old rags, used and re-used, wear shown clearly through holes and deep stains -- a stark contrast to the muck of fleabottom, rhaegar now stands proudly in robes of silk, red and black, at is is custom for members to wear the colours of their house. a more necessary allegience for rhaegar, he supposes, for were he to dare wear black and yellow one would assume him a true born baratheon. daemon, kind as he was, however had made his son one or the other robe in deep emerald, for it was also the boy's genuine wish to show his ties to nagini even when not in the winged mountain's presence.
rhaegar's welcome to this life had been a kind one, king viserys was as the common word on dirty streets described him, a gentle and jovial man, welcomed him as a family member as soon as the tales of nagini bending the neck spread far and wide ( out of necessity easily just as much as out of the kindness of his heart -- for the emerald she-beast was mighty indeed. ) and tenfold so once the boy revealed himself his nephew. rhaegar remembers the joyful expression, so entirely unfitting of the seat viserys sat upon as he bent the knee, and was welcomed as a targaryen fully. from nameless, to waters, TO TARGARYEN. the king's love so unabashed and unashamed, he associates the man with the smell of fruit, wine and spiced meat --
DAEMON'S THOUGH, tastes different, feels different, yet no less welcommed. it's in stern disciplin and jests, in the wildnerness of unkempt forests and strong rains, the sound of caraxes eerie thrills as he coils around the emerald mountain; and they'd lay together in the backround while father and son just -- coexist. a rare gift rhaegar had never believed possible, not meant for him by the seven above. admittedly, be it rabbit, doe or duck, whatever caught by a swift arrow sent by daemon; and seldom rhaegar, was preferred over all the marvelous feasts held in these lithic halls.
he doesn't flinch at the laugh, neither does he budge when daemon kneels and raises his hand to his face, violence was well known by the prince, more times than he bothers to remember did he feel a hard hand collide with his face, his father wouldn't -- not here. ( a different tale entirely, expected, when sparring ) and rhaegar leans into the touch. ❝ they do. ❞ a subtle nod, remembering the last fool who dare speak against rhaegar -- if given the opportunity, the nobleman might've begged to lose his tongue to save his head; cut cleanly by unrivalled valyrian steal, of course, though it seemed daemon had not bothered to precisely aim for the neck. a gruesome act tasting so saccharine sweet, it told of love, a fierce, VIOLENT, love with claw and fang only a true dragon could show. ❝ i pray once i am older i will cleave tongue from mouths -- and more, without needing to rely on my lord father. ❞
