Chapter Text
It was not a marriage of love, or companionship or even an acquaintance. It was a political match made by a Queen, to tie the Vale and the Crown close with blood. Blood certainty occurred, and quickly with the Princess Daella’s death in childbirth and the subsequent marriage of Aemma Arryn to then Prince Viserys. Clearly not willing to let the Vale alone, Queen Alysanne commanded the marriage of Rhea Royce and Daemon Targaryen in 97 AC. Neither wanted the marriage, and in Rheas opinion, it was unneeded.
When her husband to be turned up at Runestone, spiraling downwards on that dread wyrm, Caraxes, hissing like a teapot the whole while, Rhea felt nothing. Their marriage would not take place under the Wierwood tree, but in the sept- a place Rhea had little taste for. Rhea was a handsome girl of 18, with curly dark brown hair that fell to her mid back, a strong figure due to her love of riding, hawking, archery and sword practice she had wheedled out of her Uncle. Her dress was bronze, with runes stitched all along the hems. Rhea found her thumb crossing them as she watched Prince Daemon dismount his steed, silver hair dancing around his face.
He was a youth of about 16 years old, tall and angular. He wore doublet of soft black silk, with a red dragon, the very image of Caraxes, winding across his shoulders. A red cloak fell away from his shoulders. He whispered to his beast, pressing himself close to the oddly angular head of his dragon. Rhea watched this and felt a flicker of optimism. Rhea adored her horses and pet and held them as Daemon was doing his much larger and scaly mount. Perhaps this could be at least a neutral conversation point between them.
That flicker was crushed as Prince Daemon left his dragon, which launched itself back into the air with a queer whistling cry and made for the harbor. His pale amethyst eyes met her own tawny ones, and an unmistakable sneer twisted his pretty face, scorn radiating out of him. Directed at Rhea. Rhea was surprised for only a moment, then felt fury light within her. How dare he look at her and her people and seat as if it was dirt under his well shod foot. The Royce’s had been ancient Kings, long before the Targaryen’s wandered across the sea. She was no less than him.
Her father stepped forward to welcome the Prince, bringing forth the bread and salt in his hands, weather beaten and crossed with blue runic symbols. Prince Daemon had transferred his disgust to her father and managed to get himself through the welcome with bare minimum courtesy. Rhea watched him draw closer to her, watched him bow and take her hand, reciting his pleasure at meeting her, his pleasure at the match and her loveliness. He glanced at her, fury and disgust in his eyes. Rhea knew then, that she could not stomach this Prince. Rhea knew what it was to be a lady, knew she had to do her duty, knew that she based on her very womanhood was below her expected. Something old and cold turned in her then.
Rhea realized that the entire court was awaiting her reply to the Prince. She raised her eyes, and looked at her father, whom she loved so very much, at her household, at her seat standing proudly over the sea. Rhea breathed in the salt, smoke and the tang in the air. Her runes burned. She placed her gaze on Prince Daemon, who was now looking at her with a curiously flat face.
She curtsied, smiling and spoke right to Daemon;
“Welcome to Runestone, your grace. I am honored to take you to husband, as Her Majesty did command in her wisdom”. Then she jerked him closer, and whispered to him “Ig manger heir, draga. Ekki gleyma því.”
Rhea smiled as the Prince drew in his breathe sharply, jerking back from her, meeting her gaze, wide eyed. Her runes burned along her hems. Rhea tipped her head back, still gripping Daemons hand, and laughed.