𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 from dragonfire. It came near enough to taunt her, brushing pale fingers over her brow whenever her eyes grew heavy, only to flee again the moment she reached for it. Rhaenyra turned once more beneath the coverlets, though the linen seemed suddenly too close, too warm, too much like burial cloth. At last she flung it aside and rose. Her attendants slept in the adjoining chamber, though she did not summon them; she had no desire for careful hands, hushed questions, or a cup of warmed milk sweetened with honey as though she were still a little girl frightened by thunder. She wanted neither comfort nor counsel. She wanted only to escape the chamber that had grown too small around her thoughts. She drew a dark robe over her nightshift and left her silver hair loose down her back as she thrust her feet into soft slippers and crossed the chamber with the stealth of one committing some secret treason. The door opened with scarcely a murmur. Ser Criston Cole stood upon the other side. Rhaenyra halted upon the threshold, and for one traitorous heartbeat, she wished to retreat, finding herself suddenly loath to be seen thus: barefoot beneath her slippers, her hair unbound, face scrubbed clean of all the pride and ceremony expected of the Realm’s Delight. But Ser Criston had already turned toward her, and so Rhaenyra lifted her chin, gathering what remained of her dignity about her like a cloak. ❛ I cannot sleep. ❜
Before he might answer, she stepped into the corridor and drew the door shut behind her. The latch settled softly into place. Rhaenyra began to walk. Three steps. The long corridor stretched before her, swallowed in shadow, and all at once the thought of wandering it seemed unbearably tiresome. She had spent the better part of the evening pacing—first before her father, then within her own chambers—wearing the same furious path until it seemed she had carved a trench through her heart. Without warning, and without asking leave of dignity or custom, the heir to the Iron Throne lowered herself to the floor. Her back came to rest against the cold stone wall beside Criston’s post. She gathered the folds of her robe around her legs and drew her knees toward her breast, heedless of what some passing servant or sleepless courtier might think should they come upon her there.
❛ . . . You may cease looking at me as though I have taken leave of my senses. ❜ She could feel the weight of his attention even without lifting her eyes, resting her head against the stone and at last, turning her gaze upward. ❛ It is only that my father believes I make a sport of defying him. ❜ Her fingers found a loose thread upon the sleeve of her robe and worried it between them. ❛ He thinks every refusal is an arrow loosed deliberately at his heart. So he would have me smile at men old enough to remember my birth, and he would have me listen while they speak of my womb as though it were a parcel of fertile land to be bargained over. And when I object, I am told it is duty. ❜ Her gaze fell to her hands. ❛ I know what they say of me. That I am difficult, proud, and I was given a crown and still found cause to complain of its burden. ❜ The ruby upon her finger caught the torchlight. A tiny dragon coiled around her knuckle, its golden wings spread as if in flight, its jeweled eye bright with a fire it could never truly possess. Rhaenyra turned the ring slowly. She had worn it so long that the flesh beneath had grown pale. ❛ . . . Perhaps they are right. ❜
Rhaenyra shifted upon the stone, scarcely at all, a subtle gathering of limbs and shadow, no more than was needed to open a slender crescent of empty space beside her.
❛ You are charged with guarding me, are you not? ❜ The faintest curve touched one corner of her mouth, though it held more sadness than mirth. ❛ I see no reason you cannot do so from here. ❜
