Chapter Text
Promised I cried for you like a star
— Wolf Alice
“Baby, I will need you to look through the menu for the dinner party on Saturday — the chef will send it to you within a few hours.”
She did not remember that there was any dinner party coming up, let alone this Saturday, but she nodded nonetheless.
“Yes, of course.”
Rhaenyra had no idea what he was talking about, but she was used to acting like she was present and attentive, and her husband was used to overlooking her aloofness.
Or maybe she was really good at faking her interest, after all.
Harwin was standing in front of the open living room mirror, choosing between two ties to match his shirt and jacket. Both were hideous as far as Rhaenyra was concerned, too muted, too lacklustre — there was no difference between olive and burgundy when they both were so deep and stripped of brightness.
She did not say any of that, returning her attention to her camera — not that the footage there was any brighter or stimulating.
A bird sitting on their front porch. A pile of leaves under a birch tree. The neighbour’s dog, grey and almost blending with the background.
“It is going to be a very important night,” Harwin went on, still indecisive, taking forever to make a pick that changed nothing. No one ever had their lives turned around because of the colour of their tie, and Rhaenyra wanted to yell that it did not fucking matter which one he chose because it would not impact a single thing about his day, his job, their marriage, their home, their fates. “Your father and Alicent are coming, and Otto Hightower will be here as well — ”
He droned on, adding a name after a name, all of them meaning nothing to Rhaenyra. She had no idea who those people were — she only knew that her husband had surely mentioned them before, and she might have even met them at some galas or dinner parties in the comfort of their mansions, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not recall a single face.
Rhaenyra had learned to tune it all off, instinctively aware when she had to nod or respond with an ambiguous “mhm” that could mean her acquiescing or demurral in equal measures. It seemed to be enough, even though it sometimes cost her being prepared for a change of topic or knowing the people she had to meet.
“See you in the evening, baby,” Harwin said when he was done with his speech about the importance of Saturday and his guest list. He came to stand behind her, his large hands on her hunched shoulders, and kissed her cheek.
Rhaenyra mustered a faint smile and mumbled something in return, even though Harwin was not really listening, already on his way out of the room and out of the house. He reminded her of a doctor doing patient rounds in the morning, meticulous and thorough but nonetheless impassive.
And when the door behind him clicked softly, Rhaenyra was, once again, left in the psychiatric ward of her Hamptons house.
It was appropriately sanitised and nauseatingly deprived of any colour, as if any brightness could trigger Rhaenyra and cause some harm. Sitting at the island counter in the enormous kitchen, all white granite, she mused that it must be what McLean Hospital looked like on the inside, but then thought that they would not have been foolish enough to include an oven in such a setup.
Chuckling at her own joke, Rhaenyra put down the camera. There was nothing of interest there, and she would probably end up deleting all the footage she took this morning — it was hopeless and bleak, and she thought, not for the first time in recent weeks, that she should stop trying.
The scenery would not change. Her suburban life would always have the same colours, always shades of grey and beige, and she might splurge on a new camera or tweak the settings, but there was no chance of capturing something unique when everything around her was subdued to the same routine and palette.
Rhaenyra sighed and rubbed her temples. Now, in those quiet hours between Harwin leaving and their maid arriving to clean the entire house, she could go ahead and commence her usual routine, locking herself in the bedroom until she heard the car pull into the driveway.
She did it often — although every time she opened the encrypted folder on her flash drive, she still felt like a criminal digging out something very illicit. Rhaenyra could not explain it, but it was probably the same rush people felt when they opened their porn folder — only that hers was not really that explicit at all, erotic in nature but not pornographic.
Perhaps, unfortunately.
Like an obsessed collector, she had been keeping thorough records, meticulous about her organisation and cautious about someone touching her possessions with their grubby hands. Every single file was her treasure, and she often escaped her reality with their help.
The only thing she still had left from her uncle, something she could delude herself into believing was his secret communication with her, hidden messages in every appearance and feature.
A collection of every single movie Daemon had ever stared in, no matter how minuscule the role, and endless footage of him at the talk shows, interviews, promo campaigns — everything she could lay her hands on.
Rhaenyra downloaded things obsessively, keeping copies in case movies and videos with him would get deleted from streaming or the internet overall. It was her personal vault, a way to connect with Daemon even now, after all the other lines of communication had been shut down and she had to rely only on his acting, his smiles for the cameras, his rehearsed words and calculated gestures.
Sometimes, she thought it would have been easier to store porn on her flash drive. This way, should she ever be caught, she could laugh about it and still appear normal. People did this; people had desires and needs, resorting to this kind of visual aid almost every day. Porn addiction was a thing, yes, but no one would think her particularly weird for having one.
Daemon addiction, on the other hand…
Whenever she could get an hour of peace, she locked herself in her bedroom with her laptop and a bottle of wine, which her compassionate, sympathetic maid would always inconspicuously get rid of for Rhaenyra, preventing Harwin from ever learning how much she drank in the middle of the day. There, with the curtains drawn and the light turned off, she got lost in the images on the gleaming screen.
Often, she touched herself to the clips of him — or just as the movie played, for she knew all of them by heart anyway, his every single line, his intonations, his smirks and smiles.
More often, she cried to them.
Sometimes, she did both.
Daemon was meant to be a star, and perhaps it was a shame he had not been born decades ago for the golden age of Hollywood. Rhaenyra could easily picture him in the black-and-white movies and on radio plays, his voice velvety and enchanting, his face capable of making hearts stop. He had the features and the range of a naturally gifted actor, and Rhaenyra wondered if he would have been even more popular in the older days.
Everyone wanted him anyway, she often mused bitterly, unreasonably jealous, but perhaps if he had been an unattainable hero from the past, she would have found it easier to live with the knowledge that he only existed on the screen for her.
She had watched him in noir movies and in period dramas. She especially loved the art house projects he did, usually the ones that tanked in online reviews and were grossly misunderstood by the crowds. She had not missed a single premiere of his movie in the last decade, always buying a ticket for a late-night run and feeling more at home in a theatre than in her actual bedroom.
His last one was a flop in the eyes of many but probably his greatest to date, in Rhaenyra’s opinion. An erotic thriller about a woman who simply could not stop watching other people have sex and ended up being pursued by one of her victims — the man in his forties who she initially thought was resentful about her spying on her but instead was obsessed with capturing her attention and resorting to performing the act in hopes of attracting her like a moth. It was a crazed, delirious attempt to convey some message, something about sexual desires being the reflections of society and how repressed they had become in the current political climate, but Rhaenyra cared little about all that.
She found the movie fascinating despite the lukewarm reviews — there was something particularly relatable about the protagonist’s utter desperation and inability to find satisfaction in any other way and something entrancing about Daemon’s character obsession with her. His acting was sublime — and Rhaenyra knew more than anyone about it, more than any critic or director, having traced the lines on his face with her fingers and having learned the shades of his smiles when she was still a child.
He was so much more natural in that movie than he had been in a long time, and Rhaenyra found herself addicted to rubbing salt into her wounds, rewatching it over and over again, sneaking into a movie theatre to get one more dosage, one more hit of that potent drug that was her uncle in his natural element.
She could have rented an entire theatre for herself and enjoyed the movie in complete privacy, but there was something exhibitionistic in watching it with strangers around her, rubbing her thighs together, knowing that no one around her understood him like she did, that no one around her knew what she felt at the sight of him on the large screen, that no one around her was aware of those same hands on her years ago, that body on hers, that smile beaming for her. Rhaenyra loved being an all-too-knowing alien in the crowd of ignorant, unwitting, unconsenting voyeurs, and something about their presence around her in the only moments of intimacy she had with her uncle was titillating and deeply erotic.
She was convinced, on some deep, irrational level, that his remarkable acting in the movie had to do something with him finally dropping some burden off his shoulders — and, in her incurable selfishness and egotism, Rhaenyra was certain that the burden was her.
Masochistic and contrarian, she kept rewatching it on the big screens, looking for hidden messages, for clues, for a gaze that would break the fourth wall and aim at her, her nails invariably digging into her palms, her thighs pressed together to either combat or intensify her deranged desire for him.
When it was no longer available in theatres, she downloaded it onto her flash drive and had scarcely looked at anything else ever since. There were old movies that had made Daemon truly famous, his personal classic, his biggest hits — but she chose, over and over, the same generally accepted to be mediocre and forgettable movie. Just an unremarkable line in her uncle’s filmography that would not earn him new accolades — but somehow a lifeline to Rhaenyra.
She took to watching it in the dead of night after Harwin rolled off her and went to sleep. Wrestling carefully out of his bear-like embrace, Rhaenyra grabbed her laptop and tiptoed to the bathroom or kitchen and turned the movie on, desperate to feel anything remotely close to the satisfaction her husband experienced when inside her body. Rhaenyra rarely felt like it was her body these days anyway, but she wanted it to be again, wanted to have the things she had lost back.
Biting on her fist, seeing splashes of colour and stars, she never failed to come to his mere whisper, a glimpse of his flashing smile on the screen, and she rarely even made it to the bedroom scenes themselves — his mere presence was so erotically charged that it was enough for her to fall over the edge with just the introduction.
She had picked up her camera again because of it, too. There was something about the colouring of that movie that struck her as unusually inspiring, the way it seemed to look for that vibe of older movies, grainy and sometimes lacking the brightness, but at the same time was more than the imitation of the film from the eighties. It was somehow neon and acidic but not in an offensive way — like the lights of the city but on a rainy day, observed through the water-streaked window. But even this was not entirely fitting, for the figures and silhouettes never got smudged, and it seemed like some colours were more prominent than others — enhanced in post-production, most likely, but serving a very specific purpose for the artistic vision of the director.
Desperate to replicate it, Rhaenyra justified her obsessive rewatches by trying to master that same technique — not that Harwin really cared about why she did that or even really knew about her pastime.
But her camera was not capable of capturing the world in the same way as the movie did. The fault might have been with the device or with her lack of talent — but most likely, it was with her life overall. It was perfectly ordinary, had been for the past decade, and Rhaenyra had forgotten when was the last time she saw the world around herself in anything but sepia, beige and shades of grey.
And so she kept watching that movie over and over again, reaching out to try and touch both the familiar face and the exceptionally alluring colourful lights — two things she missed the most in her life.
Even now, Rhaenyra was still in the same plain kitchen, with the same row of white plates and cups staring at her from behind the glass of the cupboard. White tile under her feet, creamy surfaces of her Smeg kettle, toaster and food processor, light wood of the chopping boards leaning against the wall.
Tired of the condemning purity of everything around her, Rhaenyra sighed and stood up. She did not feel like eating anything, and perhaps she should just take the bottle of expensive wine out of the corner of the pantry — god, please, anything but the white — and disappear into the privacy of her room.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw the trees in their backyard shake under the gust of wind, and she felt the momentary urge to reach for her camera again, to capture that leaf falling and twirling in the air as it did so, oscillating between left and right, between flying and plunging to the ground, but before Rhaenyra could make herself move, the magical moment was over.
And it was then that she heard the chiming sound of a notification on her phone.
Her first instinct was to disregard it, ignore the disturbance, and proceed with her day like it was something meaningless — because it most likely was, just another message she did not want to respond to, another question she had nothing to answer to. An absent-minded wife was the bane of every successful man’s existence, but Rhaenyra could afford it most of the time, luxuriating in her detachment.
Today, though, she felt a pang of shame and reached out for her phone. Her inner critic possessed — unsurprisingly — her stepmother’s voice, that annoying, almost conspiring, pitch that always unsettled Rhaenyra.
You should at least try, Rhaenyra. Good men are like gold dust these days, and if you do not try hard enough, he will find someone who will.
She always replied that she would like to see Harwin walk out on a Targaryen and that nothing in her agreement with her father stipulated she would be trying, but sometimes, Alicent’s words did get under her skin.
Harwin had asked her to pay attention. This dinner party thing, whatever the reason behind it, was clearly really important to him, and this must be the chef sending her the menu.
She could do that — how difficult could it be to read through the list of hors d’oeuvre and fancy-sounding main courses?
Expecting an email addressing her extremely formally and asking for her cooperation, Rhaenyra yawned lazily as she unlocked her phone.
It was not a message from their chef — in fact, it was just a text from an unknown number, but it was enough for the world to start spinning that very second.
“Hello, darling. In NYC tonight — do you think you’d be available to meet? With love, D.”
Her first thought was utter disbelief. It could not be him — most likely, it was some cruel prank, someone making fun of her or even something more sinister, someone learning about her past and trying to intimidate her with it.
Ten years of silence, ten years of only seeing him on screen, ten years of learning about his life only from tabloids and infrequent phone calls with her father, dry, lifeless, sanitised bits of information about Daemon that she had to get out of her dad with great effort while trying to appear nonchalant.
And just like that, he was back, on a regular morning in the middle of the working week, on a random early September day, reappearing like the figment of her most wicked and sacred dreams.
Had she summoned him somehow? Her musings about his art and her desperation to feel closer to him — she was just on her way to commence her usual routine of watching him, a failed spy, for she only saw what was openly on display. Could it be just a mistake, a glitch in her own system?
Rhaenyra locked and unlocked her phone again, feeling numb as the screen went dark and then gleamed again, the same notification popping up in the middle, the same short signature that could only mean one name.
She was certain she knew other people whose names started with D. She ought to — the myriad of Harwin’s colleagues and friends, the people she was supposed to entertain and remember. Her dad’s partners and adversaries, her stepmother’s favourite crones, her old acquaintances from school or university.
But she had never thought of that letter as anything but related to him, standing for him. Who else could be so effortlessly slick in breaking through the barriers and making her heart beat faster?
An unknown number — how did he even get hers?
Her next thought was way more sober and cynical. Chuckling, clutching her phone, Rhaenyra thought that he must be in some kind of dire straits to go through the trouble of contacting her after all those years — and she had a suspicion about the nature of his problem.
Perhaps he had finally been caught, she mused, wondering what that prospect meant for her. Daemon must have crossed some limit or preyed on someone who was not ready to bury the past and let go — and most likely, he needed her silence now, reaching out to make sure Rhaenyra kept everything that had happened between them a secret.
She supposed it was fair of him to warn her before whatever dirty laundry hit the papers. Still, she could not quite shake off the feeling of disbelief and utter surreality of what was happening.
Her relationship with her uncle did not really fit into any moulds society had crafted over the centuries. Daemon was more than her uncle and more than an ex-lover — Rhaenyra could name many things he was more than, but struggled to assign to him a single less.
Her upper-class friends, idle young people born into generational wealth but dabbling into liberalism and progressive ideas because it made them feel relevant while their fathers milked the world for more dollars, would call that relationship grooming and explain to her in length how much she had been wronged and taken advantage of.
But the thing was that Rhaenyra really had not been.
In the era of reimagining what was acceptable and proper, she supported everyone who spoke out but never managed to apply the same new attitudes to herself. She never talked to people about it — part of the deal with her father and also a genuine desire to protect Daemon and herself from any unnecessary inquiries — but sometimes, she tried to imagine what people would say to her if she did open up.
Everything she pictured in her head was always stupid. She loathed the idea that someone might pity her — she had had a fucking brilliant time with her uncle, and not once had she felt like he had taken something from her. Rhaenyra vehemently refused the notion of being violated, but she knew that should she try to explain it to someone, she would be deemed traumatised, broken, and in need of salvation. Her agency would be stripped off; her own words would bear as much credibility as the delirious rambles of a mentally ill patient.
People never treated those stories with respect, immediately stealing them from you and twisting them into something else, something that was not yours at all. Like fashionable accessories, they were forever used as examples, critique, gossip, and god knew what else — but they were never yours again.
All that awaited Rhaenyra in case she shared her story would be therapy talk, sympathetic gazes, friendly but sanctimonious attempts to instil in her that she had been a victim and that, should she really work on herself, she would see it, too.
But Rhaenyra did not want to work on herself. Maybe on herself in the present, on the emptiness and numbness, but she certainly did not want to reimagine her past — the past that was easily the best thing about her life.
Defining but not traumatising — Rhaenyra did not believe that someone deeply wronged would want to run back so much, to get just one more taste of the drug she had been abruptly denied.
She often looked back and wondered if her life could have been happier, easier, and more fulfilling if she had done just one thing differently. Drifting in her thoughts to that sultry summer behind the tall fence, protected by electric gates and large palm trees, luxuriating on a sun lounger next to a huge pool in Daemon’s LA mansion, Rhaenyra knew that those months were the closest she had ever been to happiness. That summer smelled of plastic melting in the sun, the cream rubbed into her browning shoulders and the piña coladas her uncle mixed her after sex when she was too tired and too weak to move on her own, exhausted by the weather and Daemon’s sexual appetites both.
The tiniest bikinis, the vulgar lipstick on an overdrawn mouth, the chlorine-permeated hair — that summer was unlike anything else, a page torn out of another book and fitted into the story of her life, temporary, evanescent, fleeting and yet so defining that Rhaenyra still could not get over it. It seemed so real back then, the most real thing she had ever had, and all that was left of it now was the ashen taste of wasted potential and missed chances.
Rhaenyra often reread her diary, a white notebook covered in stickers and containing the entire account of the torrid, tumultuous affair. She had had quite the vocabulary for a sixteen-year-old, very descriptive in the things she and Daemon did and, perhaps even more importantly, in the way her uncle made her feel. She should not have written it all down — after all, that white notebook had been the reason for the painful fall from grace and the collapse of her and Daemon’s relationship — and yet she was still grateful that her younger self had been so thorough in documenting almost every single day spent in heaven.
The efforts of an overexcited teenager who had been wise beyond her years were now the only solace Rhaenyra found in her calm, lulled existence. Rereading the old pages filled with uneven, small penmanship, she bit her lower lip — rarely in arousal, more often in absolute dread and profound sorrow, stifling tears.
What could be a more bitter tragedy than forever being jealous of herself at sixteen?
People were supposed to outgrow themselves at sixteen and look back with a benign, slightly embarrassed smile, wondering how they could have been so silly, but that was not the case for Rhaenyra. She was acutely aware that she would never be happier than she had once been. Ten years ago, she was sexy, beautiful, smart, sharp-tongued, and simply scintillating. The colours had been brighter, all that acidly vivid pink and yellow, the glowing aquamarine of the swimming pool, the cerise of her gaudy lipstick. The nostalgia of the youth, yes, but also some sense of wonder forever lost, snatched out of her hands violently, and that act of cruelty had been way more harmful to her than anything Daemon had done.
Three long months ended with a conversation in her father’s study, his fury as he shook his hand with her diary in it palpable and somewhat scary. Rhaenyra was horrified by the blatant invasion of privacy — she had just returned from LA, having barely unpacked her things, and the tan was still fresh on her trembling shoulders. She could swear she was still able to taste the chlorine and the pineapple juice on her lips as she licked them in hesitancy, wondering if there was any point in putting up any defences.
Everything had been documented by her delicate hand, every single night, every single time the fabric of her bright red bikini briefs had been pushed to the side, every time her uncle’s knowing fingers rubbed the creamy sun lotion into her skin, not-so-accidentally ending up on her breasts, on her blushing pink nipples. Rhaenyra stood there, and the only thing she wanted was to get that notebook back — it belonged to her, every memory of the ardent, sultry LA summer, every single word. It was not her father’s to read and savour, it was not the world’s to discuss and obsess over — no one would be able to understand it anyway, the nuance of it, the importance of it, the heaven she had been to.
And so, she agreed to everything her father said, determined to take back that diary, counting the minutes until she could have it in her hands again. Someone had snooped in her things; someone had alerted her father — and it mattered to Rhaenyra, to her pride, but not as much as getting her notebook back.
No more contact with Daemon. Studying in Europe for several years. Never speaking about this to anyone.
Rhaenyra could have chosen a different path — and perhaps this was what she regretted the most. People expected her to feel sorry for her former self, for the one that showed up with two suitcases in LA and temporarily became a starlet in Daemon’s personal movie — but instead, she regretted not putting her foot down after all that.
But she had also been reasonable and wise even at sixteen. She never wanted Daemon to get exposed and knew that should she get out of line, she would lose her almost bottomless trust fund, which would subject her to a terrible life of working to make ends meet. Her relationship with Daemon would not be a fairytale either — cast away, he would hardly have any money himself, and Rhaenyra loathed the idea of being poor.
Pragmatic and knowing when to comply and when to bolt, Rhaenyra walked out of her father’s study with her diary clutched to her chest and an unofficial restraining order put on her uncle — the one that was facilitated by her swiftly moving across the ocean and changing her mobile number.
And no, there was no different life, no different choice. Rhaenyra knew it deep inside — whatever she did, whatever she wore, whatever she said, she was always meant to end up on that sun lounger by the pool, in that king-size bed with crispy, pristine sheets, in those welcoming arms. She searched for clues and the ways out in the movie reels of her past, unsatisfied with her present, but she never truly regretted Daemon and probably never would. Those moments of doubts and weakness when she tried to put the blame on someone were just — fleeting weakness, a breath stuck in her throat, a cup of slightly overburnt coffee, a finger cut when mindlessly chopping the vegetables for dinner.
Rhaenyra had not seen him in years. Ten years of separation, the mountains, oceans and relationships lying between them — he had not attended her wedding; she had not sent a single Christmas card. Daemon had never tried to challenge the disposition, not seeking her out even through texts or drunken phone calls, and she did not know if she felt hurt or pleased by it.
It was as if their love affair had never happened — but was it such a terrible thing, truly, to keep such a secret buried and properly concealed from the condemning eyes?
But it was also so bizarre to watch him cruise through the world, his grin wide, his eyes always mischievous, free and unchained, all while Rhaenyra suspected, on the sleepless, loveless nights, that this blandness she was now experiencing, this egregious lack of colour and life was a decade-long withdrawal from the fleeting summer addiction.
Rereading the diary on the balcony, with her feet on the cool railing, wine poured into a teacup should her husband walk in on her, or watching Daemon’s movies on the gleaming screen of her laptop — all that had to happen because that LA summer happened first, and she did not know how he had managed to move on.
Or perhaps he had not — perhaps he hated her, despising her weakness and inability to stand up to her father. God knew Daemon never had a problem with annoying his older brother — would he have been brave enough to laugh into his face and not fear the stones thrown by the people around them had her diary ever been published?
She could see it, his scorn and derision, his loathing for her readiness to be subjugated and accept her father’s demeaning terms. Maybe that was the real reason he had never contacted her, had never broken that wall of ice between them.
Ten years was a long time, and she had seen him in person only once since that fateful summer. With Harwin out of the city for some work-related nonsense, Rhaenyra allowed her the greatest folly of her life — through some connections, she managed to secure a VIP ticket to the Tony awards, knowing Daemon would be there, mingling with the Broadway greats and supporting his friends in the industry. Unable to resist the temptation to have a glimpse of him, acting like a deranged groupie, she was on edge the entire evening, second-guessing her outfit and her makeup, anxious about what Daemon would have to say when they finally bumped into each other.
But they had not, not really. It took the entire night for them to gravitate towards each other, and even then, they were separated by strangers wanting to chat them up; Daemon’s fame was way greater than hers and worn like a suit of armour. When their eyes finally did meet, all she could do was stand there with her lips parted, a half-exhale, half-question hanging from them — but her uncle did not say a thing.
As if she was just a beautiful stranger, he looked at her for no longer than two seconds, his gaze gliding past quickly, his attention fixed on yet another pretty thing. It was the closest they had come to each other since she kissed him goodbye in the LA airport, her arms thrown around his neck rather indecently, and yet he still did not give her more than two seconds of his attention, swiftly disappearing with someone on his arm.
Crestfallen, Rhaenyra rode back home in a taxi, cursing herself for even attempting such a foolish plan. She was just a delusional fan at this point, and her chances of catching Daemon’s attention were just about the same as those of a girl posting shirtless pictures of him on an anonymous Tumblr account.
That was three years ago — and now, he was back, just like that, effortless, volatile, breaking through the invisible but sturdy barriers. Rhaenyra held her phone and could not believe it — not just his message but also that it had always been that easy.
He could have just obtained her number and texted her.
She could have done the same.
It hit her then that none of the restrictions had ever been that unbreakable or impenetrable. Yes, she had been told off by her father; yes, she had feared the photocopies of her diary he must have taken and probably kept in his desk to this day. Yes, it had been wise to back off and try to move on, but in truth, none of the walls she had put around herself had ever been real.
Rhaenyra smiled and touched the screen again. Even if it was a fever dream, her deep desires getting a hold of her, she would not say no to seeing him — if only for the sake of feeling something, anything, breaking free from the stillness of her suburban landscape.
She sat on the barstool again and quickly unlocked her phone, fingers moving frantically over the keyboard, typing, typing, typing — but then deleting, deleting, deleting, the cursor treacherously returning to the left, blank space of the text box quite difficult to fill.
What could she even say to a person after a decade of radio silence?
Rhaenyra reread his short text once again. “With love” — what kind of love, she wondered and wondered, biting her thumb in concentration, narrowing her eyes and looking for some mockery behind the familiar letters on the blue background.
“Love” was something terribly lower-class to Rhaenyra. Her social strata preferred a different kind of bonds, and Rhaenyra had forgotten the last time she used that word. Even the meaningless signatures, like the one Daemon had added to his message, the cliché bottom lines, rarely included this particular form, this particular wording, usually way more austere or laconic.
Almost as if they were all collectively aware that all those emails they sent each other, invitations, inquiries, dinner party menus, and all the pretentious junk they exchanged for holidays and birthdays was not of and with love at all.
Finally, she took a deep breath and took the plunge. Even if it was just a cold, heartless conversation about him screwing up and needing to ensure her silence, she would not mind going for it. Nothing could be more dehumanising than being stuck in this pacifying hole.
And if he really wanted to see her, then it did not matter how carefully she crafted her response.
“Sure. Anything particular in mind?”
It sounded so clinical, so lifeless, but Rhaenyra hit the send button nonetheless. She was afraid that if she waited any longer, if she hesitated, the message would disappear, either Daemon deleting it or the magic running out.
The moments that it took Daemon to reply were torturous. Rhaenyra had not expected to feel anything like this, and the old flame should not hurt so much when rekindled — hell, it was not even rekindled yet, and her heart was already racing.
“Drinks or dinner?”
How could she politely reply that she wanted both and neither at the same time? Rhaenyra chewed on her lower lip, biting so hard her teeth drew blood, the metallic taste doing nothing to abate the sense of excitement that rushed through her veins.
She was tempted to say dinner — because it lasted longer and was more difficult to escape.
She did not want to commit to a dinner — because it was more difficult to escape.
Once again, there was that hesitation, the cursor waiting for her, silently judging her for indecisiveness, for not being able to choose one.
But how could she pick anything? After such a long time, meeting Daemon at all felt like a completely otherworldly experience, and it had been a lifetime ago that they talked to each other — should she go for the quiet setup to take it in or choose the loudest bar in the city so the boisterous crowd could swallow the awkwardness of not having anything to say to each other after all those years?
Rhaenyra knew what her former self would have picked. She wondered if Daemon was over there somewhere, probably in his hotel room in the Ritz or InterContinental, holding his phone and pondering why she was taking so long to make her decision when, ten years ago, she would not have hesitated at all.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. One more heartbeat — and she typed her answer.
“Drinks.”
At least a hazy bar would probably have enough distractions to salvage the evening should their conversation go awry. Rhaenyra did not know what to expect from this meeting, from his voice, from his eyes — it felt silly, truly, because she knew every single emotion he displayed, had seen them both on screen and in person, and she had had sixteen long years to observe him as her uncle and memorise everything about him.
And then, a decade of conversing with him through the medium of cinema, still learning things about him, still finding something new about his face, the crease between his brows, the corners of his mouth.
Rhaenyra wanted to believe that they would hit it off immediately, forgetting the burden of the years that had somehow blended into a full decade already. If it was magical, truly meant to be, then it should be just like in the movies — the chemistry so overpowering that it withstood the distance and time like they were nothing at all.
But Daemon was Daemon — dazzling, glamorous, still the same man who had laughed so raucously when massaging her shoulders or opening a bottle of chilled champagne.
And Rhaenyra was Rhaenyra — stuck in the house in the Hamptons, worrying about matching kitchen towels with curtains and about the colour of flowers in the living room.
His face was everywhere — in fashion magazines and on movie posters, online and on her laptop. Her face would probably disappoint him these days, even if he was momentarily curious to see the changes in it.
But she was nonetheless excited, thrilled despite the fear. It was difficult to explain, to put into words, but she suddenly felt like she had something to look forward to — it was not the deluge of feelings she had expected but a slow, steady trickling of water through the cracks of her deceitfully perfect facade. Seeping through the floorboards was the unbound desire to finally talk — not to someone who would judge and twist it all into something unrecognisable, but to the only person who would understand.
Idly, Rhaenyra wondered what would happen if her father learned about this. She was still restricted by that promise she had given to him ten years ago, and technically, she had not been granted permission to initiate or recuperate contact with Daemon — but what could her dad truly do about this?
How would he even learn?
Perhaps Rhaenyra would be wiser to keep it a secret, carefully wrapping herself in lies like in a cloak, disappearing for the evening and coming up with some nonsensical reason to throw Harwin and the rest of her family off the scent. It was logical; it was sane.
However, invigorated by the long-forgotten sense of danger, she wanted to scream from the rooftops about her disobedience. Disobedience — what a word it was! She was twenty-six, married, having long learned her own authority over people. Yet, at the same time, Rhaenyra felt like she was suffocating, walls closing on her, and this one message, this short text straight from the sun-lit and heady past, was like a window in the ceiling of her prison.
She knew immediately, instinctively, that she wanted to fuck him. It was not a question, really — there could have been no other reaction, no other response to him reappearing in her life. Whatever the reason for his reaching out, Rhaenyra was ignited yet again, thinking about nothing but that carnal, dark pull that she had always experienced towards Daemon.
She knew that the moment she saw him again, she would yearn and yearn, and the better, the smarter woman would stay away or at least have some shame about it.
There was no guarantee he would even feel the same. If he had indeed got into some trouble, sleeping with her was probably at the bottom of his list of priorities, and if her uncle still harboured some hurt for her abruptly disappearing from his life, he would be justified in denying her the ultimate pleasure, thus avenging his wounded dignity.
She might simply be not to his taste anymore. Or he might have someone he wanted to commit to.
Still, Rhaenyra felt like she was floating, not really present in this room, in this house, in this part of the world, even. In her mind, she was already committing the crime, already cheating, already betraying Harwin in the most exquisite of ways.
And, as she once heard someone say, guilt was one burden human beings could not bear alone.
She quickly closed her conversation with the unknown number that now had a name and a face and opened her contact list instead. There he was, at the top of the screen, his picture smiling and bright — her husband, the man she was supposed to love and for whose sake she needed to try.
Rhaenyra pressed “call” without hesitation. Driven by the wicked need to confess in advance, way before she could claim the actual sin, she put the phone to her ear and smiled, listening to the dialling as she waited for Harwin to take her call.
“Baby? Is everything alright?”
His voice was rightfully concerned — she never called him, especially not soon after his leaving in the morning. He was probably driving, and Rhaenyra could easily picture those big hands tensing on the steering wheel, those dark, heavy brows furrowing in the expression of worry.
“Yes,” she replied quickly. “Wonderful, in fact. I am calling to tell you that I am going to the city now and will stay overnight in the apartment.”
Silence followed by a drawn breath. “Whatever for, dear?”
Like a doctor, he always listened patiently and never shouted, but Harwin had his peculiar way of making her feel like she was insane and out of her mind — a seemingly innocent question spoken in his deep, caring voice was her personal version of dimmed gas lamps.
“Oh, it is just that my uncle is in town,” Rhaenyra said nonchalantly, shifting on the stool and crossing her legs, looking at her toes. “He wants to catch up and all, and it will probably be late by the time I am done, so I thought that it would be better to stay in the city than to drive back here in the dark. You know how dangerous it can be.”
There was some benefit to her father being so adamant about keeping her time with Daemon a secret. People who came into life after the entire debacle were completely unaware of the tumultuous and scandalous nature of her relationship with her uncle — and she had managed to convince people around herself, with her father’s silent approval, that there had never been a single issue with Daemon, just a terrible misalignment of lifestyles and schedules.
He was always busy filming and carousing. She was definitely not like that.
She would like to hear from him, sure, but unfortunately, he did not really reach out.
Harwin had no idea about her and Daemon, about that summer, about Daemon’s lips on her collarbone. He was completely unaware of the lines she had drawn on her uncle’s back with her nails, holding passionately onto him. Harwin did not have the slightest suspicion of how sultry July in LA could be and how palm leaves reflected on the surfaces of swimming pools.
The decade of uncomfortable lies through gritted teeth or fake smiles had finally paid off.
“Oh,” Harwin breathed out, clearly relaxed and comforted by her answer. He had probably expected something worse from her, but it was just a family thing, an image of avuncular propriety. “Tell him I like his movies.”
Liar, Rhaenyra wanted to hiss. You have not seen a single one, you stupid, stupid liar. You do not watch anything that does not have explosions or corny dialogue. You do not know anything about him, about his movies, about his acting. How could you even understand it all? How could you ever know?
“Sure will,” she replied enthusiastically and smiled. “Have a nice day at work, baby.”
Rhaenyra hung up before Harwin could ask her about anything else — it was a good thing she did, too, for he was just about to ask her about the menu and her feedback on the appetisers when she hit the red button.
It felt so good to confess, to admit that she was in the wrong, to play with fate. Rhaenyra wondered what would happen next — how soon would Harwin have to have a conversation with her father? Would he randomly, innocently, mention her plans, unwittingly dropping a huge bomb and causing chaos?
Rhaenyra pushed one of the dominoes — for once, she could cause some destruction, and it felt almost more empowering and invigorating than the meeting with Daemon itself. Even if she ended up being innocent, blameless, and no crime was committed tonight, the mark she had left was still indelible, a stain on her perfect image, a spot that would only grow and could potentially consume everything around itself.
However, as soon as she left the kitchen and flew upstairs, skipping the steps, the initial enthusiasm began to evaporate. Rhaenyra caught her reflection in the large mirror on the bedroom wall — and immediately, she swallowed a lump in her throat.
What was she even thinking? Ten years was a long time, and the image in the polished, spotless surface did not lie — she had changed more than she would like to admit.
She shook her head. She buried her face in her palms. No, it could not be the truth — it was just this cursed room, the wrong lighting. This house, this neighbourhood had a peculiar way of draining the life out of everyone — so her pallor must be due to it, too, the malady of losing colour afflicting her as well, turning her into yet another victim of greyness, stillness, and utter lack of individuality.
She needed to be out of here to see herself for what she was. If she took the car now and drove straight to the city, she would have enough time to get ready — Daemon had just sent her the reservation details, and Rhaenyra would be perfectly on time if she got ready in her city apartment instead of languishing in here.
Quickly throwing things into her overnight bag, she moved like a lunatic possessed with the idea of running away. Her windows did not have bars, and she held all the keys to every door in this house, owning it in truth, owning every single thing inside it, including her husband, but Rhaenyra still needed some kind of push to finally bolt.
And yet at the same time, she was well aware that she was packing things just for one night, and even that was probably more than she actually needed. She was not running away; she was going from one prison to another, from one house to another. It was not freedom; it was escorting a prisoner from one cell to another at best.
At least the lighting was different in Manhattan. It was less white, less soft, less diminishing.
At least New York at night had true colours.
Running downstairs with her bag in hand, wearing a simple pair of jeans and a polo shirt, her hair tied in a loose ponytail, Rhaenyra felt unadulterated glee of leaving the empty hallways and rooms behind for at least a night. Their house was huge and unwelcoming, meant for a family, too large for the two of them — she had no idea how Harwin had not gone insane yet in the vast space of white and beige, of granite and marble, of uncluttered fireplaces and bedside tables.
But she certainly had gone mad — she had no doubt of it now, feeling like a fugitive while locking the doors of her own house.
She drove in some kind of craze, having to consciously return herself to the road and reduce the speed so as not to go over the limit multiple times. It was a nice day, with the cerulean of the sky distracting her multiple times, with the sun bright enough for her to need her large tinted glasses.
Still, she was driven by a purpose, not really having time to take in the beauty of the morning. Some kind of inner clock was ticking, and Rhaenyra felt like she might detonate if she did not reach her destination in time.
She also glanced at her phone more often than she really should when driving. Stupidly, foolishly, Rhaenyra waited for another message from Daemon — she had somehow survived ten years of not hearing a single word from him, and yet as soon as he broke the barrier between them, she now longed for a deluge, not a shy stream of words.
The hours of driving blended together, and when she parked her car in the underground space beneath their building, she exhaled loudly. Her entire body was numb — she realised she had been gripping the steering wheel with such force that her arm muscles were hurting now, barely relaxing in the two and a half hours of driving. Rhaenyra had been lucky that traffic had not been nuts — the high-profile commuters had mostly reached their workplaces by then, but otherwise, she would have been stuck in the limbo for even longer.
But she was fine, she reminded herself. She was out of that suburban hell, out of the sanitised perfection, back in the thick of it, in the boisterous, colourful, bright megapolis that had so many people like her.
She was not an alien here. There were others like her, desperate, broken-hearted, mad.
They rarely stayed in their place in the city. Harwin preferred the Hamptons, and summers were non-negotiable, but her husband was keen on spending time there even in winter. It brought him closer to his friends and the world of exclusiveness, and it was good for building a family, too — Rhaenyra clenched her jaw every time she remembered his words about needing to be closer to the peace and quiet of nature and further from the vices of the city.
She had accepted that, too, just like she had accepted everything before that. Rhaenyra had moved, Rhaenyra had begun to spend less and less time in Manhattan, no longer frequenting the bars and the jazz clubs, and it was difficult to answer why she had acquiesced, but luckily, no one really ever asked.
Was it why she was so agitated now? Did she worry Daemon would ask, with his unique ability to see through her?
Rhaenyra inhaled the stale air inside the apartment as she turned on the lights. God, it was such a nice place — the panoramic windows overlooking the city, the eclectic furniture of the living room, the bright artworks she had bought a lifetime ago. It was still not perfect, still too polished and too obviously belonging to a stay-at-home wife and daughter of high-flyers, but it was already better.
It was the place where she kept more parts of herself — maybe that was why she felt more at home here.
Throwing her bag onto the floor, Rhaenyra dashed straight to the bathroom. Opening the taps, she exhaled, delighting in the steam rising immediately, filling the room, condensating on the wall tiles. Her hair was gross; she needed to wash it and also wash away all the particles of dirt she had brought here from the Hamptons, all the grime of unremarkableness and blandness.
Scrubbing herself clean, massaging the rose-smelling shampoo into her scalp, detangling her wet hair, Rhaenyra strove to inhale as much steam as possible — it was supposed to be purifying, and she wanted to be clean even on the inside. Something about meeting Daemon made her want to erase everything she had collected over the last ten years, all the residue of her life that clung even to her bones deep under her skin, and Rhaenyra knew that it was probably stupid to hope for a magical rebirth and to be so ashamed of maturing, but she could not help herself.
It was perverted and wretched — to think that her uncle had only ever loved her as a teenager, in her purity, in her weightlessness, in her lack of layers of bitter experiences.
But was it so far-fetched to think this way?
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, waiting for it to clarify, Rhaenyra prayed that this reflection would be more to her liking than the one at her Hamptons house. It was no magical tool, and nothing would erase the age that had changed her, but it had to be fresher, had to be more complimentary.
She twisted her hair and secured it with a large clip to keep it away from her face. As she watched the image of herself develop, Rhaenyra counted the heartbeats and wondered if she could even trust her own eyes, let alone mirrors.
She had thought about fucking Daemon, already delirious with desire — but what made her think she was still desirable?
Carefully, Rhaenyra touched her face. It was unpleasantly red after the shower, but at least she no longer looked like a deathly pallid Victorian child. The circles under her eyes had not gone anywhere, though, and perhaps even the eye creams and concealers would be powerless to undo what years of sleepless, tears-filled nights had caused.
She vividly remembered herself from ten years ago, and it was easy enough to admit that she did not look the same anymore. Her gaze was not as bright and piercing anymore, and the constant challenge she had once burned with was no longer to be found. Rhaenyra used to look at the world as if she dared it to screw her over, and perhaps she had failed to notice when it actually did.
Rhaenyra pulled on her skin, imitating a facelift. Perhaps she should get one, she mused. There were small wrinkles around her eyes whenever she smiled or laughed too much, creases of a happy, fulfilled person, and they did not suit her, did they?
She was only twenty-six; she was still very, very young. It was entirely too early to worry about Botox, facelifts, fillers and plastic surgeries.
But was it still too early if she genuinely believed that her life ended when she was just sixteen?
Everything since had been just mindless wandering, and it was evident on her face, too. It bore the proof of her being unhappy, and Rhaenyra loathed the fact that her uncle was about to see her so changed, so lifeless, so washed out.
Was her neck sagging? Were there any grey hairs she failed to notice because they blended well with her silver-gold mane?
Rhaenyra went to her closet, tearing herself away from the mirror. There, she still had a box of clothes she had picked from her father’s house when she moved in with Harwin — to this day, she was not sure why exactly she had done that.
Those things were the artefacts of her tempestuous youth, the things she wore as a reckless teenager. High-waisted shorts in size zero that covered only half of her ass but were the peak of adolescent fashion ten years ago; cropped tank tops in the most acidic of colours; babydoll dresses in every floral pattern imaginable with cute lacing around her bust.
She was not sure what she had tried to achieve by carrying them over into her new life. She must have known even years ago that she would never fit into them again, and squeezing herself in size zero anything would not work. The growth of the twenties, rosé wine for lunch at least three days a week, birth control — all that had contributed to her growing some curves that her teenage angular self simply had not had. It had been some foolish hope and conviction that she would certainly lose enough weight one day to wear those things again.
But even if her hips had been less fleshy, even if her boobs had been a size or two smaller — did she have any reason to try on her past self this way? The clothes she was now rummaging through belonged to Rhaenyra from ten years ago, to the one that did not wear panties when Daemon took her to dinner at a posh restaurant in Malibu, to the one who believed she could set the entire world on fire and get away with it.
She clung to them like relics, believing that if she still had shards of that glorious past, then she could one day go back. Rhaenyra might know that it was a foolish dream, logically, rationally, but she kept telling herself that she would definitely lose all the weight, remove all the swelling, all the puffiness, all the dark circles. There must be some magical key to the wonderland, to the other side of the door, and Rhaenyra still thought it was possible to invent a time machine — or at least transform her current life into something similar.
No longer in possession of the body of an overeager, bratty schoolgirl, Rhaenyra was nonetheless beautiful in the ethereal Targaryen way. She knew that she could put almost anything on and still be one of the most gorgeous people in the room, perhaps second only to her dashing uncle. It was not idle worry about her looks making her tremble now; it was a very peculiar kind of anxiety, the one that stemmed from cognitive dissonance Daemon was bound to experience when he saw her again.
What could she wear that would make her feel closer to that girl by the pool from ten years ago? Rhaenyra went through her actual clothes stored in this closet, through pencil skirts, polo necks, cashmere jerseys, turtleneck woollen dresses, and linen suits. Every single outfit screamed privilege, screamed status, but that was not what she needed.
She was not about to open a plaque by her father’s side or host a party for Harwin’s friends. All those cream, beige, light blue, and blush pink garments would not do.
From the depth of her closet, Rhaenyra fished out an old pair of leather pants. Her breath hitched in her throat as she wondered if they would even fit after all those years — she could not remember when was the last time she had them on. Miraculously, though, she did manage to fasten the button, even though she had to admit they were a little tight in the hips. She did a few squats and lunges to ensure they were sturdy enough and went on the hunt for a shirt.
Something simple should do. Finding a white oversized button-down took way less time, and soon enough, she was standing in front of the mirror again, inspecting the makeup bag she had swiftly packed back at home and the contents of the bathroom drawer.
Nude lipstick. Soft pink lipstick. Mocha latte lipstick. God, it was all wrong.
Those were shades for tea afternoons and brunches with politicians’ wives. For church and for state funerals. For Alicent’s boring birthday parties. For baby showers of endless friends of the family.
Rhaenyra from ten years ago would not pick any of this. Hell, even Rhaenyra right now despised her options.
Still, she outlined her lips and drew a winged eyeliner. It was almost even, and she found the strength to smile, rather pleased with what she had managed to do with the canvas of her body, the same body that kept more secrets than even her little diary.
She thought about warriors of the past putting on their armour, fastening the metal plates, and choosing the right sword or lance. Did it feel the same? Was there the same sense of foreboding? Of nervous anticipation?
Rhaenyra wished she had something brighter, something more appealing on. She remembered her heavy makeup from teenagehood, the bright, intense eyes lined with heavy black colour, smudged to create the smoky effect. Fake eyelashes or just layers upon layers of mascara, berry-bright lipstick — when exactly had she lost all that? Where were her old brushes, her old lip liners, her lip glosses?
She blow-dried her hair and glanced at her phone. It had no new messages from Daemon, and the hands of the clock had not really moved that much — it was still early, and she still had time before it was time to meet her uncle.
Carefully, treating the object with remarkable reverence, Rhaenyra took her diary out of the bag. She learned her bitter lesson with her father — whatever she did, wherever she went, she did not leave this notebook behind anymore. It was partly due to her intense paranoia and partly because she was unhealthily attached to it, seeking comfort in the old pages on sleepless nights and the moments of her heart’s treason.
Now, Daemon would probably appreciate her giving it to him. If he had indeed got into some trouble with someone unwilling or underage, as Rhaenyra suspected, he would want her to stay silent, and while she was not ready to destroy the incriminating evidence, she was ready to surrender it in an act of goodwill.
Because really, could she have ever denied him anything?
A playful kiss on her sixteenth birthday, an invitation to his LA home — she had never refused a thing when the offer came from him, and she was preemptively getting ready to give up her diary if that brought him some comfort.
Rhaenyra wondered how old that mysterious she was. Knowing men in general and Daemon in particular, she could easily picture her as someone young — after all, it was her lot in life to age, and the men around her could afford to have their partners stay the same age forever.
Another promising girl on his sun lounger, auditioning for the biggest role of her life and bound not to get past the initial casting process.
What have you done this time, Uncle, Rhaenyra asked silently, playing with her wedding ring, both insanely curious and apprehensive of learning the truth.
She knew she would stand by his side no matter what had happened and would not testify against him no matter what people around them said. Her father could not force her to; in fact, it was obvious to her that publishing her old diary would cause him as much reputational damage as it would Daemon. In a way, her father had to keep it a secret, and it was simply easier to do so with her and Daemon so far apart.
It was terribly unfeminist of her, but she did not care. Rhaenyra believed the victims and the survivors; she just was not one of them, and her family had always insisted that loyalty to each other was the most important thing in the world.
And she was most loyal to her uncle, even after all those years.
She shoved the diary into her black purse together with her phone, keys and some cash. Part of her wistfully thought about packing a spare pair of underwear, too, in that delirious, crazed hope to be invited to sleep in his hotel room, in that mad, unfeasible conviction of her being reckless enough to agree.
There was still time, and Rhaenyra decided that she would walk to the bar. It would help her kill some time, and she would appreciate the opportunity to clear her head and not have to interact with anyone.
However, as soon as she was in the elevator, she realised that she could not go out like this. Everything about her outfit was wrong; she still looked like a housewife trying on her teenage daughter’s clothes or an office employee dressing down on a random Friday. Effortlessly classy, she was still too classy for her liking, and Rhaenyra sighed, cursing the elevator for taking so long to reach the ground floor.
Finally, the red zero gleamed on the panel, forcing Rhaenyra to look away from her reflection, and when the doors opened, she hesitated for a second. She could go back and change; luckily, there was still time.
But everything she would find in her closet upstairs would be just as lacklustre and boring as the clothes she was already wearing. She might change the shirt or choose a skirt instead of pants, but ultimately, that changed nothing. Everything she owned was in the same limited shades, in the same colours. Everything had respectable cuts and old money feel, but Rhaenyra knew that very moment that it was wrong, deeply wrong.
She dashed out of the building and got herself a taxi. There was not a lot of time for shopping and contemplating her choices, but she still could do something about her looks.
Getting out of the car at Herald Square, Rhaenyra put on her large eyeglasses and ran into the department store. Paranoid that someone might see her there, among tourists and bored teenage girls, Rhaenyra kept the shades on even inside, hoping that she was not famous enough to attract attention.
It was difficult to explain, but she felt the rush of danger coursing through her veins yet again. She had not shopped here in a long while, getting her clothes tailored or ordering from high-end designers without even going inside the stores.
She walked past all the designer aisles, looking for something bright, something eye-catching. Rhaenyra had enough bleakness and simplicity back at home, and today, she was on a hunt for something remarkable, something that would make her feel closer to herself from ten years ago. She wanted something that would remind Daemon of their time spent together as clandestine lovers, but at the same time scandalise her husband and turn her into someone he did not know.
She wanted something she would take off after tonight and store together with her teenage clothes, never to be touched again, preserving the magic and the glow of the special, once-in-a-lifetime occasion.
Because she was not dressed as someone Daemon used to know right now. She was dressed like her father’s child, like Alicent’s stepdaughter, like Harwin’s wife, and it was all wrong, too formal, too classy.
Finally, she seemed to find what she was looking for. Going through the dresses hanging on the rack, she noticed the one — it was simply a matter of knowing, like love at first sight.
Silvery white, covered in sequins so densely that they made the garment look inelegant and gaudy, it nonetheless caught the bright, harsh light of the department store and shone like some kind of treasure. Rhaenyra held it in her outstretched arm and then pressed it to her body — it would reach her mid-thigh when worn, still sufficiently modest but also certainly provocative, way bolder than anything she had worn in a long while.
But above all, it appealed to Rhaenyra because it reminded her of chainmail. Those tacky, silly sequins that would have looked better on her old tops or shorts really did work together, and she could picture herself wrapped in this dress like a knight from medieval times, brave, fearless, ready to plunge himself into the thick of battle.
She needed that confidence, and if the dress could grant it to her, Rhaenyra saw no reason to stop herself from buying it.
Swiftly, she moved from floor to floor, grabbing a pair of sheer tights to put under the dress, a cropped leather jacket that did not seem to go out of fashion, and a pair of grey heels. Paying for everything in cash, careful not to leave any digital footprint of her recklessness and desperation, she held her new purchases close to her chest, afraid that someone might take her brown paper bag away from her.
Having dashed to the M.A.C. counter, Rhaenyra picked the most saturated shade of red lipstick they carried, metallic silvery eyeshadow and some wipes to remove traces of her first attempts to emulate her past self. Hastily paying for her stuff and refusing help from a bored assistant, Rhaenyra found the nearest bathroom and barged in, all her bags firm in her hands.
Locking herself in the stall, she finally exhaled and felt her shoulders drop. Slowly, she rolled her neck — she still had time, and now, she would be way better prepared for the night, and it would be easier to handle Daemon’s rejection should it happen.
She wished she could have a cigarette now. It had been a while since she quit, but looking at her violently trembling hands, Rhaenyra thought wistfully about the scratching sensation in her throat and the smoke that had the particular tendency to calm her down.
There was nothing to panic about — she understood it on some level, and yet she still could not shake off the feeling of doing something terribly illicit, absolutely reproachable and shameful. What started as the feeling of floating, of temporary freedom, was now terrifying her.
But she pushed through despite the fear. Unbuttoning her shirt, Rhaenyra took a deep breath, remembering all of a sudden why she so rarely left home these days, why it was so difficult to remain composed and nonchalant with so many people around.
She could hear the voices and the jarring sound of the hand dryer. She heard people come and go, heard them laugh and slam the door. All the noise was oppressive and suffocating, like a large body of water closing above you, pressing on your chest, filling your lungs, but at the same time, Rhaenyra realised that there was something pleasant about being under the weight of something like this.
The world kept moving on. People refreshed their makeup, relieved themselves, fixed their hair, exchanged their secrets, and no one cared about her betraying her husband or her father. She was not the centre of anyone’s attention; she was just floating, floating, floating.
Rhaenyra closed her eyes. Another deep breath — and she imagined herself in the swimming pool, her arms thrown apart, her body light and perfectly balanced.
It was a true transformation, a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. Beneath the oversized shirt and the old leather pants, she was still beautiful, still sexy, still alluring. The dress fit her perfectly, and she revelled in the sensation of cheap fabric scratching her skin slightly, the sequins threatening to tear her tights. It was also somehow lighter than her previous choice of clothes, and it was way easier to straighten her shoulders in it.
She tore the price tags from everything and threw them in the trash. Shoving her old pants, shirt and shoes into her shopping bag, Rhaenyra opened the door of the stall and, still carrying everything in her hands, walked to the sinks.
The glittering silver on her fingertip was alluring, reminding her of scattered stars reflected on the surface of a lake. She stood like this for a while, turning her index finger and marvelling at the shining particles mixed with the creamy eyeshadow base, but then, aware that she was not alone in the store’s bathroom, she turned her attention to the mirror.
The lighting was far from perfect, but she did not need much. Leaning heavily onto the counter to be as close to her reflection as possible, Rhaenyra smudged the creamy silver all over her eyelid.
It was uneven, unblended, and patchy, but she did not stop. Dipping her fingertip into the little pot again, she gathered more and repeated her motion, adding another layer, making it thicker and brighter.
Her eyeliner was smeared now, no longer a perfect upward line. It reminded her of the messy makeup of her youth, not the perfect creation of a meticulous artist, and Rhaenyra smiled at her reflection.
She wanted to apply the glittery shade everywhere, on every inch of her skin, blend it into her collarbones, and massage it into her cheeks. It was hardly the product for this, but Rhaenyra rubbed her two fingers together nonetheless, hoping that her very touch might turn into something as mystical and enchanting as this formula of millions of little constellations turned into dust and now glistening on her eyes.
As she wiped away her current lipstick and opened the package of Ruby Woo, she noticed two teenage girls looking at her, watching her in the mirror. For a second, Rhaenyra panicked, afraid that she might have been recognised, caught red-handed while trying to put on a different life and cross the imaginary line of her normality.
But they did not look too surprised or scandalised by her appearance. Instead, they watched her in some kind of bashful awe, immediately blushing when Rhaenyra caught their glances in the reflection.
They could not be a day older than fourteen, dressed in baggy clothes and keeping their hands in their pockets. Rhaenyra remembered that age and remembered how she used to hang out in the mall with nothing better to do, an idle teenager strolling through the aisles and doing window shopping. Bored, jaded with the world despite barely experiencing it, she, too, had wandered in search of nothing in particular.
Rhaenyra smiled, not sure if she should say something. The girls were probably too young to really care about politics and know who she was, so the interaction remained just that — two pairs of eyes filled with curiosity and meek adoration and Rhaenyra’s faint smile as acknowledgement and gratitude.
She covered her lips with silky matte red, immediately taken aback by how vivid the colour actually was. She had forgotten it was that intense, and she swallowed thickly, thinking that it might have been a bad idea. Shimmering eyeshadow and smeared eyeliner were one thing, but this was entirely too much —
It is not ladylike, Rhaenyra! You look like a slut!
Red lipstick and a short dress? Do you want people to think your father raised a harlot?
Rhaenyra shook her head. Her stepmother’s jarring voice was filling her mind yet again, and she hated it, hated how accusatory it always sounded. Those were Alicent’s real words from another life, from years and years ago, and it was entirely too late to care about such judgemental remarks.
But they must have cut deep, and Rhaenyra had to steel herself not to succumb to her first instinct — to take out another makeup wife and just take it all off, forgetting the silly notion she could dare to wear a bright colour ever again.
She liked what she saw, even despite the pallor of her face and the tiniest purple veins resurfacing from under the brightening concealer. Rhaenyra was poignantly aware that it was not her real self, that it was a sham, a costume, but it suited her, even if just for one night.
Throwing the lipstick into her purse, she checked the time. Still enough to get a cab and arrive at the bar on time.
Walking out of the bathroom felt like stepping onto stage. Her legs were shaky, not at all because of the heels she had picked, and Rhaenyra felt almost sick with nerves. This was not her; this dress, this lipstick, this eyeshadow — it was a disguise, someone else’s life taken off the rack and put onto her body, smoothed out to fit her curves and her wrinkles, but not at all a part of her.
And yet there was something comforting about wearing a borrowed life. It was not her, not Rhaenyra Targaryen, and she could blend in with the crowd of lovers, cheaters, loners, friends and thrill-seekers. For a night, she was one of them, and she was free to observe — observe their interactions, the colour in their cheeks, the furtive gestures exchanged in elevators, taxis and under the tables.
It was just like watching a movie, she concluded.
But it was also better because, for once, she was inside the movie, too. Not interacting with the characters but feeling what they felt, seeing them from every angle and inhaling the same air.
As she was about to walk out of the store, she noticed a container for donating old clothes. Without second thoughts, she dumped her things there, having no need for them anymore, and it was immediately easier to walk without the burden of extra weight.
Outside, inhaling the evening air, Rhaenyra concluded that she did not really need a taxi. The bar Daemon would be waiting for her was just ten or so blocks away, and she could easily walk instead, showing off herself to the crowds of oblivious onlookers and thus hiding in plain sight.
Coming up to Times Square, she stopped abruptly in her tracks, probably annoying the people walking briskly behind her. However, Rhaenyra’s gaze was fixed on the bright billboard, her uncle’s face staring at her from it, his cryptic smile bewitching and so wickedly attractive as he showed off his wrist with a luxury watch he was promoting.
She gaped at it like a child until it changed to something else, to another ad that must cost a fortune to be shown on Times Square for millions of tourists and occasional wandering locals. But she, transfixed, kept thinking about his face and his eyes — and about the fact that in less than an hour, she would look not at the digital picture, not at pixels and photos, but at him in the flesh.
Being starstruck did not suit her, least of all being starstruck about Daemon. Rhaenyra thought it was silly to act like an obsessed teenager with buckling knees about someone who had held her as a screaming baby and then brought her to a similar pitch when she grew up in an entirely different context. Daemon was her uncle; he was her ex-lover. She knew him, even if they had not talked in ten years, and it was so childish of her to stand there and stare.
But ten years of love by proxy did that to a person, and she was enamoured with city light billboards, magazine covers, and movie posters.
Wrapping herself tighter in her leather jacket despite not really feeling cold, she kept walking. Soon, she kept telling herself. It was going to happen soon, and she had to prepare herself, to steady herself and not fall into his arms weakly, pathetically.
Soon, her clicking heels echoed.
Soon, her ragged breath rasped.