BLACK SHADOWS [HOTD]

4. puppets for the puppeteer p.2

year 112 ac

The moment the lances of Prince Daemon and Ser Gwayne were pointed at each other Rhaelena pressed her back tight into the seat, anxiousness creeping into her expression. Her usual composed demeanor seemed to be compromised by an obvious display of fear, a rare guest on the princess's face. Her sight was glued to the Hightower lad, who looked quite confident astride his horse... Only for a little while.

Soon enough the son of the Hand landed roughly on the ground, screams of pain leaving his mouth with no end to them. The cause of the fall was Daemon's lance knocking off Hightower's horse, sending young Gwayne to the land at the very beginning of the combat. A low move it was, yet the Targaryen prince would have resorted to things much more cruel than that to avoid the humiliation by the House of Oldtown. In the blink of an eye the golden-haired princess, having completely lost control over herself, jumped off her seat with a loud gasp. She couldn't quite understand the feeling clenching her heart into its tight grip: it could've been fear, could've been disappointment... Or, perhaps, something of an utterly different nature?

What her eyes were seeing was not at all so terrible: there was no pool of blood coming from underneath the fallen body, which brought certain relief to Rhaelena, yet as the Hightower knight was dragged away by the guards accompanied with triumphant yells in support of the victor, the daughter of the King took several careful steps to leave the box. Unsurprisingly, she faced certain opposition, for Rhaelena instantly noticed the sleeve of her silver dress being pulled by no other but her own sister.

"Where are you going?" Rhaenyra asked in a hushed tone, her own sight stuck to the arrogant grin on Prince Daemon's face.

"Gwa-... Ser Hightower is hurt. He begged me for my favor. It is only right that I shall see him," the princess uttered, attempting to pull the fabrics of her dress from her twin's hands.

"Be careful, sister. Ser Otto might rejoice a bit too much over your simple courtesy," the silver-haired sister chuckled, finally letting go of Rhaelena's sleeve.

No one seemed to mind the actions of the princess much: the King, swept up in the excitement of his brother's victory and his soon-to-born heir, was clapping his hands heartily in support of Prince Daemon, who found his display of cowardliness and injustice somewhat amusing. The same reaction followed from her companion Nylla, who didn't even try to conceal giving the victor knowing glances. Lady Alicent, though certain unsettlement twisted her features, never moved from her seat, only continuing to scratch her cuticles until small droplets of blood adorned her nails like morning dew on the grasses. The only person whose gaze ended up following Rhaelena until she vanished behind the drapes was Otto Hightower, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. Receiving a favor from the princess was a good sign, let alone the Targaryen lassie flying off to attend to his likely injured son. Certain failures indeed implied certain victories, as the Hand of the King could conclude, turning his attention back to the tourney, where Prince Daemon had already picked a new opponent to defeat - that low-born Dornish, Criston Cole.

Rhaelena had no clue where exactly she was headed. The only reasonable assumption on Gwayne's whereabouts would indeed have been the lazaret, where the maesters would have had a chance to give him the needed care. The princess doubted that many maesters would be there to attend to the son of the Hand, taking the fact that the Queen was laboring, and all the attention should be turned to her instead, yet she kept running. She was not walking anymore. Her limbs refused to obey her, to lower the pace. Instead, they took her to the other side of the castle faster than Midnight's wing ever could. Her face rouged from the wave of heat that washed over her, and the pressure clenching her stomach was becoming harder and harder to tolerate.