A Lion Still Has Claws

Part 9

Solitude was an odd burden meant to mock the weakest at their lowest moments. Rhaenyra despised it. Being alone brought ridiculing thoughts that silenced the rage she needed to continue. The silence and stillness of her room were unbearable, as was the emptiness of her bed. The gift was meant to be a gift. Her children were floors above in their new rooms, she longed for their presence. 

Rhaenyra sat still in her bed. Her back pressed tightly against the gold-dusted headboard as she watched the sun leak into her room. It bled through the closed curtains, beams of light slowly illuminated the extravagant furniture that suffocated her. She attempted to ignore the impending thoughts and bustle of Keep, for it was her wedding day. The day House Bolton and Lannister would join together through a pressured marriage.

Her stomach churned as she was reminded of her place. She was a pawn for her father's role in the game. Lord Bolton willingly sold his daughter off once more. This marriage would solidify his power in the North, strengthening his claim as the land's Warden. The Lannisters would become his allies because of it. 

Rhaenyra's hands shifted against the sheets, trying to find comfort in the smoothness of their touch. She reached for her neck as her breath heaved. Her nails easily dug into her skin, each scratching deeply. Each exhale was a struggle. She began to sweat heavily, the sheets clung to her body in a constricting way. Her nails dipped further into her skin.

She rapidly pushed the sheets away and rose from her bed. In a hurry, she reached under the bed for her unused chamber pot. Rhaenyra fell to the floor and vomited into the clean porcelain. She craved comfort, the loneliness echoed around her in the still room. Her anger and rage silenced at the quietness emanating around her. 

Her hands shook as she pushed the watery chamberpot away. Rhaenyra's breathing settled as she pressed her hands to her eyes. She refused to cry. 

A hand began to cress the back of her head. She jumped suddenly, her back hitting the bed's wooden side harshly. "Piss!" She screamed in a pitched voice. Rhaenyra snapped her head to Ser Loras leaning over the bed's edge.

"Piss?" He smiled at her shock. His hand fell from her head as he moved to sit beside her on the stone floor."Really?"

Rhaenyra scowled as he joined her. She despised the brightness of his blue eyes, finding the happiness an unfitting complement to her melancholy. "How did you get in?" 

"Through the door." He spoke in an annoyed tone, Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at his obviousness. Loras opened his arms an embrace. She weakly nestled against him, her sadness quickly enveloping her once more. "Are you ready?"

Rhaenyra rested her head against his shoulder, enjoying the feel of his nightshirt. "No," her voice was a forced whisper. She hated the pain that emanated through.

"I wouldn't be either."

She leaned from his touch. Her hands reached to gently cress the stubble along his jaw. "You will be in my place in a fortnight," Rhaenyra argued. She admired him from her spot in his arms, yearning for the fictitious life she fantasized for in her childhood. Her hand moved to push through his lazy curls, she closed her eyes remembering the short days of their betrothal.

"Do you really think I will marry Cersei?" Loras's voice pulled her from her mind. His gaze filled with disgust as he detested the idea.

Rhaenyra stood from his arms, moving to the vanity across the room. She shook her head as she reached for the golden washbasin. "Not really, no." A twitch of jealousy curled in her belly as she answered him. The misogyny of the realm angered her as did Loras' laughter. She attempted to ignore him as she washed her face. The sweet rosewater was meant to calm the nerves. It made her sick. "Is it too late for us to marry?" She asked honestly.