Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
A Swirl of Blue Silk
Lady Margot Strong leaned over the balcony, resting her chin on the curve of her palm, attention fixed upon the sparring men below. The discordant chorus of clashing swords filled the air, accompanied by curses and laughter. Her elder brother, Harwin, was amongst them, pitting his much vaunted strength against whoever was brave enough to challenge him. But she did not seek him out. Her thoughts were jarringly fixed upon the young prince, Daemon Targaryen, so recently returned to King’s Landing to take up the command of the City Watch. He repelled and enticed her interest all at once, leaving Margot caught between disgust and desire. He was not like the honourable heroes of ballad and legend, yet he had their bravery and daring, creating conflict in her heart.
His unexpected arrival at court had set all her companions’ hearts racing, but he paid them no attention, only inexplicably the Princess Rhaenyra. Yet Margot reasoned she should not be surprised. The Targaryen dynasty had long possessed queer connubial customs. Not that any of the young highborn maidens stood a chance in the matrimonial stakes with Daemon. He was already married to stern Rhea Royce of the Vale. Yet there were many who were not above the prospect of a little discreet dalliance despite the value of unsullied virtue. Margot was not quite one of them, desiring romance without the ruin. She had gratefully left the gloom of Harrenhal for the thrill of King’s Landing instead, accompanied by her father and three siblings. But there was a cost to be paid for her pleasure, servitude to the princess and being displayed like a broodmare to the highest bidder for her hand.
Margot glanced uneasily behind her, knowing Rhaenyra would be displeased to find her away from her duties. There was a crimson samite gown Margot was supposed to be altering, but she had abandoned it to go and ogle. Yet even now, still she delayed. Not that she was the only one guilty of slipping away to spy on the handsome knights, nobles and vassals playing at war. With the sun hanging heavy in the sky, spreading a sultry heat that slowed the blood and dulled the senses, the men had taken to training with bared chests and rolled up breeches. Many of Margot’s companions made excuses to pass by on a supposed errand or linger at one of the overlooking windows on the pretext of taking the air.
Just as Margot was about to finally leave, becoming bored of waiting, a flash of long pale hair caught her attention. Straightening up, she gripped the edge of the balcony as Daemon Targaryen strode through the arched entrance of the training yard, shirtless and with Dark Sister in hand. Heads turned. Voices stilled. Then her brother was there, approaching the prince with his characteristic stride, the two of them having become close since Daemon’s return. Harwin bowed his head in welcome, the prince clasping Harwin’s shoulder in response, the warm gesture transcending the traditional formalities.
Exhaling sharply, Margot drew back, feeling the heat rush to her cheeks. It would not do to be caught sighing over Daemon Targaryen by her sister or the princess. Neither would spare her the harsh side of their tongue. Whilst she could endure being upbraided by Rhaenyra, she would not suffer her sister’s censure. Sometimes she felt Jeyne would be more suited as a septa than anything else. Uptight and irritable, Jeyne was turning into an old woman before her time. Yet their father constantly held Jeyne up to Margot as a perfect example of dutiful femininity she should emulate. The sooner her sister wed, the better, the only obstacle being Jeyne’s worrying lack of suitors.
As Daemon made to follow Harwin, he suddenly glanced up, distracted by the sight of the tall silk clad figure on the third floor balcony. It was a girl, her loose brown hair falling to her waist in long ringlets. He frowned, trying to place her, one pretty face having blurred into the other since his return. The blue of her gown was what prompted his memory, as well as her distinctive dark curls. Harwin’s younger sister. The Lady Margot. Comely enough but of little interest to him. But her obvious penchant for blue gowns had amused him, Harwin jesting she had no other shade in her wardrobe, and gods help her if she had to go into mourning.
Smirking, Daemon mockingly raised Dark Sister in Margot’s direction, saluting her. No doubt she had her maiden dreams about him. But they were all the same, by day or in the dark. No shame in their readiness to raise their skirts all because he had royal blood. But he didn’t waste his time there. If he wanted a warm embrace, he would venture to the Street of Silk or seek out Mysaria. The only one he truly desired was out of his reach – for now. And none could compare to Rhaenyra. Least of all the Lady Margot Strong. Something of his insolence transmuted the distance between them, and to Daemon's great amusement, Margot swept away in a swirl of sky blue silk, glaring at him as she left.