bbygrldaemon

[bbygrldaemon]

in honour of the new daemon still

[bbygrldaemon]

Papa Daemon

his daughter is my oc daenaera but it could fit any of his girls i hc their hair was thick like their mamas

i yearn for laena hair volume

[bbygrldaemon]

daemon with bun

[bbygrldaemon]

i promised you 🦋

(crossposting from x, bsky, & ig)

[bbygrldaemon]

I can make this moment even better~

[bbygrldaemon]

[bbygrldaemon]

Daemon: I can take pain.

Rhaegar: You can’t talk to Otto for ten minutes.

Daemon: Well there’s pain and then there’s torture.

[bbygrldaemon]

Worse Things

Epilogue

Flashbacks

ao3 | spanish translation | masterlist

Seven Years Later

The morning sun shone through fluffy clouds as wind tousled Baelon's dark, shoulder-length hair. Vermithor soared through the clear sky, his rider securely strapped to the saddle, both enjoying the quiet peace of early dawn. They had taken flight before sunrise, and now as the golden light peeked over the horizon, it signaled their time to return.

Vermithor descended gracefully into the Dragonpit, allowing Baelon to slide down from the saddle. The alpha dusted off his riding leathers while watching the Bronze Fury move deeper into the cavernous space, where Syrax and Caraxes greeted him. Soon, his younger siblings' dragons joined them, including the sometimes-shy Morning, who mirrored his sister's timid nature.

The sight brought a smile to Baelon's face until the sound of an approaching carriage drew his attention. Before the vehicle came to a complete stop, the door flew open despite clear protests from inside, and out tumbled a five-year-old girl. Her dark curls bounced as she rushed down the carriage steps straight into Baelon's waiting arms.

"Kepa!" Baelon caught his daughter effortlessly, chuckling as he watched his five-months-pregnant wife, Arwen Arryn, carefully exit the carriage with assistance from a Kingsguard.

"Daena! You mustn't jump out like that," scolded Arwen, one of Lady Jeyne Arryn's daughters by her wife Jessamyn Redfort.

Baelon had met Arwen when accompanying his younger siblings to the Vale shortly after Aemond Targaryen's death. The beta carried a faint scent of roses and cherries, and Baelon had fallen for her instantly. Standing just above his shoulders like his mother had, with long dark hair framing her face, she now watched as their daughter mumbled a reluctant apology. Baelon stepped closer to press a soft kiss to his wife's forehead.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, pulling back slightly to study her face.

"Better than last night," she sighed in relief. "The Queen has summoned you to discuss the Runestone inheritance. With Ser Gerald Royce's sudden passing and no heirs..." Her voice trailed off, knowing the subject pained her husband.

Baelon remained silent, gently bouncing the now-fidgeting Daena in his arms.

"I can cancel the meeting if you'd prefer," Arwen whispered, her hand rubbing comforting circles on his shoulder. "He would understand."

"No," Baelon shook his head, offering her a loving smile. "You should go—we'll never hear the end of his complaints if you cancel your breakfast plans."

"Are you certain?" He answered with a nod and a tender kiss before the family boarded their waiting carriage back to the Red Keep.

Upon arrival, they parted ways—Arwen and Daena heading toward the castle gardens while Baelon made his way to the council chamber. His steps grew increasingly hesitant as he approached the heavy wooden doors, dreading the impending conversation. Taking a deep breath, he nodded to the stationed Kingsguard, who announced his arrival in a firm voice as the doors swung open.

Rhaenyra looked up from the council table, her face brightening. "Baelon, I'm pleased you came so promptly."

"Your Grace," he acknowledged, hesitating before continuing, "You wished to discuss the Runestone... inheritance?" He moved cautiously toward the table where his stepmother sat.

"Yes," Rhaenyra began carefully, "As you know, Ser Gerald Royce passed recently, and your... alpha mother once ruled as Lady of Runestone." She measured each word with evident care. "Gerald assumed stewardship until you came of age, but the war delayed matters."

She paused, but Baelon remained silent. "With no heirs, the title now falls to you."

"I'm aware," Baelon replied at last, settling into the chair opposite her.

"Of course," Rhaenyra continued, then caught herself. "Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't suggest this, but given your history with Runestone, and after everything..." She hesitated. "I don't wish to burden your family."

"Thank you," Baelon said after a moment's consideration. "I'll need time to think and consult with Arwen. Was there anything else?"

As both alphas rose from their seats, Rhaenyra seemed poised to say more before thinking better of it. "That will be all."

Baelon nodded and turned toward the door. Pausing before the heavy wood, he sighed softly before turning back with a genuine smile. "Truly, thank you, Rhaenyra."

At his words, the Queen's posture subtly lifted. She acknowledged him with a nod, and with that, he departed just as small council members began filing in. His path now led toward the royal gardens on the far side of the Keep.

As he walked, his thoughts wandered far from the present. While he knew Arwen would support any decision he made, he needed time to consider carefully. The prospect of returning to his childhood home sent uneasy chills down his spine—he had no desire to revisit the years of suffering he and his mother had endured within those walls. Yet perhaps creating new, happier memories might finally bring closure. The answer remained uncertain.

Baelon's thoughts scattered as he stepped out of the castle and into the gardens. He followed the familiar winding path that led to a vine-covered pavilion, its entrance framed by cascading flowers that draped over a white square table set with six chairs. Before entering the beautiful structure, he acknowledged Ser Luthor and Ser Lorent with a nod—the two knights stood firm on either side of the entrance.

Inside the pavilion, his wife's delicate silhouette caught his eye immediately. Arwen sat in one of the chairs, her long, dark hair now gathered into a loose braid that made him smile softly. Beside her sat an all-too-familiar figure with long, straight silver hair—and two small heads (one silver, one dark) peeking out from behind his shoulders.

"Muña, should you really be carrying both of them? You'll hurt yourself," Baelon chided as he approached the table where his wife and mother sat with Daena and his youngest sister, Visenya.

"I've carried children my whole life," Daemon retorted instantly, his tone dripping with familiar snark as he glanced up at his son with a slight frown. "A little weight on my lap won't kill me."

"Well, I don't want to hear you complaining about your legs hurting later," Baelon countered, leaning down to press a kiss to Arwen's crown.

"I don't complain," Daemon protested, sounding genuinely offended as he fixed his son with a glare, his lips forming the barest hint of a pout.

Baelon chuckled softly before bending to kiss his mother's head as well. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," the omega shrugged. "You should worry more about your pregnant wife," he added in that particular scolding tone Baelon remembered from childhood.

"Yes, mother," Baelon replied with another quiet laugh, watching as Daemon rolled his eyes.

Taking a seat opposite Arwen, Baelon let his gaze linger on the sweet scene before him. His wife beamed as she watched Daemon bounce and play with the two girls in his lap. The air around them carried the comforting scent of a contented omega, wrapping them all in a peaceful atmosphere.

Yet his smile faltered slightly as memories of that terrible day came crashing down upon him, violent as storm-tossed waves in the blackest night.

—————————————

Seven years ago

Baelon stepped into the chaotic chamber where Maester Orwyle and Maester Gerardys shouted orders to scurrying servants, demanding tools and blankets. At the room's center, lying motionless upon a wooden table, his unconscious mother lay surrounded by the frantic activity.

The alpha froze in the doorway, paralyzed by uncertainty and fear. His worst nightmare unfolded before him—the possibility of his mother dying—and he stood powerless to intervene. The scene transported him back to childhood, to those helpless moments when he could only watch from a corner as Rhea tormented the most important person in his life.

Some unseen force—perhaps his own will, perhaps Laenor's silent urging—propelled him forward. Like a specter, he wove through the room's chaos, maneuvering around bustling bodies all working desperately to preserve Daemon's life.

After what felt like an eternity, he reached the table. His mother lay alarmingly pale, lips tinged blue, eyes closed in an expression of unnatural peace that turned Baelon's stomach. He reached to touch Daemon's shoulder, but recoiled at the icy coldness of his skin. The maesters had stripped the omega bare, ostensibly to warm him, though Baelon understood the necessity of removing wet garments. Still, seeing his mother's vulnerable nakedness exposed to so many eyes unsettled him.

His gaze shifted to servants rushing in with steaming water, pouring it into a waiting bath. Having dried the omega's body, they now prepared to immerse him in heated water to raise his core temperature.

When Baelon looked back at his mother, he wondered if his eyes deceived him—had some color returned to those pale features? The blue tinge seemed less pronounced, the skin not quite so deathly white. A fragile hope flickered within him, though he dared not embrace it fully.

Time lost meaning as he stood vigil over his mother's still form, until sudden commotion announced another arrival. He turned to see his stepmother's entrance, watching as Rhaenyra's eyes found the prone figure on the table. In that instant, Baelon witnessed her world shatter behind those violet eyes.

Words failed him. He longed for his mother's comfort, for guidance through this impending heartbreak. But now the roles had reversed—Daemon lay in peril, needing protection Baelon couldn't provide.

He couldn't say who moved first, but suddenly Rhaenyra's arms enveloped him. He clung to her, burying his face in her chest as tears broke free like floodwaters. Whether minutes or hours passed, he couldn't tell—time had lost all meaning.

When they finally submerged his mother in the heated bath, his body temperature began to rise. Now, only waiting remained, and prayers to any gods who might listen for Daemon's awakening. Those twenty-four hours stood as the longest day of Baelon's life.

—————————————

"You should say yes," his mother's voice cut through his thoughts. Baelon looked up, momentarily confused. His bewilderment must have shown plainly on his face.

"Runestone," Daemon clarified, seeing his son's expression. "It's your birthright." The omega's fingers absently played with Daena's small hands as the child twisted strands of his long hair. "Regardless of what happened there."

"I don't know," Baelon sighed, the weight of indecision pressing upon him. "It's not that simple, muña."

"It is," Daemon insisted, smiling down at his granddaughter before meeting his son's eyes again. "You should have a proper home for your family. At least that woman left you something worthwhile. Besides—"

"I said it's not easy!" Baelon's sudden shout sliced through the conversation.

"Baelon!" Arwen's reprimand came instantly, but the alpha kept his gaze locked with his mother's.

Daemon's initial surprise hardened into irritation. "Arwen, perhaps you should take Daena and Visenya inside," he suggested, his tone deceptively calm—that particular cadence Baelon recognized from childhood, the one that always preceded a scolding. "It's growing chilly."

The beta glanced between mother and son before silently gathering the children. Taking their small hands in hers, she departed with Ser Lorent following closely behind.

Silence settled heavily between the two remaining figures. Baelon opened his mouth to speak but snapped it shut under his mother's sharp glare.

"I overlooked such outbursts when you were a child," Daemon finally said after a lengthy pause, his arms crossed. "But you're a man grown now. You know better than to speak to me that way."

"I'm sorry. It's just—"

"You think I don't understand?" The omega interrupted, his features hardening. "Of all people, I'm the one who truly comprehends." His voice softened slightly. "Your anger is justified, but don't direct it at me or your family."

"I'm scared," Baelon admitted, eyes dropping to his hands. "Terrified that every stone of that place will bring the past flooding back."

"You can't outrun memories forever," Daemon replied, his expression gentling at his son's vulnerability. "And you mustn't let that woman dictate your life even now."

A small smile tugged at Baelon's lips as he nodded. "I'll consider it," he conceded, rising to press a kiss to his mother's forehead. "I'm sorry."

Daemon's face brightened at the gesture. "Wait until after your sister's wedding celebrations next week," he advised, looking up at his son. "You can't very well miss those."

Baelon chuckled. "I wouldn't dream of it."

The omega's smile widened, but as he moved to stand, a searing pain shot through his legs and spine, forcing a groan as he collapsed back into his chair.

"Muña!"

"Your Grace!"

Both his son and sworn sword cried out in alarm, hovering over him in a manner that only stoked his irritation.

"I'm fine," he snapped, waving them back.

"Are you certain? Perhaps—"

"Your Grace, maybe we should call—"

"Enough!" Daemon cut through their anxious chatter, already feeling a headache forming. "I said I'm fine."

Baelon took a steadying breath. "It is getting cold. We should go inside."

The omega sighed, displeased but resigned. Gripping the cane resting against the table, he allowed Ser Luthor to help him rise slowly. The trio made their way toward the castle, heading for Daemon's chambers where he might rest properly.

—————————————

The dying embers in the hearth painted the royal chambers in hues of amber and gold as Rhaenyra pushed open the heavy oak doors. The scent of wintergreen and mint greeted her—Maester Orwyle had prepared the oils as requested, leaving them on the bedside table alongside a pitcher of warmed wine. The maester's note lay unfolded nearby, its careful script detailing what she already knew: the cold weather had seeped into her husband's bones again, tightening his muscles like iron chains.

Daemon lay propped against a mountain of pillows, his silver-gold hair fanned across the dark linens like liquid moonlight. The firelight caught the sharp angles of his face—the proud Targaryen jaw now slightly softened by age, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there before the Dance. His hands, usually so restless, lay still atop the coverlet, the fingers of his right hand twitching occasionally as if remembering the grip of Dark Sister.

"You're late," he murmured without opening his eyes.

Rhaenyra set her crown aside on the dressing table, the rubies catching the firelight. "The lords of the Reach have apparently forgotten what grain stores are for," she said, working the stiffness from her own shoulders as she moved to the bed. "They demanded an audience to explain why winter requires preparation."

A smirk tugged at Daemon's lips. "And here I thought ruling was all feasts and flattery."

She huffed a laugh, seating herself beside him and reaching for the vial of oil. The scent of wintergreen sharpened as she poured it into her palms, warming it between her hands before touching his leg. Even through the thin linen of his sleeping trousers, she could feel the tension in his muscles—the legacy of Vhagar's flames, the icy waters of the God's Eye, the years of battles that had shaped and scarred him.

Her fingers pressed into the knotted flesh of his calf, working with practiced patience. Daemon exhaled through his nose, his body gradually yielding beneath her touch.

"You should have sent for me sooner," she chided gently.

"And interrupt the Queen's sacred duty of listening to fat lords complain about the weather?" His voice was dry, but she didn't miss the way his breath hitched when her thumbs found a particularly stubborn knot near his knee.

Rhaenyra smiled but didn't reply, focusing instead on the rhythm of her hands—the steady kneading of muscle, the occasional soft crack of a joint releasing tension. The silence between them was comfortable, broken only by the occasional pop of the dying fire and Daemon's slow, deepening breaths.

Her thoughts drifted as she worked, her hands moving almost of their own accord as dark, heavy memories flooded her mind.

The memory sharpened into focus when her fingers brushed the jagged scar along his inner thigh—a gift from Crabfeeder's axe. Daemon's breath caught, and for a moment, she feared she'd hurt him. But when she glanced up, his eyes were open, watching her with an unreadable expression.

"Baelon will go to Runestone," he said suddenly, as if continuing a conversation they'd never started.

Rhaenyra's hands stilled. "You sound certain."

"He's my son." Daemon's voice was rough but sure. "He'll rage against it, he'll fear it—but he'll go. Because it's his."

Her fingers resumed their work, moving upward to his thigh. The muscle there was taut, the skin cooler than it should be—the legacy of near-drowning in the God's Eye. "You didn't push him?"

"I didn't have to." A pause. Then, quieter: "He's stronger than I was at his age."

The admission hung between them, weighted with things unsaid. Rhaenyra's hands slowed as she studied her husband's face—the way the firelight caught the silver in his hair, the faint scar that bisected his left eyebrow. Time had changed them both, carved its marks deep, but in moments like these, she could still see the reckless prince who had stolen her heart.

Her thumbs pressed into the hollow behind his knee, and Daemon groaned, his head tipping back against the pillows. "If I'd known you had such talented hands, I'd have fallen into the God's Eye years ago," he muttered.

Rhaenyra snorted. "Don't tempt fate." But her smile faded as her fingers traced the ropey scar tissue along his calf—the remnants of Vhagar's flames. The memory of that day rose unbidden: the smell of burning flesh, the way Caraxes had screamed as he dragged himself from the lake, the endless hours waiting to see if Daemon would wake—

A hand closed over hers, startling her from the memory. Daemon's palm was warm now, his grip firm as he tugged her closer. "Enough," he murmured.

She resisted slightly. "Your hip still needs—"

"Later."

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes silenced her. There was no pain there now, only quiet intensity—the same look he'd given her a thousand times before battles, before councils, before their children were born.

Her hands stilled on his legs, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she found herself staring at them—her fingers splayed over his thigh, the scars and sinew beneath her palms, the faint tremor in her own wrists from hours of holding a quill and a crown.

How many times had these hands gripped the reins of Syrax? How many letters had they signed, how many cheeks had they cupped, how many times had they clung to Daemon in the dark?

"Rhaenyra."

She blinked, realizing she'd drifted too far. Daemon was watching her, his expression unreadable.

"You're thinking too loudly," he said, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist.

A laugh escaped her, soft and tired. "Someone has to."

Daemon's mouth curved, but before he could retort, a gust of wind rattled the balcony doors, sending a draft through the chamber. The fire sputtered, and Rhaenyra shivered, suddenly aware of how late it was, how long the day had been.

Her hands, still resting on Daemon's legs, felt heavy now. The oils had soaked in, leaving his skin warm beneath her palms, but she made no move to continue. Instead, she simply sat there, her thoughts adrift once more—on Baelon, on Runestone, on the years ahead and the years behind.

Daemon said nothing. He never did in these moments. He simply waited, his breathing steady, his presence an anchor as the fire burned low and the castle slept around them. And for now, that was enough.

—————————————

Seven years ago

The moment the raven arrived with news of Vhagar’s sighting near Harrenhal, Laenor had known he needed to go. He didn’t question the instinct—just mounted Seasmoke and took to the skies, the wind screaming in his ears as his dragon cut through the clouds with desperate speed.

He arrived just in time to see the end. From high above, the battle unfolded like some terrible mummer’s show—Vhagar’s massive form twisting in the air, Caraxes’ serpentine body coiled around her, and then—Daemon jumping.

Laenor’s breath caught in his throat as Dark Sister flashed in the sunlight. Aemond’s scream echoed across the lake before both dragons—and both riders—plummeted into the God’s Eye.

The impact sent up a plume of white water, the shockwave rippling across the surface. Seasmoke roared beneath him, sensing his rider’s distress, but Laenor didn’t hesitate. He urged the pale dragon downward, landing roughly on the rocky shore.

He didn’t know why he had come. He didn’t know what he could do. But something, some pull deeper than reason, told him he needed to be here.

The lake was still, the silence oppressive. Laenor stood at the water’s edge, his boots sinking into the mud, his eyes scanning the dark depths. Then movement. A body resurfaced, limp and pale, silver hair fanning out like seaweed, Daemon.

Laenor didn’t think. He waded into the water, the cold biting through his clothes, his arms burning as he dragged the unconscious omega to shore. Daemon’s skin was ice to the touch, his lips blue, his chest frighteningly still.

“No, no, no—” Laenor hauled him onto the rocks, checking for breath, for a pulse, faint, but there.

Seasmoke crouched low, and Laenor lifted Daemon into his arms, heaving him onto the dragon’s back before climbing up behind him. He held the omega tight against his chest, shielding him from the wind as they shot toward Harrenhal.

The maesters were already waiting when they landed—someone must have seen the battle. Laenor carried Daemon inside, barking orders as they rushed him to a chamber where healers swarmed like ants.

Baelon stood frozen in the doorway, his face ashen. Laenor didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the younger alpha’s arm and pushed him forward. “Go,” he ordered. “He needs you.”

Baelon stumbled toward the bed, his hands shaking as he took his mother’s limp fingers in his own.

Rhaenyra arrived moments later, her crown askew, her eyes wild. When she saw Daemon, her knees nearly buckled—but Laenor was there, catching her before she could fall.

She didn’t speak. None of them did. The room was filled only with the sounds of the maesters working, the crackling fire, and Baelon’s choked whispers as he begged his mother to wake up.

When Rhaenyra finally broke—when she pulled Baelon into her arms and sobbed into his shoulder—Laenor didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and wrapped them both in his embrace, holding them together as they trembled.

He didn’t know what would happen next. He didn’t know if Daemon would live. But in this moment, he knew one thing for certain, he was exactly where he was meant to be.

—————————————

The Great Hall of the Red Keep shimmered with candlelight, its high windows thrown open to admit the warm evening breeze. The mingled scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh blossoms filled the air as laughter and music swirled about the gathered nobility. At the center of it all, the royal family presided over a long, lavishly set table—Rhaenyra at its head, her crown gleaming, Daemon at her side with his sharp features softened by the golden glow of torchlight, though his watchful gaze never ceased moving between their children.

Baela sat radiant in a gown of black and red, her silver hair braided with rubies, beside Jace, who looked every inch the future king in his dark velvet doublet. Their hands remained clasped between them, fingers intertwined as they exchanged quiet words and private smiles. Across from them, Baelon sat with Arwen, their daughter Daena drowsing in her mother's lap, while Luke and Joffrey bickered good-naturedly over a plate of honeyed figs. Rhaena, ever the peacemaker, rolled her eyes before stealing a fig from each brother and popping them into her mouth with a smirk.

At the table's far end, the younger children fidgeted under Elinda Massey's watchful eye. Viserys—a serious boy of nine with his mother's silver-gold hair—poked skeptically at his food while his elder brother Aegon attempted to coax a smile from their sister. Visenya, a wild-haired wisp of seven, paid little mind to her plate, her lilac eyes fixed raptly on the lute players instead.

The hall's glow intensified as Laenor Velaryon made his entrance, his sea-green doublet embroidered with silver seahorses catching the torchlight. A murmur rippled through the crowd as he approached the high table, his easy smile belying the weight of his years away from court.

"Father!" Jace rose immediately, clasping Laenor's forearm. The resemblance between them was striking—the same strong jawline, the same warm eyes—though Jace carried himself with an heir's assurance while Laenor moved with the relaxed grace of a man unburdened by duty.

Laenor turned to embrace Baela next, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "You look radiant, my dear."

From his seat beside Rhaenyra, Daemon observed the exchange with a carefully maintained smile. His fingers tapped once against his goblet before stilling when Rhaenyra's hand came to rest lightly upon his.

Laenor continued down the table, greeting each child in turn before finally taking his place at Rhaenyra's other side. "I'm glad you could arrange matters in Driftmark to join us," the queen said as the alpha settled beside her. He responded with a small smile and a nod toward Daemon.

Course after magnificent course appeared—tureens of rich crab stew, platters of succulent boar glazed with pomegranate, delicate pastries stuffed with spiced lamb and figs. The wine flowed freely, golden Arbor vintages and deep Dornish reds poured into jeweled goblets that glittered in the candlelight.

When Visenya's patience for formalities finally broke, the girl slipped from her seat and darted toward the dancing, her laughter ringing like silver bells. Elinda moved to follow, but Rhaenyra waved her back with a fond smile. "Let her be," the queen murmured, watching as her youngest spun in reckless circles, her slippers flashing against the stone floor.

Baela, catching sight of her sister's antics, grinned and whispered something to Jace that made him chuckle before he stood, offering his hand. "Shall we?"

The hall erupted in cheers as the couple took to the floor, their movements fluid and assured. Jace led with the careful grace of a prince trained in courtly dances since boyhood, while Baela moved with the fearless confidence of a dragonrider—her steps bold, her laughter bright.

Rhaena watched them with a pang of bittersweet emotion tightening her chest. She loved her sister, loved Jace—yet seeing them so perfectly matched made her own loneliness ache like an old wound.

As if sensing her thoughts, Luke nudged her shoulder. "Stop brooding," he teased, stealing a honeycake from her plate. "You'll have your turn."

She swatted at him, though the gesture lifted her melancholy, if only briefly.

As the feast waned, the family slipped away one by one until only guests remained to enjoy the celebration's final hours.

Each royal mounted their respective dragon for the flight to Dragonstone, where the most sacred ceremony, as Daemon insisted, would bind the newlyweds properly. Upon arrival, they dispersed to prepare for the coming rites.

Before the ceremony, Baela found Rhaena in the Chamber of the Painted Table, where moonlight streamed through tall windows to paint Westeros's carved map in shades of silver and blue.

"You're not having second thoughts?" Rhaena asked lightly, though her fingers worried at her sleeves.

Baela laughed, pulling her twin into a fierce embrace. "Not one." Drawing back, her dark eyes searched Rhaena's face. "But you're worried."

Rhaena exhaled, her smile small but genuine. "Only that you'll forget me once you're a married woman."

"Never." Baela pressed their foreheads together. "You're my other half. That doesn't change because I'm Jace's now, too."

Rhaena's throat tightened, but she nodded, squeezing her sister's hands. "Good. Because I'd never forgive you if you did."

Baela's laughter echoed through the chamber, bright and unburdened.

Later that night, deep within Dragonstone's heart, before ancient stone effigies of their gods, Baela and Jace stood side by side, their voices steady as they spoke their ancestors' vows. The braziers flared with blue fire as the priest wrapped the ceremonial cloth about their joined hands. Both wore traditional Valyrian wedding garments—the same style Daemon had worn when he wed Rhaenyra.

Daemon watched from the shadows, his chest tight. Memories flashed—Baela as a babe clutching his fingers, her first flight on Moondancer, her triumphant grin after her first training yard victory. Now she stood a woman grown, pledging herself to another. His vision blurred, and he turned away—but not before Rhaenyra noticed.

Her hand found his, their fingers intertwining. She offered no empty words, simply stood beside him as their daughter became a wife.

When the final vow was spoken, Jace pulled Baela close, their kiss making the flames roar higher. The family cheered—Luke whooped, Joffrey clapped, Rhaena dabbed at her eyes—but Daemon only leaned into Rhaenyra's side, his heart too full for speech.

She pressed a kiss to his temple, whispering words for him alone. "She's happy, my love. That's all that matters."

And for once, Daemon let himself believe it.

← Previous Chapter

[bbygrldaemon]

Worse Things

Chapter 16

High Valyrian Flashbacks warnings - graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of past child death

ao3 | spanish translation | masterlist

One week later

Daemon stared at the cobblestone wall before him, observing the moss growing in its crevices. He had been in this decaying castle for more than a week, attempting to resolve the conflict between the Brackens and the Blackwoods. Both houses proved hardheaded and stubborn, unwilling to yield in any matter.

The Blackwoods had immediately sided with him, having supported Rhaenyra's claim since her ascension to the throne. The Brackens presented a different challenge. After the Greens denounced Queen Rhaenyra and proclaimed Aegon as the true king, they had pledged their allegiance without hesitation.

The Riverlands represented crucial strategic territory, but their longstanding divisions made unifying them exceptionally difficult. Daemon had spent days trying to persuade House Bracken to bend the knee to Rhaenyra and join their forces, but their refusal to stand alongside House Blackwood remained an insurmountable obstacle.

The omega had summoned the head of House Tully, but instead received the lord's youngest son and heir, Oscar Tully. The ailing lord remained too sick to leave his bedchamber, let alone travel to Harrenhal. Yet until his father's passing, the young man could not properly exercise his authority as head of house, rendering him effectively useless to Daemon's cause.

During his stay at Harrenhal, Daemon had occupied himself with repairs to the crumbling fortress. Between these efforts, he found himself drawn to the only person who willingly engaged with him besides Ser Simon - Alys Rivers. An odd woman, yet strangely enough, she was the only one within those walls who offered him any measure of peace. 

The combined stresses—the unyielding Bracken-Blackwood feud, the constant sense of a looming threat, and prolonged separation from his alpha and children—had thrown the omega's hormones and moods into turmoil. He felt certain his mind was unraveling. Visions came to him at night: specters of the dead, or younger versions of his family members. But increasingly, the boundaries between dreams and waking reality blurred until he could no longer distinguish one from the other. It felt like dreaming while awake, and it was driving him to the brink of madness.

The frustration gnawed at him. He felt weak and helpless in ways he hadn't experienced in years. Perhaps those useless small council members and courtiers had been right about him. Since having children, he had grown vulnerable, susceptible—like all omegas, they whispered. He had heard the rumors that spoke of a cursed castle that drove men mad; maybe if he'd remained childless, suppressing his omega nature, he might have withstood it. Yet the thought of a life without his children now seemed unbearably bleak.

Several days prior, overwhelmed by the need for his family, he had attempted to depart. Alys Rivers had stopped him. The omega had heeded her counsel, and yesterday a raven arrived bearing news of the old lord's death, finally allowing the youngest Tully to assume his rightful position. Daemon had immediately summoned him and all the Riverlands houses, determined to secure their allegiance to Rhaenyra's cause once and for all.

"Your Grace," a voice spoke from behind him, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. "Lord Oscar Tully and the Riverlords have arrived."

Daemon turned his head to look up. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to the door—a ridiculous position for a prince, but he had stopped caring about appearances long ago. Ser Simon stared at him expectantly until the omega finally rose and brushed off his clothes.

He had chosen a flowing white shirt of near-transparent fabric, its delicate laces loosely tied to expose part of his chest. The shirt was tucked into snug black trousers, paired with his customary black boots. His freshly washed hair had been styled by Alys Rivers to cascade over his shoulders.

The display was intentional. Knowing he wouldn't earn the Riverlords' respect as an omega, he would settle for their lust instead. It was the simpler path, and with time running short, he had few options.

Accompanied by Ser Simon, Daemon entered the dining hall where Oscar Tully awaited. The young lord now wore a doublet bearing the Tully sigil, his brow furrowed with dark circles beneath his eyes that aged him beyond his years.

"The Riverlords don't like you. Convincing them to join forces will be difficult," were Oscar's first words upon the omega's arrival. The bluntness made Daemon smirk.

"I don't need their favor—only their swords. You, however, must earn their respect." Daemon closed the distance between them, looming over the younger man. "I trust you at least know how to do that?"

The boy's nervous fidgeting drew a chuckle from Daemon. He'd be damned if some a mare boy thought to intimidate him.

Without further discussion, they proceeded to the weirwood tree where the Riverlords had gathered. The heated arguments among the assembled nobles ceased abruptly at their approach. Daemon felt their hungry gazes burning into his skin like brands. He suppressed the slight shudder that threatened to betray his discomfort - his plan was working, though it brought him no pleasure.

After a heavy silence, the lords and ladies resumed their bickering, with Brackens and Blackwoods shouting loudest. Daemon felt the beginnings of a headache pulse at his temples. His glance shifted to Oscar, who stood gaping like a fish out of water—a sight that nearly made the omega roll his eyes.

Yet he remained silent. These nobles needed to respect their new liege lord enough to follow his command to fight for Rhaenyra. When Oscar's panicked eyes met his in a silent plea, Daemon gave only the barest shake of his head before turning back to the unruly crowd. With each passing moment of the boy's inaction, Daemon fought the urge to slap some courage into him.

"Silence!" Oscar's sudden shout nearly startled him, though his composure never wavered.

Truthfully, Daemon registered little of what followed. His attention had been stolen by a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. Turning toward it, he found himself staring at the spectral form of his elder brother.

Viserys Targaryen stood beside the weirwood tree wearing that familiar expression—disappointment. From this angle, he seemed to look down upon Daemon just as he had during his reign. The omega tried to avert his gaze, repeating silently that this wasn't real. Yet, as in life, he found himself unable to ignore his brother for long.

Their eyes locked, and Daemon felt a lump form in his throat, unshed tears burning behind his eyes. Conflicting emotions warred within him as he stared at the man responsible for years of grief, yet also his beloved brother, whom he would have forgiven with a single word of remorse.

The threat of tears shocked him. He hadn't realized how deeply he missed Viserys until this moment. The apparition made him yearn for their youth, when Viserys had raised him after their mother's death and father's decline. Perhaps with his current knowledge, things might have been different—their lives happier. But such wondering was pointless. He would never know, and that truth cut deeper than any blade.

A sudden roar of approval snapped him from his trance. Turning back to the crowd, he found lords and ladies alike raising swords and voices in unison.

"We'll fight alongside your army for Queen Rhaenyra!" declared Humfrey Bracken, his declaration met with enthusiastic agreement.

Daemon masked his surprise. Somehow, Oscar's words had convinced them to set aside generations of enmity against a common foe. Or perhaps having a pretty omega to smell and look at had clouded their judgment. Regardless, he wasn't about to question their decision.

After that, everything moved rather quickly. Plans were made for the soldiers to settle within and around the Harrenhal castle. The following two days were spent completing renovations and assembling camps for the thousands of soldiers arriving by the hour.

Daemon had instructed Ser Simon to send a raven to Rhaenyra, informing her of his success. Her response came swiftly—she would come on dragonback when circumstances permitted.

Having spent the entire day keeping busy to banish the image of his elder brother from his mind, night found Daemon once more lying abed, staring at the ceiling in sleepless agitation. Now, with the possibility of his alpha's imminent arrival combined with the spectral visitations from deceased family members, his nerves were stretched taut.

The night stood utterly silent save for the wind howling against the castle's cobblestone walls, creating an eerie atmosphere. He clutched the bedcovers up to his chest, waiting, expecting.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to sleep to the sound of the violent breeze. Suddenly, the stillness was shattered with a distant, piercing cry. Daemon jolted upright instantly, his gaze snapping to the closed door. He would recognize that sound anywhere—after years of hearing it regularly every few months - the cry of an infant.

Perhaps it was the omega in him, or his maternal instincts, but Daemon threw off the covers without hesitation. Snatching up Dark Sister, he rushed from the chamber clad only in his nightgown, the night's chill biting at his exposed skin.

Following the desperate wails, his steps were quick yet deliberate—silent. They led him to a candlelit room with its wooden door left slightly ajar. The cries emanated from within.

Daemon edged closer, pushing the door open with Dark Sister still gripped tightly in one hand. Inside, he encountered a strangely familiar scene. Against the far wall stood a bed, and beside it, a simple wooden cradle, the source of the crying.

With careful steps and dread coiling up his spine, he approached. Peering into the cradle, his sword slipped from his fingers. There lay a painfully familiar figure. Though he had known her for less than a day, her image had been seared into his memory forever—a ghost that had haunted his existence for years.

Trembling hands reached down to lift Alyssa. Cradling her gently against his chest, he stared down at her, unable to look away. A sob tore from his lips as tears fell. He clutched her tightly, weeping openly, before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Time lost meaning as he remained there, holding his daughter and weeping. Then suddenly, the crash of the door slamming open. Whirling around, he came face-to-face with the one person he'd hoped never to see again: his first wife, Rhae Royce.

"Useless omega! You couldn't even do your duty!" the alpha bellowed, stomping closer with each word.

Daemon retreated, clutching Alyssa protectively. Dark Sister lay too far away - out of reach. In that moment, he regressed to that weak omega trapped at Runestone, too frightened to leave. His back hit the wall, and he slid down to sit on the cold floor.

"It was your fault." Her words stabbed like knives, twisting until he bled out internally.

Bile rose in his throat as he stared into Rhae's lifeless, pitiless eyes. She didn't advance, didn't try to take Alyssa—just stood watching as he shattered on the floor. Turning away, his gaze returned to his daughter, falling into a trance.

Ser Simon Strong awoke with a start to distant, anguished sobbing. He scrambled from bed, seizing a lit candle as he hurried from his chambers. Rumors had reached him about the Queen's consort wandering the castle at night—until now, he'd let it pass, but he couldn't risk injury befalling the Queen's omega under his care. That would reflect poorly indeed.

Following the sounds—the sobs now mingled with incoherent muttering growing louder with each step—he finally reached a wide-open, pitch-black chamber. Extending his candle, its feeble light barely penetrated the darkness as he advanced toward the noise.

There he found the consort sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth while clutching a blanket to his chest. "My fault," the man mumbled repeatedly, voice broken.

"Your Grace?" For the briefest instant, Ser Simon saw the omega's red, swollen eyes and tear-streaked face before Daemon lashed out violently.

The wild swing barely missed as the old man stumbled back, hearing the omega's screams to be left alone. Ser Simon retreated, closing the door behind him. Pausing to collect himself, he then made straight for his study, needing to send a raven to the Queen with haste.

—————————————

The light of dawn painted Harrenhal's ruined towers in shades of charcoal when the first distant roar echoed across the God's Eye. Ser Simon Strong, having kept vigil all night, stumbled from his study at the sound, his aged joints protesting as he hurried toward the outer yard. The castle stirred around him—soldiers rubbing sleep from their eyes, squires scrambling to prepare for royal company.

A second roar, closer this time, sent flocks of ravens scattering from the twisted weirwood in the inner yard. Simon reached the main courtyard just as Syrax's massive golden form blotted out the rising sun, her wings kicking up great gusts of wind that sent cloaks snapping like war banners. The dragon landed with earth-shaking force, her claws scoring deep grooves in the ancient stones.

Rhaenyra dismounted with the easy grace of one born to the saddle, her riding leathers streaked with dust from the long flight. Simon noted with some concern the dark circles beneath her eyes, the new lines of tension around her mouth. The crown had aged her since he'd last seen her at the wedding feast.

"Your Grace," he called over the dying wind, bowing low. When he straightened, he found the queen studying Harrenhal's fire-scarred walls with an unreadable expression.

"It's uglier than I remembered," she remarked dryly, before turning those violet eyes on him. "Where is my husband?"

Simon swallowed hard. "The Riverlords have pledged their swords, Your Grace. Every house from the Twins to Maidenpool. Prince Daemon secured them for your cause."

Rhaenyra's gaze sharpened. "That's not what I asked."

The old man hesitated, his fingers worrying at the frayed edge of his sleeve. "He…has not been sleeping. These past nights, he's been…" How to explain the screams they'd heard echoing through the halls? The servants' whispers about the prince talking to people who weren't there? "Not himself," he finished lamely.

The queen's face went dangerously still. Without another word, she strode past him toward the Kingspyre Tower, where Daemon's temporary chambers resided, her boots ringing against the stones. Simon hurried after, his explanations dying in his throat as they navigated the labyrinthine corridors.

The air grew heavier the higher they climbed, thick with the scent of old smoke and something fouler. At last, they reached the heavy oak door to Daemon's chambers. Rhaenyra didn't bother knocking. The scene that greeted them would haunt her dreams for years to come.

Daemon sat hunched on the edge of the massive four-poster bed, his silver hair tangled and matted with sweat. The fine linen shirt he wore hung open, revealing a chest that had grown gaunt in their short time apart. But worst of all were his hands—cradling a bundled blanket with terrifying delicacy, rocking it gently as he hummed a broken lullaby in High Valyrian.

"Leave us," Rhaenyra commanded, her voice sharp like steel.

Simon opened his mouth to protest, but one look at his queen's face had him bowing and backing out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him with awful finality.

Inside the chamber, Rhaenyra approached slowly, as one might approach a wounded dragon. The floorboards creaked under her weight, but Daemon gave no indication he'd heard. Up close, she could see the fever-bright sheen to his eyes, the tremor in his hands as they clutched the blanket to his chest.

She knelt before him, the hard stone biting into her knees, and reached up to cradle his face. His skin burned beneath her touch.

"Daemon," she whispered.

For a long moment, there was no reaction. Then, slowly, his eyes focused on hers. The recognition that dawned there was painful to witness. "Rhaenyra?" His voice was raw, as though he'd been screaming. The blanket slipped slightly in his grip, and she caught a glimpse of what lay within—not a child, but a book, swaddled like an infant in the fabric.

Her heart shattered. Without a word, she carefully pried the book from his grasp and set it aside. Then she climbed onto the bed and pulled him into her arms, his face pressed against the hollow of her throat. He went willingly, his body folding into hers like a man starved for touch.

They stayed silent for a while. The only noise was Daemon's broken sobbing, muffled by his wife's neck, as she rocked him softly back and forth.

"They come to me at night," he murmured against her skin. "Laena. Viserys. Baelon. You… They ask me why I failed them. And then Rhea and—and Alyssa—"

Rhaenyra tightened her hold, her fingers carding through his sweat-damp hair. "They're not here, my love."

"They feel real." His hands clutched at her back, desperate. "They smell real."

She pressed her lips to his temple, tasting salt and smoke. "I'm real. Feel me. Smell me." She guided his hand to her chest, over her pounding heart. "This is real."

A shudder ran through him, violent as a storm at sea. When he spoke again, his voice was that of a much younger man, one who had not yet learned to armor himself in cruelty. "I'm tired, Nyra."

She kissed him then, slow and deep, pouring every ounce of her love into it. When they parted, she pressed their foreheads together, their breath mingling in the scant space between them.

"Then sleep," she commanded softly. "I'll keep the ghosts away."

And for the first time in days, Daemon Targaryen slept without dreams.

When he awoke, it was already dark outside. He lay on his side, feeling Rhaenyra pressed against his back, her arms wrapped around his waist. Her riding leathers hung from the chair before him, meaning she wore only a loose blouse and her usual black riding trousers.

Daemon fidgeted slightly, trying to press closer to his wife. He felt her squirm and heard her soft groan as she tightened her hold around his waist, her hands drifting lower to rub his stomach.

He hummed softly as her breath warmed the back of his neck. Her lips trailed downward, leaving kisses in their wake. "We can't," the omega moaned.

"Hm, says who?" The alpha whispered into his ear, her hands slipping beneath his shirt to squeeze his still slightly swollen breasts.

Daemon couldn't suppress his loud moan, hastily covering his mouth with one hand. Rhaenyra smirked against his skin and moved her hand lower, slipping it into his pants.

The omega swiftly grabbed her wrist, stopping her advance. "Stop, I haven't bathed," he breathed, trying to pull her hand away.

"And when have I cared?" Rhaenyra continued kissing his neck before, with surprising force, she pushed him onto his back and climbed atop him. "It just means you smell more like yourself."

Daemon stared up into her beautiful violet eyes, which burned with intensity. He reached up to cradle her delicate face, drawing her down into a sweet yet passionate kiss. Their tongues intertwined in a sensual dance, saliva mixing as it dripped slowly from the corners of their mouths when the kiss turned rough.

Their teeth clashed as the alpha began unbuttoning his pants. Rhaenyra broke away momentarily to tug his trousers down. Daemon lifted his hips slightly to assist. His undergarments followed just as quickly, leaving him half-naked and vulnerable before his alpha.

His arousal grew as his wife kissed him again, her hand slipping down to rub his wet cunt. "So soft and wet for me, my omega."

Daemon whimpered as Rhaenyra trailed kisses down his clothed torso to his hips. She continued lower but then paused, hovering over where he wanted her most. The alpha smirked up at him, gripping his thighs to spread them before kissing his inner thigh.

The omega moaned loudly, covering his mouth with his hand. Rhaenyra kissed down to his knee before pulling back. She studied him momentarily, a smirk playing across her beautiful face. Without hesitation, she leaned back down, biting his inner thigh to make him whimper before moving higher.

The alpha kissed his mound, then licked between his wet lips. Daemon groaned behind his hand, his body trembling with pleasure. He placed his hand on the back of her head, pressing her face harder against his core.

He continued moaning as she licked his cunt, her fingers slipping inside him. Her tongue flicked his clit while her fingers worked within, pumping in and out until he nearly lost his mind. Daemon became a moaning mess, thrusting his hips up to chase the pleasure his wife provided.

Whether from their long separation or simply the joy of being reunited, his climax built rapidly until it crashed over him like waves upon the shore. With a loud whimper he failed to suppress, Daemon came undone. Wetness dripped from his cunt as his insides twitched around Rhaenyra's fingers.

His spine arched with pleasure as the alpha continued licking his clit through his orgasm. As he came down, Daemon gently pushed Rhaenyra away and gestured for her to lie down. When she complied, he climbed atop her.

Daemon maintained eye contact with her dark, predatory gaze as he unbuttoned her pants. He quickly reached into her undergarments and freed her hard, leaking cock. Without hesitation, the omega positioned himself over it, guiding the tip to his cunt before sinking down with a moan as she filled him completely.

He wrapped his arms around Rhaenyra's neck as he leaned in to kiss her. Their tongues resumed their familiar dance, and he could taste himself on her lips. Her hands gripped his hips, helping him move back and forth in her lap.

Their coupling was slow and deep, unlike their usual rushed encounters during wartime. With the ongoing conflict, moments of intimacy were rare, and even then, they were often hurried—there was little time for leisure in war.

When they came together, Rhaenyra's knot forming inside him, Daemon felt tears welling in his eyes. A wave of grief and loss overwhelmed him, as if this might be the last time they'd share such intimacy. He couldn't stop the tears from spilling down his cheeks.

Rhaenyra noticed her omega's distress immediately. Though locked together by her knot, she managed to cup his cheeks and gently wipe away his tears. Carefully, she adjusted their positions so they lay on their sides facing each other.

"I love you," Daemon whispered, more tears trailing down his face.

Rhaenyra's heart clenched at her husband's words—not because he'd never said them before, but because they carried a strange finality. "I love you, my omega."

She leaned in to kiss him. Their lips met softly, conveying all the love they shared. They remained like that the rest of the night. After her knot subsided, Rhaenyra called for servants to draw them a bath.

They spoke little as they sat in the hot water. Daemon washed Rhaenyra with a clean cloth after she had done the same for him. After drying each other, they returned to bed and fell asleep in each other's arms.

The next morning passed slowly, both trying to delay the alpha's departure as long as possible. After Rhaenyra inspected the large army her omega had secured for her, the time came for her to leave. She hesitated, especially after finding Daemon in such a state upon her arrival, and even tried convincing him to return with her. But he insisted he would be fine and needed to stay to command their troops.

Reluctantly, Rhaenyra mounted Syrax. With one last glance at her omega, she commanded the dragon to take flight, carrying her back to King's Landing.

—————————————

Three days later

The camp of the Gold Cloaks sprawled across the river plain like a wounded beast, its fires guttering low in the damp evening air. Baelon Targaryen stood apart from the others, his boots sinking slightly into the rain-softened earth as he stared eastward. Somewhere beyond the dark line of trees, beyond the sluggish flow of the Trident's tributaries, Harrenhal waited. And with it, his mother.

The message had come three days prior—Daemon had secured the Riverlords, but something was wrong. The raven had borne no details, only Rhaenyra's terse command for the army to make haste. Yet here they remained, mired in mud like common foot soldiers while the skies wept and the wind carried whispers Baelon couldn't quite decipher.

He flexed his fingers against the pommel of his sword, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. The air tasted strange tonight—not the usual damp earth and woodsmoke of camp, but something sharper, something that set his teeth on edge. Like the moment before a storm breaks, when the world holds its breath.

Behind him, the muted sounds of the encampment continued—the clank of armor, the occasional burst of laughter from men drinking to ward off the chill, the steady murmur of voices. None of them felt it. None of them understood.

A hand clapped his shoulder, startling him from his thoughts. "Brooding doesn't suit you, little prince."

Baelon didn't turn. He knew the voice—Ser Luthor Largent, the only man Daemon trusted enough to leave at his side. The knight was a constant presence, as steady as the sword at his hip.

"I'm not brooding," Baelon muttered.

Largent chuckled, stepping up beside him. "Then what do you call standing alone in the dark, glaring at nothing?"

Baelon exhaled through his nose, his breath curling faintly in the cool air. "Thinking."

"About?"

"Harrenhal."

Luthor's amusement faded. He followed Baelon's gaze toward the unseen castle, his expression turning grim. "Your mother commanded us to wait for the full host."

"I know what he commanded."

"And yet you're considering disobeying."

Baelon didn't answer. He didn't need to. Luthor had known him since he was a boy trailing after Daemon in the training yard. The knight could read him as easily as a parchment. A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant cry of a night bird.

Then Luthor sighed. "If you go, you won't go alone."

Baelon finally turned, frowning. "I'm not asking you to—"

"I'm not offering." Luthor crossed his arms. "I swore to your mother I'd keep you alive. If you're determined to throw yourself into whatever madness waits at Harrenhal, I'm coming with you."

Baelon opened his mouth to argue, but a sound cut him off—a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the earth beneath their feet. Vermithor.

The Bronze Fury had been restless all evening, his massive form coiled at the edge of camp, his golden eyes gleaming in the firelight. Now, the great dragon lifted his head, his nostrils flaring as he scented the wind.

Baelon knew that look. Something had stirred the old dragon. Without another word, he strode toward Vermithor, Luthor following at his heels. The dragon's scales were warm under Baelon's palm as he pressed a hand to his flank, feeling the tension thrumming through the beast.

"What is it?" Luthor asked, eyeing Vermithor warily.

Baelon didn't answer immediately. As he kept his hand on the great beast, a wave of dread and grief washed over him. "I think my mother's in trouble."

Luthor didn't question him. He never did when it came to this. "Then we ride."

"No." Baelon was already moving, climbing onto Vermithor's back. "I go alone."

"Baelon—"

"If I'm wrong, I won't drag you into defiance with me. If I'm right..." He met Luthor's gaze. "Be ready."

Then, before the knight could protest further, Baelon urged Vermithor skyward.

The dragon needed no encouragement. With a roar that shook the camp awake, Vermithor launched into the air, his wings beating hard against the damp night. Below, shouts rose as men scrambled from their tents, but Baelon paid them no mind. His focus remained fixed ahead, on the distant silhouette of Harrenhal.

Ser Luthor cursed as he watched the younger alpha fly away recklessly. Without hesitation, he turned to the men and women around the camp, barking orders as they scrambled to gather their equipment and prepare to follow their reckless prince.

The alpha's voice rose above the increasing noise of the falling rain. The Gold Cloaks fell into line with practiced ease, and under Ser Luthor's watchful eye, they began their march toward Harrenhal. The knight could only hope that whatever had driven Baelon to flee so urgently wasn't as dangerous as he feared.

—————————————

The night lay too quiet. Daemon Targaryen stood facing the weirwood tree in Harrenhal's inner yard, his mind adrift in distant thoughts. Though he couldn't name the source, a creeping sense of impending danger kept him alert and armored. His fingers tightened around Dark Sister's hilt at his hip as visions of his family surfaced—hallucinations that felt just beyond his grasp, too faint to hold.

The stillness broke when a distant roar shattered the silence—faint to normal ears, but thunderous to Daemon's heightened senses. He snapped his gaze upward to the unnaturally calm sky, his body tensing as he felt the approaching presence like a storm gathering on the horizon. Someone was coming. Someone meant to destroy all he cherished.

The sky burned crimson as dawn broke over the Riverlands, but it was not the sun that painted the heavens red—it was dragonfire. Aemond Targaryen had come.

The Greens had marched under the cover of night, their army a creeping shadow through the hills, but Aemond had not waited. Vhagar, the biggest dragon alive, had taken to the skies alone, her massive wings blotting out the stars as she descended upon Harrenhal like death itself.

Daemon had been waiting. The mounting paranoia and dread that had haunted him crystallized into terrible purpose. Already clad in his battle armor, the omega sprinted to Caraxes, mounting the Blood Wyrm with practiced ease and securing the saddle straps with quick, sure movements.

Caraxes shrieked as he launched from the castle’s ruined towers, his serpentine body coiling through the air like a blood-red whip. The two dragons met above the God’s Eye, their roars shaking the earth, their claws raking at one another in midair. Fire rained down upon the lake below, turning the dark waters to steam.

Baelon arrived just as the battle reached its peak. Vermithor’s wings carved through the smoke-choked sky as Baelon urged him forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. Below, the Green army had reached the castle’s outer walls, their swords glinting in the firelight. But Baelon’s eyes were locked on the duel above the lake—on the two dragons locked in a death spiral, their riders clinging to their backs as they tore at each other with tooth and flame.

Only the sudden roar of battle below broke his focus. The Gold Cloaks had arrived, flanked by Riverlands troops charging against the Green forces. A terrible paralysis gripped Baelon as dread coiled in his gut, his mind screaming warnings he couldn't translate into action to avert the approaching tragedy.

Aemond fought like a man possessed. His sapphire eye burned with hatred as he drove Vhagar forward, her massive jaws snapping at Caraxes’ throat. Daemon was faster, weaving through the air with the grace of a man who had spent a lifetime in the saddle. But Vhagar was older, stronger, and Aemond was willing to die if it meant taking Daemon with him.

Then, in a move that would be sung of for centuries, Daemon unbuckled his saddle straps. Baelon’s breath caught in his throat. He watched as his mother jumped. Dark Sister flashed in the dawn light as Daemon launched himself from Caraxes’ back, his body arcing through the air like a thrown spear. Vhagar roared as he landed on her scaled hide, his sword already driving forward, straight into Aemond’s remaining eye.

The scream that tore from Aemond’s throat was inhuman. He thrashed blindly as Daemon wrenched Dark Sister free. Vhagar convulsed beneath them, her massive form writhing in agony. Seizing the advantage, Caraxes twisted his serpentine neck around the larger dragon's throat and clamped down with jaw strength fueled by his rider's courage.

And then they fell. Daemon did not try to save himself. He did not reach for Caraxes, did not call for aid. He simply held on as Vhagar plummeted, his arms locked around Aemond’s throat, dragging the younger prince down with him.

Baelon screamed. Vermithor dove before the command had fully left his lips, the wind howling around them as they raced toward the lake. But it was too late, the young alpha watched as the water swallowed them both.

Daemon and Aemond struck the God’s Eye with a force that sent up a plume of white water, the impact shaking the very shore. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath—then the waves closed over them, and they were gone.

Baelon's hands trembled on Vermithor's reins, his vision blurred by unshed tears, his chest too constricted to draw breath. Yet grief would have to wait—Caraxes still lived.

The Blood Wyrm shrieked in agony, his wings tattered, his body streaming blood from countless wounds as he spiraled toward the lake. Baelon urged Vermithor forward, his voice raw as he shouted to the wounded dragon.

"Caraxes! To me!"

The dragon's remaining eye focused on him through the pain. Baelon guided Vermithor beneath the falling wyrm, the Bronze Fury roaring with effort as he took Caraxes' weight upon his back, slowing the descent. Together, they skimmed the water's surface, Caraxes' claws leaving furrows in the waves until Vermithor finally bore them both to shore.

Before Vermithor fully landed, Baelon was moving. He slid from the saddle and sprinted to Caraxes as the dragon collapsed on the rocky beach, his breathing ragged and wet. Blood darkened the stones beneath him like spilled wine. Baelon pressed his hands against the dragon's heaving flank, feeling the labored but steady heartbeat beneath the scales.

"Easy, old friend," Baelon murmured, his voice thick. He turned to bellow at the approaching soldiers. "Fetch the dragonkeepers! And Maester Orwyle. Now!"

As helpers came running, Baelon carefully examined Caraxes' wounds. The injuries were grave—the wing membrane torn in several places, deep gashes along his belly, one hind leg bent at an unnatural angle. But the dragon's chest rose and fell steadily, his golden eye tracking Baelon's movements with clear awareness.

One of the dragonkeepers knelt beside him, hands fluttering over the worst wounds. "He's strong, my prince. These injuries...they're serious, but not mortal. With time and care..."

Baelon nodded, swallowing hard as he stroked Caraxes' snout. The dragon rumbled softly, exhaling a wisp of smoke that curled around Baelon's arm like an embrace. In that moment, he felt his mother's presence as clearly as if Daemon stood beside them.

"Rest now," Baelon whispered. "You've fought well."

As the dragonkeepers set to work stabilizing Caraxes, Baelon turned his gaze back to the God's Eye. The waters had gone still once more, holding their secrets close. Somewhere in those dark depths, his mother slept with his enemies.

—————————————

Daemon didn't feel the moment he hit the water. He didn't feel much of anything at all. Only cold—a biting, winter-deep cold that seeped into his bones. The icy water enveloped him completely as he sank deeper, his eyes fixed on what might have been the water's surface—the only light in the darkness. Or perhaps it wasn't the surface at all. He couldn't be certain. Not that it mattered. His body no longer obeyed him, whether from the cold or some other unseen force, he couldn't tell.

Darkness prickled against his back as the lake swallowed him whole. Instinct made him try to swim, his limbs moving sluggishly through the motions Viserys had taught him so long ago. Viserys...Where was Viserys now? Had his brother seen him fall? Was he coming to save him? No. Viserys was dead. The realization came dull and distant.

Names floated through his mind like bubbles rising toward that distant light—Baelon, Rhaenyra, Baela, Rhaena, Jace, Luke, Joffrey...Aegon, Viserys, and...Visenya. Why was he remembering them now? Laena, and...Alyssa. Perhaps he would see them soon. Or perhaps whatever awaited him would be different from where they had gone.

His eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion, but just as he began to let them close, movement caught his attention. A silhouette floated above him—familiar yet strange, its edges blurred by the water. It extended an arm toward him, reaching down through the murky depths. Some deep instinct made Daemon want to take that offered hand. He tried, stretching his own arm upward, but the figure remained just beyond his grasp.

He withdrew his hand, but the shadow kept its arm extended, waiting patiently. He tried again to reach, but exhaustion crashed over him like a wave. Something primal screamed within him to fight, to keep struggling, but his body refused. As his vision darkened at the edges, he saw the shadow stretch its arm further toward him. Then his eyes closed.

For the briefest moment, they opened again. Stars. A night sky full of stars above him. The cold still clung to his skin, sharper than ever. Then his eyelids fluttered shut once more.

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

[bbygrldaemon]

Pour me a pint. Filthily. Go on. I haven’t the faintest idea.

[bbygrldaemon]

EMMA D'ARCY as RHAENYRA TARGARYEN — 2.07 | "The Red Sowing"

[bbygrldaemon]

The Eleventh Doctor

[bbygrldaemon]

Matt's first day on DWho set

[bbygrldaemon]

Worse Things

Chapter 15

Flashbacks High Valyrian warnings - graphic descriptions of violence

ao3 | spanish translation | masterlist

Rhaenyra stared at her two alpha sons standing resolutely before her. Their serious expressions made her wish their request had been in jest. With Daemon and Baelon departed alongside the Gold Cloaks and volunteers the previous day, and Kingsguard temporarily assuming watch duties, the castle stood vulnerable.

Jace and Luke had just volunteered to patrol the skies on Vermax and Arrax. Their determined faces left no doubt of their sincerity. Rhaenyra knew the strategic value—with half their forces gone, aerial patrols could prevent surprise dragon attacks. Yet the thought of her sons facing danger unsettled her deeply.

They were still so young. While Rhaenys remained an option, the queen needed her counsel close. Addam trained under Laenor, and Baela remained grounded by injury. That left only Jace and Luke. Rhaenyra studied their faces, committing every feature to memory.

Stepping closer, she knelt to meet their eyes. "You are to patrol only," she said firmly, locking gazes with Jace. "No engagements. If you spot an enemy dragon, you return immediately to report. Promise me you won't seek battle, Jace."

"I promise," her heir answered without hesitation.

Satisfied, Rhaenyra turned to Luke. "I need you to deliver a message to the Vale."

"But—"

"No arguments," she interrupted. "You serve as messenger only - no combat. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Luke nodded, though a small frown creased his brow.

Rising, she gathered both boys in a tight embrace, pressing kisses to their foreheads. They lingered in the moment before she sent them to prepare. Later, at the Dragonpit, she bid them farewell with a heavy heart, watching until Vermax and Arrax became distant specks.

Twisting her wedding ring anxiously, she took small comfort in Jace patrolling nearby while Luke's longer journey unsettled her. At least the Vale lay far from Green strongholds in Oldtown, she reasoned.

The previous night's discussion with Daemon returned to her—their decision to send their youngest children and Rhaena to Lady Jeyne Arryn's protection, along with Stormcloud and Syrax's three newest eggs. Were it their choice alone, all their children would be sent to safety, but mature dragons remained crucial against Vhagar's threat.

With a sigh, Rhaenyra turned from the empty sky. Her Kingsguard escorted her to the waiting carriage where she sought to calm her racing thoughts. Her family now scattered across the realm, she could only pray for their swift and safe return.

—————————————

The black and grey clouds swallowed the blue sky above as the pouring rain blurred Daemon's vision. Caraxes' shriek cut through the loud raindrops pounding the water below. A flash of thunder illuminated the dark, looming silhouette of the ruined castle in the distance.

Caraxes soared forward and landed atop one of the tallest remaining towers. The omega could hear terrified screams rising above the storm's roar, though he couldn't discern their source below. The Blood Wyrm descended further, settling on the crumbling stairs leading to the main entrance where his rider dismounted.

Daemon climbed the slick stone steps, half-expecting to encounter guards or some form of resistance, but found none. He entered the castle with Dark Sister gripped firmly in his hand, prepared for any attack. Only the relentless patter of rain broke the silence–no voices, no footsteps, just an eerie emptiness that made the fortress appear completely deserted. He might have believed Harrenhal abandoned were it not for his certain knowledge that the Strongs still resided within.

He advanced cautiously through the damp, shadowed corridors, his armor creaking and grinding with each careful step. Navigating the unfamiliar layout set his heart racing as he rounded each corner, muscles tensed for an ambush that never came.

The omega moved with deliberate care down an especially long hallway, unable to make out any figures at the far end. He kept Dark Sister raised, his grip iron-tight, ready to counter any attack that might come his way.

"Daemon..."

He whirled around at the whisper, finding nothing but empty darkness behind him. The female voice had seemed so real he could have sworn he felt breath against his neck.

Shaking off the unease prickling his spine, he pressed forward until reaching the hallway's end. Rounding the corner revealed a steep flight of stairs descending into blackness. With no alternative path, he moved downward, his boots echoing on the concrete steps.

At the bottom, he passed through a small archway into a dark, empty chamber. Nearby stood a taller arch where Daemon heard a soft sigh. Adjusting his grip on Dark Sister, he stepped through the opening and finally encountered a guard.

The man showed no reaction–didn't startle, didn't reach for his weapon when Daemon appeared. Adrenaline surged through the omega's veins, his pulse pounding in his ears. When the guard made no move to attack, anger flared hot along his spine. Unable to restrain himself, he shoved the man aside violently before striding past to throw open the massive wooden doors.

Inside lay a scene of surreal tranquility that starkly contrasted the storm-wracked ruins outside. At the center of a large round table sat who Daemon presumed was Ser Simon Strong, flanked by two younger men who might have been his sons or nephews.

"Harrenhal now belongs to the rightful heir, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen," Daemon declared, raising Dark Sister as both warning and symbol.

The portly beta looked up from his meal with unsettling calm. "Well, of course it does."

He rose and circled the table to approach Daemon. After a brief glance at the omega's face, his gaze dropped as he sank to one knee. Daemon stared in stunned silence at this effortless surrender.

The beta turned to glare at the two men still seated. Under his stern gaze, they scrambled to their feet and knelt, eyes downcast. Daemon could only watch dumbfounded, momentarily uncertain how to proceed.

He was lowering his sword when movement caught his eye–a woman gliding into the chamber from a side passage. Her pitch black hair cascaded over pale shoulders, framing skin so white it seemed to glow against her pale blue gown. While the others had averted their eyes, hers remained locked on Daemon with unsettling intensity as she approached the table. Her refusal to kneel or show any deference piqued his curiosity even as it unsettled him.

"Would you like some supper, Your Grace?"

—————————————

Four days later 

The skies above the Riverlands had turned the color of bruised flesh, heavy with the promise of rain. Baelon sat astride Vermithor, the Bronze Fury's massive wings carving through the damp air as they shadowed the column of Gold Cloaks marching toward Harrenhal. From this height, the men below looked like ants winding through the green-and-brown patchwork of fields and forests, their spears glinting dully in the diffused light. The damp air carried the scent of wet earth and the faint metallic tang of armor.

Then he saw them, a second force, smaller but gleaming in crimson and gold, moving along the river road from the west. The Lannister banners snapped in the wind, their golden lions roaring defiantly against the gathering gloom. Baelon's stomach tightened. They weren't supposed to be here. The Greens had sent them—likely to reinforce whatever resistance awaited at Harrenhal, or perhaps to ambush the Gold Cloaks before they could reach the castle.

Vermithor rumbled beneath him, sensing his rider's tension through the bond they shared. The dragon's great head swung toward the enemy, nostrils flaring as if he could already smell the blood to be spilled. The beast's muscles tensed, wings adjusting minutely to the shifting winds, ready to strike at his rider's command.

Baelon didn't hesitate; he leaned forward, his voice cutting through the wind as he urged Vermithor downward. The dragon's wings folded tightly against his body as they plunged toward the Lannister host in a near-vertical dive. The wind screamed in Baelon's ears, tearing at his clothes, the ground rushing up to meet them with terrifying speed. At the last moment, when it seemed they might crash into the earth itself, Vermithor spread his wings with a thunderous snap, leveling out just above the treetops. His shadow, vast and monstrous, swallowed the soldiers below whole.

The first screams rose as the men looked up, their faces twisting in horror. Some froze where they stood, their training forgotten in the face of dragonfire. Others turned to run, only to collide with their comrades in the press of panicked bodies. A few of the bolder knights shouted orders, trying to rally their men, but their voices were lost in the growing chaos.

"Dracarys."

Vermithor's roar shook the earth before the fire came—a torrent of molten gold, pouring from the dragon's jaws in a sweeping arc that lit the twilight with hellish brilliance. The flames engulfed the front ranks, turning men into writhing, screaming torches. The heat was so intense that armor melted like wax, fusing with flesh beneath. The stench of burning meat and oiled steel filled the air, thick enough to choke on, to taste at the back of the throat.

Chaos erupted below. The Lannister lines shattered as soldiers scrambled back, some trampling their own wounded in their panic. A few brave—or foolish—archers loosed arrows, but they bounced harmlessly off Vermithor's scales, their efforts as useless as throwing pebbles at a mountain. Baelon banked hard, Vermithor responding to the shift in his weight with effortless grace, circling back for another pass.

Below, the Gold Cloaks had seized the moment, surging forward with a roar that rivaled Vermithor's. Their disciplined ranks crashed into the disarrayed Lannister forces like a hammer against brittle iron. Steel met steel in a cacophony of clashing swords and dying screams. Baelon caught glimpses of the fighting as he wheeled above—a Gold Cloak driving his spear into a knight's throat, a Lannister swordsman collapsing as an axe split his skull, a man crawling through the mud, his entrails spilling from a gut wound. Baelon dove again.

This time, Vermithor's fire raked across the Lannister reserves, igniting supply wagons in explosions of splintered wood and flame. Barrels of pitch and oil went up with thunderous detonations, sending fiery debris raining down on those unfortunate enough to be nearby. Horses screamed, breaking free of their tethers to bolt in terror, their eyes rolling white with panic. A knight in ornate, gilded armor—some lesser lord, no doubt—raised his sword as if to challenge the dragon himself. Vermithor snapped him up in a single bite, the crunch of metal and bone audible even over the battle's din. The dragon shook his massive head once, like a hound with a rat, before spitting out the ruined corpse.

By the third pass, the Lannisters were broken beyond repair. Those still alive fled in every direction, some throwing down their weapons in surrender, others drowning themselves in the river rather than face the dragon's wrath. A handful of knights tried to rally around a banner, but a final gout of flame reduced them to blackened skeletons clutching melted swords.

Baelon pulled Vermithor up, circling high to survey the carnage. The field was a charred ruin, littered with blackened corpses and the stink of death. The Gold Cloaks moved among the fallen with grim efficiency, finishing off the wounded and stripping the dead of anything valuable. Here and there, a Lannister squire or young soldier wept as he was dragged to his feet, his future now that of a prisoner or a hostage.

A grim satisfaction settled in Baelon's chest. This was war, not the careful politics of court, not the whispered schemes of lords—just fire and blood. The thought should have sickened him, perhaps, but instead, he felt a strange clarity. 

Vermithor roared again, the sound shaking the earth beneath them, his victory cry echoing through smoke-filled skies. At Baelon's command, the great beast descended, his massive wings stirring up dust and ash as he landed. The alpha dismounted and strode toward the dying embers of battle, where the last remnants of chaos flickered like guttering candles.

His eyes scanned the field as he moved, searching for Ser Luthor among the surviving Gold Cloaks. He dispatched wounded enemies along the way - a mercy, though a grim one - while silently tallying their losses. Most importantly, he needed confirmation that his mother's sworn sword still stood among the living.

The breath he hadn't realized he was holding escaped his lips when his gaze finally found Ser Luthor's imposing figure. The alpha knight towered over the other soldiers, his posture rigid with authority as he stared down at a cowering man kneeling in the dirt. The prisoner's fine armor marked him as a commander, or at least some high-ranking officer among the Lannister forces.

Baelon approached, coming to stand behind Ser Luthor. "One of their commanders," he observed. "What should we do with him?"

Ser Luthor's lips curled into a smirk as the prisoner's eyes widened in panic. "As much as I'd enjoy ending his misery," he said, "we'll take him prisoner. He might prove useful."

Baelon stepped forward and knelt, bringing himself eye-level with the trembling man. "You should pray to your gods that you are," he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. Straightening, he turned to address the gathered soldiers. "We'll make camp deeper in the forest! We march at first light!"

—————————————

Daemon stared up at the ceiling of the dark room, the only sound the raindrops dripping onto the damp concrete floor. Ser Simon had provided him with a large chamber in Harrenhal—worthy of a king, he had claimed—but he’d neglected to mention the numerous holes littering the ceiling.

The incessant, repetitive sound was enough to steal his sleep. He turned in bed, seeking comfort, but loneliness crept slowly over him. The omega let out an irritated sigh and rose swiftly, determined to silence the unceasing noise.

In the corner of the room, he spotted a pile of metal buckets, likely left by the previous occupant. He placed them beneath the dripping water, only to make the sound worse. Now, instead of the soft patter of droplets against concrete, the sharp clang of water striking metal filled the air.

Suddenly, a loud commotion erupted beyond the chamber door. Daemon turned toward it, startled. Flickering light seeped through the narrow gap beneath the wood. With hesitant steps, he approached and pushed against the door. To his surprise, it didn’t yield—it barely moved, as though barricaded from the outside.

Panic surged through him, memories of Runestone flooding his mind. He pulled at the door frantically, desperation clawing at him. The wood refused to budge—until heavy footsteps halted on the other side.

Then came a metallic clang, like something hitting the floor. The shadow beyond the door vanished. Daemon wrenched it open, snatched Dark Sister from where it leaned against the wall, and stepped out. To the left, a dark silhouette rounded a corner.

He followed with swift strides, trailing the figure through long, shadowed halls until they slipped into a candlelit room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Daemon approached cautiously, Dark Sister gripped tightly in his hands. Dread coiled in his spine as he pushed the door open softly.

Before him stood the back of a painfully familiar figure. Her silver curls cascaded nearly to her waist, and her light blue-and-gold dress shimmered in the firelight, which danced across her deep bronze skin.

Daemon froze in the doorway, struck by the sight of what could only be a ghost. Before him stood Laena—his former wife, his alpha. A woman whose corpse he had cradled, carried back, and watched sink into the sea. It was impossible.

“Have you forgotten how I looked already?” Her voice, smooth and familiar, shattered the night’s silence.

Daemon frowned. “I could never forget you.”

“You’ve always been a bad liar,” she said, still not turning to face him.

“I’ve never lied to you.” He shook his head, longing to step closer but fearing what he might find—or not find. He had done many things, but he had never lied to Laena during their marriage. He had confessed every encounter with Rhaenyra, had always told his late wife the truth of what passed between them. Despite Laena’s suspicions, he had never taken his niece to bed while wed to her.

“You promised you would find my killer. Yet after all these years, all you’ve done is build another family.” Finally, she turned, and she looked just as she had the last time he’d seen her alive. Tears welled in the omega’s eyes, threatening to fall. “Did you ever really love me?”

“I did love you. I still love you.” He ached to reach for her hand but dreaded the absence of warmth, the chill of death. “Every time I look at our daughters, I think of you.”

The tears spilled over, his voice cracking under the weight of emotion. “I wish it had been different, Laena.”

A sudden noise behind him made him flinch. He spun toward it but found nothing. When he turned back, Laena was gone. Frantic, he searched the room, panic rising when he found no trace of her.

Another sound, softer this time, drew his attention. In the doorway stood Ser Simon, clad in a gray-and-gold nightgown, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“Your Grace?” His voice was little more than a whisper. “Come, you shouldn’t wander these halls alone at night.”

The beta beckoned him, guiding him back to his chambers. Daemon followed without protest, the eerie encounter lingering in his mind. Once inside, he rifled through his satchel for the scent-soaked garments his children and Rhaenyra had left him.

Clutching them tightly, he climbed into the vast, empty bed and pulled the covers over himself. He pressed the fabric to his nose, breathing in the mingled scents of his family. It was incomplete—but enough, at last, to lull the exhausted omega to sleep.

—————————————

The next night

Sleep did not come easily the next night. Daemon lay in the same drafty chamber, the holes in the ceiling now patched haphazardly by some servant, though the scent of damp stone and old iron still clung to the air. He had drunk more wine than usual, hoping to drown the memory of Laena's ghost—or hallucination, or whatever madness had seized him. Yet when he closed his eyes, he still saw her, still heard her voice.

A sharp knock jolted him from his thoughts. Frowning, he sat up. No one should have been disturbing him at this hour. Before he could call out, the door creaked open on its own. Two figures stood framed in the doorway, silhouetted by flickering torchlight from the hall.

One was a girl—no, a young woman—her silver-gold hair braided loosely over one shoulder, her lilac eyes sharp with accusation. She wore a gown of black and red, the colors of House Targaryen. Behind her stood a boy no older than ten, his features achingly familiar: the same strong jaw, the same defiant tilt to his chin.

Rhaenyra and Baelon—but not as they were now. This was Rhaenyra as she had been in her youth, when she was still trapped in the Red Keep, wed to Laenor and suffocating under Alicent's schemes. And Baelon—his son, but younger, smaller, his face unmarked by the years of hardship that had hardened him.

Daemon's breath caught. "This isn't real."

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her voice brittle. "Isn't it?"

The omega flinched. They both looked so real, yet he knew they couldn't possibly be there. He retreated backward until his back hit the opposite wall, trapping him between stone and specters.

"You should have taken me when I asked." Her voice was low, venomous—not the playful teasing of their youth, nor the heated arguments of their marriage. This was fury, honed by years of bitterness.

"You should have wed me the first time I begged you to." Her fingers curled into fists. "Instead, you left me to rot in that damned castle. You let them marry me to Laenor. You let Alicent whisper her lies until the whole court believed my sons were bastards."

Daemon opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off.

"If you had birthed them, no one would have dared question it." Her laugh was hollow. "But you were too busy being a coward."

The words struck like a knife between his ribs. He had wanted her. He had loved her, even then. But he had hesitated—because of Viserys, because of his own pride, because he had been too entangled in his games to see what she was truly offering.

Before he could speak, Baelon stepped forward. "And you stayed with her." The boy's voice was quiet, yet it carried the weight of judgment. Daemon's stomach twisted. He needed no explanation of whom the boy meant.

"Rhae Royce," Baelon spat. "You let her lock you in the dark. You let her call you weak. And when she went too far, you didn't stop her. Not until it was too late."

Daemon's throat tightened. "I didn't know she would-"

"You knew." Baelon's eyes burned with accusation. "You knew she wouldn't make it past the day, all thanks to that woman, but it was too late."

"Alyssa..." A ghostly whisper brushed against his ear, a cruel reminder of what he had lost through his own hesitation. A punishment, perhaps—retribution for all the pain he had caused those he loved most.

The truth of it struck him like a physical blow. He had known. He had endured Rhae's scorn, her cruelty, because he'd been too proud to admit defeat. Too stubborn to crawl back to Viserys and beg release from the marriage. And by the time he'd finally broken free, the damage had been done—to him, to his son, to the family he might have had if he'd been braver.

Rhaenyra's voice cut through the silence like Valyrian steel. "You always waited too long. With me. With her. With everything." She shook her head, her silver-gold hair catching the dim light. "And we paid the price for it."

A sudden gust of wind howled through the chamber, snuffing out the candles. When the light returned, they were gone. Only the echo of their words remained, ringing in his skull like a funeral bell.

—————————————

A day later

The first crack of thunder had been Luke's only warning. One moment, the night sky stretched clear above Blackwater Bay, stars winking as Arrax's wings cut smoothly through the cool air. The next darkness. A wall of storm clouds swallowed the moon whole, and the winds turned savage, howling through the cliffs like a chorus of dying men. Rain came in horizontal sheets, stinging Luke's face as though the sky itself sought to flay him alive.

He was returning from delivering Rhaenyra's message to Lady Jeyne Arryn in the Vale. The Lady of the Eyrie had accepted his mother's request, but with one condition—dragonriders to protect her realm. Now, racing back to Dragonstone with these terms, what should have been a swift, uneventful flight had become a nightmare journey through the storm's wrath.

Beneath him, Arrax trembled—not from exhaustion, but fear. Luke could feel it in the dragon's hitched wingbeats, in the panicked rhythm of his breaths. An unsettling prickling at the back of his neck whispered they were being hunted, though when he scanned the roiling clouds, he saw nothing but darkness. Gritting his teeth, he urged Arrax onward, leaning low against the dragon's neck.

Arrax's shriek tore through the tempest, barely audible above the wind's roar. The young dragon's wings pumped furiously, muscles straining against the punishing gale. Luke's fingers had gone numb around the reins, his knuckles white with tension.

Then movement in the darkness behind them. At first, just a deeper shadow among shadows, then suddenly vast and terrible, swallowing the storm itself, Vhagar. The ancient war-dragon emerged like some nightmare made flesh, her tattered wings carving through the tempest with terrifying ease. And there, astride her scaled back, Aemond, his silver hair whipping in the wind, his single violet eye burning with cold triumph through the rain-lashed night.

"Little nephew!" Aemond's voice cut through the storm, mocking and cruel. "Did you truly think you could slip away unnoticed?"

Luke's blood turned to ice. He wrenched the reins hard left as Vhagar's massive jaws snapped shut mere feet behind them, the heat of her breath searing his back even through the driving rain. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged beast as he desperately scanned their surroundings, but the storm had stolen all landmarks—there was no telling how far they remained from Dragonstone's safety.

"Arrax, down!" Luke shouted, urging his dragon into a desperate plunge toward the churning sea. The waves below rose like black mountains, their foaming crests glowing eerily in the lightning flashes. Vhagar followed without hesitation, her massive shadow swallowing them whole as she gave chase.

Arrax twisted mid-air with a shriek as Vhagar's talons raked through the space where they'd just been. The near miss sent terror lancing through Luke's veins. He could feel Arrax tiring, the dragon's wingbeats were growing uneven, his muscles trembling with exhaustion.

Spotting a cluster of jagged sea stacks jutting from the waves, Luke banked sharply, weaving between the stone spires that rose like broken teeth from the dark water. Vhagar, too massive for such precise maneuvers, was forced to circle around, her frustrated roar shaking the very air. The brief reprieve lasted only moments—Aemond would not be denied so easily.

With terrifying grace for her size, Vhagar climbed high above them, then folded her wings and dropped like a falling star. Luke had only seconds to react before the ancient dragon was upon them again. Arrax screamed in pain as Vhagar's claws grazed his tail, the impact sending them into a sickening spiral. Luke clung desperately to the saddle, his vision swimming as the world whirled around them.

Somehow, Arrax righted himself, wings beating furiously to regain altitude. Luke gasped for breath, his hands shaking as he wiped rainwater from his eyes. The storm seemed to intensify around them, lightning splitting the sky in brilliant forks that illuminated the nightmare chase, the smaller, agile dragon fleeing before the relentless advance of the largest living creature in Westeros.

"Faster, Arrax!" Luke urged, though he knew his mount was giving everything he had. They ducked beneath a low shelf of storm clouds, hoping to lose their pursuers in the tempest's chaos. For a few precious moments, the world shrank to the howl of wind and the sting of rain, then Vhagar burst through the cloud bank above them, her massive form haloed by lightning.

Aemond's laughter rang out, triumphant. "You cannot hide from me, nephew!"

Luke's throat tightened. He could see Arrax's strength flagging, the dragon's movements growing sluggish. Then, through the storm's veil-light, he saw torches and the familiar jagged silhouette of home.

"There, Arrax! Go!" Luke cried, hope surging in his chest. 

The young dragon found renewed strength at the sight of sanctuary, his wings pumping with desperate energy as they arrowed toward the island. Behind them, Vhagar bellowed her fury, the sound shaking the very air.

Luke could see as Silverwing stood poised on the battlements, her pale scales gleaming like polished steel in the stormlight. Addam of Hull stood tall in the saddle, his face set in grim determination. Beside him, Syrax spread her golden wings, Rhaenyra's form unmistakable even through the rain. Vermax coiled nearby, Jace already shouting commands, while Moondancer and Seasmoke stood ready—Baela and Laenor prepared to join the defense.

The sight gave Luke the strength to urge Arrax one final, desperate push toward safety. They must have been alerted by the monstrous roars that rose above the storm chaos. As they crossed the threshold of Dragonstone's cliffs, Luke risked a glance back.

Aemond had reined Vhagar to a halt at the island's perimeter, his face twisted in fury. For one endless moment, rider and dragon hovered at the edge of the storm, violet eye burning with hatred. Then, with a final, earth-shaking roar, Vhagar wheeled about and vanished into the storm.

Luke slumped forward in the saddle, his entire body trembling with exhaustion and relief. As his gaze fell upon his mother, he allowed himself to feel safe once again.

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

[bbygrldaemon]

They’re whores, you idiot

[bbygrldaemon]

Worse Things

Chapter 14

Flashbacks High Valyrian warnings - graphic descriptions of violence

ao3 | spanish translation | masterlist

Rhaenyra watched as Daemon paced around, his bitter scent flooding her chambers. His hands kept rubbing his flat belly—a nervous tic he had whenever he missed his children. Baelon and Baela had not arrived yet, and her omega was not handling it well. They had been at Dragonstone for a day, and logically, the trip from Rook’s Rest would take longer, but the worries of a mother were rarely logical.

Before she could say anything to ease her omega’s anxiety, the familiar roar of a dragon rumbled through the castle. Daemon didn’t give her time to react—he left the room in a hurry.

Daemon ran across the castle toward the dragon cave, his heart pounding in anticipation of seeing his children again after three long months. As he descended the stairs into the dark cavern, he saw Baelon and Baela dismounting Moondancer. The omega quickened his pace and took the young alphas by surprise, swiftly engulfing them in a tight embrace. Baela instantly buried her face in his chest, and Baelon gently placed a hand on the back of Daemon’s head, guiding it to rest on his shoulder.

Daemon felt him then, nose buried in his hair, breathing in his sweet scent. He was certain they had both grown since he’d last seen them—the boy, now a man, stood slightly taller than him, and his daughter could now reach his chest. It made him sentimental; he could feel tears gathering in his eyes.

“Don’t ever leave like that again,” Daemon reprimanded gently, pulling away slightly from their embrace. “Please, just tell me next time. I won’t stop you,” he added, his gaze landing on his eldest son as he said the last part.

Baelon stared into his mother’s teary eyes, heart squeezing in his chest as the weight of his actions dawned on him. “I’m sorry, muña.”

Daemon affectionately caressed his son’s dark hair while brushing Baela’s lighter strands, her face still pressed against his chest. They remained like that for a moment longer, until Baelon drew his mother back into another embrace. With a final kiss to the omega’s forehead, he stepped away.

“Mother, I’m glad to see you, but I must ask—why did you summon us with such urgency?” Baela was the first to speak, her tone curious.

Daemon offered a small smile, his gaze shifting from Baela to Baelon, reaching up to tuck a strand of his son’s hair behind his ear. “Inside the caves of Dragonstone remain two unclaimed dragons—Vermithor and Silverwing.” He watched understanding appear on his son’s face. “I believe it is finally time I give you what I promised years ago.”

“You mean…?” The alpha didn’t finish his sentence, but his mother nodded.

Baelon didn’t know what to say or how to react. When he was a child, back when they lived in Runestone, his mother had promised him a dragon of his own. For the longest time, it had been his greatest desire—a way to prove his worth and show the court he bore Targaryen blood. As he grew older, he realized that a dragon alone would not earn him a place at court—he had to claim that for himself, just as his mother once had. Still, the thought of claiming a dragon remained deeply alluring.

“You should both go and freshen up,” Daemon suggested, reaching out once more to affectionately touch their hair. “There’s a long day ahead of us.” The young alphas offered no protest, tired from the long journey on dragonback.

Daemon watched Baelon and Baela exit the large cavern, subconsciously rubbing his flat stomach. Once they were out of sight, he followed—but soon veered off, heading instead for the beach. On his way out, he grabbed one of the lit torches scattered around the castle and made his way swiftly toward the cave where the dragonkeepers had last sighted Vermithor.

Venturing alone into the dark, damp cave, he moved as silently as possible, straining to hear the beast’s presence. As he traveled deeper, heavy footsteps echoed faintly in the distance. Moving toward the sound and rounding a corner, he finally caught sight of the massive creature’s silhouette.

“Drakari pykiros

Tīkummo jemiros

Yn lantyz bartossa

Saelot vāedis,” Daemon sang softly, allowing himself to be seen, recalling the lullaby old King Jaehaerys once sang to Vermithor long ago.

“Hen ñuhā elēnī:

Perzyssy vestretis

Se gēlȳn irūdaks

Ānogrose

Perzyro udrȳssi

Ezīmptos laehossi

Hārossa letagon

Aōt vāedan

Hae mērot gierūli:

Se hāros bartossi

Prūmȳsa sōvīli

Gevī dāerī.”

As he finished the song, the huge dragon roared and unleashed a burst of flame off to the side—perhaps a warning, or a test. But the omega didn’t flinch. He simply stood his ground, meeting the dragon’s eyes as it studied him with curiosity.

“After all these years,” Daemon murmured, “You shall be ready for a new rider, Vermithor.”

—————————————

Baelon took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the pale wall in front of him, his mind replaying every terrible scenario he could imagine.

“Stop worrying so much,” his mother’s voice broke through his thoughts, making him turn to him.

“I’m not,” he shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant.

“Sure,” the omega responded, a small smirk adorning his face. “When are you getting married?” Daemon crossed his arms over his chest, fixing his son with an expectant look.

Baelon almost choked on his own spit at the sudden question. “Muña!”

“What?” the omega asked, feigning offense. “I’m your mother—I should know these things.” He turned slightly to the side, his gaze never leaving the alpha, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

“Well, isn’t it your job to arrange that?” Baelon retorted, mimicking his mother’s stance.

“Typically, yes. But I wanted to let you choose for yourself,” Daemon shrugged, then reached out to ruffle his hair briefly. “But you are getting a little old,” he added, scrunching his nose in mock disgust.

“Muña!”

“I’m getting old too, and I want grandchildren,” the omega said, turning his back on him, ending the conversation on his own terms.

“Can’t you wait for Baela and Jace?” Baelon teased, smirking at his mother’s back. He looked away for a second and then yelped as he felt a sharp pinch on his arm. “Ugh.”

“Don’t talk about my baby like that. Jace and Baela won’t be in a room alone until they’re thirty,” Daemon laughed softly as his son glared at him, pouting like a child. “Are you ready now?”

“For wha— Oh. I see.” It was then Baelon realized what his mother was doing. He couldn’t help but smile at the omega’s subtle way of showing affection.

Baelon stepped forward to stand beside Daemon. Silently, he offered his arm, which the omega accepted with a raised eyebrow. They left the room together, heading toward the cave beneath the castle. Rhaenyra and Rhaena were already there, waiting for them.

Further ahead stood the dragonkeepers, holding large wooden staffs. Baelon released his mother’s arm, already knowing what he had to do. As the alpha stepped forward, the dragonkeepers began to sing the lullaby King Jaehaerys used to sing to Vermithor, hoping to summon the beast.

Daemon watched as his son walked closer to the edge of the high platform. He stayed behind with Rhaenyra and Rhaena, taking both their hands in his own for comfort—both theirs and his. The dragonkeepers’ voices echoed through the large, dark cavern, casting a solemn, reverent atmosphere. The omega could faintly hear Vermithor moving deeper in the cave. The great dragon was alone now—Silverwing had left Dragonstone shortly after their arrival.

Baelon stared into the dark void before him. Everything was still and quiet, apart from the song. He jumped slightly when he caught movement in the shadows. Slowly—deliberately—the golden beast emerged, approaching the high ledge where the young alpha stood. The dragonkeepers backed away cautiously, leaving Baelon alone in front of Vermithor.

He stared at the massive creature. For a long moment, he couldn’t move—not out of fear, but something else he couldn’t quite name. The dragon stared back, exhaling deeply, almost as if bored. Baelon tried to recall everything his mother had taught him about claiming a dragon, but in that moment, it all seemed to slip from his mind.

Instinctively, he reached out a hand, as though to touch him. Vermithor let out a low warning growl, causing Baelon to flinch and draw back slightly.

“Obey, Vermithor,” he commanded, as the dragon advanced with a louder growl. “Obey.”

Suddenly, Baelon caught the scent of burnt cherries—his mother’s distress. The golden dragon noticed it too; his eyes flicked briefly behind Baelon. He recognized the omega’s scent—Daemon had visited him many times before.

The great beast stopped, simply staring. Baelon didn’t know what the dragon was thinking—if he found him worthy, or if he hadn’t burned him simply because of that familiar scent. Either way, he was grateful.

Silence fell over the cavern, thick and expectant. It seemed as though everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see what Vermithor would do. Baelon couldn’t see them, but he was certain his mother was holding Rhaena in his arms, and that Rhaenyra was anxiously twisting her wedding ring. It didn’t really matter, but it seemed that in the face of possible death, his mind clung to small, meaningless details.

There was no turning back now. He was in too deep. Either he claimed the golden dragon—or he died. There was no other option.

With a dramatic exhale, he stepped closer to the edge and extended his arm again. With a firm voice, he spoke the command he had been taught. “Obey. Vermithor!”

The dragon seemed angered by the tone. He reared back, a deep growl rumbling from his chest. Baelon watched his massive snout open, and a warm glow began to build in his throat. The alpha could almost see himself being burned alive as the seconds stretched out—but at the last moment, the dragon turned his head to the side.

Baelon felt the heat of the fire scorch the air near his face, but he didn’t flinch. He stood firm, frowning deeply at the beast. He was starting to feel tired.

Vermithor stared at him once more, then, with a low growl, turned away as if to leave.

“Where are you going? Come back here!”

The dragon ignored him. Baelon could feel his anger boiling with every step Vermithor took. He knew it was a stupid idea—an incredibly dangerous one—but his need to prove himself was stronger than his good sense. After all these years, claiming a dragon would be the ultimate fuck you to every petulant lord and lady who had ever doubted him.

So, without thinking, he ran after the dragon, making his way down the high ledge via the stone stairs along the side.

“Baelon!” he heard his mother yell after him, but he ignored it completely, focused only on reaching Vermithor.

“Don’t walk away from me!” he shouted, boots skidding across the uneven stone as he chased after the massive beast. It was ridiculous—futile even—how easily Vermithor moved, his immense bulk slipping deeper into the shadows with surprising speed. Still, Baelon didn’t stop, he was too damn stubborn.

He pushed through the suffocating dark, the air damp and heavy with dragon musk and ancient ash. His chest burned with every breath, sweat beading along his brow. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to still see the faint glow of the high ledge above—but it was gone and swallowed by the dark. There was no turning back now.

The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in gloom. There, sprawled across the cold cavern floor, lay the golden beast. He rested like a sleeping god—majestic and utterly disinterested, eyes half-lidded, tail twitching lazily behind him. He looked bored.

Baelon squared his shoulders and stepped forward. He was an alpha, he wasn’t supposed to feel small. “Obey, Vermithor,” he called, voice firm despite the tremor in his limbs.

The dragon didn’t react. Didn’t even blink. “Obey me, Vermithor,” he tried again, louder.

This time, one golden eye cracked open, gleaming like molten metal in the dark. It settled on him for a beat, unreadable. Then, deliberately, Vermithor huffed and turned his head away.

Baelon’s jaw clenched, and he stepped closer. “I said listen—!”

Before he could finish, Vermithor let out a low growl, clearly annoyed. With terrifying swiftness, the dragon’s massive tail lashed out, sweeping across the cavern floor in a blur of motion. Baelon barely had time to throw himself to the side. The tail slammed into the rock where he’d just been standing, shattering stone and sending sharp debris flying. He rolled, coughing as dust filled the air, heart hammering in his ears.

The message was clear, but Baelon scrambled to his feet anyway, blood pounding in his temples. He wiped at a cut on his cheek with the back of his hand. He wasn’t afraid, not anymore, he was angry.

“I said—” his voice cracked with heat, his throat raw. He took a step forward, chest heaving.

Something snapped inside him. A surge of fire—not unlike the one Vermithor carried in his belly—rose from deep within.

“Listen to me!”

His voice came out deeper, rough, commanding. It surged from within him, laced with something primal and unfamiliar. It made the dragon halt mid-step, turning to fix its glowing eyes on him. The words had bounced off the damp cavern walls with terrifying strength.

Baelon stood there, panting, heart thundering in his chest. He had surprised himself. He had used his alpha voice for the first time in his life. It resonated through his very bones, the sound of it still vibrating in his chest. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever let loose before. Alphas were trained to control that voice, to wield it with caution. Most didn’t. They used it to subdue, to command submission from betas and omegas, to assert dominance. It was often cruel, a legacy of power warped by pride.

Baelon had sworn never to use it that way. But this wasn’t about dominance. This was about survival. About proving himself to a creature of fire and legend. About earning something, not taking it.

Vermithor had stopped walking. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air again, the scent of Baelon mingling with the cavern’s sulfur and ash. The dragon let out a slow, rumbling breath, something ancient and contemplative. His great golden head turned toward the young man once more.

Baelon didn’t move. Didn’t speak again. He only met those massive molten eyes and let the silence thicken between them. And then—slowly—Vermithor lowered his head. The dragon’s chest rose and fell heavily, his great wings half-spread, not in threat but readiness. He exhaled one last time, the warm gust ruffling Baelon's dark hair.

He took one cautious step forward, then another. When Vermithor didn’t move, he pressed on, walking toward the ancient dragon until he was within reach. His hands trembled slightly as he reached out and laid a hand on the beast’s scaled snout. The skin beneath was rough, warm, alive. A spark ignited deep in his chest, a bond so deep he could feel it running through his veins.

Vermithor grunted low in his throat, and Baelon moved with sure feet toward the beast’s side, climbing onto the natural grooves of his neck. As he settled into place, his fingers finding steady holds, the dragon shifted beneath him. And then, with a deafening roar, Vermithor spread his wings and leapt up, soaring out of the mouth of the cavern.

Baelon didn’t know how long he had been flying, but the sun was now setting as Vermithor circled once before descending. His massive wings kicked up clouds of dust as he landed gracefully before the gathered family. Baelon slid from the dragon's back, his boots hitting the ground just as Baela reached him first, throwing her arms around his neck with a triumphant shout.

"You did it!" she cried, her usual composure shattered by excitement. Rhaena followed, her beta scent sweet with relief as she pressed close to both her siblings.

Daemon approached more slowly, but his pride shone brighter than the sun on Vermithor's scales. He cupped Baelon's face with both hands, their foreheads touching briefly in a silent communion words couldn't match. When he pulled back, his violet eyes gleamed with unshed tears. "My dragon rider," he murmured, voice thick.

His mother wrapped him in a crushing embrace, clinging as if he might vanish if he loosened his grip. Baelon felt the omega's quiet sniffles against his shoulder as he returned the hug, rubbing comforting circles across his back.

"I'm fine, mother," he whispered near his ear. "Don't worry."

Daemon pulled back just enough to cradle the alpha's face between his hands. "I'm your mother, worrying is what I do," the omega murmured before pressing a tender kiss to his cheek.

As Daemon stepped aside, Rhaenyra approached. Her posture remained regally straight, the softness in her demeanor balanced by an unmistakable air of queenship. The alpha studied Baelon with solemn intensity for several heartbeats before the corners of her lips lifted in a small, genuine smile. Her eyes warmed as she reached out to brush her fingers lightly against his cheek, the touch fleeting yet meaningful.

"Good job, Baelon," she said, her voice carrying both gentleness and quiet authority.

Before he could respond, Maester Gerardys came hurrying across the beach, a parchment clutched in his hand. "Your Grace! A raven from Driftmark!"

Rhaenyra turned sharply. "What?" she demanded as the maester reached them, breathless.

"Silverwing has been sighted," Gerardys panted, pausing to catch his breath, "with what appears to be a new rider."

Without hesitation, Rhaenyra strode back toward the castle. Daemon moved to follow, but the alpha's commanding voice stopped him mid-step. "Stay." The omega froze, momentarily stunned by her decisive tone.

The queen marched directly to the dragon cave where Syrax waited, the dragonkeepers flanking the platform as she mounted. With a single command, the golden dragon spread her wings and launched into the sky, disappearing toward Driftmark.

Daemon watched until Syrax became a distant speck against the clouds. Though every instinct urged him to follow, one glance at his children waiting nearby anchored him. He extended his hand toward them. "Let's go inside."

—————————————

The salt-laced winds of the Narrow Sea whipped at Rhaenyra's face as Syrax descended toward the rocky shore east of Driftmark. Below, the pale bulk of Silverwing stood motionless on the shore, her pearlescent scales glimmering like moonlit waves. Before her stood a dark-haired youth, barely a man, his hands raised in surrender as Lord Corlys' men kept their spears leveled at his back.

"Your Grace!" Lord Corlys called as Syrax's shadow passed over them. The Sea Snake stood bareheaded in the wind, his silver hair whipping about his face. "This is Addam of Hull. He claims Silverwing came to him."

Rhaenyra dismounted with practiced ease, her boots sinking slightly into the wet sand. Up close, she saw the boy bore the strong jaw and sea-gray eyes of House Velaryon, though his roughspun tunic marked him as no nobleborn son. Silverwing rumbled low in her throat when Rhaenyra approached, the dragon's golden eyes tracking her every movement.

"You claimed Silverwing?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice cutting through the crash of waves.

The man, Addam, swallowed hard. "She came to me, Your Grace. In the marshes near Spicetown. I only tried to keep my distance, Your Grace, but yesterday she let me touch her." He lifted a trembling hand toward Silverwing's snout. The great she-dragon leaned into the contact with a contented rumble that shook the pebbles at their feet.

Rhaenyra exchanged a glance with Corlys. The old lord's expression was unreadable, but his fingers tapped restlessly against the pommel of his sword. Her gaze then traveled to Laenor, who stood firm next to his father. He only subtly nodded at her, his intent clear.

"You understand what this means?" Rhaenyra asked the boy. "Silverwing was the mount of Good Queen Alysanne. To claim her is no small thing."

Addam's eyes darted between the queen and the dragon. "I never meant to claim anything, Your Grace. Only... she seemed lonely."

A gust of the sea carried the scent of brine and dragon to Rhaenyra's nose. Silverwing's attention remained fixed on Addam with singular devotion, the way she’d heard Caraxes once looked at Daemon when they were newly bonded. The truth settled in her chest like a stone.

"Silverwing has chosen," Rhaenyra announced. The guards lowered their spears. "Addam of Hull, my husband will arrange for your training as a dragonrider."

Corlys stepped forward, his sea-worn face softening as he clasped the boy's shoulder as a sign of acceptance. 

Rhaenyra felt her husband’s eyes on her, turning to look at him, she caught his bright eyes and radiant smile. Laenor then turned to Addam, and with a swift, enthusiastic nod, he followed behind his father. 

As the men dispersed, Rhaenyra lingered by the shore. Silverwing had waded closer to the sea, her wings spread to catch the sea wind while Addam stroked her neck with reverent hands. The sight stirred old memories.

A raven's cry overhead broke her reverie. She looked up to see the bird circling against the gathering clouds, no doubt bearing word from Dragonstone. She tried not to, but she couldn’t help letting a horrible feeling settle in her stomach.

—————————————

About an hour had passed since Rhaenyra's departure when Daemon began pacing the map room relentlessly. Baelon, Baela, and Rhaena watched him with growing exasperation, powerless to calm the agitated omega.

"Muña, she'll be fine," Rhaena said, her eyes tracking her mother's restless movements. "She's with Lord Corlys and Laenor." Daemon paused briefly to fix her with a worried glance before resuming his pacing. The beta offered a reassuring smile that did little to ease his tension.

"And they have Syrax and Seasmoke," Baela added. "Two against one if it comes to that." Her attempt at comfort proved equally ineffective.

"She's nearby, muña," Baelon chimed in. "You need to stop worrying—it's not good at your age." His sisters stifled giggles as the omega whirled to glare at him.

Daemon opened his mouth to retort when a familiar dragon's roar cut through the air. A Kingsguard burst in urgently. "Your Grace! Sunfyre is fastly approaching!"

At the dragon's name, white-hot fury surged through Baelon. Acting on instinct, he sprinted from the castle toward the beach where Vermithor rested. Without a word, the great bronze dragon understood. Baelon vaulted into the saddle and with a single command, Vermithor's massive wings unfurled, carrying them skyward in pursuit of the golden dragon streaking toward King's Landing.

Watching his son depart, Daemon immediately understood his intent. He turned toward the dragon caves where Caraxes and Moondancer waited, his daughters close behind. "Don't—"

"I'm coming with you!" Baela declared.

"No," Daemon commanded, already mounting Caraxes. "You're staying here. Don't argue."

"But—" Rhaena tried to interject.

"Stay." Though he didn't raise his voice, his tone brooked no opposition.

Caraxes shrieked as he launched from the cave mouth. Undeterred, Baela dashed to Moondancer. "What are you doing? Mother said—"

"I don't care what he said," Baela snapped, swinging into the saddle. "Vhagar could be close behind. They'll need help." Before Rhaena could protest further, Moondancer surged skyward.

Sunfyre flew like prey fleeing predators. Aegon, barely conscious in his saddle, clung desperately as his dragon veered erratically through the darkening sky. Baelon urged Vermithor onward, the ancient dragon's powerful wingbeats closing the distance with terrifying speed.

As they neared King’s Landing, Vermithor let out a thunderous roar. Sunfyre twisted midair, nearly unseating his drunken rider. Baelon leaned forward, his voice cutting through the wind. "Vermithor! Dracarys!"

A torrent of flame erupted from the Bronze Fury's mouth. Sunfyre banked sharply, but the fire caught his wingtip, sending golden scales scattering like coins into the sea below. The younger dragon shrieked in pain, his flight growing more erratic.

From the north, Caraxes' distinctive shriek pierced the air as Daemon arrived. The Blood Wyrm dove like a crimson spear, forcing Sunfyre into a desperate spiral that nearly threw Aegon from the saddle. The usurper king screamed, his hands slipping on the reins as his dragon flailed.

Baelon saw his chance. "Vermithor! Dracarys!" he commanded, and the Bronze Fury unleashed another torrent of flame. Sunfyre twisted violently, but the fire caught his leg, sending molten gold scales raining into the water below. The wounded dragon shrieked in pain, his movements growing more erratic.

Aegon, his drunken haze pierced by terror, yanked Sunfyre's reins hard. The golden dragon wheeled about with surprising speed, his maw opening wide as he prepared to return fire directly at Vermithor's exposed flank.

Baelon barely had time to react before Moondancer shot between them like an emerald bolt. "Baelon, move!" Baela's warning came a heartbeat too late.

Sunfyre's flames struck Moondancer's wing instead. The green dragon screamed as fire licked across her membranes, but Baela held firm, driving her mount forward through the blaze. As the smoke cleared, Sunfyre's tail whipped around in a vicious arc—Baela barely raised Moondancer's claws in time to block the crushing blow meant for Vermithor's head.

The impact sent shockwaves through both dragons. Moondancer reeled backward, her injured wing faltering as she struggled to stay airborne. Baela clutched at a sudden, searing pain in her side—a broken rib, maybe worse. Blood trickled from where the saddle's edge had bitten into her waist.

"Baela!" Baelon's shout was raw with panic as he saw his sister's dragon begin descending rapidly toward a narrow strip of beach below. Vermithor roared in fury, turning to pursue Sunfyre with renewed vengeance, but Baelon wrenched his attention back to his falling sister.

Daemon was already there. Caraxes streaked beneath the faltering Moondancer, the Blood Wyrm's massive body acting as a cushion as the smaller dragon crash-landed on the rocky shore. Baelon landed Vermithor beside them before the dust had even settled, leaping from his saddle to where Baela now lay half-conscious against Moondancer's heaving side.

"Fool girl!" Daemon was already at her side, his hands shaking as they assessed the damage. The omega's scent had gone sharp with panic beneath its usual burnt cherries. "You were supposed to stay at Dragonstone!"

Baela coughed, a trickle of blood appearing at the corner of her mouth. "Since when...do I...follow orders?" she managed, though the words came out strained.

Baelon's hands clenched into fists as he looked up to the golden beast now flying away from the capital, its form now disappearing into the distance. The sight of his injured sister and the scent of her blood stoked his fury. Vermithor growled low in his throat, sensing his rider's rage.

"We finish this," Baelon growled, turning back toward his dragon.

Daemon's hand snapped out to grip his wrist with surprising strength. "No." The omega's voice brooked no argument, his violet eyes blazing. "Your sister needs a maester. And you need to think before you get yourself or others killed."

The truth of it settled like heavy stones in Baelon's gut. As much as he wanted to pursue Aegon, to end this here and now, Baela's labored breathing kept him rooted to the spot. With a final, frustrated glance toward the distance, he knelt beside his sister, helping Daemon stabilize her for the flight back.

—————————————

A few days later

Daemon surveyed the golden-clad alphas surrounding him, his sharp gaze moving across their determined faces. He stood in the Red Keep's courtyard, his Gold Cloaks arrayed before him, awaiting orders. Clad in heavy armor engraved with Caraxes' likeness, his old commander's golden cloak draped across his shoulders, he cut an imposing figure. Among the watchmen stood his eldest son, Baelon, wearing the City Watch uniform with quiet pride.

Since the clash with Aegon and Sunfyre, much had changed. Baelon had helped him bring the injured Baela back to Dragonstone, where Maester Gerardys had immediately tended to the young alpha's wounds. Rhaenyra had returned soon after, finding Daemon in the midst of reprimanding their reckless son once the maester had cleared him.

The queen's fury had been expected—and justified. She'd prepared to return to King's Landing at once, needing to see their other children. Daemon had longed to accompany her, but with Baela confined to bedrest and forbidden from dragonflight, he'd remained behind with her, Rhaena, and Baelon—neither sibling willing to leave their family's side.

Now back in the capital with no sign of enemy dragons approaching, Daemon refused to remain idle any longer. With Rhaenyra's blessing, he'd assembled the City Watch and volunteers ready to fight for their rightful queen.

The omega's piercing gaze swept across the gathered forces, meeting each soldier's eyes in turn. When he stepped forward, every eye locked onto him. "My wife's claim is under threat," he began, voice carrying across the courtyard. "The false king Aegon endangers our city and our people."

He paused, observing how his words held them rapt. "In recent months, we've won countless battles and taken territory from the Greens, but the war continues." His eyes found Ser Luthor's before continuing. "You'll join the troops marching to Harrenhal. My son Baelon will patrol the skies with Vermithor while I ride ahead to treat with Lord Strong."

Turning to address them all, he drove his point home: "I expect nothing but success. You've trained for this—now prove your worth."

Their unified shout of affirmation satisfied the omega. "Prepare tonight. You depart at dawn."

As the crowd dispersed, Ser Luthor and Baelon approached. Daemon gestured for them to follow as he strode back into the Red Keep. "With Harrenhal secured, the Riverlands will join our cause. Combined with the North and Vale, we'll raise an army the Greens cannot hope to match."

He stopped abruptly, gripping his son's shoulders. "I know this assignment displeases you, but your role is vital to our safe arrival at Harrenhal." When Baelon opened his mouth to protest, Daemon pressed on. "Promise me you'll stay focused. Let nothing distract you from this mission."

"Mother—"

"Promise me." Daemon's voice cracked with emotion, tears glistening unshed in his eyes. “I need you to promise me.”

Baelon froze before his mother's raw expression. "I promise."

A small, watery smile touched Daemon's lips as he kissed his son's cheek before turning toward Rhaenyra's chambers, Ser Luthor at his heels.

At dawn, Daemon stood in the Dragonpit stroking Caraxes' snout as he prepared to mount. Turning, he saw Baelon doing the same with Vermithor. His son wore flexible yet sturdy armor designed for dragonback comfort, while Daemon had his usual plate and helm. Their assembled forces waited at the city gates, ready to march when Vermithor took to the skies.

After a final, heartfelt farewell, Daemon climbed into Caraxes' saddle and secured the straps. The mating bite Rhaenyra had left on his neck, as goodbye, itched as the Blood Wyrm spread his wings and launched toward Harrenhal. As he soared over King's Landing, Vermithor's answering roar signaled Baelon's departure.

Daemon resisted the urge to look back, suppressing his longing to return to his family. This war would end, whatever the cost.

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

[bbygrldaemon]

Matt Smith in “Patient Zero” (2018)

Enjoy!