Chapter Text
137 AC
“You’re sending our sons to war alone?”
“It’s not a war,” Rhaenyra replies without looking up from her desk, refusing to be disturbed by her consort storming into her solar. “It is a minor succession conflict, which will be resolved quickly enough with a show of force to remind them that the crown stands behind Lady Jeyne’s will.”
The Lady of the Vale’s death has brought an unexpected storm. In her last hours Jeyne Arryn had formally named as heir a fourth cousin who’d served her faithfully for ten years as Knight of the Bloody Gate, disinheriting the line of a closer cousin imprisoned for twice attempting to unseat her. The usurper’s son has contested the succession, claiming her word cannot override traditional precedent, while another cousin from Gulltown, of lesser relation but great wealth, has put himself forward as a third claimant to the Eyrie. As the contenders have refused commands to present themselves at King’s Landing for arbitration and continued amassing supporters, a stronger response is warranted. It’s only become more urgent with today’s raven sending word that the original would-be usurper has escaped his confinement and fled to Runestone.
The whole thing is turning into a volatile mess, a political headache to be sure, but still nothing that a dragonrider or two shouldn’t be able to sort out.
“Why are you sending our sons to war alone?” Daemon demands, ignoring her correction.
“Because Aemon and Aelyx are more than capable of handling the situation,” Rhaenyra snaps back. “They’re of age, and need to be seen to stand on their own to command respect. And because two dragons is verging on overkill as it is – though even if that weren’t the case it’s Laena I would send in support, to remind them that the Velaryons do not forget their allies.” If Laenor still lived, the whole situation would not have become half so troublesome. Though all who knew them well knew he and Jeyne had a cold marriage bed, they’d been fond companions and steadfast in support of each other, and Seasmoke had been a powerful deterrent to vassals who resented being ruled by a woman. Since he’d perished in the Daughters’ War a year past, some have clearly perceived weakness and opportunity, but the alliances will hold strong.
“So I am not even to be considered?” Daemon glowers.
She has to wonder whether he’s motivated by concern for the boys or pique at being denied an opportunity for bloodshed. Probably an equal measure of both. The fact remains, she is not about to give him an opportunity to stir up bad blood or to rain down dragonfire on Runestone. “On the contrary, I’ve given careful consideration to why you will not be going.”
“I’m your Protector of the Realm. I’m supposed to lead your armies!” he bursts out.
“And when there are armies to be led, you will. But this isn’t a war,” she reiterates. “And it needn’t become one, but you poking your nose in would be the surest way to pour wildfire on the embers. In case it had escaped your notice, the Vale lords still fucking hate you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Daemon mutters petulantly.
Rhaenyra rolls her eyes. He sounds more like a sulky child than a respected leader of men. “I’m aware. Which is precisely why you are to stay out of it.”
He inclines his head. “As you will it, Your Grace.”
Fuck.
She knows that tone of cold formality too well, though she’s not used to hearing it directed at her. She has admittedly been harsh, for he was being wholly irrational, but she had not intended to wound him. Yet years of her father’s dismissals have left him sensitive to feeling disregarded, and she realizes her brusqueness has stirred up old ghosts.
“Daemon –” she starts, attempting to stay him so she might explain.
But he turns on his heel without hearing her out. “As it seems you have no further need of me, I will take my leave.”
He is gone before she can utter another word, and she’s left staring at the empty doorway as the ring of his bootheels recedes. For a minute she contemplates going after him, but knows her chances of getting through to him are next to none in his current mood. Better to give him time to cool off.
Rhaenyra massages her temples and turns her attention back to the papers spread before her with a heavy sigh.
When she finds him again several hours later, it’s not in the training yard as she’d first guessed but in the nursery with baby Alyssa in his arms.
The sight before her brings a smile to her lips despite the stresses of the day. Daemon is holding the babe above his head, “flying” her about the room while she giggles in delight. Their littlest dragon always wants to be up of late.
He comes to a halt when he catches sight of her, ceasing his circuit of the room and swinging Alyssa down to cradle her against his chest.
Alyssa, for her part, pays Rhaenyra little regard, entirely occupied in grabbing at Daemon’s face and babbling, “Be-pah!” At nine moons, their daughter already has a decided favorite, and little use for her mother except when hungry. Her partiality stings at times, but Rhaenyra can scarcely begrudge it at the moment for she knows how much greater Daemon’s need to be wanted is.
Still, as she observes her husband’s adoring focus on the tiny girl, she can’t resist teasing, “Am I so quickly usurped in your affections?”
His jaw clenches. “Forgive me for turning my attention where it was welcomed,” he says stiffly, and she winces.
She exhales slowly. Steps closer to lay a hand on his arm, and breathes a little easier when he does not flinch from her touch.
“I did not mean to slight you,” she says softly. “I do have need of you, my love. Always.”
Daemon shifts the babe to one arm so he can free a hand to clasp hers. He raises it to his lips and brushes a kiss over her knuckles in unspoken acceptance of her apology.
Rhaenyra wishes she could leave it at that, but knows the matter will fester if not addressed. “Not every battle is yours to fight, though,” she goes on. “At present you can do me more good here at my side than in the Vale.”
“I can understand that,” he concedes. “But I should have liked to at least be consulted.”
He sets Alyssa down when she starts to squirm, and she turns her attention to the soft toys strewn across the rug while they find a seat on a padded bench to continue talking.
“I do not seek to exclude you. If you wish to be involved in the discussion, it helps if you are at the Small Council when matters are being discussed,” Rhaenyra reminds him. While he does make an effort to attend when issues of the realm’s security are on the agenda, they cannot always anticipate what will come up in a session. (That she was somewhat grateful he was not present when the topic came up today, knowing he would not be pleased with the direction of discussion, is beside the point.) “We did not expect to be dealing with it today, but news was brought that made action more urgent.”
“Is word that the situation has suddenly become more urgent supposed to make me more comfortable with letting the boys handle it?” Daemon grumbles.
She raises an eyebrow. “The boys are men grown. They have Vermax and Vermithor to protect them, and the Velaryon fleet will be on standby in case of escalation. And, for what it’s worth, it wasn’t my suggestion.”
He considers that a moment, and when he speaks again his tone holds little surprise and some resignation. “Which of them proposed it?”
“Aemon, of course, but I suspect Aelyx’s mind behind it.” Her eldest is the most outspoken of their sons, both by nature and in consciousness of his position as heir, but it’s his brother who is the strategist.
He nods acknowledgement.
“If you have any objection of substance, I would hear it,” she offers.
“No, it’s a solid plan,” Daemon admits. “I just don’t like it.”
“They know what they’re about, and would not thank you for interfering,” she says, echoing the reassurances he’d given her the first time they’d had to send the boys into combat when she was the one who could not stop fretting.
“I know that. Still, it sits ill with me to stand by and watch them fly into danger.”
Rhaenyra can well imagine it does. It is no easy thing for her either, and he’s been so long accustomed to being their family’s sword and shield.
Nevertheless she remains confident that Aemon’s easy charm and Aelyx’s knack for diplomacy are their best chance for solving the situation without bloodshed. And the Valemen are not the Triarchy or Dorne; they lack any weaponry that might take a dragon.
“With me as well,” she acknowledges. “But you’ve trained them well, now it’s time that we must have faith in them.”
He leans in to her, resting his forehead against hers, and she wraps her arms around him. The embrace continues for a long minute as they seek comfort and strength from each other.
Then the moment is broken by a child’s sharp cry. Little Alyssa has apparently had enough of being left out, and she tugs at the leg of Daemon’s breeches.
He scoops the babe into his arms again, and presses a kiss to her soft pale ringlets. “Your brothers are going to be the death of me,” he informs her solemnly. “Be kind to your kepa, won’t you riñītsos, and don’t ever grow up.”