『 : ̗̀➛Two parts of a whole, destined to find their second half, and when the sun finally sets on them, the last ember of hope glows in their eyes. ☄. *. ⋆ 』
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"You were right," said Daemon, combing his hair with his hand to the side and leaning forward to his neck. It was an evening, and the pair was turning in for the night.
Daenerys was perched on the side of their bed, unlacing the strings of her dress. Her eyes lifted at his words, a curious expression on her face. "Right about what exactly?" she asked, her voice softening.
He approached her, his hands reaching out to help her with the laces of her dress. His fingers moved deftly, unfastening each loop with a sense of intimacy, the action more like a soothing ritual than a chore. "Baelor," he said as the final lace came loose. His hands moved from the laces to her shoulders, pulling the fabric of the dress down her back, exposing the pale skin underneath.
She looked up at him, she was still distasteful about having been cast out of her own chambers on behalf of both her son and husband.
He could sense her discontent, the displeasure beneath her calm exterior. As his hands gently slid the dress down her body, he spoke, his voice low and soothing. "Now, now, my love..." he murmured. "No need to pout. Our son wished privacy, nothing more." His touch was light and gentle, his fingers tracing patterns along her bare shoulders.
"And what had our son so urgently needed to discuss with you that he had to shoo his mother away?" she asked, looking away, still offended.
Daemon was fully aware of the annoyance in her voice, the offence at being sent away. His fingers continued their soothing motions along her shoulders, trying to placate her.
"He merely sought my assistance," he answered quietly. His tone was carefully neutral, hiding the true nature of the conversation he had had with Baelor. He knew she would not be pleased with the entire truth.
"Then why was I right?" she asked, looking back at him.
Daemon's hands stilled at her question. A hint of surprise crossed his face, quickly hidden. He had hoped to avoid diving more deeply into the topic. His fingers resumed their soothing motions again, his touch gentle. "Our son is a man now," he began slowly. "And he... he seeks to prove himself. To earn his honour, his valour."
"Oh, stop beating about the bush," she sighed and gently pushed his hands away, a signal she didn't appreciate his affections at the moment. "Tell me what has happened. What did he tell you?"
Daemon stopped at her gesture, his hands slipping from her shoulders. There was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes at her rejection, but he hid it well. His hands moved to his sides, clenching into fists as he struggled to contain his irritation. He looked away for a moment, collecting his thoughts. When he looked back at her, his expression was guarded, his voice a low rumble. "As I said, he seeks to prove himself... to earn his honour. He has asked a favour of me."
