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Welcomes and greetings are exchanged; the court is thoroughly entertained before it is cleared. Trills of another greeting can be heard just beyond the chatter of lords and ladies—that one, at least, rings true as opposed to the show that was just put on between her father and his brother.
Rhaenyra stares at her much-changed uncle. There is an air to him now that she has never known him to possess, and it rankles to know she will have to relearn this new him. However, just as she will have to reacquaint herself with her uncle, he will have to reacquaint himself with her. It has been a long three years, and they both have changed. It is evident he knows this, as she catches his eyes roaming over her form just as hers continue to do so for him. Unashamedly.
Let him see, Rhaenyra thinks. Let him come to me.
She is not the little girl he left behind, and though she has missed him, she will not be the moth tempted by the light of the flame. She commands fire—she is the fire.
Let my indifference freeze him, until he has no choice but to be drawn in by my heat.
Rhaenyra walks out with her head held high and hands clasped elegantly at her front as she makes her way to her chambers. She must prepare herself for the outing her father alluded to that will take place in the Godswood to celebrate Daemon’s success as well as his official pardon.
Elinda greets her happily as she enters her chambers, already with a bath prepared, and she gets ready as quickly as possible, opting out on wetting her hair. The dress she chooses is light-colored with a deeper neckline than she typically would, clasping the Valyrian steel necklace Daemon gifted her all those years ago so that it is the focus. It is girlish in color, but the pattern suggests a maturity she did not possess when she last saw him. Her hair is kept simple but pulled back.
Ser Criston escorts her stoically as she joins the rabble outside that may as well be a viper den, abandoning her as soon as she mingles with the crowd which is what she was hoping for. She must make an effort to sway these people into supporting her claim, even if she doesn’t particularly like the lot of them. They do not like her, but she can be charming. Though, no amount of charm will be enough to sway those who view her only as a warm cunt to fall into or as just a girl who will be disinherited now that her father has a son.
It is a good distraction as it allows her to focus on anything but the violet eyes that follow her every move, every bit a predator as it stalks its prey. What her uncle may not realize is that she is playing him the fool. It is in his best interest for her to do so, however. She is not prey; she is a dragon, and she is simply luring him into a false sense of security before she ensnares him completely and utterly.
She quickly tires from the false-honeyed words the courtiers offer her and steps away for a reprieve, picking up a goblet of wine as she does so. It is a nice day; she hopes it is the same tomorrow for Syrax calls to her, and she prefers clear skies to stormy ones.
As expected, it is only a few minutes before Daemon finds her. She is turned away from him, but there is no world in which she cannot recognize the presence of her twin flame. A smile creeps on her face without her permission as he intentionally steps on a twig just a few paces behind her. She stiffens and turns to face the perceived threat, as is expected of a spooked princess, with wide eyes before all her harsh lines soften when she finally lays her eyes on him.
“Princess, I hope I did not frighten you.”
It is refreshing to hear High Valyrian fall from his lips, another thing she has missed while he was away. Very few spoke it fluently, and rarely did they wish to speak it exclusively.
“You did not and never could, Uncle,” she replies sweetly, stepping closer to him while peering up at him through her lashes.
Daemon stares right back at her.
This close, the beginnings of a red wound peaks above his collar.
How far does it run? Is it still healing? Does it hurt?
He continues, unaware of her burning questions, “It seems you have become popular in my absence as you have had no time to greet your dear uncle.”
He does not sound hurt, only amused and something else she cannot quite distinguish.
“Well, that is to be expected when one is the heir to the Iron Throne. Some wish to inquire whether I will stay as such, some wish to curry my good favor, while others wish to discuss the matter of who will gain my hand.”
Her fingers reach up to brush the chain of her necklace, successfully drawing his gaze; the black of his pupils threaten to take over their matching violet.
“I do apologize if I have made you feel unwanted, Uncle. You must know that is the very opposite of what I was intending. In fact, I was just coming to greet you after a moment of reprieve from the courtiers. I have missed you and am glad to see you returned, whole and,” Rhaenyra pauses, her hand reaching up to brush his collar before drawing her touch away and continuing, “mostly unharmed.”
“What a keen eye you have. Not many have noticed my injuries, not even my brother.” His eyes meet her own; he is smiling. The sight makes her heart flutter. He is devastatingly handsome, moreso than he has ever been.
“I am not my father.”
“No. No, you are not.”
A moment passes between them, a stalemate.
“Come, let us rejoin the gathering. I should like to hear you regale my favored courtiers with your tales of the Stepstones.” She offers him her arm, a white flag to break the tension, which he gracefully takes.
Rhaenyra remains on his arm for the rest of the night, touching him the barest amounts—teasing him while playing the innocent maiden. If she were not royalty, she may have been a mummer with how well she acts the part. Daemon grows more and more frustrated with her lingering grazes and gazes as the evening stretches on. She feels much the same when he begins to reciprocate her touches, but she continues on as if she does not notice any of it, as if the fluttering in her belly, caused by his actions, does not exist.
Eventually, they must retire for the night, and they part ways. She kisses him goodnight on the cheek, lingering for longer than what is appropriate for a regular niece and uncle. She does not glance back to see what his expression is; it takes much of her recently acquired control to do so.
In her chambers, Rhaenyra lays awake in her bed, unable to find sleep. She is haunted by Daemon’s dark gaze, the way his hand engulfed her own easily when he passed her goblet back to her, his war-hardened look, the manner in which he hungrily drank in her figure—well, she is simply enthralled by him, as a woman is by a suitor. She only hopes he feels the same way—that he, too, is awake thinking of her.
Syrax is in a jolly mood when Rhaenyra greets her for a morning ride, so like her other half now that she is reunited with her partner. While her golden lady’s reunion with Caraxes was successful, Rhaenyra is still waiting for Daemon to realize what she is offering.
She mounts her dragon hurriedly, taking to the skies for the first time in months and letting out a shout of joy as Syrax shows off for her. She is nimble and quick in the sky, and there is no experience that surpasses the high of flying— none that she has experienced, that is.
A loud trill pierces the air, and suddenly, Caraxes and his rider are beside her.
“Good morning!” Rhaenrya shouts, a wild grin on her face. Her uncle shouts the same, returning her grin with one of his own; it’s a crooked thing that makes her belly flip flop.
“Do you wish to race?”
Instead of answering, she yells, “Be prepared to lose!”
Then, it’s the wind in her hair as Syrax heeds her command to beat Caraxes to their typical finishing point. It has been years since they have done this, but Syrax remembers the way and is just as competitive as Rhaenyra is. They can’t lose to the older pair, after all.
It is close, but in the end, her golden lady does not fail her. She flashes a smug, winning smile at Daemon, departing from Syrax in the Dragonpit, as she makes her way to him.
“Congratulations on your win. It seems your Syrax has gotten faster— and larger too.”
“Indeed, but we were determined to win no matter what this round, and thank you.”
“Volunteering Caraxes and I for more morning rides then?” He asks as he helps her into her carriage. She sees his steed not too far away. Had he… raced to arrive here in time to fly with her?
“Oh, of course. You have many to make up for your three year long absence, Uncle.”
Daemon tugs her down from just far enough for him to whisper in her ear, “I missed you too, you know.”
The ride back to the keep is spent with her head in her hands as she contemplates giving in first. He is her weakness, but she knows that she is his as well. She aches for him, yes, but she is tired of being the one to chase after him.
If he wants to stay with her, he will have to prove it.
Weeks pass, and somehow, magically, Daemon does not get himself exiled. He is on his best behavior—which doesn’t mean much for one with the title of the Rogue Prince, but her father seems to hold him in high esteem again.
Instead, it is she who is in the hot water with her father. He is angry over her unsuccessful tour and wishes her to be married already, or to at least announce a suitor so they can court properly. There is only one man she wants, though, and she knows he will not approve. However, if her uncle stays in her father’s good graces, mayhaps his opinion will change.
There is also the matter of his wife, but then, a letter arrives detailing her death, and Daemon is left a widow. Everything seems to be falling into place, and then, one night, after discussing their opinions of marriage thoroughly, Rhaenyra finds a note and a bag filled with clothing befitting a squire in her chambers.
He takes her into Flea Bottom; it is much different than what she expected. They go to a tavern, and she dines like a peasant and drinks ale like a man. It is exciting to do something so mundane, but mostly it is because she is doing it with him.
Then, Daemon leads her to an establishment further into Flea Bottom, a brothel. She sees acts only depicted in her family’s tapestries, but this is somehow much more personal. She can feel her cheeks and ears go red with heat. It spreads further down as Daemon presses himself closer to her.
“Fucking is a pleasure, you see, for the woman as it is the man.”
Rhaenyra knows very little of this type of pleasure—heady, honeyed sighs—but she supposes he will introduce her to it. He is the only one she wishes to do so. He pulls her onto his lap, atop a well-placed chaise in the corner of the room, describing the sexual acts of the couples around them. He whispers them into her ear, one hand rubbing circles onto her hip while the other rests on her thigh.
His touch is kindling for the flame that resides in her as she burns hotter and brighter each time his fingers graze close to her aching core. She wants him, and he wants her. She can feel the proof of his desire beneath her; his cock is hardened. He is aroused, and she knows it is not because of what he is witnessing.
“Marriage is a duty,” he eventually says, “but that doesn’t stop us from doing what we want—from fucking who we want.”
Turning to face him, Rhaenyra wraps her arms around his neck and stares at him. He only has eyes for her.
Surely, it will not be so terrible to surrender to him.
“And if who I want is you?”
Grinning crookedly with sharp teeth, he replies, “Then it is me you shall have, Rhaenyra.”
And then, finally, Daemon kisses her—ardently, like he will never have the chance to again. She returns the kiss with just as much fervor.
Oh, how she’s always wanted to do this—to be with him. All that waiting and teasing and aching culminated into this. It feels like a dream come true. In a way, it is; Daemon will not let her go now that he’s finally had a taste of her, which is exactly what she was anticipating when she set out on this endeavor to tempt him.
While Rhaenyra may have lost this game of seduction, she has still won all the same.