Fandom: A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms & The House of the Dragon
Pairing/Characters: Daemon Targaryen x reader
Word count: ~ 1600
Includes: -
Warnings: death by dragonfire, unspecified and unsaid threaths, grabbing and bruises
Other: My first time writing for Daemon, and the HOTD fandom. I'm planning to watch it soon, but my brain would not leave me alone with this idea so I've been slowly working on it for a while now and it's finally finished. I've been getting a lot of HOTD edits on my FYP in addition to AKOT7K, so it's been on my mind a lot.
High Valyrian translations from valyriantranslate.com, they're in bold
An unknown woman wearing Targaryen colours and symbols is brought to Ashford Castle by the guards, and the situation quickly turns dire.
My AKOT7K Masterlist HOTD Masterlist coming soon!
One of the Targaryen guards rides to the yard, out of breath and dismounts with haste, leaving the reins dangling as he hurries inside. The Ashford guards tense as the man moves with a frantic pace, hinting at something being terribly wrong.
It is not long after that when the rest of the entourage that has ventured out to search for the missing princes returns, but they are escorting a woman, not the young princes they were meant to find. Her posture is straight and regal, eyes sweeping over the yard, making the men quickly tick their heads in. They’ve never seen or heard of anyone like her, but she carries herself in a way that promises trouble for the people who disrespect her.
You stand with a rigid posture, very unnerved by the hostile behavior of the guards. Had something happened in your absence? Your mind is hazy, making it hard to grasp onto a memory you’ve had last, but you do remember clearly speaking with your husband, your hand in his as you watched the scenery ahead of you.
Then, you see more men arrive at the yard, dressed in the familiar colors of the Targaryen house, but your nerves do not ease. You do not recognize one of them. They still see you standing there, the intricate dragon you’ve painstakingly stitched cascading down the hem of your gown, in full view, the diadem of twisting flames on your forehead glinting in silver. The two eldest share a look, clearly unnerved.
“Bring her to us.” It is a silent command, snipped and curt, but it is put into effect immediately.
You are accosted from both sides and forced forward, and your anger flares.
“Sȳzdaghonys nyke! (Release me!)” Your voice cuts through the cooling eve, the mother tongue of your husband slipping out in your outrage. You wrench your arm free from a guard's hold and give him a venomous glare while rubbing the spot where you know a bruise will form.
“My husband will have your head.” You hiss, straightening your back and giving a withering look to the men still awaiting you ahead.
“If you wish to speak to me, you can simply ask.”
You now stand in front of them, after making your own way, trying to keep your unease hidden. You do not know these people. They wear the same colors as you do, but you know nothing more of them. They’ve introduced themselves, spoken their titles with ease and practice. You are simply staring at them, as the dark-haired one announces himself as the heir to the throne. Princess Rhaenyra is Viserys’ heir, has been for a time now. Your hand winds around the hilt of the knife Daemon had gifted you, the twists of the intricate dragon handle soothing your nerves as you stand there in front of the crowd, evaluated like a pig headed for slaughter.
Oh, how you wish Daemon were here with you. There would not be these prying eyes inspecting you, no whispers you are forced to pretend you cannot hear. They speak of you being an impostor, of dirtying the name of the royal family, and it angers you.
There is a long silence, but you abide it, not letting emotion show on your face.
“Sparos Āegenkon Dēmalion dēmassis? (Who holds the Iron Throne?)” The question comes from Baelor, quiet yet even as he inspects you from head to toe, brow drawn into a frown. The Valyrian makes you still, evaluating the man in front of you.
“Viserys I Targaryen. King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. Last rider of Balerion, The Black Dread. The brother of my husband.” You speak his title with such ease that you’ve clearly spoken it many times before. Baelor still evaluates you with a raised brow, and Maekar has stilled his pacing, now staring openly.
There is a screeching cry, and the people in the yard shift, glancing around in fright. A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as it sounds again, louder and louder. You know that sound. It is as familiar to you as your own voice, and while it fills others with dread, it is a calming sound to you. Your husband grows near.
Caraxes slides out of the clouds, red wings taking over the sky, serpentine body twisting and turning as he evaluates for a place to land. His lithe body dives, and people yell in alarm as he approaches, another roar splitting the sky. The ground shakes as his hind legs meet the ground, gouging deep grooves, his wings folding in as his forelegs grasp onto the wall of Ashford Castle, the stone crumbling under his weight. Guards shout in alarm, stumbling backwards. The Targaryens stare as Caraxes screeches again, the sound deafening as his neck slithers lower.
The rider dismounts, climbing down from the saddle with agility, the gravel rustling as he drops down. You hear his steps, the rustle as he removes his helmet, and the bang it gives as he tosses it to the side. A startled murmur spreads in the crowd as his silvery hair falls to his back, violet eyes darting around the yard. You do not need to turn, you see him clearly in your mind. Instead, you keep your eyes on the Targaryens ahead, a brow now quirked, daring them to accuse you now.
Only when Daemon stills next to you, one hand coming to rest on your belly, while the other tilts your head up for a kiss, do you look up at him. His eyes inspect you in a glance, raving over you for any injuries. Your fingers wind around his wrist and give it a reassuring squeeze, shaking your head as you let your head drop to his chest, heaving a breath of relief. All is well now.
Caraxes reaches his head towards you, eyes darting between the men of the yard. They quickly drop their gazes as the sight of the blood-wyrm’s eye pierces them.
“Sagon sȳzorys, Cá’rauxethnos. (Be calm, Caraxes.)” You coo, fingers sliding along his scales as the beast hums, nudging you gently with his head. Daemon resists the urge to shake his head, biting his tongue to remark about you turning his war-dragon into a kitten. Instead, he steps forward, inspecting the men with a glance. They are foreign for him too, but he has learned in his years to evaluate his opponents first (your influence, Viserys insists).
So, he offers a stiff bow, introducing himself while you lavish Caraxes with affection. You catch one of the younger Targaryens staring at the dragon with an almost divine adoration in his gaze. One of the guards makes the mistake of stumbling too close to Caraxes, and the dragon reacts immediately, his growl shaking the earth, hissing as the man backs away in a panic. The yard shifts as the dragon raises his head and releases a shrieking cry, stretching his body out to cry towards the skies. Caraxes, too, is disoriented and on edge of the strange situation, and it does not bode well.
Daemon calls for you then, gentle and loving, and you leave Caraxes as you make your way to his side, your favourite place in the world. He introduces you to the men properly, hand brushing on the skin of your bare arm in passing, making shivers race up your spine. His affection is warm, even if his exterior is hardened, posture stiff as he ponders over words.
But before he can gather the words, his eyes darken as they catch the bruise on your wrist.
“Who - did - that.” He demands, and the silence that falls across the yard is deafening. You shake your head, hand pressing to his chest, trying to soothe and calm him. He does suck in a deep breath, but the fire burns in his eyes, hot as ever, as his eyes meet yours.
“Daemon.” You plead, shaking your head.
“It will fade by tomorrow.” He simply shakes his head.
“He left a mark on you. I will not abide it.” His voice is even, deceptively calm, as his gaze finds the guard. Baelor speaks up for the first time in a while.
“I cannot allow you to harm Ser Grendling. He was acting under orders-“
“I do not give a fuck about orders. He laid hands on my wife, left a mark on her.”
The man has realized the severity of his situation and is now begging.
“Pl-Please, m-my prince. Let me keep my head.” Daemon does not blink as the guard pleads for his life.
“You will not part with your head tonight.” He promises evenly, and the man sags in relief.
“Thank-“ He begins, but Daeron pays him no further mind, speaking to his dragon.
“Dracarys.” The command is silent, almost inaudible, but Caraxes hears it, head rearing up.
Your eyes close as the dragon’s head rises, eyes locked on the poor knight. You hear the anguished cry that cuts off, feel the heat of the fire, and the rustle as it fades away. The yard is covered in spots of fire that crackle while dying out, left by the intense heat of dragonfire. Caraxes crumbles, his head reaching down for the two of you, weight shifting on the wall, causing more stone to rain down. The ash shifts with the air, dancing on the black-stained stone, then the yard is silent still.
*****
Masterlists coming soon!
Leave a comment if you want to be added to Daemon's or for my masterlist for all characters, AKOT7K and HOTD alike.
I’m obsessed es with the idea of Lyonel Baratheon in Star Wars
I’m writing a story about Star Wars (oc this time, not reader insert) and I needed a love interest for my female OC (the man plotline is about friendship)
Now I want him to be this rich Lord (chancellor or even king) she is a padawan that survived order 66 and takes refuge in his planet, thinks she fools him, but when the rebellion is hatched only then he reveals that he knew all along she was a Jedi, and tells her something like “give them hell, I loved you for this last ten years” and since he is a king he has a rebel fleet and they fight the empire together
Here's a lil something for my Baelor girlies, which you will witness in my fic (Winds of Time And Space - A Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen x Fem!HP Story on ao3 by Ace_The_Wanderer). The Targaryen obsession that is, and we all know what happens when a Targaryen is obsessed 🤭
