a slow breath, her shoulders easing, though the fire in her eyes did not dim.
“Then I suppose I shall have to try,” she said.
A faint smile touched my lips. “Yes,” I murmured. “I believe you shall.”
The evening stretched on, slow and warm, wrapped in candlelight and quiet laughter.
At some point, the tension that had clung to us both earlier had loosened entirely. The wine had helped, no doubt; one glass becoming two, then perhaps another half besides. Not enough to dull the mind, but enough to soften edges, to make words come easier and truths follow them.
Rhaenyra had shifted closer without noticing it. Where once there had been careful space between us, now our shoulders nearly brushed, the bowl of grapes forgotten at our side, her goblet resting loosely in her fingers as she leaned back against the carved headboard.
We spoke still, but less of courts and duties, and more of small things. Memories. Observations. Laughter came quicker now, freer.
Until it didn’t. I noticed the shift before she spoke. The way her fingers stilled against the rim of her cup. The way her gaze drifted, not outward this time, but inward.
“Rowena…” she began, quieter than before.
Something in her tone made me turn fully toward her.
“Yes?”
There was a pause. Then, “What was it like?”
I stilled. She did not need to say more. I knew exactly what she meant.
For a moment, I said nothing. Because I knew the stories she had been told. The same ones I had heard whispered in cold halls and quiet corners. Warnings dressed as guidance. Pain spoken of as inevitability. Duty stripped of anything resembling gentleness. Fear, carefully planted.
And I had known that fear. I had carried it with me, heavy and unrelenting… until it had been taken from me. Not by time. Not by preparation. But by him.
My gaze lowered briefly, my thoughts gathering themselves before I dared give them voice.
“Daemon was…” I began, then faltered slightly, searching for something that felt true enough. “He took that fear from me.”
The words felt too small for it. Too simple. I exhaled softly, shaking my head just once.
“It is difficult to explain,” I admitted.
Beside me, Rhaenyra shifted, drawing closer still, her attention fully mine now; curious, intent, unguarded in a way few would ever witness.
She wanted truth. So I gave it to her.
“There is pain,” I said quietly. “At the beginning… and after.” A faint warmth crept into my cheeks, though I did not look away. “More than I had expected, if I am honest. The body is not… prepared for it, not truly. And the next day…” I allowed myself a small, almost embarrassed breath. “I felt it. Every step.”
She listened without interruption. Without judgment. Only hunger for understanding.
“But that is not all it is,” I continued, softer now. “Not when it is done… with care.”
My fingers curled slightly into the fabric beneath me before I went on.
“He did not rush me,” I said. “Not that night. Not the nights before it.” My gaze lifted briefly, meeting hers. “He gave me time. Spoke to me. Made certain I understood that I could stop… that I had a voice in it.”
Rhaenyra’s expression shifted, something like surprise flickering there.
“That matters more than anything,” I said quietly.
I could still remember it. The way he had held himself back, though I knew it was not his nature. The way he had watched me, listened, adjusted, never taking more than I could give. It had changed everything.
“I was not afraid, when it happened,” I admitted. “Not truly. Because he would not allow me to be.”
A small silence followed that. Then I shook my head slightly, grounding myself again.
“But you must not expect that,” I added, more firmly now.
Her brows drew together.
“Not because you do not deserve it,” I clarified at once, reaching for her hand and closing my fingers gently around it. “But because not all men will offer it.”
Her hand was warm in mine. Steady, but I felt the faint tension there.
“It is often… their choice,” I continued carefully. “How gentle they are. How patient. How much they see you… rather than what they wish to take.”
Her gaze dropped briefly to where our hands were joined.
“And that is what frightens me,” she admitted.
I tightened my hold on her slightly.
“I know,” I said softly.
There was no use pretending otherwise. No comfort in lies.
“But listen to me,” I continued, lifting her hand just slightly so she would look at me again. “You are not without power in this.”
A faint flicker of doubt crossed her face.
“You will choose your husband,” I reminded her. “And that choice matters. More than most will ever admit.”
I studied her carefully.
“Watch how a man speaks. How he listens. How he holds himself when he believes no one of consequence is looking.” I tilted my head slightly. “Those things will tell you far more than any title ever could.”
Her expression softened, not entirely reassured, but steadier.
“And if he is not… kind?” she asked, quieter now.
I held her gaze. A quiet breath lingered between us, soft and heavy with all that had been said. Then, perhaps because the weight of it threatened to settle too deeply, I let a small, crooked grin touch my lips.
“If your future husband proves truly unkind,” I said, my tone shifting just enough to lighten the air, “you may simply come to me.”
Rhaenyra blinked, caught slightly off guard.
“And Daemon and I will see the matter… corrected.”
There was a brief pause. Then she laughed; bright, sudden, and entirely genuine. “I pity the poor man already,” she said, shaking her head, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“As you should,” I murmured, my own smile lingering.
The warmth of it had not yet faded when I saw it return, that curiosity, persistent and unrelenting beneath her composure.
Rhaenyra shifted again, drawing her legs closer beneath her, her goblet now forgotten entirely at her side.
“There is still more I would ask,” she admitted, though there was less hesitation now. The wine, perhaps… or simply the comfort of being heard.
I inclined my head slightly. “Then ask.”
She studied me for a moment, as though weighing which question dared come first.
“Does it… become better?” she asked at last. “Or does it always hurt, as they claim?”
I shook my head almost at once. “No,” I said gently. “It does not always hurt.”
Her expression sharpened; hopeful, but cautious.
“It becomes easier,” I continued. “Your body learns, in a way. What once feels unfamiliar… begins to feel natural.”
I hesitated only briefly before adding, more quietly, “There may still be moments, a faint ache, a lingering sensitivity, especially if there has been time between…” I allowed the sentence to soften rather than finish it plainly. “But that fades quickly.”
She listened closely.
“And when it does,” I added, my voice lowering slightly, “it can feel… overwhelming, in the best of ways…”
A faint flush rose to her cheeks, though she did not look away.
“Incredible,” I finished simply.
She drew in a small breath, as though steadying herself against the image of it. “And how am I to know if I am doing anything correctly?” she asked next, a flicker of uncertainty returning. “There are no instructions given. Only expectations.”
A quiet laugh slipped from me then; soft, but genuine. “No one knows, the first time,” I said, shaking my head slightly. “Not truly.”
Her brows lifted faintly.
“You do what feels right,” I continued. “What feels natural to you. What brings you comfort, or… more than comfort.” A small, knowing glance met hers. “There is no perfect way. Only what is shared between the two of you.”
She seemed to turn that over in her mind, absorbing it carefully.
“And must the man always…” she hesitated, choosing her words, “lead? Hold the greater control?”
That gave me pause. Because the truth was not so simple.
I leaned back slightly against the carved wood, considering before I answered. “Not always,” I said at last. “Though many men behave as though it must be so.”
Her lips pressed together faintly.
“But it need not be,” I added. “It can be shared. Or… given, in moments.” I glanced at her, thoughtful. “It depends upon the man. And upon you.”
I allowed myself a small, private smile.
“Daemon…” I continued, choosing my words carefully, “has a… strong nature.” That was the gentlest way to name it. “But even so, he allows me space. He listens, when I take it.”
Her expression softened slightly at that. “So it is not only one way,” she murmured.
“No,” I said. “It should not be.”
She nodded slowly, though I could see another question already forming. “And what if…” she began, then faltered, her voice quieter now. “What if I am not enough?”
That one, that one I knew well. A softer smile touched my lips, not amused, but understanding. “I wondered the same,” I admitted.
Her gaze lifted quickly to mine.
“I thought… perhaps I would disappoint him,” I continued. “That I would not meet whatever expectation he carried.” I exhaled quietly. “It is a foolish fear and yet, it feels very real.”
She nodded faintly, her fingers tightening in her skirts.
“But listen to me,” I said, leaning slightly closer, my voice gentler now. “If you matter to him, truly matter, then it will be enough.”
She searched my face, uncertain.
“There is no perfect way,” I repeated softly. “No measure by which you may fail, unless he chooses to see it so.” My expression steadied. “And if he does… then the fault is not yours.”
A small silence followed.
“You must be willing to be open,” I added. “To learn, to respond… to allow yourself to feel, rather than fear it.”
I knew how difficult that was. How unnatural it felt, at first.
“He gave me that space,” I said more quietly. “To try. To understand. Without judgment.” My fingers brushed lightly against hers. “I would wish the same for you.”
Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders at last. “I hope I find such a man,” she murmured.
“You will,” I said, meaning it.
Because in truth, she deserved it. Every women deserved it. And as I looked at her then, framed in candlelight, still so young despite the weight already placed upon her, I found myself hoping, perhaps foolishly, that the world might grant her at least that small mercy.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The candles had burned lower, their light softer now, casting long shadows across the chamber. The wine sat half-forgotten at our sides, the grapes untouched between us.
Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered somewhere distant, her thoughts clearly turned inward once more. Then, slowly, she looked back at me.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. There was no hesitation in it this time. No uncertainty. Only sincerity. “For speaking of this with me,” she added. “For not… hiding it behind pretty lies.”
A faint, almost tired smile touched my lips. “You deserve truth,” I said simply.
Her expression softened further at that, though something else flickered beneath it, something more fragile.
“I wish…” she began, then paused, her voice faltering just slightly. “I wish I could have spoken of this with my mother.”
The words settled between us, heavy and unguarded. I did not interrupt.
“She would have known what to say,” Rhaenyra continued, softer now. “Or at least… I would have believed she did.”
A small breath left her, something almost bitter in it. “Though… when I think on it…” She hesitated. “Perhaps she did not have such… gentle experiences herself.”
Silence followed that. Not empty, but filled with something unspoken, something that needed no voice. The memory of the former queen lingered there, between us. Not as a crown, nor as a figure of court, but as a woman. A wife. A mother. And all that had been asked of her.
I felt it too; the weight of it, pressing quietly against the edges of thought.
“I am sorry,” I said at last, my voice softer than before. Not a formal courtesy, but something meant.
Rhaenyra nodded faintly, though her gaze had drifted again. For a moment longer, we sat in that silence together.
Then I reached for her hand once more, drawing her attention back to me. “You may always come to me,” I said.
Her eyes lifted.
“For this,” I continued, my tone steady, certain. “For anything.” A small pause. “I do not know everything,” I admitted. “But I will always give you the truth. Whatever it may be.”
That, at least, I could promise.
Her fingers tightened around mine, and I saw it then, the way it reached her. Not just the words, but the meaning behind them. Gratitude. Relief.
“I believe you,” she said softly.
I held her gaze for a moment longer, then allowed myself a small nod. And as I looked at her – truly looked – I found myself wondering what it must have been like. To grow within these walls. To be surrounded by people and yet never certain who stood beside you and who stood only near.
Even I, as the daughter of the Warden of the North, had not known such isolation. Winterfell had been… different. Colder, perhaps. Harsher in its way. But honest. Men and women spoke what they thought, more often than not, at least. You knew where you stood. You knew who would stand with you when the wind turned.
Here… here, it was all smiles and silence. Words layered beneath words. Loyalty that shifted like sand beneath one’s feet. A nest of vipers, dressed in silk and gold.
And to grow as a girl within it… to be watched, judged, weighed from the moment one could speak… no. It was no easy thing.
My grip on her hand softened, though I did not let go. “You should not have to face this alone,” I said quietly.
Her lips parted slightly, as though to respond, but no words came. Perhaps none were needed. I exhaled slowly, something settling within me. A decision, made without ceremony.
“I will be your friend,” I added, more firmly now. “So long as you wish it.”
A faint smile returned to her lips then, smaller than before, but steadier. “I would like that,” she said.
And though there was something undeniably strange in it, this bond forming between us, built upon truths that circled dangerously close to her own blood, her own family, it did not feel wrong. Only… unexpected.
Because she knew. She knew that every answer I had given her, every reassurance, every truth, had been shaped by him. By Daemon. Her uncle. My husband. And yet, she had not turned from it. Nor had I.