Chapter Text
The sky around—a sheet of toneless grey hummed in the horizon with a plum-purple tinge as a small figure hiding under an oversized white cloak approached the gates.
She lifted her head slowly and looked at the Kingsguard with unwavering emerald-green eyes. Her gaze remained fixed on the tallest one: Ser Ryam Redwyne. She knew he was the key that would open the gates to the Red Keep, perhaps without bloodshed and the loss of valuable men she had better use of.
A look of disbelief flickered in the Lord Commander’s eyes, but his face was otherwise blank as he nodded curtly at the other guards, then looked down his nose at her. The child had audacity; he had to give her that. No child of King’s Landing dared approach the Kingsguard let alone the gates of the Red Keep, without a well-grounded reason—or a death wish. Everyone in Westeros knew who they were: the elite of the elite and the protectors of the House Targaryen.
Ser Ryam, his sword in hand, walked forward through the men, heading for the tiny pest.
Every man watched the unfolding scene, wondering what was going to happen to the poor child. No doubt she’d be punished for the transgression, but the punishment wouldn’t be truly terrible. Or would it? Some of them thought.
No one would blame the Lord Commander if he lost his temper. It had been a sennight since His Grace had fallen sick. Some people blamed it on his age; however, most knew that he hadn’t been faring well since he lost Prince Baelon to a burst belly. Every inhabitant of the Red Keep was tense. Too many people would be hurt if His Grace died without naming a successor.
Ser Ryam snatched her arm and began pulling her away. “I do not fancy hurting children, but this is a tremendously bad time for an adventure, child. Go home.”
As he tried to march her back, she scoffed and somehow released his grip. “You do not want to do that, Lord Commander.”
Everyone around froze in disbelief. After a prolonged period of silence, she looked up at Ser Ryam and lifted her chin. With an intentionally cool stare, she said slowly. “Call my father.”
“Your what?”
Ser Ryam hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but her casually given order stunned him. When she smirked, the colour all but drained from his face. Curse his life. A bone-chilling shiver went down his back. He knew that smirk. It was too familiar for his peace of mind.
She took a step toward the gates again, but suddenly found herself hauled up against his side.
"Don't get in my way," she ordered, her voice mild, horribly calm despite the danger she was flirting with.
He set her down and took a deep breath. “In the way of what child? You are not getting past this gate. Go home.”
She glared at him, and many guards recoiled. They didn't know who looked more furious. Her scowl was just as chilling as Ser Ryam’s was, just as threatening. They were equally matched, these two mismatched adversaries: the most fearsome knight in Westeros and a tiny child that could not be a day older than ten years. They were bound to kill each other if given the chance.
“This is my home.” She took a threatening step forward.
Ser Ryam closed his eyes and took another breath. By the Gods, the child was as stubborn as a mule. “Who do you think is your father, child?” He arched a brow in speculative mockery, deciding to humour her.
“I’m truly not proud,” she said with a bewitching grin, and his smile vanished. His brows knitted together in alarm. That sarcastic, accursed grin….
“He is willful, I suppose. Stubborn, too. And headstrong. But he is my father, and I don’t abandon mine.”
“Yours?” he repeated in a hoarse voice.
“Unfortunately,” she shrugged, her luminous eyes dancing merrily. “Daemon Targaryen is my father.”