An Eye For A Lie

12.Dance With Me

Rhaenyra couldn't believe what she just heard.

Curses and vulgar profanities were sprouting in her head, each more vile than the last. She was on the brink of giving her half-brother a piece of her mind when he pivoted around, departing into the crowd and vanishing from her sight.

Her hands went to smooth down her skirts, the rustling of silk a calming gesture, as she gathered herself and resumed her walk, willing the heat of dragon-fire inside her to cool down.

She needed to find her husband, and now.

Rhaenyra had glimpsed Daemon trailing Aemond to the terrace, and made haste to leave the table before they were at each other's throats. She had a feeling something wrong would come out of it, but she hadn't predicted this kind of wrong.

Daemon stood by the balustrade, brooding in the deserted terrace. The moonlight framed his features and his eyes were fuming in rage, blacker than the night sky.

A maid served him a goblet of wine, then retreated hastily, curtsying to her before leaving.

"It's worse than we thought," he grumbled.

"I know," she spoke, nearing closer.

"You know?"

"I've encountered Aemond before coming here," she absentmindedly circled her rings. "He told me you two had a... talk."

"That Hightower cunt sure has some balls, I'll give him that," Daemon scoffed, spilling the contents of his cup on the stone floor. "He reminds me too much of my younger self."

Rhaenyra had to silently agree. Her half-brother carried traits similar to Daemon in many aspects, sharing the same streak of roguesness, not afraid at all in confidently defying others and assert himself.

Aemond was poised and regal, smart and capable, he was everything Aegon was not, and it clearly unsettled Daemon to a certain degree.

She could practically feel the anger radiating from her husband. He was ready to sprawl some horns and wings, and roast someone if she didn't calm him.

"What about the Celtigar boy?" Daemon asked softly.

"If our daughter wanted the Celtigar boy, she would've had the Celtigar boy by now," Rhaenyra sniffed. "I reckon she doesn't want to marry, no one for that matter."

"We need to act now, I won't let that—"

"Daemon, we will," she cradled his cheeks in her palms, feeling them burn with the same worry that had consumed her earlier. "But I promised Aelyria that she'd have a say. Are we to strip that away from her and wed her to the first Lord she encounters just because Aemond fancies her?"

"Can't you see, Rhaenyra?" Daemon objected, purple eyes pleading with lament. "The greens are plotting to prey on our daughter, and you expect me to do nothing? They want to usurp you by any means. If they can't seat that drunken cunt on the throne then they'll try to—"

"Alicent would never agree to that," she cut him off. "For all her faults, that much I know about her. She had the chance to betroth her son to our daughter once, and she refused."

"That was ten years ago," he argued. "You can never know with these vultures. No matter how much they feast, they always hunger for more."

"Do you have that little faith in our daughter?" She stressed. "Aelyria won't let herself get ensnared that easily."

"My faith in her is bigger than Balerion's belly," Daemon was quick to rant, mildly offended by her question. "But I don't trust that leach of Otto Hightower. That man's cunning is slippier than a whore's cunt, and that harlot of a Queen doesn't disappoint either in that regard."