CHAPTER II: The Flower of The Realm

By the time Daenerys reached her thirteenth nameday, the court began to murmur of her as a flower in bloom. She was taller now, with the long, willowy limbs of her mother and the proud, high brow of old Valyria. Her silver-gold hair fell in waves to her waist, and her violet eyes, so like Queen Naerys's, seemed to shine with a quiet knowing.

The ladies of the court praised her manners. The septas praised her devotion. The lords praised her beauty—but always in tones half-guarded, for it was said the king himself had begun to notice.

Yet in the Queen's solar, there was peace.

Naerys Targaryen was still as frail as frost. Her skin seemed made of alabaster, her eyes dark-ringed and sunken. She coughed often in the mornings and trembled when she stood too long, but when Daenerys came to sit beside her, she smiled as if all was well in the world.

"You are growing into a fine woman," her mother said one morning as Daenerys helped comb her thinning hair. "Graceful, temperate, obedient. The Seven will favor you, child."

"I only do as you have taught me," Daenerys replied, quiet and dutiful as ever.

Naerys touched her hand, her grip like parchment. "You are a balm to me. Had I been given a daughter sooner, I might have endured this court more sweetly." Her eyes, clouded with dreams, lingered on her daughter's face. "I pray your husband will be gentle."

Daenerys said nothing. She dared not. Her mother never spoke of the king unless in the softest tones, and always in the past tense. What more was there to say?

Later that same day, she was summoned to the king's solar.

King Aegon IV Targaryen, by then grown monstrously fat, received his daughter sprawled across a divan of red silk, his fingers sticky with the remnants of a honey-glazed partridge. Three women lounged nearby, their gowns sheer and their laughter low. Daenerys recognized none of them.

She curtsied low. "You summoned me, Your Grace."

Aegon's smile was lazy, his eyes trailing over her like a butcher assessing a prize sow. "So I did," he said, waving a glistening hand. "Come closer, daughter. Let me look at you."

She obeyed, her steps careful, her chin held high.

"Seven take me, you've grown," he said, loud enough that the women tittered. "A woman now, isn't she? Hips and all. That silver hair will drive half the realm mad."

Daenerys felt heat rise in her cheeks. She said nothing, only lowered her gaze.

"You've your mother's face," the king went on, "but not her bones, thank the gods. Soft where it counts. That's what men want, you know. No lord wants a wife who looks like she'll shatter in the bedding."

She clenched her hands in her skirts. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

"You'll be wed soon, of course," Aegon said as he reached for a goblet of strongwine. "Not yet, no—but soon. I'll find a good match. An ally worth the price. You'll spread your legs for peace, same as any princess. Just make sure you behave until then."

His eyes glittered with a mirthless humor. "No dallying with Daemon."

The sound of her brother's name struck like a slap.

Aegon took a long pull from his goblet. "He's a good lad—cocky, but strong. Too strong, maybe. And proud. Daena's son through and through. I won't have him stirring foolish notions in your head. Keep your skirts down, daughter."

Daenerys nodded once, woodenly. "Yes, Your Grace."

The king waved her away, already turning back to the women who waited for him with painted smiles and perfumed sighs.

She left without a word, her stomach twisting, the air in the halls thick and bitter. When she reached her chambers, she stood before the mirror long and silent, watching the girl in the glass—silver-haired, violet-eyed, with a woman's body now.

She hated it. Hated the way it changed how the world looked at her. Hated the way her father looked at her.

Daemon would not look at her that way. Of that she was sure.

That night she found him in the training yard, sparring with Ser Mervyn Flowers beneath torchlight. He was sweating, grinning, his dark hair damp with effort. When he saw her, he straightened, wiped his brow, and flashed her that same crooked smile he had given her in the godswood all those years ago.

"My silver doe," he said.

She did not smile back.