#daemon targaryen x fem!reader

[queers-gambit]

Blue Moon Wreckage

prompt: your husband can often lose his temper and resort to the man he was before you. you grow tired of lashing your tongue, and learn your husband responds better to silence.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!wife!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 4.3k+

note: another stand alone, no sequel

warnings: cursing, talk of child abandonment, vulgar dialogue, old-fashioned views on marriage (maybe idk), not edited. small angst, small comfort. author probably missed some warnings.

The entire city cleaned up in preparation for Princess Rhaenyra's nuptials to the heir of Driftmark, Lord Laenor Velaryon. It was refreshing to see citizens rejoicing in a common theme and going around to hang different decorations; chandeliers of strung florals, wreaths woven and hung, lanterns set all around to create an ambiance in the street.

Romance was in the air.

It put people in jolly spirits, brought them elation, and gave the ability to decompress from the woes of life. Wine tasted sweeter, the food saltier, and many merchants came into town for the week-long celebration of Rhaenyra and Laenor in the hopes of selling enough wares to pay for three of their month's expenses. Every room at the inn was filled, brothels hosting the leftover stragglers; money was simply made in an abundance after taking advantage of the citizens come to celebrate.

And yet, deep within the halls of the Red Keep, not all were so at peace with the state of things.

Maids and servants all skidded around the corridor that housed your bedchambers shared with your husband. The walls almost vibrated with the sheer force of the yelling that took place, and while the sun shone on the rest of the Kingdom, there was a dark shadow over the Red Keep.

Rarely, and it was the truth, rarely did you and Daemon ever fight. He was your best friend, he was the love of your life, you've known him for years, and had long since developed an effective way to communicate. Daemon wasn't easy to deal with, in fact, even to those who knew how to handle him, he sometimes pushed past boundaries and threw curveballs into the mix. You were not immune to his sharp tongue and wicked-fast wit, but in reality, Daemon never actively sought conflict with you, so fighting was incredibly rare - though, not totally unheard of.

Like a blue moon - not totally unheard of, but still considered rare. And in pale moonlight, the ship you and Daemon found yourselves sailing on seemed to crash into a set of cliffside jagged rocks, all but imploding the balance you had found yourselves in.

A shipwreck during a blue moon.

Before you, Daemon was violent and volatile. He was irresponsible, impulsive, stubborn, hotheaded, and blood thirty. Many Ladies all vied for the Prince's attention, but as he grew older, he became more and more reckless and more Ladies started keeping their distance. Expect you. You heard rumor his grandmother, the Queen Alysanne, meant to marry him off to Rhea Royce but your father was almost too smart for his own good. He devised a tantalizing offer that the Crown would've been foolish to refuse - thus binding you and Daemon to fate.

Before you, Daemon wasn't a man. He was just a second son trapped in a shell of his body, full of anger with nowhere to expel himself. A boy with a temper. A lad with attitude. He was knighted at 16, an impressive feat, and not a full moon cycle later, you and Daemon wed. He wasn't easy to love, but that was because he was so defensive in his life living in his older brother's shadow.

Before you, Daemon never believed in love or acceptance. Yet everyday he spent with you, he was reminded of his value and worth as a person - not just a Prince, or a Targaryen. You worked every day for his trust and confidence, and once you had it, it was an unshakeable foundation. Daemon was everything to you, and before him, you were shy and awkward and overwhelmed in the glaring eyes of court. Now, you were confident, humble, and weeping with power.

You kept Daemon balanced in his head and heart.

Before you, he was like a wild dog. Now, he was domesticated for you and you alone. He realized how much his recklessness hurt you and never wanted to be the cause of your pain, so, Daemon cleaned himself up. Most days, he was perfectly content in life, and others, he was still as stubborn as ever, but every so often, Daemon loses sight of himself and resorts back to who he was before you.

Fighting with Daemon was always difficult. He wasn't accustomed to losing, so, when you two went toe-to-toe, he was out for blood. He loses himself in his anger, fueled only by the need to cause the most harm with his sharpest words. Daemon jumped to conclusions faster than a grasshopper hops from blades of grass because he was vastly insecure, and it took most of your will to restrain your anger enough to soothe him of his worries.

Daemon hated fighting with you, and you hated fighting with him. There was never a true victor because you both hated it so much. Perhaps that was why your once-in-a-blue-moon fights turned so gruesome and emotional; you both hated fighting that it made you fight even harder.

How you came to this, you didn't remember. One moment, you were enjoying a morning feast with your husband, and the next, you were locked in your chambers, lashing at each other's throats with hateful words.

"I do not understand!" You sobbed. "You agreed to this - "

"No! No, I did not! You did not consult me on this matter, you just accepted responsibility. For the both of us!"

"He is my little brother, Daemon!"

"He is not our responsibility!"

"He is now!"

"Because you took action without a word to me!"

"I did not need to consult you; he is my blood."

"But not mine."

You scoffed, "For fuck's sake, Daemon, do you hear yourself? You are whinging over a child - you're bloody jealous of a child! Where is the man I married?"

"I have done all I am expected and required as a husband, it is you who refuses my seed. Who refuses to grow our family!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Now you want a baby!? Married ten years, we are, and NOW you want to whinge about babies!? I am busy in case you've not bothered to look around every once in a while," you snapped, "and I understand having a baby is not ideal right now!"

"So, you will not take my seed because you are busy raising another man's?"

"He was my father - oh, Gods be good, why're we fighting over this?"

"You need to understand, he is not mine," Daemon seethed. "He will never be mine and I do not wish to treat him as such. The life and luxury we live in are not meant for a child that is neither of ours."

"What would you have me do!?"

"Send him to your brother."

"Oh, spare me this notion, Daemon! I will not hear of it! No! We are not discussing this again and again!"

"You mean to disobey me then, wife?" He snapped, making your mouth snap shut. "Huh? Think you're immune to the duties you must uphold as a woman? Think that allows you free rein? You are luckier than most that I allow you to have a fucking opinion; do not abuse my generosity. You want the child to stay, fine, I hear you, but I say he goes. Guess who's want will triumph?"

You blinked several times, unable to find words.

"Nothing to say?" He taunted. "That is a first, wife, you surprise me. In your moment of silence, do well to listen to me now: the child goes, or I do. You either get rid of the child or I will remove myself from this sham of a marriage."

"I do not recognize you, you are not my husband," you finally sighed. "Do me a favor and figure you may speak to me again once you're ready to apologize. If not, I assume by week's end, we will be celebrating both Rhaenyra's wedding and our annulment."

"Too much time has passed for such - "

"I know a Septon that will forge documents. Now," you eyed him up and down, "once more, do not think to speak to me unless to grovel for my forgiveness."

"You will die before that happens."

You nodded slowly, then shrugged and dodged around him to exit the room. You could not bear to be around him any longer, storming away to where your small brother was being looked after by a Septa. You did not speak to Daemon the rest of the day, feeling yourself brimming with anger as you replayed his words.

How dare he find insult in your desire to do "the right thing" by caring for your brother after your parents met their untimely demise? How dare he cite "wifely duties" to you? Just how dare he!

The day was supposed to be merry. It was supposed to be lighthearted and fun and romantic and exciting and gossip worthy. Yet now, you were feeling annoyed, frustrated, weighed down, and plain stupid. You felt alone. You felt tired and worn thin. Your little brother, Jamie, always put a smile on your face, but now, you were simply ready to cry just by looking at him. This planted the seed of resentment towards Daemon, and through the day, only festered.

"My Lady?" You glanced in the mirror to see your hand maiden, who was doing your hair, humming in question. "Alyria has arrived, she will watch young Lord Jamie for the evening."

"Good, thank you," you sighed. "Has Daemon come around?"

"No, my Lady."

"Hmm."

Not 30 minutes later, you were walking towards the decorated throne room with your hair braided back, make-up laid perfectly, and your dress a dark grey, black, and Targaryen red.

However, before you could walk in, someone called your name. You paused, letting Daemon approach you, his eyes raking you in as he realized you dressed to match him. "You look beautiful," he complimented, but you just stared; then sighed through your nose and straightened up. "What? You're not speaking to me?"

"I told you the terms in which you should find it acceptable to speak to me again."

Daemon scoffed, "You're still on that?" You did not answer, just stared forward. "Fine, be that way. Come," he offered his arm, but you brushed past him to finally enter the throne room. Your names were announced, albeit begrudgingly because most in the castle harbored ill-will towards Daemon. They just felt bad for you, not knowing of the man you had grown to know and love unconditionally.

You took long strides to shorten your journey, but behind you, your husband just sauntered in as if the center of attention. However, no matter where he was, Daemon was always the main character, and he was quite the peacock in flaunting himself. You bowed to the King and his daughter, heir to the Iron Throne, Princess Rhaenyra. You took your seat beside the Hand of the King, Ser Strong, as Daemon climbed the stone stairs with a smug expression before taking the seat beside you at the very end.

Needless to say, Daemon was not accustomed to being ignored. You did not look at him, did not speak to him, ignored his direct questions, even went as far as to slapping his hand away when he reached for your thigh. When your hand rested on the table and he laid his over yours, you pulled it back.

It drove Daemon absolutely up the wall.

"And how fairs your brother, my Lady?" Ser Strong asked gently. "How does he like life in the Capital?"

"He adores it," you hummed with a nod. "He is learning so much and loves watching the boats in the harbor."

"How old is he now?"

"Just shy of 4, my Lord."

"Well, what would the little Prince like for his nameday?"

"Oh, uh, no, he's not a Prince," you spoke gently.

"No? Well, I suppose until Viserys recognizes him."

"Well, Daemon's made it clear that if I do not give custody of my brother up, this marriage is null and void, so," you clicked your tongue cheekily, sipping your wine, "no use in titles."

You knew others heard you and smirked to yourself. Another gulp of wine and you were standing, excusing yourself, and moving onto the dance floor. Rhaenyra giggled when you gave her a playful twirl before taking your place with a partner, falling into rhythm with those around you. The entire time, you felt Daemon's eyes burning into you.

You didn't care. You carried on as if there wasn't a ring on your wedding finger weighing like a full fish net, like you weren't burdened by your marriage.

You danced with a Tully, Stark, Frey, and Lannister boy, all who looked at you like a delectable treat but were being effectively ignored, just like your handsome, white-haired husband. It was a lively time, twisting and turning and leaping and being lifted in ture with the instruments playing. Rhaenyra caught your eye a few times, grinning and giggling as she, too, let herself destress in the glee of the festivities. However, when the Frey lad spun you around, you had thought of the devil so much, there he bloody was.

Your husband smirked down at you, "You look startled, little bird."

You scoffed and moved to go around him, but Daemon's hand was darting out to grab your upper arm. He pulled you further into the crowd to use them as a layer of protection, turning sharply to leer over you. He snapped in High Valyrian, "What're you playing at? Hmm? You mean to embarrass my entire family by being so cold and shrewish?"

You scoffed, glaring at him for a moment before he reached forward to grab your neck and cheek in a possessive hold. "I dare you to raise a sharp word at me," he sneered quietly, keeping you in place. "You have ignored me all fucking day, these games are at an end. I have always known your voice to be a sweet remedy, do not deprive me of it longer."

"Then apologize," You snapped.

"For what? Speaking the truth? That you refuse to sire my children because you are too occupied with your wee brother? For taking in a child without so much as asking me? Tell me, what am I apologizing for?"

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, and swatting his hand from you. However, just as you meant to walk away from him, someone gasped and yelped from the people around you. Daemon brought you into his chest as a sudden crowd thickened, two bodies hitting the floor in a gruesome fight. This encouraged others to get rowdy, and before you could comprehend his actions, Daemon was stooping low to hoist you over his shoulder and stride away.

When out of the fray, Daemon slowed himself enough to set you down at the base of the stairs leading to the Royal banquet table, both his hands going to your cheeks. He panted lightly, looking you over, "All right? You hurt? They touch you?"

"No, I'm okay," you sighed gently, reaching up to hold his wrists in a brief show of affection. However, the crowd only grew in size and aggression; the Royals all taking refuge on the elevated landing to take a headcount. Not a moment later, Ser Harwin Strong, the Hand's eldest son, was emerging from the crowd with Rhaenyra hoisted up his shoulder.

But your attention was drawn elsewhere. You parted Daemon's side to get under Viserys' arm, lifting him up slightly as he coughed into a handkerchief. You frowned when you saw the blood, his eyes meeting your wide ones. You asked the only question you could think of, "Does Daemon know?"

"No," he matched your tone in a whisper.

You nodded and assisted him into the closest chair. After the death of Ser Laenor Velayron's paramour (Ser Joffrey, was it?) the hall was cleared of everyone to only leave the immediate family. In hopes of avoiding future turmoil, it was decided that the Realm's Delight, Rhaenyra, was to wed the Sea Snake's son, Laenor, now instead of at week's end. Viserys asked his brother to stay but you were quick to bow out, promising it was a family affair and you should get ready for bed anyways.

Daemon looked close to protesting your departure but was unable to utter a single word, only watching you scamper out of the throne room as the High Septon finally arrived.

Rhaenyra and Laenor married in front of his mother and father, Rhaenys and Corlys, and his sister, Laena. King Viserys was there with his brother Daemon and wife Alicent, leaving only the Hand present to pose as "unbiased witness".

Further into the castle, you collected your brother, Jamie, and quickly got him ready for bed. Your heart felt heavy with guilt as you looked at him, understanding on a deeper level that if it came down to it, you'd do anything to keep Daemon in your life... And if he said your brother had to go or he did, well, you feared to find out if he was serious.

Jamie fell asleep on the long bench at the base of your bed with a fire crackling in front of his face. He had fallen asleep listening to you read, your emotions catching up to you to let you finally sob quietly while preparing for bed. You hated the idea of losing either Daemon or Jamie, and the fact that you had to choose? It felt impossible. So, once ready for bed, you tied on your dressing robe and bent at the waist to kiss Jamie's forehead. You then found yourself standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, wine in hand, staring out into nothing as you were wrecked emotionally from considering Daemon's ultimatum.

You were overwhelmed.

The door opened behind you and your eyes screwed shut. You took an even breath in, heard the door shut quietly, and then turned to spy your husband already staring at you. His face was neutral, passive, and you knew he was sizing you up just as you were him; both waiting for the other to make the first move.

Your resolve crumbled.

As if your minds were connected by a string, you surged forward as Daemon took a few steps toward you, meeting in the middle, and wrapping your arms around one another. Daemon held your waist tightly as yours tied around his neck in a vice grip, breathing in his scent that seemed to mingle permanently with the smell of dragon. He felt gentle trembling from contained sobs, soothing you with hushed cooing; hand petting the back of your head.

When you pulled back, it was only just enough to find his lips; drenching yourself in sheer relief at the familiar taste and feel of your husband. Just before you could whimper you were sorry, truly being unsure what you were actually apologizing for, when he beat you to it.

The space between your lips was filled with Daemon's rushed words, both his hands cradling your cheeks as he spoke, "I'm so sorry, my love. I am. I am truly so sorry. I hate fighting, I hate us fighting, it just feels so fucking wrong, I'm so sorry."

"No, it is I who am sorry, husband."

"Nothing to apologize for," he rushed, forehead glued to yours as he moved you backwards to the bed. "You do not apologize to me; you have done no wrong. It's me, I am the one who should grovel. I do deserve your kindness; I am so sorry for what I've said." He took a long breath, just holding you carefully, "I was out of line."

"No, you were right. I did not consult you; I should have. It is not just you or I in this, but the two of us together. I shouldn't have acted without so much as a word."

"It is okay," he assured softly, "it is more than all right by me now. I just," he sighed, "I needed to think, process a little. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, I should've listened to you and been a supportive husband, but instead, I just fought with you." He frowned, petting down your face with a dainty finger. "We fight because we care, but Gods do I hate it."

"I do, too," you whispered. "Can we just," you sighed, "go to bed or something? I'm exhausted."

He nodded, glancing at the foot of the bed before looking back at you, "One more thing."

"Hmm?"

"We will talk to Viserys in the morning about recognizing Jamie."

You frowned, "Well, hang on, I think I understand your point, too, Daemon. Listen, yes, I want us charged with Jamie's care, but I do not wish to replace his parents."

"He should still have a title, a place at court. Access to tutors and such."

You smiled fondly, whispering, "That is the man I married."

Daemon prepared for bed as you check Jamie, finding him fast asleep still. Your husband came to bed after blowing out all candles, leaving the fire simmering and you both under a single linen sheet. He laid on his back with you flush against his side, both hands holding your form and tracing idle patterns.

Every so often, he'd squeeze you tightly and kiss your forehead, but otherwise, you both just laid in peace. However, Daemon broke the silence, "I did not mean to cause you harm. I just felt panicked, I think, after the war."

You nodded with understanding, "Our time is on the horizon, Daemon, I promise, I just needed to find balance with Jamie. I've never been a mother before, 's very odd."

"Perhaps we can learn together, I've never been a father," Daemon offered softly. "I fear I have not been entirely welcoming."

"You've time to remedy it," you urged softly. "But you are not obligated."

"He will be our shared responsibility."

You smiled against his chest. "So, tell me of the wedding."

"Nothing special," he sighed. "Viserys fell ill. And I do mean literally fell."

"What? Is he all right?"

"Yes, he's being seen to... But I was thinking..."

"Of?"

"Us. Our family."

"Hm, and what of them, my love?"

Daemon sighed, reaching for your cheek in order to find your lips in the dark. "We will leave," he whispered, licking another kiss to your lips. "We'll go across the Narrow Sea together, raise a family away from the politics and chaos."

"You would miss your family."

"I would rue staying in this city. Away from here, we'd have liberties and freedoms Kings Landing does not offer us, nor our kids."

"I will think on it."

When morning broke through the window of consciousness, Daemon realized you were still sound and dead asleep, but there was something or someone poking his arm in an annoying repetition. When he blinked awake and looked to the culprit, he smiled slightly at Jamie. "What's wrong, little lad?" He asked quietly, voice heavy and hazy with sleep, seeing tears fill the kid's eyes.

"I-I didn't mean to."

"Mean to what?"

"I wet the bed," he frowned, looking at the lounge he slept on all night. "I didn't mean to. It was a scary dream."

"It's okay," he whispered, glancing at you before standing from bed. "C'mon, it's all right, we can clean it."

He nodded and let Daemon sit him at the bottom of the mattress, some two full feet from touching you. Jamie watched Daemon work, gathering any linens to set aside to be washed before plucking the child into his arms. He took his to the washroom and got him cleaned up before redressing him for the day, Daemon quickly doing the same, and then the two left for the day.

You slept while Daemon took Jaime to breakfast. You slept while the two ate and made merry; getting to know each other. You slept while Daemon answered little Jamie's questions. You slept while Daemon offered to introduce him to Caraxes, his dragon.

By the time you were awake, dressed, and approaching the mess hall, Daemon and Jamie were leaving to head for the Dragon Pit. When they saw you, Jamie grinned and squealed, "Sissy!"

You grinned when he rushed for your legs, greeting him with enthusiasm. You hoisted him onto your hip as Daemon approached you, pausing to lean in and kiss you. "Where are you two lads off to?"

"Dragons!"

You chuckled, "Yeah? Uncle's taking you to see the dragons? You're very lucky, not many people get to see them up close."

"Would you care to join us?" Daemon offered.

"No, no, that's quite all right. Thank you, my love, but perhaps this is best kept to a boy’s trip," you quipped, pecking Daemon's lips. "Bring him back in one piece, please."

"Of course," Daemon agreed, taking Jamie's hand when you set him on the ground. He stole one last kiss before leading Jamie away; where you watched them walk away and felt something stirring in your gut; suddenly come alive with tingling electricity. Instead of venturing into the mess hall, you instead continued your way to where you could meet the Grand Maester for a series of tests.

Learning you were pregnant was surreal, but incredibly elating. You were humored by the fact that, just hours ago, you and Daemon feuded for this very reason. However, after simply seeing your husband and little brother get along so effortlessly, you had no doubt in your mind you could handle this. Worrying about having Jamie and a newborn so close together was valid, of course - but it wasn't something you actually needed to worry about now.

Plenty of families had children with shorter age ranges, but none of that matters now - not when you were so explicably happy. All that was left to do now was tell Daemon and Jamie.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

[tomriddleslovergirl]

Jealousy Headcanons

Pairings: Aegon ii Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen

Warnings: Jealousy (duh) Possessiveness, Insecurity, light nsfw, female reader

Aegon ii Targaryen:

You would never intentionally make Aegon jealous, because of how he acts when he is.

He’s possessive over you, making sure that everyone knows your his.

If another man comes up to you, flirting with you, Aegon takes that as a slight against him.

At first when a man comes up to, flirting, making you laugh, he pouts, jealousy sparking inside of him.

That jealousy quickly turns into anger.

He’s impulsive and may say something rude to the man who’s flirting with you.

Is quick to drag you away from that man, and into a secluded hall or room.

His eyes are a bit teary as he reminds you that you’re his.

Aegon is very much insecure. He knows that there are far better men than him out there and what if one day, you’ve decided that you’ve had enough of him & his problems?

Aegon is pushing you against a wall, and undoing your dress, not caring if anyone else walks — No, he’s hoping that the man who was flirting with you would walk into this scene —

Aegon needs you to reassure him that you’re his and that you won’t leave him.

Daemon Targaryen:

He’s more amused than jealous.

You? Trying to make him jealous?

He’ll watch you from across the room, sipping on a glass of wine.

Smirks when he sees you glance over at him, to make sure he’s watching.

Afterwards Daemon is dragging you off to your shared chambers, teasing you about how you tried to make him jealous.

If you and Daemon aren’t officially together but you both still obviously have feelings for each other, he’s still amused, though there is an insecurity prickling inside of him.

You two aren’t together. What if you decided to run off with another man instead of him?

Afterwards, Daemon drags you to his chambers to remind you and himself that you’re his. And after that, he’ll press his forehead against yours & bask in the moment.

Aemond Targaryen:

Aemond trusts you, but can’t help but feel a bit insecure when he sees another man flirt with you.

Aemond has one eye, and he knows that quite a few women find him unattractive.

Aemond will calmly come up to you & the man who’s flirting with you, to take you away from him.

He’ll deny being jealous if you tease him about it.

But, if the man is aggressive towards you and won't take no for an answer, Aemond will throw a punch.

[lady-phasma]

A willing pawn

Daemon Targaryen x fem! Dornish!reader

A huge thank you to @zaldritzosrose for this amazing board. You read my mind and I don't know how you did it! An equal thank you to @black-dread for providing the missing puzzle piece to make this fic work.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, hurt/comfort if you squint, little bit of size kink, use of an infantilizing pet name (because Uncle Daddy Daemon), flimsy plot, creampie (and I truly did not plan what was going to happen there, Daemon just does whatever he wants in my brain, cheeky bastard)

Summary: You had a mission in the Stepstones, but he wasn’t as fearsome, this prince, as you had been led to believe. I’m not sure about my soft!Daemon but here he is. 4k words

The encampment was dark, lit only by dying fires. This night had been chosen because it would be moonless. Your soft-soled shoes were silent on the rocky earth as you crept between tents. You had planned your path at sunset, marking in your memory where the prince’s tent stood. As the orange light had faded from the sky, your stomach had begun to knot and twist with anxiety.

Could you really follow through with this? You knew you were able but were you capable of such a thing. The circumstances didn’t offer you any choice in the matter. Prince Qoren Martell wanted to avoid the costs of war, in gold and lives. His war counsel thought of every possible measure they could take to win this war, including involving House Yronwood. You were a cog in a larger plan and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

You ducked around another tent and tiptoed to the edge of the large royal tent. This is as far as you had gotten in your strategy. From this point forward you could only hope for luck, as stealth wouldn’t matter when faced with the prince’s guards. You were sent here with the barest of plans and what little plan there was, was foolish. You listened for movement inside the tent and heard none. As you neared the front you expected a half-dozen guards but saw only two. You held your breath.

You couldn’t walk right up to the tent and demand to be let in. Sneaking in seemed to be impossible, but if you could, what next. Your heart pounded in your ears. Godsdamn it, you thought. You let out a shaky breath and slunk back into the shadows. When you turned around you almost walked face-first into a giant wall of armor.

The guard almost threw you into the tent but did not relinquish his grip on your elbow. You grunted and jerked your arm away from him as you stumbled into the large room. You caught your balance and stood up straight. The ground was covered in rugs. A table laden with maps and documents stood in the center. Next to it sat the Prince.

“We found this creeping about outside, your highness,” the guard grumbled.

Prince Daemon lounged in his chair, legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He was peeling a pear, paused mid-knife-stroke, and looked up from under his brows. They raised slightly, seemingly amused, but he didn’t bother to lift his head. He resumed his peeling.

“Leave us,” he commanded without looking up. You heard the guard’s armor as he left but didn’t take your eyes from the prince.

“What terrible deed have you been sent to do child?” He didn’t look at you, only sliced a bit of pear and popped it in his mouth. When you didn’t respond he brushed aside papers to make space on the table and laid down the knife and pear. He wiped his hands on a napkin, dropped it next to them, and stood up. Finally, he looked at you. He finished chewing, swallowed, and wiped one corner of his mouth with his thumb.

He strode toward you, sucking the pear juice off his thumb and assessing you. Much of your face was covered by your hood, stay strands of dark hair were visible but your features were cast in shadow. He dipped his head slightly and looked closely, standing only a few paces in front of you. His silver hair swung loose from his shoulder. The violet of his eyes was unnerving. You squared your shoulders.

“I am no child,” you replied, leaving off the honorific. He was no prince of yours.

“Is that so?” Daemon reached for your hood and flicked it back from your head. The only hint of surprise he allowed to show was a brief widening of his eyes. You were well aware the effect your father’s blue eyes had when set against the sienna skin you got from your mother. You narrowed your icy eyes at him.

“I’m gown enough to make it this far into your camp, am I not?” Daemon chuckled and flipped his hair back over his shoulder. He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled at you.

“I suppose so… but you did get caught, little one.”

Your cheeks flamed and you wanted to strike him but the smile on his face caught you off guard. Had he just winked at you? You were too frustrated to think and that wink made your blood boil. This was not going at all how you had expected when the guard snatched you up. Daemon didn’t so much as blink when you moved your hands from inside your cloak to push your hood back further. He was amused with you. The handle of your dagger glinted in the candlelight and caught his eye.

“So you were sent here to assassinate me?” He smiled that infernal smile. “Would you say it is going well?”

“Time will tell,” you answered through gritted teeth. Then he laughed at you, actually laughed. You clenched your hands into fists at your sides.

He took a step toward you and you tensed. You hadn’t the faintest idea what this man would do. You had only heard the rumors and propaganda in Dorne. When he reached out, you tried to take a step back from him.

“Uh-uh,” he commanded quietly. Then his hand dipped into your cloak and before you could move to stop him, he snatched your dagger out of your belt. He spun it lazily around, watching it dance in the light.

“This might have done the trick,” he spoke to the blade, not to you. “But I imagine someone with more experience should have been entrusted with it.” His eyes flicked back to your face. “Though, perhaps there were none as fierce as you.”

With absolutely no thought in your mind, you lunged forward and tried to grab the weapon from him. He deftly moved it out of your reach and grabbed your wrist with his other hand.

“As I said: fierce,” he quipped. You tugged your arm against his grasp to no avail.

“But I must!” You almost snarled at him. His expression wasn’t surprise but interest. He let you go and turned to lay your weapon on the table. When he faced you again a small smile was set on his mouth.

“Must you?” He raised an eyebrow. “If a child assassin has been sent to slay me, Dorne must be desperate indeed.”

“I am not a child! I am a woman grown, of 20 years!” You had no idea why this infuriated you but the prince knew that it did. He grinned again.

“Pardon me, my Lady. I should have said a ‘small’ assassin,” he mocked you. It was somehow kind. You were taken aback by his jest, by his demeanor. You hadn’t taken the time to pause and evaluate Prince Daemon. You had only been concerned with the ramifications of your failure.

Now that you looked, you saw a man not much older than yourself. A man who moved with experience in battle, with an ease not unlike your own. Graceful, even. Then he did the most unexpected thing. He extended his hand, offering you to sit in the chair opposite his. You had come here to threaten his life and now he was treating you like a guest! You gawped.

Before you could decide what to make of the situation, Daemon slid down into his chair and stretched his legs out again, completely unwary of you. He glanced at you one more time as he reached for his unfinished pear. You were too shocked to do anything other than sit. You closed your mouth and sat down across from him. You slipped your cloak off of your shoulders as you sat. Your common clothes weren’t uncomfortable but you weren’t used to them. You tried to adjust them as you sat but instantly became more frustrated. Daemon’s eyes on you didn’t help to easy your new-found insecurity. You were meant to have been unseen.

“Who sent you?” The blunt nature of his question startled you.

“And why should I tell you?” you retorted. You were behaving as if you were at home entertaining men you had grown up with. This was madness.

“I believe I am owed an explanation as it was my life you were planning to take. Also, what else is there to do?” He popped a slice of pear in his mouth. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Let’s start with your name, shall we?”

You hesitated, but he was right: what else was there to do. You could sit in silence until he decided to have you executed. You could try to run from the tent only to be caught and executed sooner. So you told him your name and your house name.

“Very good,” he tossed the knife and pear back on the table. “What did Martell threaten? What predicament did he put you in?”

Your eyes widened. Was Prince Martell’s reputation so tainted, so sullied, outside Dorne?

“Not him,” you spoke quietly. “Though I suppose, ultimately, he knows. We are not a political house but we have wealth that is necessary for Dorne to succeed.” Your eyes flicked down from his at the last word. You weren’t sure why but you felt ashamed for being in this position, had all along if you thought about it.

“So if not the prince himself…” Daemon paused, waiting for your answer.

“His war counsel,” you replied. “They have many strategies in play, I’m sure, but one is to ‘motivate’ certain houses to bring the war to an early end. I have no knowledge of the other plans. I only know that my father was threatened. Whatever that threat was, it was powerful enough for him to send his youngest daughter to the Stepstones.”

There it was. You had spilled it out to the enemy in a gush and felt like vomiting or crying or fleeing. You looked up from your lap. Daemon was studying you. Once again he surprised you. Perhaps you expected him to mock you but the kindness on his face somehow made your situation more real. You bit your lip to stop the tears. You would not cry. You were angry and frightened and when the prince had called you a child it made those feelings more real.

“What choice did you have?” He sounded almost compassionate. This couldn’t be the petty tyrant you were warned against, who would rape, or torture, or kill you if you were caught. “You came all this way on an errand not of your choosing and meant to go through with it. That’s more than a little honorable, don’t you agree?”

You had no idea. You were confused and overwhelmed and angry. You had never been a zealot, but you had been more sure of your mission when the target was evil or cruel. Perhaps he was at times, but not now.

“I suppose so,” you muttered, trying to look anywhere but at him.

“Well what do I do with you now?” He leaned forward in his chair. “I can’t set you free. Yet I don’t want another prisoner. And you don’t want to return home as a failure. I can see that. I could keep you as a hostage and demand gold for your safe return. Would that keep your honor intact?”

You blushed, not just from his nearness but from the fact that he could see your thoughts so clearly on your face. You and your family would be dishonored if you returned unsuccessful. It would also be unfavorable to the prince to appear compassionate to would-be assassins.

“It would,” you answered. “But I do not think the ransom would be paid.”

“No? Not for a young woman as fierce and cunning as yourself? Not for someone so precious?”

Your eyes flicked up to his at this curious word. You watched him, suspicious, as he slid out of his chair and knelt in front of you.

“I think you’re quite frightened of either choice: being sent home or being held here. I don’t want you to be frightened. Maybe the Crone had a purpose for bringing you here.”

You felt your breath catch. He looked so sincere. He was intoxicating but you believed him. You didn’t want to feel relief at the prospect of no longer sneaking, hiding, being a stowaway, but you did. Almost instantly, you imagined a hot bath, a dress and not these rags, and food that wasn’t brown. Then something else flashed in your mind and the heat returned to your face.

Daemon slowly reached out to you and stroked the side of your face. He skimmed a lock of your hair with his fingers, watching it catch the light. Its deep brown shown with hints of gold. You studied him closely. When he turned his gaze back to you, your heart pounded in your chest. His eyes searched yours as he cupped your cheek in his palm.

“Gevie,” he whispered. You thought it was High Valyrian but you weren’t sure. Your lips parted almost involuntarily as you looked up at him. He leaned toward you, silver hair cascading off his shoulders. You felt his lips on yours and closed your eyes.

His hand holding your face felt safe. His lips were warm and tasted of pear. You dared not move. You were overwhelmed and confused. However, there twisted in your belly some need, some desire for him. Your chest ached with the delicious feeling of being safe. You didn’t question how this was possible so far away from home and with your “enemy” no less. So you kissed him back.

Daemon slid his other hand to frame your face. His kiss wasn’t rough, but it was deep. You had kissed men before, you were experienced in the most basic of ways. You realized now that all the men before had not kissed you, they didn’t see you. They saw a Yronwood daughter or practice for their marriage beds. You had made those choices willingly. You weren’t concerned with being married for political reasons and had enjoyed your freedom. Until now. In this moment, you felt… precious.

Tentatively, you raised a hand to him, your fingertips grazed his jaw and neck, and came to rest on his chest. He slid his hands from your cheeks as he broke the kiss. As if waiting for your permission, Daemon rested his hands on your upper arms. You kissed him in answer. His arms swept around you and scooped you up as he stood. Your head spun but you steadied yourself by putting your hands on the back of his neck.

Daemon sat you on his bed and smoothed your hair back from your face. He stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head. He dropped it on the floor as he leaned down to kiss you. You made room for him on the bed, drawing him toward you with your kisses. He knelt between your legs, kissed your neck, and slid a hand under your shirt. You arched your back, pressing into his palm.

He brushed the underside of your breasts with the tips of his fingers and his other hand glided up your ribs. He pushed your shirt up above your breasts, fixated on your hardened nipples. His hair slid over your chest as he took one nipple in his mouth. He propped himself up on one hand and cupped your breast with the other. You moaned and writhed under him. You instinctively ran your fingers through his hair and held him against you. Daemon groaned and the sound vibrated from your chest to your core. When he pulled away you realized you had been grinding against his leg and flushed. He smiled down at you.

Wordlessly, he guided you to raise your arms so he could remove your shirt. Then he began to unlace your breeches. You watched his muscles move as he slid your pants off. You lifted your hips and giggled a little when you plopped back down on the bed as he tugged them off your legs. You weren’t shy but the action was awkward and you were quite exposed now. He tossed the breeches on the floor and smoothed a hand up your thigh. He stared, rapt, at the dark hair between your legs, so different from the silver of his own.

You bit your lip as you looked from his face, down his chest, and to the evidence of his arousal. His breeches looked uncomfortably tight now. His hands absently stroked your legs and your lower belly but paused as you sat up. You held him between your legs. When you kissed his stomach he hissed in air through his teeth. Your hands grazed over his hips and to the laces in the front of his pants. You let your fingertips glide over the shape of his erection before undoing the knot. You kissed seemingly every inch of his stomach then looked up at him as your hand dipped inside. His face was curtained by his hair as he looked down at you. You smiled as you stroked him.

Daemon moved his hands from your legs, smoothed over your hair, and then gently pressed your shoulders back. You laid down, already missing the feeling of him in your hands, but the sight of him between your legs was almost as pleasant. He leaned over you, kissing your forehead gently, then your lips, and pressed his forehead against yours.

You gasped as his fingers slid between the lips of your cunt. He licked his lips and continued to explore your wetness. Stroking, searching, learning. He circled your opening, your clit, and back again. One finger slid in easily and he grinned. You lifted your mouth to his as you lifted your hips to his hand. He slid in a second finger.

“You are so tight, little one,” he grinned down at you. You rocked your hips against his hand and moaned in reply. You placed one hand on his arm, pulling him deeper into you. With the other you smoothed his hair behind his ear and trailed your fingers down his jaw. You drug your fingertips over his lips. His eyes were dark as he watched you pleasure yourself on his hand.

“More, Daemon, please,” you moaned, saying his name for the first time. Hearing his name come from your lips pleased him immensely.

“Say it again,” he breathed as he curled his fingers inside you.

“Daemon, please.”

Slowly and with a tinge of disappointment on his face, he pulled his fingers from you. He was enjoying the sight of you but couldn’t wait any longer. He freed his cock from his breeches. Then he slid his hands up your thighs to your lower back. As he sat back he guided you onto his lap. The transition was clumsy at first, legs bumping and twisting. You both smiled as you held onto his shoulders. When you knelt over him you rubbed your clit against his cock. You rested your lips against his forehead as you rocked your lips. You moved your mouth nearer to his ear and murmured his name.

Daemon lifted your ass and placed you above his cock. With one hand between you, he guided himself into you. You sank down onto him slowly, watching his face. He clenched his jaw tight. You felt his hand move back to your ass. He let you set the pace, let you move against him. You pulled up and then sank down again, taking all of him. The moan that came from your lips was lewd and deep. You clutched at his neck, the back of his head, fingers entwined in his hair. He groaned but did not move to meet your hips. You rocked back, then forward, finding your rhythm.

He kissed your chest and breasts. His hands stroked your ass and lower back, constantly moving. You leaned forward slightly and pressed yourself against him. At this angle he wasn’t as deep in you, but you found friction against his stomach. You ground your hips into him, almost, but not quite able to get what you needed.

“Seven hells,” he panted against you. His hips had begun to move in time with yours. Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair and you tried to find that much-needed angle again. When he realized what you needed he slid a hand between you. You threw your head back as his fingers circled your clit. You sped up, fucking him hard. He kept pace with you, circling and pressing his fingers against you. You couldn’t keep a steady rhythm. You felt him brace your lower back with his hand and pull you closer to him, steadying you, supporting you. You felt your climax tug at your core and sank further onto his cock with each stroke.

“Come for me,” Daemon whispered into your neck. You did. You cried his name, clinched your fists in his hair, and buried your face against his head. You sank all the way down onto him, thighs resting on his as you shook. Your cunt spasmed around his cock but he didn’t stop moving his fingers. He pressed into you with his hips, rocking under you, and bringing forth tiny gasps from you. You lips found his and you panted into his mouth. Tiny sounds mingled with his name flew out of your mouth with every movement of his fingers.

When you thought the overstimulation might be too much he moved his hand from between you. He slid his hand under your arm and pulled you down onto him by your shoulder. A new wave of pleasure crashed into you as he spilled into you. His hips stilled, holding his cock deep inside you. He came panting and moaning your name.

You wanted to sink all of your weight onto him. It took too much effort to support yourself on your aching knees. Neither of you wanted to move yet, though both of you needed to. You released your hands from his hair. You kissed him and smoothed his hair back from his face.

You smiled at him as you rose shakily from his lap. He helped you as much as he could, but your legs were numb and your head was empty. You all but fell back onto the pillows. He watched you grind your hips against the air as the last of your climax left you. His eyes were locked on his seed sliding out of you. He leaned forward, his legs shaking as well. You watched him through half-closed eyes and settled yourself on the bed. His fingers slid through his cum and you twitched as he grazed your throbbing clit. He looked into your blue eyes as he gathered more of it on his fingers. You smiled seductively as he leaned over you and raised his fingers to your lips.

You opened your mouth, your eyes never leaving his, and he painted your tongue with his seed. You closed your lips around his fingers and let him feel you swallow. He slid his fingers out and surprised you by kissing you deeply, tasting himself in your mouth.

You moaned into the kiss and wrapped your legs around his waist. You playfully pulled his weight on top of you. He let you but also guided you both to lay on your sides. Your legs intertwined and you were a tangle of limbs for a moment. Then you buried your face into his chest and breathed in deeply. You sighed as he smoothed your hair and rested his chin on the top of your head. You were quite small in his arms. Daemon breathed deeply as he stroked down your back, your buttocks, and up again. You curled against him, one hand between you, the other resting on his hip.

“I have you now, little one,” he murmured against the top of your head.

Masterlist

[thebigbadbatswife]

Hidden Away From The World

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x Valyrian!F!Reader

Summary - Out in Essos, you and Daemon have the perfect little love nest, hidden away from the rest of the world.

Warnings - 18+ Content, Smut, Masturbation, Oral Sex (male receiving), Praise Kink, Overstimualtion, Light Dom/sub, Fluff

A/N - (This was posted on AO3 awhile ago, now finally being posted on here.) Note about the Reader: Reader is of Valyrian descent, but is NOT related to either House Targaryen or House Velaryon. As always there is no description of the Reader's appearance so that she is as inclusive as possible. Enjoy!

Word Count - 2.1k

Daemon’s all over you. His lips, his hands, his body. Not an inch of you has been left untouched by him as he thrusts into you. Your nails dig into the muscle of his back as moans spill from your lips. Each thrust stealing the air right out of your lungs. It wasn’t the typical hard fuck you have come accustomed to whenever the two of you come together. It’s slow and passionate. Like he’s determined to show you how much you mean to him.

His mouth claims yours again, muffling your noises as his tongue slips into your mouth. He snapped his hips against yours harder and faster, his body grinding against your clit. The pleasure building up inside of you was becoming almost unbearable. You feel like you are on fire, your body quickly being consumed by the flames with each thrust.

You break the kiss, crying out his name for anyone who is listening to hear…

You wake up with a gasp, your heart hammering against your ribcage. For a few moments you just lay there, the dream continuing to linger on in your mind. You can still feel his phantom hands all over your body and you reach out for him, trying to find the man those hands belong to. Only to find that you’re alone in the bed.

You frown looking at the empty space. Daemon had already left you? Or had you actually been dreaming? Perhaps you had conjured up some fantasy after one too many goblets of Dornish wine. It wouldn’t be the first time. But if that’s the case, why are you naked? The silken covers are also on the floor, leaving you completely exposed to anyone who enters your room. And there’s that distinct smell of smoke mixed with riding leathers and metal that clings to the remaining bedding that only he ever leaves behind.

Your dream wasn’t just a dream, but that doesn’t change the fact that Daemon has seemingly left you. Not even a note to explain his disappearance. Typical, is all you can think. The way he leaves you to deal with yourself after your subconscious has worked you back up. You sit up in bed, looking around the room, seeing if you can confirm he has left completely. That’s when you spy Dark Sister, his favoured blade, still resting against the table that still has wine goblets and an empty bottle of wine on it. He wouldn’t leave that behind so he’s definitely returning to you. The only conclusion you can come to as to why you’ve woken up alone is that he has left to check on Caraxes.

Flopping back onto the bed, you close your eyes bringing your dream back to the forefront of your mind. You can’t be bothered to wait for his return. You trace your body with your hands, cupping your breasts and pinching your nipples, rolling them between your pointer finger and thumb. You’re doing your best to mimic his touch, the way he likes to tease you. Not that it will ever actually compare to the real thing. You slide your hands down your body, fingers sliding across your thigh, as if to tease yourself, but in the end you can’t wait.

Your fingertips brush against your clit, the smallest gasps leaving you as you slowly apply some pressure, circling it. You slide your fingers through your folds and repeat your previous motions. You imagine that  Daemon is laying next to you, whispering sweet nothing into your ear, as his hand teases you.

“Just couldn’t wait for me to return, hmm?” Daemon’s voice makes you jump. Your eyes flying open as you sit up and stop touching yourself. You don’t do anything to try and cover yourself up though. Nudity has never bothered you and you love the way that his eyes run down your body, stopping at your cunt. He’s smirking as he crosses the room, stopping at the foot of the bed.

“You shouldn’t have left me all alone then,” you reply, looking up at him through your eyelashes, pouting.

He chuckles and nods before leaning down to kiss you. You kiss him back eagerly, your hand coming to fist his shirt. You whine when he pulls away.

“I want you to keep touching yourself,” he tells you, voice low. “And you’re not to stop until I tell you to.”

You nod as he stands back up and moves away from the bed. You spread your legs nice and wide so he has a perfect view of your already glistening cunt. You start to touch yourself again, sighing softly. Daemon watches you with hungry eyes as you slide your fingers through your folds, parting them so that he can see your entrance before sliding your fingers inside.

He’s slow as he starts undressing himself in front of you. First goes his loose linen shirt, revealing his muscular and scarred chest, quickly followed by his boots and trousers. The sight of his half hard cock as you biting your bottom lip. He strokes himself to full hardness as he comes back to the bed, still watching intently as you finger fuck yourself. You expect him to slot himself between your spread legs, but instead he walks to the side of the bed and climbs onto it.

“Lay back and open your mouth.”

You comply with his demand, laying back against the bed and opening your mouth wide. Daemon slides his cock into your mouth and, without him asking you to, you start to suck, making him groan.

“Good girl,” he praises you. You love it when he talks to you like this. It always makes you feel so warm and bubbly inside. Which is funny, you think, as outside of this little love nest the two of you have built, much like your dragon, you listen to no one. Always going your own way and often doing the opposite of what people want you to do. The difference, that you have come to realise, is that you truly love Daemon and you want to make him happy.

You alternate between fingering yourself and playing with your clit as he slowly thrusts his cock in and out of your mouth. Meanwhile you’re using your free hand to play with your nipples. You moan around him, moving your hips as you grind against your hand. The tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, making you gag around him, tears brimming in your eyes. He wipes away the tears that start to trail down your face with his thumb, continuing to praise you in High Valyrian.

Your orgasm takes you by surprise and you come with a muffled cry. You fuck yourself through your orgasm and keep going, remembering how you’re not allowed to stop until he tells you to. Even after just one orgasm, you’re now super sensitive that it’s almost painful to keep touching yourself, but that pain soon gives way to more pleasure.

“That’s it, keep going,” he encourages you. His lilac irises are almost completely swallowed by his pupils as they flick between how his cock disappears inside of your mouth and how you’re playing with yourself. You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock, tonguing the slit each time he pulls out. Daemon groans low and quietly, his eyes closing, head falling back. “Ñuha jorrāelagon,” he mutters under his breath. My love.

He never stops praising you. He keeps telling you what a good girl you are. How good you look taking his cock like this while playing with your pretty cunt. His words go straight to your aching sex. What you would give for him to stay here and keep talking to you like this.

Your second orgasm is stronger than your first. You pull away from him as it rocks through you, moaning his name loudly. He strokes himself as he thoroughly enjoys the sight of you coming. You are quick to lose count how many times you come after that. All of them blurring into one until you’re shaking from overstimulation.

“I”– you swallow thickly as you remove your hand from your pussy, –”I can’t,” you gasp. He shushes you softly as he pulls away and lays next to you. His hand comes to rest underneath your chin and directs you to look at him before he kisses you deeply. As he kisses you, Daemon gets you to move onto your side, bringing one of your legs over his hip. The feeling of his still hard cock bumping against your puffy lips has you gasping. It’s also a reminder that he hasn’t come yet and you know his preferred place for his seed. It’s his favourite way of claiming you as his.

“You’ve done so well for me,” he says, tracing random patterns on your skin before carefully playing with your nipples, gauging how sensitive you are there. “Just one more?” he requests. “Just one more for me? So I may feel that pretty little cunt squeezing my cock while I fill you up?” 

You nod, eagerly. You’re unsure if you can actually come again, your body is completely exhausted, but you’ll try. Even if you don’t, at least the feeling of you wrapped around him, working your muscles so that he feels amazing. He hikes your leg up a little higher, opening you up to him more before taking hold of his cock and pressing the head of it up against your entrance. You hiss as he slowly starts to push inside of you, your overstimulated pussy protesting at the intrusion. Noticing, he kisses you to try and distract you. It works and he keeps kissing you, staying still once he bottoms out so that you can adjust to him. You moan into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his silver locks, your tongues sliding into each other’s mouths. 

When Daemon finally starts to move he sets a slow pace, each inch of his cock, each vein, dragging against your walls and rubbing against that spot deep inside of you that has your breathing stutter.

“Daemon,” you moan, breaking the kiss. His lips are immediately on your neck, but he’s careful not to leave any marks. You both know better than that with how Westerosi politics are. 

He pushes you onto your back, his hands coming to rest either side of your head as his thrusts get harder. Each thrust has you moving up the bed a little and makes your breasts bounce. You grip the covers above your head while his lips attack your breasts and nipples. He’s careful not to touch your clit, knowing that doing so will bring about more pain than any pleasure. His groans are deep and throaty as he picks up the pace. Pumping his cock in and out of you as he focuses solely on his own pleasure rather than trying to get you orgasm again. You squeeze your inner muscles around him, working his cock. There is a telltale stutter in his rhythm, so you do it again and again. Enjoying the noises that it forces out of Daemon. His groans and moans music to your ears. 

There are times when he is extremely vocal while he fucks you. Every dirty word, both in the common tongue and High Valyrian, that spills from his lips as he takes you, reminding you that he’s the only one who gets to have you like this. Then there are times like now, where you have to work to get those noises out of him because he’s so focused on his actions rather than his words. Both times always leave you both sated and aching for even more. This morning has been the latter.

He chokes out your name as he buries himself as deep as he can as he does as he promised and fills you up with his seed. He then pulls out and rolls off of you, flopping next to you on the bed, breathing heavily.

Both of you lay there for a moment, soaking in that after bliss. You’re the first to move as you want to cuddle up against him, like you always do afterwards. You’re really starting to feel how tired and sore your body is now. The oversensitivity of your pussy makes you grimace a little. As does the feeling of his seed dripping out of you and onto the inside of your thighs. You rest your head on his chest, draping your arm over him. Daemon wraps his arm around you and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

[eufezco]

SHORT HAIR SUITS YOU – D.T. x FEM!READER

fluff, smut. english isn't my first language 🫶🏻

"Gods be good." You closed the book that was resting on your legs once you saw Daemon entering your chambers. Covered in blood that you prayed to the Seven it wasn't his. You got out of your warm bed, stood on your feet, and approached Daemon. He stepped back when you tried to cup his cheek, that gesture made you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. "Is that blood yours?" You asked while you analyzed his face, looking for any wound or any sign that let you know that he was hurt. His silver hair was soaked in blood, his garment too, but Daemon shook his head, and you let out a sigh of relief. He finally ended the Crabfeader, you were gonna be able to have your husband back. You checked his clothes asking yourself why the hell he didn't wear armor to combat, and why the hell didn't wait for Viserys' men. Your back tensed when you found half of an arrow stuck in his chest, really close to his armpit. Did he fly all the way here with that in there?

"Ser Criston." You walked past your husband, out of your room, and quickly got the knight at your door's attention. "Could you call the maids, please? I need them to run a bath for prince Daemon. Oh, and we will need Grand Maester's assistance as well." The knight nodded, and left.

You got in your chambers again and helped Daemon with his clothes. He was trying to do it by himself but the obvious signs of pain on his face and the hisses escaping his mouth moved you to help your husband. You undid his belt, and Dark Sister fell to your feet from around his waist. Before you helped him to sit down on your bed, you took his trousers off, and you noticed that he had another wound a little below his knee. For the shape of it, you would say that it had been another arrow as well.

"You want to do it yourself?" You asked him. The arrow remaining stuck in his chest needed to be out so could keep undressing him. Daemon shook his head.

"You do it." The prince said, and he bit his lower lip down, closing his eyes. His head rested on your belly as you firmly grabbed the piece of wood. "Take a deep breath." You recommended him and he did as you said. When his lungs were filled with air, you pulled out the arrow. A shiver run down your husband's spine but he didn't complain, not even a groan left his mouth. A little bit of blood came out of his wound, staining your nightgown that was already ruined because of Daemon's hair against the fabric, but you couldn't care less.

As you both waited for the maids to arrive, you stayed in that position as you caressed his long hair. Finally getting some rest after days.

Then you carefully removed every layer of the clothes he was wearing from his body. The maids were already in the room, getting the water ready for the prince. "Oh, Daemon." You swallowed nervously and you could hear a stifled whimper from the maids when you discovered prince Daemon's chest. He had two open wounds, the one the arrow that was stuck in him did, and another one on his lower abdomen. His skin had bruises everywhere, but it was even worse around his wounds. They were covered with dry blood, the colors purple, black and red decorated his white skin, and it didn't look good.

The maids left and it was just you and Daemon in the room. The prince walked naked to the bathtub. The windows of your chambers were getting foggy as the smoke came out of the water. Daemon slid into the bathtub, letting the hot water cover his whole body and feeling all his muscles relax. You grabbed the sponge and you knelt next to the bathtub, dipping the sponge in the water. You felt your hand burning, You could be the wife of a dragon but you were still sensitive to these things. Daemon hissed and you apologized when you started rubbing his chest, careful to not touch his wounds.

"Why didn't you wait for King Viserys' aid?" You rubbed the blood out of his neck and Daemon just looked at you with his eyebrows raised. You pressed your lips together and nodded. No words were needed, but you still thought that it had been a dumb move to not wait, yet you were so proud of your husband for what he just did.

You cleaned his face, his white skin returning to its normal color and then you focused on his hair. It was so long, probably the longest you can remember Daemon having it. You started by undoing his braid and then you asked him to sink his head into the water so you could wash the blood away. He felt in heaven, this was why he did not let himself be killed at the Stepstones. He didn't need titles, he didn't need his brother's aid, he didn't need the Stepstones, he just needed you brushing his hair while humming a song to him. Daemon could die at that moment.

"Your hair is really long. I shall braid it again once your wounds are treated." You kissed one of his temples once you were done with his hair and you stood on your feet. You helped the prince to get out of the bathtub and you moved behind him to cover his body with a towel. His back had big bruises all over it and you could guess it hurt badly when he hissed after the fabric fell on his shoulders You apologized right after and Daemon turned to look at you. His facial expression was soft, his eyes were kind and he looked at you with hope because the night he left for the Stepstones, Daemon thought it would be the last time he would see you. The prince held your chin up between his thumb and index fingers and he attached his lips to yours. His shoulders relaxed and both of his arms traveled down the length of your body to hug it against his while your lips moved together.

"I fucking missed you." Daemon groaned against your lips and you hummed, agreeing with him. Your husband's hands were already working on the back of your dress when the Grand Maester knocked on the door of your chamber. Daemon's kisses moved from your lips to behind your ear. "Don't." He murmured and bit the lobe of your ear, making you whimper. You placed your hand on his abdomen, feeling the blood running down it and meeting your fingers.

"Daemon, you're still bleeding." His kisses on your neck didn't stop because he didn't care about what you were saying. You had to bite your lip down to stop yourself from moaning. "Come in!" You said loud enough for the Grand Maester opened the door right after. Daemon's kisses stopped immediately, his forehead resting on your shoulder, defeated. Your hand went to caress his hair as you giggled at his reaction. Daemon sat on the bed again and took one of your hands between his, playing with your fingers and kissing your knuckles while the old man treated his wounds. If it had been you in Daemon's place, you would have been crying and panicking all the time while the Grand Maester poked at your wounds, trying to find any more pieces of the arrows, cleaning and removing the hard sticky mess that formed on the surface of them. But it was Daemon, and he didn't like to show any weakness or any sign of pain. Sometimes he would squeeze your hands, other times he would hiss, closing his eyes shut and then opening them again, sending deadly glances to the old man. Your kisses on the back of his hand stopped him from picking up Dark Sister from the floor and do only the Gods know what to the maester.

"I'll be right back." You announced him and Daemond let himself fall backward, completely defeated on your bed as he nodded. You accompanied the maester outside of your chambers and closed the door behind you. The Grand Maester told you how to take care of Daemon's wounds and to not allow him to tear out the stitches. He had done it before, thinking that his wounds would heal on their own, and of course they did not. You understood and quickly got back inside your chambers.

You let out a sigh after seeing what your husband was doing.

"I really liked your long hair."

"I liked it as well."

Daemon was in front of your full-length mirror, completely naked and with the Maester's scissors in hand, giving his beautiful long and silver hair some deadly cuts. "Let me help you. You will completely destroy your hair." Daemon was way taller than you so you had to grab the chair at your desk for the prince to sit down and be within your reach. You didn't ask him why he did it but the short hair made him look different, more mature, as if he was trying to escape the Rogue Prince. Maybe that was the image he wanted to give to his brother now that he had finally taken the Stepstones.

You couldn't save the lenght of his hair because he had already cut some locks of hair really short when you decided to intervene before it got any worse. The new haircut fit him better, the short hair sharpened his features but at the same time made him look softer. Of course, you would never say that to him because he would go crazy. "Handsome." You stated once you were done. You moved between the prince and the mirror and using your thumb and index finger to hold his chin, you made him look up at you. You fixed his hair as the prince's eyes looked at you with pure adoration. Both of his hands caressed your hips over your nightgown. You enjoyed his gentle touch until his fingers started to clutch at the thin fabric covering your body, slowly revealing your legs to him.

"You must rest." You said, knowing his intentions.

"Haven't you missed me? Because I fucking have." With the skirt of your nightgown completely clutched in between his fists, he pulled you closer to him, almost sitting you on his lap. "You were on my mind every single day... and every single night." Daemon looked up at you, dutifully. "You were all I could think about on the battlefield. About being between your legs again and how wet you'd be when I told you that we had taken the Stepstones." Daemon got up from the chair slowly, his hands sliding your dress off your body at the same time and you didn't resist him undressing you. If you left out the fact that he came home covered in his own blood, he would have been right about what would have happened when he told you that they had won. But his words at that moment were doing the same effect.

Your hands dug into his short hair once he connected his lips with yours. The pulls from your fingers on his scalp were softer when he had long hair, but now his hair was short enough to make him groan against your lips every time you pulled from his hair. Daemon walked you to the bed, his hands never leaving your waist as he carefully laid you on the mattress. He held his weight using his hands on both sides of your head, his hard cock pressing against your belly. Your lips were swollen once Daemon finally moved from them to focus on your neck, making you squirm under him. Your hands traveled down all his back, being really careful with the bruised skin under your fingers, feeling his muscles clench under your palms, until you got to his ass. Daemon's tooth brushed against your neck as his lips sucked harder on the soft skin of it after your hands squeezed his butt.

The prince's hand moved to cup one of your breasts, the whimper you let out sending electric waves down his spine. Using one of his legs he parted yours even wider, the firm holds on his cock helping him to rub his cock up and down your slit. As much as you wanted to hook your legs over the swell of his ass and let him fuck you so hard that the morning after you would have people questioning if you were okay, as much as you wanted to feel his hips slamming into you and he his hands digging into your hips from holding you in place, Daemon was hurt, so the fewer efforts he made, the better for his recovery.

"Let me do it."

And Daemon didn't object. He took your place but instead of lying on the mattress, Daemon sat with his back against the wall so he could have a perfect view of you. You used one of your hands to steady yourself on top of him, and with your other hand, you grabbed his cock by the base of it to help you sink it inside you. Daemon opened his mouth in a perfect 'o' form, letting out a moan and sinking his nails into the flesh of your waist. You let your head fall backward and bit your lower lip, being careful to not press onto Daemon's wounds with your hand on his abdomen.

You started by rolling your hips, feeling his dick brush the deepest places inside you. The sex with Daemon had been always amazing, even when you two weren't married, but you could count on the fingers of one hand the times he let you ride him, and when he did, it was basically him bucking his hips upwards, and taking the lead. He just loved to be in charge, taking you from behind while his fingers work on your clit and he mumbles the dirtiest things in your ear, having your legs over his shoulders as he pounds into you, even sitting on your dressing table and having your legs around his body and your nails scratching down his back.

His chest heaved as he gasped for air when instead of rolling your hips, you bounced on his dick. Daemon couldn't help but move his hands to your hips to help you go up and down his cock. Your moans muffled and died onto the skin of his neck as the muscles of your thighs began to burn. He really tried to let you have your way with him, set the pace and guide him, but he had missed you so much and you needed to feel him closer. Every time he leaves your side, you don't know if you'll ever see him again. Daemon leaned to trap your lips with his as he couldn't help but buck his hips upwards, meeting yours. "It's fine. I've got you." Your husband mumbled in your ear and right after he started kissing the sensitive skin behind your ear. You knotted your fingers into his short hair while you rolled your hips adding more pleasure to Daemon's thrust.

He didn't care about the pain as long as it was accompanied by you clenching around him. You moaned his name, feeling your throat go dry as your legs closed and shook, stopping him from thrusting into you anymore. Daemon came inside you, allowing you to rest your head on his shoulder but still holding you in place so you won't waste a single drop of him.

"We will fly tomorrow morning to the Stepstones." Daemon continued kissing your neck while you both came down from your highs. You knotted your fingers into his hair and used that grip to pull him closer to you as you hummed feeling his lips working on your neck.

"We?"

"Yes. They will name you Queen of the Narrow Sea."

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 12: Dynasty

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. You stand your ground.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to my slap daddy @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ for editing this monster! Thank you also to  @evisnotok, @connorsui​​ and @ajthefujoshi​ for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, dysfunctional family dynamics, brief reference to gore, brief reference to graphic child murder.

It’s been weeks, he seethes as he follows you back to the Keep, and those two fucks couldn’t even bother sending a raven to mark the deed as done? For his decrepit brother to bring the news before the cutthroats themselves…

Daemon reminds himself that it’s likely neither man had ever learned his letters. Nor had he extracted a vow through which he could come to expect confirmation of the slaying. He curses the oversight. How in the hells had he expected to discover if his target was successfully slaughtered without an adequate means of communication? Fucking lackwit.

You maintain as stony a silence as he while stalking your way up the path, past the Garden, through the heavy stone doors etched into the base of the fortress and along the halls of your island home. It is as though the varied aches and pains of childbirth have fled your body entirely, such is the stiffness of your disposition and the chilly wrath that chokes the air around you. The babes, foisted on that plain milk sow—Fredda? Freya? who knows, or cares for that matter—squawk with outrage as they are rattled about in her arms, assuredly disgusted by such indelicate management.

Good. He’d hate for his heirs to willingly submit to ill treatment by lesser hands.

Cargyll is escorting you all to the Chamber of the Painted Table, or so he surmises. There’s little else to be found in this direction. The stairs that wind up and up and up from the Great Hall lead to apartments and the relics of Aegon’s Conquest from long ago. You wave away his every attempt to assist you in climbing the steps, fresh from childbed as you are. He notes with some concern each wince and gasping breath, each press of hand to your side or to your belly like you are trying to hold the fractured parts of yourself together for just a little longer. By the time your party reaches the top of the tower, even he is winded. Too damn young to feel so old, his thoughts protest.

The doors creak open with a resounding echo as his foot meets the landing, the solid mass of Breakbones thumping through the parting of wood with heavy stomps. He pauses when he sees Daemon, a tempest raging across the terrain of his face. His fists ball up at his sides even as he remains stock-still.

Shit.

Daemon takes careful note of his surroundings—the lit torches mounted on the walls, the winding carvings of dragons etched into the rock around the window, the widening of the stairway as it approaches the open hall outside the Chamber—and assesses Strong, waiting for any indication that he will strike. He wouldn’t blame the man if he did. Larys might have been a treasonous viper and a cunt, but he was Harwin’s brother. No, he wouldn’t blame him. But neither will he allow him to attack without putting up a fight of his own.

A pale hand settles on Harwin’s arm. Rhaenyra moves out from behind him, communing wordlessly to her lover with solemn eyes and thin-pressed lips, a subtle shake of the head. The man huffs, working his jaw. Then, with an abrupt lurch, he storms past, deliberately avoiding Daemon as he marches down, down, down the stairs. Each footfall resounds with a dull thump, fainter and fainter.

She turns to Daemon. “With all this time having passed”—his eldest niece hisses as she steps forward to remonstrate him, though her attempt at privacy is utterly lost in the resonant composition of the space—“and you never once thought to tell me you’d ordered the man’s death?”

He glances at you. With a carefully blank expression, you’ve turned away to dandle at the babes in the wetnurse’s arms, tiny fists clenching onto outstretched fingers. You murmur in low tones to your companion, making it clear that you have no intention of participating in the conversation taking place. He knows not what you think of the revelation.

“You would have counselled caution,” he says, never once taking his eyes off you. She blusters in annoyance, but he hardly cares. A cold wash of triumph suffuses the very air he breathes, almost as though it is a tangible flavour collected on the tongue. They’ve done it. The traitor is dead. You are safe now, you and Rhaenar and Aelys. “I’ll not apologise for the deed. He deserved it.”

Rhaenyra sighs. “I know. But… Harwin—” She stops, shaking her head. “Never mind. The King is waiting. He is—most displeased.”

Daemon grunts. “When is he not?”

Her responding smile is wan. She nods her farewell in grave ceremony, sidestepping him and venturing to you. Reaching a hand forth to glide across the feather-fluff softness of each babe’s head, she presses a single, wordless peck of dry lips to your cheek before following her vexed paramour’s path down at a much more sedate pace, slippers barely to be heard on the stone steps.

Daemon’s pulse rumbles in his ears as he enters the Chamber with you and your attendants in tow. He knows most perceive him as someone who enjoys riling the King; but, in truth, he does not take pleasure in this. He never has, though he is by nature one who creates chaos wherever he walks, a blight upon the earth. It is his curse to crave approval from Viserys, even now that age and circumstance have elevated him so by comparison. He will forever be a little boy begging for scraps of his brother’s love, never to be satisfied.

Viserys sits at the head of the table, distinctly out of place. King’s Landing may be the epicentre of Targaryen power, but it is here at Dragonstone that the true vestiges of Old Valyria remain. Draconic, ominous, almost savage—it does not suit a man so affable, indecisive, common as Viserys.

“Brother,” Daemon says, stopping at the edge of the Painted Table opposite the King.

Viserys makes no attempt at greeting, nor any other movement. He simply continues staring at Daemon with a frigid countenance, purple eyes glinting like cracked ice in weak sunlight, dangerous and jagged. An excellent beginning.

Daemon doesn’t bother genuflecting. The concession would be pointless. Still, the King appears to take notice, jaw clenching faintly at the slight.

“I believe you summoned me,” he adds with an air of insolence, testing, needling. Silence in return. He lets his next statement hang. “If His Grace has forgotten the purpose…”

Viserys’s deformed face twists in anger. “I would have you silent, you—you plague! You do not speak unless I comm—”

“Father.”

The King’s gaze darts to you, surprised, starting visibly when he notices the wetnurse by your side and the wriggling forms of the twins in her hold. All at once, his disposition changes. He is no longer the austere arbiter of justice come to scold Daemon for his many failings, but instead a jovial, tender-hearted father. “Oh!” he says, exhilarated and overcome. “Oh!”

Though you smile as you approach him, there is a stiffness to your shoulders and an unhappy pout to your mouth that belies just how deeply the bond between you has fractured. You avert your eyes from the King’s, avoiding his upturned cheek to settle Aelys into the crook of his remaining arm and taking Rhaenar into your own grasp. Your voice is too light as you introduce your children—Daemon’s children—to their grandsire.

“Rhaenar and Aelys?” Viserys asks, distracted from his own words by the whimpering of the babe in his grip. “I cannot recall a ‘Rhaenar’ or an ‘Aelys’ in our histories.”

“They are new. Free from the burden of comparison to one’s namesake.” A moue of defensiveness colours your speech. The King does not notice.

“I’d believed you might call them ‘Viserys’ or ‘Aemma’, for those that bore you,” he says, entertained by Aelys’s scowling expression. He does not see the chill that sweeps across your visage, the traces of warmth that are stifled by wintry resentment, deadening the flush of your skin to pale ice and the brightness of your eyes to dulled jewels. “Ah, but ‘tis no matter. They are a fine pair, my girl. Well done!”

You nod jerkily. Daemon watches the scene with incredulity, stock-still at his post across the Table. Surely my brother is not that obtuse? he wonders. But of course he is. So proficient has he become at ignoring the discontent of those around him that it is probable that he no longer recognises the sight of it.

“I trust your labours were easy?” Viserys asks. It is the wrong thing to say.

You no longer hide your disdain. It mars the sweetness of your features like ink stains parchment, spreading swift and uncontrollable. “Aelys was breech. Maester Gerardys wished to cut me open to take her from my womb.”

Daemon’s gut roils at the reminder even as his brother’s face blanches.

“By the gods!” he gasps, peering up at you. “But—”

“But Daemon refused to allow him to do so,” you say, lower lip wobbling. “My life mattered to him more than the prospect of an heir, you see.”

Dangerous territory. The jibe almost hits its mark. The King’s brow furrows, creasing in concern as he notes your hostility.

“Why have you come to Dragonstone, Viserys?” Daemon asks, stopping the conversation in its tracks.

No good can come of such vitriol. Your umbrage may be justified, but you are too ruled by the irrationality of new motherhood to head down this avenue of discussion. You are too young to risk losing your father to your own bitterness. The time may come that the truth of Aemma’s death can be dragged into the harsh light of day—but it is not this day. He’ll not let you make this mistake. Not yet.

“I’d have thought Ser Arryk had made that abundantly clear already.” His brother appears to shake the uncertainty off as he refocuses upon his sole purpose for traversing the Bay alone, sighing. “Lord Larys was found in his chambers. Or, rather, his body was found in his chambers. His head is… elsewhere.”

“How unfortunate.” Daemon cannot help the drollness. It goads a twitch from the corner of Viserys’s eye. “We’ll all miss him so.”

“Daemon.” Ah, the aggravation has returned. His mouth curves cruelly at the sight of the King’s indignation. “I know it was you.”

“And how do you know this?” you ask, ushering the wetnurse forth to retrieve Aelys from your father. “My husband has scarcely left my side since our return. And whatever time he has had to spare was most certainly not long enough to commit the crime of which you have accused him.”

Daemon calls your name. There is still enough of the biddable little doll in you to follow his implicit command and come to heel at his side like a good wife, to turn willingly into him when his hand rests upon your waist. It’s hardly improper, but close enough to raise an eyebrow or two. His brother observes you, observes how you gladly obey his whims, how you have readily found another sun around which to orbit. How easily he has been replaced.

He stares impassively back while you mutter instructions to the nursemaid and the Mallery knight, while the pair convey his children out of the room, infant squalls fading with the clanging close of the door. Viserys is pained, sorrowed. That much is clear. He tries not to let the conceit play out so obviously on his own expression, but it is most difficult. Modesty does not become him, after all.

‘Do you see, Viserys?’ he wishes to say. ‘You are not wanted here, not anymore. I am her world. We are all each other needs.’

“Will you not confess to it, brother?” The man is resigned now; the wrath has fled, cowed by your frosty reception. “I remember your words to Lord Strong well: ‘One day soon, you’ll be alone. And one day soon, I’ll have my revenge.’ The day has come and gone, it seems.”

Daemon cannot resist drawing it out. “What strange customs you set stock by, Your Grace. Symbols taken from the attacker’s own bodies and confirmation from Harwin Strong himself will not incite action from you. And yet, mere words—spoken in anger, at that—have you traversing the waters to Dragonstone to seek confession? Strange, indeed.”

“Enough of the games!” Viserys snaps, sharp and discordant in the ringing hall. “Admit to the deed and let us be done with it.”

“Ha! ‘Be done with it.’ Yes, we are ‘done with it’—no thanks to you.” Daemon feels the urge to laugh rising, rising. This is fucking ludicrous. “What do you want so desperately to hear, Viserys? That I was the cause of his demise? Take your satisfaction, then. I did. I did it.” He persists through his brother’s gusty inhale of dismay. “I hired cutthroats before I even left your fucking city. I made sure that Larys Strong would be dead before he could come for my children again.”

The King wavers, astonished. It seems that for all his bluster, he had not actually expected Daemon to assert his culpability so brazenly. “You had the man killed? Even after I expressly forbade you from such violence?”

Daemon snorts. He is not ashamed of his actions. “You refused to act, so I took it upon myself to eliminate the threat to my wife.”

“Such—such impertinence!” Viserys sounds utterly winded, scored open at the navel. “Such disloyalty. Why must you betray me time and time again?”

Disloyalty. How insulting. How disappointing. How very like the man to disparage him so.

This time, he does laugh. It is more of a chuckle, but with none of the joy. Rather, it is harsh and biting, mocking. “Disloyalty? We aren’t in King’s Landing now, Viserys. You do not rule here. I’m well within my rights to tell you to fuck off.”

If anyone holds dominion over this rock, Daemon thinks viciously, it is not the battered creature before me. Any other may make their claim. Rhaenyra; you; even he himself.

You do not belong here, brother.

The man stands, slapping the jagged surface of the table with his sole hand. “I am the King!” He sits at the craggy North, where the surface rises and dips with the spiked contours of icy mountains. His action draws blood from skin, welling rapidly and oozing across the peaks. He does not notice, instead turning to you.  “And you, girl,” he says. “What have you to say to this treachery?”

You twitch at the abrupt directive, having been but a bystander to the fray. “What have I to say?” Your voice is frosty.

“Yes! I demand you speak, child!”

You move away from him, clutching your hands together before you. The very image of maidenly grace, Daemon’s mind supplies. The sight of you standing so demurely calls forth a faint resonation of desire. It pulses in his gut like a broiling flame.

“What would you like me to say, Your Grace?” you ask flatly, the dawning thunder in your expression so at odds with your stance. “I could say many things. I could say that Daemon did what you would not. That for all my dislike of his methods, I can trust that he will keep me safe. That I have never, not once, been anything other than a loyal and obedient daughter to you—only to find that in my hour of greatest need, you would bend to the vultures that rule in your stead, cast the name of the man responsible for my plight aside like rot beneath your feet, without care. That you have failed me in every conceivable way; as a King, as the head of my House, as a father, as grandfather to the babes you never bothered to enquire after in the wake of the attack.”

Each word lands like a physical blow, and so it is fitting that blood drips readily from Viserys’s flesh. He jerks as if injured by your mounting pitch, as if your diatribe alone lays waste to his form.

You remain immobile, frozen in your ferocity, your seething misery. Still, you speak, trembling. “So, yes. I could say a great many things. Where would you like me to begin?”

Not even he can conjure up a worthwhile response to such a challenge. My poor, precious girl. Though you stand tall with chin jutted forth and brow arched in supercilious question, he can only see the quailing child in you, plaintive and forlorn, eager for the slightest validation from a sire who could never give you what you need. In this moment, he wants to tuck you away, coddle you close, hold you down and surround you so that all you can see or hear or feel is him, him, him—

The hush reigns long—until it doesn’t.

Viserys’s breathing can be heard even from here, nearly the opposite end of the room. His words are weak. “I did the best I could.”

“And yet, it was not enough. You were not enough.” Your address is just as quiet, distressingly saddened. “You did not even ask after me when you arrived, did you? Or you would have known beforehand that I had already given birth. So much for loyalty. Mother would be disappointed.”

It is here that Viserys protests. “Daughter—”

“No.” Daemon can see the threat of tears in your eyes. “You had every opportunity to use your voice before this moment, Father. I will not hear whatever excuse you have to make now.” At this, you turn back, angling yourself away from the King to direct your next words only to him. “I need to make sure the babes are settled.”

“Sȳrī iksā?” Are you well?

He cannot help but reach for you, to cup your jaw in his hand and collect the moisture from the corner of your eye with the pads of his fingers. He sweeps your sorrow away with the brush of skin on skin, shining iridescence that paints your cheekbone in glow.

You nuzzle against him like a cat, like a starved pet, like a little princess aching for care. “Issa,” you say—yes—laying your hand upon his own, cradling him to you as though you are afraid he will vanish if he lets go. “Kesīr humbon daor. Zijomy daor.” I cannot be here. Not with him.

Who else but he can understand that sentiment so profoundly? He nods once, stealing a final touch of thumb to the plush divot of your lower lip. “Jās.” Go.

You revolve like a puppet on strings, staccato motions of rote absentmindedness. Curtseying with perfunctory deference, your parting words to your father are chilling in their detachment. “I pray that you have a safe journey back to the capital, Your Grace.”

Viserys makes an appeal of your name, beseeching, but you are lost to him now. You lean up and—with more zeal than the occasion calls for—press your lips to Daemon’s, parting your mouth to welcome his instinctive drive to claim. He sinks into the flavour of you without thinking, gripping your waist to keep you on tiptoes and pull you tight to him, your soft little sounds coiling dark in his groin.

You withdraw with a smug half-smile, dimmed by your melancholy but beautiful, nonetheless. His impulses drive him to snatch you back to him as you step away. He won’t. Enough has been taken from you today.

You make your escape with poise, turning your back on his brother with a strength he had not known you possessed and seemingly gliding from the chamber, weightless.

When did she become so formidable? he wonders. It is no easy thing to deny a king. Perhaps motherhood—the fire of bearing babes borne of his own blazing nature, their father’s heirs in truth—has ennobled you with a tenacity you have long kept dormant.

“You have turned her from me.”

He’d forgotten Viserys is still here. The man is grey, hollowed out. Defeated. He has sunk himself back into the chair at the head of the Painted Table, hunched over and looking every inch the ailing life-form he has been reduced to. Malady has crept back in, casting a shadow of gloom across Daemon’s ire until it too feels as a void rather than a maelstrom.

With a tone just as resigned as his brother’s, he replies. “You did that yourself.”

Silence.

“I know.” The King stares at some fixed point on the Table, or perhaps he is unseeing. He has retreated into himself, into thoughts unknown to Daemon. “I did not wish for this,” he says, more air than word. “What happened to her… I wanted to strike the head from his shoulders myself. But I am—”

“—the King.”

The King, the King. Make way for the fucking King.

It is always the excuse, the reason, the proof that Viserys will forever remain powerless to the capriciousness of others. If he is the King, he cannot be the husband, or the father, or the grandsire. If he is King, he cannot be Daemon’s brother.

“Yes.” Viserys chuckles. It is a wretched noise, a mournful hacking from crippled lungs. “King of the Seven Kingdoms… and yet I am as limited by law as any other. More, mayhaps.” Finally, he looks up from whatever had taken his focus. When he does, his eyes seem eclipsed, without light or emotion. It is like peering into the face of the Stranger. “Maegor did what he wanted. He ruled according to his every whim. Where did that get him? Who today remembers him as anything other than a despot and a monster?”

Daemon scoffs. “And yet you allow your lackeys to call me by his name—to abuse my temperament and malign my character.”

“Not even I can control what others think, Daemon.” How kindly the man sinks the blade through my flesh. Viserys hums. “Be that as it may, I do not think you to be Maegor reborn. Unruly, yes. Reckless and brutish, at times. But not cruel.” Here, his voice gentles. “She would not love you if you were cruel.”

There are times that he wonders if he’d ever given you the chance to feel otherwise—if he’d taken and taken and taken until you’d reshaped yourself entirely, bowed and bent and broken under the weight of his ceaseless desire. What is worse? To be tormented by the thought that the one woman he’d ever loved had been forced to return the sentiment for the sake of survival? Or to find that very same thought maddening, stirring, thrilling beyond measure?

No, he chides himself. She loves me. She sees me for all that I am, and she loves me anyway.

Viserys resumes after a brief pause. “The details of Larys Strong’s death have been concealed from the commons. But the Council suspects you. They have charged me to summon you to court and arrest you for conspiracy to murder a member of the governing body. And I cannot say now that there is no recourse for it.”

“You’d arrest your own broth—”

“Of course not! Have I fallen so far in your esteem?”

‘You have,’ Daemon wants to say. He does not.

“Brother,” the King says. “You have committed the crime you are accused of, by your own admission. This is true, yes. But I will not throw you to the vipers. The price would be… too high.”

“Death?” At the vociferous shake of the head, Daemon revises. “No… Exile.”

Ah, his old friend. He recalls the occasions in which you had teased him for it in the past. How many times, indeed? It would be galling, yes, if he were alone. But he is not alone.

What of my wife? What of Rhaenar and Aelys and Daeron?

“Most likely.” Viserys’s upturned hand rests on the table, the blood clotting to dark in the centre of his palm. A minor wound by any other measure; but for the King, it is like to be the source of new infection. “Perhaps not a punishment you are unfamiliar with—but for my daughter and grandchildren’s sakes, I should seek some lesser consequence for your actions. There must be a reckoning, Daemon. For the sake of the Realm.”

“If you cared more for her than for your fucking Realm,” is his answering hiss, “perhaps we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Enough! I will not—enough.”

What little vexation that had been stirred by Daemon’s taunt vanishes like smoke in a dark sky. His heart sinks. There is no triumph in conquering a man so beholden to his own feebleness.

Viserys makes his proclamation with the weariness of one that may well have lived a thousand years. “You will be charged with perfidy if you return to the city. Thus… you shall not return.”

“So it is exile, then?” How uninspired. Daemon might have respected the man more if the sentence had been more dire. He is fully aware of how contrary that makes him.

“Is it so terrible? You despise the capital,” the King says. “Remain on Dragonstone, Daemon. Raise your children. Be with your wife. Tour the Kingdoms. Travel across the Narrow Sea, by all means. But you will not—you cannot—step foot in King’s Landing again. That is the price you must pay.”

It is not so bad, he thinks. Better than he had expected, though worse than he had hoped. Some small, naïve, foolish part of him had half-believed Viserys might spare him entirely.

‘But I am your brother, when Father died you made a promise, you swore—’

‘And what of your whore Queen, do you know what she’s done, do you know about the moon tea—’

‘Why don’t you love me as I love you, why was I never enough as I am—’

The possibilities crumble like ash, words floating by on a breeze just out of reach. Things he might have said, might have done, no more than unattainable futures now. There is no point. He is a haunted shade of the man he is, seated at the table in the room on the isle, forever wishing, wanting, waiting for the sun to shine a light upon him. And yet. And yet.

Daemon tries to convey a façade of agreeability. What comes forth is terse, a threat of temper lurking below the depths. “Fine.” Folding his arms, he cannot help but make one last query. “But you understand that you won’t see her again, either?”

His meaning is abundantly clear if Viserys’s reaction is anything to go by. Though the King does not move, he appears smaller, less substantial, the breadth of him collapsing like a dying star. When he concedes, it is with a burdensome breath out, a rattling knell of defeat. “I do,” he says, forfeiting all rights to you in so short a statement.

What a sire! What a man! Viserys may be a wretch, but he loves Aemma’s girls. His love is not enough, it seems.

Such folly it was, Aemma—dear, dear cousin—to depart so soon from this world…

Daemon is tired. “If that is all, Your Grace.” He dips his head, intending to make for the door, to seek out the place in which he truly belongs: in his chambers, by your side, with his children.

“Wait!” his brother says.

He turns back.

“One thing more. I… please. Here.” A scroll is drawn out from beneath the layers of cloak, bound in blood-red ribbon gilt along the edges in brilliant gold. Viserys holds it up, inviting him to take it for himself. “It is a pittance, but I… I hope it might ease the sting, if only a little.”

The temptation is great—too great. Almost without realising, he is where he wishes to be least of all: next to the King, cracking the hard wax of the royal seal open, unfurling the contents within with nary a word of thanks to offer the giver.

Daemon’s brow raises. The living sons and daughters of Our esteemed daughter… will have... the style, title or attribute of Prince or Princess.

Prince Rhaenar. Princess Aelys. Titles worthy of his heirs, after all. It galls him that he has no gratification left to indulge in, no reserves of feeling from which to draw his pleasure at finally, finally gaining at least something he has coveted.

“My thanks,” is all he can offer. It sounds feeble in his own ears, apathetic.

Clutching the parchment tight in his fist, he hopes that his response will not spur Viserys into reneging on the decree etched within. To his relief, the man only nods, ashen smile contorting the open sores on his face.

Daemon swallows; lays his hand tentatively on his brother’s shoulder. “Farewell.” It rings with finality, finality he is not ready for, he is not ready, not ready—

A light touch against his elbow. Viserys pats his arm, rueful, mired by all that is left unsaid. “Farewell… brother.”

Daemon pictures you in his mind’s eye—your strength, your steadfastness, the iron sturdiness of your willpower—and lets the thought surround him, overwhelm him, obscure the churn of his gut and the throb in his chest. He takes a step, and another, and another, resisting the urge to look back at what remains.

The door closes.

You will not deign to see him off.

“Let my disappointment be his last recollection of me,” you say snidely, swaying a whimpering Aelys from side to side. “Mine own mind remembers naught but a coward.”

Still angered, then. Daemon does not dare press you. With a nod and a gentle stroke of each babe’s head—daughter in your arms, son in the wetnurse’s—he goes forth to meet Rhaenyra at the shore.

The skies are dark and grey as he observes Viserys hobble his way through the sand, helped along only by the Cargyll man. Though it galls him to see his brother brought so low, he makes little move to assist. If he wishes to create some great observance of his departure, then let him do so by his own power.

He stands back and endures the parting words between the King and his heir—the only person on this isle he’d ever truly given a damn about—and the weak attempt at light-heartedness from Laenor, idling thoughts keeping him company.

‘Tis a suitable day for dragonriding, he muses. Not too bright, not too cold… Perfect for introducing fragile forms unused to the severity of the changing winds to flight. He is glad to have finally settled on the venture with you earlier.

“… and I’d best not keep Alicent waiting. She was much aggrieved by my venturing here alone,” the man says with a joviality that seems only slightly forced, ignoring the manner in which Rhaenyra’s countenance slides flat at the mention of her once-dear friend. “Alas! She herself would not brave the journey, and the Hand… Well, someone must keep things in order.”

He grits his teeth at the mention of Otto and his bitch of a daughter, paying no notice to whatever words spill next from Viserys’s overeager mouth. More of the same prattle, no doubt. From what he’d discerned, the man had tried his hardest to uplift the spirits of the Keep’s inhabitants for the remainder of his stay, desperate to alleviate the blow the news of the Rogue Prince’s latest banishment had struck.

What follows is of little pomp or curiosity. The King shares but one look with the brother he has forbade from his city, offering no words of leave nor of apology. Daemon had not truly expected any. All that could be said has been in days previous.

The Kingsguard escort their sovereign onto the ship docked at harbour, a further distance than he himself cares to traverse. The faint shouts from the crew above and below deck herald the unmooring of the vessel, the shifting tides taking it swiftly out to sea. He watches, and waits, and wishes that Viserys and he had concluded proceedings under better circumstances—that, for once, the parting had served to bring them closer together than further apart.

Until we meet again, brother. This is not the last time. Daemon knows better than most that exile is not tantamount to an ending.

A flash of silver appears at the window overhanging the beach, bright against the sombre hues of stone and capturing his notice even from a distance.

It is you. He is sure of it.

Never would you forgive yourself if you had allowed your papa to depart without at least seeing the event with your own eyes. A dutiful daughter, even to the very limits of your tolerance.

He thinks to make his way to where he assumes you must be surveying the Silver Firedrake’s slow shrinking on the horizon—but when he arrives at your chambers to don his sturdier riding boots (for if he should think to take the twins on their first trip in the sky, how can he be anything less than prepared for the task?), you are once more to be found within.

A melancholy princess is what he discovers, sitting on the great chair with knees tucked into your chest and staring unseeingly at the empty hearth. Jeyne and Bethany cluck over his children like broody hens across the room, overseen by that exceedingly loud-mouthed nursemaid, clearly waiting for his arrival so that he may take his heirs on the agreed-upon expedition. He disregards them as he always does. They are unimportant, all three of them, useful only in their capacity as your aides.

“Sweetling,” he murmurs, prying one of your palms free from the vice-like grip you’ve established in amongst your skirts.

Though you release easily enough, you do not look up at him. Indeed, there is no outward recognition of his presence from you at all, and so he is obliged to take your chin in his grasp and tug upwards until your gaze meets his own.

The words lodge in his throat. It seems rather redundant to ask if you are well at the sight of your deadened stare, rage and grief and discontent burnt out entirely so that all that is left is the husk of once-feeling. A not-uncommon mood after matching wits against Viserys. The man most certainly has a talent for ensuring the impossibility of victory regardless of the outcome of quarrelling with him. Dark circles have formed under your eyes, a memoir of disturbed nights imprinted in skin, the shade deep enough to tell him that you have slumbered poorly since rowing with your father some days previous.

How many more blows will she be forced to take for the sake of this fucking family?

He tuts, tilting your head to the light to examine the bruise-deep smudges marring your sweet little face.

No, you are not well—but it doesn’t mean you won’t be eventually.

“You’ll get some sleep while we’re gone,” Daemon says, already digging his hand between thigh and calf to curl an arm under your knees.

You squeak softly, fingers digging into the hairs at the nape of his neck as he lifts you bodily and carries you toward the bed. “I am not tired,” you say, stubborn insistence so like the choleric peevishness of a girl so much smaller than you are presently. “I don’t want to sleep—”

“And I don’t recall asking.” He shifts you in his hold so that he can free the sheets from where they have been tucked tight against the mattress and deposit you soundly below the covers.

You frown, glancing past him at the ladies ogling the scene. “But I want to go with you and the babes!”

A firmer touch. He is reminded of nights so long ago—back when Aemma’s love had softened Viserys’s opinion of his carefree younger brother—taking visitation with his King and goodsister (of course, these were the evenings where he had not been trussed up between some brothel whore’s thighs), only to be interrupted by a bashful, sulking girl-child of barely three summers, plump baby-fat fists rubbing gummy doe eyes as you’d toddled in with a babbled refusal of bedtime. “No, no, no,” you’d mumble, swaying on unsteady legs toward your uncle, so sure already that it would be he to support your juvenile rebellion.

He’d had regrettably little patience for the display back then. He’d scoop you up, whirl you about so that you were red-faced and squealing, and promptly march you back to the nursery to trap you beneath your coverlets until the exhaustion of wrestling against his much stronger arms had you fast asleep.

I’ll do it again right here and now if I must, he decides. “Do you happen to find respite easily on dragonback?”

“What?”

Daemon huffs, tapping you on the chin to regain your wandering attention. “I’ll be taking our son and daughter on Caraxes. You need your rest,” he says, a touch of condescension bleeding into his cadence. You flush, whether in ire, embarrassment or the faint stirrings of longing, he knows not—but it is gladdening to see the colour livening your wan expression. “So, you have two options: you sleep here in our bed, or outside in the saddle. Either way, you’ll do as you’ve been told. Unless you’d like for them”—he nods toward your wide-eyed spectators—“to see what happens when insolent girls disobey kepa. Which sounds better to you, hm?”

The hidden threat quails you. You sag into the pillows, no longer warring with him, with yourself, relief lingering in the capitulatory flare of nostrils. “I… I will stay.”

“Good.” Delighting in the sullen lowering of your lashes, he strokes your hair down, more proprietary than soft, and tucks the coverings around you tight, hushing noises escaping at your minute protests. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. Lay down properly, there’s a love. Tired little girls don’t get to make choices, do they? That’s why I’m here. Sh, sh.”

Truly irritable now, you turn away from his wandering hands and his patronising devotions, burying your face into the plush softness of the cushions beneath your head. By the time he has located those damned boots and tugged them on, you are already lost to your long-needed slumber, mouth lax and breathing slow and even.

Predictable, isn’t she? And a terribly easy thing to bend to his will. He takes one final look at you, that trace of uneasiness unclenching in his gut, and readies himself for the outing ahead.

Daemon selects no one save the Mallery man and a pair of the Keep’s guards to accompany him down the path to the craggy sunning spot so favoured by his dragon. He finds the walk somewhat arduous, hyperaware of every bounce his form makes along the uneven trail, every jostle that risks upsetting the babes strapped to his chest. Not the most accommodating of arrangements, it is true, but he had been loath to attach them to his back where he could not reach in the midst of strife. He’ll have to make do with minimal manoeuvrability in the air.

Caraxes chirrups when he approaches, a gust of hot air jettisoning out from between his teeth. It is rank enough to give his companions pause. They cough, stepping further back, ensuring they are well out of range of the Blood Wyrm and his famous capriciousness.

Fat fucking chance of frightening anyone nowadays, Daemon grouses to himself.

The scent of his son and daughter attracts the creature like a moth to flame. His whistling growls cease abruptly, head tilting akin to that of a curious hound as he bends forward to examine his rider closely. Then, what can only be described as a softening occurs, rippling over Caraxes’s massive frame like sunlight dappling across scales. The wyrm blows the gentlest of breaths across Rhaenar and Aelys’s heads, a sweet little greeting before he settles down, seeming to disregard Daemon entirely.

What has happened to my fucking dragon? The scourge who routed the Dornish, the fiercest of beasts—a doddering old fool in the presence of two tiny humans.

He’ll admit it to no one, but he is immeasurably pleased. There are exceedingly few who could claim the protection of so mighty a monstrosity as a battle-hardened dragon, let alone at less than a moon’s turn of life.

“Avy kipagon kosti, Karaksys?” Will you allow us to ride you, Caraxes? he asks, thumping the dragon’s flank good-naturedly. A needless gesture, to be sure—but still, it is best to make it clear that he intends to bring aboard new quarry today.

A soft hoot sounds. The ground shudders as the draconic being’s belly thuds to the grassy surface, wing flattening to a smooth incline so that he may tread upward without the necessitation of climbing.

With a wry grin—how sentimental you’ve become, old boy!—Daemon treks up sinew and cartilage, cupping the babes’ heads to his neck to alleviate the erratic shifting of live flesh below his feet.

Aelys wiggles in her bonds as Daemon adjusts himself in the saddle, neck craning to the side like she is desperate to take in the sight of the world atop this new summit. Meanwhile, Rhaenar has fallen promptly to sleep, utterly at home next to the pulse and warmth of his sire’s heartbeat. Both are endearing in their own way; his daughter for her ceaseless inquisitiveness, his son for his perpetual surety.

“Sōvēs!” Fly!

Rhaenar cries at the rough shaking as Caraxes skitters toward the precipice, ramping up his pace to build momentum, and so Daemon tucks the boy further into the wrappings to secure him more tightly and shield him from the elements. When the dragon takes a dive from the cliff face, Aelys squeals, legs kicking at the booming rustle of wings flapping once, twice, three times, each swift beat careening them up and up into the air.

There are but three things that ignite the flame of exultation in his soul: the newest being his children, whether they be but sleeping or screaming or shitting, because they’re alive and they’re here after so long waiting, wanting; the most maddening being you, his baby wife turned woman, pudgy-cheeked tot turned maiden whore in a mere moment, his obsession, devotion, frenzy; and the longest-serving being this, soaring atop a giant winged beast, the thin air and roaring breeze stealing the breath from his lungs and forcing his heart to pound almost through his chest. Even when he’d had nothing but his reputation across the Narrow Sea—“Rogue Prince,” they’d whispered, “brother to a King who’d rather banish him than address the failings that had brought him so low in the first place”—he’d had Caraxes, he’d had flight, and he’d had freedom.

As Caraxes careens further and further out from the hillside, Daemon glances down to his son and daughter. For once, Rhaenar is looking about curiously, taking interest in his surroundings in a way he has so rarely done thus far. For once, Aelys is silent, eyes wide but carrying none of the vitriol her waking hours usually comprise.

“This is what it means to be Targaryen,” he whispers to them, pressing his nose to the warm buttermilk suppleness of each tiny infant’s snowshine hair. He is sure that this is what love smells like. “Va Zaldrīzo Lentrot jemī jiōran, ñuhus dārannis.”

Welcome to the House of the Dragon, my heirs.

The whipping winds take his words unto themselves, conveying them henceforth to be lost in the great wild world. Still, he feels their power in his bones. His heels dig into Caraxes’s flanks to speed him onward, racing the sun to the very edge of the horizon, hues of brilliant gold nearly blinding him and the saline tang of the sea stinging sharp in his mouth.

Grinning like a boy, Daemon leans forward, revelling in his flight across the open sky.

A new normality weaves itself into the tapestry of life upon Dragonstone.

Soon enough—too soon—that blasted healer deems you healed enough from your labours to move around the Keep unfettered. “She have babe,” Ūlla snaps as she shoves him out of the way, silencing him with an admonishing noise. “You act like she almost die. A natural thing, birth. Calm yourself!”

Daemon had tried to pay her for her services and send her off on her way. She’d merely levied him with an unimpressed look in response to his attempt at a conciliatory farewell.

“I hear you both sometime,” she’d said pointedly, cackling at your red-faced splutters. “New babe come very soon, I think. Better stay here, or I leave for Qohor and you make boat turn around when I get there!”

“I thought you were living in Braavos before?” he couldn’t help but ask.

She’d sighed. “I tell you once, I tell you again: sometime Braavos, sometime Qohor, sometime other place. And now, sometime Dragonstone. I live where I like, stupid boy.”

If the woman wants to make yet another port of Dragonstone, let it not be for me to stop her. Besides, she’s probably correct. There are plenty of rooms in this wing of the castle to fill, after all. He’s not going to fund her bizarre lifestyle, though. She can find her own bloody income.

And so, with you fully liberated from childbed and no longer in need of him, it is with great reluctance and no small amount of relief—for a man can only spend so long staring at tiny beings that do little else but sleep—that he returns to the task of maintaining the fortress.

His routine of old awaits him near unchanged. His men-at-arms welcome him back with congratulatory slaps to the back and cheerful salutations, a whirlwind that ceases only when his particular training methods serve to wipe the smiles from their faces and sap the strength from their limbs. By the time they are finished that first day, not a single man is able to move about without hobbling, clutching at a spasm in their side or stemming a weakly oozing cut with grimy fingers.

Good. They’d gotten too complacent in his absence.

In running drills, reviewing the training of Jace, Luke and Daeron (and Baela, too, it had been decided), rearranging the shift of the guards, recompiling figures upon the ledgers—and he’d have to speak to Robert Quince about his fucking appalling sums, by the gods—it becomes a true effort to find a moment to spare for you or the babes. Gone are the hours of uninterrupted leisure where he could lounge about with a book or with his varied lines of correspondence, using such activities as concealment for his preferred pursuit of watching you learn and adapt to the ever-changing role of motherhood.

Whenever he can, he goes back to you. On those occasions, he makes little attempt to reveal his presence. Rather, he stands at the door to the solar or hall or garden and surveys you and Rhaenar and Aelys. You take tea with Ser Lysan, infants propped up on your laps as you converse over your philosophies and linguistics, treating each squawk or whimper like it is a serious contribution to discussion with solemn nods and mischievous eyes. You arrange and rearrange the furnishings of the cradle, pensive eyes lingering overlong on the stone-still eggs laying within before turning to coo in the tongue of his homeland, sweet words of adoration for the beings you’d made. You wave freshly plucked blossoms at the babes laid out on a woollen rug spread over grass, laughing with Daeron and Rhaena as Aelys sneezes after jamming a flower into her face.

Such a pretty little mama you make. There is a rightness to it, taking and claiming you for himself, a Valyrian maiden for a Valyrian man as it had always been and will always be. He’d felt it when first he devised to make you his, and he feels it ever more keenly now. A sweet baby cunt—a Targaryen cunt—ripened with his seed, pure blood sprung from pure blood as it had since the dawn of dragonbinding, since those with magic in their veins had climbed to the very peak of power so long ago.

He dispels the musings with a toss of the chin. Yes, you’d taken beautifully to your new station, cossetting his babes with a heartrending sort of tenderness that can only be born from having gone so long without that same unwavering dedication. He’d chosen the vessel to bear his heirs well.

But so enamoured of these new lives are you that he has become the one bereft. He’d almost think you barely notice his existence if not for your absent-minded requests to ‘hold Rhaenar, would you, kepus?’ or to ‘take Aelys for just a moment while I use the privy’ when he arrives to your chambers after a long day.

Daemon had never quite grasped how fortunate he’d been to have procured and made himself such a wanton little whore of a wife. He does now. The shifting humours of your blood—the arduous process of healing from the inside out, of producing sustenance for small hungry mouths, of attuning yourself to the innate needs of these whole persons formed from parts of you and him—had rendered desire utterly meaningless to you.

He’d love nothing more than to show you how deeply he appreciates the undertaking of your body and spirit over the previous moons. He mightn’t be able to fuck you just yet, but there are certainly plenty of other acts to partake in. And yet his overtures—sly stroking here and there, a lazy upcurve of lips awash with intent, his solid warmth pressing in in in against your smaller frame—remain frustratingly, vexingly unobserved. He makes do with a spit-slick hand to his cock and the dim of the moonlight casting a dreamy glow over you, ethereal, lovingly caressing your newfound curves and near begging him to follow the path of it with his own unworthy touch.

Alas, as Viserys might say. It is not to be. Thus, he trammels his want as far down as he is able and focuses on the things he can do, such as finalising this evening’s undertaking.

It is like any other evening in recent memory, save for one addition. Daemon sits across from Laenor this time, restraining the urge to beat the man about the head to finally, finally shut him up, the man prattling on and on about nothing of import instead of actually assisting with inventorying the reserves of dragonglass on the isle. The entire enterprise is pointless, he’s sure, but some stupid cunt had told Rhaenyra that obsidian may be a marketable commodity further East.

Not like there’s anything else of value on this rock. Dragonstone is rich in sentiment and strategy rather than in resources. He’d have gotten the castellan to do it, but after the bother he’d made of the ledgers… well.

When he is at last free to escape Laenor’s clutches, he immediately ventures to the relative safety of his apartments. Like any other evening, he finds you alone with the babes, the hearth lit to blazing despite the mildness of the weather outside. The ties at the front of your shift are loose, the smooth swell of your tits peeking out from just below the hemline as you bend down to settle Rhaenar or Aelys—he cannot tell from this vantage point—beside their sibling in the cradle.

Daemon pauses. There is an odd scent upon the air. It reminds him of the Stepstones. His stomach churns.

And then he sees it. The eggs on the table beside the cradle, blackened with ash, the wood beneath smoking at the points of contact.

“What are you doing?” He tries to keep the ire from his voice, but he cannot conceal the bewilderment. What the fuck is she doing? he thinks.

You smile, moving toward him in greeting like there is not, in fact, a pair of scorching dragon eggs destroying the furniture. “Daemon.” He wants to wring your neck. How can she be so simple-minded, how can she endanger herself, the babes—”I solved it.”

“What?”

You lay a hand to his chest, bracing yourself to stand tall and brush petal-soft lips to his jaw, docile little princess, darling baby pet. He grits his teeth against the temptation to teach you a lesson you’ll not soon forget. Grab her and rip those fucking silks into tatters, pin her to the ground and beat her arse until it’s blue, ‘no, kepus, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again’–

Your hand is bleeding. He snatches you by the wrist with too-rough fingers, tracing the thin gash in your palm with the pad of his thumb until you hiss at the sting of it.

“What is this?” he asks sternly. “What’s going on?”

Has she gone mad? It’s not an illogical assumption. Madness runs in the bloodline. ‘Tis the curse of pure breeding, he knows. There’s been a fair share of harebrained, eccentric, even downright cruel members of his lineage. He cannot say for certain that he would not also be named to such notoriety in the annals of history. But this: slicing your own skin open, for it can be nothing else to have done the deed; preparing to place dragon eggs scorched from the fire straight into the cradle beside your newborns, for the scene he’d walked in on can suggest little alternative…

There is a saying about Targaryens. He cannot recall it. Madness, greatness. Something about coins.

“Oh,” you murmur, half-absent, peering upon your rent flesh as though surprised by the blood that wells there. “I forgot about that.”

You hum as you pull away, wandering back over to your little arrangement. Stopping before the eggs, you lean forward and eye the surface of the yellow one with zealous interest.

“You forgot about your fucki—”

“Fire and blood,” you say, the absurdity of such a statement stopping his vehemence in its tracks. “Such strange words, no? What is the reason for them?”

Daemon frowns, heart pounding. He’s never seen this side of you before… this distant creature that seems two steps out of time, floating on a plane just out of his reach. Gael had seemed that way as her waist thickened and then thinned once more, growing pale and frenetic and prone to fits of howling. It had been no surprise to him to eventually learn that his dear, sweet wisp of an aunt had walked into the sea, torn apart by anguish.

The fear—that same fear—renders him mute.

You continue on. “I found it peculiar that the eggs had not yet hatched. My sister’s boys’ did on the days of their births. Why then did ours not?” You look up at him, brow furrowed, struggling with some great puzzle.

Fuck. Perhaps he ought to have taken more notice of your concern when the eggs had remained stone-still, unchanged by the emergence of their riders-to-be. He’d not been too bothered. Long has the notorious volatility of dragonspawn been known. Most Targaryens of note had had to claim a mount from among the riderless dragons. Still. He’d not been paying attention, clearly. Fuck.

“Rhaenyra told me a story earlier,” you are saying to him, earnest now. “How she’d been presented with Luke’s egg while her hands were still wet with birthing blood. He’d only just come from her, and the cord was not yet cut. Laenor put the egg back into the brazier, you see… the smell of burning blood made her retch as she delivered the afterbirth. That night, the dragon hatched. She meant nothing of it, but… I thought about it.”

You take the purple egg in your grasp, still smoking beneath, and what comes lurching from the bowels of his chest is a strangled noise of terror. It dies as quickly as he’d given it life.

You do not scream. You do not cry. There is no aroma of singed flesh nor sizzling sound of skin crisping like overcooked meat. Instead, you hold it out like an offering, mouth twisting up in recognition of his fright.

“There is magic in our blood,” you say, and suddenly your inexplicable fanaticism bears great weight. “We are the ones—the only ones—able to bring the fire to life. Fire and blood. Fire of home… and blood. My blood. It is no adage, don’t you see? It is a secret. It is the secret.”

He is torn. Part of him wants to dash the egg from your hands, to bellow for the guards to bring the healer or the maester, to force potions and tinctures down your gullet until the gleam, that perplexing, unnerving gleam, fizzles out and you are returned to him. But the other part—the other part wants to bend the fucking knee.

He chooses neither.

“Come, riñītsos”—little girl, oh gods, please just stay my little girl—“let’s go to bed.”

Daemon cleans and binds your hand himself, shoving you backward in spite of your stubborn insistence that the eggs “really must go in the cradle, kepus, please, wait a moment,” and so he does that, too, shrugging off his coat to use as a barrier between the consuming heat and his bare skin, only to find that the eggs really aren’t hot at all, though the wood still smokes and the table is singed and ruined. He ignores the significance of it. It’s too mad, even for him.

The babes—his Rhaenar, his Aelys, his littlest beloveds—are fast asleep, stirring not once at the exchange between mother and father, and they care little when he places the eggs beside them. Purple for him, yellow for her. He knows not why, but it’s a simple thing to heed your intuition. A brief caress to each small head is all that he can spare this night, all the disturbance that he can stand to risk what with their milkdrunk mouths slackened peacefully and their gossamer lashes unmoving upon their cheeks.

When Daemon sinks into unconsciousness, he is plagued by fragmented visions, your words spun around upon themselves until all he knows is the tang of copper stealing through the air and the choke of ash fumes and charred dust. ‘Fire and blood,’ your voice haunts him, the egg in your grip but this time the blood stains you dark, running rivulets down your arms and spurting from between your teeth as you grin, maniacal, an unholy light in your lilac stare.  ‘Fire and blood,’ and he sees his own unwieldy fists as from above, watches his hands lay themselves upon Rhaenar and twist, wrench, birdbones cracking like paper overdried in the sun, watches himself hook around Aelys’s chin and tear the head from her shoulders like pulling apart bread, ichor coating his tongue. ‘Fire and blood,’ and the eggs hatch but they are no dragons, no, they are shrivelled and misshapen, maggots wriggling from deep wounds in the belly and claws snapping into a thousand pieces like hard wax, and when they scream it is not the sound of a dragon but your own voice, wailing, “I think I will die, oh, gods—”

He starts awake.

At first, he thinks it is his own mind to have drawn him from an uneasy rest. Casting his eye upon you—splayed out on your stomach in the moonlight, face turned to him, slow, even puffs escaping parted lips—he is satisfied that his dreams have not become reality. Rolling closer to you, suddenly cold, he draws the covers up higher around you both and presses his nose into your hair.

And then, he hears it.

A cry in the night. But it is not you, not Rhaenar, not Aelys. It is different, foreign. Wrong.

Someone is here.

Daemon lurches from the bed with a grunt, Dark Sister already in hand and drawn from the scabbard. The snick of the blade and the clatter of the wood-and-leather sheath as he casts it upon the floor is enough to rouse you, though he is heedless of the befuddled exclamations you emit, eyes straining through shadow to acquire a sense of whom has entered his chambers so brazenly.

One of the babes squawks. It is this that breaks his standstill. Stumbling toward the cradle, his pace quickens at that same hooting, unnatural cry, louder with each step he takes.

No. No, no, no. Not his heirs. Not his son and daughter, please…

“Daemon?”

“Wait!” he barks in your direction, barely registering the rustle of you fumbling with the tinderbox beside the bed. In the darkness, he is forced to feel rather than see, fingertips outstretched to ascertain the wellbeing of the babes. “Fuck!” he hisses. His hand throbs.

A dim light draws nearer. You follow his path onward, slower, the golden glow bathing the nearby furnishings. Daemon chances a look down into the cradle, searching for the cause of the sharp sting in the meat between his thumb and finger.

“Oh,” you say, stunned. “Oh!”

The paler one cocks its head at the sound, tiny snout craning up from where it had rested upon Aelys’s swaddled thigh. Unfurling wings so thin he can nearly see through them, no bigger than the span of his palm, the creature totters forward on unsteady legs, hooting again when it falls flat. This rouses the darker one—the shade of deep, glittering amethyst, tinged gold by candlelight—from beside Rhaenar, and it straightens itself much like a kitten might, stretching its spine out and hissing low, tinny. Though Daemon’s children are awake, they remain unbothered by these curious interlopers, these fragments of stone shell littered about their place of slumber, wide eyes watching as the baby dragons make themselves familiar with the world in which they have arrived.

By the gods.

“See, kepus?” you whisper, exultant. “Do you see?”

“I do,” he says, stunned and overcome, overwhelmed and overawed. “I see them.”

“Fire and blood. I was right. I was right.”

He sees. He hears. And he knows, in his gut and in his heart, that you speak true.

“Prince Daemon had at last a son and daughter both of his own blood, delivered unto him by his lady wife. Indeed, the early years of the marriage are widely regarded as some of House Targaryen’s most fruitful, as the young Princess proceeded to bring several of her husband’s children forth in quick succession. All would receive dragon eggs in the cradle, and all would hatch, bringing the might of the royal dynasty to astounding new heights.”

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

Read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/119324212

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

[two-white-butterflies]

parallel lines | d. targaryen | prologue

Description: An ordinary middle school teacher moves to a desolate town with her fiancee. After suffering episodes of vivid nightmares, she realizes that his uncle looks exactly like the man in her dreams.

Pairings: daemon targaryen/reader, aemond targaryen/reader

Trope: Reincarnation

(A rewrite of 'Waiting for a Bus')

series masterlist |

"Story of a romance torn apart by fate Hundreds of years ago, they fell in love, like we did And I'd die for you in the same way." - Timeless, Taylor Swift.

(New York City, USA. August 23, 2008)

It was a hail mary from the beginning - only few people were reincarnated into a human form and only a small percentage of that was able to remember their past life. It was typically provoked by a traumatic event - and you were unfortunate to experience it so early in your second life. "Where are you going?" a small voice escapes your mouth, there was something dangerous about tonight.

There was a hurricane going on outside - water crashing upon the littered streets of Downtown NYC. "Calm down, I have to check something over there, baby. Can you be a good girl and stay here?" Mother inquired, while patting your head comfortingly.

"Can't I come with you?" your eyebrows merged into each other, she tilted her head. "No, it will be quick." she promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'm scared," you slumped into your seat, seeing lightning bounce off your 18th floor apartment window. "It will be over soon, it's just rain." she mumbled, letting go of your body.

You reached for the headphones that were inside your pocket. There were only two things that comforted you; mother and music. Both things so pleasant that it immediately calmed you down.

"So, you're leaving in the morning. In the early train." you carefully hummed along the song, hiding your face under the enormous pile of blankets on your bed. "Well, I could say everything's alright. And I could pretend and say goodbye." your humming drowned out the noise of the storm.

You breathe a silent sight of relief. Yep! You could take care of yourself. There was no need for mother's help. "Where is she?" you found yourself mumbling out loud. You lift the blanket off your body, feeling your feet touch the cold floor.

"Ma?" your tiny voice bounced off the empty apartment. You were supposed to move out tomorrow - something about not being able to pay taxes after the market crashed. "Ma?" your voice bounced off the apartment again, with no reply. "Can't stop loving you. No, I can't stop loving you." you could hear the music play in your head.

Just as your feet touched the floor of the living room. You see her. Body sprawled on the floor - blood everywhere, and the door wide open. "Ma!" this time your voice is louder than before. Loud enough for your next-door neighbor to hear.

The last thing you could remember was Mrs. Dantes' apartment door opening, before your vision shifts to black once more.

You opened your eyes again - this time you were in a different place. The entire world smelled like grass and ash. "We need to go home," you gritted your teeth - a mere spectator in your own body. The man beside you was of a different beauty - piercing purple eyes and silver locks. He was a thing of the gods. His eyes were round - almost prey-like. You'd almost assume that his smile could enchant any passerby, but his expression was one of anger.

"We are not going anywhere, you know of the reason we are here. I intend to follow through our plans," he responded with gritted teeth. It pained him to speak to you in this manner - but the anger he felt. It could almost burn armies. "I would rather die," you frowned - and only then did his gaze softened.

It was your thirteenth fortnight camped outside of Harrenhall. There was a deep fog that loomed over God's Eye. It was an auspicious day, the shamans tell you that it is perfect for war. The gods will be on the side of the good, but when have the Targaryens been good?

"We will die if my sister's lover ever has the mind to descend upon us." you warned him, in fear of Vhagar. "I will die," he corrected - turning his body in your direction - cupping your chin and moving your face closer to his. "- you will be safe, wife." he pressed a gentle kiss on your lips.

His hands were calloused - eyes filled with so much fury, but he treated you with such tenderness - you couldn't help but love him more. "I will be safer with the thought that you are alive. I beg of you, please do not fight in a war in which your family is destined to lose. Let Aegon take his crown - let Aegon die with it." you begged him.

"The crown is not his. It is Rhaenyra's." he defended, playing with the rivet of his dagger. "It will not benefit us." you whisper and his eyes narrowed. "It does not matter now," he placed you behind him - seeing the figure of his much awaited nephew.

Aemond stands a few hundred feet away from you, beside him was your sister, Alys. "I see that you've finally found the time to honor your dear uncle," Daemon begins with his exposition. He glares at Aemond with his two healthy eyes.

"How could I not? I've heard stories about a knight - how his Dark Sister has defeated armies and armadas. I've heard stories about his beautiful wife too, with vixen eyes that are hooks for the soul. I see his wife - but I do not see him." Aemond antagonized.

"It might have something to do with your missing eye, nephew." your husband responded, and Caraxes prowls behind you. "I see very well, uncle." Aemond corrected and Daemon tilts his head. "And who is the judge of that?" he jested, and there was a moment of silence.

Aemond moves towards Vhagar, boarding his dragon without any other words. You look above - seeing the Prince circle the lake with his noble stead. Daemon places a hand on your cheek. "I will return, and I will honor my promises. This is the last battle, wife. Thank you for your patience," he bridges your lips together.

Sealing his fate with a single kiss.

He walks past you - to the direction of Caraxes, and he boards his dragon too. "Daemon!" you yell after him, but he reluctantly ignores you - following after his nephew to the heavens.

(Dragonview, Canada. January 2, 2023)

"Are you alright?" Aemond places a gentle hand on your shoulder. Your eyelids flutter gently, beads of sweat formed atop your forehead. "Yeah - yeah." you answer much to quickly. "It was just another nightmare." you affirmed, while staring at the digital clock on your bedside table. 3:41 AM.

"Did I wake you?" you scratch the back of your head. "No, I was about to start sleeping." he chuckled nervously. "- I'm really worried about you, angel." he whispers, while laying down beside you. He wraps his strong arms around your body - domineering over your small frame. "The nightmares have been going on since we met." he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

A scoff exits your mouth.

"It's been gone bebè. It only came back because we moved to a new city." you hypothesized, kissing his cheek - smelling the faint scent of aftershave. "It would be better if it was gone ... forever." he retorted, rubbing circles on your thighs. "If it continues, you promise to get it fixed?" he inquired and you laugh.

"You make me sound like a robot." you bit your lower lip. "Elementary teacher goes crazy and needs to get spare parts." he joked. "You make me crazy, you know that?" you giggle. The light of the lampshade illuminated his features perfectly. "I'm glad that you have a new job, there's someone else to blame about your madness." he kissed your jawline.

The digital alarm clock rings. 4:00am.

"Get your hands off me, Mr. Targaryen. I have to get ready for school." you whispered, while lifting his fingers off your waist. "No time for a little quickie?" he winked and you rolled your eyes. "There's time for that when I get home." you answered while lifting the blanket off your body. Strategically walking towards the bathroom before he gets another word in.

The school was a few minutes away from your apartment. The town was small - one of the few islands in the southern part of Canada. "According to the book that you gave me about this place, Dragonview used to be a volcano. Which is weird since we aren't in the Pacific Ring of Fire side of Canada." you opened the conversation.

"You are cruel for having me drive you to school - and listen to you speak about volcanology." he humored, placing his free hand on your thighs. "But is the book really accurate? I mean - I can see the mountain from our apartment window. I'd like to check it out if it used to be a volcano." you turned to look at him.

He nodded his head.

"My family's been living in this island for thousands of years. I think they used to call it Dragonmont - there's no magma left. No traces of the fact that it used to be a Volcano. Lots of people went to study it when I was a child. Not a volcano, they say." he relayed the information. "You know, my father used to tell me that dragons lived in this island." he chuckled in an amused tone.

You flinch. The word 'dragon' made your head spin.

"We should hike it in the weekends. If you're free?" your eyebrows merged into each other and he nods. "I'm always free for you, love." he confirmed, halting in front of the school building. To your surprise, the school was a generous size. Small enough that it couldn't rival the schools in the state, but bigger than the typical schools found in Canadian Provinces.

You lean closer to his body, giving him a soft peck on the cheek. "I'll pick you up at six, you're welcome to be late." he placed a hand on your shoulder.

"I love you," you smiled while opening the door. "I love you too." he answered - and you slam the door shut.

Watching as his Honda Civic rolls away from view.

St. Maria Goretti, the patron saint of purity, young women and sexual assault. She was also the namesake of the section that you were going to teach. 'First year of teaching and I already have an advisory class, god. I'm jealous of myself.' you shook your head while placing your bag on the desk. Teaching grade-school was easy. Especially in a country like Canada - where they had a reputation of being kind.

A woman clears her throat, knocking on the door three times. "Good morning, you must be the new teacher. I'm Rhaenyra, the Senior High School Subject Coordinator for English. My advisory is just across the hall, Grade 4 - Saint Agnes of Rome." she introduced herself, holding out her hand for you to shake.

Silver locks and a familiar pair of purple eyes. "(Your Name), I teach Mathematics - as you can see, I'm the advisor of Grade 6 - Saint Maria Goretti." you smiled at her, shaking her hand. "Oh, you're very lucky to have this section. There's a saying that goes around here, all the advisors of Saint Maria Goretti turn out to be very successful." she winked, a smile is etched upon your features.

She takes another step forward.

"What happened to the last teacher for everyone to think that?" your eyes narrowed and she leaned on the desk. "She ended up marrying a hot-shot lawyer, I heard that she lives in Monaco now. There's a lot of other teachers before you - this position hasn't been held for more than a year. I mean I think there was a teacher that lasted longer but it's been decades. 10-15 years ago? But she moved to New York." Rhaenyra tried to remember the past.

You place a binder on the table.

"It's nice that you remember the school's history. There aren't a lot of teachers who bother to learn all of that." you compliment, sensing that she was staring deep into your face. "I was born and raised here. She was my advisor - she spent her last year in school with us. I hope that you last longer than the others though," she breathed and you could only hum in agreement.

"I'll do my best - plus, my boyfriend was also born and raised here. He wants to make amends with his family. If all goes well, I see myself settling here." you explained, smiling at the thought of Aemond. Her watch beeps, 7:25am.

"Well, I will see you in the cafeteria during lunch. I'm afraid that I'll have to say goodbye for now," she waved - retreating back into the hallway. "See ya," you bid goodbye - the room fills with more students.

RHAENYRA STRONG She's here.

DAEMON TARGARYEN Who?

Rhaenyra's phone rings - the caller ID flashes for a moment. "What's up? Is everything alright?" he inquires. She could hear the classical music play in the background. "(Your Name) is here, and she doesn't remember anything." she breathed out in a panicked tone.

INSTAGRAM

yourname_: with the advanced class ✨

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>comments

tatianaVANILLA: The way that idk what those letters are 🤣

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DaemonTargaryen.phd: My lovely and beautiful Caraxes... 👍🏻

liked by 1,293 others

>comments

VexanaNailss: Prof Daemon has the dawg in him

jacejacejacevelaryon: 2 dogs 1 frame 😨 - LucerysGaming: You literally live in his house 💀 - - jacejacejacevelaryon: You also eat his ice cream. Your point is?

LaenorVelaryonLaw08: Sea wants a playdate

DaemonTargaryen.phd: @LaenorVelaryonLaw08 fine since you beg 🤣

next chapter>>

[howyouloveyourdragon]

Remnants

pronouns: she/her warnings: smut, use of the word ‘whore’, angst, disease, character death, fluff, infidelity, slowburn, classism at first (daemon is a shit) summary: They say that you never forget your first love but the vultures are prey to weakness and intend to infiltrate Daemon’s own desires to preserve his adere riñus (slippery girl). Some say the woman will forever remain in his conscience, guiding his bloodied sword and singing sweet lost lullabies to lay his rest. For it has been too long since the volatile dragon slept peaceful. A prince with more gold than he can keep. A prince who can demand whatever he wishes and command any army. And yet all he is left with…All he is left with are the remnants of her which he swore to cherish as religiously as he would an idol. A/N: reader has dark hair for a plot point to work but i think you can still ignore it if you want to :) dividers by: firefly-graphics wordcount: 6,797

There is nothing like a sunset that is more comforting to him and yet his comfort is limited. How he stares at the strewn stars like figments of grace and kind. How he stares each as though in the eye and recounts sonnets as they emit. How he begs and pleads for the Gods to last the warmth of sunlight just a little longer each time. And each time it fades. Each time his eyes grasp any trace of her to sew back into his mind after it has been torn from him with viscous delight. He should have known. The Gods do not listen to begging. Not even from Crown Princes. No matter how many bottles he shatters in the heat of his dreams. He likes to think that their love was red and as flowing as his ever-heating dragon’s blood. A Syrax in its own right. But there was no Goddess of ecstasy blessing them. No. It was a curse of bluebells and belonging to that of Gaelithox, surely to punish him for his foolishness. He looks up at the sky. The dark array of black and blue. Of silver specks and promising folds of purple. There is nothing like a sunrise better to send the Rogue Prince into a spiel of decay and sickness. The absurd golden bonds squeezing out another day like an artist with their last inch of oils. The crawling brightness that comes to threaten the moon. Abysmal lies sung to him as his brother attempts to push him into seeing beauty in all that inductees his churning stomach. 

He wills the flowers to wither. 

It was under the rising sun that Daemon had stumbled and forced his way out of the obnoxious hooting Street of Silk. Perhaps he had been desiring only ale or the rancid smell of sweat to intoxicate him. At just two and twenty, he had been visiting the volatile heap of taverns and brothels for the past eight years. It was religious in his dark desires. For dragons did not obey the whims of men and Daemon did not obey the whims of his brother nor father. And certainly not the whims of his wife. His nose turns up at the thought. Marriage would not contain him like they desired and yet still, he receives the constant demands to visit her. Of course he only intends to sink them in water until soft enough to shred, rejecting their presence all together. It would be easier to burn them but he does not think them worthy of his flame. His begrudging circle had even begun threatening to hail her to the Red Keep. To keep her in his presence all torturous times of the day. He knows his mother wouldn’t have let this happen, surely. Never would she sell him like prize cattle just to tame him. He is a dragon does not fuck plain featured sheep, he burns them but he would not devour them like his brother wished. His tastes were precise and he would not settle. He is a prince. He deserves nothing less than a woman matching his silver strands. Which is what he thinks of as he stumbles through the dark night struck streets, hopefully back to the castle gates at least. He despised people seeing him in such a state but he could usually hold his liquor better than tonight. And he assures himself that all will be well…until his cloak catches on a hook and he crashes to the floor in a surge of red blurred vision. 

He blinks awake the next morrow with a pounding headache the size of Caraxes. A wince cracks at his muscles. Daemon grunts, a rough sting along his left cheekbone. A blur of dark hair and feminine presence has him assuming he had fallen asleep in the whorehouse again but instead his eyes flit across the plain room, brows pinching at the plain room. It is unfamiliar, he realises. His lips part in time for a resounding click of the unknown woman's fingers to snap him into alert. Anger swells in his chest but his limbs are weakened with exhaustion and ale. His sharp eyes choose to narrow instead as quickly as she takes a step. His brain swishes with questions. Where is he, why is he here and most importantly, who is this already insufferable cunt of a peasant? "You." He sneers, clicking his own fingers but she ignores him, returning to a small room he presumes to be a...kitchen? It is small and brown and littered with pans, some empty, some filled. "Tell me, who are you?" It is a demand. They both know it is a demand and yet it goes ignored. Rage firms his brittle state. "Answer your prince!" He stands on slightly shaky legs, uncaring to his indecent layer of clothing, or rather, lack of. His tunic...Where is his tunic? It isn't panic that raises the bile but it is discomfort. The odd woman merely chuckles at him. Anger flares once more. Daemon's swift hand snaps to his scabbard only to find it empty. "Relax, your highness," He doesn't like the mocking lilt seeping from her untrustworthy tongue. "it will be returned to you, I merely made certain you would not awaken with a missing appendage." His face scowls petulantly at her and he takes a step forward. 

Daemon builds up his broad shoulders to square though he is not entirely a man full-grown yet and his boyish features attempt to harden. Intimidation is a powerful tool he knows. "You will hand me my possessions and I will take leave far from your slums or I will–" She spins around, facing him not with fear or mal-intent but with curiosity. Her sly smirk is the first thing he notices alongside her narrowed fox-like eyes. “Or what?” She returns, impishly .His mouth hangs. She had been washing one of her thick pans but now she has tucked the pathetic wet towel into her small apron and folds her arms. The pan is left forgotten on the side after a loud clang. She raises her brows. “Or what, your highness?” She repeats as though he is nothing more than the village idiot or town fool. Begrudgingly he has never felt more like a child, not even after marrying the bronze bitch. Daemon’s mouth moves but nothing comes out. She snorts. “Will you harm a sweet village girl? Add blood to your taxes? Ah, apologies, my lord, you are no foe of such demands, you are the taker.” The snide doesn’t pass him. “No girl is of worth to a Dragon.” He says, finally regaining composure. She doesn’t cower, she sneers. “In that we can agree.” Her voice, once mellifluous and playful, now turns cold. “Except the ones fucking dragons and I assure you, I have no intentions.” He swallows, noticing just how close they have approached once the hit of warm breath fans over his mouth which towers just above her. He ignores when his eyes flicker to her wet lips. How can a peasant look so nourished? 

Daemon may ignore it but the peasant does not, her lips slowly curling upward smugly. She hums as she takes in his dilated pupils now wielding more than just rage. Slowly, her calloused hand begins to dip into her apron pocket. In a flash, his palm snatches her wrist and rips it out of reach. She blinks, slightly disoriented, but then raises her brows comically. “Do you not wish me to return your sword, my lord?” She lilts, Daemon’s face softens. “I am your prince, not your lord.” He snarls. Again, her sickening chuckles lift in the stale air. “You are an ingrate that we are all in service to, my prince. Do you wish for your dagger or not?” He hesitates. Who is to determine that she is not attempting to fool him? That she will not snipe his weapon and slice it through his throat; would she leave him bleeding on her floor or scatter him amongst the mongrels of flea bottom? Daemon casts his eyes at her apron. She sighs, allowing his thick fingers to swipe through the various utensils stashed away. The prince grunts when he makes contact with a blade, groaning behind his taut lips. He slides it out once he finds the hilt and dances it between his fingers like a peacock presents its feathers. A smirk twitches. 

The peasant girl sighs, unamused as he watches the shining steel. “Do you intend to frolic through the streets and freeze?” She asks with a thin layer of mocking. His eyes narrow on the blade. “No,” He articulates in a frozen phrase. “You will lead me to the garments you have stolen from me and in return I shall allow your pitiful life to remain.” It isn’t a chuckle that escapes her this time but instead a snort. His nose wrinkles at the unabashed noise. “Will I?” She returns, biting the inside of her cheek. Daemon lets a glower settle, breath heaving at the disrespect. He clenches his jaw. “You will or you will taste your own blood.” Daemon spouts the words, attempting to poison her flesh, he can already imagine the boils that would litter her soft skin. The peasant merely winks. “It wouldn’t be for the first time but I am afraid that it would be in your best interests that you stay a moment more.” She sighs as though the fact physically pains her. A hand sneaks behind her back, which connects against the rough counter edge, and produces a small wooden bowl, heat emitting in steam from the top. “Would you not prefer to break your fast before you leave? A weak prince is not a wise one.” 

He leans down, sneering. “I am not weak.” She leans up at him and tilts her head. “Then how do you know I was talking about you?” She pushes the strange broth to his chest and slips past him once his confusion lessens his hold on her other wrist. His head snaps to face her figure again. “You are an insinuating little tart.” Daemon comments but much less interrogative than before. He eyes the broth cautiously as he takes a seat at her short stocky table. His legs plead for freedom under the trapment. He ignores them. The girl glances him over and he can feel the scrutiny piercing his skin, ready to seep inside. Begrudgingly, the heir seats himself at the small table of her home and huffs like a petulant child.  The threat of judgement crawls like an insect over his tense muscles, it feels like twenty-thousand little cockroaches are bumping one another from the inside of his skin. It begs to clamber into the strange peasant instead, what does a peasant fair against a prince? She must know that it would be further than a sin to place judgement on a Targaryen prince while she is nothing more than a lowly film of dirt atop his shoe; filth he is desperately trying to scrape off until his hands are raw and bloody. 

His eyes take this moment to rake over and through her as she stumbles around the much too small hobble. Her hair reminds him of toiled waves, crashing messily and unkempt–even though it is tied up–against the harsh wind sneaking through her window. Her apron is dirtied and there is flour on her face. She looks every inch the commoner he despises. Because she thinks she’s better than him, he’s sure, he can see it in her smugness, her eagerness to keep him dependent on her already. She has a vile brown dress beneath it, his skin itches just looking at the rough worn-in cloth. The prince’s eyes trail to her bare feet, he winces but attempts to ignore it, glancing over the muddy wet end to the dress. He lets a sigh release and shakes his head, inspecting the rest of the abode. Just looking at her made him long to cleanse himself. Daemon’s nose turns up at the sight of a myriad of blue wilting flowers in the corner, well he supposes to her it is reminiscent of a myriad. Her. Why is it her mind, her thoughts, that he wants to explore like the depths of the great sea he has always been kept from? Then his eye catches on the deep red cloth that drapes along a lone wooden chair. His eyes narrow. Is it stolen? She doesn’t look as though she could afford such vibrancy. Or perhaps she is a whore and it was gifted by a client. That must be it. She’s a whore. Daemon clicks his tongue and looks down at the half-eaten broth. He stirs at the odd liquid, raising the too large spoon and pouring the broth back in the bowl before dipping it back in again. It takes all his willpower to stuff it into his cheeks and let it play on his tongue. 

He swishes it across his taste buds. Daemon wants it to be foul, he wants it to reek of vomit-inducing grossness. It is a childish word but he is running out of insults. His hope also falls flat because for some reason it tastes good. It tastes better than any soup the high paid cooks have ever offered him, it tastes almost better than any rich meal he’s consumed. His eyes narrow. Is she a witch? Is this set to bewitch him or send him into sleep? No, it makes him feel much too energised. Then is it to gain his favour? Constituted to trick his submission? She will not achieve it, he refuses. He finishes the lukewarm meal while taking his time. He watches her hum and shimmy about the room, searching for something he does not know. He scans her curiously. “My garments.” He states in demand, standing and approaching her swiftly. She doesn’t react, doesn’t even stop humming. She moves about a few thick books, all handwritten and all with olden pages–yellow with use. 

His fist rests sideways against the presumably oak bookcase so he can lean over her, forearm following suit. He wants it to reflect dominance but instead it twists his gut and warms his lower stomach. “You have something that belongs to me,” Daemon purrs. His eyes narrow. His free palm outstretches. “I want it back.” “I have more than one thing, milord.” The snark drips from her tongue with charisma he loathes. His jaw clenches at the forced display. “Then return them and I shall return this.” Her eyes snap up to him and frown at the sealed letter in his grasp. Daemon can see as the panic swells and tenses her muscles, he can see as she takes in an inhale sharper than Dark Sister, he can see as her eyes widen because Daemon is not merely a swordsman and soon-warrior; Daemon Targaryen is also an observer. The peasant girl swallows. “Very well.” She chokes out and he finds himself surprised to have won this game of cat and mouse. Of dragon and sheep. Almost disappointed. The prince nods and steps back but as she prepares to swipe it from his hands and pulls it back with a visibly pensive expression. “I will give it to you once you return my possessions.” Eyes meet and again, his gut twists. She tilts her head, guard seemingly lowered. “How curious,” She breathes out. Daemon’s brows knit. “What?” He questions. “You said possessions not belongings. Most would use the latter.” 

When he eventually does return to the castle, fully clothed and prepared to sleep off the remainder of his disturbed night, He keeps a firm stance and intends to forget the strange day so far but his mind circles the events like a fly. Daemon growls as he shrugs off his shirt to replace it with one of pure white and tosses the prior into a drawer. He roughly grasps a red doublet in his hands and tugs it over. His breath comes out in grunts and curses until he is redressed. It is the same shade as the peasant girl’s cloth, of course it is. It was his favourite until today and now childishly, it feels tainted by the resurging memories of humiliation being sewn inside. His nose scrunches up, a grotesque taste rubbing against his tongue as he recalls one incident in particular. The prince, a man to be respected, can visualise as he was shoved to a thin mattress and tossed up the mix of bile and sickness from his stomach. All. Over. Her. Floorboards. Daemon winces and shakes his head, trying to shake the memory into the deepest depths of his subconscious, never to be seen again. He sighs and turns around, pausing when a slight fluttering falls as soft as a petal from his trouser. He frowns and peers down at the paper. There sits a thin parchment, not unlike the letter he had returned to the peasant girl. This one however is in cursive words much more eloquent than the past one and written in a phrasing he’s unsure of. He looks at the wax seal this time. It’s blue and the paper around it is curled. Daemon glances over the creases. Perhaps his business is not yet forgoing. 

A moon passes before he finally returns through the winding streets, trying to recall the pattern in which he returned home, backward. Daemon finds himself humming a tune to which he should not be familiar with but it is the only thing that consumes his mind as he passes through the Street of Flour. Finally, he reaches a small doorway and raps at it. No one answers to which he sighs and takes a step back, peeking through the opening of his hooded cloak at the abundance of civilians. Daemon’s eyes dart amidst the unknown area and his feet follow, investigating a series of yells and glances one last time at the door. The street is in uneven bumps and the people there are clumped together as they holler and whistle. Daemon halts his tune and uses his substantial height to attempt to see over the large mass of bodies. He can barely make out the sight of steam and two large wooden stands. The hollers burst through his ears like pellets of rain, forceful and punishing as a storm. 

Then a familiar voice is raised above the others, a mock resounding in his ears but with the playfulness and wit of a friend. His violet eyes snap up to find the woman haunting him. She’s laughing raucously, obnoxious and loud. Daemon’s lips slightly twitch at the teeth she bares. Again, his gut stirs. The heat becomes smothering but that doesn't stop him in his pursuit in finding the peasant girl who he now sees tossing around a pan filled with water and meat. From the brief glances he can snatch up, she’s almost finished while a man beside her is kneading a similar meat lined in fresh pink. Daemon pulls his lips taut, tensing as he watches the show. His little peasant seems to be enjoying herself. Witch, he thinks briefly but she doesn’t look like a witch and nor does she particularly sound like one. Are witches not supposed to be tantalising and hibernate an illusion of raw sex? Of primal appeal to tempt him? She doesn’t appear to be trying very hard. The flour is gone from her face now, he notes, but in its place lays a curved slice, colour as deep as that of Dornish wine. If she is a witch, would she not surely cover it? The hiss of her heated pan hisses throughout the street and Daemon finds himself surprised that no one has stolen from the small bag of coins in the centre. 

A cacophony of enjoyment and not one has a trail of bitterness. He watches as the girl glides a hand around her neck to push back the hair escaping its tight wrap atop her head. Only joy amongst the miserable. Perhaps that should worry him but he is too enthralled in the display. The woman’s hair is tied high again but much clearer than the moon prior–the day he last saw her. She is still wearing the same rags but this time that revolting red cloth is wrapped around her shoulders like a shaul. Not a whore either then. A whore would not be parading her squeals for free and nor would she wish to wear rags when surely many men had solicited them. So she is not a witch and not a whore and yet he finds himself stalking after her presence like an injured pup. Daemon growls at the very thought. He is a prince. How many times must he remind himself? Princes do not chase after strange peasant girls. The scolding floats through the wind when the peasant girl cheers and hurls the pan down on the wooden market stand. Her opponent groans half-heartedly, grinning like a mad man as he stretches out his arms and embraces the girl, one rough large hand resting to cup the back of her head and his other reaching to slap her back like Daemon has seen other knights behave. But this is not a knight, this is a peasant. The fact twitches his nose in distaste. But so is she. A voice whispers in his ear, he swats it away, watching as the surrounding peasants cheer. 

Daemon watches as the children let their little hands grasp the food and jump in bubbles of excitement. If he had a warmer heart, he may have found the sight sweet. But he does not, he has a mission to complete. He approaches the peasant girl with sly steps but she has already noticed him, how, he does not know. He steps behind her and opens his mouth but she beats him to it. “My prince,” She speaks with a burning smugness he doesn’t have to look at to be aware of. Against his better judgement, a sly smirk spreads across his pale lips. “You remembered.” He quips to which she hums in approval and folds her arms over her chest. “Unfortunately I did.” Daemon shifts in intrigue. He hesitates for the first sun of his existence. “I almost thought you wouldn’t bring it back.” She comments, amusement slipping in between her teeth. A snicker passes his mouth, a mouth rarely barred. “I had not imagined you would need use of such a thing left so easily misplaced.” Daemon’s hot words burrow through her ear, as determined as their wielder. She turns her head, baring her soft neck and piercing eyes to look up into his. The heir’s breath hitches. 

“I misplaced nothing, my prince.” The peasant purrs boldly. The intimacy of a whisper drips from her like an aphrodisiac. Daemon grins. “Is it my name or merely my title that you know of?” He chuckles, a confident hand reaching wind at her waist. Her own hand cups it. “Of course, my Prince Daemon Targaryen.” He swallows and a shuddered chill draws down his back. “Might you tell your prince your own for adequate compensation?” She leans a little closer, only a breath apart and fanning across his twitching lips. She interrupts his thoughts by slapping his hand enough to stun him. “I shall not.” With him vulnerable, she twists away from him with cautious grace. “I like to leave my men wanting.” She calls with a growing impish grin. He surprises himself by returning the gesture, straightening his back as he does so and raising his brows. “And I am one of your men then?” He retorts easily and watches her sashay apart from him. Before she is too far, he pats down to find the letter in his pocket but already knows it has been swiped. Instead of berating his own foolishness, he smirks at the smart, slippery girl and steps away, sure to see her more in the growing time. 

As the moons pass and his brother grows increasingly irate with him, Daemon Targaryen sneaks away into the night. He ignores the hailings of his Lady Bronze and replaces her calls with the sweet melodies his newfound companion intoxicates him with. The soothing lilt of her lullabies and the calm braids she strews across his hair. Daemon stands, now a man of 27 years, at her side. Y/n, she had told him. Her name was Y/n. She was of no surname and no wealth but she was beautiful and kind. She was fresh and witty and every inch the insinuating tart she had been the night they met. Her fingers stroke through his tangled mane with a snort before landing her hands, rough with work, on his shoulders. He leans back and flutters his eyes shut. With all the bread she has kneaded, this is not the first time he longs for her embrace. He hums in swift pleasure, reaching up to coil his fingers with hers. “How is sweet Rhaenyra?” Y/n asks, voice ripe with interest and honey as always…Only this time, there is something burrowed beneath, he can feel it. He can feel it better than he can sense Caraxes’ heartbeat. “She is well…Almost full grown already.” Daemon responds, his fingers lingering as they caress Y/n’s hand. Why does it feel so much frailer than it did before? “Are you hiding something from me? Are you aware that it is a crime to lie to your prince,” The joke falls flat as she leans forward and shakes her head, arms stretching across her lover’s chest. She doesn’t speak and he doesn’t pry but they are both aware of the deep mulberry bags beneath her eyes. 

But Daemon has always been a man of actions and impulses and so, he lets instincts take over, leaning back his head to look at her. His hands both reach up to cup her face and descend it toward him with gentle prompt. “I brought something for you,” He breathes, twirling a strand of her hair around his fingertips. She tilts her head and tightens her lips. “Whatever for?” He lets a mischievous grin twist his mouth and stands, settling Y/n down in the chair instead. Daemon cups her cold hands in his warm ones and folds them in her lap. “Close your eyes.” She does so begrudgingly but she is long past arguing with him when he’s in his moods. She chuckles. “You told you there was nothing you required for your namesday and while I respect–” She interrupts him, groaning with amusement. “Because it is not a namesday, I will never know my namesday,” She chuckles but her tickling throat gives her away, choking the words out of her dry throat. Daemon hums lowly. “But it is the day that you were given shelter.” She rolls her eyes at the quip. “That place was hardly a shelter.” He leans down to kiss wetly along her jaw and up to her earlobe. “And yet it brought you to me, kept you safe and waiting.” She snorts and raises her brows, a pointed expression inching over her. “I was hardly waiting.” He chuckles this time and kisses up the column of her throat. As she begins to breathe out gentle moans, he takes her distracted presence to skillfully thread his hand over hers, sliding cold steel onto her finger. She gasps and flutters her eyes open to see his cocky smirk. “Well?” He asks and kisses the finger. He licks his lips and lets a shaky breath flow through him. 

Y/n regains composure and stares at the ‘something’ he had brought her. She brings it to just in front of her sights and swallows. “Is-Is it…?” “Yes,” He whispers and looks at the carefully crafted jewellery too. “I want you to have a part of me, always. And in return…” He pauses and turns the ring around her finger slowly to reveal a carved dragon, its wings spread for flight. “I want all of you.” He slowly kneels in front of her. “I want you to marry me.” It’s instantaneous that her mouth parts and her eyes widen. “Daemon…” “That woman is not my wife.” He states coldly before warming at the sight of her softening brows. “You are my wife in body, in soul and I want so in law too.” He takes in a breath. “Please, do not this deny of me. “I told you I would give you everything and I intend to. “Your brother will never approve of it.” A growl ripples through his mouth. “I do not care, he has tried to be my dictator since we were children and now I am a man grown, I should be allowed to choose my own wife. To let her choose me. He has not yet had an heir, let me take you to Dragonstone.” He leans closer until only a single breath can part them. “Let me make you my wife in the ways of my ancestors.” Silence cups them in a bubble, so easily popped. Too easily popped…and yet, she turns the ring, roaming the dotted rubies that form the dragon’s eyes and in slow movement, she stares into violet irises as she kisses the dragon’s head. “Yes.” She whispers. “I will be your wife.” 

He doesn’t take a moment more to grasp the sides of her face and kiss fervently at her soft pliant lips. She returns the force in tandem as the sun sets behind them. The golden rays darken in a way only the most beautiful of moments could demand. Daemon’s hand drops to scrunch at the material at her thigh, at the skirts of her dress. It is in moments that both his hands reach to pop and tear at the incriminating fabric, ripping away her bodice until he can paw at his prize like an animal starved. Her teeth sink into his lip and the wet resounding noises surface upon their lips. His breath grunts as hers quickens in high pitched desperation. Her own hands slash roughly at his doublet, shoving it away from him like a criminal. His hips grind against her in hard strokes, desperately trailing his kisses down her neck while she clutches and pulls at his long silver hair. A high moan tears from her mouth as he sucks his marks into her, the need for possession clawing at his veins. Her pearl throbs as she twists to plunge him onto the floor. She straddles his thighs and wraps her arms around his neck and pushes his face against her neck again. He growls and snaps off her smallclothes. “When we met,” He groans, eyes fluttering back. “I thought you were a whore.” A breathy cackle drips from her animalistic mouth. “I’m starting to rethink denouncing that. You are much, ah, much too talented to be a baker.” He moans and burrows his head into the pillows of her breasts, lips wrapping to suction once more, to claim. “And you,” She interrupts herself to moan, tossing her head back. “Are much too unkempt to be a prince.” He bucks his hips. “Tell me,” A shriek breaks as he tugs roughly at the pelvis of his own trousers, desperately trying to be rid of the material. “Tell me you’re mine, Rogue Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.” A gasp drips from his tongue while he finally gets a grip of his fabrics. He tosses her to lie on the floor, her back pressed against the wood. “Fuck, I’m yours,” He babbles like a hormonal desperate teenager. With thick hands grapple his own trousers and tears them off with haste. “All yours, only yours.” 

He throbs as he kisses down her body, planting wet marks as violet as his eyes and crimson as his blood. He props up her right leg to drape over his shoulder and sucks at her thigh. His tongue probes at the flesh. His palms squeeze at her thighs as he slowly dips down between them and worships her mound in deep licks, drinking in the slick. He wants to drain it into a flask and carry it in his satchel. He wants to carry her around to sip from at any moment. He could die happily between her legs. Daemon Targaryen does not need wine or whore because she is his sin and he will anger the Gods happily if he can keep this temptress at his side. He pulls back to fan his breath along her throbbing cunny. Such a sweet filthy little thing, he thinks to himself, blowing down on it and revelling in her small jolt. His tongue drops to play with the bundled pearl, rolling it over the muscle and sending vibration as reward for every little moan that she lets pass. Her hands reach down and tug at his hair. “You should not have tempted me, adere riñus,” (slippery girl) His dark eyes level to meet hers. “I told you I want all of you and I intend to take it.” With an animalistic grin, his mouth descends once more to lap at her. Her back arches, grinding into him impatiently. “Be careful,” The woman pants. “Or I may start suspecting you to be a whore yourself.” He growls as she smirks and pushes up her body, slamming a forearm by her head and stretching her leg. She winces for a moment but recovers as his fingers replace his tongue. “A private whore then.” He speaks, removing his hand from her bud to palm at his length. “For a have already told you,” He grunts, chasing her mewls as he plunges into her entrance. “I am yours.” And so he pushes deeper, pushing roughly and lets his sweat pound into her flesh until they absorb one another. 

Months have passed. He knows they have but he doesn’t feel it. All he can do is fight and slay and watch as men burn and bleed. So long it has been since he last saw his true wife, since he last kissed her lips. A comment in passing has devoured his entire mind. A half-hearted promise that he has clung to now is visible but only in part. He wants it now more than he has ever wanted anything. “Yes, well, you may marry her if the Stepstones are ever retaken.” A King will be true to his word and his brother has never proved untrustworthy but the phrase was meant in jest, he knows. However, Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince and man of twenty-eight years, will let himself be damned before he rejects the prospect. He will make his wifey his own if it is the very last thing he does. He has returned to his brother, a crown of bone within his grasp and presented it to him with but one request. He shall take his own wife and he shall take her at court for all to see. Before every lord, lady or royal proudly. For the first time, it isn’t frustration or malice in his brother’s gaze in response to his boldness. It is gentle and merciful. Because that is what it feels like to be gifted the honour of his adere riñus. It is mercy, it is a blessing, it is his salvation. It is the rise of his sun and the fall of his stars because he only needs one. He only needs one shining star to keep his moon afloat and begging. 

Finally he can return home to her with more than a title and unfair vows. He can return with a heart full. Daemon’s hand twists at the wooden door he has slipped past so many times before but he freezes at the sight. An array of mess greets him and horror balls in his throat to gag him. His eyes snap at every corner, panic rising like the flow of sharp wind. His feet travel through the cluttered space, wariness biting at him but then he sees blood splatter on a cloth. It is as crimson as the shirt beneath his tunic and that alone makes him scream for her. Her name resounds through the open space and his legs run swiftly to the only other room there, the one where he had professed his devotion to her until the words bled out. He bursts the door open with the force of ten thousand men, the hinges yelling at him. He settles his sights on his weak love. She is shivering. With widened eyes and swiftly snaps to her side in one breath and kneels there, clutching her hands. “What is wrong, my love, who has hurt you?” The words are loud, demanding and cold. She almost doesn't respond and his heart stops. “I am well, husband.” She calls him such…She calls him such without even knowing the good news, the news he had only dreamed of whispering into your ear but not like this. Never like this. “My love, you are not.” Daemon chastises and fumbles with her bedsheets. He reaches to cup her cheek. “My love what has happened, has someone thieved you, please tell me what has happened.” She merely shakes her head. “I,” She coughs into her hand, rich thick blood dripping from it like a cursed potion. His face hardens but he lets her finish, lets the quiet remain. She’s trembling like a little lamb. “You knew that I was in an…unseemly state when you left. I am glad to have you return to me.” She has never spoken so proper, so rehearsed to him before. How long had he been blind? “I am taking you to a healer.” He snaps instantly and stands. She winces. “No,” She begs weakly. He shakes his head. “No, please, I do not wish for you to see me in this state.” “Shame is not for this time!” He yells. “I return home to my wife sickly and bedridden and you expect me to not alert a maester? Nonsense, you are coming willfully or I will make you.” 

The nights are cold and they pass without progress as he lays by her side at all hours. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling. “It is in the sky that you are free,” She utters. “Caraxes will be missing you.” Daemon shakes his head and glides a hand up her waist. “And if I should fly him then I shall be missing you.” “He is an animal as wild as you, my love,” She berates with the softness of an angel. “And he will wait.” “And for how long? Until I am old in my grave.” “Do not say such things!” Daemon chastises. “It is mere truth, husband.” She sighs and curls his hair in her fingers. “He needs flight and so do you.” He doesn’t respond, his petulance growing.”I am not getting better.” She wags a finger in his face when he tries to argue. “I will continue not to but if you do this justice for me then I will grant you an army of love.” The mischief still holds on her tongue after all this time. The gentle mocking of his salvation and he smiles. He smiles as water pricks his eyes. He can’t speak. He won’t make it so, not if it is only going to claw at him. 

Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches as the ivory moon lowers before him. He watches as gold forgives the darkness and they embrace. The twine of beauty and misery thread together in a beautiful seal. A seal of love and beauty. He twists a ring in his hand, one made of Valyrian steel and shattered promises. He sits upon a red cloth. Parchment is strapped to his thigh, awaiting acknowledgement, a web of bluebells encapsulates it. A letter of hopes, a letter of dreams unfulfilled. Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches the sun rise and with it, his future. He has felt his slippery girl slip from him and now it is time for him to breathe new air. He is only left with the remnants of her but that is enough for him to resume his newfound duty. A duty to her, to her memory and to her desires. As he watches the night close, he finally takes acceptance. He accepts peace. Her love is not red, it is not blue. It is in what she has left behind and it is in what she has gifted onto him. Finally he understands what she meant that fated day. She does not own him. He belongs to her.

Her love is her remnants. And he has an army of it. 

Remnants Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @chompchompluke @eyelinerandcigarettes

HOTD Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @wrendermedone @hopelesswritergall @blackdreamspeaks @its-actually-minicika @gettheetoanunneryimmediatly @adelusionalwriter

[eviesaurusrex]

“ᴍʏ Qᴜᴇᴇɴ.” | ᴅ. ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

GIF by @fireandbloodsource

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader (OC)

summary: Being the oldest daughter of King Viserys and Queen Aemma was a blessing and a curse at once. But Visenya– as cunning, intelligent, and brave she was– prepared her very own path with the help of the one man who held her heart in his hands and kept her back at all time.

word count: 10.5k i don’t know what happened here.

warnings: canon typical incest (i’m sorry okay?), cursing, fluff, violence, mentions of blood, injuries, and a sword fight, threats, canon typical misogyny, more fluff, dragons, High Valyrian presented you by an online translator, conversations about death and stillborn babies, a bit of angst, slight HotD s1 spoiler

author’s note: I love Rhaenyra with all my heart, but I need to indulge in this one, sorry! This is my first time writing something GoT related and my first time writing for Daemon, so be gentle with me, thaaaaanks <3 This one got longer than intended. My Vhagar is inspired by the design for Rhaegal in GoT byyyyye

A decade ago.

With wide, curious eyes, the firstborn of Prince Viserys and Princess Aemma entered the smoke and fire-filled halls underneath Dragonstone, taking in the sight of the ancient mural paintings similar to those in the caves further down the beach. They depicted the history of old; showing how Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys conquered Westeros with their dragons and built what her family ruled over now.

Her fingertips softly stroked over the uneven wall of solid stone, reminding her of the strength laying within her family. They would rule as long as Dragonstone existed; she was sure of it.

“Visenya.”

Her father’s voice called her over, beckoning her back into reality and out of her dreaming mind. She turned, the edges of her charcoal cloak softly flaring, and the sound of her boots echoed through the grand halls filled with dragon eggs as she headed over to him and her waiting mother. The prince smiled down at her as she regained her place next to him, one of his large hands softly put on her shoulder.

“Your mother and I went her while she had bear you. It is a holy moment in our family to claim a dragon egg, and she knew which one to choose for you– because you chose Rhaegar,” Viserys explained to his daughter while her eyes settled upon her mother, who now stood in front of the bared eggs who would be ready to hatch in a handful of weeks. “How did I know which one to choose, father?” Her voice was filled with curiosity and wonder, not understanding how someone, who wasn’t even born, could make those life-altering decisions. Her father shrugged softly and smiled down at her. “No man knows.”

Visenya scoffed under her breath, not quite satisfied with her father’s answer but a movement behind one of the many pillars scattered through the grand halls distracted her. A flash of familiar silver hair and the last remnants of a smirk lingered in the air, and after Viserys had turned his attention back to Aemma, who now held an egg in her hands, Visenya slipped away to find the spectator of this moment.

With slow steps, she rounded the pillar at which she had seen him but was greeted by emptiness. Furrowing her brows, the princess walked around the next one, and frustration started to bubble up within her delicate body as she was greeted by an empty space again. Shaking her head slowly, the silver-haired girl opened her mouth in order to speak up and call him out, but as she turned, her breath hitched in her throat.

Daemon Targaryen stood awfully close to her, and Visenya had to take a step back not to have to look up to him at this horrendous angle. Sometimes she despised how tall the prince loomed over her and how her neck protested if she granted him one look too many.

“Daemon,” she greeted him, and the Targaryen prince smirked down at her. “Visenya,” he returned and bowed mockingly. She cocked a brow, not surprised at all at his display of… what? Mockery? Hatred? Envy? She wasn’t sure which one it was today, except for the hatred. She could ignore that thought because they never hated each other. They may quarrel and insult one another on a daily occasion. Still, she knew the meaning behind those lingering glances because she wasn’t stupid and felt how her heart started to race every time she felt those violet eyes lingering on her.

She may be young, but she wasn’t stupid. She had handmaidens and listened to their hushedly whispered confessions to one another when they thought the princess was still asleep in the early morning light. She knew about love and physical lust, about desire and heartache. With her six and ten name day on the horizon, she even was considered suitable for marriage by her uncle and his Small Council, but her father held objections against it.

And she was thankful for that; it saved her from a marriage with an old lord from who-knows-where ultimately– and she could spend more time with Daemon.

Who just had gotten a hold of her hand and gently– it surprised even him how tender he could be– the older Targaryen pulled her back into reality, to him. He always wished to have her undivided attention so that those eyes with the soft but sometimes mischievous glimmer lay on him and him alone. He hated the feeling always creeping up on him as soon as one of those lordlings tried to steal her away from him. Gladly, she never stayed long with them and always returned into Daemon’s line of sight, granting him the vision of the smile reserved explicitly for him.

He was a lucky man indeed.

“Come with me,” was all Daemon mumbled before pulling her further with him, placing her hand in the crook of his arm. The familiar feeling of it calmed them both, and Visenya followed him without objection, straight out of the sacred halls of their family and into the open of a partially clouded summer’s day. Compared to the capital, the summer at Dragonstone was bearable; the salty breeze was always present, and clouds hid the unforgiving sun. The volcano behind Dragonstone probably was the cause of it.

The breeze swept through her silver hair, and the few rays of sun kissed her skin. With closed eyes, Visenya enjoyed it while walking close to Daemon, who would never let her fall. She knew he observed her doing, as he always did, especially when they were alone, but she didn’t mind. It never had bothered her because she watched him as well but mostly without his knowledge.

It was a fun game.

But she knew that it would always stay precisely this: a game.

The heavy sensation of heartache settled within her chest, and the princess tried to shake it off, scolding herself silently for letting it happen again. Visenya knew that the Small Council– or her father– would never allow such a union, not until all Seven Hells were frozen. She had to keep her mind and heart realistically instead of pursuing a childish hope she would chase her entire life.

“Daemon, it is probably not wise to-…” But he hushed her while his long finger reverently caressed the hand still situated on his arm. “I know with shocking clarity that you were not able to ride Rhaegar all week long, so I thought I would accompany you. Steal you away from all the duties and lordlings to finally have you all to myself for only a handful of hours.” She couldn’t deny him if he continued to speak in that voice that always let her resolve crumble like mere stone walls in the face of the force of a dragon.

Visenya sighed deeply and glanced up at him, her brows still furrowed, and her heart still ached. “That is very thoughtful and kind of you, but I still don’t think it is a wise thing to do, uncle.” She had to make him understand from where she was coming, what her mind had to work through. But Daemon only chuckled and stopped to turn his body to her. He took her hand from his arm while also grasping for the other at her side and brought both to his face. He bent his head, silver threads tickling her skin, and kissed her knuckles as gentle as a butterfly’s touch. “I think it is the wisest thing we could do, niece,” he returned without a second or third thought, pressing another set of kisses on the skin of her hands.

Her heart ached so bitterly but beautifully at the sight of the Rogue Prince’s soft side, and a small smile began to tuck at her full lips. “Fine,” the princess spoke in a soft whisper, ignoring his victorious smirk, and drew back both hands out of his still lingering grasp. She turned again to continue their path, a full smile settling on her face at the sound of his following steps and the warm, heavy feeling of his hand at the small of her back.

She was lost; she knew it at this very moment as Rhaegar and Caraxes landed in front of their riders. The girl watched as Daemon softly greeted her dragon, who usually never let another soul near him except for his rider, but the prince was the one extraordinary exception. Caraxes eyed her intently as she stepped to Rhaegar and let her hand affectionately stroke over Daemon’s back; she was too weak, and everyone around her would soon realize it.

The hated prince looked down at the loved princess as she pressed her forehead against her dragon’s scales with closed eyes, her hand still resting on his back. He bent down to press a lingering kiss on the crown of her head; he was too weak, and everyone around him would soon realize it because he did not have the intention to let this jewel be married off to a different man than him.

She was his, and he was hers.

;

Seven years ago.

“Where is Prince Daemon?”

The princess’s voice echoed through the hallway, and in surprise, Ser Harrold turned around to bow before the eldest of House Targaryen. “My princess,” he greeted her and waited until she reached him. Her eyes observed his face intently before asking the same question again. “Where is Prince Daemon?”

He had promised her an hour of his time on this day, but he was nowhere to be found, not even in his most preferred places in the Red Keep she knew of. But she had a feeling that the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard could know about the man's current location, and she couldn't shake off the certainty of her supposition. And she had been right because, at the sight of the barely visible twitch in Ser Harrold's brow, Visenya knew it had been the right call to find him and ask him first before heading to her father.

"Yes?"

She waited until the Kingsguard cleared his throat. "I was told not to interfere, my princess, and this would entail not telling you his current location." Ser Harrold knew her too well, but he must know too that she would never let go of it until she had heard a satisfying answer to her question. So all she did was cocking a brow and stand her ground, waiting for the older man to spill it out for her to chase after him. Visenya may have promised herself to stop chasing after Daemon Targaryen because it would only bring her heartache and a potential break of said organ, but she just couldn't keep her distance.

It was like a curse cast upon her.

"I won't leave until you are telling me what you know, Ser Harrold," she announced in case the knight lost his memories of all the moments of persistence from her side they had lived through over the years, and he sighed deeply at the realization of her perseverance. She would make a fine queen, was all he thought before sharing his knowledge with the princess he grew rather fond of ever since she had been born and lived under his protective watch. "He left after the first lights of day, riding into the Kingswood to conduct a duel between him and Ser Gwayne Hightower."

Closing her eyes, Visenya sent a quick, silent prayer to the gods because she knew what had led to this very duel which would cause more trouble than it would cause a truce. The memory of a drunken Ser Gwayne at the feast the night before sneaked back into her mind, remembering his warm, disgusting breath fanning over her cheek as he had leaned closer and closer, his hand resting too low to be still proper on her hip. He had pushed her into a dark corner of the hall, the sounds of the lavish feast still surrounding them but too far away at the same moment. He had trapped her there, and she had been frozen, which was so unlike her that it had scared her even more. Never before had a man dared to touch her this way, especially not without her consent of coming as close as he had done, invading her much preferred personal space, and the shock had settled into the princess's bones. She didn't dare to think about the possibilities of outcomes if Daemon hadn't found her in that dire situation.

She knew with shocking clarity that he did this for her– for her honor.

Staring up to her favorite Kingsguard, the princess decided her course of action.

She wasn't a scared little thing. She was the firstborn princess of House Targaryen. She was a dragon rider. She was not a mere silly girl who would fear the presence of a single man. And Ser Harrold seemingly caught up to her intentions because he was right behind her as Visenya spun around and left the Red Keep to ride to the Dragonpit.

—

Rhaegar raised his charcoal head as he sensed the presence of his rider, his gleaming eyes watching the silver-haired young woman coming closer with long strides, ignoring the words of the dragon guards.

"But, my princess, he doesn't carry his saddle!" One of them shouted over the rumbling of Rhaegar, who didn't like the sight of how close the guard stepped to her. "I do not need one," was all Visenya answered as her dragon had left the cave and stretched his wings before sinking down to the ground so she could climb on top of him. Ser Harrold watched the princess with worried eyes, not looking forward to her flying without the support of the saddle and reins, but he knew he couldn't stop her.

The charcoal beast, almost as giant as Caraxes himself, shook his massive head and bared his teeth while Visenya claimed her spot between his wings and held onto his scales. She didn't need to give him the command; instead, Rhaegar took off into the sky without a single uttered word from his rider because their souls were connected through the strongest bond a rider could acquire to his dragon.

—

The sounds of steel crashing against steel echoed through the Kingswood. Labored breathing was heard in the clearing between high rising trees and the grand river dividing the woods like a blue open wound. Nervously dancing horses with their equally nervous riders were scattered around the field of duel, their eyes watching the ongoing fight with worried expressions. Not because they feared the prince and their Commander could get hurt, but because of the repercussions following this act for either of the two sides.

Daemon gritted his teeth as Gwayne almost struck him with the tip of his laughable sword. He let the knight dance around him, Dark Sister securely in his hands, while his lilac eyes followed every move of his opponent before attacking him again. He roared as the memories of Visenya and him flashed before his eyes, and Dark Sister attacked the Hightower man with such force that he had to stumble backward, almost falling to the soft wooden ground.

“You deserve to be beheaded for what you did,” the Rogue Prince seethed, and the other man scrambled back up to counter the next attack. “Putting your hands on her is considered one of the worst crimes in the fucking Seven Kingdoms.” Maybe Daemon exaggerated because he felt sick to the core at the flashes of memory in his mind, but he didn’t care.

He touched her so he would get punished for it.

Gwayne scoffed before spitting out blood after the handle of Dark Sister had made contact with his jaw. “Don’t fool me, my prince, you only regret that it wasn’t you who had the idea before me.” His anger reached a newfound intensity. “Every bloody fool in King’s Landing knows about your preferences; that you’re lusting after pretty, silver-haired maidens,” the knight continued with an evil smile which soon disappeared as Daemon attacked him anew– a cry for blood leaving his mouth.

Dark Sister almost sang in his hands as the blade, made out of Valyrian Steel, tasted fresh blood, and he reveled in the sight of the crimson red liquid spilling out of a wound at his arm. He despised the events which ultimately led him to this point, but oh, how he loved to see the blood spill out of a man’s body.

“Utter a single word, and I will not leave it at a mere duel,” Daemon threatened the Hightower son, already imagining how he sent his head to Otto. It was a delightful thought. The blade of his sword was held high and pointing straight against the man’s throat, his intentions clear as day, but the sound of mighty wings and a looming shadow above them let Gwayne look up. Even Daemon seemed surprised, instantly thinking that Caraxes had somehow escaped the Dragonpit to find his rider, but instead, he watched how Rhaegar flew slow circles over the clearing before landing in the middle of it.

His fiery eyes settled upon the spectacle in front of him, growling loudly and scaring the horses– and Gwayne. The knight scrambled over the ground to get as far away as possible from the beast, but Rhaegar followed him, his head lowered to have better access to him if his rider spoke the words.

Daemon took one step back and looked up to Visenya, sitting on bare scales, hair despite the many braids out of perfect order, cheeks reddened from the flight, and eyes taking in the scene in front of her.

“Skoros istan ao otāpagon?” (What were you thinking?) She may speak High Valyrian with her entire family and even some people at court, but for him, it was entirely reserved for her. Visenya raised a brow at his words. “Nyke gaomagon daor gīmigon skoros ao nūmāzma,” (I do not know what you mean.) she returned, remaining on Rhaegar because she didn’t trust the Hightower knight anymore, not even with Daemon and some of his City Watch men at her protection. Rhaegar was her most trusted companion, after all, and nobody would dare to try anything with him at her side. “Nyke ivestretan zirȳ naejot lua ao konīr. Skoros gaomagon ao gaomagon kesīr, Visenya?” (I told them to keep you there. What do you do here, Visenya?)

The princess locked eyes with the prince before turning her gaze to Gwayne Hightower, distaste and hatred clearly visible in her gleaming eyes. “Nyke jeldan naejot ūndegon ziry nykēla.” (I wanted to see it myself.) But then she looked back at Daemon. “Nyke jeldan naejot mīsagon ao hen aōla,” (I wanted to protect you from yourself.) Visenya continued, and now it was for the silver-haired prince to watch back to the knight, but returning his gaze soon back to the woman he desired more than anything else. He smiled a small smile now. “Ao gaomagon daor emagon naejot gaomagon ziry. Nyke kostagon mīsagon issa hen nykēla,” (You do not have to do it. I can protect me from myself.) he spoke in the softest of tones before a shouting groan escaped Daemon at the feeling of steel piercing through the back of his thigh.

“Daemon!”

Gwayne Hightower couldn’t react fast enough as Rhaegar roared as if he was struck himself. He moved forward, eyes fixed on the knight, but Visenya didn’t care what would happen to this fool of a man because she slid off Rhaegar’s back and landed on both hands and knees. But she was quick to get up to her feet again, rushing over to where Daemon knelt now, the sword stuck in his leg. She fell back to her knees, not caring for her breeches, and her hands cupped his face, looking him over for other injuries, while his City Watch cornered the knight with a furious Rhaegar at their disposal.

“Skorkydoso kostagon nyke dohaeragon?” (How can I help?) Daemon laughed choppily between groans. “Nyke glaesagon rȳ tolī kempa ōdria,” (I lived through more severe wounds.) he promised, a smirk tucking at his lips. Visenya had to smile despite the situation. “Am I allowed to burn him now?” Now, Daemon laughed wholeheartedly but stopped as the sword moved in his leg. “If I were the one asking you this question, you would tell me I have to think with my mind and what it would bring over this bloody kingdom,” the prince reminded her, and Visenya sighed. Sometimes she hated that she most often was the more responsible one in their dynamic. “At least let me throw him into the Black Cells,” she tried again to distract him from the pain until two of his guards came and held him in order to remove the sword from his thigh.

Daemon groaned deep in his chest, and Visenya softly caressed his cheek while one of the men wrapped a clean cloth around the wound so that the maesters could see to it back at the Red Keep. “You have an evil mind, dear,” the Rogue Prince whispered as she helped him stand up and supported him with an arm around his back. She smiled devilishly up at him. “I have to match a certain someone if I want to keep up with him.”

Walking over to Rhaegar, who held his gaze fixed upon the knight, already preparing to kill him, Daemon chuckled. “You do not have to. I would want you anyway.” Those words were entirely meant for her ears only, and she almost blushed but kept her composure.

The dragon continued to growl, his fiery breath almost scorching the man in his armor and letting the sweat run over his face. “You can consider yourself lucky for the time being, Ser Gwayne,” the princess spoke, eyeing him with vivid disgust. “But do not start to believe it will be a lasting state. The king will decide upon your punishment after you arrive back in King’s Landing. Good luck, Hightower.” Ignoring his starting pleads, Visenya looked up to her dragon. “Rhaegar,” she called his name gently and with deep affection evident in her voice. The Shadow of King’s Landing, as her father liked to call him, moved his head and lowered himself back to the ground, so Daemon could slowly climb up. “No reins?” The princess shrugged and grinned widely. “I do not need them.” She followed after him, but Daemon pulled her in front of him, wrapping an arm close around her slender body and letting her bring them home.

;

Six years ago.

The battle was brutal, and Daemon defended himself with the utmost grace of a skilled swordsman. Somewhere in his mind, a voice was screaming; a voice telling him that something horrible would happen no matter how hard he would fight.

It was something inevitable.

He didn’t know what it could be because, so far, his troops fought bravely and loyally, even though the enemy was strong and had more men. But he had dragons. Caraxes roamed the skies above his rider’s head, killed enemies with the force of his flames, and pushed their troops to retreat for the time being. But the bright red dragon was not the only creature aiding the Targaryen fighters. The deafening sound of Rhaegar’s roar echoed over the battlefield of flames, and the charcoal beast with specks of gold and red broke through the thick wall of smoke and ash, his rider securely on his strong back.

The sight of a furious Visenya was a vision to behold, and his chest swelled with pride. He knew she would get to hear something after their return to King’s Landing because Viserys had explicitly forbidden that she would follow Daemon into battle, but they would push through and overcome this little obstacle.

Rhaegar spat another wall of fire and roared as loud as the first dragons, circling over the battlefield with Caraxes. The prince paused for a split moment to watch the girl who had become a woman practically overnight, a skilled warrior in the light of gods. But an approaching knight interrupted him, and Daemon killed the man with a few swift motions with Dark Sister in his hand.

The prince couldn’t revel in this next small victory because the distressed shriek of Rhaegar let him move his eyes back into the sky to watch helplessly as he lost altitude. His wings weren’t widely stretched anymore. Instead, they flattered useless in the air, not carrying the heavy body safely to the ground.

“Visenya!”

His shouting voice was filled with fear and uncertainty, and suddenly, the awful feeling from before crept back into his bones, the voice again whispering in his mind. His legs started to carry him in her direction, killing every single man who dared to get into his path.

The Dark Shadow, as the commoners had started to call Rhaegar, crashed into the ground, and Caraxes emitted a roar while slowly gliding to his dying companion. His massive flaming head searched the ground for the female rider and protected these two with a storm of flames while observing the area for his own rider.

Visenya coughed as she slowly and unsteadily emerged in the cloud of sand and smoke, her hand raised to shield her face from the bright flames surrounding her. Crawling, the princess reached her dragon’s head, and tears formed rivers on her dirty cheeks. She had felt it at the moment the spear had hit her companion, and she tumbled from the sky. It was almost physical; as if the spear had pierced her very own body instead of Rhaegar’s.

“Rhaegar,” she whispered underneath the escaping sobs, her hands caressing his dark and shining scales. She could feel his shallow breaths while his golden eyes were trained on the woman kneeling in front of his head. Pure agony filled her at the sight of the lack of life creeping in on them, and she pressed her forehead against his still warm body as his last breath escaped him.

A scream pierced through the thick atmosphere of battle and let several fighters halt their movements before the first few brave men dared to sneak up on the princess.

Killing her would be the greatest achievement of their entire life.

But she heard them, and with a cry for battle, Visenya rose from the ground, drew her sword, and killed the three men within a blink of an eye. Daemon stopped in his tracks at the sight of his niece, took in her tear-stained face, and didn’t have to know more. She raised her eyes from the dead bodies in front of her, her bloody sword dangling between the tips of her fingers, and looked straight into his own eyes. He could see her lips moving, and he knew she had called him.

Daemon reached her trembling form at the moment her legs gave up and couldn’t carry her any longer. His arms wrapped the young woman in the most protective embrace ever witnessed in the Seven Kingdoms and held her close while the sounds of dying men surrounded them.

—

The Red Keep was in turmoil at the news of the vanished princess and even more so as the red dragon returned to the pit with both his rider and their princess on his back. Viserys searched the sky for Rhaegar, but at the sight of his daughter’s distress, he knew what had happened. Aemma was quicker than him in her path to their eldest child and wrapped her in her motherly love after Daemon softly had brought Visenya to the ground. His eyes settled on his brother, and the Rogue Prince shook his head to confirm his thoughts.

“He is dead,” the King heard his daughter sob, and Aemma glanced over to him, dreadful worry etched into her beautiful face. “He is dead, and it is my fault!” Now, the sobs shook her body again, let her tremble in her mother’s embrace, and Viserys was quick to cradle her in his arms to carry her into the safety of their home. Daemon watched him with envy in his eyes but followed the procession nonetheless after bringing Caraxes back into the now empty den.

Even the blood-red beast mourned his long companion in the upcoming night, and Daemon situated himself in the corridor in which the princess had her chambers to keep watch over her.

—

Days passed within a blink of an eye.

The maesters had suggested giving the princess milk of the poppy in order to soothe her grieving and self-destructing mind and to offer her at least some hours of peace and rest. Aemma had sat by her side through each and every night, not daring to leave her, not even as Viserys almost begged her to watch after herself. Young Rhaenyra had sneaked into her older sister's room on the second night of her return; she had pressed her body against her side, just as she usually did when the older Targaryen princess told her stories each and every night. The queen did not object to her daughter's behavior. Instead, she started to sing softly for hours on end, always the same old melody and lyrics of an old Valyrian song about the ancient gods and goddesses of the lost civilization, which had been the only words to soothe young Visenya in her cradle right after she had been born. During the third night, even the king had accepted how things were now and had himself situated in his eldest's chambers, holding a watchful eye on her sleeping form. Only Daemon stayed out of her rooms, preferred his lonely watch in the dark shadows of the hallway, ignoring the hushed whispers of the servants and handmaidens seeing him every day and night sitting unmoving in his chosen spot, eyes closely settled upon the door of her chambers.

The tenth night was the night in which Visenya finally opened her eyes.

Uncountable candles softly lighted her room; the sound of their small flames let the agony within her heart appear again. Silent tears left her eyes and rolled over her cheeks, vanishing in her unruly locks of matted hair. A barely audible snore pushed her to move her head to the source of the sound - the movement alone was almost too much for her to bear - and the picture of a sleeping Daemon Targaryen greeted her still tired eyes. He had his head tucked away between his arms which lay on top of the soft blankets covering her frame, his face relaxed and bare of every deception and malicious thought.

It was a rare sight, and even though her soul screamed in agonizing pain, Visenya enjoyed seeing him more relaxed than ever. He was here, right at her side, and that was almost enough to soothe some of the dread constantly spreading inside her.

Slowly, the woman turned onto her side and stretched an arm to brush through his soft silver hair, but at the mere touch of her fingertips, Daemon opened his eyes and raised his head. His lilac eyes found her face immediately, and utter relief filled his handsome features.

“Visenya,” was all he whispered as his hand cupped her cheek. The pad of his thumb caressed her distinct cheekbone, and his eyes moved over her face to reassure himself that she was indeed awake and alright as much as she could be after everything that had happened. Her cold fingers closed around his wrist, and with a deep, long sigh, she let her eyes fall shut again. “It is my fault, is it not?”

Her question pulled him out of his almost frozen state, and Daemon shook his head even though she couldn’t see it. “No, it was not,” he assured her with certainty, and she opened her watery eyes again. “But why does it feel like it is?” A sad smile etched onto the prince’s face, and he continued to caress her cheek. “Because you, my love, always believe to be the epitome of wrongdoings. It is a horrendous habit of yours.” Daemon felt pride rising in his chest at the sight of the twitch of her lips. The smile didn’t want to show, but that was more than alright. It would take time.

Visenya scooted closer to the edge of her bed to be closer to him and sighed again as their foreheads found one another, and she felt his skin against hers. Their eyes locked into the respective pair and a pleading expression sneaked into hers. Daemon would give her everything she desired; they both knew it.

“I want to go home,” the princess whispered, and the prince knew which place she meant.

Dragonstone.

He nodded softly, propped his chin atop the soft blanket, and dared to steal a kiss on the corner of her mouth. “I will bring you home, issa jorrāelagon,” (my love) he promised.

And Visenya knew that he would hold his word.

;

Three years ago.

“Brother.”

Daemon forced himself to bow in front of the king and his Small Council, throwing Otto a glaring look but ignoring him after that. He had much more important matters to discuss.

Viserys raised both brows in wonder at his younger brother’s rare presence during one of the meetings. “How can I help you, Daemon?” He must want something from him– the Rogue Prince never bothered himself with unpleasantries if he couldn’t gain something. The older man knew that something certainly was coming.

And he was right.

Daemon’s piercing stare settled entirely on him, and the world most definitely had stopped at his following words the council would never have expected to leave his mouth willingly. “I intend to marry.” Grand Maestor Mellos almost choked on his own spit. Lyonel Strong’s eyes seemingly popped out of his skull. Corlys Velaryon cocked a brow and eyed him. “Which pitiful soul do you have in mind, your highness?” The master of ships asked curiously, with a hint of malice in his tone. Daemon couldn’t hide the slight smirk appearing on his face before looking over at his brother again. “I am asking you, dear brother, for Visenya’s hand in marriage. Technically, I do not need your blessing because I do not care if you approve of this or not and because Visenya already answered the apparent question. But in any case you decide to name her your official successor and heir to the Iron Throne instead of me or a possible male heir you still have to produce, I will not lessen her status by a union you do not know of. And-…” The prince stopped for a moment, remembering the way he had left the princess still tucked away in her blankets, before continuing. “-and she wishes for your blessing, brother.” And how was he to deny her such a request?

At least he would try to gain what she desired in this particular situation, and if Viserys was too stubborn or simple-minded, he couldn't change that. But no one could call him a coward after this meeting, and even these old bastards knew that with shocking certainty.

Yet...

"Are you out of your mind?"

Daemon slowly closed his eyes. He took one deep breath, followed by another one. He had to stay calm because Visenya almost begged the older Targaryen not to lose his temper. But his dear brother just made it too easy to forget about the given promise.

"Seven Hells, Daemon. I can't let you marry my eldest, let alone your niece!" The king’s voice roared through the Small Council's rooms. Everyone at the table flinched at the outburst, but the prince stood taller than ever. "It is custom in our family, brother, or do I maybe have to freshen up your knowledge about the marriage history of Targaryens?" Viserys scoffed, and his balled fist suddenly crashed against the massive table. His eyes almost spat fire in his direction. "You. Will. Not. Marry. My. Daughter. Don't try to fool me, Daemon. She would be the heir to the Iron Throne and maybe the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but you would move the pieces on this chessboard!"

The younger Targaryen now cocked an eyebrow. "You have a very low esteem of your daughter, my King. She has the strongest mind in all of Westeros, and if you think for even a second she will dance to another man's tunes, then you do not know her at all." It was quiet in the room; only the crashing sea was heard underneath the Red Keep.

But Daemon had one last card to play.

"She asked me," he announced and couldn't hide the pride-swelled chest of his. Visenya was an utter wonder in his eyes; a wonder he sometimes couldn't grasp with his mind. She was braver than anyone before her, and every other woman– the ones he had and the ones he only had considered– faded in his mind until nothing of their memories was left.

Viserys obviously forgot how to breathe in the short moments since Daemon's revelation. He wasn't sure if the king thought about his words or thought nothing at all due to the shock evident in his paling face, but whatever it was, Daemon didn't really care. The Small Council could go to all Seven Hells and let him marry the woman he loved more than his life and let her rule if the time comes. Yes, he would prefer it to be named heir to the Throne, but he could live with Visenya on that forsaken thing very easily. It would mean that he could continue his killing of enemies while always finding time to watch his queen in her doings.

It sounded like the perfect life.

Viserys furrowed his brows and observed him, acknowledged his presence finally with a seriousness he had never shown before. "She asked you? You did not pressure her to sa-..."

"No man nor god could pressure Visenya Targaryen to anything, brother."

Viserys slowly nodded, fingertips resting against one another, his eyes settled on his younger brother as to try to decipher him and his intentions. But he couldn’t utter another word because suddenly, hurried steps were heard outside the doors of the Small Council until they got opened for the eldest princess of House Targaryen. Visenya stopped at the three steps leading down to the council’s table, her eyes trained on her uncle and a brow slowly raising.

Daemon had turned to watch how this storm of a woman entered and almost helplessly shrugged at her disapproving look thrown in his direction. “I thought we agreed upon speaking to them together,” she spoke while stepping down the few steps and stopping next to him. He couldn’t stop his wandering hand from wrapping itself around her waist and pulling her closer. “You were still asleep, so I thought, why waste another meeting and day?” The princess rolled her eyes at him and shook her head before looking over to her father and the rest of the council.

“Is it true? Did you ask him for his hand in marriage, your highness?” Maester Mellos spoke up, and Visenya cocked her brow again. “You sound like it is so surprising for a woman to make her own decisions and not wait upon a man to finally find his courage, Maestor,” she countered, and the old man cleared his throat awkwardly. “It was not my intention to assume anything, my princess. My apologies.” She nodded shortly before turning her attention back to Viserys, who now focused his entire mind on his daughter.

His utmost joy.

The Realm’s Pride.

Upon these thoughts, the king decided to give her what she desired because he could never deny her anything – not since the day of her dramatic birth.

“Is it your truest desire to marry him?” After all, Viserys still couldn’t believe this, not with all the fitting suitors his daughter had trailing behind her ever since her ten and second name day. She nodded without hesitation. “It is, father. I would have never asked him if I were not sure of it,” she told him, voice full of sincerity and… he didn’t like to admit it, but certainty. Viserys sighed deeply and slowly shook his head. “With all those good men asking for your company and hand, displayed for your pleasure in front of you, and you chose him.”

Visenya knew that she had won, and softly shrugging, the princess started to smile. “They were after me for the possibility of a crown– not me as a person.” Otto scoffed loudly and didn’t hide his displeasure. “As if he would think differently,” the Hand of the king mocked before turning to the king, an urgent expression settling on his face. “You do not seriously consider letting them have their way, do you, your majesty?”

Daemon couldn’t react fast enough to beat Visenya next to him. She took the last steps to the table, the sound of her boots echoing through the room, and propped her flat hands on top of the massive wooden table, her violet eyes gleaming like a dragon’s breath.

“Do not dare and talk as if I am not in this very room, Lord Hightower. I am not a child anymore; I am your princess, so respect my rank and address me accordingly if you please to talk about something involving my very person,” she seethed, and the Hand had to swallow dryly at the sight of the furious princess. Everyone in this palace knew that she never recoiled from a battle– it was insignificant if that battle was fought by blades or words.

Corlys Velaryon grinned behind his cup of water– he never drank wine during the Small Council meetings– and watched the scene unfold while eying the Rogue Prince out of the corner of his eye. He may have misjudged the prince; he had to admit that at the sight of a sincere display of emotions on the Targaryen’s face as he observed the princess’s doings.

Otto Hightower bowed his head after a long exchange of unbudging stares. “Yes, my princess,” he mumbled but didn’t dare to speak another word. Humming approvingly, Visenya pushed herself back up, straightening her posture, and threw her father a questioning look. “So, this is settled, then?”

And Viserys nodded.

“For now, yes. We have to prepare everything accordingly, so it will give you more time to think about it.” Eye rolling, the silver-haired princess sighed. “If it makes you happy, father,” was her only verbal reply to it before spinning on the spot, charcoal coat flaring softly behind her, braided silver hair swaying over the proud scaled shoulder section, and leaving the room with Daemon right at her side.

Just where he belonged.

—

“If the situation occurs and the Queen and I will not produce a male heir, I want Visenya as my successor and heir to the Iron Throne.”

The Small Council almost roared in protest. Especially the Master of Laws, Lyonel Strong, held objections against it, directly followed by the Hand himself.

“Your majesty, first this outrageous proposal, and now this?” Otto dared to express his thoughts as first in the round, but Viserys raised a hand to silence them all. He didn’t know when this thought had occurred for the first time, but ever since that ominous day in the past, the king knew that the realm would be in good hands with her as their queen. “My mind is settled upon it,” he declared and rose from his chair at the head of the table.

“If the time comes and I will not have produced a male heir by then, I will name my firstborn daughter Visenya Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, as my official successor and heir to the Iron Throne. She is what the realm needs.”

;

One year ago.

The raven arriving at King’s Landing brought distress and turmoil into the Red Keep.

“What does it mean, she is gone?” Rhaenyra asked her mother after hearing her father reading the letter in question out loud. She knew the meaning of said words, but it didn’t make any sense. Her sister would never run away, especially not without her husband, who had just arrived after flying from Dragonstone back to the capital.

Her mother rubbed over her shoulders and sighed. “Maybe your uncle can tell us more,” the queen mumbled as Daemon entered the private chambers of the king, who now started to roar in frustration and anger. “You were supposed to keep her safe!” The Targaryen prince stopped and glared at his brother. “Do you think I witnessed her wandering off without holding her back?!” Viserys threw the paper scroll onto his table. “Well, it seems like it, does it not? What in the Seven Hells happened?!”

Daemon sighed deeply and let himself fall into an unoccupied chair, not giving a single thought to how he looked now. He didn’t care if he looked defeated.

“I do not know, brother. We ate dinner last night, as we usually do, and everything seemed fine…” Daemon recalled the past night, remembering her smile and her soft touches at the table before they ignored the food entirely, so he could carry her into their chambers and their bed. He felt as if he could feel her searing kisses still on his lips. “In the morning, she was gone without any trace.”

Aemma looked from one man to another. “Do you think she left you?” The prince’s head jerked up to watch the queen with an icy expression. “And why would she do that?” The entire realm knew that the newlywed couple was probably happier than any other in the Seven Kingdoms– a love match indeed. They had witnessed it first hand at the grand royal wedding in the Sept of Baelor, even though they had a secret ceremony in the Gods Woods weeks before the spectacle of the year. The queen sighed again and shook her head. “Where could she have gone? Did you receive any ravens? Viserys?” The question was asked for both men to acknowledge, but both shook their heads in unison.

Suddenly, Rhaenyra looked up after being deep in thought in the past moments. “She told me something about her dreams,” she spoke up, and everyone stared at the young princess. “Dreams?” Viserys asked and took place on the seat opposite his second daughter. The girl nodded. “Visenya told me about a reoccurring dream she had in the past two years. It never changes, only the intervals change. She said it would be more frequent the closer the days gets to the day Rhaegar died.”

Now, Daemon furrowed his brows, remembering how he sometimes woke up to an empty bed and found his now wife leaning next to the widely opened windows overlooking the city or the bay of Dragonstone, mind always sunken deep in thought. She always had told him that she just couldn’t find sleep and didn’t want to wake him with her tossing and turning because he sometimes tended to be a light sleeper. He never objected to it, never thought it seemed off, and now he wished he had.

“Did she ever tell you what those dreams contain?” Daemon asked the young princess, and Rhaenyra slowly nodded. “She once told me that she sees a dragon. Not Rhaegar, a different one. But she never gets close enough to see him or her clearly. It’s always only a looming shadow in the blue sky,” the girl ended and looked from one adult to another. “Maybe she is looking for it. Maybe it is her dragon that is calling for her.”

The queen wasn’t sure if it could be. “Rhaegar had been her dragon, Rhaenyra, just as Syrax is yours. But maybe you are right, and she is following her path.” She eyed Daemon and how he now clung to this new hope and Viserys, who had folded his hands. “We will see what the days will bring. Ser Harrold.” The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stepped from his place at the entrance and bowed. “My king.” Viserys raised from his chair. “Let the guards patrol the walls at Blackwater Bay and the Narrow Sea. If there is any sign of Visenya, let the bells ring.” The Lord Commander bowed again before retreating out of the chambers and preparing the order.

“We will know when she returns home,” the king promised with a wary look outside the opened windows.

–

It took exactly two days full of worry and a gloomy cloud hanging over the Red Keep until something happened.

Daemon and Viserys had just left a Small Council meeting addressing the princess's disappearance– the meeting had ended in a quarrel between the Hand and the Rogue Prince– and walked over the palace’s wall facing the Narrow Sea. It wasn’t an often sight to see the two brothers side by side in almost something resembling harmony. But desperate times required desperate measures, and not knowing where his wife was, was most definitely a desperate moment in his life.

“She will come back,” Viserys spoke up, and Daemon almost flinched at the feeling of his older brother’s hand on his shoulder. “She fought bravely for your union, and that is why I am most certain that she will come back to you. Visenya could never abandon you, as strangely as I still find it.” Now, the prince had to chuckle under his breath because this sounded more like his brother. But then, he turned serious again. “I hope so, brother.”

His words only had left his lips as commotion caught the guards on the lower wall, and the change in winds signaled something coming. As a dragon rider, Daemon knew that feeling of anticipation lingering in the air, and his eyes traveled over the horizon to find the source of said feeling. Viserys felt it as well and rested both hands on the warmed stone of the Keep’s walls, face turned to the Narrow Sea.

There, at the horizon, loomed a dark shadow between white clouds and the blue sky. A shadow that grew larger and larger with every passing moment. The bells started to ring, just as ordered by the king, and Viserys shortly looked up to see Ser Harrold nod in his direction, holding a binoculars in his hand.

The mighty roar, shaking King’s Landing in its very foundations, echoed over the Narrow Sea and traveled even further into the Seven Kingdoms. The dragon grew even bigger, and Daemon shielded his eyes with a hand against the unyielding sun, staring up into the sky with a baffled expression.

The shadow soon morphed into the sight of the largest dragon this world probably has ever seen: sea green scales, peppered by red and blue, wings as far-reaching as seemingly half of King’s Landing, and Daemon knew that the creature’s eyes would be of the clearest green a man could ever witness.

The dragon soon reached the shore and roamed over the sky of the capital, another roar escaping it. The prince instinctively felt that Visenya was atop its back, securely tucked away between the mighty wings, holding onto the scales. And he was right.

Viserys stood in awe at the sight of the flying dragon– the last of the old ones. “Vhagar,” he spoke in wonder, eyes wide and not believing what they were seeing just now.

Vhagar closed her circle over the city and continued her flight to the massive building of the Dragonpit, to which Viserys and Daemon followed straight away.

—

The horses danced around nervously as they approached the landed dragon, but Vhagar didn’t move a single powerful muscle as the king and the prince landed on their feet and stared up at the beast’s head. The oldest of all living dragons– too big for the pit, so it had landed on the outskirts of it– looked down at them, unimpressed, but moved her head as a voice on her back talked gently to her.

“Ziry iksos ry paktot, Vhagar,” (It is all right, Vhagar) the princess calmed her, could she feel her tensing muscles underneath her body after all. Raising her head, it poked up behind the she-dragon’s shoulder, and Daemon hadn’t seen his wife this radiant in a very long time. She sure was radiant every day, but she held a different light to her after flying with her dragon. And ever since Rhaegar died, Visenya had stayed on the ground.

“Dōrī gaomagon bona arlī. Gaomagon ao rȳbagon issa?,” (Never do that again. Do you hear me?) Daemon shook his wife at her shoulders after she had climbed off the dragon and stood in front of him. Visenya softly cradled his face in the palms of her hands and pulled his forehead down against hers. “I am sorry, issa jorrāelagon.” (my love) The woman whispered against his lips and let Daemon capture her in his strong arms to lift her off the ground. She circled her arms around his neck and closed her eyes as the Rogue Prince buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent with the old but new smell of smoke and fire. “This was what was absent,” Daemon mumbled against her skin, and Visenya pushed silver strands out of his face and behind his ears after he had put her back on the ground. “Am I whole again, then?” Her words betrayed her smile, but Daemon nudged the tip of her nose with his and soothed her rising doubts.

“Do you feel whole again?”

Visenya looked into his eyes, shortly turning her head to watch Vhagar, who growled at everyone coming too close to her new rider, before turning back to Daemon.

“I believe I do.”

;

Present Day.

She missed the days when she was able to wear her perfectly fitting coats and breeches, laced boots up to her knees, and gloves covering her fingers as soon as she left the Red Keep. Well, those times may only be over for the next couple of days, but it was enough to put her already stressed mind into an even more anxious state.

Watching her reflection in the full-length mirror occupying the spot right next to the opening to the balcony in their shared chambers, Visenya let her hands brush over the soft fabric of the dark red dress one of her handmaidens had put her in and smoothed the flaring fabric over her lower body half, revealing the small curve which had made its appearance a few weeks ago. It had been hard ever since because even though she had been thrilled to be able to give her husband their first child finally, it scared her. She knew what had happened to her mother; Visenya had heard her screams echoing through the hallways of the Keep after the maesters and her father had pushed her out of her room without so much as a teary-eyed whispered Goodbye.

And now, she could be in the same position as her beloved mother, who was now dead– and her beautiful boy had followed right after. Daemon could have to choose between her and the babe, and Visenya never wanted to put him through this torture. She currently saw what it had done to her father.

Swallowing dryly, her eyes were settled unmoving on the curve of her stomach where a life had started to grow and she didn’t realizes the arrival of the prince. He entered their rooms slowly and silently, his eyes instantly resting on his wife. His fingers opened the sword belt to put Dark Sister on the top of their bed covers, and his feet carried him over to her still form. Daemon circled his arms around Visenya’s waist, propping his chin atop her right shoulder, and his ring-clad hand softly stroked the growing belly of the love of his life.

“Good morning, wife,” he whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to her jawline, and pulled her back against his strong chest. Visenya looked at him through the mirror, a loving expression on her face, the fear gone for the moment. “How are the dragons?” She smiled at his chuckle; the smell of fire and smoke wafted through the air around them. “I think Vhagar misses you, but I am not entirely sure because she still is not my friend.” The princess now grinned and leaned her temple against the side of his head. “She will someday come around,” she mumbled and closed the lilac eyes as Daemon continued to stroke her stomach over the fabric. “And how is my prince or princess?”

Visenya swallowed again but softly shrugged. “Apart from the pestering sickness in the morning?” Daemon nodded, his eyes transfixed on her body, still wondering how he had achieved this miracle of turning his life into something resembling this bliss. “The maester said everything is how it is supposed to be,” she whispered, not daring to look into his eyes as the prince raised his gaze. “I did not ask what this old sucker with his wandering hands told you, issa jorrāelagon.” (my love) Visenya sighed and felt the fear rising again within her body. “I am scared.” The confession left her lips in a hushed mumble, almost too ashamed to confess. As if she didn’t appreciate and love the baby they had created together– the perfect combination of Daemon and her. But she just couldn’t shake off the feeling lingering since the day of her mother’s death and the discovery of her very own pregnancy mere weeks later.

Daemon now softly turned her around in his embrace and guided her to one of the two grand chairs facing each other in front of the balcony, the soft fur of a glorious stag on the stone floor in front of them. The prince coaxed the princess to sit down, even though she started to protest. “It is nothing, really. Only a silly thought. We must go anyway; we cannot let them wait on this particular day.” His stone-hard stare silenced her as he kneeled in front of her, and Visenya looked down at her tangled fingers, watched how the morning light let the stone of the ring Daemon gifted her on their wedding night shine. “I do not care a single fuck of what those bloody bastards think,” he murmured and let her play with the ring for a second. He knew that soothed her.

But then his strong pointer finger underneath her chin moved her gaze back up to him. “It is because of your mother, is it?” Visenya nodded, barely palpable, and Daemon sighed. He had suspected something, especially because the court still didn’t know about the happy news, but the prince didn’t dare to ask her when they would announce it. He knew she had to process everything– the grief over her mother, the fright over the traumatic birth he knew she had witnessed in parts, the knowledge that something so life-affirming could turn into something so dreadful.

But he could take one of her fears right here, right now.

“Issa jorrāelagon,” (my love) Daemon called her gently, his voice bringing her back into reality, back to him. Visenya lost the distant expression in her eyes and focused her entire being on the man on his knee in front of her. “Gaomagon daor zūgagon ziry,” (Do not fear it) he continued, and something very peaceful settled within her chest as he talked in Valyrian to her. It had always been their way of communicating. “Nyke jāhor daor iderēbagon se rūs toliot ao.” (I will not choose the baby over you) The princess swallowed thickly and leaned her cheek more into his palm as Daemon cupped it as soft as a breeze on her skin in summer. “Ao issi se sȳrje mirre isse issa glaeson. Daorun jāhor arlinnon bona. Daorys jāhor arlinnon bona.” (You are the most important/the best thing in my life. Nothing will change that. No one will change that.) She could see the heartache in his eyes; the fear of losing her to something he could never control because it was one of the few things the gods reserved entirely for themselves.

Visenya cupped Daemon’s cheek, her thumb caressing the skin over his cheekbone. “Yn ao jaelagon ziry. Ao jaelagon nykeā prince,” (But you want it. You want an heir.) she whispered, and Daemon smiled the smile entirely reserved for her eyes to witness; a smile so small but containing so much love, it always amazed her. “Nyke jaelagon ao tolī. Nyke jorrāelagon ao tolī,” (I want you more. I need you more.) he returned with a certainty she could live with. “Se īlon kostagon va moriot sylugon arlī. Nyke gaomagon daor mind se mirre.” (And we can always try again. I do not mind the work) His suggestively raised eyebrows made the princess laugh, and Daemon smirked.

“But I mean it,” he now changed back into the common tongue. He pulled Visenya closer to him at her waist, closer to the edge of the chair, so she had to spread her legs in order to make room for him. The princess settled her hands around his neck, carded her fingers through his silver strands, and played with the shorter hair at the nape of his neck. “I will not make the same choice– and mistake– my brother, did all those weeks ago. I will not sacrifice you in order to get a potential heir because we can try uncountable times– but I only have one Visenya.” Blinking, Visenya tried to hide the tears and prevent them from falling, but Daemon knew her all too well. “I may cannot take the fear over the birth and the upcoming weeks, but I will promise you that I will be by your side, protect you whatever might come– especially protect you from those wandering hands. It is as if I still can see them on you.” With that, Daemon gripped her hips tighter and pulled her face to him to finally kiss her.

But a knock at their chamber’s door let Visenya hold back. “Yes?” Daemon grumbled, and one of the servants opened the door. “Your highnesses.” He bowed shortly. “The court is gathered in the Great Hall and awaits your arrival, princess.” She sighed and nodded. “You can tell them their future queen will be there when she is ready.” Daemon stood tall in the room and strode over to the door to close it with much more force than was really necessary. The poor servant had to stumble back into the corridor with a baffled expression.

“Daemon,” Visenya scolded him and pushed herself off the chair. She softly rolled her eyes as the prince gathered her back in his arms and leaned his head down. “As I said: They can wait for their queen.” His voice rumbled low in his chest, and the princess closed her eyes as his lips made contact with her forehead, slowly wandering down over her temple to her lips. “My Queen,” he rasped before kissing her like a starved man.

;

I really don’t know where all these words came from, and I’m sorry for this shitty work, but I had to write it down to get it out of my head :x The next Daemon work will be much better hopefully!

But thanks for reading! As usual: comments, reblogs, and likes are much appreciated <3

[inklore]

now i haven’t seen the show so idk nothing about daemon but i do know that he is HOT and i do know that i would love to have his hand around my throat🥰 idk i think he’d like it too xx

pairing: daemon targaryen x princess!reader warnings: choking kink, insinuations of dry humping/thigh riding. etc: i’d let this man put me in my grave and smile while he covered me with dirt and i have no shame about it!!!

The smile that spreads across your lips is a threat to the man above you. A threat of what is still being put to debate in his head; the surprise evident on his features when he wrapped his fist around your neck—a show of repercussion of a teasing game you should not have been playing—pushing your backside to the cold concrete of the corridor.

You smiled.

Men and women fell to their knees before him, sacrificed the ones they loved, bedded, barely knew to save themselves from his wrath—his blade.

And you had smiled at the threat.

Princess' coward, begged for mercy, pleaded, questioned 'why them' and 'please spare me's'.

They did not wear sinful smiles upon feeling a tight grip encase the column of their neck. A sneer spoken just before that, a warning that had done the opposite of its intention. Their mouths did not hang open on a whimper when that grip tightened, having full knowledge that the man in front of them could drain the life from their corpse in a matter of minutes.

They didn't get off to the idea, to that power.

But maybe that is why Daemon liked you so. Maybe that's why his interests had peaked when he first lay eyes on you—even after you had gotten on his nerves with your games.

When your father all but offered you up on a silver platter for wolves to feast at; himself being the biggest and baddest of them all. He had saw something in you. Something unobtainable, traits in a lady that should anyone find out were there would have her hanging from a tree.

His wrist making the perfect noose.

To hang you from that dark tree of temptation. To let the unobtainable be contained by his own doing. His own hands.

"Does it feel good?" Daemon asks. Brings his lips hovering above yours as his fingers dig into your neck, that whimper finally releasing itself from your lungs.

The nod you give him is all it takes to chisel away what's left of the resilience he had been holding on to to behave. To not take a bite of the tempting fruit that you were.

He's in enough trouble.

But when has he ever denied himself something as delicious as this? Especially when it looked as devouring as you did playing innocence for all to see but devilishly guilty when only his eyes were looking.

Something that felt this inviting and heavy on the hardness of his cock the more it grew with the desire to lay you out below him, and peel back every dark layer you may have, every seed that might match his; was not something you kept yourself from.

He was never a man of self control to start with anyway.

Daemon pushes his knee between your legs, his free hand pulling your skirts up enough to have the heat of your cunt pressing at his clothed thigh. "By all means then Princess, take what you need." He smirks down at you, running his thigh along your heat.

[queers-gambit]

Not All That Glitters is Gold

prompt: during your engagement dinner, you learn from your fiancé's niece that he holds choice words about you. or finding out he calls you clingy behind your back.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 3.1k+

warnings: cursing, draaaama, mild angst, AU timeline technically, hurt and comfort (reader don't play those games i guess), relationship angst, half edited.

browse Clingy Baby collection masterlist here

His cloak was a shimmering beacon of golden glimmer even in the dark of night. It promoted an air of confidence and swagger, something independent from his usual cockiness. No, with that gold cloak, he walked as if the very air you all breathed was produced by him; being silent and domineering in his presence. It had been something you were initially attracted to, his alluring mystery and overwhelming stoic self-awareness.

He moved around the Throne Room like wings were gifted to his feet, carrying him with lithe movements to look as if gliding. All eyes were on him, whether out of admiration, jealousy, confusion, or lust - eyes followed him no matter where he went, no matter what he did, who he interacted with. You lifted the heavy gold goblet to your lips, taking a careful mouthful of wine before setting it down, swallowing, and standing from your seat at the banquet table.

You wanted your lover, so, you got up to satisfy your craving.

You approached him as he spoke to a pair of noblemen, slowing your gait to ease your arrival and not cause a surprise. Your dress was something a little more alluring, more revealing than you'd usually wear, and as you approached the men, the eyes not belonging to your new fiancé nearly bulged from their skulls.

Daemon turned his head and saw you, smirking as his arm opened and he welcomed you into his side. "I was beginning to wonder where you got off to," you told him softly, one arm around his hips as the other planted your hand against his chest. "The Aunties have descended and are becoming insufferable, I fear I needed reprieve."

Daemon grinned, sounding amused, "It was a matter of time before they found you. Stick with us, darling, the Aunties will stay away."

"They're about to serve dinner," you told him, "perhaps we should find our seats?"

He nodded, looking at the men he had been speaking to before you showed up. Daemon bid politely, offering no other explanation besides, "Excuse us, gentlemen."

They bowed out of their Prince's way, letting Daemon lead you toward the head banquet table (again) where his brother, King Viserys, was sitting with other prominent members of court. The night had been pleasant, everyone rejoicing in the upcoming nuptials between you and the Rogue Prince. For years, he'd been something chaotic and shunned; and after the passing of his first wife, Rhea Royce, he was like a kite cut from string. Loose and set adrift. Wild and out-of-reach. And then you came back into Daemon's life after not seeing one another since you were ten-and-six, and all of a sudden, the Rogue Prince was something more domesticated.

It was a refreshing change, albeit totally uncharacteristic for Daemon.

Viserys was the most shocked of them all, constantly praising you for whatever you had done to his brother to reel him into a controllable pace. He thought you and Daemon were perfect for one another, likened you two to fit-together puzzle pieces. The King had been more than happy to host the celebrations, starting with tonight, an engagement party! You had to play part of dutiful fiancé and upstanding citizen since you were to inherit a royal title; being poised and collected at all times with either a calm, passive expression or one of bright entertainment.

"Here, love," Daemon whispered, pulling your chair out for you. He waited until you were sat before taking his own seat, sighing when he glanced around the table only to settle his gaze on you.

"What's wrong, my Dragon?" You asked softly, leaning in to place your hand over his on his lap; pressed into his side despite the wooden chair arms between you.

"Just amusing," he mused, "most of these Lords and Ladies had much to say about my first marriage, and now, they break our bread to celebrate us."

"Cannot be the first time someone's tried to suck up to you," you chuckled, moving your conjoined hands in your lap. "The dragon does not concern himself with the opinion of the sheep," you advised smartly, "they only tolerate the sheep because one day, the dragon will need to feast - hmm?"

Daemon smirked, "When did you become so insightful, darling?"

"I've always been, you're just pussy-whipped now that I make a lot more sense."

He laughed, letting a servant pour your wine. In your ear, he mused, "Jest all you want, but you were meant to be a Targaryen. Once we are wed, I will plant my seed, and bind us together for eternity."

"Our marriage wouldn't doing exactly that already?"

"A child is more tangible - it's a bloodline."

You shrugged as a plate of blood-red lobster was set in front of you. Viserys truly went all out - giving a wide variety of foods to taste. "A marriage is for life, though," you countered.

"So is a child."

"Until they are married off."

Conversation continued, flowing easily between the family members and patrons of court. Viserys looked pleased, enjoying the celebration as his ailment often caused him grave pain and he could not attend events. He hardly had reason to smile, but when he watched you feed a bite to Daemon, he let his lips spread without thought. Queen Alicent clocked the King's expression, glancing at you and Daemon, then smiled fondly before reaching for her husband's hand.

Throughout the dinner, Rhaenyra watched you and Daemon with a bitter glare on her face; jaw locked and lips pursed. You ignored her obvious displeasure in favor of your husband, both too enraptured with one another to ever pay attention to the Princess' distain. When the meal was over, the dancing, mingling, drinking, and musical portion of the evening commenced.

And cake. Cake was to be served.

Daemon's golden cloak swept around guests as you both played dutiful host for your party, and mingled with those who arrived tonight to celebrate your upcoming nuptials. You did your best to keep up with the plethora of Lords and Ladies, like Daemon did so effortlessly, but it was a lot. You still held your own, but by Gods, there was a lot of people in attendance tonight and there was noway you could remember any names.

Thankfully, while Daemon was caught in a conversation with Ser Gerold Royce, you eventually made it to a small group of familiar faces: Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Harwin Strong, his brother, Larys, Lady Laena Velaryon, and her twin, Ser Laenor.

You graciously received the compliments, well-wishes, and joyful greetings of them all, but acutely noted the Princess did not offer even so much as a polite greeting. "This dress was made for you, it's just darling," Laena complimented, petting the bodice. "It must've cost a fortune."

"It was a gift from Daemon," you told her with a soft smile. "And the necklace, too! See?" You showed her, "He had it custom made, it's Valyrian Steel with embedded jewels."

"The perfect combination of your Houses, and a gorgeous piece of art to hang on such a gorgeous neck," she praised, but it was Princess Rhaenyra's scoff of annoyance that peaked your interest.

You thanked Laena Velaryon before eyeing Rhaenyra. "Princess?" You questioned. "If I may ask you something, plainly?"

"By all means."

"Have I... Upset you in anyway?"

"You mean beside my uncle spending the Crown's coin to buy you something exquisitely made; being a fleeting, lady interest of the Princes'? No, no, nothing's wrong," she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"What is this distain you hold towards me - towards my relationship with Daemon?" You demanded, the alcohol in your system spurring you on despite knowing the looming consequences of offering a member of the Royal family sharpened words.

"Truly? You wish to know why I do not fawn over you as others?"

"They do not fawn, oh - " You stopped yourself, sighing deeply and correcting yourself, "Of course I wish to know what the issue at hand here is, Princess, I do not wish for ill-will between us. I wish to resolve this."

"In truth, I simply do not understand it, this - this sham of a wedding," she snapped. "Daemon might buy you pretty things, but it's only out of guilt."

"What guilt could he possibly - "

"He finds you overwhelming, overbearing, suffocatingly clingy. So, with his distain, he, too, felt fleeting guilt - being why he showers you with gifts, it's for his own conscious. But if you ask me why I host such distain towards this union, it is because I know my uncle is not happy with your overwhelmingly clingy behavior. He's voiced his displeasure many-a-time. Not just to me, but to the King and Queen, as well."

You felt shell-shocked, acutely aware of the lingering eyes of the audience around you. You worried: how many of them had heard this rumor, how many secretly pitied you? Finding your voice, you managed to squeak out, "I beg your pardon?"

Rhaenyra only shrugged, "You asked, I answered."

"I see," you cleared your throat. "And your answer is that my betrothed has, what, started to slander my name behind my back?"

"Indeed. His chief complaint is how you seem to cling to him more and more, and he doesn't have the heart to push you away more than he already has. You're the one daft enough to not take a hint."

"And where do you get your information from?"

"Daemon, himself."

Your mind raced with all the little things: how Daemon would release your person during public events, avoid physical touch, ignore you sometimes, shut down your woes (call that gaslighting), how he stiffened at times you took his arm, how he seemed to shut down and only offer bored 'mmhms' when you spoke to him about your life. Your heart sank to your feet as you realized there were some truths to Rhaenyra's words.

You nodded slowly as Daemon chose that moment to approach your awkward group. His arm slithered around your waist, but you were silent as the grave and stiff as the corpse in said grave. Your mind raced with the idea that Rhaenyra could just be fucking with you, but the also with the idea that all she said was true.

"I'm going to retire for the evening, I've a headache," you told Daemon, finding an easy way out of his grip, "but you stay, enjoy the celebration. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am just tired."

He agreed and gently kissed you - sure to remain modest but still affectionate. "I'll visit you tonight," he muttered in your ear.

"No, I am truly tired," you told him softly but sternly. "We'll see each other tomorrow."

He hummed, "Then I shall walk you out - "

"No, you're needed here to save face. Go, mingle, play nice," you dismissed him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You bid whoever you came across a good and safe night; thanking them for their attendance tonight. After thanking the King for hosting the party, you disappeared, taking a few secret passages to avoid the main hustle-and-bustle of the feast. When you arrived in your room, you slammed the door, bolted it, and leaned against it for a good long moment. Your mind was reeling with all kinds of thoughts regarding your intended, his niece, all of it suddenly feeling very overwhelming.

You were exhausted, so, you swiftly stripped, unpinned your hair, refused your maid's help, and soaked in a long, hot bath. After, you settled into bed with a book, and tried not to overwhelm yourself with the anxiety tomorrow would bring.

About an hour later, you heard Daemon knocking at your passage door. You paused, not making a sound, hearing his muffled voice, "Love? My love, are you awake?"

You didn't answer.

"Please, sweet girl, let me in," he begged quietly.

When you wrenched the door open, you seethed, "NO!"

"What - ?"

"I heard plenty tonight from your niece. In your moments of frustration, you know what? Sure, complain about your woes - but to find out you call me clingy when in regard to my affection - that's not something I'm going to be happy hearing, Daemon!"

"I know, but let me explain - "

"What? What will you say? That you just needed someone to talk to? To vent your feelings? I get that - I really do. But you fully offered slander to my name, to our relationship; to who I am as a partner. Your poisoned words of your irritation is soaked into your family, in the courts. And now, I must endure the pity those will offer knowing my husband truly holds distain for me!"

"No, you've got it wrong, I don't - "

"Then why!?" You demanded, voice cracking. "Why say those things? Why not come to me and communicate you're not comfortable with this and that behavior!? I won't know unless you tell me, so, instead of talking your shit to the courts and your family, why not just speak to me!?"

"I should have!" He admitted quickly. "I should have, I know that, and it was my mistake, my love. But I regret it, I regret feeling so, so - I don't know! Sure, let's call it frustrated, irritated, I don't care, I just needed it off my chest!"

"I understand that fully, but being as we're to marry one another, I should be the one listening to you when you need something off your chest. You should talk to me. And if I'm the one you need to speak about, choose more trustworthy confidants that do not need further reason to despise me!"

"What're you...? What? What does that mean?"

"Rhaenyra, Daemon! Your niece, Rhaenyra! Every-fucking-thing you've said to her, she remembers, and holds it against me! You forget, when you speak to family about the woes of your relationship, that's all they remember. You get to make up with me, we get to move on, but because you needed t'vent to them, that's what they can hold against me. Do you even wish to marry me, still!?"

"Of course, I do!"

"Then something needs to change," you deadpanned, exhausted by this. "I refuse to be belittled, spat on, and disrespected by your niece any longer."

"I will speak to her."

"Yes, you will! This is far too out of hand! She has weaponized your frustration to drive a wedge between us, and she chose a public event with an audience to lob it all at me!"

"What truly happened with Rhaenyra? What was so bad?"

"Daemon, she called me out for 'being clingy' in front of an audience! At our engagement celebration! Do you know how humiliating that was!? I'm more embarrassed than angry!"

He nodded, "I'll handle this. I swear, my darling, this will be resolved."

"You know what?" You breathed. "Do whatever you please because I've realized something. Not only did Rhaenyra spew our business to others, but you... You said it in the first place. You said those words..."

"Out of anger - "

"But you still spoke them!"

"I was foolish to do so!"

"You are a fool for many reasons, Daemon, but this is one act I am not willing to forgive so blindly. Wear your jester hat all you'd like, but it will take more than pretty words to make this up to me."

"I'll do what it takes to fix this." He tried to step into the room with you, but you held your ground in the doorway. "My love, please, how can I make it up to you if you do not let me in?"

"You must find any other way to do this because there's no chance in any of the Seven Hells that you share my bed again - married or not." You offered him a look of distain, musing, "You know what, I've decided: I simply don't care what you or your family thinks. I am extremely proud of who I am, and there's not a soul alive that can make me feel lesser than. Your words hurt, they cut deeper hearing it from the Princess, but that's simply your opinion," you eased. "I refuse to modify myself, but it's good to know you don't like my affection - I can always reserve it for whoever I choose to warm my bed. What was it you said?" You quipped venomously, "Marriages are political arrangements?"

"Not ours," he snapped.

"Oh? We're so different, are we?" You laughed.

"Of course we are, there's nothing I'd change. Hear me? Nothing," he sounded angry. "I was a fool to speak out of term, but you're right, I should talk to you about it - I am simply unequipped to having a wife I've chosen."

"Oh, spare me - "

"It's true," he insisted, "what woman in my life has loved me as you do? Has encouraged me to be so - so - loving and safe?"

"Apparently, I've been clingy and not as encouraging as I thought."

"I spoke out of turn," he insisted. "You're right - I can't go and take back what I've said. But I will do all I can to ensure I change their opinions on you, to mop up whatever verbal mess I've made."

You laughed without humor.

"And I will set Rhaenyra straight about all of this, I will ensure she knows that there's no room for such tension, jealousy, hatred."

"You swear to clean up all your messes?" You wondered earnestly.

"I swear."

"Good," you mused, "after that, how do you intend on rebuilding my trust?"

Daemon blinked, "You do not trust me anymore?"

"Of course not," you assured, "not since finding out how you speak of me so hatefully without my knowledge. That's where trust comes in, Daemon, but you proved me wrong, and now, that trust is gone."

Daemon looked confused, mouth opening and closing rapidly, shaking his head, "No, no, no, love, don't do this. We're okay, all right? We're fine, things with us - we're fine. We're okay."

"Saying it doesn't make it true."

"Do not tell me," He snapped. "H-Have I lost you?"

"Mhm. Not saying you can't fix things between us, but as of now, there's nothing about you I can trust."

"And if you cannot trust me, can you love me?"

You paused, considering his words. Honestly, his betrayal was something that hurt worse than anything you've endured before. "I'll have to think about that one," you whispered. With a saddened look, you hugged the door, sighing, and bid, "Goodnight, my Prince."

"My sweet - don't shut me out. Don't do this."

"Find a way to make this all up to me," you demanded, "because I'd hate for either of us to eventually resent this marriage, too."

He tried to argue but you shut the door on him forcefully; loudly locking it from the inside to prevent him from following you. You felt yourself brimming with anger, but nothing was like the betrayal coursing through your heart and veins. There was no sleep that night, there was a lot of tears, a lot of pacing, and a lot of grumbling to yourself.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

Clingy Baby collection

[tomriddleslovergirl]

How They Mark You

Pairings: Aegon ii Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen

Warnings: nsfw, bruises, female reader, mentions of pregnancy

Aegon ii Targaryen:

Aegon leaves marks on your skin. Usually hickies, but sometimes he’ll lightly bite your skin or leave marks that resemble fingers.

Aegon makes it obvious that you’re his.

He is openly affectionate with you in public. And there have been multiple occasions where a servant has walked in on you two being in certain erotic positions.

And though Aegon purposefully doesn’t purposefully do this, he usually leaves your clothes ruffled after dragging you away throughout the day to make out with you or more.

Daemon Targaryen:

Daemon gifts you jewelry. He’s given you necklaces, rings, bracelets. He loves to see you wear them.

At times, he’ll reach out to grab them so he can fidget with them.

Loves to leave hickies on you. Especially in places you can’t hide.

Daemon smirks when he hears you complain about how long it’ll take you to cover the marks he left on you.

Rhaenyra Targaryen:

Rhaenyra is more subtle about how she marks you since you’re both women.

Wherever you both go, she makes sure that your arms are interlocked with each other.

Or her hand on your back, gently guiding you to wherever she wants you to go.

Rhaenyra, like Daemon, will buy you jewelry —usually necklaces — to mark you.

Rhaenyra loves to leave hickies on you, though she does so on places that are easier to hide.

Aemond Targaryen:

The way Aemond marks you isn’t in a way that anyone else but you both would know.

Aemond buys dresses for you.

From Dorne, Essos, anywhere you’d like.

Your wardrobe is full of them.

He loves to see the clothing he’s bought cover your body in a way he can’t.

When you’re pregnant, he’s quick to buy you more clothes to fit you.

[dedicatednotobsessed]

✨ Can I request a fluffy one shot where Daemon and reader are expecting their first child? ✨

Daemon and reader could pick out a dragon egg for their child's cradle? Reader let's Daemon pick the egg since he has been over the moon excited about this pregnancy? He would be such a devoted daddy 😭

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Of course! For more HOTD requests, just submit a strong snack to Vhagar through my ask box 💚 {I will be opening my ask box soon for The Last Kingdom and Game of Thrones requests, so keep an eye out for that announcement! 💕}

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Issa dōna [Daemon Targaryen x Pregnant!Reader]

Other HOTD stories [requests open]

Summary: Your one dream in life had always been to find a good husband {one that will serve your house well} and be a loyal wife and loving mother. After a constant battle with your Uncle, King Viserys, you were able to take your one true love’s hand in marriage, your other Uncle Daemon. As a young girl, you had dreamt of being with him; he seemed to be everything in a perfect husband: loyal, caring, and loving. It only seemed to be proven more so that he was the right choice when he hears some exciting news….

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A small gleeful giggle passed your lips while your dragon landed in the sands of Dragonstone, glancing over when the second dragon landed beside you. Only hours ago you were in the capital marrying the love of your life, your Uncle turned husband, Daemon.

Ever since you were a young girl, you had an infatuation towards your Uncle and it only grew the older you became, maturing into a young woman. You ended up in the King's care when you were a babe, your mother having passed during childbirth and your father- the youngest brother to the King and Daemon- having tragically passed in battle during the early stages of your mother's pregnancy. Viserys treated you as his own and you could not be more thankful for him.

You smiled happily when Daemon offered his hand, taking it and sliding down, your white silken dress lightly flowing around you. You turned hearing the trills from Saphira and reached up to pat her neck, her deep blue scales shimmering in the moonlight.

"I believe Saphira is looking forward to her new home," You stated fully turning to your husband, your violet eyes meeting his matching ones.

Daemon smiled lightly as he reached up to push back a loose strand of your hair. "Well, she has no choice in the matter, does she?"

You giggled at the slightly teasing tone of his voice. "I suppose she does not," You agreed.

He moved his hand to your waist beginning to lead you to the castle, your new home. You let your gaze wander over the various tapestries of the Dragons from Old Valyria; the painted cloth telling the tale of the Doom of Valyria. Some of the newer tapestries down the long hallway resembled Aegon’s conquest, including his wives Viserya and Rhaenys.

You came back to reality when Daemon opened the door to your marital chambers, looking around as you walked in; it was slightly smaller than your chambers back in the capital. You walked over to the roaring fire that was awaiting you while Daemon went for the fresh pitcher of wine. Your violet eyes shimmered as the flames flickered, your mind wandering.

A dragon is only deserving of a dragon and through their flames, they will burn together. That is what Daemon would always tell you anyway.

A small smile crept onto your lips feeling a hand on your waist, giggling when Daemon pulled you into his chest. You hummed as he leaned down, his lips attaching to your neck.

“You know,” You began, smiling more when he bit down on your sweet spot. “We left before we had a chance to do the bedding ceremony.”

Daemon hummed in response while he swayed the two of you. “Is that so?” He smirked lightly as you turned in his arms, reaching up to push back a strand of your silver hair. “We should get right on that then, hm?”

“We should,” You agreed smiling lovingly at your husband.

Your husband…it felt foreign almost to call your Uncle said title, yet at the same time…it felt right. You had fought long and hard to have this marriage, willing to risk everything for the love you two shared.

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“Uncle, please.”

“How many times do I have to say no to you, Y/N?” Viserys sounded agitated as he sat beside his model of Old Valyria, rubbing at his temple.

You had been discussing with your Uncle close to one moon now asking for Prince Daemon’s hand and the answer had always been the same…no. You did not understand why he would not let you marry Daemon; a part of you believed it was from the influence of the Lord Hand, Otto Hightower.

“We are done here.” Viserys waved his hand causing you to frown.

“But, Uncle-“ You began to protest.

“I said we are done, Y/N!”

You sighed deeply at the way the King’s voice rose to you; you were used to it, however. He has made the comment once or twice of you being his political headache since you had refused each and every single proposal that was brought to your feet. In some cases, you were worse than his blood daughter, Rhaenyra whom you had strayed from in the last year or so. The two of you shared feelings for the same man which caused jealousy and it only became worse when it was announced that Rhaenyra was to be wed to Ser Laenor Velaryon which meant you had more of a chance for Daemon to take your hand in marriage.

You looked down at the grounds of the garden with your hands clasped in front of you, your brows knit together as your mind ran with thoughts. It had been a few days since the last discussion with your Uncle and you had not spoken to him since he announced a feast by the upcoming moon cycle- a feast to find a proper husband for yourself. You had always promised yourself that you would not suffer the same fate as Rhaenyra but it seems as though the gods were cruel.

“And why would a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms want to wander the gardens all by herself?”

You furrowed your brows a bit at the unfamiliar voice and turned to see a young man with wavy shoulder-length dark hair.

“I apologize…who are you?”

The man chuckled lightly. “Forgive me, Princess. I am William Mooton, the only living child of Lord Mooton.”

You hummed in response with a cocked brow. “I am Princess Y/N but you clearly knew that.”

William smirked lightly at the tone of your voice. “The tales of Targaryen beauty do not do you justice, Princess. You are even more beautiful in person.”

You returned his smirk. “Well thank you, my lord.”

William nodded his head, his smirk turning into a smile. “May I accompany you, Princess?”

You let your eyes wander over the young man for a moment, your smirk still on your lips. You could not even deny how handsome of a man he was; perhaps this upcoming feast would not be too bad after all if more suitors had a similar appearance to William of House Mooton.

“If you insist, my lord,” You replied after a moment, a genuine smile filling your face.

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As the moon began to end its cycle, the festivities seemed to grow and grow which caused a dark saddened cloud to begin to loom over you. The more people that arrived, the more your heart grew heavy because the one person you wanted was not there.

The feasting hall was filled with chatter and laughter of various lords and ladies who hoped that you would choose their son as a potential suitor. The only viable option it seemed was William Mooton, but even then your heart still yearned for Daemon.

You glanced up when a figure walked over to you and offered William a soft smile as he took the spot beside you. “You look quite lovely tonight, my princess,” William told you quietly.

You nodded a bit in response, your smile widening slightly. “Thank you, my lord.”

He let his eyes rake over your features for a moment before he cleared his throat sitting up. “I was wondering if you would like to have a dance with me.”

William had been trying to make sure you chose him in the end as your husband by offering a dance every night. You had politely refused every single one, but the cycle was ending and you needed to choose a suitor soon enough before you would be stuck with a lesser lord who had a cock the size of his pinkie finger.

You reached out to take his hand as the doors blew open causing everyone to turn their heads, a small gasp passing your lips at the sight of Prince Daemon. The hall seemed to grow silent while the Prince with short silver hair strolled towards the head table, a smug smirk on his features. You always remembered that he enjoyed his grand entrances.

Viserys stared at his younger brother, his brows furrowed. He did not even inform him that there was a suitor feast in your honor; he had hoped he would stay away yet, Daemon always seemed to make an appearance. Whether he was invited or not, and more often than not, he was not invited.

Daemon did not mind the eyes on him as he took a seat at the end of the table, his gaze catching yours. He let out a low chuckle. “Do not be surprised to see me, my sweet niece.”

You stumbled on your words, silently thanking the King when he was the first to speak up; “it is quite a surprise that you are here, brother.”

Daemon hummed in response. “I am not one to miss my brother’s feasts,” He replied offering him a small smile. “Besides, I do wish to fight in the tourney on the morrow as your champion.”

Viserys chuckled lightly. “I do not think that would be wise, Daemon.”

“And why is that?” The Prince questioned with a cocked brow.

“The tourney is for Princess Y/N’s hand,” Otto spoke up. “Unless she is to choose a husband tonight.”

Daemon scoffed at the voice of Otto Hightower. The two men never got along and Daemon was not afraid to voice his opinions of the other man; a cunt is the term he enjoyed using. “I still wish to fight as your champion, brother.”

“With all due respect-“

“With all due respect, Lord Hand, I did not ask for your opinion,” Daemon cut him off, smirking at the glare Otto gave him.

Viserys relaxed in his seat, rubbing at his temples from the headache his brother was clearly giving him. “Prince Daemon will be my champion,” He said after a moment.

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The tourney certainly was a spectacle; it all came down to the King’s champion and Lord Walys’ champion- his only living child. He did not want his son to compete but William was determined and his cockiness cost him his life. Daemon gave him one swift strike to the heart with his lance and the young man fell, blood pooling out of his wound and his mouth. In the end, Daemon claimed your hand and it felt as though it was all a dream. He was the only person you ever wanted and now you had him.

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You had one hand on Daemon’s arm, the other on your rounded stomach while he led you towards the Keep. It took some time, but you were finally able to swell with the child. His child. It made you misty-eyed at the mere thought of having the love of your life’s child.

“It feels as though nothing has changed,” You breathed out walking through the familiar halls rubbing lightly at your husband’s arm.

Daemon snorted at that. “Those cunts are slowly turning it into the Faith of the Seven,” He scoffed.

You sighed softly knowing he was not talking about his brother. You stayed silent though as he led you toward the throne room where your Uncle and his wife would be waiting for your arrival. The news of your pregnancy spread rather fast through the Seven Kingdoms and everyone from the various corners of Westeros was coming in celebration of you, your husband, and your unborn babe.

"It reminds me of when we got married." You scrunched up your nose hearing all of the chatter from outside the throne room.

Daemon chuckled lightly while he looked down at you with an adoring look behind his violet eyes. He reached over to rub your swollen stomach causing you to giggle. Every night he would talk to the little dragon growing inside of you; he seemed prepared for fatherhood and it swelled your heart.

"Once the festivities are over, would you like to go to the hatchery to choose an egg for our son?" He asked standing up straight, a content smile on his features.

"And how do you know it is going to be a son?"

His smile only grew. "I can tell," He replied simply looking ahead as the doors to the throne room opened.

"Prince Daemon and Princess Y/N of House Targaryen," The man announced at the doors, the room erupting in cheers.

You smiled brightly at the crowds surrounding the pair before your eyes turned to the head table. Viserys stood there tall and proud with Alicent by his side as they led the room in cheers.

"My sweet niece," Viserys greeted stroking your cheek lightly before he moved his hand to your stomach. "I am so proud of you," He whispered.

"Thank you, Uncle," You replied quietly feeling the tears prick your eyes before giggling as he pulled you into a hug.

You returned his hug, closing your eyes while he stroked back your silver hair. "Does he make you happy?" He pulled back a bit, smiling a small smile when you nodded. "Then I am happy if you are happy."

You parted your lips in surprise; you never thought that he would approve of your marriage to Daemon. Half of you expected after his brother knocked William Mooton onto the ground in a pool of his own blood, your Uncle would have chosen another match for you. You were thankful in the end though that he had kept his word; you were becoming quite bored with William anyway.

"Thank you, Uncle," You whispered, a tear rolling down your cheek.

Viserys smiled as he reached up to wipe your tears away before he pulled you close kissing the side of your head. "Now, go and enjoy the festivities," He stated pulling away from you with a chuckle.

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You smiled lightly at the warmth of the hatchery while you looked around, the various eggs against the wall and in the incubation chambers. Saphira's first clutch was still in the hatchery, wanting to wait until you were with child.

"Are these all of her eggs?" You asked the dragon master who nodded.

Your violet eyes wandered over the three eggs, placing a hand on the iridescent-colored egg with light speckles of blue throughout. "That is Revnass," The master spoke up.

You pulled your hand away slowly, looking up at your husband as he walked closer. Daemon ran his fingers over the red scales of an egg with a deep blue color swirled around the bottom. You smiled softly watching his eyes shine brightly while he picked up the egg, looking it over gingerly.

"Bisa iksos se mēre,” Daemon said quietly. (This is the one).

The master cleared his throat. “Ziry iksos tradition syt se muñnykeā naejot iderēbagon se drōmon.” (It is tradition for the mother to choose the egg).

You looked at the master before your eyes turned to Daemon and smiled lightly. You could see from the glimmer in his eyes how much it meant to him. You rubbed his arm lightly when he looked down at you, smiling more.

“Ziry iksos ry paktot,” You assured him quietly before your attention turned to the dragon master who looked between the two of you. “Skoros iksos pōja brōzi?” (It is all right // what is their name?).

“Moraxes,” The master replied in a gruff voice.

You looked up at Daemon, giving him a nod. “I believe you are correct, husband.”

Daemon beamed at that while the masters took the egg to take it to the chambers you two will be calling home for your time remaining in King’s Landing. He got down on his knees slowly, leaning his head against your rounded belly, his hands on either side.

“A strong dragon for a strong son,” He whispered leaning over to press a kiss gently against your clothed stomach.

In the end, you did end up having a son by the name of Alyster; he was a spitting image of his father with a similar fiery personality to him. He had a special bond with Moraxes, the two becoming an unstoppable pair. Alyster could barely keep his feet off the ground. You ended up having another child, a daughter, named Dahlya who claimed the iridescent dragon, Revnass as her own when she was a hatchling. Daemon was there for both children, being a loving husband and an even more loving father. It was the dream you have always wanted and could not ask for anything better.

[thebigbadbatswife]

Day 2/4 - Titfucking & Prostitution

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x F!Reader

Warnings -18+ content, if you're under 18 leave immediately! Titfucking, prostitution, light dom/sub

Summary - After a successful tourney, Daemon comes to the establishment you work at to see you.

You were on the bed, resting on your knees with your tits on display when Daemon walked into the room. You knew that he liked your tits. He had told you many times before. You also knew that he only ever booked this room, your room, after a good jousting tourney. Of course, every tournament was a good one for him, considering that he always came out on top.

He smiled when he saw you. And he had that look in his eyes he had each time he saw you. Wild and lust filled. You felt like a goat that had been spotted by a dragon. His pants were tight fitting and you could see the outline of his cock. No doubt already hard and wanting.

He strode forward, stopping when he reached the bed. In his hand he grabbed hold of your chin and jawline and kissed you. It was rough and messy. The only thing driving it was his lust and the adrenaline left over.

“Don’t have long tonight,” he told you.

You nodded. “Where do you want me, my Prince?” 

“Grab the oil and move to the edge of the bed,” he ordered.

You nodded again. “Of course.” You did as he asked. Grabbing the oil bottle that you kept on a nearby table and returned to the edge of the bed, resting on your knees again. As you did that, Daemon had stripped himself of all of his clothing. Naturally you ran your eyes over his body. His body was well toned and scarred. His cock standing proud and gently tapping his abs as he moved back toward the bed.

“Pour it on your tits.” Once again, you did as he asked. You uncorked the bottle and poured. It sent goosebumps raising across your skin and your nipples hardened. He took the bottle from you and started to pour some of the oil onto his penis. He then set it aside and started to stroke his cock, making sure it was fully coated.

You knew what he wanted from you. Using your arms you pushed your breasts together for him. Daemon’s cock easily slid between them. He groaned deeply, almost growling, as he started to fuck them. He didn’t say anything else. His only focus was on his pleasure. Which was not unexpected. It was simply how he was, like all clients, when he came to this establishment. You were for a night or a few hours. Make them forget about whatever life they had outside of these walls.

As he fucked your tits, you bent your head down, your tongue darting out to lick the head of his cock each time that he thrusted. You then opened your mouth, sucking on the head instead of licking each time that he entered. He moaned lowly and his hips started to move faster. There was a stutter in his rhythm and you pulled away.

“Come on, Prince Daemon,” you purred, your eyes meeting his lilac. “Come for me.”

His head fell backwards as he growled, shooting rope after rope of his seed across the tops of your tits and some of it landing on your chin. Breathing heavily, he swiped what had landed on your chin with his thumb and pushed it into your mouth. You sucked his thumb cleaning, humming softly.

Releasing his thumb with a pop, Daemon walked away from you. Leaving you to clean yourself up while he got dressed. You had just finished drying yourself off and slipping into a robe when a large coin pouch was chucked onto the bed.

“Take the rest of the night off and enjoy the festivities. Your Prince orders you to,” he told you before leaving your room.

“Of course, my Prince.”

[a-bang-for-your-bucky]

Se Zaldrīzes Dārilaros

A/N: Coming out with a new character for the new year! This was for a lil gift exchange in the HotD discord channel I'm in! I was lucky to get @carefulnowprincess! I hope you love it! <3 thank you @acrossthesestars for beta-ing! Divider from @firefly-graphics!

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT (PIV, oral [fem receiving], blood kink, armor kink, knife kink, choking, breeding kink) over-usage of nicknames, dom/sub tones, zero plot, all smut.

a/n: ñuha rūklon means my flower in Valyrian. Se Zaldrīzes Dārilaros means The Dragon Prince.

It was a long wait. Years, in fact. Your husband, the Prince of Dragonstone, Daemon Targaryen, was off fighting a war in the Stepstones, trying to regain the Narrow Sea from the Crabfeeder in the name of the King - in his own name, if he was being honest. You had to be the dutiful wife, and wait for him to come home.

If he came home. 

Your stomach grew sour at the thought of him not returning, at the thought of him dying. Though your marriage was one of convenience, of politics, you did grow to care for the rough, jagged edges that made Daemon who he was. 

The sun had set many hours ago, and you were still lying restless in your marriage bed. Even though you had your own quarters in the castle, this was the only place you could find some comfort. It was there you heard the unmistakable whistle of Caraxes. In only your dressing gown, you lept from the bed, ignoring all pleas from your handmaiden. You ran as fast as your legs would carry you to the welcome hall of the castle. There, covered in blood and dirt, stood your husband. 

The relief of seeing him with your own eyes released the hold fear had over your body. As soon as Daemon spotted you, his smile dropped, and his eyes raked over your appearance. Your gown was sheer, showing every inch of you it covered. He stalked toward you, his armor clanking with every movement. Ripping a cloth from a nearby table, he draped it over you once he was close enough. 

Daemon hoisted you up over his shoulder, stalking away from the men who called out to stop him. “I have to give details on the war I just single-handedly won, and you walk out in front of everyone all but naked. Tell me why I shouldn’t punish you in front of them?” he growled, kicking open the door to your shared room. 

He dropped you to the bed unceremoniously, the surprise of the impact drawing a squeal from your lips. When he stepped back you took the chance to really look over him, to gaze upon what you had been missing so desperately. His silver hair was matted with the blood of his enemies, his armor stained with vengeance. His face was tired and dark circles bloomed under his eyes. You wanted to speak, wanted to ask him what happened while he was away, but you knew your place here. The questions would have to wait. 

The rogue prince noticed your staring, smirking down at you. You felt bare under his gaze, and attempted to cover yourself.  He gripped your ankles, pulling you roughly to the edge of the bed. Leaning over you, he placed a sweet kiss to your lips. “Do not dare to hide from me, rūklon.” Daemon grabbed the bottom of your gown in one hand as he quickly unsheathed a dagger with the other. The silver blade sliced through the fabric easily, and he tossed it to the ground. He ripped the rest until it was just scraps hanging from your body. “If you wish me to stop, speak now,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, giving you the chance to refuse him. 

"N-no," you stuttered out, before clarifying, “don’t stop, my prince.”

Daemon chuckled darkly at your enthusiasm as he straightened back up, running his hands up your calves. You whined at the rough feel of his fingers as he murmured about how soft your skin was. He spread your legs, the smell of your arousal hit him hard. "Look at you. Already fucking soaked for me. Who are you wet for?" He questioned, slowly dragging his tongue over his bottom lip as he looked up at you. 

"You, my prince," you mewled, "Always for you." He swiped a finger up your folds, collecting your essence on the calloused tip. You watched as he wrapped his plush lips around the digit, groaning as your flavor burst on his tongue. 

"You always taste so good for me, ñuha rūklon," Daemon praised, dropping to his knees. You propped yourself up on your elbows. It was a sight to behold having him on his knees before you. He leaned forward, his tongue licking a broad strip from your dripping cunt to your clit and you let out a strangled sound as he attached his lips to the nub, sucking lightly. 

"That's it. Moan for me," Daemon ordered between licks. He paused for a moment, taking two fingers into his mouth, soaking them with his spit before slipping them into your tight heat. 

You whimpered at the intrusion as Daemon's mouth went back to work. With his mouth and fingers working in tandem, you found yourself edging closer and closer to your orgasm. "Dae- Daemon, please. Please!” You begged over the obscene wet sounds your body made. He groaned into you, sending vibrations over your most sensitive parts.

His fingers never stopped, the pads hitting that soft, spongy spot with precision. “Come for me," he instructed, before adding, “be the good girl I know you are and come for me.” A scream tore through you, your hands reaching for his hair, tangling into his silver locks, using it as leverage to push his face deeper into you. Daemon mumbled incoherently as he tipped you over the edge, your walls squeezing his fingers tightly. “Such a good girl. My good girl,” he praised as he pressed kisses to your inner thighs, watching as you came down from your high. He removed his fingers slowly and you whimpered at the loss of them.

Your husband stood abruptly, ripping at his armor. 

“Wait!” You exclaimed, reaching out for the armor. “Fuck me in it.” 

“What was that?” He questioned as if he didn’t hear you. 

“The armor, my prince. I want you to fuck me in it.” You bit your lip shyly causing him to simper. Leaving on his breastplate and pauldrons, he slowly started to remove the rest. 

Using your legs, you wrapped them around his ass and pulled him forward. He laughed before you kissed him deeply, nipping at his bottom lip. Your hands roamed down his back to his slender waist before slipping them between your bodies and freeing his cock from the confines of his breeches. “So needy,” Daemon teased before throwing his head back in pleasure as you began to rub against him. 

“I need you to fuck me.” You knew he hated when you whined, but he almost always gave in, not quite cruel enough to deny you. 

Daemon grabbed your face, applying light pressure to your jaw. “You are forgetting your place. I am in control here.” His words sent shivers up your spine, and had you nodding like an idiot. “Words, princess.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good girl. Now open.” You obeyed, opening your mouth wide for him, sticking your tongue out in show. “Get my fingers wet.” He placed his fingers in your mouth and you closed your lips around them.  You accumulated as much saliva as you could, using your tongue to push it around on his digits. You could taste a hint of your first orgasm clinging to his skin, causing you to moan.

He removed them suddenly, creating a wet sound, a filthy sound. You watched as he fisted his cock, coating it in your spit. Daemon lined himself up with your cunt, rubbing the head through the mess he'd already made of you. He pushed inside your velvety walls, growling as they sucked him in. “Fuck," he moaned. “Always so tight for me, even after fucking you open with my fingers.” You whimpered as he bottomed out, grinding into you. He started with a slow, tantalizing pace, gripping your thighs, spreading them wider. “Listen to how wet you are, princess. All for my cock,” he purred, increasing the force of his thrusts. “Oh, I have missed this. I have missed you.” 

Daemon paused, relishing in the moment, only to remove himself from your body. With rough hands, he positioned you onto your knees with your head flat against the bedding. He reentered you without warning, only a callused hand running up your spine. You had missed him too, although you would never tell him. His ego was large enough. 

He reached forward, twisting his hand in your hair as he pounded into you. Your walls tightened around him and he let a low animalistic growl. "Like that, huh? Want your prince to be rough with you?" He reached his other hand up and wrapped it around your neck. It was just tight enough to bring you a touch of dangerous ecstasy. 

"Fuck. You feel so good," Daemon grunted, his thrusts starting to falter, and you knew he wasn't going to last much longer. “Need you to come for me, ñuha rūklon.”  He released your hair and slipped a hand between your legs rubbing tight circles on your sensitive nub, making you cry out as your walls fluttered around his cock. 

He was lost in you, relishing in the feel of your cunt clenching around him. “M’gonna breed you. M’gonna fuck my heir into you. Please, let me?” He rasped out, moving your hair away from your neck. You nodded fiercely, begging him to fill you. His groans were muffled as he emptied himself deep inside you. 

He barely had time to tear off his armor before falling over in a heap of sweaty limbs, the two of you drifted to sleep tangled up together, your need sated for the time being.

also tagging: @mylifeisactuallyamess @munsonownsmyass @tea-and-wine

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 1: Homecoming

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Welcome, everyone, to the edit/rewrite of my first instalment of ‘terms of endearment’! Just to clarify - a LOT of this will remain as-is, but I do intend on shuffling a fair bit around because I wasn’t happy with the pacing upon review. Expect some more flashbacks, some more Daemon-centric smut, grossness galore! I’ve elected to repost entirely so that I don’t leave anyone in limbo while I rejig things. This way, people can still re-read the old completed instalment while I finish out my edits, after which I’ll completely replace the instalment with these new updates in the Masterlist!

TRIGGERS: rough sex, objectification of women, incest, references to pregnancy.

“King Viserys sent him into exile, never to return to the Seven Kingdoms on pain of death… Of the aftermath, these things are certain. Following the tragic mishap of Lady Rhea Royce’s untimely death and the Princess Rhaenyra’s wedding to Ser Laenor, Daemon Targaryen returned to the Stepstones and resumed his struggle for those barren storm-swept rocks. The subsequent decade found him abroad in Essos, keeping residence with various highborn families in Pentos and holding court with his paramour Mysaria, returned to him after an extended period of absence. It was only with the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s third son Prince Joffrey—and the announcement of his second daughter’s search for a husband—that King Viserys finally wrote his erstwhile brother, bidding him to come home.”

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

“Ah—ah—ah—my Prince!”

Daemon ignores the wailing of the whore below him as he pounds viciously into her, grinding his teeth at the sound of her high-pitched mewls. Pathetic, he thinks, slapping her across the rear hard to see if he can make her cry a little. He smiles, an unpleasant, savage thing, as he’s rewarded with the very thing he wants. She buries her face in the sheets so that all he can see of her is her arsecheeks, her arched, too-thin back, the silver hair spilling from her head.

The wrong shade, he muses, but close enough in the dark.

The thought angers him. He pulls out of the girl and drags her off the bed, drops her to her knees before him. Her tearstained face renews his flagging arousal, and he tugs frantically at himself at the sight of her wide, overwhelmed eyes.

“Finish me,” he snarls.

He throws his head back with a moan as the girl takes him in her mouth, choking him down eagerly. Grasping onto her hair, he pulls her further along his shaft, revelling in the frantic spasms of her muscles and the muffled cries that send such delicious vibrations down his cock.

“Fuck—that’s it, girl,” he says, holding her by the scalp and using her with little care. He grunts when he comes, pulsing down her throat and making her swallow him down. When he lets her go, she pulls off him quickly, sputtering and retching.

Still throbbing from the unsatisfying climax, he ignores her, choosing instead to cross the room and take a swig of wine directly from the jug. He mumbles a vague response when she thanks him with scratchy tones. Turning around, he’s amused to see she’s already arranged herself back on the bed, stroking at herself between the thighs with an expression of sultry enthusiasm upon her face as she sells her performance.

In any other circumstance, he’d be perfectly happy to let her continue, let her play with herself until he had hardened again, until he could fuck her into the mattress, or on the chair, or perhaps even pressed over the balcony overhanging the bright city. But tonight, the sight annoys him.

“Get out.”

He tosses a robe over his naked form, enjoying the fear that crosses her face as she takes in his words but making no move to allay her. “You heard me.”

 The whore gathers herself off the sheets, tugging on her threadbare dress.

“W-what of my payment, my Prince?” she asks timidly, and he’d like to be impressed by her boldness—but the whore is boring him, and a bored Targaryen is a dangerous one.

“Add it to the Prince of Pentos’s tab,” He take. another swig of wine. When he observes her still there, making no move to leave, he barks at her. “Well, girl? Are you deaf? Get out!”

She shrieks and runs as he tosses the half-empty jug her way, already mourning the wine as it splatters against the table, across the wall and over the bed. Luckily, the outburst got the girl to leave. The door hangs ajar as he strides over to the balcony and leans against it, staring pensively out at the city. 

Pentos is a lively metropolis. Even at night, the sounds of laughter, drunken fighting, exotic merchants selling exotic wares and the chatter of foreign tongues fills his ears. The scent of rich spices from the marketplace lingers in his nose, a perpetually heady musk that pulses in his skull and sends shivers of half-hearted desire trickling through his blood. A warm breeze rustles from far-off, ruffling the hairs on his arms and legs softer than a highborn girl’s tits.

And somehow, it’s not enough. He wants to scream with the monotony of it all. It should excite him—but it only makes him feel flat, hollow. He’s bored.

“I ran into the girl you were using tonight, my Prince. Did you not like this one?”

“She was fine.” Daemon ignores Mysaria as she rests beside him and idly trails her hand down his exposed chest.

So often, such a motion carries with it the hazard of something proprietary, possessive, a claim upon his person from one far too lowborn to have the right of such importunity. Not now, though. She understands the way of things.

“I worked hard to procure her for you. Valyrian stock is difficult to come by, even in Pentos.”

“She was no Valyrian.”

He pushes her hand away and walks back inside, cursing himself for doing away with the wine so early. It may be shit, but at least it gets me drunk well enough.

Collapsing on the chair, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, hoping the woman will give up quickly.

“What ails you this evening, Daemon?”

Fuck. He glances back up at her, abjectly noticing her concern for him etched in her features. She is beautiful this evening, his whore, sumptuous frame garbed in blood-red and mysterious eyes lined in thick kohl.

She treads forward, standing before him and placing her hand upon his crown. “You have been unlike yourself all afternoon.”

The urge to fight drains from him. He jerks his head towards the nearby desk where the source of all his issues lay opened, waiting for a new reader to claim the words upon its pages. He says nothing as she saunters over to read its contents—merely resumes staring at the back of his own eyelids, listening to the sound of the parchment ruffle as she adjusts it.

“The Princess Rhaenyra has been delivered of another son—Joffrey, of House Velaryon.”

The sound of the words spoken aloud is enough to bring his anger back. Mine, that should be my son, not that pillowbiter’s or that fucking Strong cunt—

“Oh—and your little niece has begun receiving suitors.”

Daemon pauses in his tirade. He hadn’t noticed that little piece of news upon first reading Viserys’s letter.

“Which one?” he asks her. There’s three now, isn’t there? Or is it four?

“The second one,” Mysaria says.

An echoing indignation throbs through him. Not my girl, my sweetling, she is too young—

You were a child when he was exiled for the final time, having at last outlived Viserys’s seemingly infinite patience with that business with Rhaenyra.

Fucking is a pleasure, you see; for the woman as it is the man.

He swallows at the memory, at the sting of thinking of her hooded eyes and parted lips, the smooth suppleness of her collarbone as he’d unbuttoned that ridiculous longshirt, her sighs and the feel of her wet between slender thighs—

No. It’d only make him angry again.

He turns his contemplations back to where it is safe. Back to you, his little princess. If his memories of Rhaenyra are tainted by the years of lust and longing and the chance of a love thwarted long ago, then you remain perhaps the only pure thing from his youth. Purity. ‘Tis fitting, surely. There had always been an innate innocence to you that none other had possessed, a profound incorruptibility that evoked some long-repressed desire to be something more than the rogue he was.

He’d never really fathomed where you’d found such goodness in a world made for depravity and destruction. Rhaenyra was easy enough to understand—she’d been a reflection of himself, like looking into a mirror and finding the contents skewed slightly. Ambition, wanderlust, the bite of debauchery lurking below the otherworldly godliness of Valyrian features, concealing their baser natures from the world.  But you—you were an oddity of the bloodline, strangely sweet and yet shrewd, sharp, a hidden fire waiting for fuel to light the blaze.

“Hm.”

Daemon finds himself wondering what you are like now that ten years had passed. You’d be a woman-grown now, or near enough. The knowledge is discomfiting, so bogglingly at odds with the girl of seven summers he had left on the steps of the Keep that night.

“Where are you going?”

“Fu—” He just barely stops himself from voicing aloud the rest of his foul outcry. Whirling around in shock, he keeps a tight hold of the reins. When he sees who awaits him, he sighs. “Go back inside, sweetling.”

Dressed in a pretty little gown of lavender with your hair adorned in ribbons, it is clear that the effect is meant to convey a sense of maturity, a young lady on the cusp of reaching womanhood. Daemon sees the same you he always had; a slip of a thing, wide eyes and round cheeks and spindly little elbows and knees, a tiny doll to tuck away on a shelf, high out of reach of grubby hands.

It is not who he had been expecting. Who he had hoped.

Your brows are drawn, lilac blurred by the tear-sheen collecting on your lashes. “You—Uncle Daemon”—your hands clasp together anxiously—“you cannot leave now! The—’Nyra is going to be married in the Great Hall soon. You have to be there. You said you would dance with me.”

He drops the reins at that. Even after all that—after I’d told her to slip away, to join me—she was still going ahead with it all? He wants to break something, to lash out and cause hurt so that he won’t be the only one to feel so wretched in this moment.

There is none here but you.

Crossing the courtyard and up the steps so that he may crouch before you, he shoves down his rage and his pain as best he can. “Talītsos”—little niece, he calls you, tucking a stray strand of hair back into your coiffure with a tender touch—“the King has asked me to leave. I must do as he says, correct?”

“When—when will you be back?” you ask, lower lip trembling. He is dismayed to see one of those tears fall, misery tracking down your face.

Wiping it away with a thumb, he takes your hand in his and steels himself for his next words. “I’m afraid… I’m not coming back.”

The horror in your expression feels like the edge of a blade carving to his very soul. “But… you promised.” You sound as wounded as he.

He tries to smile. He wonders if it looks as broken as it feels. “I know. If I had a choice, you know I’d stay.”

At that, you sniffle, withdrawing to rub at your eyes. Daemon casts his gaze around, wondering where the fuck your guards are.

Does no one care for Viserys’s second-born?

It mightn’t be the first time you’d slipped out from under the watch of your protectors—you’ve always been too damn quiet, prone to sneaking about and hiding beneath the noses of all who searched for you—but surely, in the wake of a death at the most anticipated event of the season, at least somebody ought to have realised you were missing. He has half a mind to bring you back inside himself, never mind his brother’s orders.

“Will I ever see you again?”

A shout of your name comes from within, far away though drawing nearer with each repetition.  

Good. At least I’ll not be leaving her alone.

His fingers dance across your sleeve, coaxing your hand back into his and squeezing softly. “Kostilus. Kostilus daor. Jēda ivestrilus.” Perhaps. Perhaps not. Time will tell.

You fling your arms around his neck, wet little face digging into his temple. “Aōma ozmijīnna, kepus.” I will miss you, Uncle.

Through the anguish prickling at the insides of his eyelids, he is pleased by your attempt to speak in your mother tongue; true, it is stuttering and uncertain, the vowels not quite shaped as they should be, but it is certainly impressive for one so young.

He can hear your quick breaths punctuated by hitches, a steady stream of half-suppressed sobs pressed up against the shell of his ear. He hugs you tight to him, feels the thud of your heartbeat below the bones of your structured gown and the many layers you’ve been trussed up in, smells the rose oil in your hair and on your skin, and prays that he will remember this always.

Daemon says nothing. There are no words of farewell that seem sufficient. Pulling away, he takes one last look at you—your miserable countenance, below which lingers the glowing loveliness that precursors true beauty, wild silver strands haloed in the moonlight—and hopes that this won’t be the last time you and he meet in this life.

As he leads his horse out of the courtyard, through the open gate and into the city beyond, he finds the sound of your weeping is drowned out by the erratic rhythm of his own fractured heart, roaring in his ears.

“Your brother calls you home, my Prince.” Mysaria startles him from his reverie. He’d forgotten she was talking. “He says it has been long enough.”

“He does, does he?” Daemon sneers even as he wills away the ache in his bones—the ache of remembering you—though it has not the vitriol behind it he wishes for.

If he’s honest with himself, he has been yearning for the familiar sights of King’s Landing. He would never profess to call it home, however. You’d been the only one to make him feel truly welcome in those fleeting visits of his.

Mysaria sighs. “You should go,” she says, and he can feel her eyes upon him from her seat at the desk.

Her words are surprising. If he were to leave, she’d surely lose her position as esteemed guest. Whores were only respectable if they were fucking a man of station, after all—and if he were to depart, where would that leave her?

He asks her. She laughs, and strolls over to him, seating herself upon his lap. His arms go around her automatically, a rote movement ingrained from years of habit.

“Oh, Daemon. I am only here for you. If you were to leave, I would move on as I did when you discarded me last time.”

Her words contain no accusation, and he feels suddenly fond of her. Here is a woman who has no expectations of him beyond money and a good fuck, and he likes to think he’s provided both in abundance over their long acquaintance.

“Will you miss me, pet?” He grins wryly up at her. He’s taken aback by the fact that he is actually considering it, making the journey back to Westeros.

“Of course, my Prince.” They both know it’s a lie. Mysaria is fond of him, ‘tis true, but she has no love for him, nor he for her. It is a mutually beneficial alliance, nothing more and nothing less. “But I shall always be around, should you have need of me once more.” This is true also, he knows.

He considers the notion again. Returning. Going back to the Red Keep, all those fucking people staring at him, judging him with snide faces and side-eyes. That Hightower whore and the progeny she shoved from her dried-up cunt running his brother into an early grave. Rhaenyra and her bastard boys—that shirtlifter husband of hers and that fucking Strong—and you, his little niece, freshly plucked and waiting to be wedded and bedded.

“Well,” he says, already decided. “I do suppose I’m going home.”

The announcement seems to lighten some latent tightness across his chest, and he realises with dawning comprehension that a part of him actually misses his former life. He looks up at his lover mischievously, already reaching up her skirts to slide a finger into her, thumb at her pearl. She gasps and parts her legs for him obligingly, working a hand around her neck to undo the cords that tie her dress to her.

“Fancy a farewell fuck?” he asks.

She laughs, shifting so that she straddles him, batting his hand from her and grasping his cock so that she may sink down upon it. He throws his head back and watches her with hooded eyes as she gives him something to remember her by.

Fuck, he thinks to himself as he fondles her tits, I’ll miss this.

He elects not to warn the capital in advance of his arrival, deciding it is far more fun to indulge in the confusion and alarm that the long-absent sight of Caraxes flying above the city would bring. He’s right, as bringing his mount low as he soars above the people of King’s Landing amasses shouts so hysterical one would think he were an enemy coming to rain dragonfire upon the crowds. It seems they have grown complacent in his absence, an issue he’ll have to remedy.

As he approaches the Dragonpit, he is nearly knocked out of the sky by a great hulking creature. He whips around frantically as Caraxes lets forth a chilling cry. At first, he thinks he sees the Black Dread flying free once more. He looks again and realises his mistake. It is a dragon, no doubt, but this one is much smaller than Balerion had been in his final years—though the colouring is similar—and far quicker and more snappish than the old beast had ever been. It is a fearsome specimen, nonetheless. The sound of its low, booming roar sends a thrill of excitement and terror down his spine.

Now, there is a dragon worthy of House Targaryen, he thinks to himself. The creature is flying away, and out of self-preservation Daemon chooses not to follow it, urging Caraxes back on path to the Pit.

The attendants are swarming as he lands Caraxes, trying in vain to rein him in. Caraxes bellows, having grown used to the freedom allowed to him in Pentos, and Daemon knows his mount will not allow himself to be chained any longer.

“Ziry qrīdrughās!” he yells as he dismounts, calling off the Keepers brandishing their spears. Leave it!

“Dārilaros ñuhys—” My Prince—

“I said, leave it!” Daemon repeats, rounding upon the man and sneering as he bows in obeisance. “He’ll not be chained.”

The Keeper is replying, but Daemon has already moved on. He swings himself onto the horse provided, choosing not to wait for the carriage he is sure has been made available, and makes his own way through the winding streets of the city.

It must be the sight of his foreign garb and the silver of his hair as the sun shines down that attracts the growing crowds. The closer he ventures toward the towering monolith of the Red Keep, the greater the collection of people come to a stop at the sides of the narrow roads, all of them thronging to take their glimpse of the wayward Prince’s return. And yet, as he passes, their curiosity turns to excitement, trepidation, fear—a reception he is not unsurprised to have garnered. No one can outrun their past. The whispers carry him all the way to the Targaryen stronghold, reminding him how just out of place he is.

When he arrives at the steps, a party is waiting for him.

“Prince Daemon!”

Lord Lyonel Strong. Daemon notes with distaste that the man has gotten fat and is now balding. It seems the position of Lord Hand suited him ill over the years.

“We were not expecting your return!”

“I did not send word,” he says dispassionately.

As he searches Strong’s attendants, he notes one that makes him want to pull Dark Sister from its scabbard and stab an eye or two out. Harwin fucking Strong. The man is as noble as ever, a pretty boy made ruggedly handsome with the sprouting of facial hair in his fifteenth year. Since then, he’d been annoyingly good-looking. What a cunt. Daemon smiles, a clench of teeth bared tightly toward the Lord Commander of the City Watch, and nudges past the remainder of the assembled people.

He has to physically restrain himself from cringing when he sees how poorly his brother has fared over the last ten years. While his letters had spoken of illness, Daemon had not been expecting the sight of a gaunt Viserys riddled with festering sores, his hair thready and thin, teeth fallen out and wrinkles that made it seem as though fifty summers had passed. Oh, and the matter of the missing limb. What in the Seven fucking Hells were the Maesters doing if not helping ease the King’s pains?

“Brother?”

The King appears incredulous as Daemon strides into the throne room, a makeshift assembly of high-ranking personages already present in expectation of his arrival.

He averts his eyes from his brother’s form—oh, brother, what have they done to you?—and genuflects, eyes pointed to the floor. “Your Grace. I have returned. I hope I am welcome after all this time.”

“Of course, you are,” Viserys breathes, hoisting himself off the Iron Throne.

He seems not to notice as the action tears at a portion of his sleeve, a thin slice spreading on the skin of the arm remaining to him. The King makes his way down the steps, limb outstretched, and Daemon steps into the hug that is offered to him. In many regards, his older brother is the same. He has not lost his stoutness, and the smell of him is familiar, though it has been overtaken by the stench of herbs and poultices and the rot of impending death. He fights back the bizarre and unwelcome urge to cry. As fraught as their relationship has always been, he had never truly expected—nor intended—for his brother to die.

“Welcome home, brother.”

“I am glad to be back,” Daemon murmurs, and it is not a lie. As the court claps, his gaze raises up, and it’s then that he first sees Rhaenyra again. His chest throbs with the exhilaration of a long-awaited reunion. He’s taken aback by the sight.

Gone is the girl that he’d left in this very same room, adorned in a wedding dress and looking like the Maiden come to life. In her place stands a woman, regal and daunting, though no less beautiful. Her hair is braided up, her waist thickened from the toil of bearing three sons, the arch of her nose crooked by some unnamed past hurt, her eyes closed off and her expression impassive in a way that it had never been before.

It pains him to see her, the same and yet different. He supposes that he had been expecting her to remain unchanged, the pretty maiden with hooded eyes and slender form still waiting for him to return to her someday. This is not the woman he encounters before him, though it doesn’t make her any less beautiful.

But the look of yearning he had been hoping to see—the yearning he had felt in his bones for all these years—is simply not there.

He blurs through the remainder of the afternoon, a never-ending carousel of lords and ladies bowing and scraping before the King’s brother, eager to welcome the Rogue Prince back to Westeros. He cares for none of it. He wishes only to speak to Rhaenyra.

Eventually, they set him free. He is clear to seek out his eldest niece, only to find that she has departed while his back was turned. He goes looking for her, wandering the familiar halls of his childhood and meandering all the way to the Princess of Dragonstone’s apartments.

When he knocks on the door, he hears her voice again, a woman’s voice and not a girl’s. It sets his gut churning lowly, uncomfortably. He opens the door, only to find her back turned to him.

“Uncle,” she says, revolving to face him. Her countenance is blank, save for the soft twist of her mouth as she eyes the wriggling babe in her arms. This must be Joffrey, the new one. “I have missed you.”

Motherhood has changed her—it’s clear even in these first seconds. Gone is the time when her world revolved around him, when her eyes would follow him as soon as he stepped into the room, eagerly awaiting the moment that he would bestow his attention upon her. No, now her gaze falls upon her boy, absorbed by the small snuffles and slow blinks of the child wrapped in blankets and looking up at her.

“Rhaenyra.” He steps forward as though to make his way to her then aborts the notion as soon as it passes through his mind. “You’ve changed.”

He does not mean to be so unfeeling, for his words to be so lacking. It is all that can escape him.

The familiar fire sneaks upon her face at his words.

“Yes, well—ten years will do that, Daemon.” She turns to place her son in the cradle beside her and hushes him as his snuffles turn to whines. He eases at the soothing touch of his mother, softens and quietens, and Rhaenyra steps away. When she looks up at him, her eyes are wet with unshed tears. “You left me. I thought—you said you’d never—”

This spurs him into action. He moves toward her, enfolding her in his arms as he did when soothing her hurts as a child, as he did when she sobbed after her mother’s funeral. She even feels different in his embrace, a being so wholly unchanged and foreign that it sets him reeling, a wheel spinning wildly off its mount.

“I shouldn’t have.” He holds her firm even as she struggles in his embrace. “I shouldn’t have left—”

“Don’t!” She pulls away from him, turning her back on him and wiping her eyes. “I don’t care for hearing platitudes from you, not when they’re too late to mean anything.”

“Is it too late, then?” Daemon asks boldly, stepping into her space. He winds his arms around her, front pressed against her back, resolutely ignoring the rising burn in his chest that tells him something is amiss. He had thought this might reignite the flame from that night, the night he’d been so close to getting everything he’d ever wanted, a pretty Targaryen bride made just for him—and yet, it does not.

“Don’t—”

It is the weakness in her voice, the trembling in his arms that presses him onward.

“Yne ivestrās tolī henumīdēmatan, Rhaenyrus.” Tell me I have been away too long, Rhaenyra.

He presses his cheek against her hair and she shudders at the rolling bass of High Valyrian escaping from his lips, even as he tries to ignore the feeling that this is wrong not the same wrong wrong wrong—

“Uncle Daemon!” Her hand flies to his thigh as he grinds forward, juddering, an action borne of instinct.

Uncle. How many times had he made his whores playact this moment?

Why does it feel no different, here and now?

Spinning abruptly in his arms, she slams her lips against his, a violent clash of teeth and tongue that befuddles him as she presses him back, pushes him against the table. Not one to be conquered, he grasps her hips and shoves her around, driving her against the same edge she’d forced him on as he rips at the front of her dress, fumbles with her skirts to display her stockinged legs. He works at ties to her shift while she grapples with the lacing of his breeches, a frantic, discordant battle to disrobe that is more painful than pleasurable.

Hissing at the chill of her fingers, he grunts as her dry palm squeezes his cock and begins to fist him roughly, too roughly, skin snagging on skin and nails pinching delicate tissue. It is far too aggressive, nothing like the shy, unsure thing he’d imagined she would be this first time.

“Fuck!” He wills himself to remain solid in her grip, to belay the softening that has already begun.

One hand lowers itself beneath her smallclothes, fingers and thumb wiggling around to search for the folds of her cunt, the wetness that lay within, only to find her as bone dry as a Septa. He tugs harder on her shift to expose her tits, hoping the sight will renew him, but they are swollen with mother’s milk, yet another reminder that she is not his, has been taken and made anew by the seed of another man, not his not his not his—

“Fuck.”

He is resigned now, his shaft wilting, and he does not try to think up scenarios to encourage its rise.

The old fantasies of a coquettish maiden Rhaenyra feel distinctly wrong to conjure up here, not when the very being herself is right before him. But she is not enough as she is—he wonders if she would have been enough even if she’d been exactly how he’d pictured—and it helps him realise that this will never be.

She seems to understand as well. Her hand retracts and, as she buries her head in the crook of his shoulder, she cries. Cries the tears of a child waiting for the only man who ever understood her to come save her, to come home; the tears of a girl betrayed by the man she thought she loved, left to marry a boy who would never love her; the tears of a woman who has realised it was all for nothing.

When his arms come around her this time, it lacks any trace of ardour. Daemon hides his face against the crown of his niece’s head and wishes he too could cry.

It was all for nothing, he thinks miserably, the hazy memories of a decade spent fighting and fucking and wishing spinning about his brain so fast it dizzies him. It was all for nothing.

Read the EDITED story on AO3 here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/105698322

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

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