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Daishou’s plans for the weekend had been simple: catch up on his favorite series, order whatever fancy takeout his parents agreed to buy, scroll through social media until he inevitably ended up staring at his and Mika’s old pictures together, curled up in bed and telling himself he’s totally over it, for sure.
None of that involved falling asleep on the couch watching American cooking shows, only to wake up in a badly-made medieval scenario with badly-dressed servants cajoling him out of bed. It’s jarring, a little too weird for his liking, and maybe just strange enough for him to play along for the entirety of five minutes before he starts asking questions.
No one likes the questions, of course. The servants scurry away almost as soon as Daishou looks their way, and the ones that help him dress ― in uncomfortable, if pretty, fancy clothes ― refuse to engage in any way other than tugging him here and there to help make them fit. And then, of course, someone summons him to meet the King.
The King. As if Daishou’s in a medieval setting or something.
It’s weird. Weird weird, and not funny weird.
Daishou plays the part, but he’s very confused about it.
Meeting King Viserys and Queen Alicent ― a man so old he could probably be his grandfather and a girl so young she could be his classmate ― makes things a little more confusing.
Daishou would like to go home.
Home, however, by Westeros standards, is a place called Dorne, rumored to be surrounded by sandy desert and heavy heat. Daishou’s never been in the desert, and he’s pretty sure he’s never been to Dorne, either.
Problem 1: Daishou has no clue where he is. Through a series of odd questions here and there, the servants around the castle tell him of a peace treaty with Dorne ― which takes him an unreasonable amount of time to figure out is also a place ―, something about a prince and the desert and dragons conquering through diplomacy. It’s all very fancy in theory, but it tells him absolutely nothing about the keep he now resides in, how he got here, or how to get back.
Problem 2: Daishou has no idea how to interact with people. Some maids are quick to scurry off or bow when he enters a room, and, after bluescreening at the thought it’s him that has them so skittish, telling them not to do that just makes them more nervous. The so-called Lords seem torn between forced politeness and the desire to mock him behind his back, which Daishou is quick to catch onto, and he plays up the charming façade for them when he feels like it. Lord Hand turns his nose at him with the expression of someone who has something dirty stuck on his shoe the only time Daishou attempts talking to him, so Daishou decides to avoid him for the foreseeable future.
Problem 3: the King is a happy fool who’s convinced Daishou’s presence is a good omen from his gods about the future of his kingdom. Daishou is invited to no small amount of dinners ― where he’s quick to figure out he doesn’t have an issue with the local food, though it is by no means comparable to his mother’s cooking ―, his presence always requested at the oddest places during the oddest times, to the point where he decides to accept his (temporary) fate and make camp in his room until he’s summoned for one random reason or another.
His honor as a guest seems tied to his rumored friendship with Dorne’s future ruler, Princess Aliandra Martell. Daishou banks on that the fact his perceived disrespect is taken lightly, for it apparently gives him some immunity for lacking knowledge of Westerosi etiquette ― he’s just not used to be called ‘Ser’ and ‘Lord’, and it’s not exactly his fault people here don’t seem to know what to do with him.
More than that, all he hears about is King Viserys’ heir, the Realm’s Delight, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her fairness and beauty has songs sung about her, and, whenever Viserys talks about his daughter, his face is taken by fondness, and he starts droning on about his daughter and how much he misses her. Queen Alicent seems to share some of his feelings, doe-eyed and downcast, but she rarely joins the conversations. Princess Rhaenyra has left on a trip with the King’s brother, a man who carries the moniker Rogue Prince, and Daishou hears a multitude of rumors surrounding the guy for the entirety of his stay.
Violent, for once. A warmonger, bloodthirsty and craven. An uncle wrapped around his little niece’s finger, doing as she pleases ever since she was but a little kid. It’s only with those rumors that Daishou figures out Rhaenyra is not a young kid, but a girl around his age, dealing with matters with her violence-prone uncle and their dragons ― he’d been assuming the Princess was a little kid, with the way Viserys talks about her, and wondering why the King would be so willing to part with his kid if she had no reason to leave.
It makes a little more sense, now.
As Viserys’ heir, Rhaenyra has probably a lot to deal with.
Rhaenyra is heir, as her father wills it, but the court is divided.
It’s not hard to notice, that with the way Queen Alicent carries her boys around ― though Daishou’s surprised to even realize she and Viserys have children, considering all the man talks about is his darling daughter and how much he loves her. Aegon and Aemond, as they’re called, are the apple of their mother’s eyes, and the Lord Hand carries them around with bold toasts of Conquerors and Kings. Not everyone seems to entertain the notion, but a lot of them do, and Daishou’s a little curious about how this will be dealt with, everything considered.
Viserys doesn’t seem to notice. If he does, he turns a blind eye to it.
Daishou wonders what brought the man and a girl Alicent’s age together.
It’s a few weeks into this new world that Daishou finally gets to know the Realm’s Delight and the Rogue Prince.
Rhaenyra is as pretty as the songs about her sing, and there’s a dangerous glint in Daemon’s eyes that immediately puts Daishou on guard. They come with fanfare and the roaring of dragons, and watching the way King Viserys comes alive is as strange as it’s curious.
Daishou is presented to them as ‘Lord Daishou of Dorne, The Companion to Sunspear’s Princess’, and it rings strange enough he can barely hold back a frown.
Rhaenyra watches him with curiosity. Daemon, with suspicion.
It’s not a week into knowing them that Daishou starts wishing the two hadn’t come back.
Rhaenyra is nice enough, with a short temper that flares whenever she feels slighted. Daemon complains incessantly about his wife, and Daishou, who hadn’t even known the man was married, starts having the vivid intrusive thought of stabbing him with a fork whenever the marriage is mentioned. Viserys being happier means more dinners to attend, and Daishou, who had found them quite pleasing, although a little strange, quickly starts to mourn the peaceful times he had before the dragonriders came back.
Rhaenyra’s temper runs easier when she’s with her family, and her father is quite adept at pushing her buttons. He talks about lords and marriage as if she’s at the Sept’s doorstep, waiting for a groom, and whenever the Queen as much as breathes the girl’s way, Rhaenyra’s expression sours. Daemon makes it worse, which Daishou thinks is on purpose, and the nights in which dinner doesn’t end with someone stomping off are few and far between.
Daishou avoids them, sometimes. When he thinks he can get away with it, when he thinks Rhaenyra or Daemon look too much like they’re aiming for trouble. Rhaenyra, he thinks he can understand ― from the little he’s seen Viserys acting, the man doesn’t look like he’s genuinely supporting her future reign at all, and it must be hard to see her father married to a girl that could be her sister, considering their ages. Daemon, not so much.
Daishou steers away from them when he can, but the opposite doesn’t happen.
Rhaenyra seeks him out in public, sometimes. She asks about Dorne, about his friendship with Aliandra, about the house he grew up in ― it’s easy for Daishou to parrot to the Princess the very same answers he gave the courtiers, though he certainly attempts to entertain her the same way he did her father. Having never been in Dorne in his entire life, Daishou avoids descriptions that could put him on the spotlight as a liar, focusing instead in retellings of things he did live through.
Daemon watches him like a hawk, a hand always on the pommel of his sword, and Daishou wonders how long it’ll take for him to accidentally get on the prince’s bad side. Daishou does have something of a reputation for getting on people’s nerves, had even in Nohebi, and Westeros isn’t any different from his world in that aspect.
Exhibit A: he’s pretty sure that, were it not for his immunity as a guest from a foreign kingdom, the Lord Hand would’ve called for his head already. The man dislikes him, his presence, and the implications of it.
Daishou isn’t sure why, and he’s not intent on finding out.
At least, he wasn’t, until Daemon seeks him out at the behest of the Princess.
“She wishes to converse with you in the Godswood.”
It’s not an order, but Daishou doubts it’s a suggestion. A part of Daishou childishly desires to tease Daemon for following Rhaenyra’s wishes, but he’s pretty sure he could lose his head for that, so he doesn’t.
“Lead the way, then!”
Daishou has no clue where the Godswood is, doesn’t even know what a Godswood is, and the strange look Daemon gives him tells him the prince doesn’t appreciate being made aware of it. Daishou wonders why ― it’s not as if he’s been roaming around the castle and exploring, though he does wish he had, if only he could hide away a little from all the people that seem to come from every place at all times.
Rhaenyra waits for them by the weirdly named woods, near the ugliest tree Daishou’s ever seen in his entire life, and he hadn’t even known a tree could be ugly.
“Lord Daishou.” Rhaenyra nods, respectful.
It’s weird.
“Just Daishou is fine.”
Rhaenyra blinks, thrown off. Daemon leaves Daishou’s side to stand by hers, mouth a thin line of tension.
“What?”
“Daishou.” he repeats, rocking on his feet a little. “I’m no Lord.”
Never has any intention of becoming one, either.
“I see.” Rhaenyra clasps her hands in front of her, posture careful. “I hope I do not offend you, Daishou, but my uncle and I couldn’t help but realize you... Do not seem to fit in, here.”
Finally. Daishou doesn’t think he’d be able to hide his excitement if he tried.
“Thank god, someone who agrees with me!” Daishou’s quick agreement seems to surprise Rhaenyra, though not Daemon. “Do you know how weird it is to not have television anymore? You guys don’t even have toothbrushes!”
“Watch your mouth when you talk to a princess of blood.”
Daishou blinks, staring very hard at the sword pointed at him. Violence-prone, indeed.
“Daemon, don’t.” Rhaenyra holds her uncle’s arm. “Let him talk.”
“Do we need to? He admitted it himself, he shouldn’t be here!” Daemon protests, but pulls away the sword. “He’s obviously an intruder from Dorne!”
And there goes his feeble hope of going home. Daishou pinches the bridge of his nose, annoyed.
“Not you too.” he complains. “Do you and Otto Hightower trade cards or something? He was whining about that to his daughter, too, the other day.”
Being compared to the Hand, funnily enough, seems to shut Daemon up immediately. He looks like he bit a sour lemon, and Rhaenyra tries and fails to hide a giggle with a cough.
“Forgive us, Daishou, we have not...” Rhaenyra seems to struggle with what she wants to say. “We haven’t been around for long. Your presence is a novelty here.”
“I wish it weren’t.” Daishou grumbles. “I think it could’ve been a little easier if you weren’t out for as long as you did.”
“And you of all people know what we were doing.” Daemon accuses.
It feels a little out of left field. Of course Daishou knows what they were doing ― Rhaenyra’s heir, Daemon’s her uncle, they were obviously dealing with something important that required two royals to be out of the Red Keep at the same time.
“You were meeting the commonfolk.” Daishou nods, confident.
The confidence falls short when Rhaenyra shares a confused look with Daemon.
“No.” she confirms his suspicion. “My uncle and I were... Taking care of some matters at Dragonstone.”
Daishou files out the name and tosses it in his ‘never to remember again’ folder at the back of his mind.
“Meeting the people living there?”
Rhaenyra seems confused at his insistence, but Daemon is clearly annoyed.
“Digging for information already?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, man.” Daishou’s a little confused. “Isn’t she going to be the queen?”
“When my father dies only.” Rhaenyra turns a ring on her finger. “Many years to come, the gods willing.”
Daishou blinks slowly.
“You took a few weeks on vacation to Dragonrock just because?”
“Dragonstone.” Daemon corrects, sharply.
“Whatever.” Daishou waves him off, annoyed, but he’s more lost than anything. “Don’t you have, like. Responsibilities? When everyone kept talking about the heir and Realm’s Delight, I thought it was because you were doing something important.”
The minute spasm of pain that crosses Rhaenyra’s expression doesn’t escape him ― nor the way Daemon’s hand immediately goes to the pommel of his sword again.
“It was a moniker for my beauty and charm as a kid.” Rhaenyra explains, and Daemon stops. “Realm’s Delight, I mean. It is the title by which I’ve been known for longer than being a heir, and how they hear of me to this day.”
Daishou thinks it through for a minute.
“So your future subjects don’t have any kind of contact with you?”
Rhaenyra shakes her head once.
“Are you stupid?” Daishou blinks, too caught off guard to think of the fact Rhaenyra’s very murderous, very armed uncle is a few steps away. “If they don’t even know you, how are they gonna even like you?”
Whatever it is that Rhaenyra sees on his face is the only thing that keeps him alive, Daemon’s ‘you little―’ interrupted when she holds up a hand, effectively bidding him to stop. Daishou eyes the man’s fingers, clutching the pommel of his sword so hard his knuckles are white, and curses whatever deities out there that have decided to send him here without making sure he knew how to shut his mouth first.
Since he’s already here and she seems intent on listening, well. What else is there for him to lose?
“They might like the idea of you now, but that’s not gonna hold.” still keeping a careful eye on Daemon, Daishou turns his attention back to Rhaenyra. “Not if you wanna keep your crown, at least.”
Daemon lets out a derisive sound.
“Says the boy with no titles to his name.”
“Oi, I’ll have you know I was the captain of my team and we were on track for the nationals!”
They probably were not, but damn if Daishou’s gonna let this prideful asshole walk all over him just because he’s royalty in this weird new world.
“Team captain?” Rhaenyra’s delicate eyebrows arch in surprise. “Like Ser Harrold with the Kingsguard?”
No, what the fuck are you even talking about, Daishou almost says, before he realizes this is probably going to be what breaks Daemon’s patience, and then either his head will roll or he’ll lose his tongue for swearing at the princess. He pauses, briefly considering the pros and cons of lying through his teeth before deciding he’s not taking his chances against the prince’s sword ― who knows what he’ll demand as proof of Daishou’s words if he says that being a volleyball player and a Kingsguard are in any way comparable.
“Kinda, but not?” and, before Daemon’s quick-growing sneer can become open mockery: “We play volleyball together, I coordinate the team, that kind of thing.”
“Volleyball? Is that like a joust?”
Were this any other kind of situation, Daishou would’ve laughed at her face.
“No.” Daishou’s never even seen a horse up close in his entire life before he ended up here. “Definitely not like a joust. We don’t play carrying weapons, either.”
Whatever smidge of interest and curiosity Daemon had quickly vanishes at the words, and then he’s glaring again.
“A game.” he spits. “No wonder you’re more a boy than a man.”
Daishou glares at him.
It’s not my fault you don’t know how to have fun, he wants to say, closely followed by you sound like a grandpa, but what comes out of his mouth is:
“I’ll have you know I’m seventeen.”
Not exactly a man grown, sure, but he’s not the little kid Daemon’s trying to make him sound like, toddling after his mother’s skirts. All his protest makes is have Daemon scoffing in derision again.
“And you haven’t been knighted yet in that game of yours?”
Daishou quickly forgets where he is and gives up on trying to play nice, haughty in his mock answer.
“No wonder someone’s planning an usurpation on your niece before she’s even on the throne, you’re all assholes!”
In retrospect, he should’ve expected what follows: Daemon bodily slamming him to the ground, the tip of his sword already pressed against Daishou’s throat when Rhaenyra stands, quick as lightining:
“Daemon, no!”
Daishou’s too busy being annoyed to be scared.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” he bats the sword away, careful not to slice his hand, and is made a thousand times more frustrated by the fact he knows he only succeeds because Daemon lets him. “You’ve heard maybe like half a dozen words from me before you started swinging your sword around!”
“I’m a prince of the blood.” Daemon stares him down. “I don’t care about opinions from the sheep.”
Daishou blinks at him, flushed with anger, before he turns to Rhaenyra and points at Daemon, not caring that he’s still on the ground.
“See what I’m talking about? This guy’s as unlikeable as they come! How come you want him to be your propaganda guy?”
For the brief moment of confusion Rhaenyra has, Daishou takes his chance to sit on the floor. If he’s about to keep being accused of whatever it is the excuse Daemon wants to kill him, at least he’ll be a little more comfortable.
Daemon doesn’t look happy about it.
“Propaganda guy?” Rhaenyra echoes, quietly.
“You know, when someone does the marketing for you?” and, when Rhaenyra only looks more confused than before: “No wonder everyone in your family sucks at this politics stuff, you don’t know shit about selling your image.”
Rhaenyra turns her nose slightly and Daemon glares harder, which lets Daishou know he poked a sore spot. Great. Absolutely fantastic. Cause of death: having too big of a mouth.
“Father did not prepare me to be heir.” Rhaenyra states, back ramrod straight. “It was... A recent development.”
Daishou blinks, some of his anger and desperation leaking out.
“Oh, so you still have time.”
“What for?”
“To learn?” Daishou shrugs. “Make them love and cherish you and all that shit? Turn the tides in your favor by becoming everyone’s favorite candidate to the throne? People can’t really try to steal your crown when there’ll be a mob of enraged people at your back were they to even breathe the wrong way in your direction.”
Rhaenyra stares. Daemon stares.
“What?” Daishou frowns. “Don’t tell me you guys were just, like. Planning to go up there and get you the crown when your father dies?”
“It is my right.” Rhaenyra answers, immediately, though she doesn’t sound so sure of it anymore. “My father is king, he has named me his heir.”
Daishou pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes out slowly.
“And you’re counting on that to get you the throne?”
“I’ll burn whoever stands in her way.”
“Yes, yes, you’re gonna kill for her, we all got that already.” Daishou waves him off, unbothered by the warning glare he receives. “You know you can’t, like, actually kill everyone who looks at her in a way you don’t like, right?”
Daemon’s grinding his teeth together so tight Daishou can pretend to hear them.
“I can try.”
“Well, yeah, if you want people to hate her more than they do, be my guest, kill everyone, I’m sure the surviving ones will be very happy in the aftermath.”
Rhaenyra flinches a little, and Daishou takes a little pity on her.
“Look, I’m not gonna sugarcoat stuff for you, but I’ve been here for, what, a few weeks?” maybe a little more than two months. Daishou hasn’t exactly been keeping track, and, without his phone, he has no idea when he got here. “The only way people planning to usurp you could be even more obvious about it was if they were rubbing their hands together and laughing maniacally about it every time you leave a room. Your dad’s doing shit to help you about that because he has the emotional capacity of a rusted spoon, so you’re gonna need to do the leg work yourself.”
Which is probably the main problem, since apparently the man is the reason Rhaenyra became heir in the first place.
“And how...?” Rhaenyra doesn’t finish her question, doesn’t seem to know how to.
“Stop with that sheep and dragon talk, it’s annoying.” Daishou shakes his head. “No one will forget you have a dragon anytime soon, I can promise you that, but people will remember you don’t consider them important enough to pay attention to the stuff they’re saying. The more you treat them like shit, the less they’ll be willing to defend you. You can’t be the Realm’s Delight in appearance alone, you gotta start acting like it.”
Rhaenyra shifts in place, clearly uncomfortable.
“I’ll not marry to be made a broodmare.” she declares, with a tone of finality.
“Who’s talking about marriage?” he takes one look at Daemon, just to make sure he hasn’t missed anything, but the man’s expression is entirely closed off, so Daishou probably doesn’t want to dig too deep into that. “Don’t you guys have, like. Tea parties? Places to sit down and talk badly about other people and trade gossip? Or, I don’t know. A market to go on a shopping spree? I have no clue how royal people do that kind of stuff, but my... friend, Mika, loved making cake parties with our other friends.”
The thought of Mika and their failed relationship brings a familiar ache to his chest, one that Daishou very pointedly ignores. Rhaenyra perks up a bit.
“I like cakes.”
“Good, then work with that.” Daishou thinks a little. “Figure out what the other ladies like and butter them up until they’re eating at the palm of your hands. Then, if you ask for or say stuff you shouldn’t, they’re not going to think anything of it, and you’re not gonna have to worry about anyone trying to ruin your reputation from that, because all they’ll hear about is how dedicated and nice you are.”
Rhaenyra seems to take note, nodding eagerly, uncaring of the way Daemon looks at her as if she has betrayed him by taking Daishou’s advice to heart ― so it’s to him that Daishou turns, this time.
“And you, stop calling your wife names. We got it, you don’t like her, she doesn’t like you, but it’s not nice, man.” Daishou has fought other people for much less, and he, for once, doesn’t enjoy standing by idly while Daemon badmouths a girl who, as far as Daishou’s concerned, never did anything to offend him so thoroughly. “Lords won’t care about the shit you’re saying, but you can be sure their wives will remember, and that’s gonna be bad for Rhaenyra in the long run.”
“It’s Princess Rhaenyra for you.” Daemon corrects, cooly. “What makes you think I’ll play along to your little game?”
“I mean, considering you’re not pointing your fancy sword at me again and I’ve kept my tongue in place so far, I’d say my chances are pretty high.” Daishou crosses his arms and stares at him, bolder now that he doesn’t have a sword pointing at his face. “Either that or you’re listening in to ruin your niece’s chance at getting the throne, in which case she will at least know who was the one backstabbing her this time.”
Daemon’s face makes something strange before his eyes narrow in rage.
“The throne belongs to Rhaenyra.” he grinds out. “I’ll burn Westeros to ash before I let it be taken from her.”
Huh. So he does have a heart. Daishou files that information for later.
“Good, good, but let’s focus that murdering intent somewhere else for now, okay?”
For someone who deserves it, Daishou thinks, but doesn’t say ― he’ll at least have plausible deniability when the man inevitably decides to put his sword to use.
Daemon’s suspicion doesn’t abate, and Daishou hadn’t been expecting it to.
Rhaenyra is curious, lively and full of questions, and it’s entertaining to try and explain things about his world to her in any way that makes sense. The King is delighted at how easily they become ‘friends’, and it’s not hard to see he hopes that means Dorne will come into the fold of Westeros just as Daishou did.
Daishou wonders if he can do anything about that.
It’s easy to pen a letter for Aliandra Martell, though Daishou doesn’t know her.
If they’re as close as Westerosi people and King Viserys seem to believe, Daishou supposes this counterpart of him treated her the same way he did his friends, back in Nohebi ― teasingly, though she outranks him by a long mile, with a little mockery, a little truth, not beating around the bush. He might have no memories of living anywhere here or in Dorne, but he knows if she’s as dear to him as history says, then he can trust her.
Her answer comes fast, her words sharp, and Daishou’s happy to be proven right. Maybe, if he gets to stick to this, Aliandra will become something of a real friend ― someone whom he can reach out to whenever he feels like it, and not just to keep Rhaenyra’s ties to Dorne alive while he has a say in it.
Why else would he stay here for, after all? Daishou could always go back to Dorne and see what’s it about, find a purpose there, but there’s something here to keep him busy, and it’s interesting enough he might as well see it to the end.
Rhaenyra will be Queen, and Daishou will help her get there. She is willing to learn, which makes things a little easier than if she had taken after her uncle in that case as well.
She’s friendly, she’s warm, and her smiles usually make people stare ― whatever damages were made with the rumors of her quick temper are easily soothed when Daishou reminds her it’s important to be attentive, to have them feel like she cares about them and their woes even when she doesn’t. Daishou understands a little why she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, because it’s hard to be sympathetic to a rich lord complaining about not having enough clothes or silk to do whatever it is that rich people do.
Daishou, at least, could excuse his apparent lack of manners by saying Dorne deals with royalty and lordship differently than Westeros ― he’s sure they don’t, but what the court doesn’t know won’t hurt them ―, but Rhaenyra has no such excuse. She has to stand around and listen, not even agree with them, but make them believe she does.
“Just don’t glare.” Daishou all but begs, when Lady Redwyne leaves and Rhaenyra looks like she’s grinding her teeth together to keep her smile in place. “You don’t need to be best friends or anything, she just ―”
“She wants Aegon on the throne.” Rhaenyra bites, but accepts the hand Daishou offers to guide her. “You think an old hag like her will want to change tradition? To have me be her Queen?”
Daishou makes a mental note to remind her she’s not meant to cuss people out in public, because she has a lot more to lose than Daemon when she does that. He’ll not discuss the likelihood of her father disinheriting her for a boy of three, because Viserys might be a fool, but he’s not that much of a fool.
“Well, she doesn’t need to want it.” Daishou nods to the passing figure of Lord Caswell, who gives him a nod in return. “She just needs to not have anything to use against you in that case.”
Rhaenyra tenses for a moment before she breathes out and forces herself to relax.
“You make it sound so easy.”
It’s not quite a complaint, but there’s something upset about her tone. Daishou watches her for a moment ― the delicate lines on her face, the violet eyes, the hair braided into a crown. Rhaenyra is halfway there by being the Realm’s Delight alone, she shouldn’t need to try and bend backwards for the sake of annoying people who refuse to let go of traditions just for the sake of prejudice, but it’s not like she has a choice.
“Fake it ‘til you make it.”
“What?”
When Rhaenyra looks at him, Daishou offers her an awkward smile.
“Pretend until you don’t have to.”
Isn’t that what he’s been doing since before he got here, after all?
Daemon doesn’t try to pretend he’s not annoyed by Daishou’s presence, but he keeps his mouth shut about it, which is more than Daishou thought he could hope for. Viserys is delighted even his brother seems to have accepted the Dorne newcomer into their fold, though Alicent’s face turns a little sharper every time she sees Daishou and Rhaenyra together, nailbeds shifting from pristine to bloody and raw in the weeks that follow.
Rhaenyra gets a little upset every time she notices it, which is nine times out of ten, and Daishou doesn’t understand.
“You’re like the dream she had of a gallant knight with a fair maiden.”
The explanation gives him nothing.
“What?”
Rhaenyra huffs, a little haughty, as if ready to argue ― but one look at Daishou’s genuinely confused expression stops her temper from flaring.
“Ali― Queen Alicent, I mean. We used to be friends.” and doesn’t that explain some things. “Back then, she’d always speak about wishing to marry a knight.”
It doesn’t explain how a girl just a few years older than Rhaenyra ended up with a man old enough to be her father, but Daishou doesn’t think the Princess would be willing to go that far in sharing information. He files it up for later.
“Well, I’m not gallant, nor a knight.” at Rhaenyra’s surprised chuckle, Daishou shrugs. “If you need someone good with a sword, we’ll need to find your uncle.”
Rhaenyra laughs.
It’s a nice laugh.
Aliandra answers his letter, admonishing him for taking so long, and it’s easy to see the wit and fire from her personality bleeding into the letter alone. It feels like having a friend, and isn’t that a strange thought, reading her words with barely contained amusement as she cusses him out for making her worry, so unladilike that Queen Alicent’s Septas would gasp in horror of the way Aliandra seems willing to cross a kindgom to pull on his ears.
Daishou knows why this world’s counterpart of him befriended her, at least.
He’s always been something of a fan of women who don’t pull their punches.
Daishou doesn’t find out what happened between Queen Alicent and Rhaenyra.
They were friends, and then they weren’t. Rhaenyra’s mother died on the birthing bed, and, a few months later, King Viserys announced his desire to marry the then Lady Alicent, Lord Hand’s daughter. Queen Alicent bore him a son not long after, named Aegon after the Conqueror, and then another, Aemond. Courtiers expect her to bring forth a little princess, next time ― a wife to one of her sons, and the mere mention of it makes Daishou’s stomach queasy.
He looks at Alicent, Queen and mother, just a few years older than himself.
I’ll not marry to be made a broodmare, Rhaenyra had said, and Daishou didn’t understand, then.
He wishes he didn’t, now.
Viserys’ presence gets a little harder to stomach, after that.
Daishou doesn’t think he can be blamed for it.
When Daishou writes her, Aliandra laughs at his request for help. It’s good-natured, he finds out, for a few lines down she promises him her support no matter what, she’s only a letter away, she’ll cross Westeros to offer him her spear if he ever desires ― she’ll just have to convince her father first, which she gives her word not to be too hard, if Daishou asks. She promises him shipment of books and gifts, jewelry befit to a Princess, and Daishou can’t help but notice the underlying of teasing in her vows of helping him impress Westerosi royalty.
He makes a big deal out of presenting them to Rhaenyra, for the whole court to see, with the bold words of friendship and kin from the Princess of Dorne herself. He hopes the added knowledge will help her broaden her studies for when the time comes to ascend the throne, and that the jewelry helps her keep the always delightful figure in the years to come ― or, at least, that’s what he says in front of the court, to the delight of the ladies and the begrudging acceptance of lords, watching as the king’s Small Council takes in the news of Dorne’s support on Rhaenyra’s heirship.
Acceptance, for the most part. Some annoyance, perhaps for Daishou’s boldness of statement and the impropriety of the gifts for an unwed maiden. Disdain on Otto’s face, until the King bellows a laughter and praises Daishou for the forethought, claiming for everyone to hear that he’ll be delighted to welcome his daughter’s input in future decisions beheld the Small Council, for she’s so obviously doing her best ― and then Lord Hand’s face turns angry, the kind of quiet fury he seems to have such an easy time masking in front of the king.
Then, and only then, the Hand looks at him.
Daishou doesn’t even try pretending not to feel smug.
Rhaenyra’s laughing when Daishou visits her, later. Daemon, by her side and eyeing the books with interest, seems tentatively impressed at whatever it is that Aliandra has sent, ‘fit for a future ruler’.
“You did it! I have a place in the council!”
Daishou’s pride is a mellow thing, when faced with her happiness. He’s... Glad that she’s happy, if nothing else. That his efforts are helping, no matter how slowly.
“Aliandra was of more help than me.” he shrugs a little, helpless. “All of that came from her.”
To Rhaenyra, it doesn’t seem to matter. When she throws her arms around him for a tight hug, Daishou finds himself hugging back, pretending not to notice the way Daemon’s eyes glare daggers his way.
“At your request.” Rhaenyra giggles, in Daishou’s arms. “You got him listening.”
And Viserys, Daishou knows, barely ever does that.
“I’m glad to know I was of help.” he says, and it’s the truth. “But you know we still have a lot of work to do, right?”
Rhaenyra rolls her eyes, but her expression is still happy when she lets go of him and steps back.
“Yes, yes, the work never ends, I know.” she smacks his shoulder gently. “Don’t you ever have fun, Daishou?”
Daishou eyes the flagon of Arbor Gold on her desk and the very pretty, very un-Westerosi trio of cups by its side, and his smile comes unbidden. Damned Aliandra and her schemes.
“I could be convinced, yes.”
Rhaenyra’s whoop of delight is a sight to see.
Although she is the one to suggest it, Rhaenyra is the first and only one to get drunk.
Daemon knows how to hold his alcohol, of course, and Daishou is quick to switch his own cup for water as soon as he realizes he can barely stand without swaying in place, but, by the end of it, the three of them are on Rhaenyra’s fancy carpeted floor, Rhaenyra herself lying down, Demon sitting, Daishou trying and failing not to lie down as well, head and eyelids heavy. Daishou’s half-tempted to kick off his uncomfortable shoes and press his toes into the soft carpet, but he doesn’t think he’d manage to put it back after, and the last thing he needs is to be rumored to leave the Princess’ quarters disheveled and drunk.
“You’d be the next Alicent.” Rhaenyra giggles, unfazed, and Daishou realizes he said it out loud. “Leaving ― leaving royalty’s quarters dressed improperly.”
Daishou blinks slowly, but he doesn’t have the presence of body to manage looking at her. From his place a few feet away, Daemon glares.
“What?”
“She went to my father after he butchered my mother for a son.” Rhaenyra hums, as if she’s telling an old tale rather than turning Daishou’s world upside down, again. “Ali ― Ali was there at night to comfort him.”
Ah.
The sudden knowledge being thrown to his face is not something Daishou knows what to do with.
“Ah.” he says, wisely.
“You have drank enough, Princess.” Daemon declares, loud and clear, and Daishou’s never been more glad to have him around. “It’s good that we do not make an habit out of this.”
Rhaenyra’s feeble protests fade easily enough when Daemon helps her drink some water and lie down in bed, and then she’s out like a light. Daishou loses the battle against gravity and lets himself fall into the carpet, staring unblinking at the ceiling.
He wonders if they could find the equivalent of string lights to put up here, if that’s something Rhaenyra would be interested in.
He wonders if it would make any difference for how empty the room feels. Is this why Rhaenyra has no ladies? Because she fears they’ll try and use her to get further in life?
“I’ll not carry you to bed.” there’s a bite in Daemon’s voice, but it’s subdued, and Daishou finds himself giggling a little.
Rogue Prince, indeed.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, my prince.”
It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Westeros is nothing like the world Daishou lived in.
It’s easy to forget that he’s playing with fire, so openly supporting Rhaenyra, he’s siding against people who have made it very clear they’re willing to do far more than send a teenager into an old man’s bed to become his Queen.
It’s easy to forget, and it shouldn’t have been.
That’s not something Daishou thinks about, nor something he realizes, until there’s a dead body at his feet and blood dribbling down his neck.
Daemon’s sword glints, a snarl on his face, but Daishou’s still looking at the corpse.
That’s... A lot of blood.
“He was gonna kill me.” Daishou states, voice dull.
When he swallows, the nick in his throat aches a little.
Daemon looks at him for a long moment. It was not a question, but, when he nods in agreement, Daishou still feels his knees wobble, and he leans back against the wall for support. He’s not sure if it’s shock quite yet, and the sight of Daemon cleaning up the blood from his sword does nothing to his already upset stomach or his trembling hands.
“I was about to be butchered like a pig in a random corner of the most protected castle of this kingdom.” Daishou repeats, just to make sure, and Daemon flashes him a mirthless smile.
“You’re welcome.”
Daishou laughs, because he has nothing else to do. He laughs because if he doesn’t he’ll break, because his hands are shaking and there are tears gathering in his eyes and he can’t breathe properly, desperation rattling in his chest like a caged beast he has no control over. He laughs because if he doesn’t he’ll cry, and then he doesn’t think he’ll stop.
It doesn’t stop the tears from coming, but this time, at least, Daemon is kind enough not to comment on it.
For a fortnight, no member of royalty or nobility is to leave their quarters unattended.
The body left behind near the Godswood is an ugly sight, an horror tale, and King Viserys worries for his subjects’ safety. Daemon volunteers to be his niece’s sword and shield, for which the king is grateful, even if Ser Erryk is to keep them company as well, and Ser Criston Cole is assigned for the King’s other children. Queen Alicent is followed by her brother, Gwayne, while Ser Harrold remains by the king’s side. Daishou get Ser Arryk, and, though he wishes he could say it doesn’t help, it does.
He could’ve died, and none would’ve known. He could’ve died, and Rhaenyra and Aliandra would likely be the only ones to care. He could’ve died, and it probably would’ve been his own fault, for so boldly painting a target in his own back in his attempt at supporting the Princess and her future reign.
It takes as long as Daemon himself reassuring the king that the Red Keep is safe again for Daishou’s hands to stop shaking every time he leaves his bed.
He wishes it didn’t.
In the days that follow, Daemon makes him his squire.
Daishou’s a little too old for that, by Westerosi customs, but after the first sword practice in the training yard, no one bats an eye. It’s rumor-worthy, of course, that the man to come from Dorne can barely hold a sword, least of all hold his own in a fight, but not of the bad kind, not exactly. Daemon gets praise, of course, by being willing to teach him from the beginning, and, though he’s by no means kind about it, he’s patient enough Daishou knows he’s trying for real rather than solely putting on a show for the court.
It means that Daishou’s often tired and bruised, limping his way to places as his body struggles getting used to the different kinds of exercise. He’s not too slow, not too unfit, though he genuinely doubts Daemon would ever give him praise for it, but the painful aches just make him think of his friends and learning how to play volleyball, which is something that leaves Daishou in a bit of a sour mood.
It’s been long enough, and he still misses his old life. He misses his parents, his sister, his friends ― misses messing around with Kuroo, and getting to play with other people. Court life can be fun, can be entertaining, and he’s certainly enjoyed spending most of his days with Rhaenyra more than what would be considered proper in this weird new world, but being almost murdered put things into perspective, and Daishou... Daishou doesn’t know what to do about it.
After spending so much time together, it’s no wonder Rhaenyra takes notice of it.
“You’re acting weird.”
They’re deep in the Godswood, books of law and Westerosi customs spread on the ground, but, for the past half hour, Rhaenyra’s been ignoring the papers in her lap to look at him. Daishou keeps his eyes on the grass, knowing that, if he looks her way, the truth will come spilling out, and he can’t have that, now, can he? She entertains him, it’s true, and clearly enjoys their little escapades enough to lie her way into them with far more grace than she would have a year ago, but that doesn’t mean anything, because it can’t.
It shouldn’t.
“Your uncle’s running me to the ground with training.” is the excuse Daishou offers, when the silence stretches thin.
Rhaenyra’s little huff lets him know exactly what she thinks of the lie.
“Don’t let kepa intimidate you.” she elbows him on the side, lightly. “What’s gotten into you lately? Got any meetings with my dad?”
It’s a weird enough question Daishou looks up at her, frowning a little in confusion.
“What?”
The budding worry in Rhaenyra’s expression is disconcerting, and it takes Daishou one whole minute to understand what she’s trying to allude at.
Meetings with Viserys...?
Realization strikes him like lightning.
“Ew, no!” the mere idea makes him gag. “Rhaenyra, what the fuck?!”
His immediate disgust makes her giggle a little, concern easing off her shoulders, and Daishou’s yet again reminded of how much he likes to see her smile. Bad idea.
“I was just wondering.” Rhaenyra shrugs, scoots a little closer. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
Being compared in any way to the friend who metaphorically stabbed her in the back by marrying her father makes Daishou feel a little sick. Maybe he is being a dick, then.
“I wouldn’t.”
“Well, I just―”
“I wouldn’t.” Daishou needs her to understand that.
Exactly like he’d predicted, staring at her makes the truth come out.
“There’s nothing that this whole world could offer me to make me turn my back on you. Nothing, Rhaenyra. Not riches, not a title, not even a whole kingdom. You’re more important to me than any of that.”
Rhaenyra looks at him, the world in her eyes, and Daishou’s heart feels like a caged beast rattling at the bars of its prison, desperate for freedom. He recognizes that look, for it’s the same he knows he carries whenever he sees her ― and he doesn’t know what to do about it. Does she expect him to act? Rhaenyra is a princess of the strongest kingdom in this strange world, spoiled since birth, and she needs no asking, no begging to receive whatever it is that her heart desires.
Which is why, when she reaches out, intending to lay a claim, Daishou finds himself holding her wrist.
He’s not sure which one of them is more caught off guard: himself or her.
“Look, I don’t ―”
“You don’t want me.” she doesn’t let him finish, and there’s an accusation in her tone.
It’s an accusation coming out of left field, and Daishou’s tired of having people pointing fingers at him for things that are entirely out of his control. He immediately releases her wrist.
“That’s not it!”
Rhaenyra’s face sours. At being denied? At not understanding? It’s not rejection that brings anger to her eyes, but the possibility that Daishou is just like any other, pointing fingers and telling her she’s too naive to understand what happens around her. Daishou wouldn’t, had thought he’d made that clear from the beginning, but it doesn’t surprise him that this is what she assumes at first sight.
Always so quick to take offense, so easy to upset. Daishou wishes he weren’t the one pushing that on her, this time.
“Then what is?!”
What could it be? She’s a princess, an heir, set to inherit the Iron Throne. Daishou might have some distant, fleeting relationship with the royal family of Dorne, but he couldn’t begin to dream of being on her station. He’s not Valyrian, knows nothing of her ancestry, and his skill with a sword is laughable. Were it not for the force of Dorne’s wrath behind his back, Daishou would have nothing, would be worth nothing in this world. He has nothing to give her other than himself, nothing to offer that would be of any importance in Westeros. What, then? What else?
“I don’t think I want to die for you!”
Rhaenyra’s mouth opens, so eager she is to snap right back at him, but then she seems to take notice of what Daishou has just said, and confusion takes over anger.
“What?”
Daishou breathes in slowly, trying and failing to put his thoughts in order. He’s been mulling over this ever since his assassination attempt, and he doesn’t think he has come to a satisfying conclusion on it yet. How could he even explain this to her? Rhaenyra’s never had to fear for her own life, surrounded by sworn knights, in the safety of her father’s castle, with her uncle ready to kill for her honor. Can Daishou even begin to tell her anything without sounding like a spineless coward?
He tries to start from the beginning.
“Look, the other day ― I was about to get jumped, okay? And there was ― Daemon was there and he killed them so it doesn’t matter, but there’s a reason he wants me to play pretend at being his squire and it’s not because he trusts me with a blade and I don’t... I don’t know if I’m ready to do that for the rest of my life, okay?” and isn’t that a horrifying thought? It’s been far too long since they have started this little song and dance, but Daishou doesn’t think he’ll ever have the courage to put his life in line for Rhaenyra ― not the way she probably expects him to, at least. “Being... Being scared of turning every corner because I don’t know if there’s gonna be someone there trying to butcher me for supporting you. Having to sleep with one eye open because for some reason people assumed me being your friend was enough of a reason to kill me.”
And isn’t that worse than the ‘almost being killed’ part? Rhaenyra has no fault in his life being at stake, and Daishou is not trying to put the blame on her, but staying by her side will put him under the spotlight, and not in ways he’s comfortable with. Daishou’s a pretender, he can fake his way into confidence and smugness, charm even the high-strung nobles with his charm if he wants to, but this? This game for the throne, aiming for a crown he has no intention of ever laying his hands upon, just because strangers have assumed him to be a threat? Daishou wants no part in this.
“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life scared.” and that’s no way of living, he doesn’t say ― doesn’t think he has to, because she knows. “Then you’re gonna resent me for not committing fully to a relationship, and I don’t ―”
“Shut up.” Rhaenyra orders, and Daishou does. “You think I want you to die for me?”
Daishou stares at her, cautious, because he’s unsure what she expects him to answer ― if there’s a right answer to that or if she genuinely wants to know how he feels. Rhaenyra’s expression gives nothing away, however, and he’s left floundering. That’s not a question a princess should be making, Daishou supposes, if only because there’s only one answer to it.
There’s what she wants, and then there’s what’s expected of other people when dealing with royalty.
“I mean, yeah?” her uncle would, if necessary. Even her father, frail as he might be. Rhaenyra has plenty of people who would put their lives on the line for her, no questions asked, and Daishou doesn’t think it’s too much of a stretch to believe he should be one of them. “Isn’t that the point of the whole courtship bullshit?”
Rhaenyra stares, but doesn’t give him an answer to that.
“My father will have me marry Laenor Velaryon before the year’s end.”
Oh. Oh. Daishou thought... Well, that at least explains things. He looks away, mouth clicking shut, and refuses to think of why his chest aches at the news. That’s ― good. Good. The Velaryons have the strongest fleet in Westeros, the most riches. Having a strong House backing her up means the likelihood of people attempting to take away her throne lowers, and, though Daishou doubts that had been Viserys’ thought when he came up with it, it will still play out beautifully with what they’ve been working for in the past months.
Rhaenyra will get the crown she’s owed, one way or another, and Daishou ― well. He doubts she’ll be needing him for anything, after that. She’s learned how to play her way into nobility’s hearts, and she’s done it beautifully, she no longer needs him to hold her hand along the way.
She’ll be a great queen, and Daishou will go back to Dorne ― wherever that is.
“Laenor doesn’t like women.” Rhaenyra goes on, unbothered, and Daishou looks up so fast it gives him whiplash. “And I just happen to be in need of a scribe, now that my father has agreed to pass on to me responsibilities befit of a heir.”
Daishou blinks slowly. The world settles.
“For a moment back there I thought you were about to say you need a sworn shield.”
“Oh, Suguru.” Rhaenyra smiles at him, mischievous and delightful, and the sight of her makes his chest ache with fondness. “We both know you can’t fight for shit.”
Daishou laughs, and laughs, and then he kisses her.
It’s stupid, he knows. All of it is stupid.
Rhaenyra’s a princess, meant to be Queen one day. He has no jewels to give her, no riches to cover her with ― were they to be found together, Daishou would be at least considered a traitor of the realm. His possible death might not start a war, he’s not important enough for that, but Westeros’ relationship with Dorne would sour, and he’s not sure Viserys would do anything about it. Daishou’s a volleyball player, not a noble, not royalty, and Rhaenyra’s affection should not be something he vyes for.
He does, still.
It’s been far too long since Daishou was this happy. It’s been far too long since his heart last ached at the sight of someone. Rhaenyra makes him happy, makes him stupid, and he wants her to be happy in return. If that means sticking around and playing the part, well.
Daishou’s always been good at pretending, has he not?
Aliandra sends him poison in her next letter.
A drop of it can kill the whole court, she writes, penship careful, almost gentle. Carry the beads in jewelry, and no one will ever suspect you. You’ve always been a good actor, so put it to good use.
It’s the strangest way of violent caring Daishou’s ever had directed at him, but he holds onto the black beads with trembling hands, and wonders if he can get Daemon to help him with it.
Daishou would never need them, but maybe Rhaenyra will.
In the months of preparation for the wedding, a begrudging Daemon teaches Daishou the ways through Maegor’s passages ― where to go if he needs to hide, if he needs to run, how to slip his way into the walls and get anywhere, anytime, with little to no struggle. It’s a slow process, made all the more troubling when Daishou figures out he can’t carry a light all the way through, and will have to trust his instincts if ever needed.
Daemon doesn’t hold his hand, of course, barks commands and orders him around like a hound, but there’s no mockery in it, and his eyes, sharp and unblinking, never leave him to learn by mistake.
“You are not to take advantage of what I’m giving you.” is the only threat he levels, which Daishou takes to mean be careful and don’t get caught. “Or you’ll live to regret it, intruder.”
“Aw! You worry about me!” Daishou cajoles, immediately, taken by a smugness so big he could choke with it.
Daemon smacks his head, hard, but it’s totally worth it.
The marriage is grandiose, eerily alligned with what Daishou would expect from a royal wedding. Rhaenyra looks every bit of the princess she is, adorned in gold and white, shiny black beads shining in her jewelry as a homage to her family’s colors, a radiant smile on her face ― Laenor dons clothes just as fancy, and the spark of mischief in his eyes when the two twirl around the dance floor to the delight of their parents is unmistakeable. Daemon plays the part well, though he’s certainly disgruntled, sitting at the high table and entertaining his fool of a brother, fool of a king, while the Queen stares at the happy newly-wed couple as if they have personally offended her by merely existing.
For all Daishou knows, they might have ― all of them. Queen Alicent looks tired and annoyed, donning a vivid green dress that makes her look rather sickly, nailbeds bitten bloody. She had tried making a big entrance, late to the wedding and interrupting Viserys’ speech, donned in jewelry and riches meant to show the realm who she is. Her family, all dressed in matching colors, had looked smug and proud.
Daishou didn’t think much, which was probably idiotic on his part, but standing from his place at the highest table to offer a toast to the Queen and her family, donning his family’s colors and honoring Dorne with their actions, had been an automatic gesture. He didn’t even realize he’d been interrupting the king, because Rhaenyra’s face was one of horror and hurt, and he’d wanted it to shift into something else ― too busy he’d been drawling about the importance of the ties now binding him to Westeros, how happy he is to be welcomed with such warmth, praising the Queen and her delightful offer.
Bullshit, of course. Daishou doesn’t even know what the dress meant, nor what Alicent meant to achieve with it ― if the way Otto Hightower’s face kept turning wild red as his speech went on and on about his friendship with the Princess and his ties to the Prince and his joy at being considered family with the royalty of Westeros to the point the Queen had chosen to honor him in such a grand day, it was probably nothing good. No matter, Daishou had been quick to squash that, and the king took no offense to his bold gesture, happy as he’d been to hear Daishou praising his family so openly for everyone to hear.
He doesn’t even know what color his supposed house is. He’ll probably have to pen a letter to Aliandra later about that, and hope she doesn’t laugh too much to do anything about it. Would Prince Qoren be willing to let him have it, were Daishou to ask?
Daishou sits by Ser Joffrey, near the King and his brother, and thinks of dragons and snakes.
At night, Rhaenyra waits for him, smile wide and bright.
If he could, Daishou would give her the world.
A throne is close enough, he muses, playing with her hair.
Daemon takes a liking to scheming. Daishou’s torn between being amused at his obvious delight and worried for whatever storm he’s brewing with it.
Rhaenyra gets moon tea without the aid of Maesters.
Daishou doesn’t ask ― still remembers how against marriage she had been, back when they first met, and the horror tales of her mother’s miscarriages ―, never intrudes. That’s her body to do with as she pleases, and he’ll not be just another man ordering her around for the sake of traditions he doesn’t even believe in, nevermind the facade they have built around him like battle armor.
Rhaenyra thinks about it, though. Daishou knows she does ― knows she’s not trying to hide it, when they sit together to break fast in the morning, and her fingers hesitate near the delicate cup in front of her.
“What is it like, in your world?”
Childbirth, she doesn’t say, doesn’t have to.
Daishou thinks of telling her everything, like he would before, trying to explain concepts of things she’ll likely never see in her lifetime, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. How can he look at her, peaceful and inquisitive, and say my world could’ve saved your mother? How can he not hesitate in the words your parents would’ve never married? Just because Daishou has more or less learned to keep his mouth shut doesn’t mean it doesn’t disgust him, sometimes, to look at Viserys and think of the mother Rhaenyra lost ― of the girl the king had wed and the woman he killed in her place. This anger is not his to claim, and he’ll not make Rhaenyra’s pain worse just for the sake of sharing knowledge of things that will never matter.
Even if he did say anything, it would probably just scare her more. Rhaenyra’s young, still, they both are, and there’s no reason for her to rush.
“Easier.” Daishou says, in lieu of an answer he’s not willing to give.
Rhaenyra drinks her whole cup.
She never asks again.
Laenor is a funny guy.
Clueless for court life, much as Rhaenyra had been, and Daishou wonders what kind of parents he had, to be so inept at playing the part. It’s like these royals keep having children they’ll not prepare for the world they live in, and then have to mourn the rulers they could’ve been, had their parents bothered teaching them the bare minimum. Viserys, naming Rhaenyra heir, never bothering to have her learn anything about ruling. Corlys, pushing for his son to be king, giving him no means to protect himself from court gossip.
Much like Rhaenyra, Laenor lives in the Red Keep as a man with no responsibilities, no duties. He laughs when he wants to, jokes around when he feels like it, and whenever he goes, his lover follows close by.
They’re happy together, it’s clear to see. In a place where marriage is a commodity and love nothing but a childish tale, Laenor found himself someone who’s willing to stand by him come hell or high water, to follow him into war ― it’s easy to see the love he feels reflected right back at him in Joffrey’s eyes, and Daishou’s heart aches a little with the realization they have to hide it and pretend, if not for Laenor’s marriage, then because Westerosi traditions would never allow them to be together in the way they want to.
Daishou tags along, when he can. The bruises from sword practice are enough, if it means he can give them a little room for cover, nevermind that he becomes something of a joke in the training yard. The knowledge his presence alone might silence some of the whispers is what keeps him at it. Being aware that he can boast having been in the presence of all of the royals’ dragons and not been eaten, if only because it removes the oddity of Joffrey being familiar with Seasmoke. It’s not nearly enough, in the grand scheme of things, to squash all the rumors, but it helps paint the future king under a different light, and that’s all Daishou needs.
Knights acknowledge Laenor when he passes by, laugh with him in taverns, smack his back with friendliness at the training yard. He’s easily recognizable, and people flock to him when they can, to listen to him retell stories of war and funny anecdotes, to watch him reenact sword moves and laugh at the way Daishou bemoans and complains about the amount of times he was knocked down by those very same moves. The courtiers might sneer when they think he’s not looking, some ladies might giggle and look away when he passes by, but maids and servants enjoy his company, and lords begin acknowledging his presence with more than a half assed bow when he comes into a room.
Familiarity, friendliness and camaraderie might be better built in a war camp than at court, but Daishou knows his way better around the latter, and that’s what he’ll be using.
Laenor is a funny guy, and a good man, and good men rarely get to be kings for long.
Whatever chances he can, Daishou will be sure to give him.
Life is never dull in court life.
Whether by planning for guests, dealing with trouble or skittering away with Rhaenyra, Daishou’s always busy, he always has something on his mind. It’s... Stressful, sometimes. Hesitating and second-guessing, trying to prepare for the worst case scenarios. Even when he’s by himself, Daishou is always thinking, always planning, always preparing.
It’s a role he falls into with far more ease than he’d thought he’d have.
Six moons after Rhaenyra’s marriage, the scandal of King Viserys’ Grand Maester being found rummaging through Daishou’s room eclipses any budding rumors of his heir being unable to bear children. That alone wouldn’t have been an offense if it weren’t for the fact rings and gems Daishou had been very vocally missing ― at the behest of Daemon ― weren’t found in the man’s wardrobe and vault, to the shocked gasps of the court and Queen Alicent’s horror.
Stealing, for a Lord, is no crime ― unless he gets caught. Stealing from an esteemed guest right under the King’s nose, however, is punishable by death. Daishou had known Daemon had been planning something ― he’s never one to settle for an easy life, for idly sitting by and enjoying the world as it is, didn’t get the moniker Rogue Prince just for fun ―, but he hadn’t known it would be plotting murder. He still plays the part, of course, the offended guest full of righteous anger and vitriol, demanding justice to be acted upon.
It’s a little easier if Daishou pretends he’s playing his part in a show. The horrified discovery, the affronted anger, oh, he knows the courtiers eat up his blazing rage with delight, try as they might to look offended on his behalf. If there’s anything Daishou’s learned in his life, it’s how to set up a perfect scene for everyone else to see, and that’s what he does.
Daemon has been a steady presence by Rhaenyra’s side, now, unwilling to falter his duties as her sword and shield, and Daishou knows he wouldn’t have planned murder without a reason. He’ll not wonder, he’ll not question ― when the time comes, drama is what Daemon asks for, and drama is what he receives. Daishou bellows the outrage, the thievery, puts an act that would surely land him a place in Nohebi’s acting club, if he were so inclined. The promise ― threat, really ― of a swift return to Dorne and no further contact is what urges King Viserys to act, and dole out punishment he does, a merciless act for the sake of the ‘peace’ he’s so keen on keeping.
No attempts at buttering up the King help the Lord Hand stop Maester Mellos’ execution.
The whole thing is a tiring ordeal, and Daishou, who has very pointedly avoided accepting Daemon’s invitations for a hunt, has to sit through the execution and stare at his shoes, lamenting the lack of comfortable socks and sportswear. Daemon likes putting up a show, too, although one of a different kind, so he’s forced to sit and hear as the crowd rages on about the supposed offense to the crown, somehow getting louder when Caraxes comes into the mix.
At the end of the day, after having scrubbed himself raw of the smell and dirt, Daishou finds himself taking comfort in the fact that Rhaenyra, at least, seems unbothered. Just because he had known it was probably a necessary evil doesn’t mean he’s all that happy about being a compliant to murder. Daishou’s a volleyball player, not a hitman ― all that blood spilling will still get to his head one of these days and he will have a breakdown, probably cry a little and panic a lot. He’s not looking forward to that.
Rhaenyra doesn’t tease him when he slips by her side in bed, hands immediately reaching out, seeking comfort. She might not understand, violence a second nature to her as much as it is to her uncle, having grown surrounded by armed knights and a possibly man-eating dragon, but she has never tried making him feel ashamed or embarrassed for still trembling at the sight of a blade. Daishou might be a little desensitized to it, now ― mostly to blame on Daemon’s short fuse ―, but she never judges him when he’s not.
It’s something Daishou appreciates a lot. That, and the fact she’s so quick to embrace him in return, a hand immediately resting atop his head, offering physical comfort with no attempt at questioning his motivation.
Daishou could ― and probably will, if the years he’s spent here are anything to go by ― spend the rest of his life by her side. It’s... Not much of an horrifying thought as it would’ve been, back when he first woke up in Westeros. It’s not an horrifying thought at all.
He’s not her knight in shining armor, but then, again, Rhaenyra has never needed one.
Being her lover is more than enough.
“Something on your mind?”
“I think your uncle’s trying to kill me.” Daishou complains, immediately, the words coming unbidden in a whine.
Rhaenyra’s only answer to that is delighted laughter ― neither confirming nor denying his allegations, which can only mean he’s at least partially right about that.
She, Daishou decides with no small amount of fondness, will be the death of him.