#daemon targaryem fan fiction

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Perzys se Rūkla (Fire and Flowers) - Chapter Five

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x original female character (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Mentions of infidelity, angst, strong language, mentions of pregnancy. Word count: ~2k

Chapter summary: Daemon deals with the fallout of Melessa's discovery. Series summary here.

Endless thanks and all the love to my absolute ride or die @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for cheerleading, beta'ing and just generally being the bestest fandom boo a gal could have.

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

Header by the insanely talented @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

I love you. I love you. I love you.

The thought tempts Daemon to go after Melessa, pull her to him and demand that she forgive him. However, it is Rhaenyra’s coronation and it has been shrouded in enough uncertainty and controversy, without her uncle chasing his weeping wife through the Red Keep. The very last thing the beginning of his niece’s reign needed was more gossip.

He sighs, only realising when he looks over his shoulder that the serving girl he’d pulled from the feast is still in the alcove, pressed against the wall, wide eyed and disheveled. Pathetic. He is unsure whether it is a thought he directs towards himself or her.

“Fuck off,” he hisses, not bothering to watch as she smooths her skirts and scurries away.

Leaning against the cool stone of the corridor, Daemon sighs. He does not know how to put this right, apologies have never been his strong suit. He can put together battle strategies for entire armies, cleave his enemies in twain, and rain dragonfire down upon those who oppose him, but his problem solving does extend as far as opening his heart and admitting to his own wrongdoing.

The very thought of going to Melessa and placing himself at her mercy by pleading for her forgiveness terrifies him more than any battle ever could. He owes it to her, though; she has given up so much in his pursuit of her, even more so since they were wed, and in a single misjudged act of foolishness he has made it all seem worthless.

His footsteps feel heavy as he trudges his way up towards their shared quarters, turning over and over in his mind what he might say to her.

I’m sorry.

It was a mistake.

It won’t happen again.

None of it feels good enough. Daemon swallows thickly, his heart pounding, as he pushes open the door, preparing himself to be greeted by the sight of his wife’s mournful hysterics.

He is taken aback when he finds her seated by the window, staring out of it. She’d appear almost serene were it not for the fact that her eyes are rimmed red from crying. She doesn’t even acknowledge his presence.

Daemon shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, clasping his hands firmly behind his back. He bows his head, taking a breath, before looking up at Melessa and uttering the first thought that springs to mind.

“Forgive me,” he says softly, looking at her with genuine remorse.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she says flatly, her voice listless. “It was silly of me to assume our marriage was anything more than a political tool for you to ensure Rhaenyra’s place as Queen.”

A pit forms in Daemon’s stomach upon hearing this. He had expected her to scream at him, to be met with heartbroken tears and burning anger, he would have welcomed that. This beaten-down resignation is more than he can handle; surely she does not believe the things she says? He stands there silently, brow furrowed in disbelief.

“You’ve gotten what you needed from our union, and it is childish folly for me to expect you to not want to bed other women,” she continues. “But now you have gotten what you want, I wish to return to Highgarden.”

Bile rises in Daemon’s throat at her admission. He fights the urge to grab her, to shake her and demand that she be angry with him. He doesn’t recognise the broken husk of a woman seated before him. She is lacking in the spirited brightness he has come to adore from his wife. Had his carelessness really snuffed that out?

He opens his mouth to speak, but finds the words won’t come. She beats him to it, dull and monotonous sounding.

“Don’t let me keep you. We can make the necessary arrangements tomorrow. Go back to the celebrations. Give the Queen my apologies for my absence; I am not feeling especially jovial this evening.”

Not knowing what else to do, wordlessly Daemon turns and leaves. His mind races, fear swirling in his gut at how withdrawn Melessa is, unsure of how to coax her back out of the shell she’d retreated into. 

Irritation prickles at him as he strides through Maegor’s Holdfast, back towards the festivities. The very notion of playing at being Hand of the Queen for a feasting hall full of slack jawed halfwits, while his wife slips away from him, seems ridiculous. His jaw clenches as with every step the sounds of merriment get louder.

“There you are,” Rhaenyra calls out to him from across the courtyard.

“Shouldn’t you be entertaining your loyal subjects?” Daemon asks, walking to meet her.

“I needed some fresh air,” she says matter-of-factly. “Finished with that poor girl you dragged away earlier?”

Daemon pinches the bridge of his nose, huffing in agitation. “You saw that?”

“You’d sat at the table like a petulant child for the entire feast. It was the first time I’d seen you move all evening.” She narrows her eyes at him. “Of course I saw.”

Daemon rolls his eyes. “Well, so did my wife.”

“Oh?” Rhaenyra raises her eyebrows at this.

“She wants to go back to Highgarden.”

“And you’re going to let her?”

“What choice do I have?” Daemon asks irritably. “I can’t very well chain her up and force her to stay here.”

“You fought so hard to get her. Is she not worth fighting to keep?”

“Of course she is!” he spits, temper flaring at the absurdity of such a question.

“Then show her that,” Rhaenyra responds softly. “Fight for her.”

“Your coronation feast—” he begins.

“—Is almost over,” she interrupts. “I need my Hand’s mind to not be preoccupied while fulfilling his duties. Fix this, so I may have your full attention tomorrow.”

Daemon nods gratefully, walking away with a renewed determination to win back the affections of Melessa.

She has moved from her seat by the window when Daemon returns. He spots her standing at the foot of the bed, folding dresses into a trunk and he cannot help the white hot fury that boils under his skin at the sight of it. She really means to leave him. He cannot bear the thought.

Storming through the apartment, he snatches a gown from her grasp, the fabric tearing audibly as he does so.

It is the first time all day—since she caught him with the serving girl, that is—that her face has shown any visible emotion. Her eyes widen in shock, quickly morphing to anger as she scowls.

“What are you doing?” she cries in an accusatory manner. 

“I could ask the same of you,” Daemon says darkly. “You aren’t going anywhere. Stop behaving like a child!”

“It is not me who is cavorting in hallways with servants. You cannot keep me here as your prisoner!” she shoots back. 

He can tell from the way her voice wobbles that she is about to cry again and his heart aches at the sound, immediately regretting how he has handled the situation.

“Petal,” he pleads, his voice softening, still holding her now ruined dress in his hands. “You are not my prisoner—you are my wife.”

She shakes her head sadly, eyes closing as tears fall from her waterline and roll heavily down her cheeks. “I was an infatuation for you, one that you have grown tired of. Just let me go. Please.”

“You aren’t; I haven’t; I can’t,” he implores desperately, letting the garment he holds drop to the floor to reach for her.

She backs away, sniffling. “You know,” she begins, voice thick and watery. “It is not the utter humiliation of what you did to me that hurts most. It is that I have spent the past half a year trying to be the perfect wife for you and still I am not enough.”

Daemon hates this. Why will she not allow him to touch her? He cannot comfort her, cannot mend the broken pieces if he can’t hold her. He aches to pull her to him, fingers flexing uselessly at his sides as stares at her filled with shame and regret.

“You are enough,” he whispers. “More than I deserve.”

“You never say it back,” Melessa croaks. “Do you love me?”

Daemon balks at this, opening his mouth before clamping it shut again. He’d never uttered those words to anyone, wasn’t even sure he knew what such an emotion was. All he knows is that over the last six months something has grown within him, something dark and urgent that drives him to be with her, as though an invisible string tied his heart to hers. To be by her side was a need, not a mere passing fancy. If that was what love was, then he did indeed feel that.

But he has no idea of how to articulate that to her, how to make her understand that in his own unique way all of his heart belongs to her. So he says nothing, watching as she hiccups a sob before walking to the opposite bedchamber, the one that has remained unoccupied since they arrived back in King’s Landing, and closes the door behind her.

The anger builds quickly in Daemon, his patience threadbare at his inability to speak his feelings coupled with frustration at having made no progress in earning his wife’s forgiveness. With a snarl of fury, he picks up a small wooden stool that has been left discarded by the bed and launches it towards the nearest wall. It breaks apart on impact, clattering noisily to the flagstone floor.

“Fuck!” he shouts, before dropping heavily onto the bed, placing his hands over his face in frustration.

The smell of her clings to the sheets, almond oil and rosewater, maddeningly sweet. For a moment he considers barging into the bedchamber she now occupies and simply taking her by force. She’d have no doubt of his want or love for her if he felt how passionately he needed her. He thinks better of it. If she didn’t wish for him to even take her by the hand, it is doubtful she’d appreciate him rutting into her like an untamed beast.

He sighs. He has everything he has ever wanted, and yet has managed to ruin it. He could never allow himself to just be happy. It reminds him of when he and Viserys were children. They had had family visiting from across the continent who’d brought each of the boys a gift. Daemon had received a wheeled wooden horse, which he’d taken great delight in dragging around the gardens. Viserys had been given a model of a castle. To Daemon, it had appeared that Viserys was having more fun playing with his castle than he was playing with his horse. He’d taken it upon himself to destroy both toys. If he couldn’t achieve that level of happiness, then no one else deserved to have it either. Is that what he’d done to his marriage? Shame wells fiery and acrid within him at the idea.

He doesn’t realise he has fallen asleep, exhausted by the events of the day, until he is awoken by the creaking of Melessa’s chamber door. He sits bolt upright, anticipating the sight of her exiting through the door, but is disappointed and surprised to see it is Maester Orwyle instead.

Daemon stands, blinking back sleep, and stalks towards him. “Why the fuck are you creeping out of my wife’s bedchamber in the middle of the night?” he growls irritably.

Orwyle bows his head apologetically, a hint of fear in his eyes as he regards Daemon, glowering and tightly wound. “Forgive me, your Highness—your lady wife was having trouble sleeping. She requested milk of the poppy to help soothe her. You need not worry; I kept the dosage small, considering her condition.”

“Her condition?” Daemon questions suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

Shrinking backwards with a gulp, visibly uncomfortable, Orwyle nods his head. “Y-yes, your Highness. She is with child.”

Daemon feels as though his heart skips a beat, a combination of shock and anger flashing through him in an instant that has him yanking the maester up by his robes. “She’s what?”