If I Cannot Reach Heaven I Will Raise Hell

King Consort | Rider of Caraxes | "All the world’s a stage, and he never stops dancing with Rhaenyra upon it."

[princevistargaryen]

The Truth Will Set You Free (But First, It Will Make You Miserable)

Starter for @rogue-prince-rising

The courtyard lay quiet, still and bare of snow for the first time in months, but the sky was clear with little flowers springing up between the cracks of stone, and that was enough for Vis.

He sat cross-legged on the flagstones, a small wooden board balanced on his knees. The board had once been the lid of a wine crate, he’d taken it from the stores himself and sanded it smooth with Owen's help. His fingers were stained with pigment—soot-black, brick-red, a thin wash of gold from paints.

A card, a merchant would have called it. A painting, Viserys corrected the imaginary merchant in his head, because a prince should give good gifts and Vis has been unable to think of what his father lacked.

So, a painting lovingly crafted by hand it was.

Violet had given him the idea, she and her siblings had made a combined present. Maybe next year when the twins were a little more grown up they could all make something together for kepa too.

Hugh had carved his father the symbol of their house in wood, and Owen's mother had helped him arrange a present of finely made foreign quill set for his Papa.

Zachery had refused to say anything except that he was keeping it a secret. Very characteristic of him. Vis had been unsurprised even as Hugh and Owen groaned and moaned and eventually moved on to heckling him.

Viserys wanted to paint Caraxes.

He sketched first with charcoal, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. A dragon took shape beneath his hand. Coiled and watchful, wings folded close. He had tried once to draw it roaring and had scraped the whole thing clean because of his lack of skill.

Art was perhaps not his strongest suit. Vis probably should have thought of that before he started this.

Instead Vis painted The Blood Wyrm resting at ease. Not in the pit, but somewhere it was green and pretty and blessed with eternal spring.

This was the second painting that he was planning to give to someone. The first one had been for Zach but– no one had known— and Vis had been so unhappy at the time and in turn made Zachery so unhappy that he had decided to command Vermithor to burn the half finished art and instead presented some impersonal gifts for Zach's squiring instead.

Viserys blinked harshly, and swiftly wiped away a stray tear. In his distraction over memories he failed to notice the footsteps behind him.

[rogue-prince-rising]

The yard lay nearly empty by the time the bell tolled the end of drills.

Its sound rang thin and sharp through the heat, a single clear note that struck the stone walls and rebounded once before dissolving into the open sky. The last of the squires dragged battered targets toward the armory, shoulders bowed with the stubborn pride of boys who would rather bleed than admit exhaustion. Older knights lingered in knots, peeling sweat-darkened gloves from aching hands, flexing stiff fingers as they laughed too loudly at jests that barely qualified as such. Steel rang against iron racks. Leather creaked. Boots scraped over flagstone. With every step, dust stirred and rose, catching the sun and hanging in the air like a veil of gold, softening the hard edges of the courtyard until even the Keep itself seemed momentarily gentled by the light.

Daemon moved through it with restless energy still thrumming in his arms.

Anger sat coiled inside him, familiar as an old scar that ached when pressed. The council chambers had flayed him raw. Lords gnawing at grievances older than their grandsires, posturing and circling, mistaking obstruction for strength while Rhaenyra bore the weight of the realm with a calm they did not deserve. If Daemon had been permitted, he would have scattered them like frightened deer, hunted their arrogance through hall and hearth alike. Let them learn what it meant to be prey. Let them feel, just once, the cost of sharpening their teeth on the Iron Throne.

Rhaenyra would rule in peace if the rot were cut away at the root.

He breathed out through his teeth and turned toward the Keep instead. He knew himself well enough to know where unchecked fury led. He had walked that road before and left corpses in his wake. He would not let anger choose his steps today.

That was when he saw Viserys.

The boy sat cross-legged on the warm flagstones near the edge of the yard, tucked away where the shadows of a half-collapsed arch met the sunlight. Pale hair fell into his eyes, catching the gold of the afternoon. A thin wooden board rested against his knees, one corner nicked and worn smooth by use. His hands were smeared with pigment, he leaned over his work with the fierce concentration of a child wholly absorbed in creation, lips parted slightly, brow furrowed in solemn seriousness.

Daemon stopped.

The sounds of the yard receded, fading until the clatter of steel and laughter of knights felt distant, unreal. The world narrowed to that quiet, intent figure at its center. Something in Daemon’s chest tightened.

A painting.

His mouth twitched despite himself. Gods above and below. He had forgotten.

Father’s Day. The celebration that still sat strangely on his tongue, never quite fitting the shape of his mouth. As a boy, he had despised it. Each year another chance to fail, another offering laid carefully at his father’s feet only to be weighed, measured, and found wanting. Nothing had ever been freely given in that household—not praise, not affection, not love. Approval had been currency, earned through obedience and excellence, and even then it came grudgingly, if at all. Daemon had learned early that longing was a weakness best hidden, and later still that the simplest way to survive was to stop hoping entirely.

And yet.

Here was his son, offering without calculation. Creating not because he was commanded to, nor to secure favor, but because he wanted to give. Because something in him had stirred and demanded form.

Daemon felt the tightness in his chest ease, just a fraction, even as guilt threaded through it like wire. He was glad that his children would never know that gnawing hunger. Glad that this day would be a celebration for them, not a trial. Glad that love in this household flowed freely, unmeasured and unearned, as natural as breath. He had sworn that vow silently the day each of them had been placed in his arms, red and squalling and impossibly small.

He took a few quiet steps closer, careful not to break the spell.

The painting resolved itself beneath his gaze. Caraxes, scales rendered in deep crimson and shadowed black. Its wings were folded close to its body, not flared in threat but resting, patient. The eye was half-lidded, intelligent, ancient. Behind it stretched a wash of green and gold, hills rolling beneath a bright, open sky—a world untouched by winter, by war, by fear. The Blood Wyrm, yes, unmistakable in form and spirit. But not the terror sung of in taverns or whispered of by enemies.

This dragon was at peace.

Daemon swallowed hard.

It was a child’s understanding of something vast and terrible and beloved all at once. A creature capable of ruin choosing stillness instead.

Viserys’ shoulders hitched suddenly.

Daemon saw the way the boy blinked hard, the too-quick swipe of a sleeve across his cheek, as if he might erase the emotion as easily as he wiped away paint.

This was the moment where men like his father had turned away. The moment they pretended not to see, not to notice the vulnerability offered so plainly. The moment they chose distance, because softness demanded a response, and that response required courage of a kind they did not possess. Daemon felt the old instinct rise in him, the reflex to stand apart, to armor himself against the danger of feeling too much.

He crushed it.

He knew exactly where that road led.

He had grown up amid the wreckage of men who disengaged and called it duty. Men who mistook coldness for strength and severity for virtue. Men who abandoned their emotional posts and congratulated themselves on their restraint. Daemon did not trust that impulse in himself. He did not trust his own avoidance any more than his appetite for violence. He had seen what such men built, and it was hollow, brittle, and cruel.

So instead of asking what he wanted in that moment, he asked the question he had taught himself to ask in blood and loss:

What kind of man does this choice make me, in the long years to come?

The answer came without embellishment.

He stepped forward and lowered himself onto the stone beside his son. The flagstones were warm beneath him, heat seeping through leather and cloth alike. He sat close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, close enough for Viserys to feel his presence without being startled. Daemon leaned in slightly, studying the painting with open, unguarded attention. There was nowhere else in the Seven Kingdoms he would rather be.

“Beautiful,” he said softly.

Daemon let his arm slide around Viserys’ shoulders, drawing him in without pause or uncertainty. Daemon bowed his head and pressed his cheek briefly to the boy’s pale hair. How lucky he was to be loved.

The courtyard continued to exist around them, but for Daemon, the world had narrowed to this small, sunlit space. To pigment-stained hands. To a dragon at rest. To the quiet certainty that whatever storms gathered beyond the Keep’s walls, this was something he would never abandon.

“I’ll hang it in the gallery where everyone can see what my son has made.” He reached up and ruffled Viserys’ hair, deliberately undoing its careful order. “The greatest artist in the Seven Kingdoms, I think.”

Daemon went on, his mouth quirking up in a smile.

“And we should show it to Caraxes,” he added, eyes glinting. “Let him know how handsome he looks when he isn’t setting the world aflame. What do you say, hm?”

[princevistargaryen]

Vis did not pull away or pretend he had not been crying. He had tried that before, with other things, other times, and it had never worked anyway. His father always knew, in the way that he always seemed to know— always. The way you knew the direction of wind.

The arm came around his shoulders and Viserys went with it without thinking, folding into his father's side. His father's cheek pressed briefly to his hair, and Vis shut his eyes. He was thirteen. He had fought a practice bout this morning and only lost twice. He was fine.

"You weren't supposed to see it yet," Viserys said, and his voice only wavered a little. He turned the board carefully on his knees, studying a patch near the wing where the red had bled slightly into the blue of the sky. He had been agonizing over that particular flaw for the better part of an hour. "The surprise is ruined. And I'm not the best painter. Edwyle Arryn was."

Though even as he said it he found he didn't mind quite so much as he thought he would. Kepa clearly seemed charmed. Kepa said the painting was beautiful.

He considered it seriously. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, terror of the sisters and veteran of actual wars, peering down at a child's painting of himself.

Vis thought about the long sinuous neck craning forward. The slitted eye going very wide and then very narrow. That eye had been drawn and redrawn five times.

"He will be insufferable about it," Viserys finally decided, laughing a little and forgetting about his previous tears and worries. "He already thinks highly of himself."

"And besides." Vis turned the card over once, examining it.

"I should paint Vermithor," he said, as if this had only just occurred to him, which it mostly had. "He'll be furious if he finds out Caraxes has a portrait and he doesn't."

He paused, looking at his hands again. The soot-black pigment had gotten into the creases of his knuckles. He was going to be finding red stains for days.

"I'll need more paint," he added, practical. "And a bigger board. Vermithor takes up considerably more space."

[rogue-prince-rising]

Daemon had been braced for tears and hurt and that familiar ache of seeing his child doubt himself, and somehow they had arrived at Caraxes being insufferable.

Which, in fairness, was entirely accurate.

His arm tightened once around Viserys’ shoulders, not enough to hold him in place, only to feel the small solid reality of him there beside him. He had been growing faster than Daemon liked. There had been a time not so long ago when Viserys had fit entirely against his chest with room to spare. Now knees and elbows seemed forever lengthening, voice beginning to dip unexpectedly into deeper notes before climbing back up again as though uncertain what shape it wished to take.

Still his son. Still paint beneath his fingernails and laughter caught in his throat.

Daemon leaned slightly to look down at the card in Viserys’ hands again, studying that faint place where the colors had bled together.

“It’s a lovely surprise nonetheless,” his fingers lifted, brushing lightly against the edge of the painting rather than touching the wet pigment itself. “For the record, I think Edwyle Arryn can go to the Seven Hells.”

Daemon said it with complete seriousness for perhaps half a heartbeat before the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“You painted this,” his hand reached down and turned one soot-darkened knuckle upward with his thumb, examining the stains pressed into the creases of Viserys’ skin. Evidence of work. Evidence of care. “You sat here for hours worrying over every line and color because you wanted to give me something beautiful.”

He looked back at the painting again.

“No one else in the world could have made me this one.”

Daemon lowered his voice as though imparting some grave state secret, trying not to laugh at the mention of Vermithor.

“Vermithor will be furious. He’ll hear of this. Dragons always do.” A pause. “Caraxes will tell him himself, of course. Smug bastard.”

Viserys’ practical addendum about paint and larger boards finally arrived, and Daemon looked down at the black and red smears on his son’s hands before glancing toward the Keep as if calculating military logistics.

“Mm.”

Very grave.

“Yes. A larger board and more paint.” Another thoughtful pause. “Possibly an entire room.”

He looked back at Viserys, expression softening as his hand came up to push pale hair gently back from the boy’s forehead.

“Paint every dragon in the world if you wish. We’ll find room for every last one.”

[princevistargaryen]

The Truth Will Set You Free (But First, It Will Make You Miserable)

Starter for @rogue-prince-rising

The courtyard lay quiet, still and bare of snow for the first time in months, but the sky was clear with little flowers springing up between the cracks of stone, and that was enough for Vis.

He sat cross-legged on the flagstones, a small wooden board balanced on his knees. The board had once been the lid of a wine crate, he’d taken it from the stores himself and sanded it smooth with Owen's help. His fingers were stained with pigment—soot-black, brick-red, a thin wash of gold from paints.

A card, a merchant would have called it. A painting, Viserys corrected the imaginary merchant in his head, because a prince should give good gifts and Vis has been unable to think of what his father lacked.

So, a painting lovingly crafted by hand it was.

Violet had given him the idea, she and her siblings had made a combined present. Maybe next year when the twins were a little more grown up they could all make something together for kepa too.

Hugh had carved his father the symbol of their house in wood, and Owen's mother had helped him arrange a present of finely made foreign quill set for his Papa.

Zachery had refused to say anything except that he was keeping it a secret. Very characteristic of him. Vis had been unsurprised even as Hugh and Owen groaned and moaned and eventually moved on to heckling him.

Viserys wanted to paint Caraxes.

He sketched first with charcoal, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. A dragon took shape beneath his hand. Coiled and watchful, wings folded close. He had tried once to draw it roaring and had scraped the whole thing clean because of his lack of skill.

Art was perhaps not his strongest suit. Vis probably should have thought of that before he started this.

Instead Vis painted The Blood Wyrm resting at ease. Not in the pit, but somewhere it was green and pretty and blessed with eternal spring.

This was the second painting that he was planning to give to someone. The first one had been for Zach but– no one had known— and Vis had been so unhappy at the time and in turn made Zachery so unhappy that he had decided to command Vermithor to burn the half finished art and instead presented some impersonal gifts for Zach's squiring instead.

Viserys blinked harshly, and swiftly wiped away a stray tear. In his distraction over memories he failed to notice the footsteps behind him.

[rogue-prince-rising]

The yard lay nearly empty by the time the bell tolled the end of drills.

Its sound rang thin and sharp through the heat, a single clear note that struck the stone walls and rebounded once before dissolving into the open sky. The last of the squires dragged battered targets toward the armory, shoulders bowed with the stubborn pride of boys who would rather bleed than admit exhaustion. Older knights lingered in knots, peeling sweat-darkened gloves from aching hands, flexing stiff fingers as they laughed too loudly at jests that barely qualified as such. Steel rang against iron racks. Leather creaked. Boots scraped over flagstone. With every step, dust stirred and rose, catching the sun and hanging in the air like a veil of gold, softening the hard edges of the courtyard until even the Keep itself seemed momentarily gentled by the light.

Daemon moved through it with restless energy still thrumming in his arms.

Anger sat coiled inside him, familiar as an old scar that ached when pressed. The council chambers had flayed him raw. Lords gnawing at grievances older than their grandsires, posturing and circling, mistaking obstruction for strength while Rhaenyra bore the weight of the realm with a calm they did not deserve. If Daemon had been permitted, he would have scattered them like frightened deer, hunted their arrogance through hall and hearth alike. Let them learn what it meant to be prey. Let them feel, just once, the cost of sharpening their teeth on the Iron Throne.

Rhaenyra would rule in peace if the rot were cut away at the root.

He breathed out through his teeth and turned toward the Keep instead. He knew himself well enough to know where unchecked fury led. He had walked that road before and left corpses in his wake. He would not let anger choose his steps today.

That was when he saw Viserys.

The boy sat cross-legged on the warm flagstones near the edge of the yard, tucked away where the shadows of a half-collapsed arch met the sunlight. Pale hair fell into his eyes, catching the gold of the afternoon. A thin wooden board rested against his knees, one corner nicked and worn smooth by use. His hands were smeared with pigment, he leaned over his work with the fierce concentration of a child wholly absorbed in creation, lips parted slightly, brow furrowed in solemn seriousness.

Daemon stopped.

The sounds of the yard receded, fading until the clatter of steel and laughter of knights felt distant, unreal. The world narrowed to that quiet, intent figure at its center. Something in Daemon’s chest tightened.

A painting.

His mouth twitched despite himself. Gods above and below. He had forgotten.

Father’s Day. The celebration that still sat strangely on his tongue, never quite fitting the shape of his mouth. As a boy, he had despised it. Each year another chance to fail, another offering laid carefully at his father’s feet only to be weighed, measured, and found wanting. Nothing had ever been freely given in that household—not praise, not affection, not love. Approval had been currency, earned through obedience and excellence, and even then it came grudgingly, if at all. Daemon had learned early that longing was a weakness best hidden, and later still that the simplest way to survive was to stop hoping entirely.

And yet.

Here was his son, offering without calculation. Creating not because he was commanded to, nor to secure favor, but because he wanted to give. Because something in him had stirred and demanded form.

Daemon felt the tightness in his chest ease, just a fraction, even as guilt threaded through it like wire. He was glad that his children would never know that gnawing hunger. Glad that this day would be a celebration for them, not a trial. Glad that love in this household flowed freely, unmeasured and unearned, as natural as breath. He had sworn that vow silently the day each of them had been placed in his arms, red and squalling and impossibly small.

He took a few quiet steps closer, careful not to break the spell.

The painting resolved itself beneath his gaze. Caraxes, scales rendered in deep crimson and shadowed black. Its wings were folded close to its body, not flared in threat but resting, patient. The eye was half-lidded, intelligent, ancient. Behind it stretched a wash of green and gold, hills rolling beneath a bright, open sky—a world untouched by winter, by war, by fear. The Blood Wyrm, yes, unmistakable in form and spirit. But not the terror sung of in taverns or whispered of by enemies.

This dragon was at peace.

Daemon swallowed hard.

It was a child’s understanding of something vast and terrible and beloved all at once. A creature capable of ruin choosing stillness instead.

Viserys’ shoulders hitched suddenly.

Daemon saw the way the boy blinked hard, the too-quick swipe of a sleeve across his cheek, as if he might erase the emotion as easily as he wiped away paint.

This was the moment where men like his father had turned away. The moment they pretended not to see, not to notice the vulnerability offered so plainly. The moment they chose distance, because softness demanded a response, and that response required courage of a kind they did not possess. Daemon felt the old instinct rise in him, the reflex to stand apart, to armor himself against the danger of feeling too much.

He crushed it.

He knew exactly where that road led.

He had grown up amid the wreckage of men who disengaged and called it duty. Men who mistook coldness for strength and severity for virtue. Men who abandoned their emotional posts and congratulated themselves on their restraint. Daemon did not trust that impulse in himself. He did not trust his own avoidance any more than his appetite for violence. He had seen what such men built, and it was hollow, brittle, and cruel.

So instead of asking what he wanted in that moment, he asked the question he had taught himself to ask in blood and loss:

What kind of man does this choice make me, in the long years to come?

The answer came without embellishment.

He stepped forward and lowered himself onto the stone beside his son. The flagstones were warm beneath him, heat seeping through leather and cloth alike. He sat close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, close enough for Viserys to feel his presence without being startled. Daemon leaned in slightly, studying the painting with open, unguarded attention. There was nowhere else in the Seven Kingdoms he would rather be.

“Beautiful,” he said softly.

Daemon let his arm slide around Viserys’ shoulders, drawing him in without pause or uncertainty. Daemon bowed his head and pressed his cheek briefly to the boy’s pale hair. How lucky he was to be loved.

The courtyard continued to exist around them, but for Daemon, the world had narrowed to this small, sunlit space. To pigment-stained hands. To a dragon at rest. To the quiet certainty that whatever storms gathered beyond the Keep’s walls, this was something he would never abandon.

“I’ll hang it in the gallery where everyone can see what my son has made.” He reached up and ruffled Viserys’ hair, deliberately undoing its careful order. “The greatest artist in the Seven Kingdoms, I think.”

Daemon went on, his mouth quirking up in a smile.

“And we should show it to Caraxes,” he added, eyes glinting. “Let him know how handsome he looks when he isn’t setting the world aflame. What do you say, hm?”

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

Feeding Bridegrooms to Dragons.

(Starter for @rogue-prince-rising)

Aemond had started working in the council chambers, large, full of light, and warm. There was more room here too, the large council table was a good place to spread out papers and letters that had been sent to him and needed to be discussed.

He had sent his steward ahead with all his paperwork, stopped to visit a couple people he needed to speak to, and then made his way down to the council chamber. He folded his cloak over the back of his chair and sat, spreading papers across the table as he began to create the itinerary for the Council meeting for midday. He was trying to spend less time cooped up in his own chambers, since he was actually here to do the Queen's bidding as her Hand.

He was also trying to keep himself busy, to keep his mind off the impending wedding. Every day, it drew closer.

He wasn't rethinking. He adored Rhaena. The prospect of being married to her was not what gave him so much pause.

It was the concept of being married at all.

The closer the day came, the greater Aemond's anxiety grew.

He felt like he was in two different places, half here, half in the future. He'd been working on Rhaena's wedding gift for months now, imagining what their life would be like once they were settled, once she was his wife, once they had a life together that was theirs. He had grown into the role of Prince-Hand. Could he grow into the role of husband? Of father, when Rhaena decided it was time for them to have a child of their own? Did he have time? Was he prepared for this at all?

Was being a shit husband and father in his blood ? he wondered. Was he doomed to repeat the mistakes of Viserys Targaryen? Of Otto Hightower? Of Jaehaerys I with his children?

He shakes his head when he hears the door opening, and is fully expecting another council member. He did need to speak to Aegon about a couple events coming up anyway..

It was Daemon.

"Good morning, Uncle." He says, scribbling another couple notes onto the margins of a list he was making. He looks up at Daemon, smirking slightly. "You're early for council today."

[rogue-prince-rising]

Daemon had first been spoken to of marriage at six years of age, when Prince Baelon chanced upon him at a feast, tugging a lady’s braid with all the mischief of a boy who thought himself a knight.

"One day you shall wed, and a man owes great respect to his lady wife," Baelon told him, his voice clipped as if the lesson were to be etched into the marrow of the child’s bones. "You never know and—" Something had followed, no doubt some sober counsel on comportment and honour, but those words had long since slipped away like sand between fingers. At six, Daemon had heeded but half the speech, his thoughts given over to imagining that braid knotted to his belt as a trophy from some victorious melee.

Years later, when marriage ceased to be an abstract chastisement for poor manners and became instead a duty looming upon the road ahead, it was Viserys who had sat him down for the true talk. The king hadn’t spoken of flowers and doves, or of the pretty pageantry of weddings. He’d spoken of the grind. Of how marriage demanded more than love, more than a fine match in titles and dowries, more even than the duty to produce heirs. It demanded compromise. Patience. The ability to put aside one’s own ambitions for the sake of another person, and sometimes, for the sake of the realm.

Daemon had listened, ill at ease with the knowledge that, for all he fancied himself a man who bent the world to his will, marriage was the one field where the world might bend him.

Now Viserys was gone, and there was no one left to sit the younger ones down and tell them what was coming. Daeron. Aemond. All boys still, in their own ways, even if they’d grown into men’s faces.

He’d thought about giving Aemond the same talk he’d once given Jacaerys before the boy wed Baela: One misstep with my daughter and you’ll be choking on the bottom water of Blackwater Bay. But Jace had been young enough to be cowed by the threat and loved enough to need it. Aemond was different. If Daemon started with the threat, he’d lose him before he could say a word that mattered.

Aemond needed something worse: the truth. The real truth. The kind that left you with no excuses afterward.

Viserys had once told him that he took comfort in knowing his children would have Daemon to guide them. Daemon had found the thought flattering. Now, it was a bitter jest.

He was in a foul mood before he even reached the council chambers, not because the conversation itself daunted him, but because it was a snowy morning that begged for nothing more than staying in bed with Rhaenyra, limbs tangled, warmth shared, the world blissfully forgotten. Instead, he was here, boots crunching on cold stone, to play elder statesman to the Queen’s Hand.

And there Aemond sat, of course, already working. All dutiful, the little bastard. Papers fanned out in neat arcs across the table, lists and notes in that sharp, spare hand of his. If Aemond was nervous about the wedding, he buried it under parchment and ink. Daemon supposed that was one way to cope. Not his way, but a way.

He shut the door behind him and, for good measure, slid Dark Sister through the handles, the steel catching the light like a thin smile. No interruptions.

“I want to have a talk with you,” he began, lifting a hand before Aemond could so much as twitch toward a reply. “And not that talk. The ‘how babies are made’ one. Gods forbid. I’d rather picture you as one of those wooden dolls carved to look like eunuchs.”

He paced a few steps, rolling the words on his tongue before letting them go. “Despite our… differences, I know Viserys would’ve wanted someone to speak to his children before they wed. Someone they could ask questions of, someone who might soothe their fears.” A snort escaped him. "He is gone. And I—" his jaw tightened, "I am what remains."

It was an ill fit, this role. Daemon had never been the gentle uncle, dispensing soft wisdom by candlelight. He was a sword, not a book of advice. Yet even a sword must be held aright if it is to serve.

Daemon pulled out the chair beside Aemond and sat, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed on him with the kind of weight that could smother. “I’ll refrain from threatening you today,” he said, with a small, crooked smile that almost betrayed him. “Marriage is frightening, because duty is frightening. You’re not meant to go into it blind. Ask what you will, and I shall answer, honestly, if not kindly."

And he meant it. Much as it grated, much as he’d rather be anywhere else, he meant it. Because the boy was marrying Rhaena, and Rhaena deserved a husband who walked into the marriage with his eyes open, not stumbling blind into the same mistakes as the men before him.

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

Oh no.

Oh no,no, no.

Aemond heard the sound of drawn steel before he saw it, and his immediate reaction was to stand. He wasn't even sure what he'd done to warrant his Uncle-father by law's wrath today. Last he'd checked, they were almost friendly and had been agreeing on most things brought before them in council. What had he done to warrant Dark Sister's appearance?

He raises an eyebrow at Daemon as he secures the door and comes to sit.

"I would appreciate that, Daemon. I'm fairly aware of how that aspect of marriage works. I do understand how children come about." Aemond says, sitting back down slowly.

He shifts papers, making a face at the mention of Viserys. He had been on Aemond's mind a lot lately. Often sneaking up on him, like a wound that started simply as a pinprick, a droplet of blood on the skin. The more he ignored it, the worse it festered and became a sore he couldn't ignore but did not wish to lance and deal with the infection.

"You're wrong." Aemond says slowly. Remembering vividly how nervous Aegon had actually been before his wedding. "Viserys would not have cared about whether or not I was scared or worried or nervous about going into my marriage. Viserys cared nothing for me."

He looks away from Daemon, drumming his pencil against the table, as if he was thinking, trying to figure out what to say, how to put into words all the things he'd been worrying about. He looks over at Daemon again. "I am afraid." He says softly.

Daemon was not a reassuring figure, he was not a comforting figure.

But Aemond needed to tell someone. He had spoken to Corlys, who had been reassuring and comforting, supportive; a grandfather supporting the young man who would be marrying his granddaughter. But Aemond could not tell him that he was scared.. they were not that close.

But Daemon, in a way, was closer. Was someone Aemond could trust.

"I am afraid." He says it again and it tastes bitter in his mouth. "I'm afraid that I will turn out to be like him. That I will hurt her, or cannot love her enough. Or I will hurt our children, because I cannot love them as I should."

[rogue-prince-rising]

Fear was the sort of thing most men swallowed and smothered, pretending it was nothing but indigestion. Yet Aemond laid it bare, like a wound split open, the words dragged up from somewhere raw.

I am afraid.

Daemon leaned back, studying him with the steady patience one might grant a sparring partner whose guard had finally dropped. So much of Aemond was steel: straight spine, clenched jaw, that solitary eye ever watchful. To see him now, stripped of that certainty, was a different kind of battle altogether.

He remembered himself at Aemond’s age, remembered the taste of restlessness always at the back of his throat, the conviction that he was owed more than the world had yet given him. Marriage had felt like a cage then. A tether. He’d railed against it in silence, even as Viserys had sat him down and, with that maddening calm of his, tried to speak sense. Daemon had wanted to spit in his face, wanted to say he was no child to be schooled. And yet… the words had stuck, burrowed into his bones in spite of him. Even now, decades later, he could hear his brother’s voice telling him that the hardest battles were not fought on dragonback.

“You’re afraid,” Daemon said at last, and the words tasted strange in his mouth. He could see the way Aemond stiffened at it, as though expecting mockery. Gods, he was so much like him in the need to be seen as already whole, already perfect, when inside there was nothing but gnawing doubt.

Daemon leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his hands loose between them. “And you ought to be. Fear is no shame. Only fools walk into marriage without it.” His eyes flicked briefly to the table, to the neat order of Aemond’s papers—lists, figures, decisions all carved out in sharp, spare lines. A boy trying to control what could not be controlled. Daemon had done the same with armies, with fire and blood.

“I was afraid once, too,” he went on, the words dragging out memories he would rather have left buried. “Afraid I’d fail. That I’d ruin what little good there was in me. That my temper would scorch everything I touched. That my wife would wake one day and see only a mistake chained to her name. Afraid of children most of all—afraid I’d be no father, or worse, that I’d become the kind I despised.” He paused, let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Those fears never truly leave you. But they change shape. You learn to wield them, as you would a blade.”

His mind turned, unbidden, to Rhaenyra.

To the way she had looked at him when he faltered, the way her hand had steadied him without a word. To the children he had once thought he would never care for, whose laughter could disarm him more swiftly than any steel. Love had been a battlefield he had not wanted, but one he had come to fight for with every weapon in reach.

“Viserys helped me then,” he said, the words quieter now, almost reluctant. “You think he cared nothing for you, but you are wrong. I’m sure you are. Because I care about you. If I care, I’m sure he cared infinitely more.”

He had to. How could Viserys not?

Daemon’s hand lifted slightly, half a thought to reach across the table, to bridge the gap between them with touch instead of words. But he stilled it, letting it fall again. He had never been the comforting sort, and Aemond was not the sort to welcome it. Words would have to suffice.

“You are not him,” he said, his voice tightening with conviction. “You are not doomed to his failings. The fear you feel is proof of it. Men who do not care, men who are careless, they do not fear. They charge ahead and leave ruin behind them. But you—” His eyes sharpened, fixing Aemond with all the weight he could muster. “You weigh what it means. That is the mark of a man who will not be careless with his family’s love.”

His gaze softened once more, and for the briefest flicker of a moment, he felt less like the Rogue Prince and more like a brother, an uncle, a man who had walked the same road of fear and lived to see the other side.

“You will love her,” he went on. “Perhaps not in the way songs are written of, but in your own way. You will love your children, too. Perhaps not with soft words, but with the hard work of showing up, of protecting them as fiercely as you guard your pride. Do not doubt that. Do not let your fear poison you into thinking you cannot. It is that fear itself that will guide you to be better.”

Daemon leaned forward further, the candlelight catching in his hair, throwing his face into sharp relief. “You’ve already shown courage by putting words to what haunts you. That is more than I once managed. More than most men thrice your age could manage. I tell you this plain: I believe you will not fail her. And you will not fail yourself.”

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

Feeding Bridegrooms to Dragons.

(Starter for @rogue-prince-rising)

Aemond had started working in the council chambers, large, full of light, and warm. There was more room here too, the large council table was a good place to spread out papers and letters that had been sent to him and needed to be discussed.

He had sent his steward ahead with all his paperwork, stopped to visit a couple people he needed to speak to, and then made his way down to the council chamber. He folded his cloak over the back of his chair and sat, spreading papers across the table as he began to create the itinerary for the Council meeting for midday. He was trying to spend less time cooped up in his own chambers, since he was actually here to do the Queen's bidding as her Hand.

He was also trying to keep himself busy, to keep his mind off the impending wedding. Every day, it drew closer.

He wasn't rethinking. He adored Rhaena. The prospect of being married to her was not what gave him so much pause.

It was the concept of being married at all.

The closer the day came, the greater Aemond's anxiety grew.

He felt like he was in two different places, half here, half in the future. He'd been working on Rhaena's wedding gift for months now, imagining what their life would be like once they were settled, once she was his wife, once they had a life together that was theirs. He had grown into the role of Prince-Hand. Could he grow into the role of husband? Of father, when Rhaena decided it was time for them to have a child of their own? Did he have time? Was he prepared for this at all?

Was being a shit husband and father in his blood ? he wondered. Was he doomed to repeat the mistakes of Viserys Targaryen? Of Otto Hightower? Of Jaehaerys I with his children?

He shakes his head when he hears the door opening, and is fully expecting another council member. He did need to speak to Aegon about a couple events coming up anyway..

It was Daemon.

"Good morning, Uncle." He says, scribbling another couple notes onto the margins of a list he was making. He looks up at Daemon, smirking slightly. "You're early for council today."

[rogue-prince-rising]

Daemon had first been spoken to of marriage at six years of age, when Prince Baelon chanced upon him at a feast, tugging a lady’s braid with all the mischief of a boy who thought himself a knight.

"One day you shall wed, and a man owes great respect to his lady wife," Baelon told him, his voice clipped as if the lesson were to be etched into the marrow of the child’s bones. "You never know and—" Something had followed, no doubt some sober counsel on comportment and honour, but those words had long since slipped away like sand between fingers. At six, Daemon had heeded but half the speech, his thoughts given over to imagining that braid knotted to his belt as a trophy from some victorious melee.

Years later, when marriage ceased to be an abstract chastisement for poor manners and became instead a duty looming upon the road ahead, it was Viserys who had sat him down for the true talk. The king hadn’t spoken of flowers and doves, or of the pretty pageantry of weddings. He’d spoken of the grind. Of how marriage demanded more than love, more than a fine match in titles and dowries, more even than the duty to produce heirs. It demanded compromise. Patience. The ability to put aside one’s own ambitions for the sake of another person, and sometimes, for the sake of the realm.

Daemon had listened, ill at ease with the knowledge that, for all he fancied himself a man who bent the world to his will, marriage was the one field where the world might bend him.

Now Viserys was gone, and there was no one left to sit the younger ones down and tell them what was coming. Daeron. Aemond. All boys still, in their own ways, even if they’d grown into men’s faces.

He’d thought about giving Aemond the same talk he’d once given Jacaerys before the boy wed Baela: One misstep with my daughter and you’ll be choking on the bottom water of Blackwater Bay. But Jace had been young enough to be cowed by the threat and loved enough to need it. Aemond was different. If Daemon started with the threat, he’d lose him before he could say a word that mattered.

Aemond needed something worse: the truth. The real truth. The kind that left you with no excuses afterward.

Viserys had once told him that he took comfort in knowing his children would have Daemon to guide them. Daemon had found the thought flattering. Now, it was a bitter jest.

He was in a foul mood before he even reached the council chambers, not because the conversation itself daunted him, but because it was a snowy morning that begged for nothing more than staying in bed with Rhaenyra, limbs tangled, warmth shared, the world blissfully forgotten. Instead, he was here, boots crunching on cold stone, to play elder statesman to the Queen’s Hand.

And there Aemond sat, of course, already working. All dutiful, the little bastard. Papers fanned out in neat arcs across the table, lists and notes in that sharp, spare hand of his. If Aemond was nervous about the wedding, he buried it under parchment and ink. Daemon supposed that was one way to cope. Not his way, but a way.

He shut the door behind him and, for good measure, slid Dark Sister through the handles, the steel catching the light like a thin smile. No interruptions.

“I want to have a talk with you,” he began, lifting a hand before Aemond could so much as twitch toward a reply. “And not that talk. The ‘how babies are made’ one. Gods forbid. I’d rather picture you as one of those wooden dolls carved to look like eunuchs.”

He paced a few steps, rolling the words on his tongue before letting them go. “Despite our… differences, I know Viserys would’ve wanted someone to speak to his children before they wed. Someone they could ask questions of, someone who might soothe their fears.” A snort escaped him. "He is gone. And I—" his jaw tightened, "I am what remains."

It was an ill fit, this role. Daemon had never been the gentle uncle, dispensing soft wisdom by candlelight. He was a sword, not a book of advice. Yet even a sword must be held aright if it is to serve.

Daemon pulled out the chair beside Aemond and sat, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed on him with the kind of weight that could smother. “I’ll refrain from threatening you today,” he said, with a small, crooked smile that almost betrayed him. “Marriage is frightening, because duty is frightening. You’re not meant to go into it blind. Ask what you will, and I shall answer, honestly, if not kindly."

And he meant it. Much as it grated, much as he’d rather be anywhere else, he meant it. Because the boy was marrying Rhaena, and Rhaena deserved a husband who walked into the marriage with his eyes open, not stumbling blind into the same mistakes as the men before him.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

I look at you, and I just love you, and it terrifies me. It terrifies me what I would do for you.

— Alexandra Bracken, Never Fade

[bold-princess-baela]

“I Can’t Wait To See You Again”

Starter with @rogue-prince-rising

✧══════•❁❀❁•══════✧

Dear Kepa,

I do hope things back at home are running smoothly and that Muña has been having a healthy pregnancy. Jace and I have been enjoying our time away from Court and the Seven Kingdoms. It’s been refreshing, this change of airs. Most days, we spend the majority of the day lost in each other’s eyes instead of going out to explore the city. Could you blame us, though? We’re young and in love. I dare say, him and I have been in love for longer than we’ve realized.

He's been the most attentive husband I could ever ask for. He’s been sweet, caring, gallant… well, we both know Jace’s nature all too well. Some days I even think I know him better than I know myself, I suppose.

And you? How’s life been treating you? And Muña, how is she? I hope she hasn’t been having a hard time between the pregnancy and the ruling of the Realm, I know it can be a lot when you put it together, even if it sounds like it’s not too much from the outside. Please, tell me, I need to know from all of you. Especially from Rhaena, I miss her badly.

Farewell, and I hope to be able to send you my next letter soon. Send my love to my siblings and Muña.

All my love,

-Baela.

[rogue-prince-rising]

To my beloved daughter Baela,

Your words brought me great joy, though that is no great feat, as you have ever had a way of lightening even the blackest of moods. It gladdens me to hear that you and Jacaerys are finding happiness far from the scheming and posturing of court. Love suits you, as I always knew it would.

But I write with tidings that will bring you even greater joy: your Muña has been delivered of twins! A boy and a girl, both hale and hearty, with lungs fit to wake the Dragonmont. The birth went smoothly, thanks to the gods, and Nyra is already back to her usual iron will, though she tires more easily now. She rules as fiercely as ever, even from her bed, and the Realm trembles just the same.

You will adore them, Baela. I have held many babes in my arms, you among them, and yet, each time, my heart still races as if it were the first. One day, you will know this feeling for yourself. And when that day comes, you will be a mother as fierce and loving as your own.

Jace was a good lad, and I am pleased to hear he has grown into a worthy man and husband. I never doubted the two of you would find love, even when you were children snapping at each other like untamed dragons. But do not let love blind you to the world beyond your chambers, tala. A dragon should not linger too long in its den. See the city. Bring me back some token—a dagger, a ring, even a cursed Valyrian relic if you must—so I know you’ve ventured beyond your husband’s arms at least once.

Rhaena speaks of you often. She hides it well, but I see the restlessness in her. She misses you dearly. You will have much to tell her when you return.

Give Jace my greetings, and remind him that while I trust his honor, I still keep Dark Sister sharp.

Your dear father,

Daemon Targaryen

P.S.: the twins have my nose. A tragedy, but there is still hope they will grow into it.

[bold-princess-baela]

✧══════•❁❀❁•══════✧

My dear Kepa,

I’m glad to hear everything has been going smoothly back at home. Jace and I will be back soon, possibly with good news to share with everyone. Sorry about the short letter, but we’ve started packing our bags already. Give my congrats to Rhaena on her betrothal and kisses to Muña and my siblings, we miss you all dearly.

Sincerely,

-Baela.

PS: There are greater tragedies than the twins having your nose, but I’ll indulge you for a while and say you’re absolutely right.

✧══════•❁❀❁•══════✧

Being back at the Red Keep felt like a breath of fresh air after being away from the Court for so long. It wasn’t that long, though, it had just been a few months, but it felt like it had been years away from her family. After they were settled back in the Red Keep, and they would be sharing Jace’s quarters, Baela went straight to see her father.

She found him in his solar, reading a book and enjoying a goblet of Arbor red. She couldn’t help herself but to rush up to him and hug him tightly, pouring all the days she had missed him into the hug.

“Oh, Kepa, how I’ve missed you”, she exclaimed as she let go of him, checking if she hadn’t accidentally poured the wine over his book with the excitement she had felt. “I hope I hadn’t missed much, other than the birth of the twins and all that”.

[rogue-prince-rising]

One moment, he was alone with his book and his wine. The next, there was Baela. His fierce, wild-hearted daughter, radiant and breathless as she threw her arms around him. He barely registered the book slipping from his lap, or the wine tilting dangerously in his hand. All he knew was the way her arms locked around him, all that fierce love bundled into a single, stunning moment. Gods, had it really only been a few months?

It felt like years.

Daemon let out a startled laugh, the sound breaking past his lips before he could stop it, before his pride could tame it. He stood and swept her up into his arms with the ease of muscle and memory, turning with her like they used to when she was small enough to ride on his shoulders and demand the sky. She wasn’t that little girl anymore—she hadn’t been for a long time—but in this instant, she felt like both everything she’d ever been and everything she’d become.

He held her too tightly, perhaps. But she didn’t seem to mind.

“Seven hells—!” he cursed with affection, half-laughing, half-reeling. “You nearly made me pour wine all over a first edition, you little menace.”

Still grinning, he set her down gently, though he kept his hands on her shoulders as if afraid she might vanish again. Her smile was sun-warmed and impossible not to return.

She made a jest about the twins, and Daemon rolled his eyes, slipping seamlessly into the familiar banter. But beneath the words, his heart was still thudding. She’s home. She’s safe. She’s whole.

He’d worried, of course. Daemon always worried when he had no control. He had imagined storms, pirates, foreign plots, illness, a thousand different fates that might have swallowed her out in the world. But she stood before him now, glowing with health and stories, and all he could think was how damned proud he was of her. Of the woman she’d become.

He pressed a kiss to her temple. A rare thing, that softness. He was not a gentle man by nature, but his family always brought forth an aching instinct to protect, to cherish, to keep.

“Now. Tell me everything,” he said, folding himself into the chair beside her. “How was your honeymoon? Was Lys as scandalous as they say? Did Jace embarrass himself with the wine, or just with his dancing?”

A grin tugged at his mouth, playful and eager. “You owe me at least three outrageous stories, or I’m dragging them out of your husband myself.”

[rogue-prince-rising]

𓊈 MY BLOOD, MY WRATH 𓊉

(Thread with @aemond-of-house-targaryen)

The hall rang with the easy, careless laughter of men who thought themselves safe—safe from watchful eyes, safe from consequence. The kind of laughter that curdled something sharp and bitter in Daemon’s gut.

He hadn’t been listening at first, still half-lost in the quiet hum of pain that followed a hard day's training, muscles aching in that satisfying way that reminded him he was still alive.

But then he heard the name.

"Aemond."

He didn’t stop walking, but his stride slowed. His head tilted, just slightly, as the words filtered through.

“Would’ve been better if he’d lost his tongue instead of his eye,” one knight muttered, voice slurred with drink and sharpened with cruelty.

Another chuckled. “Aye. Might’ve made him easier to stomach. Damned sapphire’s the only pretty thing about him, and even that looks wrong. Like a doll someone dropped down the stairs.”

Daemon didn’t react. Not outwardly. His gaze stayed fixed on the wine in his cup, the liquid swirling in slow circles like blood down a drain.

“Prince Aemond the One-Eyed,” a third added with a sneer. “They ought to call him the Half Man.”

He didn’t think. He didn’t need to. His body moved before his mind could catch up, silent as a shadow on cold stone.

The first knight didn’t see him coming. Daemon’s hand shot out, slamming him against the wall hard enough to rattle the sconces. The man gasped, choking on his breath as Daemon leaned in, teeth bared between a smile and a threat.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he said softly. “How daring men become when their betters aren’t around.”

He let the knight drop, crumpling to the floor like spoiled meat, then turned to the others, his gaze slow, deliberate, and cold enough to burn.

I’ll remember your faces, little mouses. Every last one of you.

“Aemond is many things,” Daemon said. “But weak isn’t one of them.”

They didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He stepped toward the tallest of the group, a man with a hawkish nose and too much confidence for his own good. Daemon’s eyes lingered on him for a long moment.

Would he scream if his ear came off clean?

“Tell me,” Daemon murmured, “when did they start letting cowards wear steel in this hall? Did I miss the proclamation?”

“My prince, we meant no harm. It was only a jest—”

“A jest?” Daemon echoed, voice rising just slightly. “You think it’s funny to mock a man who faces the world with half his sight and none of your cowardice? Who’s fought more battles, spilled more blood, and stood taller than the lot of you ever will?”

He stepped closer, close enough to be felt, not just heard.

“He’s a Targaryen. Blood of Valyria. My blood. You don’t have to like the sight of him. But you will fucking respect him. Or I’ll carve the lesson into your bones.”

The knight paled, nodding stiffly. The others followed, murmuring half-formed apologies Daemon didn’t bother to acknowledge. He lingered, watching them squirm beneath his stare.

He could spar with Aemond, drag the boy through fire and mud, because he'd do it looking him in the eye. No one else had that right. No one spoke of his kin like that.

He turned, intending to find his wife—

And there Aemond was.

Seven hells and all the fuckers below.

Half-shadowed at the far end of the hall, still as stone. Face unreadable. That lone eye, sharp and cold, glinting like sunlight on ice.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Neither moved. Neither even breathed.

“Is it true,” he drawled, “that if you lose one sense, the others sharpen?”

A dry click of his tongue. A flicker of a smile.

Maybe he could joke his way out of this one.

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

Aemond had always heard the whispers. His mother's maids whispered as his scar healed, watching him with pitying but disgusted looks. Hightower guards when they had gone to Old Town on visits, snickering that he was the odd ugly little duckling among Alicent's children. Girls he had once considered courting snickering behind their fans, Knights that trained in the yard with him before he knocked them into the mud, Lords who thought the Prince-Hand wasn't listening..

All he had ever done was listen, take mental notes of names and houses, gather information for when he had people in the noose they made for themselves after he'd given them the metaphorical rope.. No one had ever defended him, had ever offered him sympathy or comfort. That cold, calculating facade he kept up hid a boy who'd have to protect himself.

It would have been more of the same that night.

Sapphire’s the only pretty thing about him.

A doll someone dropped down the stairs.

Been better if he’d lost his tongue instead of his eye.

Half-Man. Gods, these stupid bastards weren't even that creative.

And then there was Daemon.

In all honesty, he expected Daemon to join in; to add his own mocking words and jabs. He watched Daemon slow his steps, and then the fight was on. Aemond wasn't sure it was even a fight. He felt it was more of an assault, and he could almost feel the impact of the man's head against the wall, then the floor. He stared at Daemon in surprise. When the men had fled and Daemon had turned and saw him, Aemond hardly knew what to say, what to think.

"He’s a Targaryen. Blood of Valyria. My blood."

How had they gotten here, he wondered. Just a short time ago, he and Daemon were at odds, ready to kill each other. He had no delusions that Daemon actually cared about him. He just didn't want their House insulted. If his look was sharp, it was out of calculation. What was Daemon after?

Aemond can't help the light smirk that crosses his lips. "Of course it's true." He says and tilts his head, looking at Daemon. "Though I didn't need sharper hearing to catch all those fools were mumbling about."

He considers for a moment, raising an eyebrow at Daemon now. "It's not the first time. It won't be the last."

[rogue-prince-rising]

The laughter had died with a whimper, scurrying off into the night like rats who'd nibbled too close to a lion’s den. Daemon saw it all: the restraint, the suspicion, the flicker of disbelief. Aemond didn’t understand why he’d stepped in. And truth be told, Daemon wasn’t entirely sure either.

But he saw himself in the other man. In the way Aemond stood rigidly upright, like he’d been carved from spite. In the way he never once called out for help. Good. There was pride in that. Pride and pain, forged into something sharper than most men could carry without bleeding on themselves.

“You should’ve made it the last time,” Daemon said, voice low and even.

You think they’ll stop now, just because you stood there and bore it?

He stepped forward, closing the space between them, letting the torchlight catch on Aemond’s sapphire eye. Daemon’s expression didn’t soften, but something in him twisted Familiar. He had heard those whispers once, too. Second to the second. Until he’d made them eat the words, one by one.

“If they feel comfortable enough to whisper, to snicker, to say your name with scorn in their mouths, then you've let them believe you’re soft,” Daemon continued. “You’ve let them think the loss of your eye made you lesser, not more.”

The boy had adapted beautifully, terribly. Like a creature in a storm that had grown fangs just to survive. Daemon had half a mind to smile. The same Valyrian blood ran in their veins, thick as wildfire. Aemond just didn’t know how to wield his yet.

“Next time, cut out their tongues. Feed them to the pigs. Gouge their eyes out and ask them if they adapt as well as you have.”

Make them fear even the idea of speaking your name with anything but reverence.

Daemon circled him slightly, not unlike a dragon regarding another, one that had hatched from the same flame but with a different shape.

“Or tell me,” he murmured, almost like an afterthought, though every word was deliberate, “and I’ll deal with them.”

A truce, he thought. For Rhaena. For the House. For the boy who never had anyone stand behind him with a blade drawn, just in case.

“We make a truce, you and I. For Rhaena’s sake, if nothing else.”

He studied Aemond’s face then, carefully. The boy was a mystery box with a razor hinge, dangerous to prod too hard. But Daemon had played this game longer than anyone else still breathing. He knew how to cut through the steel to the need beneath.

“You don’t need to be liked,” Daemon said, shrugging one shoulder. “You don’t even need to be feared, if it doesn’t suit you. You just need to make sure they remember who you are. And what it costs to forget.”

Because if they forget you, if they decide you’re nothing but your scar and your silence, then they’ll start digging your grave before you’ve even drawn your last breath.

He clapped a hand on Aemond’s shoulder. The gesture was surprisingly solid. Not warm, not exactly, but steady. Offering something akin to alliance.

“Targaryens don’t ask for respect. We take it. Though if you do want to make a spectacle of one of them,” he said, “let me know. I’m told I have a flair for drama.”

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

Aemond studies Daemon for a moment and the idea of cutting out someone's tongue makes him chuckle softly, looking away from his Uncle. As a boy, he might have taken that advice. "I doubt Rhaenyra would approve of her King Consort and her Hand cutting out the tongues of every one who displeases us." He says, keeping his tone light for a moment. "I think I'd like to stay on my sister's good side."

Or tell me.. and I will deal with them.

Aemond looks back up at Daemon in almost surprise, almost startled by the statement. He hadn't expected Daemon to make such an offer and some part of him, some facet of himself that was still a boy standing alone in the world, almost resurfaces. Whatever Daemon was trying to do, it was a near perfect success. "For Rhaena." Aemond agrees, nodding. He shifts his weight. "You're right." He admits and looks at Daemon again. "You're right. I should make an example out of them. Violence may not be the answer, but I do know more about them than they might realize." He smirks slightly. "Things that if they were whispered in the right ear could cause some scandal." He admits.

When Daemon put his hand on his shoulder, Aemond turned to look at his hand. It wasn't fatherly. It wasn't affectionate. But it was solid, like something to ground him. I used to wish you were my father.

"You? A flair for the dramatic?" He raises an eyebrow. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

[rogue-prince-rising]

𓊈 MY BLOOD, MY WRATH 𓊉

(Thread with @aemond-of-house-targaryen)

The hall rang with the easy, careless laughter of men who thought themselves safe—safe from watchful eyes, safe from consequence. The kind of laughter that curdled something sharp and bitter in Daemon’s gut.

He hadn’t been listening at first, still half-lost in the quiet hum of pain that followed a hard day's training, muscles aching in that satisfying way that reminded him he was still alive.

But then he heard the name.

"Aemond."

He didn’t stop walking, but his stride slowed. His head tilted, just slightly, as the words filtered through.

“Would’ve been better if he’d lost his tongue instead of his eye,” one knight muttered, voice slurred with drink and sharpened with cruelty.

Another chuckled. “Aye. Might’ve made him easier to stomach. Damned sapphire’s the only pretty thing about him, and even that looks wrong. Like a doll someone dropped down the stairs.”

Daemon didn’t react. Not outwardly. His gaze stayed fixed on the wine in his cup, the liquid swirling in slow circles like blood down a drain.

“Prince Aemond the One-Eyed,” a third added with a sneer. “They ought to call him the Half Man.”

He didn’t think. He didn’t need to. His body moved before his mind could catch up, silent as a shadow on cold stone.

The first knight didn’t see him coming. Daemon’s hand shot out, slamming him against the wall hard enough to rattle the sconces. The man gasped, choking on his breath as Daemon leaned in, teeth bared between a smile and a threat.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he said softly. “How daring men become when their betters aren’t around.”

He let the knight drop, crumpling to the floor like spoiled meat, then turned to the others, his gaze slow, deliberate, and cold enough to burn.

I’ll remember your faces, little mouses. Every last one of you.

“Aemond is many things,” Daemon said. “But weak isn’t one of them.”

They didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He stepped toward the tallest of the group, a man with a hawkish nose and too much confidence for his own good. Daemon’s eyes lingered on him for a long moment.

Would he scream if his ear came off clean?

“Tell me,” Daemon murmured, “when did they start letting cowards wear steel in this hall? Did I miss the proclamation?”

“My prince, we meant no harm. It was only a jest—”

“A jest?” Daemon echoed, voice rising just slightly. “You think it’s funny to mock a man who faces the world with half his sight and none of your cowardice? Who’s fought more battles, spilled more blood, and stood taller than the lot of you ever will?”

He stepped closer, close enough to be felt, not just heard.

“He’s a Targaryen. Blood of Valyria. My blood. You don’t have to like the sight of him. But you will fucking respect him. Or I’ll carve the lesson into your bones.”

The knight paled, nodding stiffly. The others followed, murmuring half-formed apologies Daemon didn’t bother to acknowledge. He lingered, watching them squirm beneath his stare.

He could spar with Aemond, drag the boy through fire and mud, because he'd do it looking him in the eye. No one else had that right. No one spoke of his kin like that.

He turned, intending to find his wife—

And there Aemond was.

Seven hells and all the fuckers below.

Half-shadowed at the far end of the hall, still as stone. Face unreadable. That lone eye, sharp and cold, glinting like sunlight on ice.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Neither moved. Neither even breathed.

“Is it true,” he drawled, “that if you lose one sense, the others sharpen?”

A dry click of his tongue. A flicker of a smile.

Maybe he could joke his way out of this one.

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

Aemond had always heard the whispers. His mother's maids whispered as his scar healed, watching him with pitying but disgusted looks. Hightower guards when they had gone to Old Town on visits, snickering that he was the odd ugly little duckling among Alicent's children. Girls he had once considered courting snickering behind their fans, Knights that trained in the yard with him before he knocked them into the mud, Lords who thought the Prince-Hand wasn't listening..

All he had ever done was listen, take mental notes of names and houses, gather information for when he had people in the noose they made for themselves after he'd given them the metaphorical rope.. No one had ever defended him, had ever offered him sympathy or comfort. That cold, calculating facade he kept up hid a boy who'd have to protect himself.

It would have been more of the same that night.

Sapphire’s the only pretty thing about him.

A doll someone dropped down the stairs.

Been better if he’d lost his tongue instead of his eye.

Half-Man. Gods, these stupid bastards weren't even that creative.

And then there was Daemon.

In all honesty, he expected Daemon to join in; to add his own mocking words and jabs. He watched Daemon slow his steps, and then the fight was on. Aemond wasn't sure it was even a fight. He felt it was more of an assault, and he could almost feel the impact of the man's head against the wall, then the floor. He stared at Daemon in surprise. When the men had fled and Daemon had turned and saw him, Aemond hardly knew what to say, what to think.

"He’s a Targaryen. Blood of Valyria. My blood."

How had they gotten here, he wondered. Just a short time ago, he and Daemon were at odds, ready to kill each other. He had no delusions that Daemon actually cared about him. He just didn't want their House insulted. If his look was sharp, it was out of calculation. What was Daemon after?

Aemond can't help the light smirk that crosses his lips. "Of course it's true." He says and tilts his head, looking at Daemon. "Though I didn't need sharper hearing to catch all those fools were mumbling about."

He considers for a moment, raising an eyebrow at Daemon now. "It's not the first time. It won't be the last."

[rogue-prince-rising]

The laughter had died with a whimper, scurrying off into the night like rats who'd nibbled too close to a lion’s den. Daemon saw it all: the restraint, the suspicion, the flicker of disbelief. Aemond didn’t understand why he’d stepped in. And truth be told, Daemon wasn’t entirely sure either.

But he saw himself in the other man. In the way Aemond stood rigidly upright, like he’d been carved from spite. In the way he never once called out for help. Good. There was pride in that. Pride and pain, forged into something sharper than most men could carry without bleeding on themselves.

“You should’ve made it the last time,” Daemon said, voice low and even.

You think they’ll stop now, just because you stood there and bore it?

He stepped forward, closing the space between them, letting the torchlight catch on Aemond’s sapphire eye. Daemon’s expression didn’t soften, but something in him twisted Familiar. He had heard those whispers once, too. Second to the second. Until he’d made them eat the words, one by one.

“If they feel comfortable enough to whisper, to snicker, to say your name with scorn in their mouths, then you've let them believe you’re soft,” Daemon continued. “You’ve let them think the loss of your eye made you lesser, not more.”

The boy had adapted beautifully, terribly. Like a creature in a storm that had grown fangs just to survive. Daemon had half a mind to smile. The same Valyrian blood ran in their veins, thick as wildfire. Aemond just didn’t know how to wield his yet.

“Next time, cut out their tongues. Feed them to the pigs. Gouge their eyes out and ask them if they adapt as well as you have.”

Make them fear even the idea of speaking your name with anything but reverence.

Daemon circled him slightly, not unlike a dragon regarding another, one that had hatched from the same flame but with a different shape.

“Or tell me,” he murmured, almost like an afterthought, though every word was deliberate, “and I’ll deal with them.”

A truce, he thought. For Rhaena. For the House. For the boy who never had anyone stand behind him with a blade drawn, just in case.

“We make a truce, you and I. For Rhaena’s sake, if nothing else.”

He studied Aemond’s face then, carefully. The boy was a mystery box with a razor hinge, dangerous to prod too hard. But Daemon had played this game longer than anyone else still breathing. He knew how to cut through the steel to the need beneath.

“You don’t need to be liked,” Daemon said, shrugging one shoulder. “You don’t even need to be feared, if it doesn’t suit you. You just need to make sure they remember who you are. And what it costs to forget.”

Because if they forget you, if they decide you’re nothing but your scar and your silence, then they’ll start digging your grave before you’ve even drawn your last breath.

He clapped a hand on Aemond’s shoulder. The gesture was surprisingly solid. Not warm, not exactly, but steady. Offering something akin to alliance.

“Targaryens don’t ask for respect. We take it. Though if you do want to make a spectacle of one of them,” he said, “let me know. I’m told I have a flair for drama.”

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

Aemond studies Daemon for a moment and the idea of cutting out someone's tongue makes him chuckle softly, looking away from his Uncle. As a boy, he might have taken that advice. "I doubt Rhaenyra would approve of her King Consort and her Hand cutting out the tongues of every one who displeases us." He says, keeping his tone light for a moment. "I think I'd like to stay on my sister's good side."

Or tell me.. and I will deal with them.

Aemond looks back up at Daemon in almost surprise, almost startled by the statement. He hadn't expected Daemon to make such an offer and some part of him, some facet of himself that was still a boy standing alone in the world, almost resurfaces. Whatever Daemon was trying to do, it was a near perfect success. "For Rhaena." Aemond agrees, nodding. He shifts his weight. "You're right." He admits and looks at Daemon again. "You're right. I should make an example out of them. Violence may not be the answer, but I do know more about them than they might realize." He smirks slightly. "Things that if they were whispered in the right ear could cause some scandal." He admits.

When Daemon put his hand on his shoulder, Aemond turned to look at his hand. It wasn't fatherly. It wasn't affectionate. But it was solid, like something to ground him. I used to wish you were my father.

"You? A flair for the dramatic?" He raises an eyebrow. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

[combataromantic-deactivated2026]

attackdog puppyplay where I rip your enemies to bloody pieces and then lay my head in your lap to hear ‘attaboy’ and feel fingers in my sweaty, bloody hair

[bold-princess-baela]

“I Can’t Wait To See You Again”

Starter with @rogue-prince-rising

✧══════•❁❀❁•══════✧

Dear Kepa,

I do hope things back at home are running smoothly and that Muña has been having a healthy pregnancy. Jace and I have been enjoying our time away from Court and the Seven Kingdoms. It’s been refreshing, this change of airs. Most days, we spend the majority of the day lost in each other’s eyes instead of going out to explore the city. Could you blame us, though? We’re young and in love. I dare say, him and I have been in love for longer than we’ve realized.

He's been the most attentive husband I could ever ask for. He’s been sweet, caring, gallant… well, we both know Jace’s nature all too well. Some days I even think I know him better than I know myself, I suppose.

And you? How’s life been treating you? And Muña, how is she? I hope she hasn’t been having a hard time between the pregnancy and the ruling of the Realm, I know it can be a lot when you put it together, even if it sounds like it’s not too much from the outside. Please, tell me, I need to know from all of you. Especially from Rhaena, I miss her badly.

Farewell, and I hope to be able to send you my next letter soon. Send my love to my siblings and Muña.

All my love,

-Baela.

[rogue-prince-rising]

To my beloved daughter Baela,

Your words brought me great joy, though that is no great feat, as you have ever had a way of lightening even the blackest of moods. It gladdens me to hear that you and Jacaerys are finding happiness far from the scheming and posturing of court. Love suits you, as I always knew it would.

But I write with tidings that will bring you even greater joy: your Muña has been delivered of twins! A boy and a girl, both hale and hearty, with lungs fit to wake the Dragonmont. The birth went smoothly, thanks to the gods, and Nyra is already back to her usual iron will, though she tires more easily now. She rules as fiercely as ever, even from her bed, and the Realm trembles just the same.

You will adore them, Baela. I have held many babes in my arms, you among them, and yet, each time, my heart still races as if it were the first. One day, you will know this feeling for yourself. And when that day comes, you will be a mother as fierce and loving as your own.

Jace was a good lad, and I am pleased to hear he has grown into a worthy man and husband. I never doubted the two of you would find love, even when you were children snapping at each other like untamed dragons. But do not let love blind you to the world beyond your chambers, tala. A dragon should not linger too long in its den. See the city. Bring me back some token—a dagger, a ring, even a cursed Valyrian relic if you must—so I know you’ve ventured beyond your husband’s arms at least once.

Rhaena speaks of you often. She hides it well, but I see the restlessness in her. She misses you dearly. You will have much to tell her when you return.

Give Jace my greetings, and remind him that while I trust his honor, I still keep Dark Sister sharp.

Your dear father,

Daemon Targaryen

P.S.: the twins have my nose. A tragedy, but there is still hope they will grow into it.

[rogue-prince-rising]

𓊈 MY BLOOD, MY WRATH 𓊉

(Thread with @aemond-of-house-targaryen)

The hall rang with the easy, careless laughter of men who thought themselves safe—safe from watchful eyes, safe from consequence. The kind of laughter that curdled something sharp and bitter in Daemon’s gut.

He hadn’t been listening at first, still half-lost in the quiet hum of pain that followed a hard day's training, muscles aching in that satisfying way that reminded him he was still alive.

But then he heard the name.

"Aemond."

He didn’t stop walking, but his stride slowed. His head tilted, just slightly, as the words filtered through.

“Would’ve been better if he’d lost his tongue instead of his eye,” one knight muttered, voice slurred with drink and sharpened with cruelty.

Another chuckled. “Aye. Might’ve made him easier to stomach. Damned sapphire’s the only pretty thing about him, and even that looks wrong. Like a doll someone dropped down the stairs.”

Daemon didn’t react. Not outwardly. His gaze stayed fixed on the wine in his cup, the liquid swirling in slow circles like blood down a drain.

“Prince Aemond the One-Eyed,” a third added with a sneer. “They ought to call him the Half Man.”

He didn’t think. He didn’t need to. His body moved before his mind could catch up, silent as a shadow on cold stone.

The first knight didn’t see him coming. Daemon’s hand shot out, slamming him against the wall hard enough to rattle the sconces. The man gasped, choking on his breath as Daemon leaned in, teeth bared between a smile and a threat.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he said softly. “How daring men become when their betters aren’t around.”

He let the knight drop, crumpling to the floor like spoiled meat, then turned to the others, his gaze slow, deliberate, and cold enough to burn.

I’ll remember your faces, little mouses. Every last one of you.

“Aemond is many things,” Daemon said. “But weak isn’t one of them.”

They didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He stepped toward the tallest of the group, a man with a hawkish nose and too much confidence for his own good. Daemon’s eyes lingered on him for a long moment.

Would he scream if his ear came off clean?

“Tell me,” Daemon murmured, “when did they start letting cowards wear steel in this hall? Did I miss the proclamation?”

“My prince, we meant no harm. It was only a jest—”

“A jest?” Daemon echoed, voice rising just slightly. “You think it’s funny to mock a man who faces the world with half his sight and none of your cowardice? Who’s fought more battles, spilled more blood, and stood taller than the lot of you ever will?”

He stepped closer, close enough to be felt, not just heard.

“He’s a Targaryen. Blood of Valyria. My blood. You don’t have to like the sight of him. But you will fucking respect him. Or I’ll carve the lesson into your bones.”

The knight paled, nodding stiffly. The others followed, murmuring half-formed apologies Daemon didn’t bother to acknowledge. He lingered, watching them squirm beneath his stare.

He could spar with Aemond, drag the boy through fire and mud, because he'd do it looking him in the eye. No one else had that right. No one spoke of his kin like that.

He turned, intending to find his wife—

And there Aemond was.

Seven hells and all the fuckers below.

Half-shadowed at the far end of the hall, still as stone. Face unreadable. That lone eye, sharp and cold, glinting like sunlight on ice.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Neither moved. Neither even breathed.

“Is it true,” he drawled, “that if you lose one sense, the others sharpen?”

A dry click of his tongue. A flicker of a smile.

Maybe he could joke his way out of this one.

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

Aemond had always heard the whispers. His mother's maids whispered as his scar healed, watching him with pitying but disgusted looks. Hightower guards when they had gone to Old Town on visits, snickering that he was the odd ugly little duckling among Alicent's children. Girls he had once considered courting snickering behind their fans, Knights that trained in the yard with him before he knocked them into the mud, Lords who thought the Prince-Hand wasn't listening..

All he had ever done was listen, take mental notes of names and houses, gather information for when he had people in the noose they made for themselves after he'd given them the metaphorical rope.. No one had ever defended him, had ever offered him sympathy or comfort. That cold, calculating facade he kept up hid a boy who'd have to protect himself.

It would have been more of the same that night.

Sapphire’s the only pretty thing about him.

A doll someone dropped down the stairs.

Been better if he’d lost his tongue instead of his eye.

Half-Man. Gods, these stupid bastards weren't even that creative.

And then there was Daemon.

In all honesty, he expected Daemon to join in; to add his own mocking words and jabs. He watched Daemon slow his steps, and then the fight was on. Aemond wasn't sure it was even a fight. He felt it was more of an assault, and he could almost feel the impact of the man's head against the wall, then the floor. He stared at Daemon in surprise. When the men had fled and Daemon had turned and saw him, Aemond hardly knew what to say, what to think.

"He’s a Targaryen. Blood of Valyria. My blood."

How had they gotten here, he wondered. Just a short time ago, he and Daemon were at odds, ready to kill each other. He had no delusions that Daemon actually cared about him. He just didn't want their House insulted. If his look was sharp, it was out of calculation. What was Daemon after?

Aemond can't help the light smirk that crosses his lips. "Of course it's true." He says and tilts his head, looking at Daemon. "Though I didn't need sharper hearing to catch all those fools were mumbling about."

He considers for a moment, raising an eyebrow at Daemon now. "It's not the first time. It won't be the last."

[rogue-prince-rising]

The laughter had died with a whimper, scurrying off into the night like rats who'd nibbled too close to a lion’s den. Daemon saw it all: the restraint, the suspicion, the flicker of disbelief. Aemond didn’t understand why he’d stepped in. And truth be told, Daemon wasn’t entirely sure either.

But he saw himself in the other man. In the way Aemond stood rigidly upright, like he’d been carved from spite. In the way he never once called out for help. Good. There was pride in that. Pride and pain, forged into something sharper than most men could carry without bleeding on themselves.

“You should’ve made it the last time,” Daemon said, voice low and even.

You think they’ll stop now, just because you stood there and bore it?

He stepped forward, closing the space between them, letting the torchlight catch on Aemond’s sapphire eye. Daemon’s expression didn’t soften, but something in him twisted Familiar. He had heard those whispers once, too. Second to the second. Until he’d made them eat the words, one by one.

“If they feel comfortable enough to whisper, to snicker, to say your name with scorn in their mouths, then you've let them believe you’re soft,” Daemon continued. “You’ve let them think the loss of your eye made you lesser, not more.”

The boy had adapted beautifully, terribly. Like a creature in a storm that had grown fangs just to survive. Daemon had half a mind to smile. The same Valyrian blood ran in their veins, thick as wildfire. Aemond just didn’t know how to wield his yet.

“Next time, cut out their tongues. Feed them to the pigs. Gouge their eyes out and ask them if they adapt as well as you have.”

Make them fear even the idea of speaking your name with anything but reverence.

Daemon circled him slightly, not unlike a dragon regarding another, one that had hatched from the same flame but with a different shape.

“Or tell me,” he murmured, almost like an afterthought, though every word was deliberate, “and I’ll deal with them.”

A truce, he thought. For Rhaena. For the House. For the boy who never had anyone stand behind him with a blade drawn, just in case.

“We make a truce, you and I. For Rhaena’s sake, if nothing else.”

He studied Aemond’s face then, carefully. The boy was a mystery box with a razor hinge, dangerous to prod too hard. But Daemon had played this game longer than anyone else still breathing. He knew how to cut through the steel to the need beneath.

“You don’t need to be liked,” Daemon said, shrugging one shoulder. “You don’t even need to be feared, if it doesn’t suit you. You just need to make sure they remember who you are. And what it costs to forget.”

Because if they forget you, if they decide you’re nothing but your scar and your silence, then they’ll start digging your grave before you’ve even drawn your last breath.

He clapped a hand on Aemond’s shoulder. The gesture was surprisingly solid. Not warm, not exactly, but steady. Offering something akin to alliance.

“Targaryens don’t ask for respect. We take it. Though if you do want to make a spectacle of one of them,” he said, “let me know. I’m told I have a flair for drama.”

[asongofgoldenfireandblackblood]

A Song of Golden Fire and Black Blood's First Anniversary Presents:

✨ Anniversary Spotlight Edit Finale ✨ Queen Rhaenyra and King-Consort Daemon Targaryen ~ "Daemyra" by @where-anne-hathawill

A SONG OF GOLDEN FIRE AND BLACK BLOOD HQ is Tumblr's Premier Fire and Blood & House of the Dragon No Dance!AU RP, focused on exploring all the scheming and intrigue that makes ASoIaF RP so thrilling in a peace time setting. Old and dangerous tensions simmer just beneath the surface, wild ambitions ready to sacrifice peace in pursuit of their grand visions for Westeros, and the Kingdom still faces a volatile path on the journey towards a brighter future.

Nav — Plot — Wanted — Houses — Apply — Discord

[rogue-prince-rising]

𓆰𓆪 THE WEIGHT OF ASHES 𓆰𓆪

(Starter with @lady-vaella-darklyn)

The sea of black, yellow, white and crimson stretched across the courtyard, the banners of House Darklyn hanging heavy in the still air. The bells of Duskendale had tolled that morning, low and solemn, but here, within the walls of the Red Keep, the silence was thicker. Lord Luthor Darklyn lay upon the funeral bier, the flickering light of the torches casting shifting shadows across his lifeless face. He had been a good man, and a good friend.

Daemon stood at the edge of the gathering, watching as Vaella knelt beside her father. She did not weep. He had expected as much. She had always carried herself with quiet dignity, even as a child—especially as a child. Rhaena had once called her “my North Star”, steadfast and still, and she was that now more than ever. But Daemon had known grief long enough to recognize the weight of it in her shoulders, the way she held herself as though bracing against something unseen.

For a long while, he did not move. The others murmured their condolences and drifted away, leaving only the dead and the girl who refused to leave his side. Vaella sat as though carved from stone, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She had been so small when he first saw her, clinging to Rhaena’s sleeve, peeking out at him with wide, solemn eyes. And now here she was, grown and grieving, and there was nothing he could say to change that.

Daemon sighed, stepping forward at last. His boots scraped against the stone, loud in the quiet. He did not expect her to turn, and she did not. He came to stand beside her, watching the flames dance upon her father’s armor.

“Laena’s funeral was held at Driftmark. The winds were high that day. She would have liked that.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I did not think I would break. I told myself I would not. I held Baela and Rhaena between my hands, and I swore to them I would be strong.” His fingers flexed, as if he could still feel the shape of their small hands in his own. “But then… the fire took her. And I felt it, the moment she was gone. There was no body to bury, nothing to hold onto. Just smoke, and salt, and the sound of my daughters weeping.”

The air was thick with the scent of burning oil. Daemon let the silence settle between them, let the memory take its shape before he continued.

“Grief does not get lighter. People will tell you it does, that time wears it down, that it dulls like an old blade. But they are liars, or fools.” He turned his head, watching the flickering light catch in the strands of Vaella’s dark hair. “It does not lessen. But you learn to bear the weight.”

He looked back toward the bier. “Luthor was a good man. A better friend than I deserved. He was a father worth mourning.” Daemon’s jaw tightened. He had not been so lucky in that. “And I do not doubt he was proud of you.”

His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling, uncurling. He was not the kind of man who knew what to do with grief that was not his own. He had never been a gentle man. But he had watched Vaella grow, had seen the way she and Rhaena had moved through the world like twin stars, and he had known her father well enough to understand what he would have wanted.

“You will not be left wanting,” he said at last. It was not an oath, not quite, but it was a promise all the same. “Not while I have breath left in me.”

The fire crackled, spitting embers into the air. The night pressed close, heavy with the weight of the dead. But Daemon did not move. He would not leave her alone in this. He had sworn to protect Luthor in battle, and now, with his friend gone, he would do the same for his daughter.

After all, there was no greater battle than the future ahead of her.

[lady-vaella-darklyn]

🌙THE ASHES OF A NIGHTMARE 🌙

(Continuing the starter thread with @rogue-prince-rising . From Vaella’s POV)

She hated this. All of it.

Her beloved father was dead. She would never see him again, talk to him again or hug him, kiss his cheek, give him his favorite meal - She would never have her father again.

It was his funeral, and she was still in disbelief. It couldn't be true. This was a dream. A terrible, terrible dream. She would wake up. She had to wake up. Please wake up-

Her father's funeral pyre burned. And she didn't wake up from this awful nightmare.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and it was the King-Consort. She was surprised.

She knew the King-Consort her whole life as she was a companion to his two daughters Princesses Baela and Rhaena, and she was currently a lady-in-waiting to Princess Rhaena. He always intimidated her but she felt safe around him.

She listened as he spoke quietly about grief and loss, that her father was a good man and he was proud of her.

That felt good to hear but it wouldn't bring her father back though.

“You will not be left wanting. Not while I have breath left in me.” The King-Consort declared.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Vaella was grateful. If the Queen and King-Consort were on her family's side, then maybe her family could get through this. This was tough for all of them.

The Targaryen royal patted her shoulder and he did not walk away, not until she had the strength to leave her father behind. She was grateful for that too.

Her future was uncertain and unknown. She didn't know how to live a life without her father. Not being able to write letters to him, not being able to hold him tight, not have him at her nuptials.

She didn't know what to do next.

~~~

It got worse. Much worse.

Lord Clement Celtigar had broken her betrothal to his son Arthor, effectively ruining her reputation - her family's reputation.

Her brother Gunthor was enraged. With the death of its Lord and a broken engagement, House Darklyn looked weak to the other Houses. Their reputation took a hit.

Despite the whispers, Vaella held her head high in court. But she wept in private.

No father, no betrothed, no future. She had nothing. It was all gone in an instant.

Gunthor was the Lord of Duskendale, Robert was a member of the Queensguard, her mother was now Dowager Lady and what was she? What did she have?

She had nothing.

She was nothing.

[rogue-prince-rising]

The winds off Blackwater Bay were sharp that morning, knifing through the high windows of Maegor’s Holdfast, but Daemon barely felt them. Rage burned hot enough to keep the cold at bay. He moved through the Red Keep with purpose, the hem of his cloak trailing behind him like a devil’s tail. Servants shrank from his path. Even the guards, seasoned men all, stood a little straighter when he passed.

He did not slow until he reached the gardens. They were quiet at this hour, the early light still slanting long across the dew-damp grass. A gull called out overhead, circling once before vanishing into the gray sky beyond the battlements.

Vaella was where he had expected, beneath the withered branches of the old heart tree, its bark pale as bone, its red leaves scattered like blood across the stones.

She sat still as marble, wrapped in a dark cloak, hair braided simply, her back straight despite the weight Daemon knew she carried now. There was no visible trace of tears on her face, but he knew her well enough to see the tremor in her breath, the way her hands curled too tightly in her lap.

The words had reached him before the raven even landed. Lord Clement Celtigar, the crusted old fool, had broken the betrothal with all the elegance of a butcher's cleaver. No cause given, no apology offered. Just a cold missive, delivered to a house already hollowed by grief.

“Arthor will not wed the Darklyn girl,” it had read. “Circumstances have changed.”

Changed.

The taste of the word curdled on his tongue.

Gunthor Darklyn had stormed from the Small Council chamber in a fury, but fury alone would not mend what was broken. A betrothal shattered without cause was a public humiliation.

In the eyes of the court, House Darklyn was faltering. And vultures circled the weak.

Daemon stepped forward, boots crunching lightly against the gravel. For a long time, he only watched Vaella, watched the way her hands folded in her lap like the petals of some shuttered flower. She looked like Rhaena had, once when Laena died, when the world asked too much of a girl too young to bear it.

And gods, hadn’t they all borne too much already?

“They’ll call it prudence. A prudent man does not tie his blood to a house in mourning. A prudent man does not honor promises made to the dead.” Daemon’s lip curled. “Clement Celtigar was never a brave man. Never one to risk offense if it might cost him favor. He thinks with coin and consequence, not with honor.”

His hand curled again at his side. He thought of Rhaenyra—of her youth, her defiance, her downfall. Of the way the court had turned on her like wolves, the way the realm had sunk its teeth into her and called it justice. And he had not stopped it. Not then. Not soon enough.

But he could stop this.

He took one step closer. Then another. His shadow fell long beside hers on the grass.

“I could go to him.” The words hung in the air like the blade of Dark Sister, waiting to fall. “I could make Clement regret the breath in his lungs. I could remind him of the price of broken oaths, of what happens when you shame a loyal house for the sake of cowardice.”

She did not move. Not even her eyes flickered.

And yet Daemon felt her answer in the silence, in the weight of it pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.

He stepped back then, giving her that space. That dignity.

“When Rhaenyra’s name was dragged through the mud, I stood by her. When they spat in her face and called it courtesy, I burned for her. But it was not enough. I could not silence the realm. I could not keep her safe. Not then.”

His gaze lingered on Vaella’s profile, carved from ice and grief, frozen by more than the ever approaching winter.

“But Rhaenyra is Queen now,” he said. “And I am her Prince. Let them come. You are not alone. Not while I breathe. Not while she sits the throne.”

The leaves rustled above them. A red one drifted down, brushing her shoulder before falling to the ground.

“I will do what must be done, when the time comes.” He said it like a vow. “But first, Vaella, I will ask you only this.”

He reached forward, just once, and laid a calloused hand gently upon Vaella’s head, the way he might have done to Baela or Rhaena when they were small, praying silently that the nightmares wouldn’t reach them.

But Vaella was wide awake. So what good was a father, if he couldn’t chase the darkness away?

“What do you want me to do?”

He did not leave her. Not yet. Not until he was certain Vaella understood. This was not vengeance for its own sake. This was protection. She was their kin now.

[lady-vaella-darklyn]

It was humiliating.

The broken betrothal and her father's death, it made her and her family look weak. And oh, indeed the vultures at court were circling around her and her loved ones, smelling the blood on the water.

Gunthor had comforted her and stayed in her rooms until nightfall. He tried his best to assure her that they would get through this and he would secure a better betrothal for her. Vaella didn't answer and she knew that he felt at lost as she was. No one could have guessed that this would happen.

After her brother left to tend to his duties (and his marriage), Vaella put on her mourning clothes and left to the palace gardens, where the King-Consort found her.

“What do you want me to do?” He asked her.

"Be here for us, Your Grace," she told her. "We cannot withstand this without your and the Crown's support."

She took advantage of the offer, she knew but she had to. If the Crown stood by her family and her House, then maybe they could get through this storm.

The King-Consort knew that she was taking her chances with his offer. He expected it. But still, he nodded his approval.

He might want something in return she knew but Vaella had nothing left to lose now.

~~~

She couldn't believe it. It was even more humiliating.

Breaking the betrothal to her - only to vie for Princess Rhaena’s hand! She was nothing but a stepping stone. A stepping stone! Lord Celtigar knew of her closeness to the Princess and took advantage!

Gunthor hadn't taken it very well. Neither did Robert. And she knew that she had to expect a long letter from her mother soon from Duskendale.

But unfortunately for Lord Celtigar, the Targaryen royals were not impressed.

Princess Rhaena publicly declined the proposal, stating, "I do not wish to accept this abysmal offer. Because it is clear to me that Lord Celtigar has no regard for those that are humiliated and hurt by his ambitions."

Everyone at court knew who she meant by that. Vaella was one of her ladies-in-waiting after all.

The King-Consort agreed with her, "My daughter has no need for such disingenuous offers."

Queen Rhaenyra herself agreed with her husband and her daughter's sentiments.

And with that, Lord Celtigar was left red-faced and ashamed, turning the court's ire towards him and his House, thus turning the tides in Vaella and her family's favour.

Vaella was ecstatic.

Perhaps she was wrong.

Maybe she wasn't nothing after all.

[rogue-prince-rising]

𓆰𓆪 THE WEIGHT OF ASHES 𓆰𓆪

(Starter with @lady-vaella-darklyn)

The sea of black, yellow, white and crimson stretched across the courtyard, the banners of House Darklyn hanging heavy in the still air. The bells of Duskendale had tolled that morning, low and solemn, but here, within the walls of the Red Keep, the silence was thicker. Lord Luthor Darklyn lay upon the funeral bier, the flickering light of the torches casting shifting shadows across his lifeless face. He had been a good man, and a good friend.

Daemon stood at the edge of the gathering, watching as Vaella knelt beside her father. She did not weep. He had expected as much. She had always carried herself with quiet dignity, even as a child—especially as a child. Rhaena had once called her “my North Star”, steadfast and still, and she was that now more than ever. But Daemon had known grief long enough to recognize the weight of it in her shoulders, the way she held herself as though bracing against something unseen.

For a long while, he did not move. The others murmured their condolences and drifted away, leaving only the dead and the girl who refused to leave his side. Vaella sat as though carved from stone, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She had been so small when he first saw her, clinging to Rhaena’s sleeve, peeking out at him with wide, solemn eyes. And now here she was, grown and grieving, and there was nothing he could say to change that.

Daemon sighed, stepping forward at last. His boots scraped against the stone, loud in the quiet. He did not expect her to turn, and she did not. He came to stand beside her, watching the flames dance upon her father’s armor.

“Laena’s funeral was held at Driftmark. The winds were high that day. She would have liked that.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I did not think I would break. I told myself I would not. I held Baela and Rhaena between my hands, and I swore to them I would be strong.” His fingers flexed, as if he could still feel the shape of their small hands in his own. “But then… the fire took her. And I felt it, the moment she was gone. There was no body to bury, nothing to hold onto. Just smoke, and salt, and the sound of my daughters weeping.”

The air was thick with the scent of burning oil. Daemon let the silence settle between them, let the memory take its shape before he continued.

“Grief does not get lighter. People will tell you it does, that time wears it down, that it dulls like an old blade. But they are liars, or fools.” He turned his head, watching the flickering light catch in the strands of Vaella’s dark hair. “It does not lessen. But you learn to bear the weight.”

He looked back toward the bier. “Luthor was a good man. A better friend than I deserved. He was a father worth mourning.” Daemon’s jaw tightened. He had not been so lucky in that. “And I do not doubt he was proud of you.”

His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling, uncurling. He was not the kind of man who knew what to do with grief that was not his own. He had never been a gentle man. But he had watched Vaella grow, had seen the way she and Rhaena had moved through the world like twin stars, and he had known her father well enough to understand what he would have wanted.

“You will not be left wanting,” he said at last. It was not an oath, not quite, but it was a promise all the same. “Not while I have breath left in me.”

The fire crackled, spitting embers into the air. The night pressed close, heavy with the weight of the dead. But Daemon did not move. He would not leave her alone in this. He had sworn to protect Luthor in battle, and now, with his friend gone, he would do the same for his daughter.

After all, there was no greater battle than the future ahead of her.

[lady-vaella-darklyn]

🌙THE ASHES OF A NIGHTMARE 🌙

(Continuing the starter thread with @rogue-prince-rising . From Vaella’s POV)

She hated this. All of it.

Her beloved father was dead. She would never see him again, talk to him again or hug him, kiss his cheek, give him his favorite meal - She would never have her father again.

It was his funeral, and she was still in disbelief. It couldn't be true. This was a dream. A terrible, terrible dream. She would wake up. She had to wake up. Please wake up-

Her father's funeral pyre burned. And she didn't wake up from this awful nightmare.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and it was the King-Consort. She was surprised.

She knew the King-Consort her whole life as she was a companion to his two daughters Princesses Baela and Rhaena, and she was currently a lady-in-waiting to Princess Rhaena. He always intimidated her but she felt safe around him.

She listened as he spoke quietly about grief and loss, that her father was a good man and he was proud of her.

That felt good to hear but it wouldn't bring her father back though.

“You will not be left wanting. Not while I have breath left in me.” The King-Consort declared.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Vaella was grateful. If the Queen and King-Consort were on her family's side, then maybe her family could get through this. This was tough for all of them.

The Targaryen royal patted her shoulder and he did not walk away, not until she had the strength to leave her father behind. She was grateful for that too.

Her future was uncertain and unknown. She didn't know how to live a life without her father. Not being able to write letters to him, not being able to hold him tight, not have him at her nuptials.

She didn't know what to do next.

~~~

It got worse. Much worse.

Lord Clement Celtigar had broken her betrothal to his son Arthor, effectively ruining her reputation - her family's reputation.

Her brother Gunthor was enraged. With the death of its Lord and a broken engagement, House Darklyn looked weak to the other Houses. Their reputation took a hit.

Despite the whispers, Vaella held her head high in court. But she wept in private.

No father, no betrothed, no future. She had nothing. It was all gone in an instant.

Gunthor was the Lord of Duskendale, Robert was a member of the Queensguard, her mother was now Dowager Lady and what was she? What did she have?

She had nothing.

She was nothing.

[rogue-prince-rising]

The winds off Blackwater Bay were sharp that morning, knifing through the high windows of Maegor’s Holdfast, but Daemon barely felt them. Rage burned hot enough to keep the cold at bay. He moved through the Red Keep with purpose, the hem of his cloak trailing behind him like a devil’s tail. Servants shrank from his path. Even the guards, seasoned men all, stood a little straighter when he passed.

He did not slow until he reached the gardens. They were quiet at this hour, the early light still slanting long across the dew-damp grass. A gull called out overhead, circling once before vanishing into the gray sky beyond the battlements.

Vaella was where he had expected, beneath the withered branches of the old heart tree, its bark pale as bone, its red leaves scattered like blood across the stones.

She sat still as marble, wrapped in a dark cloak, hair braided simply, her back straight despite the weight Daemon knew she carried now. There was no visible trace of tears on her face, but he knew her well enough to see the tremor in her breath, the way her hands curled too tightly in her lap.

The words had reached him before the raven even landed. Lord Clement Celtigar, the crusted old fool, had broken the betrothal with all the elegance of a butcher's cleaver. No cause given, no apology offered. Just a cold missive, delivered to a house already hollowed by grief.

“Arthor will not wed the Darklyn girl,” it had read. “Circumstances have changed.”

Changed.

The taste of the word curdled on his tongue.

Gunthor Darklyn had stormed from the Small Council chamber in a fury, but fury alone would not mend what was broken. A betrothal shattered without cause was a public humiliation.

In the eyes of the court, House Darklyn was faltering. And vultures circled the weak.

Daemon stepped forward, boots crunching lightly against the gravel. For a long time, he only watched Vaella, watched the way her hands folded in her lap like the petals of some shuttered flower. She looked like Rhaena had, once when Laena died, when the world asked too much of a girl too young to bear it.

And gods, hadn’t they all borne too much already?

“They’ll call it prudence. A prudent man does not tie his blood to a house in mourning. A prudent man does not honor promises made to the dead.” Daemon’s lip curled. “Clement Celtigar was never a brave man. Never one to risk offense if it might cost him favor. He thinks with coin and consequence, not with honor.”

His hand curled again at his side. He thought of Rhaenyra—of her youth, her defiance, her downfall. Of the way the court had turned on her like wolves, the way the realm had sunk its teeth into her and called it justice. And he had not stopped it. Not then. Not soon enough.

But he could stop this.

He took one step closer. Then another. His shadow fell long beside hers on the grass.

“I could go to him.” The words hung in the air like the blade of Dark Sister, waiting to fall. “I could make Clement regret the breath in his lungs. I could remind him of the price of broken oaths, of what happens when you shame a loyal house for the sake of cowardice.”

She did not move. Not even her eyes flickered.

And yet Daemon felt her answer in the silence, in the weight of it pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.

He stepped back then, giving her that space. That dignity.

“When Rhaenyra’s name was dragged through the mud, I stood by her. When they spat in her face and called it courtesy, I burned for her. But it was not enough. I could not silence the realm. I could not keep her safe. Not then.”

His gaze lingered on Vaella’s profile, carved from ice and grief, frozen by more than the ever approaching winter.

“But Rhaenyra is Queen now,” he said. “And I am her Prince. Let them come. You are not alone. Not while I breathe. Not while she sits the throne.”

The leaves rustled above them. A red one drifted down, brushing her shoulder before falling to the ground.

“I will do what must be done, when the time comes.” He said it like a vow. “But first, Vaella, I will ask you only this.”

He reached forward, just once, and laid a calloused hand gently upon Vaella’s head, the way he might have done to Baela or Rhaena when they were small, praying silently that the nightmares wouldn’t reach them.

But Vaella was wide awake. So what good was a father, if he couldn’t chase the darkness away?

“What do you want me to do?”

He did not leave her. Not yet. Not until he was certain Vaella understood. This was not vengeance for its own sake. This was protection. She was their kin now.

[rogue-prince-rising]

𓊈 MY BLOOD, MY WRATH 𓊉

(Thread with @aemond-of-house-targaryen)

The hall rang with the easy, careless laughter of men who thought themselves safe—safe from watchful eyes, safe from consequence. The kind of laughter that curdled something sharp and bitter in Daemon’s gut.

He hadn’t been listening at first, still half-lost in the quiet hum of pain that followed a hard day's training, muscles aching in that satisfying way that reminded him he was still alive.

But then he heard the name.

"Aemond."

He didn’t stop walking, but his stride slowed. His head tilted, just slightly, as the words filtered through.

“Would’ve been better if he’d lost his tongue instead of his eye,” one knight muttered, voice slurred with drink and sharpened with cruelty.

Another chuckled. “Aye. Might’ve made him easier to stomach. Damned sapphire’s the only pretty thing about him, and even that looks wrong. Like a doll someone dropped down the stairs.”

Daemon didn’t react. Not outwardly. His gaze stayed fixed on the wine in his cup, the liquid swirling in slow circles like blood down a drain.

“Prince Aemond the One-Eyed,” a third added with a sneer. “They ought to call him the Half Man.”

He didn’t think. He didn’t need to. His body moved before his mind could catch up, silent as a shadow on cold stone.

The first knight didn’t see him coming. Daemon’s hand shot out, slamming him against the wall hard enough to rattle the sconces. The man gasped, choking on his breath as Daemon leaned in, teeth bared between a smile and a threat.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he said softly. “How daring men become when their betters aren’t around.”

He let the knight drop, crumpling to the floor like spoiled meat, then turned to the others, his gaze slow, deliberate, and cold enough to burn.

I’ll remember your faces, little mouses. Every last one of you.

“Aemond is many things,” Daemon said. “But weak isn’t one of them.”

They didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He stepped toward the tallest of the group, a man with a hawkish nose and too much confidence for his own good. Daemon’s eyes lingered on him for a long moment.

Would he scream if his ear came off clean?

“Tell me,” Daemon murmured, “when did they start letting cowards wear steel in this hall? Did I miss the proclamation?”

“My prince, we meant no harm. It was only a jest—”

“A jest?” Daemon echoed, voice rising just slightly. “You think it’s funny to mock a man who faces the world with half his sight and none of your cowardice? Who’s fought more battles, spilled more blood, and stood taller than the lot of you ever will?”

He stepped closer, close enough to be felt, not just heard.

“He’s a Targaryen. Blood of Valyria. My blood. You don’t have to like the sight of him. But you will fucking respect him. Or I’ll carve the lesson into your bones.”

The knight paled, nodding stiffly. The others followed, murmuring half-formed apologies Daemon didn’t bother to acknowledge. He lingered, watching them squirm beneath his stare.

He could spar with Aemond, drag the boy through fire and mud, because he'd do it looking him in the eye. No one else had that right. No one spoke of his kin like that.

He turned, intending to find his wife—

And there Aemond was.

Seven hells and all the fuckers below.

Half-shadowed at the far end of the hall, still as stone. Face unreadable. That lone eye, sharp and cold, glinting like sunlight on ice.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Neither moved. Neither even breathed.

“Is it true,” he drawled, “that if you lose one sense, the others sharpen?”

A dry click of his tongue. A flicker of a smile.

Maybe he could joke his way out of this one.

[rogue-prince-rising]

𓆤 A DRAGONFLY ON A BOARD 𓆤

(Starter with @aemond-of-house-targaryen)

The torchlight flickered, casting long, shifting shadows that barely reached the edges of the crypt’s side passage. The air was heavier here, thick with the damp chill of stone and the cloying weight of old death. Daemon exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the past, but it never truly left, did it? Centuries of errors and atonement, of dragons consuming their own tails, not out of hunger, but for the taste of familiar blood.

He turned another narrow corner, and of course, there he was.

Aemond stood at the far end of the passage, poised as always, a blade yet to be drawn. For a flicker of a second, Daemon saw it in the expectation in his squared shoulders, the flex of his fingers, bracing to either soften or steel himself.

But he had expected Rhaena. Not her father.

Daemon slowed his steps, letting the silence stretch, thick and cloying. Let him feel it. Let him sit in it. A moment drawn tight as a bowstring. Then, as if only just registering the sight before him, Daemon clicked his tongue against his teeth and let out a low, mirthless chuckle.

“Well,” he drawled, eyes raking over the boy—no, the man—standing before him. A man he had let grow too tall, too bold. “A lurking shadow in the dark corridors. What do they call that again?” He tapped his temple, musing. “Ah. An ambush, isn’t it?”

His eyes glinted, all lazy amusement, but his fingers ghosted over the hilts at his sides. A thought, not yet a threat. Not yet.

Aemond did not move, did not speak. That was fine. Daemon had no need for his words. He could see the tightening of his jaw, the deliberate stillness of his stance, how much effort it took to hold himself in place beneath Daemon’s scrutiny.

A dragonfly pinned to a board.

“I’d ask if you have a habit of creeping about where you don’t belong,” Daemon continued, tossing out prey for the hound, “but I already know the answer to that, don’t I?”

He took a measured step forward. Aemond held his ground. Daemon smiled, slow and sharp, as though amused by the effort. He wasn’t.

“I know what she sees in you,” he admitted, voice almost conversational. “I do. You’re a tragic thing, aren’t you? A clever one too… Rhaena has always had a heart soft for strays.” He let the words sit between them, let the silence stretch. And then, like an afterthought, he added, “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Another step forward. Aemond tensed, just slightly, but still did not move. Daemon tilted his head, gaze sweeping over him like he was something to be assessed, weighed. He saw the blade at his hip, the slight twitch of his fingers, the way he stood just-so, ready to strike if needed.

Good.

But not good enough.

“You think you can keep her safe?” The words were quiet, almost gentle. A question, but not really. His fingers brushed over the pommel of Dark Sister, not a threat, not yet, just a reminder. I could gut you before you took a breath.

“That’s the thing about you, isn’t it? You think you’re the storm, but you’re the fucking flood. You don’t protect, boy. You drown.”

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

Aemond had been waiting for Rhaena. He didn’t impose upon her when she came down to the crypts; this was her time with her mother. He would not violate the privacy of that time. Instead, he waited for her, where few came, where few notable Targaryns were laid to rest. A shame, to have been forgotten in the dark, in a side passage so far from the family that had claimed to love them..He hadn’t turned when he first heard the footsteps, not until he realized that they were not Rhaena’s.

Aemond saw Daemon and tensed slightly. Shit.

Daemon baits him, he always baits him, and the bait is tempting. It’s like a roast goose, fat and succulent and some part of Aemond wants to lunge and step right around the trap Daemon laid. Aemond bites back a sneer, working hard to maintain his composure. He had promised, promised Rhaena he would be at least civil with her father, no matter how much Aemond disliked him. He disliked everything about Daemon. He wasn’t quite sure why he disliked him so much, but he did.

“I’d ask if you have a habit of creeping about where you don’t belong,” Daemon’s taunt there stung as it always did. It had been there since he was born, before even. When Aegon was a babe at the breast of his nursemaid, maybe even when Alicent was newly married to Viserys..

Aemond and his brothers and sisters would never be full Targaryn to Daemon.

And it infuriated Daemon that Rhaena had chosen him. Aemond found this knowledge more gratifying than he liked to admit. As Daemon stepped forward again, letting the new insult hang in the air, Aemond’s stance shifted slightly. “Odd, I thought you’d at least appreciate it. Since she takes so much after her mother.” Aemond comments, maintaining his decorum, maintaining the even temper he’s becoming known for. His fingers twitched for the sword he wore on his hip. “Since I seem to remember, you too, were just a second son once too.”

“You think you can keep her safe?”

That was the question that got Aemond’s attention. He steps closer to Daemon, eyes narrowed.

“Can I keep her safe?” he repeats slowly, looking down at Daemon. He knew it wasn't intimidating, Daemon wasn’t that much shorter than him. Aemond was still taller.

Rhaena was Aemond’s lighthouse, his safe harbor in the storm. Some part of him wanted to laugh. Rhaena was a force all unto herself; proud and generous, as fierce in her own way as any dragon. What did she have to fear from anyone?

Yet, the other part of him, the louder, stronger part of him, was infuriated by the insinuation. For the first time in his life, Aemond was loved without reservation, without expectation. He’d die before he’d returned to life without her. “Do you really believe I’d let anything hurt her? Especially myself?”

[rogue-prince-rising]

Daemon stares at Aemond, and for a moment, silence stretches between them. The dim torchlight of the crypts casts long shadows over his face, but Daemon still sees him—the sharp-eyed child clinging too tightly to his mother’s skirts, the boy who seethed over what he was owed, who clutched at the scraps of Valyria and called them his birthright.

And now, the bastard has Rhaena.

Daemon steps closer, close enough to see the flicker of rage in that single violet eye. Aemond has always burned hot beneath the surface, beneath the rigid control, beneath the air of princely restraint. It is in his blood. Hightower blood. And Hightower blood curdles when mixed with fire.

"Speak of Laena again, and I will cut you open right here, boy." His hand ghosts over the hilt of his blade, slow and deliberate, an unspoken promise. "We’ll see what color you bleed."

He means it. He always means it.

Aemond is so very still. Daemon watches him weigh the words, watches his fingers twitch like he might reach for his sword. Do it, Daemon dares him. Give me a reason.

But Aemond only exhales, measured and cool. "Do you really believe I’d let anything hurt her? Especially myself?"

The laugh rips from Daemon’s throat before he can stop it, a raw, ugly thing, more disbelief than amusement.

Aemond is still Aemond. No matter how he straightens his spine, no matter how he swallows his fury in careful words. Daemon has known men like him before—starved of something they can never name, desperate to carve a place in a world that refuses them. So desperate they never stop to think if what they carve is worth having at all.

Yes, Daemon had been a second son. And yes, it had burned. But that was the least of Aemond’s problems.

A horse knows only how to race.
A hound knows only how to hunt.
And Aemond?

All Aemond touches turns to ash.

Daemon lets his gaze sweep over him, this careful, mannered thing playing at civility. A beast who thinks it can keep its claws sheathed when they are the only things that have ever served it.

"You think you have a choice," Daemon murmurs, softer now, something like pity curling in his throat. "That’s what makes this so damn funny."

Aemond says nothing, but his jaw tightens, his fingers twitch again.

"You’ll try," Daemon concedes, mockingly gracious. "Oh, you’ll try your best, won’t you? You think you love her. Think you can keep her safe. Think you can be anything other than what you are."

He leans in just slightly, his voice like the brush of a blade.

"But all a vulture knows is how to pick a carcass clean. It’s your nature."

Daemon only hopes Rhaena never learns what it feels like to burn for the wrong reason.

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

Aemond used to wish, when he was a boy, that Daemon had been his father. When Viserys ignored him, favored Rhaenyra and his sisters; when he had lost his eye and Viserys had ordered them all to forgive and forget, that they were family... Aemond had wished for Daemon to be his sire. Someone he could have looked up to, someone who would have split the world in two and torn down the sky if Aemond had been his son...

Instead, he was Viserys's son. He would always just be Viserys's second son. Daemon, the man he wanted to be like, wanted to be loved by as a child, treated him with disgust and mistrust. The taste in his mouth was bitter and sharp and sad.

And now, he had Rhaena.

The mocking tone was enough to make Aemond's control snap, like a bowstring pulled too tight. Some part of him wanted to hurt Daemon, to draw his sword and drive Daemon back out of his face, out of the space he had carved for himself.

But he can't..

He loses the staring match, and has to look away from Daemon to collect himself. He has to count to nearly a hundred as Daemon calls him a vulture.

It clicks then.. it clicks so suddenly, Aemond's carefully cool mask slips. He looks back at Daemon as if he's seeing him for the first time.

Daemon was so different from Viserys because Daemon was in truth, a father. A real, loving, devoted father.

"You're afraid." He says slowly. "Not just that I will hurt her, but that she will no longer need you." He stares at Daemon for a long moment. The restraint in his voice gives way to something desperate. Desperate for Daemon to just understand. "You would tear the world asunder to protect her because she is your child, your flesh and blood... but I am not you. I would give all that the world demanded of me for her, even if it kills me."

[rogue-prince-rising]

It was a cruel trick of the gods that the one-eyed princeling should see him so clearly, should take a blade to his ribs with words alone.

You’re afraid.

Daemon had been called many things in his life—reckless, cruel, rogue—but never afraid. He should have laughed, scoffed, dismissed it outright. Instead, something colder than rage curled in his gut.

Because it was true.

He had spent his life carving out a name that could not be erased, raising a blade against anyone who dared forget him. He had burned, bled, killed, all to make his legend endure. And yet, for all that, it was not his own legacy that haunted him.

It was the ghosts of fathers before him.

The fear that one day, Rhaena and Baela would turn their backs on him as he had once turned from his own sire. How often had he lain awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Baela would come to resent his temper? If Rhaena would outgrow him the way girls outgrew childhood fancies, leaving him behind as nothing more than an embarrassing relic?

Or worse… if they would remember him as something monstrous.

A man they had loved once, before they realized they never should have. That one day, they might look at him and see only the sum of his worst sins. That they might hear every whispered thing about him and find them all true.

Aemond was watching him still, unblinking. As if searching for recognition, some bridge of likeness between them. As if he thought they were the same.

Daemon moved before the thought had fully formed.

His hand shot out, seizing Aemond’s collar, yanking him close—not to strike, not to maim, but to ensure every word struck deep.

"You will not speak of my daughter again, nephew." His voice was low, laced with the promise of violence. "If you so much as touch a hair on her head, I will take more than just your eye. I will make you beg for the Stranger before I am done with you."

Aemond did not flinch. Did not blink. Something raw flickered in his face, his one remaining eye burning on the low light.

Daemon shoved him away, as though the very act of standing so close had sickened him.

Aemond said nothing.

Daemon did not wait for him to find his tongue again. He turned on his heel and stalked away before the bitter truth of Aemond’s words could settle any deeper into his bones.

The boy was a little shit. That much was undeniable.

Daemon had known it from the moment Aemond had first opened his mouth to speak, all babbled words and measured scorn, a child who had been born with a grudge he was determined to sharpen into a blade.

And yet, Rhaena loved him.

Daemon stood at the edge of the training yard, arms crossed, watching Viserys move across the dirt with a grace that did not come from him. Viserys had always been a quiet boy, thoughtful, deliberate, more like his mother than he would ever be like his father. And maybe that was why he found some kinship with Aemond. Maybe he saw something in the sullen, one-eyed bastard that Daemon did not.

The thought sat ill in his stomach.

Aemond was not a friend. He was not someone to be liked. Daemon had seen his type before. Had known them, fought them, killed them. And he had no illusions about what kind of man Aemond would grow into.

He watched as Viserys circled, measured, adjusting his stance with care. Aemond moved opposite him, quick and sure-footed, the dirt beneath their boots scuffing and shifting with every step. The yard was filled with the sounds of steel on steel, the occasional bark of instruction from the master-at-arms, but Daemon heard none of it.

He was watching Aemond instead. Watching the way he moved, the way he fought. How sharp his strikes were, how controlled. The boy had spent his whole life trying to prove something, and it showed in every shift of his body, every precise cut of his sword. There was something ugly in that kind of need. It would make him dangerous one day.

And Viserys—his Viserys—was standing too close to it.

Daemon exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his hands to unclench.

He was being foolish. His son was not some soft thing to be led astray. And yet, he could not shake the feeling, the quiet unease that curled around his spine as he watched them. He had always known that the gods were cruel, but this felt personal.

Viserys liked Aemond.
Rhaena loved Aemond.
Even Rhaenyra, stubborn as she was, insisted on giving him a chance.

And so, for now, Daemon would have to tolerate him.

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

"You will not speak of my daughter again."

He'd hoped to have found some common ground with Daemon that night in the crypt, but that hope was as quickly dashed as his childhood dreams of being his son..

Aemond had watched Daemon leave, but he had not heeded that threat. He had walked Rhaena back to her chambers. He'd broken his fast with her before going out to the training yard the next morning. He had stroked his finger over the back of her knuckles when they'd taken a walk, just touching her skin lightly as he always did when they were together.

Such was life. If he dies at Daemon's hand, at least he could die happy. ______________________________________________________________

The morning was going so well..

Viserys and Aemond had been sparring, dancing around each other with practiced skill. The master at arms called instruction now and then, but Aemond was the one really watching Viserys's form. He had taught him, he would assess his skill as a knight by how well his squire did. They were not evenly matched, but Viserys was well on his way to being Aemond's equal. Someday.

They were finishing their exercises, and Aemond messes Vis's hair, releasing him from their training. They were laughing, joking, and he praises Vis as he always did for his hard work and growth.

Then he notices Daemon standing there, watching them.

Shit.

Aemond puts the practice swords away, turning to face his Uncle. He hadn't intended to run into Daemon again. This was not like when he first wanted to court Rhaena. In the beginning, he stalked Daemon. He had tracked his Uncle through the Red Keep, coming up every time Daemon was in a good mood, and asked for permission to court Rhaena. He did that for weeks until Rhaenyra had to stop him. But now? After the Crypt? He had really, REALLY hoped to avoid Daemon.

He starts toward him, to just pass him and go back to his chambers to clean up and start his day. He bows his head slightly, moving to pass by him. "Uncle."

[rogue-prince-rising]

“Well now,” Daemon drawls, his voice thick with mock sweetness.

Aemond has always prided himself on his composure, on the rigid control he wields like a weapon. And yet, Daemon has never had trouble spotting the cracks. Today, it’s as plain as the scar carved into his face.

“What’s this? Running away already, nephew? I’d thought you liked a challenge. Or was that only when you were practically on your knees, begging for my permission to court Rhaena?”

He catches the flicker of something in Aemond’s eye—resentment, anger, all knotted together beneath that cold, unblinking stare.

Months. That’s how long Aemond had spent hounding him, pleading, trailing his every step like a stray starving for scraps of approval.

Daemon has even taken to kicking under the bed now and then, just in case the insufferable pest has taken to hiding there.

And yet now, when Daemon stands before him, Aemond’s first instinct is to flee.

“I thought you’d learned some courage, but it seems the mere sight of me is enough to send you scurrying.” Daemon tilts his head, stepping forward, cutting off any path of escape. “Tell me, does it unnerve you to face a man your own size?”

Aemond is tall now, older, no longer a boy playing at knighthood. There’s something unpredictable in him, something sharp-edged, shaped more by shadows than by the glimmer of crowns. Daemon might have admired it, had Aemond been someone else.

But he isn’t.

“I assume training little boys has already lost its charm,” Daemon muses, watching him closely. “You’ve bested them all, haven’t you? But if you’re looking for a real fight… I could give you one. No need to slink away. Surely you’re not afraid of me.”

The taunts are childish, but then again, what kind of father would he be if he didn’t test the waters before letting his daughter drown?

The fact that it’s also quite amusing is just a bonus.

Daemon already knows how this will end. Aemond will bite; he has to. The same foolish, stubborn pride runs thick in both their veins. And yet, Daemon lingers, just a moment longer.

How far will this stretch before it finally snaps?

And what will it take to break him?

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

Well. Avoiding him hadn't worked.

Aemond wasn't too shocked that it hadn't work, in truth. He would have liked it to have worked, really he would have.

But alas, horrors persist.

"It's not about besting Viserys." He says, keeping his tone less neutral, more.. conversational. Rhaena was a beacon of kindness, a soul warm and welcoming to others. Gods, it was effective. If he couldn't be allies with Daemon, he would at least try to remain not quite so at odds. Even if he wished his Uncle and brother-by-law ended up with a pebble in his boot sometimes… either at the heel or the little toe. That was always the worst.

We'll try this killing with kindness. Or at least courtesy.

"Viserys is doing well." He changes the subject and nods at Daemon. "He's years ahead of other squires, and diligent about his training. He's going to make a fine knight." It was things he'd said to Viserys, things he wanted to tell Rhaenyra if he could make it seem like he wasn't trying to gain something from it.

The comments about fearing Daemon annoyed him. How was he the one with only one eye, and still people were unable to see him? To actually see him for what he was, what he was trying his best to be.

Alright. To hells with it.

"I am not afraid of you, Uncle." He says bluntly. That resentment giving way to more than annoyance, to frustration and anger. "You come here to mock me when you know I can't retaliate. Out of respect."

He glares at Daemon, but the emotions behind it are not cold. They're hot, scalding. Enough to consume him, and he is so sorely tempted. He'd love to hit Daemon, to knock his high and mighty arse into the dirt and belittle him.

For everything.

But Seven damn him, he can't. He doesn't want to hurt Rhaena, who he knows will hear of it. He doesn't want to hurt Viserys, who was so close at hand, likely watching. Aemond resigns himself. Daemon will never like him. Daemon may never tolerate him. For one more father figure in his life, he will never be enough.

"I could care less what you think of me. I certainly don't like you. I certainly don't fear you." He says bluntly. He can feel his nose wrinkling, lips drawn back in a scowl. "But I will respect you. Out of love for Rhaena. I will respect you, because I care for Viserys. Because I am honor bound to Rhaenyra as my sister and my Queen."

He shakes his head and steps away from Daemon, the scowl relaxing into something more pleasant, the slightest hint of a smile. One of Rhaena's practiced "public" faces. His tone even became more cheerful. Yes, yes, kill him with kindness. "My love for them is all I need to endure you, Your Grace. Don't expect anything more. Any more than that and I will have to start drinking."

[rogue-prince-rising]

𓆰𓆪 THE WEIGHT OF ASHES 𓆰𓆪

(Starter with @lady-vaella-darklyn)

The sea of black, yellow, white and crimson stretched across the courtyard, the banners of House Darklyn hanging heavy in the still air. The bells of Duskendale had tolled that morning, low and solemn, but here, within the walls of the Red Keep, the silence was thicker. Lord Luthor Darklyn lay upon the funeral bier, the flickering light of the torches casting shifting shadows across his lifeless face. He had been a good man, and a good friend.

Daemon stood at the edge of the gathering, watching as Vaella knelt beside her father. She did not weep. He had expected as much. She had always carried herself with quiet dignity, even as a child—especially as a child. Rhaena had once called her “my North Star”, steadfast and still, and she was that now more than ever. But Daemon had known grief long enough to recognize the weight of it in her shoulders, the way she held herself as though bracing against something unseen.

For a long while, he did not move. The others murmured their condolences and drifted away, leaving only the dead and the girl who refused to leave his side. Vaella sat as though carved from stone, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She had been so small when he first saw her, clinging to Rhaena’s sleeve, peeking out at him with wide, solemn eyes. And now here she was, grown and grieving, and there was nothing he could say to change that.

Daemon sighed, stepping forward at last. His boots scraped against the stone, loud in the quiet. He did not expect her to turn, and she did not. He came to stand beside her, watching the flames dance upon her father’s armor.

“Laena’s funeral was held at Driftmark. The winds were high that day. She would have liked that.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I did not think I would break. I told myself I would not. I held Baela and Rhaena between my hands, and I swore to them I would be strong.” His fingers flexed, as if he could still feel the shape of their small hands in his own. “But then… the fire took her. And I felt it, the moment she was gone. There was no body to bury, nothing to hold onto. Just smoke, and salt, and the sound of my daughters weeping.”

The air was thick with the scent of burning oil. Daemon let the silence settle between them, let the memory take its shape before he continued.

“Grief does not get lighter. People will tell you it does, that time wears it down, that it dulls like an old blade. But they are liars, or fools.” He turned his head, watching the flickering light catch in the strands of Vaella’s dark hair. “It does not lessen. But you learn to bear the weight.”

He looked back toward the bier. “Luthor was a good man. A better friend than I deserved. He was a father worth mourning.” Daemon’s jaw tightened. He had not been so lucky in that. “And I do not doubt he was proud of you.”

His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling, uncurling. He was not the kind of man who knew what to do with grief that was not his own. He had never been a gentle man. But he had watched Vaella grow, had seen the way she and Rhaena had moved through the world like twin stars, and he had known her father well enough to understand what he would have wanted.

“You will not be left wanting,” he said at last. It was not an oath, not quite, but it was a promise all the same. “Not while I have breath left in me.”

The fire crackled, spitting embers into the air. The night pressed close, heavy with the weight of the dead. But Daemon did not move. He would not leave her alone in this. He had sworn to protect Luthor in battle, and now, with his friend gone, he would do the same for his daughter.

After all, there was no greater battle than the future ahead of her.