Royal Salvation [Game of Thrones]

Chapter VI - Bloody Combat

Righteous in Wrath

Daeron Targaryen POV

"I am curious Ser Daeron, are you loyal to Lady Sansa, you were but a gift after all." The knight watched little finger, his eyes glaring maliciously at the man, fingers twitching with violent intentions.

Sansa spoke softly in his defence, carefully evading an attempt at conflict, watching the homicidal suggestion, dance upon Daeron's complexion, the urge nostalgic.

"Lord Baelish, Ser Daeron has proved his loyalty to myself and those he is sworn to, there is no need to concern yourself." Her polite smile, evaded Littlefingers suspicious smile, his calculating eyes boring harshly into the Knight.

He departed abruptly, silently, without words spoken to either noble, fearing seeping through his skin as he strode passed Daeron, watching as his grip tightened against the leather of his sword.

"I'll kill him." Sansa resigned sighing sharply, with a pointed stare,

"On his ship, surrounded by his men, it would be a death sentence." Daeron growled quietly, grinding his teeth, in a futile attempt at restraint.

"What would you have me do?! He questions my loyalty, he deceived you, I have every right to kill him. And given half the chance I'd drive my sword through his chest." Sansa continued staring, unaffected by his mewling, the rage palpable amongst taut emotions,

"And I'd be the one to bury you because of it." Silence presented, and an eery expression etched across Daeron's complexion.

"I swear it to you, by the Old Gods and the new, you will not lose me, I will remain by your side until my last day, I will swear any oath you ask of me, but I give you my word, I will not abandon you." Soft hands cupped his jaw, soft fingers delegating gently across rough skin.

"I can't lose you Daeron, I forbid it, so please be smart." Daeron conceded gently, eyes of guilt were unable to gaze at the glassy imploring eyes of his Lady, as he found interest in his dull steel armour.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Ser Daeron," Daeron's fingers twitched to handle his blade discarded, amongst the polished steel beaming from stained oak.

"Lord Baelish, how may I be of service?" The man cocked a brow, his golden fingers pointing at Daeron with satisfaction.

"I came to offer you a proposal Ser," Daeron nodded, remaining still, door adjacent enough to converse with the Lord however not wide enough to be considered inviting as he indicated for the man to continue.

"What offer my Lord?" A sinister smirk encased the smaller man,

"There is a trade in the vale, commonly participated in by high born lords, if you wish for Lady Sansa to remain in the delicate care of those who wish her no harm, I'd advise you accept my offer." The threat, embedded firmly within Daeron's prerogative, and murderous intentions rendered his forethought,

"What trade little finger." The man smiled victoriously, knowing obviously of his apparent victory over the Knight.

"Underground fighting, most evenings, I trust you understand the importance of your victories." Daeron ground his teeth heavy breaths pouring from his nose with aggressive volition, his voice seething with malice,

"I understand, my Lord." The man smirked meandering from his door, before Daeron slammed the aged oak, fist slamming through wood.

"Fucking cunt."

~~~~~~~~~~

Loud moans, rendered Daeron unable to catch the blissful satisfaction of sleep. He clambered from his bed, into the sanctity of Sansa rooms.

Her eyes bore into his, as he settled amongst the stone floor, a harsh cool sending chills down his back.

"Can't sleep?" Sansa shook her head silently, the sensual sounds disturbing her,

"I doubt I will with those screams." Daeron chuckled audibly, watching Sansa with fond eyes,

"I doubt the screams are from his cock, so the bastard must be good using his finger, potentially his mouth." Sansa's eyes widened in scandalous horror as she gasped,

"Daeron!" The Knight smirked with a lighthearted shrug,

"What? He's called Littlefinger for a reason, Sansa, I doubt it's for the reasons he claims." Sansa observed Daeron cautiously,

"Your here why?" The man shrugged, with honest intentions,

"I don't trust Littlefinger, I figured the best way to protect you would be to sleep in the same chambers." Sansa nodded, still unconsciously weary of his speech.

She can't know, she won't.

"Tell me about you, Ser Daeron." The Knight furrowed his brows perplexed,

"Pardon, my Lady?" Sansa sighed head falling against her pillow with a tired sigh,

"I only meant that you know so much about me, and yet I know so little about you." A small smile enveloped Daeron's thin lips, the trained lie falling from his tongue,

"There's not much to tell, my Lady." Sansa frowned with insistence,

"What of your parents Ser." Daeron shrugged, of his biological parentage he knew precious little, the only memory he could recall with certainty, were wisps of silver hair, and the aroma of Dornish spices.

"My mother was a whore, she died while I was young, and I don't know who my father is, he could be anyone."

No, that's not the truth, my mother was Elia Martell, my father Prince Rhagar Targaryen, I am the legitimate son of a Targaryen Prince.

A half smile stared at Daeron, "Your an honourable man Ser Daeron."

No I'm not, not truly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Blood clouded his vision, bare fists stained with crimson tears. Punches bleed through the silence. Echoing thuds of painful connection. Cheers erupted, accompanied by corse cheering.

His shirt stained red, blood seeping through the fabric. He studied the man, he had been coerced to combat. Wide punches. Slow defence. A favoured right shin.

His boot punctuated an echoing snap as it hammered against the man chin. Crack's overbearing as his fist slammed against agitated skin. He watched pleasantly as the man collapsed.
Heavy breaths labouring his chest.

"You won, Ser Daeron." The man scoffed, black spots clouding his peripheral, as he glared at little fingers sinister smile, with violent distaste.

"Fuck you, you cunt." His body hunched over, his lungs gasping for air, as he felt a sharp pain throbbing in his abdomen. He collapsed, coughing emphatically through the bloodied halls. A fabric concealing his vision as he felt, two burly men lugged him from the scene.