Terms of Endearment │Part I: The Princess and the Rogue

Chapter 37: Brat

"Prince Daemon was fiercely protective of his lady wife, suffering no insult nor injury to her person. In fact, it was this particular quality that is said to have instigated their first conflict, rumoured to have been a quarrel about the Princess's suitability to spearheading negotiations with Dorne. Little can be verified on this matter, however, as the Prince and Princess displayed no indication that their union was anything but agreeable in the weeks leading up to her departure."

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

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THE ROGUE

"Absolutely fucking not."

Strange, Daemon thinks through his ire, that I feel as though I've returned to a previous moment in time.

He recalls the occasion, several moons ago—it feels simultaneously like yesterday and like it had been lifetimes since—in which he had stood in this very Council chamber, before the same attendees, yelling at his idiot brother over his little niece yet again.

Although, he supposes with a sense of vicious self-satisfaction, I wasn't fucking that tight little cunt back then.

He certainly is now. If he weren't so thoroughly irritated, he'd have no doubt that the thought of you—your sweet face and cherry lips spilling chatter bright and charming, your pretty tits bared and silver hair wild, those lush thighs and that hot wet cunt—would be drawing all eyes down to his breeches.

"I don't believe His Grace asked for your opinion, Prince Daemon," says the greatest shit in the known world, none other than Otto Hightower himself. Supercilious fuck. The man sits high and mighty in his chair to the right of the King, playing the part of sycophant all too well. "This directive has been issued to the Princess, and to her alone."

"My wife." Daemon steps forward to place his hand upon the tense set of your back. "You would have my wife travel into the desert—to Sunspear, alone—to treat with that whoreson Qoren Martell? Do you not remember that the man is our enemy, brother? Because I most certainly do!"

"Daemon," you whisper, glancing up at him with narrowed eyes.

"It would mayhaps be best to send another, Your Grace," Lord Jasper Wylde says. "One whom does not already have wifely duties to undertake. The Prince Aegon, perhaps?"

"The boy? Pah! A lackwit. No, I cannot send any other."

Viserys is pale and withdrawn, looking more ill than usual. Meanwhile, the Hightower bitch's jaw visibly tightens at the harsh dismissal of her son, though she offers no contradiction.

Amusing, he thinks to himself, that even Alicunt herself does not defend her idiot spawn.

"Rhaenyra has her responsibilities as Lady of Dragonstone. House Martell would not suffer the former King of the Narrow Sea as their guest," the King continues, "and I do not dare insult them by using an envoy of lesser blood. We need Dorne to refuse the Triarchy's proposal, and my daughter is the superior candidate for the task of convincing them."

Ah, the fucking Triarchy. Why is it always the Triarchy? They'd been the root of his problems for years. When the Kingdom of the Three Daughters had discovered Pentos was hosting him, they'd cut off trade without even a by-your-leave, providing him with naught to drink but that watered-down Pentoshi shit and little choice but to remain within the city walls, lest his head be relieved from his neck. Not that they hadn't tried their luck with assassins over the course of his stay. And now, here they are again, trying to negotiate an official pact with the Rhoynish bastards, an alliance that would stretch their reach onto the continent of Westeros itself. It is a bold play. In any other circumstances, he would understand the necessity of a royal emissary.