autistic wildflower requester from last year is back for round 2!!
today in my mind: I humbly request female autistic x daemon targaryen — with a twist! what if the girl was a bit more on the brave/feisty side and was the type to constantly be there to defend daemon verbally through thick and thin—regardless of his actions? doomed daemyra… season 2 go CRAZY!!!!
The song inspiration for this one is “Call Boy”! Specifically the version covered by Vivid Bad Squad—and this fan-made MV (⬇️) which has english lyrics baked into it.
Hello, hello! I hope you like it ~ ♡
daemon targaryen x autistic!fem!reader
Summary: You were many things: daughter of a noble house, a woman of sharp wit and a sharper tongue, a storm in the form of flesh and blood. But above all else, you were his. Daemon had been called many things—rogue prince, kinslayer, traitor—but you called him something else: worthy.
No matter what he did, no matter how many bridges he burned or how many enemies he made, you stood at his side, unwavering. You fought for him, defended him, loved him in ways no one else dared.
And for that, you would be hated.
For that, you would burn.
But you would burn together.
There were whispers before you even arrived at court.
“The Lord of House Y/L/N sends his wild daughter to King’s Landing? A fool’s decision.”
“She has no place among nobles—always arguing, always speaking out of turn. The girl has no shame.”
“She’s strange. Unruly. I hear she talks to herself like a madwoman and cannot stomach idle chatter.”
Daemon found the rumors amusing at first—until the day he actually met you.
The feast was insufferable, filled with dullards and sycophants who clung to Viserys like leeches. Daemon sat on the outskirts, swirling his wine, ready to leave—when suddenly, a sharp voice cut through the hall like a blade.
“You dare call Prince Daemon a coward?”
Daemon raised an eyebrow, intrigued, as his gaze fell upon you—a young woman standing tall despite the court’s scorn, your eyes ablaze with fury. Before you stood a fat, pompous lord whose face had gone pale as milk.
“You did,” you snapped. “And now you stand here, quivering like a gutless rat, because you lack the spine to defend your own words.”
The lord floundered, looking to Viserys for help, but the king merely sighed. The court watched in stunned silence as you turned to Daemon, eyes bright with defiance.
“You are no coward, my prince,” you declared. “Cowards are the ones who slander you behind your back because they know they would piss themselves if they ever dared to face you in battle.”
He had found something far more interesting than wine.
From that night on, you became Daemon’s fiercest defender.
When the council called him reckless, you reminded them of his victories.
When the court called him a traitor, you called them spineless fools.
When the gods themselves seemed to turn against him, you remained by his side.
It was a devotion that baffled even Daemon himself.
“Do you truly care so much for my reputation, wildflower?” he asked one evening, sprawled beside you in his chambers.
“I care for you,” you answered simply.
You had never been one for false pleasantries or empty flattery. Your mind worked differently than others—social niceties were meaningless, but honesty? Honesty was sacred.
Daemon had flaws. Gods, did he have flaws. He was cruel at times, violent when provoked, and his ambitions knew no bounds.
And you would fight for him until your dying breath.
Even when Rhaenyra returned to his life.
Even when war loomed on the horizon.
Even when it became clear that love alone would not save you.
By the time Aegon sat the throne, the blood had already begun to spill.
Daemon was restless, pacing Dragonstone’s halls, preparing for the inevitable battle to come. You stood with him, unyielding as ever, while the whispers of war swirled through the castle like ghosts.
“She will not forgive you,” you warned him one night, voice hushed as you stood in the war room. “Rhaenyra.”
Daemon exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She will understand.”
His silence was answer enough.
The truth was, Daemon had doomed himself.
Not because of his ambition. Not because of his rage.
But because, deep down, you both knew the truth:
Daemon Targaryen would always choose himself.
And yet, despite everything, you stayed.
Because you were not Rhaenyra. You were not soft. You were not naïve.
You knew exactly what kind of man Daemon was.
And still, you burned for him.
The last time you saw him was amidst the storm.
The sky was black, the sea raging below, and Daemon stood before you, face carved from stone. You knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.
He sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. “You’re being difficult.”
You stepped closer, jaw clenched. “I will always be difficult when it comes to you.”
Daemon hesitated. For the first time in his life, he looked uncertain.
“I must do this alone.” His voice was softer now, like a confession. “You understand that, don’t you?”
You did. Gods help you, you did.
But that didn’t mean you had to accept it.
“If you leave,” you whispered, voice shaking, “you will not return.”
Daemon smirked. “Have you so little faith in me, wildflower?”
You grabbed his hand—one final act of defiance. One final act of love.
“Promise me.” Your voice broke. “Promise me you will come back.”
Daemon Targaryen, rogue prince, kinslayer, your everything, pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.
Some say he died at Harrenhal. Some say he fell in battle.
You never learned the truth.
What mattered was that, for the first time in your life, you had no fight left to give. No one left to defend.
Because Daemon Targaryen was gone.
And you had been his, but he had never truly been yours.