Chapter Text
Rhaenyra Targaryen slumped back against her seat, feeling her arse turning to stone the longer she sat there.
"And that was when my grandsire, brave and bold," Lord Oakheart's second son, Samwell, was saying, "descended upon his foes and defeated Lord Manderly's uprising."
The men crowded around him all applauded at his story, while the princess merely rolled her eyes. "A fascinating tale, Ser Samwell."
On your best behavior, her father had warned, or you will wed a man of my choosing.
She sighed, remembering the feeling of Daemon's mouth on hers, of Criston's lips roaming her neck. The memories turned sour, however, when she recalled the look on Alicent's face when she summoned Rhaenyra to the weirwood tree.
Alicent didn't believe her.
And it was all thanks to Otto Hightower, who had managed to poison the king's mind against her. Otto Hightower, who had set spies upon her to catch Daemon in the act. Otto Hightower, who had evaded her father's questions and had somehow kept his position as Hand. The sneering old cunt had seen her off to Storm's End with a smug grin on his face, his golden pin freshly polished as if to taunt her.
"Princess," Ser Harold said, catching her attention, "we are on our last suitor."
Thank the Gods. "Very well, Ser."
Lord Boremund Baratheon gave her a look of pity before turning to the last man. "Lastly, we have Prince Trystane of House Martell."
Rhaenyra straightened. Prince Trystan was said to be wild, sharp-tongued and witty. And handsome.
She could see that was true.
"Princess," he bowed, his black curls falling into his deep brown eyes. There was a smattering of freckles on his nose, highlighted by his golden skin.
The princess smiled. "Good morrow, Prince Trystan. I must confess my surprise at seeing you here, for I understand Dorne has long remained independent from Westeros."
"A fact my father wishes to remedy," the prince said. His elegant golden robes set him apart from every other man in the room.
Rhaenyra tapped a finger against the throne. "I see. And your father believes wedding his son to me will fix our little...issue?"
Trystan smirked, a gleam in his eye. "Precisely. I see my princess is as clever as she is lovely."
"Flattery will not improve your station," she shot back, enjoying this banter session.
He let out a low laugh. "I'm afraid I have no intention of improving my station. You are a princess, I a prince."
Ser Harold narrowed his eyes. "He speaks to boldly."
Rhaenyra patted his armored hand. "It is alright, ser."
The prince bowed his head. "Forgive me, Lord Commander, I meant no disrespect."
Ser Harold grumbled, but said nothing.
The princess rose. "I believe it is time for lunch. Prince Trystan, care to join me?"
Trystan beamed. "It would be my honor, princess."
Her pale blue gown hissed against the floor as she walked, the jewels in her hair tinkling with every step.
"Your gown is lovely," Prince Trystan remarked as they walked to the dining hall.
Rhaenyra smoothed down her skirts. "Thank you, prince, but you hear what I said about flattery."
"It is no flattery, simply the truth."
She snorted. "What is it you gain by marrying me? Dorne will be united with Westeros, something your ancestors fought against."
Trystan shrugged. "I gain nothing. As I said, my lord father desires peace, and going to war with Westeros is not something he wishes to do."
Rhaenyra sighed. "Your father would get along well with mine."
"King Viserys the Peaceful, he is called," Trystan admitted. "Along with Viserys the Frightened, Viserys the Sheep-"
"I get the picture," she grumbled.
She felt the prince looking at her. "You sound almost resentful of your father."
"It is not...resentment. It is anger."
"At?"
"At the fact that his Hand all but controls him entirely."
Trystan nodded. "Ah, I see. Ser Otto Hightower, the snake in sheep's robes."
Rhaenyra twisted one of her rings. "Precisely. He means to replace me as heir with my brother, Aegon."
"Who is but two."
"And a male."
He shrugged. "Who cares? You are your father's named heir."
The princess clenched her jaw. "And when my father dies, I will be put on the block and Otto will make Aegon king."
She noticed the way Trystan flexed his hand. "In Dorne, the firstborn inherits, no matter the sex."
"But this is not Dorne."
"No...it is not."
Rhaenyra glanced at him to see his eyes downcast. "You miss your home?"
He bit his lip. "It sounds ludicrous, but I am missing my lady mother. She is very dear to me, Father has set his focus on Qoren, his heir. Alia is the spare, and Elarra the warrior of the family. I am the last child, forgotten by my father. It was my mother, Lady Marin, who suggested I put myself forward."
She pitied the prince for a moment. "I miss my lady mother as well."
"Yes, Queen Aemma was said to be a wonderful woman. I am sorry for your loss."
"Thank you, but...I have learned to let go."
Trystan smiled, reaching over to brush a silver curl away from her face. "We never let go of those we love. Never."
Rhaenyra found her breath catching in her throat as his eyes roamed her face. "Um...shall we eat?"
He chuckled, offering his arm. "We shall, princess."
She took it, smiling like a fool.