Warnings: canon typical, cursing, sexual references, implied age gap, pet names, Daemon Targaryen
In Deepwood Motte, the home of your house, you detested late summer snows. They ate away at the first summer of your youth, when you were not yet out of leading strings. You had always envied Winterfell for the boiling hot water that ran through the castle walls, the blood of the castle’s gargantuan body, and rejoiced each time your family stayed there. What you had envied most as a child, however, was the warmth of the south. Now that a quick winter had come and gone, and you were well a woman grown, arrived in those sweltering southron lands, you missed the late summers snows of the north.
King’s Landing had felt unbearably hot the first moon’s turn you spent, but now that detestable feeling had simmer down into discomfort. Still, servants brought you iced milk each day, sweetened far beyond your liking with honey. Worse than heat and sugar were the ladies of the court. There was much frivolity in the south. The north had always been a more somber place. Your family were not exceedingly wealthy, and nor did they, as it was the southron fashion to do, attempt to imitate the exceedingly wealthy. You were educated by your septa in all ladylike things, even becoming accomplished in song and dance, as well as achieving proficiency in the lute. Your life was surmounted on how well of a match you could make, and so you had learned the necessary skills. It was, in small part, how you came to betrothed to Daemon Targaryen. Yet, you always suspected your betrothal was due in far larger part to your Valyrian ancestry.
The southron ladies of court, whom you were obliged to accompany, often and loudly bragged of their luxuries, their silks, their sweets, and all other forms of careless grandeur. To hear about it endlessly was draining — sickening, even. The young, new Queen Alicent, though modest and austere, in her silent complacence endorsed the ladies of court.
Your only true respite in this blasted place was your betrothed, Daemon Targaryen. He was not overbearing as the ladies of court, though certainly assured and arrogant, you rather found common aspects in your values. Often you would take strolls together, or stand linked by the arms amidst the court in the Great Hall, whispering and smiling about each pompous lord and his presumptuous wife. Once, he convinced you to ride with him atop his great Blood Wyrm, Caraxes; he flew you across Blackwater Bay, as far as Dragonstone, and you even spent a brief moment on the island’s stony expanse.
This day was no different.
The summer sun bore down over King’s Landing, and despite the shade provided by the expansive leaves of the garden plants, sandy canopies and parasols, you were hot. Cupbearers poured chilled wines, iced milks, and sugared lemon juice to all the ladies that were attending this outdoor luncheon, servants fanned you all excessively, and a slender fool in feathered motley danced atop the table.
“These cakes are rather nice,” a southron lady, rather large in stature, commented as she slid a plate full of thick, layered cakes that smelt so strongly of sugar you might’ve smelt them beyond the Neck across the table. You wished, suddenly, that Daemon was here to rescue you, to hold you close as you walked or gossiped far away from all these ladies, to crash in on Caraxes and eat them all — and yet, you remained trapped between a rock and several smothering southerners.
“Thank you, my lady,” you smiled politely, nibbling only the slightest bite of one with a false smile, but convincing enough to satisfy your companions.
The conversation never lulled, but did halt momentarily when another large lady loudly declared, “my word! I have forgotten to share the most interesting of news with you all!” She was old and heavily powdered, with too much colouring on her cheeks and lips, with her hair covered, even in the heat, by a traditional hood. “I did hear that House Stark was coming down to the south for a visit. I believe they shall spend a week’s time in King’s Landing. For what, I cannot say. A most unusual occurrence. I cannot recall but the names of the Starks.”
All the negativity of the day evaporated from you; how could you help but be excited at the thought of seeing the Starks once more? In your childhood you had become closely acquainted with the lot of them, and had spent many of your first years as a proper woman in their company.
Speaking more than needs be for once, you ask, “do you know when they are to arrive?”
The lady shrugged, sipping her wine, “would that Queen Alicent were here — she is awfully little, almost ridiculous with her belly so round — but I would wager that it is soon. Perhaps by the morrow there will be wolves amongst us.” Her haughty tone was not lost on your ears, but you ignored it, and ignored the laughs — some raucous and some polite — of the other ladies.
The day the Starks were set to arrive you dressed in northern fashions; a gown of grey over white, lined with a thin trimming of fur. The south favoured silks and samites in rich colours, the north had always been simpler. On your collar you pinned the silver gauntlet of Glover.
Excitement had overcome you, and you ate nary a bite of your morning meal, which for once you took in the company of other ladies of court, almost enjoyably. Before noon the Starks had arrived, and all the world (or so it seemed) had assembled in the Great Hall to witness the procession. For it you stood by Daemon, your sweet betrothed, awaiting eagerly the party of Starks. It had been nearly two years since you had last seen the Lord of Winterfell, the youthful Cregan Stark, never finding cause to visit before your betrothal, and finding it impossible to do so after.
“Eager, are we, princess?” Daemon hums, noting your excitement. It is not a particularly keen observation — you’re practically jumping up and down in anticipation.
You look up at him with an abashed smile, saying, “I’m afraid so,” before turning your gaze to look down the length of the throne room, disappointed when there are no northerners marching down the hall.
“Whilst the south has it's certain... qualities,” you add on, and you are sure Daemon knows you are speaking as generously as you might, “it has been difficult not to miss the north.”
Daemon only chuckles in response, and you take it for his amusement at your desire to be polite, even in his company.
When the Starks first enter the hall, everything suddenly hushes, and the silence is deafening. But once they have knelt before their King and Queen, and have been as warmly welcomed as they deserve by both, talk and applause spreads like wildfire through the crowd. You are not afforded a chance at a proper conversation with Lord Stark nor any of his accompanying, only a kind smile from beside your betrothed. It is only when a reception of the Starks is hosted in the garden passage that leads to the expansive godswood that you finally make conversation with the Lord Cregan Stark.
“How good of you to make the trip, my lord,” you smile as you speak, genuine, though you are surrounded by the smothering court, “I must confess, I have been missing the north terribly. It is a relief to see such a familiar face.”
Cregan laughs, lightly so, at your comment, and with all the charisma the two years since you last saw him seemed to afford, and a special sort of look in his eye that came with it, spoke, “and the north has been missing you, my lady. Your house is morose with out you, and your family seems terribly small when you are not there to accompany them. It is a shame, indeed, for you would make a fine lady of the north.”
“You are too kind, my lord,” You laugh, almost bashfully, “and I am sure my brothers and sisters are still perfectly capable of becoming a nuisance without my added assistance.”
“Hm,” he hums in agreement, a smile that you cannot quite read on his face. “If you ever feel inclined to visit, Winterfell would be glad to have you — but, until then, it would be good to have a northern lady accustomed with southron ways to keep me company.” He extends his arm for you to take. “If you would be so kind, my lady?”
You had always been too kind to decline any request, even one that you most certainly would detest doing (such as indulging the southron ladies of court), but one from a northerner you care for? You give him your prettiest smile and take his arm.
“Of course, my lord. I’d be honoured.”
Perhaps it was the way he spoke to you, how he made remarks about your closeness in youth, how he incessantly spoke of what a fine lady of the north you would make, how he constantly sang your praise and his gratitude for you playing the guide. Perhaps it was the light touches he gave you, never more than friendly... but friendly touches often led to more than friendly places. Or, perhaps, it was the fact that for the last two days he had been within the Red Keep, you had been subsumed by him, that made Cregan Stark not sit quite right with Daemon Targaryen.
He knew it gave you great joy to keep company with a northerner — how could it not? You had spent your entire time in the south discomforted by the customs, by the people, by the very earthly nature of the place itself. So, he had taken to clenching his fists and gritting his jaw, ignoring the way the two of you laughed together, the obscenity of time you spent together. He knew, or had convinced himself, that you would not look twice at the slobbering wolf if he did not remind you of home... and yet, he could not help but be pushed to the brink of criminality at the fact that it was not he who reminded you of home. He could’ve made a Harrenhal of the Red Keep to cook the bastard alive.
His patience was wavering thin through all the festivities his elder brother had, for some godforsaken reason, thought the Starks deserved. It had come to it’s breaking point by the time night fell and the feasting was finished, and the dancing had begun. He watched with narrow eyes as the Stark boy asked you, ever so coy, for your hand in a dance. Daemon knew that you were too kind to ever refuse, too polite to risk being rude, and it came as not surprise but disappointment when you took to the floor with Stark.
The dance was jovial, and the floor had become so crowded that he lost sight of you half the time, and glowered at the way the pair of you danced together the rest. Westerosi dances were never very intimate, for fear of a woman’s virtue, but there were enough brushes between you both that he was very nearly enraged.
But when Cregan Stark dipped his head down and whispered something to you, too close to your ear for his liking, making you through your head back in laughter, Daemon had enough. In a quick swallow he emptied his cup and stood up, movements too sharp, sending his chair scraping behind him. Forcing his way through the crowd he went, pushing over a drunken fool grasping at a serving girl, sending the carafe in her hands to the ground, till his hand was on your shoulder, tighter than it ought to be.
“Lord Stark,” he addressed, entirely unkind, “you would not mind if I shared a dance with my betrothed?”
There was a momentary look of shock on Cregan’s face. The boy had probably never faced a man who’d had the audacity to do such a thing to him — a little lordling. But Daemon was a prince. Your prince. Your fucking betrothed.
“Of course, my prince,” Cregan conceded, though to Daemon it was clear he was all amiss to go, but before he did, he had the nerve to lift up your hand and place a delicate kiss at your knuckles. “I do hope you enjoy your time together.”
“Thank you,” you murmur, ever the sweetheart, as he took his leave, and Daemon understood you to be too young and naive to properly understand Stark’s foul intentions.
When you dance again, he is relieved at last. It is he who gets to be your partner, to share brushes and smiles with you, and it is almost enough to make him forget about Stark... but not quite.
“You seemed to be enjoying your time together, hm, princess?” Daemon crooned, looking down at your face with his devilish eyes. His voice is sweet for you, but even you can tell that he is not entirely pleased.
“I suppose I was,” you say, meeting his gaze with a shy smile, and though you did not intend to share more than a polite answer as you often did, you cannot help but concede, “It was nice to have a touch of the north again.”
Daemon’s eyes narrow, and he lets out a short hum, his head tilting to a side as he watches you. “Hm. Looked like little Lord Stark wanted more than just a touch.”
Your soft expression furrows into one of confusion, and then you let out a scoff — not so much angry at Daemon for the jealousy that has suddenly become apparent to you, but at disbelief that such a thing could ever even be thought; “Lord Cregan is merely a friend, Daemon, he has no improper intentions.”
“My sweet thing,” he sighs, “you should not be so naive. Surely you’ve seen the puppy eyes he gives you — needy, desperate.”
“Lord Stark is respectful and kind,” you argue, “as are his intentions towards me, a woman who is already betrothed.”
Daemon cannot blame you for how quickly you jump to his defence; you cannot see the world the way he does. The ladies of Westeros are often too sheltered, made to think that every lord is genteel, and are struck by the harsh realities of the world so suddenly. He wanted to protect you from those realities, truly he did, but how could he let you walk around with another man who desires you? You were his intended. Betrothed. By the law of this world, you were his.
He ran a hand gently down your cheek and offered you a smile in part kind, and in part condescending. You come to realise your dancing had stopped, and the celebration did not feel quite as festive as moments ago, though no one around you seemed to notice — Daemon, with a wryness in the creases of his face, least of all.
“My little princess, the fact that you and I are betrothed only makes him want you more. He’ll keep on sniffing around under the fucking table until he gets a little treat.” He tilts up your chin with the edge of his thumb.
“Even if what you say is true,” you pause for a moment, contemplating that there might be some semblance of truth in his words, “I would never... never entertain his desire.”
“Of course not,” he says, voice soft but eyes dark, and picks up your hands to dance once more, leaning in to breathe in your ear, intoxicated by the smell of you, “why walk a bitch when you could ride a dragon?”
