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[ Instinctively, Rhaenyra's arm rises for her hand to cup over one cheek — carefully, so as not to aggravate any bruises Daemon has already sustained, ones that seem to be purpling more visibly now that he's standing here in the light with her. Surely, he has sustained worse than this, over those many years fighting in the Stepstones and many other battles besides, but she has also not been privy to those wounds, never been in a position to tend to him in the aftermath. ]

Attacked?

[ The fact that he makes mention of the truce, by name, gives her pause, and she lifts her head to regard him directly, brow furrowed with confusion. ]

You mean to say one of the Greens was responsible?

I mean to say Alicent is responsible.

[ Not that he is inclined to admit it to anyone else, for the shame of it. There is something uncomfortable about admitting that he had fallen victim to her hand, even if she had some otherworldly power about her to do it. Daemon would not confess to any woman besting him, but he is aware the secret remains safe between himself and his wife (and, likely, Aemond and himself, too, for whatever it means).

A breath comes from him, and he reaches to draw his wife closer. ]

For the wounds, and for my hair both.

[ Rhaenyra finally stares at Daemon, fully, at those words, gaze sweeping over the entirety of appearance and observing all of the details she had not given ample attention to before.

The length of his hair, short in a way she hasn't seen since he returned from the Stepstones all those years ago, handing over his crown to her father — but here, it's shorn off, raggedly, as if the ends had been forcibly cut rather than trimmed by a more skilled hand. Between that and the manner by which he's gingerly holding his own arm, she finds it difficult to comprehend that Alicent would even have the strength to be capable of such violence. ]

By her own hand, she did this?

[ Both of her hands are cupping his face now, with tenderness, as a myriad of emotions rises up within her — confusion, anger, and above all sadness, that her efforts at a truce have not been honored. ]

We spoke of peace. We spoke of it, and agreed. [ A little disbelieving, that in light of all she and Alicent have shared, both in private and before others, that Daemon has been left in this state. But now her thoughts are racing, as she lifts her head, already attempting to plan out her next steps. ]

We must find a healer. Whoever may be closest to a maester — I'll summon Jace to find one, and fetch a maid to run you a bath. No — [ She shakes her head, deciding against it; the fewer people who know what's happened, the better. ] I can see to the bath, I've done so before.

By her own hand. It seems whatever death took her has returned her with a strange affliction.

[ Because of course Daemon does not imagine that Alicent would have any kind of strength of her own, no real ability to harm him on her own merit. The physical change in her, the ability to use flames, to burn his hair and cast him down, leave him bruised and broken - no, she is not capable of such things. She is frail, and irritating, and more self-righteous than she has any right to be, but she is not strong in stature.

Leaning into her touch, relaxing ever so slightly from the sweetness of her fingers against his skin, Daemon shakes his head. ]

I will find a healer later. I am tended to well enough, and my arm will settle.

[ The sling that Aemond had made would suit for now, until he has washed the strange discomfort and shame from his body and laid with his wife a little, to ease some of the rage and fury that ignites in him. Daemon is not a calm man, but he knows better - he cannot go and slaughter Alicent Hightower and risk their truce, for the sake of Rhaenyra and Jace both. Even if he were to try, she would simply return, perhaps stronger than before.

Lifting his head, he leans in, kissing her jaw, her palm, anything he can reach. ]

She cares not for our truce, but I do not intend to break it. I gave you my word, my love. My vows are yours and yours alone.

It would be far from the first instance.

[ Death, a seemingly permanent state, followed by an impossible resurrection and then strange effects, though whether this will be a permanent affliction or something that fades over time is a mystery Rhaenyra has not solved on her own. Jace had faced similarly, with unpredictable symptoms that had confused both of them, yet even he seems to be faring better than before.

Even as her mind continues to mull over next steps — and what a potential confrontation with Alicent may lead to — Daemon's subtle lean into her touch successfully draws her back to the present moment, to him. To them. ]

I will find a healer. You will rest.

[ Said in a soft tone, but one that brooks no protest from his side; still, she imagines he will feel marginally improved once he has bathed and attempted sleep, but she can at least summon Giles or one of the maids to provide him with something for his pain in the meantime, before the arm is seen to. Daemon's kisses elicit the barest smile, a brief but fleeting upturn at one corner of her mouth, and she lifts her chin to press her lips to his, once. ]

I am grateful for all you have sworn to me. More than you could possibly know.

[ It has not always been so between them, trust and loyalty, but it is present now, in every touch, every pause they take to reaffirm it. ]

Let me run you a bath, husband.

[ His own strange symptoms from his death is something that he is not talking about, is keeping to himself, the overwhelming urges that he has to hide away from. There is no need to discuss it, and so he has not shared it; let Rhaenyra think that he has come back to her whole and without damage, without consequence for his defence of their daughter, and the love that had bound them all together as a family throughout the murder games.

Whatever Rhaenyra decides with Alicent, Daemon will not like her, will not tolerate her, will be sour and cruel and harsh in his tone and regard of her. He will not listen to any command she gives, because Alicent is no queen of his, no goodsister, nothing to him save an irritant, like a stone in the bottom of his leather boots.

Sighing, his eyes close and he relaxes. ]

I will rest.

[ His good arm wraps around his wife, draws her close, to tuck her against his body with gentle care of his broken arm. Tilting his head up, he nuzzles into her, the same as he has done dozens and dozens of time before. ]

You can continue to praise me as I bathe, then. And would you see to my hair?

[ He trusts her enough to finish where Aemond had left it, the remaining burned ends and strange cuts needing a tender touch. ]

I will.

[ Obliging, for the moment, in his desire for more praise, but only so far, since out of the two of them, she is the one who is currently unharmed and therefore in a better position to tend to him. In years past, would she have done it so readily, though, especially if there were maesters more qualified to lend their healing touch? Would he have accepted her care, as wife, or considered it as something beneath her as queen?

This strange estate, for all that it has tested them with, has also brought them low, among those who have no knowledge of the war that they are preparing to fight against the other side of their house. With those circumstances stripped away from them here, is there still a need for them to be queen and king consort any longer? Or are the only roles that yet remain those of wife and husband?

Tenderly, Rhaenyra cups the side of Daemon's face, fingers sweeping over skin and back toward the newly shorn ends of his hair, careful in how she sifts through the strands. ]

Do you require assistance with your clothing? [ Since he is lacking an arm, and she has two good hands to lend; she can start running the bath in the meantime, ensuring it is at the level that might be considered scalding by those whose blood is not of the dragon. ]

[ Another time, another place, and perhaps he would be more sour, more bitter, more cruel towards her for her sweetness, for the tenderness she gives. For all that this place has given him more to be angry over, more to be enraged by, it has also given him more time to bask in the joy of being with his wife, of enjoying their time together, of being able to do no more than be the married couple they had always enjoyed being.

Daemon makes a better husband and father than he does a brother, it seems, and he permits himself the weakness of relying on his wife for the briefest of moments. He had bent the knee to her, after all, and had given her vow upon vow; he intends to keep those words.

Leaning into her touch, he sighs softly, turning his head to press a kiss to the soft edge of her palm. ]

I can make do.

[ It's not the first time he has been wounded and needed to undress, at least. ]

Will you join me?

[ Rhaenyra's starting is small, slight, but still apparent when it comes. The truth of the matter is that they have not asked each other for such things, in the past — that, for all the nights they have shared a bed and come together with the strong intention of making another heir, of strengthening their line, the nights of sole intimacy became fewer and further in between.

Never had she sought him out during his baths, and the same had been true for him, but he had tended to her so sweetly when she'd needed him the most, quiet and unsettled after her death and resurrection, bathed her with hands as careful and gentle as a maester's — hands that would sooner choose to hold a sword than give comfort to another. Yet comfort he had given, and through them she had been returned to herself.

Rhaenyra nods, quietly, in assent, when he asks — because he's asked, and because she finds she cannot deny him, even if the thought of denial had never crossed her mind to begin with. ]

I will.

[ If this will restore him too, she'll draw him into her arms, let him recline against her body as she curves herself around him, soothe him with kisses as she cleans the singed ends of his hair. There is little she would not do, now, in these moments that are reserved for them alone. ]

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