She has dreamed of this day countless times, imagined how a reunion with her darling baby boy would transpire. But just as she has dreamed of it, she has feared it too. What if he resents her for sending him to ward with her family? For separating him from his siblings and his parents? Would he ever understand that, though it was not her choice to send him away, it was perhaps the best thing that could have happened to him? To grow up away from the blight of the capital, from the iron fist of his grandsire, from the snapping maws of the court. From what Gwayne has told her, and from what she can already see from the young man that stands before her now, maybe he really has been saved the fate that's befallen his mother and brothers and sister. Maybe the rot and the poison that infects the grand House Targaryen has missed one.
"Daeron." His name comes on a croaking exhale, one that is tinged with giddy relief, even if her expression is more conflicted, stained with trepidation and uncertainty. He reaches for her hands and she takes his gladly, fingers gripping flesh tightly, lest he slip from her grip once more. "I can only thank the Gods for bringing you back to us." She pulls him a little closer to her, bridging the distance that lies between them –– but she does not hug him, cannot bring herself to hug him. Much as she longs to be able to, Alicent fears the thought of infecting him, filth rubbing off on him, tarnishing all the good that has been built up during his years away from this place. Away from her.
There is warmth in her touch, the eagerness to reclaim something thought long lost. There is something else, as well, a trepidation in her strong grasp, a fissure. Distance, he imagines, that cannot be breached in a moment. Sincere joy means not complete ease; perhaps she, too, hesitates in the face of change. He is not the son she said her farewells to, a boy trying to be brave when sent into the unknown. Daeron wonders if the same is true of her; is the Queen before him his same lady mother, who had kissed his forehead ere he departed?
❝ I had hoped to be knighted already, when next we met, ❞ Lighthearted, aimed in a different direction. Earnest, the first stone settled in attempted bridge. He would not disrespect the boundary set, only invite her to draw near ( and wasn't openness, then, the mandatory tenet? ). The Mother above prizes honesty; the prince could only hope so would his queenly mother appreciate it, mirthfully delivered words no less true. ❝ Yet though I regret not making you proud, I am more than glad to not have waited for it, if it afforded the opportunity of an earlier reunion. ❞
❝ Would you walk with me? ❞ Hands released only to offer instead his arm, all gallant knight, despite lacking the rights to be called Ser. There is no forceful demand, no entitled command; only gentle, hopeful offer, bright in lavender gaze. ❝ I would hear more of how have you fared while I reacquaint myself with the Keep, should it please you. ❞