*✶‧˚|𝕾𝑶𝑵 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑬𝑽𝑶𝑼𝑻

❛❛𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖓𝖊: 𝕸𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝕷𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖘 𝖄𝖔𝖚❞

That one night with his mother—the night he had suggested that they kill Daeron—Rhaemond stumbled upon the Princess.

Rhaemond's world had crumbled that night, the words he had whispered to his mother echoing in his mind. The castle's corridors twisted around him like a serpent as the eight year old boy ran, his small frame trembling with the force of his sobs. He wiped at his eyes with frantic hands, but the tears kept coming, blinding him.

Rhaemond struggled against her grip, his small fists beating weakly against her. "Let me go!" he cried, his voice a mix of desperation and anger. But Rhaenyra held firm, her expression softening as she knelt down to his level.

"Rhaemond, what's wrong?" she asked, her eyes searching his tear-streaked face for answers. Her tone was something he hasn't heard before, something he couldn't grasp. Something he yearned to hear from his mother. It was so... comforting. So soothing, so gentle.It was a tone he had never heard from his mother, one that wrapped around his heart and squeezed gently.

The boy's chest heaved with sobs as he tried to form words. "Mother... she... she won't look at me," he stammered, his voice breaking. "She only cares about that...about that babe!" Rhaemond sniffled, his anger and confusion bubbling to the surface. "She ignores me because... because I said we should kill Daeron."

Instead of the horrified expression that Rhaemond had expected from her- Rhaenyra's eyes widened slightly, understanding dawning on her. She pulled him into an embrace, her arms encircling his small, trembling frame. "Oh Rhaemond." She said with that tone again. It stirred something deep within him, a yearning he didn't understand.

Rhaemond clung to her, his tears soaking into her gown. The warmth of her embrace was a stark contrast to the cold indifference he felt from his mother. "Why doesn't she love me anymore?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Rhaenyra's heart ached at his plea. She knew too well the feeling of being overshadowed, of being caught in the relentless tide of family and duty. "She does love you," she assured him, gently stroking his hair. "She's just scared. The babe is very sick, and she's afraid of losing him. But that doesn't mean she loves you any less."

Rhaemond sniffled, his sobs slowly subsiding as he listened to her. The confusion and hurt in his young heart remained, but Rhaenyra's words offered a small comfort, a glimmer of understanding in the darkness of his emotions.

"Sometimes, when people are scared, they do things they don't mean," Rhaenyra continued, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes. "Your mother is hurting, just like you are. But she still loves you, Rhaemond. Never doubt that."

Liar, the boy thought bitterly.

He nodded slowly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. The tears had left his face flushed and his eyes red, but there was a new determination in his gaze. He wanted to believe her, to hold onto the hope that his mother's love was still there, buried beneath the fear and sorrow.

Rhaenyra gave him a gentle smile, standing up and taking his hand. "Come on," she said. Her hand was salvation, he would have thought. Soft and full of warmth. Nothing like he'd ever held, nothing like his mother's.

That night, she led him to her chambers, where Jacaerys lay sleeping on her bed. His mother never allowed such closeness, deeming it improper even when he cried for comfort.

Rhaenyra sat down, placing Rhaemond on her lap. She spoke of the Conqueror and his wives, of their mighty heritage, their ancestor's. You are of the Conqueror's blood. She said to him.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

If a sinner, why kind?

Rhaemond could think of nothing but her touch, her voice, her eyes. After his brief encounter with Rhaenyra, every moment was filled with the memory of her gentle embrace. It was a fulfillment he'd never known, a desire he'd only heard Aegon speak of in hushed tones. The boy found himself craving more, an insatiable hunger for her warmth.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Rhaemond's mind was a desolate battleground, haunted by the stark contrast between his cold, distant mother and Rhaenyra's fleeting kindness. Her touch had ignited something primal within him, a fire that raged against the icy indifference he had always known. Every whisper of her voice, every glimmer in her eyes, was a dagger of longing plunged deep into his soul. He had tasted a sliver of something pure, something he now knew he had been starved of his entire young life.

The world around him seemed bleaker, shadows lengthening and deepening, mocking the void within him. His mother's neglect felt like a gaping wound, a raw and festering sore that Rhaenyra's mere presence had momentarily soothed. His emotions churned like a storm-tossed sea, violent and unrelenting, tearing at the edges of his fragile sanity.

The following day, a feverish desperation gripped him. He sought her out with an intensity that scared him, driven by a need that transcended mere want. His heart pounded with a rhythm of anticipation and dread as he watched her from the shadows, every beat echoing in his ears like a war drum. The memory of her embrace, her soothing words, was an addiction he could not shake. He needed her comfort, her warmth, that ephemeral sense of being truly seen and cared for. It was a feeling he had never realized he lacked until it was given to him, and now, he could not imagine a life devoid of it.

A surge of self-loathing coursed through him. This must be greed, he thought, his mother's cold admonitions ringing in his ears. He despised himself for his weakness, for his yearning. He was caught in a web of desire and self-reproach, each thread tightening around him, suffocating him. The shadows whispered his sins, their voices a sinister chorus that mocked his feeble heart. He could almost feel their cold fingers clawing at his flesh, tearing at his soul.

Why had she been kind? The question gnawed at him, a relentless tormentor. Was it pity? A fleeting whim? He hated the uncertainty, the not knowing. His mind conjured twisted scenarios, each more torturous than the last. He saw her laughing at his need, her eyes filled with scorn instead of warmth. He saw her turning away, her touch now a distant memory, her kindness a cruel jest.

The darkness around him seemed to pulse with malevolent life, each shadow a specter of his fears. He was trapped, a prisoner of his own emotions, his own mind. The world had become a bleak and unforgiving place, where hope was a fragile, dying ember and despair an ever-present specter.

And yet, amid the turmoil, a single thought burned bright. He would see her again. He would find a way. For in her presence, in her kindness, he had glimpsed a flicker of light in his dark, desolate world. It was a light he could not afford to lose, a light that had become his only beacon in the encroaching darkness.

Rhaemond clung to that hope, even as the shadows closed in around him, even as his soul twisted in agony. For in her touch, in her eyes, he had found a sliver of redemption, a fleeting promise of something more. And for that, he would endure the torment, the uncertainty, the pain. He would endure it all.