°. *₊ ° . ☆ ☾ CHAPTER FIVE ☽ °: . *₊ ° .°
TŌMA AMPĀ

   THE OLD VALYRIAN TOMES HAD BEEN KEPT ON the highest shelves in the library at Dragonstone, brought down once a year to be dusted off and searched for damage. Disturbance in the dust gave away the tomes that had been touched before their yearly inspection, the crinkled and bent corners gave told had been an unsteady hand. Maester Gerardys knew who the culprit was, so he left behind a note.

Do not bend the pages, Princess.
These tomes are older than the entirety of this keep combined. 

   Rhaenerys crushed the note with her hand and threw it to the fireplace as she rolled her eyes. The note had been left in the page she bent in half to keep her spot, on an old tale brought from Valyria before its doom. A tale of the Fourteen Flames, the fourteen gods venerated by the people of Valyria and part of her family. She had wanted to know more about the gods her uncle adored, to speak the words and write the glyphs as perfectly as she could so she could share them with him when he returned.

   Somewhere in the Free Cities, in a whore's bed at Pentos or flying over the narrow sea on Caraxes. The places Daemon Targaryen would be were an endless list she would never be able to finish, never be able to properly map out if she knew how. 

   What she knew was that he would not be at the Vale of Arryn. He hated the place her mother hailed from and detested it even more after his marriage to House Royce. All she knew about the Lady of Runestone came from her uncle's letters: he called her a bronze bitch and ranted about his preference for the whores of Flea Bottom to her, his want to return to the Red Keep to continue their lessons beneath the large tree in the godswood. 

   Rhaenerys adored the way Valyrian rolled from his tongue when he read, the way he repeated the words slowly and carefully against her ear. Almost like a whisper, a secret told between the two of them in the solace of the godswood.

   A laugh would leave his mouth, shaking against his chest and pushing against her back, when she repeated the word.

   She pulled the ink pot closer to her and dipped her quill. A droplet of black splashed on the corner of the free page she had been writing on, dripping down at the first glyph she had written. She stared at it for a moment, watching as the paper soaked it up like a parched man. It bled onto the glyph and combined itself until they were one—a droplet of black and the Valyrian glyph that meant death. 

   She sighed. It began in the centre of her chest, pushed out until there was nothing left inside of her. She leaned back on the chair and stared up at the ceiling. The black stones stared back down at her, the magic woven into them by past Targaryens pushing through every intake of breath and every brush from her skin. It made something inside of her stir. 

   Dragonstone had always been a conundrum for Rhaenerys, a blessing combined with a curse. It stirred her excitement about her ancestors, thinking of how Aegon Targaryen and Rhaenys Targaryen walked down the halls with their heads held high and war in their thoughts. One thought about conquering the entirety of the continent under his name, under his crown, whilst the other thought about spending time up in the skies with her dragon. An odd pair, she always thought. 

   She always thought Aegon faired better with Visenya, an equal in both battle and flight. Yet, the books and rumours always said Aegon loved Rhaenys more. 

   The library doors opened. 

   Daemon Targaryen sauntered in with his head held high, the wisps of silver fawning over his face below the hood of the cloak he wore. He stopped in the middle, hands in front of him as he leaned to the side. A ghost of a smile, or something akin to it, formed on his lips. "Rhaenerys," he called in a soft tone. 

   Something stirred inside of her, something a lot like what she felt when she stared at the black stones on the ceiling. An excitement. A warmth that spread from the centre of her chest and up her neck. She stood as fast as she could and ran to him, closing the distance between them. The moment her arms wrapped around his waist, she pushed her face against his chest and inhaled deeply.

   Smokey wood and wine, something sweet underneath. 

   His arms felt warm as they wrapped around her, pulling her ever closer. "If I receive a welcome such as this, I should leave more often."

   "And return to wherever it is you go?" Rhaenerys pulled back to look up at him, scrunching her nose with a hint of disgust. "Where is it you go when you leave King's Landing, Uncle?"

   The smile on his lips grew into a smirk. "You sound jealous," he said. "Are you jealous, little bird, that I leave you behind?"

   "If you think of me as jealous, you are wrong." She pulled entirely away from him and took a seat on top of the table she had been working on, leaning back against her hands to stare at him. 

   He stood tall, just like he always had. A handsome and roguish man who knew every part of King's Landing like the lines on the palm of his hand; he rode atop a fearsome dragon and made those beneath him afraid. The longsword at his side, a sleek and glimmering thing beneath the firelight, was a testament to his prowess. It was given to him by King Jaehearys when he was her age.

   He unbuttoned his cloak with one hand and threw it against one of the other tables as he sauntered to her. The sound of his feet hitting the stone ground was the only sound in the library. He only stopped when he was in front of her. "Where would you like to go, then?"

   Rhaenerys' heart beat wildly against her ribs. She swallowed and pressed her lips together. "Pentos," she said after a moment. 

   The name of the city left her mouth without a thought. He had mentioned it many times, wrote to her about the manse he had in the city with its large fountain that mirrored a pool and the garden full of fruiting trees. The grand red temple of the red priests of R'hollor who loved to burn things. The Prince of Pentos and the parties he threw, joined by Dothraki horselords and Myrish pirates. 

   She wished to see them all. 

  "Pentos," Daemon repeated, tasting the name of the city as he glanced toward the window. It was not the sunlight that hit his face, but the firelight from the candles in the centre of the table. The shadows danced, a caress of darkness that made him look more dangerous than anything else. More than the longsword at his side or the dragons that flew overhead. "Out of everywhere in the world, why Pentos?"

   She shrugged her shoulders. "Because Valyria is under seas of fire and Lorath sounds too boring."

   He laughed. The sound of his laughter echoed through the library and made a hole in her skin, pushing itself deeper until she joined in. 

   He leaned forward, his arms caging her within the table. "I will take you." His breath fanned against her cheek as he leaned closer, his cheek pressing against hers as he whispered against her ear in Valyrian, "I will take you to the bazaar in Pentos, to the marble bathhouse in Lys, and to the Silk Streets of Myr."

   A shiver went up her spine. "Promise me."

   A low and dark chuckle shook his chest. "Promise you?" He leaned back and looked down at her, arching a pale brow. "Little bird, do you now trust me?"

   "You tend to run away whenever something becomes complicated." Rhaenerys tilted her head to the side. "After Grandfather died, you disappeared for three turns of the moon and returned with too many gemstones around your fingers." She lifted her hand to show him the gold ring with the yellow glass depicting some hero dragging a body behind a chariot. "I took my favourite from your room when you fell asleep that night."

   Daemon grabbed her hand and stared at the ring. His thumb brushed over the gemstone, up until he reached her nail, and turned his hand to grab hers. "I could have given you a better ring than this drab."

   "That would leave an unattainable expectation for my future husband, no?" She pulled her hand away from his and stared at the ring on her pointer finger, marvelling at how the gemstone glimmered beneath the firelight.

   "Future husband." Daemon spat the title, pulling back away from her until he was against the table in front of them and crossed his arms in front of him. "Do you have someone in mind?"

   If she were to be honest, with both herself and him, she would say that she had someone in mind ever since she first began to think of marriage. She imagined a grand wedding that would rival that of Alyssa Velaryon and Rogar Baratheon, where the entire kingdom would revere their betrothal and marvel at them as they descended on their dragons. The wedding would be followed by days of feasting and tourneys, and days where she and her husband would spend it in the closeness of their shared room.

   When she came with a child, a boy no doubt, she would do just as her grandmother and take him to the skies as soon as she was able to walk.

   Rhaenerys shrugged her shoulders. "Father has Lord Beesbury whispering in his ear that I should marry his eldest grandson and heir. Can you imagine me, a princess, becoming Lady of Honeyholt?" She scoffed and rolled her eyes, scrunching her face in disgust.

   "Why would you become a lady when you could become queen?"

   She looked at him. "You think too highly of me, Uncle." She glanced away from him, toward the window at the other side of the room. The sun was hidden behind bruised-coloured clouds and a gentle rain fell against the glass. 

   "Aemma has been unable to give birth to a son," he continued.

   "Do you think Father would choose me as his heir?"

   "No." He laughed and shook his head. "Not you, little bird, but I. With no son, I am to be Viserys' heir."

   It was her turn to laugh. "You think too highly of yourself." She shook her head, the smile unable to leave her lips. "Father will continue to try until Mother gives him a son." Those words soured her mood, causing the smile to die and her chest to want to cave into itself. Her mother had been pregnant countless times, many of them ended before they began. 

   She was not supposed to know but she had read her mother's private journals. Hate protruded from each word written. Each pregnancy made her feel exhausted, made her feel useless she was not able to bring a pregnancy to completion. Her daughters, she had written, were the only good things that came from her marriage. 

   Rhaenerys looked at her uncle. "If you become king, as you say you will, would you make that bronze bitch your queen?"

   A wicked smirk began to form on Daemon's mouth as he pushed himself away from the table and closed the distance between them. His arms caged her between his body and the table like before. "No, little bird. Not her. Never her." He leaned closer, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. 

   Silence settled between them.

   Her heart beat wildly against her chest, threatening to rip itself from its cage and land on her lap. She swallowed hard.

   Daemon let his hand brush against hers, let it move up her arm and up her neck to push her hair away from her shoulder. His fingers danced against her neck, stopping behind her ear to grab her and make her look up at him. "You," he said with softness. "You would make such a perfect queen, Rhaenerys."