#endless house

[terrorofthetrident]

“I? What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law. While you flout all to do as you please. Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?”

“All my life, I’ve endeavored to serve both my house and the realm. And somehow none of it matters.”

[exogenetics-symphony]

at the Cereal Convention:

[martyfive]

always hallways

[thevelvetgoldmine]

DREAM OF THE ENDLESS | tranquil fury

[theaceace]

When Burgess summoned Dream, instead of Dream being completely cut off from the Dreaming, instead the magic pulled all of Fawney Rig into the soft places at the edge of the Dreaming, so like Dream still can't get out of the circle and his subjects can't get in but the Dreaming suffers much less and crucially, he still has access to some tiny fraction of his power

So now the whole house and everyone in it is sort of tied to the Dreaming and there's just oodles of magic coming off it, and the house in the Waking and the house in the Dreaming exist sort of superimposed over each other. Like you can be in one and sort of be aware of the other but you can't really flip between the two

And I want the whole thing to operate on a sort of combo between Aladdin in the cave of wonders/Orpheus leaving with Eurydice rules where it's said that if you enter the house in the Dreaming side and manage to find the Dream king, he'll grant you the thing you've been dreaming of, but the catch is you have to believe you have it. You have to leave the house without checking. So Burgess asks for Randall, but he turns to look almost before they're out of the basement because if he were Dream then he would pull a trick (TBF it wasn't actually Randall, just a dream of him, but Burgess couldn't tell the difference anyway because he was a terrible father and you can't change my mind). After that, he never managed to find the basement again. Never even manages to find the dream house again, only the waking one, although he goes mad looking for it

But like. Someone else asks for riches and the Dream king says they can be found the guy's pocket or whatever, but he can't feel anything? There's no weight there, no shape, his pocket seems empty (it isn't when he checks, but as soon as he gets out of the house, yelling about his triumph, it's gone and the house is mundane again)

Alex, who doesn't ask for anything until after the death of his father (and after he murdered Jessamy) asks for peace. For safety. The Dream king says nothing, and Alex lives the rest of his life in the Dreaming version of the house, too scared to step outside in case whatever peace he's found in his personal prison vanishes

Ethel never makes it to the house in the Dreaming . She takes what she wants from the waking, and when she leaves she doesn't look back once

Time passes, and more and more people find their way to Fawney Rig, but as Dream himself said, the great stories always return to their original forms, so no one succeeds because that's how it goes

And then. And then Hob. Hob who finds his way to the house just looking for an answer. Looking for something he can do to make sure his Stranger is there in 2089, because otherwise he might lose his mind with the what-ifs. So he finds the house, and he meets Alex, who hasn't set foot outside the front door in over 80 years except it's a little hard to feel sorry for him when Hob realises why. He meets Paul, who lives solidly in the waking, and hasn't been able to convince Alex that it would be worth it to leave with him. He finds his way down to the basement, finally, and there he finds his Stranger

And at first he thinks? It's a trick? Because isn't that sort of what this place does, it tricks you? But he speaks to Dream, and he gets the rest of the story from him, and the only thing Hob wants to take from this place is Dream. And he's like I want to get you out of here, but I can't because you're trapped in that circle (which for reasons unknown to the author right now but probably has something to do with the nature of dreams and stories can't just be broken like a regular spell circle) and I can't do anything about it and Dream is all you know the story, Hob Gadling. It is a more powerful magic than the binding. Leave, and don't look back, and trust that I am following

(Dream knows the story. He's sure he knows how it ends. But he also knows that it has to be played out, that he has to give Hob this chance - he finds himself, as he follows, weeping silently for his son and Eurydice)

So then there would be the agonising climb and return through the maze of the house where Hob almost looks back a bunch of times, and eventually he makes it to the door and steps out into the bright sun of the waking, and -

End title

[endless-ineffabilities]

don't you love me?

Aemond Targaryen x f!Reader

part one of the prūmia va perzys (heart on fire) series

part two - and what of your love? ▪︎ masterlist

themes: angst, angst, angst, dragonrider!reader (though her house is not stated)

The reader is Aemond's lover, but when the civil war broke out, she sided with the Blacks, supporting Rhaenyra's claim to the throne. One night, she and Aemond meet, and attempt to make the other see reason.

You begin your descent, willing your dragon to lower herself to the ground. You see Vhagar from a distance, and notice that Aemond is already waiting for you below.

He had sent you a letter, requesting to meet in this secluded field, the place so familiar and dear to both of you, where you've spent hours upon hours together.

Aemond, your dearest love. Now, also, your enemy.

When the civil war began, you naturally sided with Rhaenyra, whom you believe to be the rightful heir to the throne. This drew you and Aemond apart, two star-crossed lovers on warring sides. You knew he would never abandon his loyalties, as much as you wish his loyalty to you would be even greater. A reason why you agreed to meet him now, is that you wish to convince him towards your objective. And, well, you desperately missed him.

You dismount from your dragon, your boots roughly hitting the ground. Aemond stands calmly, waiting for you to come closer.

You stop a few feet away from him. He may have been your lover, but you now have reason to be wary of him. He makes no move, staring at you intently, his arms still at his sides.

"Aemond," you say his name, missing the way it sounds.

He loosens his stance a little, "You came."

"Of course I came."

"Hmm," he makes his usual noise, "I didn't think you would."

You take a tentative step forward, still keeping your guard up, "You are still my Aemond."

This breaks him, so he strides quickly to you, and envelops you in his arms.

"My love," he mumbles against your hair, "I have longed for you."

"As I have you, my love," you feel home in his arms.

You break apart, but his hold on you remains, keeping you close.

You move your hand to caress his face, and he leans into it fondly.

"I wish we didn't have to be apart," you whisper truthfully.

"We no longer have to be. You must come with me," he says fervently.

"Come with you?", you ask, confused.

"You must abandon your allegiance with the Black Queen. My brother Aegon is the rightful king..."

"Aemond," you start to protest.

He continues, "He is the rightful king. This was my father's dying wish."

"Aemond, you know in your heart that he would have never wished Aegon be king. His chosen heir has always been his firstborn daughter Rhaenyra. What your family has done is treason! You must listen-"

"My mother swears that those were his dying words," he pulls away from you, "so do you mean to call my mother a liar?"

"No, I'm not saying that!", you start to become frustrated, "but she must have misinterpreted his words. He was barely of sound mind in his final days. He may have been rambling or he may have believed himself to be speaking to someone else."

"So now you insult my father!", his tone grows menacing, and he paces in frustration.

"Aemond, you know me. And you know I have good reason to believe what I believe."

He takes a deep breath, and looks at you, "I will not abandon the rightful cause. I will not turn my back on my family."

Your heart sinks at his words. Although you already expected that this would happen, you still hoped.

You try not to shed a tear, but it's a struggle, as you feel that this may be the end of what you and Aemond have.

"Aemond, please," your voice breaks, and his face falls at your expression. He may be angry, but he still loves you more than anything. He doesn't enjoy seeing you in pain.

"I don't wish to fight you," his voice softens, and he reaches for you once more, "come back with me. Marry me, and be my wife. Stand by me and be my strength, my love."

"Aemond," a tear falls down your face, and he promptly rubs it off with his thumb, "I can't do that."

"Don't you love me?"

"I love you," you say, "I love you."

"Then please, come with me," he gets on one knee, and your heart breaks, "Marry me."

"My love," you lower yourself down to him, taking his hands, and he leans his forehead against yours.

Tears streaming down your face, you kiss him. Using all of your love, you kiss him. He returns the kiss passionately, gripping your face, whispering I love yous, in between.

It takes all of your strength to pull away, and finally say, "I love you, but I have to go."

You can't bear to look at his face, and you don't look back as you walk away, leaving him kneeling on the ground.

As you begin to leave, and your dragon takes flight, you hear him.

Aemond Targaryen raised his head, and screamed desperately and savagely toward the night sky.

You were gone, and so was his heart.

💔💔💔

This was again written in a rush, in a matter of minutes, after watching way too many Aemond edits 🤷‍♀️

I'm so not ready to hate him after the finale...

[sturridges]

TOM STURRIDGE as Dream of the Endless in "Playing House"

[cuubism]

I see your "Dream yelling at Desire because 'how dare you make me have feelings for Hob!!'" and raise you "Dream yelling at Desire because 'how dare you make Hob have feelings for me!!'" because it's the only logical explanation for why Hob would claim to want someone like Dream

[ cat screaming crying . jpg ]

Dream storms into Desire’s realm, steps thudding on the uneven floor, rage propelling him forward. He cannot remember ever feeling such anger, such betrayal towards his sibling, not even when he had learned they were behind his imprisonment.

Desire’s games have always gone too far, but this is beyond trying to teach him a lesson, this is beyond what Dream can reconcile, this is simply cruelty.

“YOU,” he thunders, the air shaking around him as he stalks up to where Desire is lying casually on a chaise lounge as if they haven’t just ripped Dream’s one comfort in this life out from under him. “How dare you.”

“Brother, dear,” drawls Desire, popping a grape into their mouth with not a care in the world, “it is rude to simply fly in without even knocking on the door. You wouldn’t like it if I did it to you.”

Blind with fury, Dream grabs them by the throat and hauls them to their feet. Desire lets out a choked gasp, genuinely startled by his vitriol. Their pulse trips under Dream’s thumb.

Desire cannot be killed through something as simple as strangulation, but it truly is tempting to try. “What,” Dream snarls, grip tightening, “what have you done to Hob Gadling?”

Desire blinks at him, torn from their alarm by confusion. “Whomst? Listen, I know you know everybody’s name and their kinkiest fantasy but I honestly can’t be bothered with the details, you’re going to have to fill me in.”

The rage in Dream’s core only flares hotter. “Enough of this charade, you know exactly what you’ve done.”

“No, seriously, I have no idea what you’re—”

Dream whirls away, leaving his sibling staggering in the wake of his grasp. “Was it not enough?” he demands, staring sightlessly into the gleaming red curves of Desire’s realm. “Was the vortex not enough? Was a century of imprisonment not enough for you?” His voice cracks halfway through, and it’s mortifying. “Truly, your hatred of me is untempered by even the slightest compassion.”

Desire’s voice is quizzical when they next speak. “I am starting to wish I was behind whatever this is that seems to have pierced you straight through the heart. I’m afraid my own arrows have missed that organ thus far.”

“Hob Gadling,” Dream insists, but Desire’s seemingly-genuine confusion has him wavering. It’s not like them not to revel in their own victory, and oh, this has been a victory, Dream feels laid lower than even a century in a cage had managed. “You are manipulating him.”

“Once again, I don’t know who that is. But he’s clearly excellent ammunition so I’m certainly going to find out once you leave.”

Dream flexes his hands at his sides, summoning his control. If Desire truly was not behind this, then he’s already made a mistake in coming here. Best not to offer anything else.

Being in Desire’s realm makes this stoicism difficult. The very space brings emotions to the surface, drags feelings up from his stomach that he’s tried so very hard to tamp down. He tastes blood at the back of his throat, his stomach churns, his skin prickles with sweat.

Desire stalks up behind him, sensing all of this. “Now I am curious,” they murmur, dragging a finger up his shoulder, over the collar of his coat and along the back of his neck. “Now I must know what’s go you so riled up.”

“You think you have earned such things?” Dream says through gritted teeth. His heart is pounding hard and uneven such that it physically hurts in his chest, the weight of the Threshold bearing down.

“No need to earn, you can hide nothing from me here.” Desire circles around him to his front, dragging their finger along his collarbone until it lands right at the base of his throat. They look at him from under their lashes, all smug satisfaction. “You are all tangled up in the realm of Desire, aren’t you?”

Dream moves to storm off, but Desire blocks him, nails pressing into his skin.

“Nah-ah, no running away. Let your little sibling help you, hm? As you may know, I am rather wise in matters of the heart.”

The look on Desire’s face is craftiness, glee, not charity or wisdom.

“I neither need nor wish for your assistance,” says Dream, voice hard. “On this, or any other matter.”

“But there is a matter.” Desire leans in and speaks right in his ear. “I can smell the heartsickness on you, Dream.”

There is nothing Dream can say in response to this. Any denial would only be read as falsehood, for Desire does not lie – of late, Dream feels sick with wanting in Hob’s presence, hunger so sharp it turns over into nausea, much like the first time Hob had pushed him to eat after his captivity. How cruel, then, to have his pain eased, his desires sated by a reciprocation that cannot possibly be truly felt.

There is nothing to say, so Dream doesn’t speak. Silence, of course, is its own answer.

“You know, if there’s one thing I have always admired about you, big brother, it’s your willingness to destroy yourself for the sake of passion,” Desire continues. “You’d think that’d be my sort of thing. Who’ve you lost yourself on this time? Demigod? Demon? Dryad? Vampire?”

Dream glares at them, but does not speak.

Desire’s face absolutely lights up as they realize. “Oh. My. God. Is he human? Dreeaaammmmm, my my, maybe your little time out did change you, after all.”

Dream turns away, refusing to give them the satisfaction of confirming. Though he knows this reaction is also a confirmation.

Desire claps their hands. “Oh! I’m so proud of myself. Look at this! Look at the softness of your heart. Look how I can bruise it.”

Dream’s heart, indeed, gives a painful thump. “Should you dare to touch him, even the old laws will not protect you.”

Desire sighs, flopping back onto a couch, legs crossed, head propped in their hand. “Why bother? You’ll destroy it yourself, and that’ll be much more fun.”

I hate you, Dream thinks, like a petulant child. He hates, also, how any argument with Desire makes him feel that way, feelings crowding at the surface of his skin, throat tightening, mind spinning in a chaotic churn. His muscles clench so hard he thinks they might have snapped, were he human, then he forces himself back into a semblance of ease.

There is no extracting himself from this situation with any dignity.

“Interfere with my affairs again,” he warns darkly, “and I will destroy you.”

Then he storms out of the Threshold.

“Love you too!” Desire calls after him, a grin in their voice. “Good luck with your human!”

--

When he’d found Hob at the New Inn, thirty-three years after he’d meant to arrive, Dream had not known how he might be received. Friendship extended once may not be extended again after so brutal a rejection, and so prolonged an absence, no matter that the latter offense was not within his control.

Being met with a smile, then, and an easy acceptance of his apology, like Hob had already forgiven him long before Dream had stepped through the door, had been a revelation. Something had settled in him that he had not known was knocked askew. Could there, truly, be one thing in his life that was allowed to be easy? Where Dream’s missteps were not met with scorn or vitriol or world-shaking consequences, but with grace and the chance to try again?

It seemed improbable, but still Dream had grabbed for it with cold, shaking fingers. Had held that unlikely flame between his palms. Had watched as it grew, hotter and brighter with each smile Hob sent his way, with each gentle brush of fingers as he pressed cups of tea into Dream’s hands, with the hug Hob finally managed to wind him into, once Dream had told him of the true reason for his absence in 1989.

Hob’s grace, Hob’s generosity in inviting someone, something like him into his home, into his life… Dream did not quite know how to hold it, so unlikely it was. He tried, though, oh he tried. And he swore he would not mess it up, not like he had when Hob had first offered his friendship.

He has now, quite royally, messed it up.

He very much doubts Hob will be so generous this time.

He finds Hob where he left him, sitting on the couch in his flat, a book in his hand. He doesn’t seem to be concentrating on it; his thoughts feel scattered in ragged, disturbed daydreams.

He doesn’t even startle when Dream materializes next to him. Though he knows it can be startling to humans, Dream has not been able to break himself of just appearing where he needs to – traversing the long way from point to point is not how he works. But aside from the occasional, teasing, I have a door, you know, Hob never truly complains about these disturbances to his day.

Dream means to offer him an apology. To say, I should not have walked out when you said that you loved me. To say, I am supposed to be better, I am trying to be better.

Instead, just as Hob looks up, the words that trip out of Dream’s mouth, pushed by the flurry of Desire’s realm still pounding within him, are, “Did you speak truly, Hob Gadling?”

Which is a ridiculous question. Dream does not think he has ever heard Hob speak a lie. Still, Dream must have the answer.

Hob’s expression shifts through several incarnations, none of which Dream feels capable of reading. Finally, it settles on the same soft, exasperated understanding Dream remembers being presented with when he’d said, I know thirty years is truly quite late, at their reunion, before he’d told Hob why he was late.

Grace, then. He is to be offered grace, again.

His emotions are still so close to the surface that he has to physically swallow down what he feels about that.

“Of course, I did,” Hob says, and there’s a hint of nerves in it, but he pushes through, he always does. “I wouldn’t lie to you about that.”

His gaze is genuine, open, and no, Desire had not lied – Hob’s feelings are no manipulation of theirs. And while it is tempting to search for other answers, spells or illusions or any number of other causes, Dream knows, deep down, that he will come up empty.

Hob’s feelings are true, are his truth, confounding though that is.

Dream no longer feels capable of holding any of this in his hands.

Instead, he kisses him.

It’s like he is pulled forward by a force outside his own body. He goes to Hob like he had gone to the sugar in the tea Hob had made him, that night at the inn when Dream had first realized how long it had truly been since he’d eaten; he goes to him like he had gone back to the Dreaming after being freed, returning home breathless, lost, changed.

Hob catches him against his mouth, hands cradling Dream’s face. His grip is solid and warm, and he kisses Dream like he looks at him like he speaks to him, with a care Dream hardly knows how to accept. He leans into it anyway, he leans in.

“I wasn’t fishing for a kiss when I said that, you know,” Hob says when they part, still lingering close enough that Dream can feel his heat, his breath. “I meant it in more of— well, that way, for certain, but really, any way you wanted to take it.”

“Any way,” Dream repeats, not sure he comprehends Hob’s meaning.

“Yeah, you—” Hob cuts himself off, letting out a breath, thinking. His hands slide from Dream’s face down to his shoulders, and he holds him there. “I. You just. I want you to know that you’re loved. Not demanding anything of it. Just telling you. Take it however serves you best.”

Dream stares at him, his whole being tripped and restarted at a new rhythm, and Hob gives him a sad smile.

“It’s too big to hold,” he says, and taps his chest. “In here. And besides, I wanted you to have it.”

Dream had had it. Only he hadn’t quite known what he had. The sunshine of Hob’s smiles, sustaining him, a bridge between distant points of light.

Finally, he manages to say, “I felt it. You have been my succor. My… only.”

Hob has captured him more effectively than Burgess’s snare, but this capture is not a prison. It hurts, oh, it aches, but it never wounds.

Hob smiles at him again. There’s still something pained in the creases around his eyes. “I know.”

He’s still touching Dream. His hands run over him, up his neck, over his throat, along his collarbone, and—

catch, on the collar of his shirt, above his heart.

“What happened?”

His voice is tight, now, worried, and— yes. There are bruises on Dream’s chest, crawling up over his breastbone. He had felt them form, and hadn’t stopped them.

Hob’s expression darkens further the longer he looks; he drags the collar of Dream’s shirt down, trying to see how far the damage spreads. “You’ve got bruises all over you. Dream, what happened?”

What happened is Dream stood in the Threshold and his heart beat so hard it drummed right through to the surface of his skin. What happened is it hurt so badly his form shifted to give reason for the pain.

“Desire,” he says, and he does not mean his sibling.

Hob doesn’t seem to understand, but he smoothes a hand over Dream’s heart as if to wipe the bruises away. Dream could will his body to return to its original, unharmed state, but he does not. He lets the blood stay pooled beneath his skin.

Hob sighs, tugging Dream’s coat tighter around him, shielding him from further injury. “Come here, you. You strange creature.”

He pulls Dream in, though he does not have to pull hard. Dream tucks his face into Hob’s neck, reveling in the warm scent of him, woodsmoke from the fireplace down in the inn where they’ve now spent many a long evening, basking in the heat of the flames. Hob’s arms go around him.

Absolution. Dream does not think this is a gift that has ever been granted to him.

“I would also love you,” he says. “If you would accept it.”

“If I would accept it?” Hob repeats. “Darling, your love is a privilege.”

Dream’s heart, in all its bruises and blood, finds rhythm again, and he thinks, though he certainly doesn’t pull away from Hob to check, that his skin clears up partway, too.

[eye-of-the-hawk]

Make your choice, witch.

[idiedlike50yearsago]

Bitches be like "OMG, Gender envy 🤪" and the gender they are envying is just a man with 27 separate mental illnesses.

[ibrithir-was-here]

Been watching OTGW and this silly little idea popped into my head and I had to doodle it quick xD

[sigurism]

Dream of the Endless | Tom Sturridge The Sandman 1.07 -The Doll's House

[aintinacage]

endless paul atreides - part 8

[thevelvetgoldmine]

DREAM OF THE ENDLESS: smiles

[theaceace]

While Dream was hanging out in the fishbowl, a few dreams and nightmares that (like the rest of the Dreaming) think Hob would be the best thing to happen to Dream in a long time and also that Dream has abandoned them all, go and start bothering Hob in the waking world

But because they're dreams and nightmares, it kind of manifests as (usually awful) hallucinations. Specifically of Dream, a lot of the time (look they're trying to get their lord's attention by needling his human, yes it's stupid, no they don't have any better ideas)

And Hob, with the same attitude that's carried him through 600-odd years is like 'well I guess immortal life is already so goddamn weird this might as well happen' and just rolls with the fact that he is having hallucinations now. Learns some coping mechanisms, gets really good at not reacting to them even when horrible terrible things are happening

So when Dream finally does get back and goes to see Hob, he's just like oh cool I'm seeing things again, thought I got over that like ten years ago, ah well got a lecture to finish, better get on with it and barely even glances at Dream

Dream, of course, reacts to this like 🥺 like the sad wet cat he is, but also maybe this is a bad time. His friend is shaping young minds, he's very important and busy, Dream can come back later

So he pops back into Hob's life that evening when most people are, if not asleep, then at least at home. Hob's in the New Inn (of course) but it's quiet enough that Dream thinks maybe Hob will talk to him this time

Absolutely nothing. Like sitting across from a brick wall (and because Dream tends not to be noticed if he wants, and he very much doesn't want to be perceived while he begs forgiveness from a mortal, people's eyes just kind of skim over him, which isn't helping with Hob's assumption that he's a figment of Hob's imagination)

Dream is feeling very, very cold. None of the gentle things he's been saying to Hob have got anymore reaction than his hand tightening slightly around his marking pen (Hob is waiting for something horrible to happen, as it so often used to when he imagined his stranger, and is getting more and more tense the longer it doesn't)

Eventually they're the only ones left, even the bar staff have gone home because it's Hob's pub and he has a set of keys. So finally, FINALLY Hob looks up and is like 'oh, you're still here. We're still doing this, then' flatly

Dream: I thought I might - (he was going to say apologise) Hob: yes alright get on with it, the sooner you start the sooner you can piss off again (thinking this is a vision here to torment him) Dream: ...very well. I understand, and you need not worry, I shall not trouble you further. Only, let me ask, one final time: do you still wish to live? Hob: (well it's never gone down like this before, at least I'm getting some variety in my waking nightmares) what sort of bloody stupid question is that, obviously yes! Dream: I am. Pleased to hear that. Goodbye, Robert Gadling

So off he goes, leaving a bottle of wine that he pinched out of someone's dreams on the table. Hob scoffs, rolls his eyes and goes to bed

And panics the next day when one of the bar staff asks where the super fancy wine came from, and also who his friend was last night, didn't get a good look at him, but I don't think I've seen him before?

There Hob is. Screaming internally, because he's only gone and fucked it all up and now he's NEVER going to see his friend again

(obviously he does, probably because one of the nightmares finally confesses what they did to Lucienne, who tells Matthew, who speaks both fluent Dumb Human and Dramatic Fucker Dreamlord and manages to get the two of them in the same room long enough to talk it out)

[endless-ineffabilities]

without you, I would not be (Daemon Targaryen x f!Reader)

An outsider growing up alongside the Targaryens, the reader is like family. For Daemon, maybe even more. She gets injured one day, and his affections finally come to light.

word count: 1.6k ▪︎ masterlist

themes/warnings: protective!daemon, friends to lovers, fluff, cursing

series coming soon!

Daemon was fuming. He was a collected person by nature, content with allowing chaos to simply unfold, especially if he had a hand in it. But now and again, his fire reveals itself in acts of passion or calculated transgression. The prince, albeit admired by all, has earned quite a reputation that made him intimidating. Powerful. An alluring enigma.

And in that moment, as he rushedly strode through the hallways, he was beside himself with anger. You had been hurt.

You, the object of all of his affection. His heart’s eternal flame. Not that he ever told you this, of course.

Daemon liked keeping his desires close to his chest. He did not act upon them unless he was sure, and he’s always been sure of you. But for the first time, he was unsure of himself.

He knew what he was, impulsive and dangerous. And you… you were too good for him. Perfect.

All these years, you had grown up alongside Rhaenyra, becoming like a beloved elder sister, and a most-trusted friend and ally. Being an orphaned princess of one of the great houses of Old Valyria, the Targaryens took you under their wing. You became family, almost a Targaryen yourself.

Daemon had also become a close figure, a constant protector and somewhat more than a friend. He liked to press you, infuriate you at times, but you knew it was all out of love. Rhaenyra liked to tease you about her uncle’s apparent admiration for you, but you always pushed it aside.

Surely Daemon doesn’t see you that way. Nearly each night, he had his pick of the finest men and women in the kingdom, the paramour of all those who came and went by his quarters in the late hours. Why would he desire someone younger, someone quite inexperienced as you?

Still, you hoped. Because deny it as you might, you still saw. His lingering gaze, the way his hand gently tightens on your waist, the playful remarks. If it all confirmed what Rhaenyra insinuated, then you wanted him too.

That morning, in one of the combat exercises in the courtyard, you convinced them to let you join in. It has never been customary for princesses to engage in such activities, but you enjoyed them. You enjoyed the rush that swordplay gave you.

This was another reason why Daemon and yourself grew so close. He would train you in secret, away from prying eyes, and over the years, your improvement can mainly be attributed to him.

However, as much of a great swordswoman as you have become, you had been injured that day in the courtyard. You had taken a misstep, which resulted in Ser Criston running his sword over you arm, a long gash running down its side. The Kingsguard hurriedly took him away from you, but you commanded them to stand down. It was a mere accident, after all.

Afterward, you sat in your quarters, being tended to by the maester. Rhaenyra joined you there, too, making sure that you were alright.

“Make sure you sew that nicely,” she said, hovering over the maester, “I don’t want her stitches to suddenly come apart.”

“He knows what he’s doing, Rhae,” you said affectionately, flinching a little at the needle going through, “It should heal quickly, anyway. It wasn’t that deep.”

“We should put that Ser Criston through the ringer,” she pointed out, “Have father conduct a beheading in the next ceremony.”

“Oh yeah, it’s been quite a long time since the last beheading. We have been left wanting,” you smile, going along with it.

A moment passes, and when you see the shocked expression on the maester’s face, the both of you exploded into a fit of laughter.

This was how you and Rhaenyra always have been. Two mischievous peas in a pod. Sisters, truly, not by blood but in heart.

Suddenly the doors flew open, putting a pause on the light-hearted moment. Daemon stood there, his expression unreadable.

“Dear uncle,” Rhaenyra greeted him.

He said nothing, and walked over to you, letting his fingers gently drift across your arm.

“The state of it?” He said curtly, not even looking at the maester.

“The wound itself should be fully healed in around three weeks, my prince. Although,” the maester pauses, “the scar will stay.”

“And,” he said, slowly this time, “which incompetent fuck was responsible?” His eyes meet Rhaenyra’s.

“The great Ser Criston Cole, uncle,” she said, mirth in her eyes, “He has been temporarily dismissed from his post, but he should be back with us after a while.”

“Temporarily dismissed?", he breathed out, incredulous, “He should be permanently dismissed from living.”

You let out a laugh at that, glancing at Rhaenyra who raised her eyebrows at you, “It’s okay, Daemon. It was only an accident. I highly doubt a simple injury warrants anything more to be done. Besides, he couldn’t have done anything more to me if he tried, thanks to you.” You reassured him as he moved away, alluding to his guidance in constantly honing your skills in combat.

“I know that, my sweet girl.” He stood gazing out the window, and you realized that he hasn’t met your eyes since he stormed in. But that term of endearment that he assigned to you made you feel warm, and it always has, since he first used it some time ago.

“There,” the maester exclaimed, standing up, “all done. I will be visiting you tomorrow to examine it again, princess.”

“Thank you, maester,” you addressed him, as he bows, and promptly leaves the room.

Rhaenyra sat closer to you, and inspected the stitches herself. Seemingly satisfied, she stood up, “Alright, well, I nearly forgot I have something to attend to in… uh…”

“Now?” you questioned, as she did not mention anything before.

“Yes, didn’t I mention? My father needs me I believe,” she walked to the door, but just before reaching it, she turned to you and winked.

“Rhae,” you whispered, confusion visible on your face.

Before you could add anything, she left, bidding you and Daemon goodbye.

A long silence followed, Daemon resolute in his post by the window.

“Daemon,” you said, trying to get his attention, “what are you thinking about?”

“All they told me was that you were injured. No one bothered to tell me of the extent of said injury, or of your overall condition, or of who inflicted it upon you and how.”

He turned around to face you then, hands clasped in front of him, “That was all – ‘Princess y/n has been injured, my prince.’ That was all I got. The blubbering messenger couldn’t even answer anything I threw at him about it.”

“It’s not anyone’s fault, Daemon. I didn’t even know that you would be alerted,” you said, “I apologize if you had been inconvenienced.” You knew that Daemon had been away from King’s Landing, assigned to facilitate an alliance with one of the houses in the north.

But you didn’t know that Daemon had assigned his people to keep tabs on you, to regularly keep him informed of how you were doing. If anything of any importance were to happen, he wanted to know right away.

And now, it had, all thanks to that fucking Ser Criston. Daemon wanted to take Caraxes and order him to roast that mongrel alive. All because of a simple injury, as you had so kindly called it. He could not even justify it to himself, but he would do it.

He would do it for you.

You did not understand why Daemon seemed so livid.

“Daemon,” you tried to calm him, “it’s okay.”

“No,” he declared, voice rising, “It’s not okay.”

He slowly made his way to you, and kneels, intertwining your hands, and resting them on your legs. “Something happened to you, and I wasn’t here.”

You two had always been close, so you were not entirely taken back by his actions. But this had an unspoken gravity about it. It feels like more.

His white-golden locks fell in front of his face, as he rested his head on your knees.

“Daemon,” you ran your fingers through his hair, admiration rippling through you.

“If something worse had happened,” his grip on your hand tightened, “I don’t know what I'd do.”

Your heart swelled at that. You had the same sentiment towards him. If anything were to happen to Daemon…

“Somehow I think,” you placed a gentle hand on his chin, bringing his eyes to meet yours, “you would be okay in the end. You are a Targaryen, after all.”

He rose, and sat next to you, keeping your hands together.

“You don’t understand,” Your breath caught in your throat, as he stared at you, “Without you, I would not be.”

It was true, as you had perhaps always known.

He has always been your Daemon.

You allowed yourself to bask in the glow of the moment, until he reached for your face, and slowly, glided his thumb over your lips.

He leaned in, and your lips touched. Still at first, but falling into gentle yet needy caresses, your face tightly held in his.

The room seemed to spin, and your injury was forgotten.

There was only him, his lips dancing with yours. This was a dance with a dragon, one whom you would let engulf you completely.

You broke apart, still ever so close, and smiled warmly at each other.

A moment later, he leaned down to place a kiss on your stitches.

“Hmm,” he looked at you cunningly, “well, time to break Ser Criston’s balls.”

You let out a laugh, and his eyes light up at the sound, at the expression on your face, which he has always loved.

“My sweet girl.”

the end