Summary: Daemon and you have an argument without realizing that someone is listening to you.
I recommend reading Scare first to understand better.
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“We’re leaving,” Daemon said once the two of you were alone in his chambers. “You should say goodbye to your brother quickly.”
It didn’t surprise you that that was the first thing he said after returning from the meeting you two had with Viserys. You knew your husband was furious. You were too. You couldn’t believe Criston Cole was still alive after how he attacked and killed Joffrey at your brother’s wedding. The most infuriating thing wasn’t that he wouldn’t face any punishment, but that he was now part of the Queen’s Kingsguard. Alicent Hightower seemed to have more power over Viserys than you thought. You felt foolish for having felt sorry for her before.
“No,” you said as you headed to bed. You didn’t want to sleep, but you were tired of climbing up and down so many stairs, so you wanted to get some rest.
“No?” Daemon repeated, his displeasure at your refusal to leave the place where neither of you was respected could be clearly heard in his voice.
“I understand you’re upset, Daemon. I am too, but I’m not going anywhere,” you said, feeling your husband’s eyes on you as you took off your shoes and began massaging your feet.
Another time, Daemon would have offered to massage you and asked how you felt. But now he's angry, at Criston Cole for daring to touch you, at Viserys for being such a weak king and letting him get away with it, and now at you for letting this disrespect slide.
“Why do you want to stay? We’re not respected here,” he asks. You can see he’s starting to get frustrated with you by the way he runs his hand down his face.
Daemon loves you. He knows he’d be bored with a meek young woman who did everything he said without batting an eye, but right now, he wants you to be an obedient wife. You and Baelon must leave King’s Landing.
“I’m not going to leave Laenor alone in this nest of vipers,” you say, and Daemon laughs. Unlike other times, his laughter didn't make you feel warm, this time it irritated you. And you know what he's going to say next is going to be stupid, but you still face him. “What are you laughing at?” You stop massaging yourself and frown at him.
“Laenor is too old for you to be babysitting him, wife. He should be able to take care of himself.” Your annoyance grows at how cynical your husband is being. He saw how devastated your brother is over Joffrey’s death; you’re sure he also heard the way the court spoke of your brother. How could he be so insensitive?
“He’s my brother, and he needs me here. I’m not going to leave him alone just because you’re offended by Viserys again. You can come back when you’re past your temper,” you stated firmly, making it clear to Daemon that you weren’t going to change your mind. If he wanted to leave, then he’d leave without you or your son.
Your words only cause your husband's anger to grow. It's not just about Viserys disrespecting you, but about your safety and that of his children. How do you expect him to want to stay in King's Landing knowing that his brother wouldn't do anything if something happened to you or your children? How did you expect him to stay here and see Criston Cole's face every day without being able to harm him after that man dared to touch you?
“Do you care more about your brother than the safety of our children?!” he accused you, finally losing his temper and raising his voice.
Before you can lash out at him for daring to say that to you, you hear crying. Both Daemon and you fall silent instantly, paralyzed because you both know that cry perfectly well. It's Baelon.
“Baelon?” you call softly, and the crying continues. You hear him nearby, so you don't hesitate to get out of bed and bend down to look underneath. Your eyes instantly meet your son's violet eyes and and his face full of tears. “Can you come out, please?” you ask, feeling pain in your heart at seeing him so distressed.
You move away, and he's not long in coming out. You immediately take him in your arms and sit with him on the bed. “I'm sorry you heard this, Baelon,” you apologize as you rock him, hoping he'll calm down, but he keeps crying. “It's all right, I swear,” you say, trying to reassure him.
“I don't want Kepa to leave! Kepa, don't leave me!”
Hearing his son's cry and how his eyes looked at him, sad and desperate, made Daemon finally move, he sat next to you and didn't even have to ask you to give him the child because you were already giving it to him. You knew your comfort wouldn't be enough; your son wanted his father.
You looked at your husband attentively, waiting to see if he would take this opportunity to impose himself on you and tell your son that the three of you were leaving.
“I'll never leave you, Baelon,” Daemon assures him as he hugs him. He means it; he'd already missed enough when he'd been fighting at Stepstones, and he's not about to miss out on anything else in his son's life.
“Do you promise?” his son asks, still crying.
“I promise,” he replies without hesitation and kisses his forehead. “Don't be sad anymore,” he says, stroking his back, hoping he'll start to calm down.
“I don't want to leave either. I like playing with Aegon,” he whines, and Daemon sniffs as he watches you hold back a smile. Of course, you didn't listen to him when he told you he didn't want his son around Alicent Hightower's son. You thought your son should be around his cousin, no matter who his mother was. Besides, it seemed like the little prince didn't spend much time with the Valyrian side of his family.
“Maybe we can stay a little longer,” Daemon says, not wanting to give in completely. For a moment, it seems like he’s saying the right thing because your son’s sobs stop, but then he frowns and crosses his arms. “What now?”
“You yelled at Mommy and didn't say you're sorry,” his son reminds him, and Daemon smiles because, of course, Baelon wouldn't let that happen; he's a mama's boy, after all. He's proud to know his son would never let anyone treat you badly.
“You're right, it was wrong of me,” he admits, looking into your eyes. You don't look as upset as you used to, but he knows that later, when the two of you are alone, you'll have to continue this conversation. It wasn't right of him to accuse you of not caring about their children. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes sincerely, not just to make his son happy.
“I can only accept your apology if you bring me a cake from the kitchens,” you say. Daemon knows that you don't talk seriously, but he still decides to indulge your whim.
“It’s a fair request,” he agrees, placing Baelon back in your arms. “But before that,” he kisses you. It’s short because he doesn’t want to make a big scene in front of his son, but you can still feel the love he has for you. “I’ll be back.”
And you smile as you watch him leave, knowing he won’t go anywhere without you.
Summary: In which, after the battle of the Gods Eye, Daemon’s body IS found. Unfortunately, he is very much alive and your problem now.
A/N: I went out and got a new keyboard. I was posting today even if it killed me. @just-some-random-blogger if you want to read?
Warnings: Mature language, canon level of violence, pigtail pulling. Enemies to lovers? Ehh, close enough! Welcome back, Jaime and Brienne.
YOU WONDERED WHAT you had done to offend Cregan Stark so. Perhaps he had become infected with his wife’s matchmaking spirit. Perhaps you had not bowed low enough when his army had passed your father’s lands.
When the events that would later be called The Hour of the Wolf transpired, your family had rejoiced. With your liege in power, you would finally, finally benefit from backing Queen Rhaenyra after what felt like years of enduring losses. Instead, you reflected, this was another punishment.
As if the taxes were not enough.
You watched in dismay as the Stark men lowered trunks and coffers. There were far too many for your tastes. Enough to know they were expecting him to stay here. Forever.
Cregan himself approached, dragging a thin, blonde man with him. He looked battered, but he was dressed in even finer clothes than you were. The dragging seemed a bit unnecessary, as the man was not opposing any resistance.
“Lady Dustin,” Lord Cregan grabbed your hand and kissed it, as if you were some great lady. He stank of guilt. “My condolences for the death of your father.” A bit late, his condolences. A year late, in fact. Your father had died fighting those damn Hightowers back in Tumbletown. Your grief was now a dull, small thing, shrunk by time and too many moons spent worrying about what you would do if the greens decided your lands, with no man to defend them, were now a suitable target.
“Lord Stark.” You curtsy to him because no matter how much he bows down to kiss you, he is still your lord. Guilty or not. You do not reply to his condolences, though. You still have some pride left.
Cregan fumbles for a few instants, not quite sure how to lead on from there. You agree that going from condolences to a marriage isn’t exactly the smoothest transition.
“I... Yes, I am deeply sorry. However, we must move on.” Cregan attempts to get back on topic.
“Yes, you know a thing or two about that.” You mumble under your breath, prompting a snort from the man next to him. The sound startles you into looking at him, and you have to face the unfortunate reality that he is very much real and not going away. So far, you had been doing great at pretending he didn’t exist.
The man stares at you, dark purple eyes fixed into yours. He is as tall as Cregan is, though much less broad. His war had cost him quite a lot, it seemed. But not enough to stop him from being handsome.
You stare back, unwilling to cower before him. He cannot hurt you, you remind yourself. He no longer has a dragon, he is old, and he has no grievances with you.
“Be as it may,” Cregan says, in a far more stern tone. “This will be good for the two of you. Moving on is what the Seven Kingdoms need. Your marriage will give Prince Daemon a dignified…” He struggles with the wording. You do too, inside your head. Imprisonment? Dungeon? Hiding hole?
“You can call it by its name, you know?” Prince Daemon turns to Cregan. “I will not be offended, boy. Exile. I have been in it enough times to not shy away from it. And here I thought northerners were made of sterner stuff…”
“And what will it give me?” You say, sharply, not wanting them to be derailed and being unable to let your protests be known. “A more likely chance of being murdered in my sleep?”
“As I said in my letter, Lady Dustin, there will be a monthly stipend for his upkeep, and you will get back the lands in…”
“Oh, come on!” Prince Daemon laughs. “I never murdered anyone in their sleep. Did I?” He turns to look at Cregan. You pinch the bridge of your nose.
You know for a fact that he ordered to have a child murdered in the middle of the night. Does it count?
Cregan keeps talking to you, as if Daemon had not interrupted.
“Again, you have made your grievances perfectly clear. Still, it is my will that you marry. You have been widowed for far too long, and you hold lands in a strategic position…”
“And you think I cannot defend them without a man?” You scoff. “How am I supposed to defend myself when he tries to murder me, then? Or when he flees? Am I supposed to stop it?”
“Oh, great, you are one of those types.” Daemon mutters. “Don’t tell me you wear breeches, too?”
“Whatever I wear is none of your business!" You round on him, incensed. You do not, in fact, wear breeches, but are now considering getting a pair if only to spite him.
“Oh, but it is! How else will I undress you later tonight?” He taunts, making your face heat up. You think the veins in your forehead must be throbbing, with how enraged he is making you.
It is then, perhaps sensing your heightened murderous intent, that Cregan intervenes. He grabs Daemon by the collar of his cloak and hisses in his ear. Unfortunately, the northern lord has a rather loud voice, and you hear it anyway. “Do try not to antagonize her. If this doesn’t work, it is the Night’s Watch for you.”
“I think it would be a terrible omen to have the father of the king at your wall, wouldn’t it?” Daemon answers through clenched teeth. It is clear that it bothers him more than he is comfortable showing. Or perhaps he objects to the rough treatment, unused to being disrespected.
They always say that the higher you are, the more it hurts to fall. And no one has ever been higher than Daemon Targaryen, Prince Consort of Queen Rhaenyra and father to the boy king Aegon.
And now, because of him, your watch begins.
THE SUN SETS early this time of the year. The snow, shining like crushed diamonds, crunches under your feet. It is more ice than anything else, yet it looks beautiful as the sun sets and night begins.
Your Godswood looks beautiful. You had asked the servants to place a few torches alongside the path to the heart tree, and the guests carry some as well. The clear sky, alight with a thousand stars, makes it the ideal night for a wedding.
It feels anything but ideal, to be getting married tonight to a man you despise. You had never been one to put stock in rumors alone, but Daemon had already shown you his colors. No man who truly loved his wife would be as apathetic to her passing as he was showing himself to be. Suddenly, the fact that he betrayed the Black Queen made a lot more sense to you.
Before the heart tree, Cregan stands next to Daemon. Never one to be ruffled, your future husband stands, indolently leaning against your sacred tree. In contrast, the lord of Winterfell looks as stern as always, and his voice is loud and clear when you approach.
“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”
“I do.” You say, trying to sound firm. You had no one left to give you away, except for your liege. Since Cregan was needed to officiate the ceremony, the two of you had to improvise. “I come here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. I come to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim me?” You feel the wording is awkward, but clearly not as much as Prince Daemon does. Neither of you are strangers to weddings, but it isn’t your first time marrying under the Old Gods.
He steps forward.
“Daemon, of House Targaryen. Prince of the Realm and father of the King. Who gives her?”
“Myself.” You state, meeting his eyes in open defiance. His lips twitch, as if amused.
“Lady Dustin, will you take this man?” Cregan asks you.
You hesitate for a few seconds, only to make Cregan sweat. Your decision had been made before even setting foot on the Godswood. Traitor or not, you would marry him because your liege ordered it so. But your loyalty to the Starks didn’t mean you couldn’t make them suffer a little for asking such a sacrifice of you. “I take this man.”
Daemon kneels in the snow, and so do you. He offers you his hand. It is the first time you will ever touch him, your mind tells you. You don't understand why you fixate on that detail, but you do.
His hand is warm and big around yours, with a few calluses. He is sweaty, despite the cold. Nervous, though his face doesn’t show it. You close your eyes, silently praying for a good, calm life. When you open your eyes again, he is already looking at you.
He tugs you to your feet. He removes your cloak and hands it to Cregan before taking his off and putting it around your shoulders.
You thank the Old Gods no one has dared to put a kiss in the script all weddings seem to follow. You reach for his hand, to hopefully walk hand in hand to your hall, but only find empty air. Much to your surprise, Daemon is bending his knees and getting ready to…
You yelp when you are suddenly lifted in a bridal carry.
“What are you doing?” You hiss.
“I hear this is the traditional way to ensure good fortune in marriage.” He replies, loudly, to the cheers of the guests and even Cregan.
“You are insane. I am not a maiden anymore, and you are getting on in years too, cease this ridicule.”
“What, you think I’ll strain my back? I have lifted barrels of ale heavier than you.”
“Yes, when you were twenty years old, perhaps!” But you cannot continue to spout your disbelief because you are already reaching the hall. Showoff that he is, he sets you down only after reaching the dais.
The feast prepared for the occasion is lovely. Plates filled with delectable dishes and cups overflowing all over the hall. It is as extravagant a wedding as they had been before the war started, much to the joy of your guests. Nothing else would do, after all, for the father of the king.
Widow that you are, you do not dread the bedding. As the lady of House Dustin, you do not hold to those dreadful southron customs, and your guests know it. No one will call for it, and consummation itself doesn't scare you.
When the last dishes are being cleared away, Cregan clears his throat, giving a pointed look to your husband. Daemon stands up and takes your hand.
Instead of addressing or saying anything to you, he turns directly to Cregan.
“I am sure my bride and I will be the happiest couple in the Seven Kingdoms.” Then, as if an afterthought, he seems to remember your existence. “You could change your words. The most happy.”
You smile at him, barely containing your urge to insult him. Instead, you breathe in and try not to embarrass yourself.
“Perhaps you shall change yours, husband.” Your smile is as tight as it gets. “To the most blessed. Our wedding was beautiful.”
Daemon scoffs. He begins dragging you out of the hall, still holding you by the hand. Since he has no idea where your rooms are, he has to stop once in the hallways of your castle. Too proud to ask for your help, he simply glares at you until you begin leading him to your room.
Once inside, he looks around, eyes lingering on the soft furs covering your bed, the desk full of books and papers, and even the small loveseat by the window. His gaze feels malicious. Judgmental.
“I assume I will have my own quarters.” Daemon states, clearly finding yours lacking. It's fine by you. You would rather not sleep with the enemy, and you do not wish to have him lurking in your private space. No matter what Cregan says, you have too much common sense to believe he might not slit your throat as you sleep.
“There is a set of rooms on the northern tower that has been arranged for you.” You inhabit the southern one. You have placed him as far as you can.
Daemon steps closer to you, smiling. It unnerves you. He hasn’t smiled at you before, only smirked. But he only leans in and tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.
“You remind me of someone.” His voice is low. Intimate. His tone sounds seductive, and despite yourself, you can feel your resolve to hate him weaken. It makes you think of how charming he must have been, once, before all the realm knew of his treachery.
“Whom?”
“One of my wives. She was… Fierce. She rode as well as any man.” His eyes unfocus for a moment, as if he were truly remembering her. You wonder who he is talking about. Lady Laena, perhaps? You cannot help being curious.
“What happened to her?”
Daemon leans in, embracing you. His arms circle your waist and pull you in. His body feels firm against your own, despite his gauntness. Only when his lips kiss your hair, right above your ear, he whispers.
“I killed her.”
Your blood goes cold. Your stomach feels heavy, and you cannot move. It feels as if you have been turned into stone. The feeling only intensifies as Daemon releases you and leaves the room, leaving you unable to even ask where he is going. Instead, you stand alone on your wedding night, with the feeling your watch has just begun.
CONTRARY TO POPULAR belief, Daemon does have some sense of self-preservation. He wouldn’t even attempt to go outside the castle walls with that damn Stark still prowling around, sticking his snout where it didn’t belong. While he would like to go whoring, burying his pain into warm bodies, he couldn’t. Instead, he makes his way to his new rooms.
He had plenty of nights to explore the nightlife of the town after he left. He had only promised to stay put in your lands, not to not go outside the castle. The town was under your supervision, after all, so visiting would not betray his word.
Gods, he wished he could be with Aegon now. Only the Old Flames of Valyria knew what nonsense they were filling his head with. That Daemon was craven and a traitor, and had forsaken his mother when it mattered the most.
Lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, Daemon could feel his eyes sting. To think that Rhaenyra was gone… It was not right. His girl had always been so bright, so full of life, burning hotter than dragonfire. To think the usurper had killed her in such a gnarly way broke his heart. But to know he had been too old, too injured after facing Aemond to be able to do anything that helped her, hurt him the most.
Here is a truth for you: Daemon had never betrayed his queen. He would have never done so. Nettles had been there, yes, and it was only natural that things had transpired as they did. By then, his relationship with Rhaenyra had been strained, between the war and the miscarriage, and they had no longer been sharing a bed. It meant nothing.
Clenching his eyes tightly, Daemon willed himself to sleep. He would not cry. He refused to give his enemies the satisfaction. His age and the injuries he had sustained had emasculated him enough. No longer was he the proud warrior he had once been, having lost even his very sword. He would not continue degrading himself further.
The night seemed an eternity. He tossed and turned, unused to the unfamiliar stillness of your castle. When the sun rose, Daemon felt almost relieved. He got out of bed, dressed, and made his way to the training grounds. The space seemed in disuse, as was to be expected when a woman was leading the castle. Daemon would soon change that.
Between angry parries of his sword against a target, and drilling himself into exhaustion, his grief bled out. Just like an infected wound, it needed to bleed constantly, lest he become mad with it.
Daemon had a feeling it wasn’t quite working. He had always been mercurial, but now, he had moments where he didn’t recognize himself. It frightened him. Because if there was one thing Daemon had been known for, it was being sure of who he was, and proud of it.
Suddenly morose, he threw his sword down and walked back inside, leaving some unfortunate page to pick it up. Without even washing himself, he went straight to the hall. There, he found you, scowling at your pudding. You didn’t bother to greet him.
A shame you were such a beautiful woman. It would be easier to ignore you if you had looked like Rhea. Instead, you reminded him of another woman who had ruled her lands, and dared to stand tall, another who was as proud as she had been beautiful. It was fucking awful.
“Do you always scowl while you eat? Or is the food here just bitter by vocation?” He asks, sitting next to you. He serves himself some eggs, making sure to plaster his body to yours, so you can feel exactly how sweaty he is. In his head, he can already hear your screeches when you realize, a soothing, grounding melody to start his day. There was a certain pleasure in scandalizing ladies.
This morning, though, you do not take his bait. It makes him frown. Thinking it a fluke, he decides to try again.
“I must say, marriage does become you. That look in your face, as if it physically hurts you to breathe the same air as me…. Almost romantic, really.” He serves himself even more eggs, wolfing them down as he speaks and showing the worst table manners known to man. Still, no reaction, beyond scooting yourself away from him. “Did the glare come with the dowry, or is it an extra that Stark asked you to throw in just for me?”
When you still do not respond, Daemon feels his eyebrows raise. Yesterday, you had not struck him as someone who would take all these insults and crassness lying down. It seems strangely out of character, how quiet you are behaving.
Set on making a pest out of himself, he keeps talking.
“You will forgive me, of course.” It is said as if it is a given. He reaches for the teapot, and you flinch. Interesting. Are you afraid of him? “I have not eaten with a lady in such a long time.” And just to test his theory, he slams the teapot back down after he serves himself, making you jump nearly a foot in the air.
You fear him, Daemon thinks, an amused smile stretching his lips. How funny, that a quick-witted little thing like you had been so frightened by his words alone that you became meek. Yet the road you chose is not to please him in all things, but to ignore him.
If there is something that Daemon cannot stand, it is to be ignored. It hurts his pride. Once he had been the man every single woman wanted, and the one all men wished to emulate. Now, branded a traitor by those sheep like Stark, he couldn’t even hold the attention of his own wife. It was unacceptable.
He would make sure you never ignored him again.
His plan starts as soon as you are finished breaking your fast. Instead of exploring your lands, as he had thought of when rising, he decides to follow you without you noticing. He watches in the shadows as you mount your horse and ride out. After a few inquiries, he is informed of the time of your arrival and makes sure to give you a proper welcome.
“Ah, lady wife. There you are!” Daemon says, as he pushes aside a page who was attempting to help you dismount. Instead, he is the one to grab you by the waist and aid you in descending. “I wasn’t aware you could mount a horse with such dignity. I almost knelt.”
You do not react, but it is fine. Daemon has played the game of making a nuisance of himself long enough to know it takes patience. He had done it to Viserys before, and the experience had taught him one had to play the long game.
From then on, he becomes your shadow. There is not a single second of the day in which you are alone. He follows you around the castle, not giving you a single respite, unless you are in the privy or your rooms.
When you are filling a jar with flowers in your solar, Daemon materializes by your side.
“Are those flowers for me, dear wife? You shouldn’t have bothered. How fast did you surrender to my charms.”
Or when you are reading by the fire, inside the library of your keep,
“Is there a reason for reading in hiding? Or is it to hide you have feelings?” He sits down next to you, draping an arm over your shoulders. When you get up, and close the book, in annoyance, he shouts after you, cackling. “No need for that, my lady wife! I so enjoy your company. Or your disdain. They are one and the same, really!”
Daemon can tell he is wearing you down, and it amuses him to no end. As you sup together, at his insistence, he fills the silence with chatter of his own.
“How lucky I am to have a wife who hates me in silence. What every man desires.” He says, as he slurps at his soup obnoxiously. He gestures to a dish near you. “Serve me, please, wife. No, not that one. That. Yes. No, a bit to the left.” It is finally too much for you. He watches in amusement as your face grows more and more furious, filled with righteous indignation.
“By the Gods, I thought you northern women were at least good at domestic…” But before he can finish his phrase, you stand up.
“Die, you deranged worm!” You shout, finally losing your temper. Daemon only laughs. You storm off, with him laughing behind you.
And because he cannot stand not to have the last word,
“If you are about to poison my dinner, at least stay to watch. I like having an audience!”
Daemon remains seated, eating his dinner with much improved manners now that you aren’t there to watch. It is so delightful to irritate you. Especially because now that you are actually answering his taunts, focusing on toying with you might help him focus on something else than his past and all those he left behind.
TODAY, YOU SEEM set on not being found. A few moons have passed since your marriage, and Daemon has grown used to your presence. He spends a good part of his day chasing you around the castle, seeking your company and your sharp tongue. When he is not training the pitiful lot you call your men, he is by your side. Yet today, you evade him.
After finishing a training session with the fools that, given enough time, could shape up to be decent guards of your household, Daemon had set out to find you. It was always so delightful to verbally spar with you and see you grow more and more indignant as he intruded into your life as best he could.
Daemon reasoned you didn’t hate him as much as you claimed. After all, you kept going to where you knew he could find you. Whenever he wished to see you, he just had to visit your solar, where you would be hard at work answering your correspondence. Or visit the library, where you would be reading curled up in a windowsill. Hells, you even spent time seated at your own hall, listening to the inane chatter of your tenants.
They were mostly public places, accessible to all your servants, guards, and him. It wasn’t as if you locked yourself in your rooms. Then Daemon might have believed you didn’t enjoy his company as much as he enjoyed yours.
There was something refreshing in how awful you were to him. Unlike most, you didn’t belittle him for being a traitor. Instead, your insults of his character consisted only of digs at his stupidity, appearance, or manners. Not once had you mentioned the war during your verbal spars. And best of all? You didn’t single Daemon out. He clearly remembered seeing you offer similar verbal lashings to that damn Stark pup. You would employ your silver tongue against anyone who taunted you. He just happened to do it often.
He had spent the whole time he had been running your men through drills thinking of what he would say once he saw you. Perhaps something about those murderous eyes of yours? No, he had already complimented them yesterday. It would be unoriginal and might give you the wrong idea. It wasn’t as if Daemon liked you. You were just amusing.
You did have beautiful eyes, though. Lethal, even. He liked that your eyes were always honest, he supposed. Everything and everyone had been so guarded during the war that it was refreshing to look at someone and know exactly what they thought.
Your eyes, though, took it further. They were soulful in ways lesser women could only hope to achieve. A single glance and Daemon could gauge exactly how angry or amused you were.
But just as he had thought of the perfect argument conversation starter, he realized he could not find you anywhere. You weren’t in any of your usual haunts. Daemon had even checked your rooms, which he never did, but you were not there either.
Questioning the servants only earned him disdainful looks. While he had earned the respect of your guards, the maids were a wholly different story. Loyal to you to the very end, they didn’t seem as willing to forgive past mistakes. Not even if he was the father to their king.
His boy. His chest squeezed painfully to think of him. Baela and Rhaena were women grown, married, and with lives of their own. But his son, forced to wed that green cunt, as mad as her mother and treacherous as they come. Daemon’s heart ached for him.
As he wandered the castle and determined you were not inside, he thought of how much he missed Rhaenyra. She wouldn’t set him on this foolish errand, not even if she had been upset with him. His little dragon preferred to make her displeasure loudly known, just as her mount did. She would never hide away from him.
The two of you were so different it pained him to even compare you. You had nothing to do with the other, and yet, when you stood your ground, or when you directed the pitiful men you had, you looked so much like her it was uncanny.
Not like the Rhaenyra of the end, twisted by mania and distrust, trapped inside her own mind. Like the little girl he had cradled in his arms, the one he had taught everything she needed to know about love.
Perhaps it was that thought, or it was luck. Maybe even instinct. But something told him to search for you in the goodswood. And there you were, just as Rhaenyra had once been in a very different keep, sitting under a tree.
Yet, instead of reading or indulging in sweets, you were crying quietly. You were not at the heart tree at the center of it, but tucked under another weirdwood, a bit out of sight. Had he not been looking for you, he would have missed you entirely.
This was why the servants had not answered. They either didn’t know, or didn’t wish to disturb their mistress in her secret shame. Who else cried in hiding, but someone who didn’t wish to let anyone find out she was crying?
Your shoulders shook, back turned to him. You were muffling the sobs with your hands, and your hair, much too dark, was in disarray. This time, he thought of Nettles, and her face when she had mounted Sheepstealer for the last time. Her thin body, limbs much like those of a delicate frog. She had been no dragon, and yet…
Slowly, and making sure his footsteps made no noise, Daemon approached you. He placed a hand over your nape, making you startle. You looked over your shoulder, features exquisite even when struck with grief. Perhaps, made even lovelier because of it.
And your eyes, glassy and with lashes that clumped together from the wetness of your tears, pierced him like a bolt straight to the heart.
“I am not in the mood, Daemon.” You hiccuped, sobbing too hard to manage more. It was the first time you called him by name, and he savored it. “Not today.”
“Why not today?” He asks you, voice pitched low. He squeezes your nape once more. Fatherly. Reassuring. He would rather not think of the last time he did so.
“If you must know, it is my father’s nameday.” You say, and Daemon finally understands. Grief, of course. The insidious bitch. Not even here, up in the North, could he escape her.
He hesitates. He feels any of his jokes would fall flat. So would his more hurtful thoughts. But to attempt to soothe you… Is it even his place to comfort you?
Soft, still doubting his ability at it, he begins to speak.
“I knew your father.” Daemon starts, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth. He finds it difficult to speak. To think of those times, of the war, and the death and all the grief that came with it. Of the chill that clung to his bones and hadn’t allowed him a moment’s respite since. “Roddy the Ruin, the men called him.”
You give a wet, shuddery chuckle.
“Aye, they did.” And you look up at him, with those devastating eyes of yours. “He was so proud to fight for the dragon queen…”
Daemon flinches. He doesn’t mean to, but to hear one of her monikers in your mouth spooks him.
He has been neatly dividing his life. His past with Rhaenyra. His present with you. Both exist at separate points in time and space, never crossing. While near you, he tries not to think of the before, and you are so engaging it nearly works. And now, his two lives collide, her name in your mouth, his lips speaking about a war that he tries pretending is a faded dream.
“We won in the end.” Daemon squeezes your shoulder. As you look at him, a sad smile playing on your face, he thinks of what to say to soothe you. Daemon has been the sword so many times, he has forgotten how to be a light in the darkness. “Her claim still lives. Our son sits on the throne.”
“With a Hightower Queen.” You wrinkle your nose. “A pyrrhic victory if there ever was one.”
“Don’t be so sure.” A look at your face, and he thinks you so painfully young, yet so strong. It causes him to have confusing feelings. Unnerving ones, that make him think of Nettles, and a young Rhaenyra, and tell him to protect, to shield, yet to destroy. Kill the threat before it can hurt him. “No one remembers queens.”
“But you do.” Then, softer. “You are allowed to grieve for her, husband.”
Daemon doesn’t answer. He grabs you instead, and kisses you with bruising force. He can barely taste the salt of your tears before you move your head away. Somehow, the tender rejection hurts more than if you had shoved him off you.
YOUR HUSBAND IS behaving oddly. You watch him from the corner of your eyes, as he slowly, but surely, attempts to steal your seal from your desk without you noticing.
After that day at the godswood, you have stopped trying to run from him. All the fear he inspired had evaporated, leaving behind an odd sense of pity. Daemon behaved erratically, you realized, because he was grieving. His antics were much easier to tolerate knowing it.
Unfortunately, now that you were ready for his scathing sarcasm, he had chosen to leave it behind. No more of his usual taunts were heard. Instead, he escalated.
It had started yesterday, when you had come from your morning ride to find your room full of the most awful, sickeningly smelling flowers you had ever seen. When you had grabbed them and thrown them out, a task that had taken nearly an hour because the damn things were everywhere, Daemon had nearly smiled.
Now, he was attempting theft.
“I thought you were a Gold Cloak once.” You muse, as you reach for your seal. His hands are still on it, and yours barely brush them when he moves it out of your reach. “How did you catch thieves if you cannot steal to save your life?”
“Considering I still hold it, I would consider myself successful.” Daemon smirks. “Do you want it back, little wife?”
“Keep it.” You scoff, and continue to write your letters. With a shrug, Daemon pockets it. And waits. Patiently, which is not a word you would have used to describe him before.
You continue writing letters. You have always been methodical about it, writing them all before placing them in envelopes, addressing them, and then sealing them. It makes the task more efficient, which you appreciate, since it can be the dullest part of being a lady.
Hence, why it takes you so long to notice you cannot finish your letters unless he relinquishes the seal.
“Husband.” You try, hoping he has forgotten. “Could you hand me the seal?”
“I don’t know, could I?” He asks you, leaning back in his chair. He has the look of a satisfied cat. The whole morning, Daemon has just been sitting across from you, toying with the knickknacks on your desk. It had made no sense to you, but now it does. He had been waiting for a chance to make a nuisance out of himself.
“May I have my seal?” You stress the word my, because it is your seal, and you need it now.
“No, you may not. “ Daemon smirks even more. His eyes crinkle up in that way you hate, infuriatingly handsome. “Though congratulations on your improved grammar. It only shows that I am an extraordinary teacher.”
“Husband. The seal.” You say, through gritted teeth.
He sits up and reaches for your face. Cupping your cheek in his hand, warm and big, he smiles. You tense. It is the first time he touches you so, with such proprietary softness.
“I am feeling generous. Give me a smile, and I’ll give it back.” Daemon brushes his thumb over your lower lip. “Come on, sweet thing. Smile.”
Much to your chagrin, you feel yourself slowly begin to get shy. To cover it up, you scowl.
“Really?”
“I guess you do not really want it…” Daemon speaks with such smug satisfaction, you know you have been unsuccessful in hiding how much he is affecting you.
“Hand me the damn thing!” You say, standing up and looming over him. He tuts, jumping up with far too much agility for a man of his age, and raises your seal over his head.
“Now, now, wife, what sort of manners are those?” He clicks his tongue at you, as if you were some unruly child. “Say please. Or give me a pretty smile. Both will soothe my aching heart.”
“Daemon, I swear to…”
“A kiss then?” He interrupts, purple eyes shining with amusement. “Let it be known I am a generous creditor.”
You glare at him, feeling yourself grow even more embarrassed. Then, knowing that Daemon is capable of dragging this nonsensical conversation on for hours if he so pleases, and that you need to finish your task, you give him a tight smile, with closed lips.
“Come on, love, put a bit more in it, will you?” Daemon leans forward, and fixes your smile with his hand. You bat it away, annoyed. It is all so absurd that you cannot help but laugh. When you grin, Daemon does too, and places the seal back on your desk once more.
WHAT DAEMON HATED more in young knights was the sheer arrogance of them. He shuddered to think he had been one himself, in what felt like a lifetime ago. And even then, really, he had been justified in being so. Daemon had been born a Targaryen Prince, closer to Gods than to men.
The silly things you had in your service had probably been born from a donkey and a sow, though. They had no reason to be as cocky as they were.
To even claim that you were too lovely to be married to a traitor and that Daemon didn’t deserve you. The nerve! So of course, Daemon had to show the arrogant little shit exactly why Cregan Stark had given you to him. He might have lost his dragon, but he was still the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. He was more capable of protecting you and your little keep.
And look, back in Daemon’s day men were made of sterner stuff. When they got injured during friendly sparring, they didn’t run crying to their daddies.
“Lord Husband, would you be so kind as to explain why Lord Whent is claiming you attempted to kill his son in the courtyard?” You say, in what you believe to be a frightening tone, but sounds rather cute to his ears. You round on him, skirts opening like a flower in full bloom, face askew in the most delectable little frown.
Daemon sighs. Knights these days, by the Fourteen Flames.
“I didn’t attempt to kill him.” He explains to you, as his hands find their home in your hips. You squirm a bit, surely mad at him, but he only holds more firmly onto you. “Besides, isn’t he a bit too old to go sniveling to his father? By the Gods, he acts as if I cut his sword arm off.”
“Daemon, you took three of his fingers!” You say, in absolute exasperation. Your lower lip sticks out in a tempting pout. He taps it with his thumb, distracted.
“Put that away before I have to bite it.” He threatens you, absolutely fascinated by the give in the plush flesh. When you only scowl more, Daemon sighs. “Oh, right. The Whent boy. Well, it isn’t my fault he doesn’t know how to hold a sword proper. If he did, he would still have his fingers.”
“By the Old Gods…” You mutter, sounding astonished. Daemon would be too, if he were faced with such a useless excuse for a knight. “He is a knight. He knows how to hold his sword.”
“Which only shows how lax the standards for knights have fallen, because no, he doesn’t.” He protests. He continues to rub your lower lip, until you get annoyed and move your face away. Instead, he focuses his attention on pulling you even closer. Only when the two of you are nearly hugging, and his chin is perched over your head, he speaks. “Even if he did know how to hold a sword, no northern man would begrudge me for what I did.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Ask the Whent boy what he said about you. I was only defending our honor, I assure you.”
You sigh. It is charming. Daemon likes the shape your lips form when you do it. You abandon the discussion in favor of rummaging through your desk’s drawers. He hates it. He wishes to hold all your attention, all the time. But before he can voice it, you turn to look at him again, holding a jar of ointment in your hands.
“Come here.” You demand. “Shirt off.”
“Why, Lady Wife, won’t you offer me dinner first?” He teases you, even as he obeys. You have that effect on him lately. He cannot resist a chance to indulge you.
“Don’t be stupid.” You mutter, even as your eyes stray to his naked chest. Daemon preens under your hungry gaze. “I noticed you favor your left side. Did you get injured while defending my honor?” Little disrespectful thing that you are, you continue. “Perhaps, pulled a muscle? Must be your old age.”
Daemon had, indeed, pulled a muscle. He had already been training the whole morning when he had sparred with the Whent whelp, and he might have overdone it. Not that he will ever admit it, of course.
You warm some ointment between your hands and carefully begin to rub his ribs. You do not touch him often, not out of your own will. That you are seeking contact on your own, and doing him such a kindness, is telling.
He has you right where he wants you, Daemon thinks to himself, as he enjoys the touch of your warm hands. You apply just the right amount of pressure to make it both an ache and a relief. Soon, the pain in his side is diminishing, and he can stop overcompensating for it by leaning left.
“Thank you, lady wife.” He tells you, placing one of his hands over yours. You look up at him, as if finally realizing what you are doing.
“Do not mention it.” You step back, stumbling in your haste to pull distance between the two of you. “I just don’t want to have to explain to our king that his father was killed in an accident while defending my honor.”
Daemon smiles. For once, the reminder of his son doesn't sting as badly. He knows it then. He needs to have you as the dornishmen need water. Nothing less will sate him.
THE MESSENGER COMES when you are busy tending to your tenants. Your hall is full of petitioners, and you are attempting to settle a dispute over two herds of sheep that got mixed up after a fence fell. Daemon has retired already, with a charming remark about not even your presence being enough to lure him into debating the merits of more humane branding methods.
You read the letter. Once. Twice. Then, in the firmest voice you can manage while shaking in your boots, you give the order.
"Seize him.” The guards, trained by your husband, and loyal as dogs, do not hesitate. They pounce on the man, dragging him away even as he protests. "The hearings are postponed. You are all dismissed.“ You tell the petitioners, as you rise, clenching the parchment in your fist. It bears the royal seal. Inside, the message is simple. Sparse. Three lines, communicating the death of the Queen and that Prince Daemon Targaryen is wanted for questioning.
You wish to rush to Daemon’s side and tell him about it. You wish to question the man that now sits on your cells. But there is no time. Instead, you rush to the courtyard, and order your men to prepare for a siege.
Soon, the chaos begins. Your servants remember well the horrors of the war. Maids are sent running into the town, to buy all the supplies they can without leaving the smallfolk with a shortage. The maps are brought out, the river is cut, a curfew is established.
Amidst the panic, you refuse to explain your reasoning. It is too dangerous. If you do, they might ask you to surrender Daemon. And you cannot do it.
Once, during the war, you had prided yourself on being a lady who did everything for her subjects. You had been willing to marry for convenience, to set aside your hopes and dreams, to spend every waking hour attending to the affairs of your lands. Now, you cannot.
It is said that the men of the Night’s Watch vow to take no wife and father no children because love is the death of all duty. Because when you love, you turn selfish, suddenly unwilling to sacrifice everything, including your very life or the life of those you love, for the cause.
Summoned by the unrest, Daemon appears by your side while you are overseeing the posting of the guards. You pass him the parchment you still hold, without a word. He stands next to you as he reads, eyebrows raising.
You do not need to say anything. The sight of the bridge being readied to be pulled up at a moment’s notice speaks for itself.
“So you are going to war.” Daemon crosses his arms over his chest. Then, voice full of derision. “You silly girl.”
“Would you prefer to die?” You ask him, sharply. You turn to look at him, hands on your hips. “I wasn’t aware the rogue prince was anything more than a selfish bastard.”
Your words are harsh. He would probably strike any other person who dared utter them at him. But with you, he only smiles.
“My parents were married, as you well know.” He grabs you by the nape, pulling you close, until your foreheads touch. Until you are sharing the same breaths. “Stupid girl. You should just do as they say. Save yourself. There is no need for martyrdom, no dishonor in abandoning a lost cause.”
“Is that how you see yourself?” You ask him, feeling a strange pity blossom in your chest. Daemon’s eyes meet your own. He looks tense, as if fighting an inner war. But he doesn’t look as a man who has no will to live would. He isn’t broken. Instead, he looks as if he cannot bear to think of a world without you in it. “You want me to live.” You realize. “You want me to live, to be safe. Even if…” Even if he has to die for it.
You remember then that this is not the first time Daemon has willingly walked to his death to spare a woman he loves.
“Do not look at me like that.” Daemon barks, his hold on your nape turning harsher, tugging at your hair. His face twists into a snarl. “Stop it.”
You cannot help it. You smile. Despite the pain in the back of your head, despite the fact that he is looking at you like he would like nothing more than to murder you.
“Like what?” You challenge, eyes soft.
“Like you care.” He growls, low and threatening. “Like you understand.”
You grab his hand, taking it in yours.
“But I do.”
He pounces on you, kissing you as if his life depended on it. It is harsh, all teeth and spit, and absolutely no finesse. Daemon’s hands find your hips, and he squeezes, acting like a man starved. And you, scared to death that they will take him from you, do the same, nails digging into his shoulders to keep him here. With you. Where he belongs.
That is precisely why you miss Cregan’s entrance. When you part, lips kiss swollen, and panting for breath, you see him standing there, an amused look on his face. He must have ridden for hours to reach you so soon after the news broke.
“I see the two of you are getting along.” He comments, in that infuriating tone of his. “I come to inform you there is no danger to your husband, Lady Dustin. I handled the matter as soon as I found out.”
You wipe your mouth, suddenly embarrassed. Daemon, as always, looks shameless and even proud of himself.
“Thank you, my lord.” You say, fighting the urge to run and hide under your covers, and never again daring to show your face in front of Cregan Stark.
“The two of you are under my protection.” He says, as he turns towards the stairs. “I do not take kindly to uppity southrons daring to order around my bannerwoman.”
“How do you know I didn’t do it?” Daemon calls after him, frowning.
“Oh, Prince Daemon. You didn’t believe I would just leave you alone and unsupervised with Lady Dustin?” Cregan looks from between your stunned face to Daemon’s angry one. “I take care of my people. The North remembers, after all.”
You watch him disappear, mind still reeling. Of course Cregan would never allow you to be in any actual danger. But this meant that he probably had a spy in your household and had heard all you had been up to these last few moons. Gods, you wanted to die from embarrassment.
"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."
Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, emotional constipation, pregnancy/birth, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.
A/N: ok one final chapter after this fr. the smut on p23 got way out of hand thus the adjustment lol. Also mitker is literally Kermit backwards HAHHAAHHA| cross posted on ao3
@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching
Aegon had his mother's voice tuned out as she chastised him over the latest prank he pulled on the servants. He had poured so much gravy on his plate, it now looked like he had soup and vegetables.
Aemond watches him haphazardly mix his gravy and turns to his own plate. He pours a bit of gravy on his meat, mimicking his brother.
"Aegon," Alicent furrows her brows, "Aegon are you listening?!"
Aegon does not look up at her.
The Queen bristles from her seat, "do not wait for me to punish you before you listen."
Aegon whines and leans back.
She sighs, expression softening slightly now that her first born has reacted to her. She turns to her side when she hears Helaena singing the song her sister had taught her, "all the birds sing sweetly for you, so come rest ye darling wee head."
The Queen wipes her face. How badly she wishes that you were here with her. She never did know how to properly discipline Aegon. She always fears she was either too cruel or too lenient, considering her father knew only the former and she did not want to mirror him. "You will apologize to those servant women, do you understand me?"
Aegon crosses his arms, slumping in his seat. He mutters under his breath, "I don't want to."
Alicent narrows her eyes, "what did you say?"
Aegon looks at her mother in defiance, "I don't want to!"
"Well, it doesn't matter," she seethes, "you will!" then slams he fists on the table, making Aemond drop his spoon in shock. She notices and sighs, "apologies, love."
Aemond leans into his mother's touch when she brushes his head.
Aegon grits his teeth, heaving in anger.
Helaena continues singing, "the apples grow up the trees, and flowers rise up from the ground—"
"My son," Alicent says a notch softer, "your actions are a reflection of the Crown," she speaks in a low voice, hoping it would calm them both, "you are the first born son of the king. You will be measured against him as–"
"What of my first born son?" Viserys walks into the solar, weight shifting from his feet to his cane.
She comes to an abrupt stand and immediately helps him walk towards the table.
Viserys gratefully leans into his wife as he goes to the head of the table. His eyes are fixed on Aegon the entire time, "skoro syt se laehurlion?" Why the face?
Aegon refuses to answer. He has grown to detest the sound of High Valyrian.
The king sighs, "iksan sure skoros mirre issa, aōha muña iksis paktot." I'm sure what ever it is, your mother is right.
Alicent steals a glance at Aegon before helping the king sit. After,, Viserys notices Aegon's gravy laden plate. He furrows his brows, "are you awfully fond of gravy?"
Aemond turns to Aegon's plate then his father, answering for him, "ziry iksos sȳz, kepa." It's good, father.
Viserys turns to Aemond.
Aegon groans and rolls his eyes, annoyed at his brother, annoyed at his father, annoyed at his mother, annoyed at his sister, who should really just- "SHUT IT!"
Helaena stops singing. She turns to older brother.
"Aegon!" Alicent snaps, pointing a finger.
"She's fucking annoying!" he sneers.
"LANGUAGE, BOY!" the queen hisses in frustration as she scoops some peas and meat for the king.
"Let him be," Viserys waves her off, "you cannot blame him," he takes his spoon and begins eating, "he probably learned that from his uncle."
Aegon hardens at the mention. Alicent grits her teeth.
"When is uncle coming back?" Aemond mutters in between bites.
"Don't be fucking stupid-"
"Aegon!" Alicent can't help but chide.
"- they're clearly never coming back," Aegon snaps, heart thumping loudly behind his ribcage. He stares at the brown goop that has overtaken his plate and grunts the instant he sees a tear drop from the bridge of his nose.
"But they can visit for my nameday, can't they?" Aemond asks his father softly.
Viserys does not even look up from his plate.
Aegon roughly scratches his face, "they didn't come for my nameday," he glares at the imbecile.
Aemond catches the redness of Aegon's eyes.
"They didn't come for Helaena's or mother's," the eldest slams his hand on the table as he comes to a stand, "why would they come for a dragonless moron like you?"
"AEGON, GO TO YOUR ROOM!" Alicent snaps, heaving in anger at the boy.
"With pleasure," he snaps, flipping his plate over, making the gravy splatter all over the table and to Heleana who was sat across Aegon.
Viserys hears his daughter's gasp and watches his son walk away, "stop!"
Aegon ignores him.
"Come back here and apologize to Rhaenyr- Jaecy- Heleana!"
Alicent turns to king as he stammers. Her eyes water as Aegon storm out the room.
"DAEMON!" Viserys screams, immediately regretting it as his head begins to hammer.
Aemond watches as his father leans his head into his hand. He vaguely hears him mutter, 'what's that fucking boy's name?' in High Valyrian. He turns back to his plate as Alicent takes Helaena away to change.
Aegon bolts his door and drags a chair beneath the knob, more than certainly locking himself in his chambers. He runs to his bed and grabs a pillow. He hacks it against the sheets repeatedly while screaming in frustration.
Once he was tired, he jumps into bed and flails his limbs. Once he was tired of that, he sighs and lets the tears fall. He cries and stares at the ceiling as he thinks of you.
He slowly sits up and walks towards his desk. He gets a vial of scented oil and uncorks it. Citrus. Lavender. You.
More tears fall.
He leans on his desk, continuing to take in the smell as he sobbed until his mouth went dry. He grabs the ewer of wine beside him and drinks directly from it until it was empty.
Aegon is immediately tipsy.
His vision is blurry and he finds it difficult to cork the vial of fragrance, still, he manages. He opens his drawer and pulls out parchment and a quill.
Aegon slashes his quill across the paper. He screams, crumples it, and chucks it out his window before throwing himself back onto his bed.
The balled message thumps upon the head of a prince.
Laenor looks up after feeling the hit. Upon seeing nothing but a clear sky, he examines the floor, looking for whatever it was that hit him. He slowly begins to walk off upon finding nothing out of the ordinary, but just as he resumes in his usual gait, the wind blows the crumpled letter towards his boots. He picks it up before it is blown off again.
Lines weigh his face immediately when he reads it, "my poor boy."
It takes two days for that letter to come to you, or rather your place of current residence.
You weren't accepting letters anytime soon, not if your husband had anything to say about it.
"D-Dae-" you could barely manage to bring his name past your lips, not when his own were lapping your weeping womanhood like a man starved.
Your legs tighten around his head and he chuckles as he pulls out yet another peak from your aching cunt. You begin to sob when he doesn't let up and try to kick him away.
He only stops because the knock and grating call of his name from the door kills the mood. Daemon slowly pulls away from your thighs, licking his lips. His nose, chin and neck were glimmering with your sticky arousal.
You were helplessly sprawled on your back, arms by your head, chest heaving. You were teary eyed and flush. Your night gown stuck to you from how sweaty you were. You closed your eyes, thinking a nap would do you well, but you couldn't help but look at your husband as he placed a hand on your swollen belly.
Daemon is terribly proud of his work. His wife was panting from blissful exhaustion and won't be going anywhere anytime soon. Well done, man.
His head snaps to the door when the knock and the voice grows louder. He groans and rises from where he knelt at the edge of the bed. He sits at the foot of the cushions, fastening your legs around his bare torso, "what is it?!"
A servant with terrible skill of Westerosi mumbles something unintelligible from the door.
Daemon groans, set on merely ignore her.
That is, until you stir and try to prop yourself on your elbows. It's a challenge, considering you were incredibly top heavy, with your round belly and your heavy teats, not to mention your husband incessantly wedged between your thighs. He makes a face, "don't move."
You whine, "no... I really can't."
Daemon huffs, pulling away from you just to grab your shoulders and push you down.
You whine louder in protest.
Your slick dribbles down his throat, "I did not make you peak four times just for you to get off bed and answer the call of a wench."
You take a much needed deep breath and wipe his chin, "you are in no condition to speak to anyone."
He watches you rub your stickiness between your fingers. He smirks and grabs your wrist, licking them and making you squeal when he bites a knuckle. "You think so little of me."
You try to grab him when he pulls away.
Daemon chuckles and waves a hand when the bang of the door persists, "yes, yes, a moment."
"Daemon!" you call in horror, "at least wipe your face!"
He turns around merely to smile at you and opens the door anyway.
You cover your face with your arms as you hear conversation happen. Horrifically, it becomes quite long.
You cannot even relax after hearing the door close.
Daemon sees your form, the line that formed between his brows dissipates. He quietly walks over to the unlit fireplace as he opens the letter that was handed to him, "you needn't hide anymore, dearest, the girl is gone."
"You're terrible—"
He pops the waxen seahorse seal and chucks it into the fireplace.
"- uncouth, and ill-mannered."
Daemon's furrow returns when finds two papers, one uncreased and one crumpled. He skims the former, finding it was penned by your beloved Laenor, as he expected, then the latter. His brows raise when he realizes it's from Aegon.
His silence makes you pull your arms away from your face. You slightly lift your head, finding his back turned from you, "v'you nothing to say to me after such embarrassment?"
Daemon laughs loudly to mask the sound of him crumpling all the papers into a ball.
You watch him turn to you, hands behind his back, shit eating grin on his face, and groan, covering your face with your arms again.
To your unwitting detriment.
Daemon chucks the paper into the fireplace and quickly finds something to light the fireplace with, "only that I am utterly offended my slick covered skin brings you embarrassment and not pure, unadulterated pride."
You watch him crouch down to light the fireplace. You slowly roll on the bed and sit yourself up, "I'm not cold, duck."
He watches the letters burn, "I have never quacked once in my life."
You rub your belly as you giggle.
Daemon looks over his shoulder. The sight and sound of your mirth makes his lips curl into an adoring smile, "I like it when you're dumb-fucked."
You watch him stand and saunter over, chest and feet bare, trousers low enough to show the beginnings of his pubic hair. He brushes the hair that stuck to your forehead behind your ear. You lean into his touch.
"You say the oddest things."
You hum, "I still wouldn't walk around filthy, dear."
Daemon chuckles, kneeling down in front of you again.
You whimper and try to push him off before he can push himself between your thighs, "I'm tired."
"Mmm, well I was hoping you'd be exhausted," he makes a stupid face as he places his hands on your knees, "I suppose I should— aw!"
He laughs as he clutches the cheek you just slapped. You point a finger, "I'm serious. I will die if you make me peak one more time."
He leans onto your lap, rubbing the sides of your thighs, "well, you spoil sport, not only do you offend me by being embarrassed by my sincere love for you, but you doubly offend me by thinking the worst of-"
"Stop speaking," you grab his jaw, smushing his lips, "I am too hot for this conversation. You shouldn't have lit the fireplace."
Daemon growls playfully as he tries to bite your hand.
You sigh and push him away again, "enough, cow."
The prince loses his balance and falls on his bum, "rude," he watches you get to your feet, "how would you like it if I called you cow?"
You sigh, gripping your swollen breasts, "halfway there, methinks."
Daemon rises as you head to the bathroom. He opens the door for you and helps you get out of your nightgown before guiding you into the tub. You hiss at the water.
His brows furrow, "cold? I can ge-"
"It's fine," you shake your head and slowly sink down, "someone kept me from bathing for far too long."
Daemon removes his pants and comes in with you. He hisses, "fucking hell, it is cold."
"Daemon! No! Out! Now!"
He happily ignores you, even as you punch his arm to prove your point. He turns to avoid your assault but then takes some soap and begins to wash the arm you used to hit him.
You glare, "get out."
"I don't know why you're complaining," he says, focusing on your arm, "I'm literally helpi— aw!"
"You're helping to get your cock wet."
Daemon looks at you, "well, obviously— AW!"
"Get out!"
"I was going to say obviously I'm helping because I love yo-" he clamps his mouth and eyes shut when you splash water onto his face. Just as he opens his eyes, you splash him again.
You giggle as you hear him groan.
"Ao tymagon lēda perzys, riña." You play with fire girl.
You tilt your head, "funny," you splash him again, "kostan emagon kivigon bisa iksin iēdar." I could have sworn this was water.
Daemon gives you a look, as if daring you to splash him again.
So, you do.
You squeal, as soon, he grabs you and seals you in his arms. He pulls you on his lap and bites your neck.
"You think I won't fight back?" he bites your shoulder next, "I'll make you peak on my knee, don't test me."
"Alright!" you wrangle against him, "I'll stop! Please, don't make me peak again."
He makes a face, "that doesn't sound right."
You take the soap from him and rub your arms, leaning into his chest, "it is right if you don't want me to die."
He pauses then brushes your hair aside, "I don't want you to die."
"Good," you raise a brow at him, "I should like to grow old with my child after I give birth."
All of Daemon's smugness is completely washed away as you wash the stickiness on your thighs. He takes a breath and adjusts you on his lap, arms coming around to clutch your belly. He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, kissing you there, "you will. I swear it."
You lean into him, "you cannot swear it anymore than I can, pup."
"I can," he mutters, rubbing your bump, "their maesters will burn if harm befalls my wife—"
"They do not call them maesters here, darling."
"— or my heir."
"..."
"..."
You look at him.
He looks back at you.
"I thought you said you've no need of heirs?"
There is an irritation upon him, "I don't."
"I cannot guarantee you a boy, m-"
"I know," he raises a hand, "I don't need a boy. A girl can happily inherit nothing from me."
You press your lips into a line and look down when you feel the babe kick. You take his hand and place it there.
Daemon looks at his hand, silently awaiting movement with gentle rubs. His hand stops when he feels his baby move.
You smile softly, "do not be so disappointed in us if the babe is a princess."
He furrows his brows, "I would not."
You smile wider as he brushes your hair. You hum, "you needn't pretend you don't prefer a son."
He says nothing.
"For both of our sakes, I prefer that it be a boy as well."
He calls your name.
"That I would have completed my duty."
"Your duty is to live with me until my last breath," he speaks with conviction, hands on your bicep, "do not speak as though our child's beginning is your end."
You smile again.
His expression crumples at the tears that accompany it.
"It is not," you muster, hoping to convince the both of you.
"It isn't," he kisses your forehead. He begins to soak your shoulders, "now, let's get you clean."
After bathing, you both emerge from your chambers wearing the fine silks your host gifted you. Daemon drones about his dragon ride yesterday and you lean into him as you head to the dining room for an awfully late lunch.
"Ah, my friends!" Mitker calls from the balcony at the end of the hall. He inhales deeply then exhales grey smoke as he speaks, "you finally emerge!"
You smile at him squeezing Daemon's arm tightly.
Your husband doesn't even look at you and raises a finger at the approaching man, "put out your pipe."
You squeeze him again, always anxious by his bluntness. You can already smell the smoke wafting over and it only makes your belly churn further. You smile and rub your bump, "it's just the smell—"
Mitker raises a hand, puts his pipe out, and props it down on one of the outdoor tables. He then takes a prepared lemon slice and sucks on it as he brushes himself off. He sequentially walks over, smelling of smoke and lemon, "my friends."
Daemon raises another finger, "that's close enough."
You mutter his name under your breath, masking it further with a smile.
Mitker laughs, clasping his hands together, "the dragon's fire for his bride never wanes."
Though you could tell he truly found no offense in Daemon's speech, you couldn't help but feel remorse, "forgive me. I am just incredibly—"
"There is nothing to forgive," both men say, one reassuring and one pointed. It's obvious which came from Daemon.
Mitker gestures, "my second wife does not enjoy my smoking habit either. Do not worry your pretty little head."
You smile sheepishly.
A servant passes and her master pulls her aside. After she nods and walks off, Mitker turns back to you, "I've asked food be served. I am sure you are very hungry from coupling all morning."
Your entire body burns while Daemon flourishes with laughter. Mitker walks off, nonchalant, and talks about the food he had the cooks prepare for today.
You glare at Daemon, tugging at his arm.
He looks at you, lips still spilling with amusement.
"You're being inappropriate," you quip.
Your husband chuckles, "twas not I that brought up our marital conduct."
You swat his arm, "I meant the way you speak to Magister Mitker."
Daemon furrows his brows.
"Lest you forget, prince, we are in Lys, and rely on the kindness of our host."
His nostrils flare, "if he wasn't already greatly indebted to me for freeing the Triarchy from the Crab Feeder so he can freely deploy his trade boats," he raises his brows, "he should be honored host us," he tilts his head, speaking carefully, "and my dragon."
You clench your jaw, "Daemon."
"He enjoys my impertinence, you know. I play into the part he expects me to"
Your voice comes out as a sharp whisper, "your awareness of your own impertinence is shocking and irritating."
Daemon's grin deepens, "do not pretend you don't enjo–"
"Silence."
"Ah," Mitker turns to you once you reach the dining table, "your midwives and healers have already arrived. If you should like to meet them before giving birth, I would be most glad to introduce you after your meal."
Your lips part as Daemon pulls the chair for you. You smile as you sit, nodding eagerly, "yes. I should very much like to meet them."
"I employed only the best," your host shrugs for effect, "midwives who have overseen the births of my 6 brides and 20 of my children, soon to be 21," he points with a laugh.
You join in his laughter.
Daemon sits next to you, watching your expression closely.
"My hired two healers have come from the famed House of Red Hands itself," Mitker nods, "they are here to help where the midwives might not, and hopefully might even help with your affliction."
The sentiment leaves you different. So much so that you, in fact, have to pull a smile when the magister stares at you a second too long.
Daemon notices. He takes your hand and squeezes it, "that is good."
You turn to his hand then back to Mitker, "it is... I am honored by your intensive care."
The man raises his arms through laughter, thoroughly pleased by the reaction, "the honor is all mine, my friends."
That moment, the servants come to serve your food.
"To have a Targaryen babe who might one day sit on the famed Iron Throne be born in my home is an honor I will have forever."
You smile at the servants as they pour your some water.
"Now," Mitker says, "eat. I must go to my children," he laughs, "I promised to play with them in the garden after smoking."
As your host disappears, Daemon serves himself some food, piling up potatoes and meat on his plate while you idly stare at your empty one.
He begins placing potatoes on your plate, "some beef, dear?"
You shake your head.
"It smells scrumptious," he gives you one despite it, "it will be good for you and the babe."
"I cannot stand the taste," you grimace then finish a cup of water.
Daemon watches. He sighs as you lower your cup then retrieves the meat with a fork, promptly eating it. His eyes remain on you as you heap more vegetables on your plate. After he swallows, he says, "they're apparently very good."
You down some more water.
"The House of Red Hands, I mean."
You turn to Daemon as he silently offers you more food. You let him serve you some stew.
"If you are worried you will be subjected to primitive methods that will yield no results, know that I will personally—"
"Their methods are not primitive, Daemon," you begin to eat.
"Yes, well, I'm saying is if they hurt you, I will whet my sword with their blood," he speaks with a nonchalant sort of seriousness.
You shake your head, "they will not. They are far gentler than most maesters."
Daemon knits his brows at that.
You offer a soft smile, "I have met two in my youth," you bring your fork to your lip, "hired by my father, of course."
He freezes where you begin eating.
A moment passes.
Daemon is no longer interested in his meal though how much his stomach cried for it.
"Your food will get cold."
Your husband cuts up some beef then turns back to you, "will you not tell me about it?"
You shrug, "there is nothing to tell, darling. They came, they looked at me, and left."
Daemon raises his brows and shakes his head.
"I told you my father tried everything," you speak between bites, "I know you find it hard to believe, but you must believe me."
"I believe you," he mutters.
You look at him as he eats some potatoes. You sigh and stroke his hair, "but you cannot believe Otto Hightower tried his best."
Daemon sighs again, leaning into your touch as you rest your hand on his shoulder, "well, he is a fucking cunt, isn't he?"
You stroke his cheek with the back of your hand. You press your lips into a soft smile, "he does love m-"
He groans and rolls his eyes.
"He does," you mutter, rubbing his nape, "just as you."
"You would compare us?!"
You do not respond.
He is thoroughly offended, so much so, he pulls away from you.
You sigh and retrieve your hand, turning back to your plate.
"We are not the same," Daemon bristles, shoulders growing tense, "I would never let you be trampled or besmirched. I would not let your condition worsen."
Though a rebuttal was on the tip of your tongue, when you lift your head, you smile instead and say, "I know."
Daemon, ever so easily placated by your subservience, easily relaxes. He suddenly feels bad that you are inclined to defend your father even in his absence, "you can stop pretending you care for him, you know."
You look at him.
"He cannot touch you here. And even if he could, I will not let him."
As your husband feeds himself, the tears in your eyes grow heavy enough to fall on your lap.
Daemon stops midchew when he notices.
"I don't pretend..." you whisper, lips wobbling, "... I just do."
The prince throat tightens but he brings himself to swallow. He wipes your tears
.
"I thought that-" your voice cracks, "-if I tell myself he hates me," you sniffle, "which he probably does..." you scratch your nose, "now more than ever..."
He mutters your name as he shakes his head, "alright, that's enough. I should not have said it."
"...I thought I could pretend I never felt his love, and deny it is there at all, but I-" you choke, "I do love him," you shrug and chuckle dryly, "I understand why he does what he does."
Daemon scoffs, "you understand why he casts your heart to the dogs to eat?"
"He doesn't," you shake your head, "he plots and plans, and I am a piece in the mind puzzle he's built decades strong. I must be in place, regardless of my condition."
He shakes his head as he looks away, "and my self-awareness is appalling to you."
"But you are the same."
He whips his head back at you.
You gulp and raise a hand, "similar," you correct, "you are more similar than you-"
"I have not once intentionally broken your spirit," he snaps.
"... so.... intention determines innocence?"
"Yes."
"Then why does it hurt more to know you didn't think of me at all when you were in the Stepstones?"
He is caught off guard and it shows with his dry laugh, "but I did think of-"
"Not enough to write back," you blurt, "I wasn't even enough to make you sta-"
He comes abruptly to a stand.
You stare up at him, eyes widening, "but I understand!" you take his hand, "I understand that was the course you had to take!"
"You reopen scars from years ago to defend your father."
"I am not defending hi-"
"Then what?!" he snaps, pulling away from your touch, "you do this to get even with me?!" His expression curls, "I spoke to assure you of my protection and you spit at my face -"
You slowly come to a stand.
"- by likening me to a man you know I detest."
You bite your lip to contain your sob. You press your hands on his chest and shake your head, "you know-" you inhale sharply, "you know I do not ever mean to anger you."
"And yet-" he laughs, taking your hands, "here we are, my love."
You try to place your hands on his cheeks, but he does not let you. Though it frustrates you, you do not force yourself, "Daemon... I only wish that you understand my-" you shake your head, "I mean that I understand. It is the order of things. I understand that I am either with you along the way or I am in your way."
His eyes twitches, "you are my wife."
"... I was speaking of my father."
He wipes his face roughly and slowly steps back.
It agitates you, "Daem-"
"Do not call me," he raises a finger.
So you don't. You grit your teeth as he walks off. You chest grows tighter the farther he steps away.
Abruptly, he stops and turns, "I AM NOT LIKE THAT CUNT!"
You only stiffen at his words. You do not flinch. You were used to it. Your father shouted at you often like this.
Daemon turns again and starts walking away.
You no longer try to dampen your cries when when he disappears into the corner. You clutch your belly as you sit back down. Stupid, stupid girl. You promised not to speak back, remember? How could you fucking forget?
Daemon hears your cries and rips at the hair by the sides of his ears. He grits his teeth, pacing back and forth angrily down the hall before heading off.
You gasp when your chair is pulled back. You lift your gaze and try to stand when you see your husband before you. He prevents you from moving and moves your chair until he can kneel before you.
He grips your skirts then bites it through a groan.
Your lips wobble as you frown, "Dae-"
"I told you not to call me," he quips, squeezing your skirts until his knuckles were white, "I cannot bare it right now."
You sniffle and bite your lip. You tentatively try to reach for him. When your hand finally touches the crown of his head, he perks and grabs it, bringing your wrist to his mouth.
Daemon is visibly distraught as he forces your flesh against his lips. A few moments later, he's biting you, teeth digging deeper and deeper.
You gulp as the pain slowly amplifies. Soon, you cannot contain your whimper of discomfort.
He releases you then yanks your chair closer. He brings his hands to the small of your back, then rests his chin on your belly. He looks up at you, not actually putting any weight on your form. His eyes are pink. You smoothen out the messiness of his silver hair.
"I have no appetite," he mumbles.
You shake your head, "neither do I."
"You cannot afford to skip another meal."
"Yes but..." you gulp, "I do not want to eat without you."
"I will not leave," he says, "I spent the whole day pleasuring you so that you would be too tired to go to those orphans you love more than me."
"My heart," you whimper, "I do not love them more-"
"I know," he cuts you off, "but you visit them so often I am jealous anyway."
"They have no one to help them. Teaching them what I can will hel-"
"I know," he cuts you off once more, "yet all the same your generosity makes me jealous."
"D-" you cut yourself off and cover your lips with your fingertips.
He takes your wrist again. He kisses it then bites it again, "call me... and eat. Please."
You nod, brushing his hair, "Daemon." He moves your chair again.
He remains sat by your feet as you consume your meal. You wipe your philtrum and realize you were starving after the first bite
Daemon perks when you bring your fork to his lips. He silently eats the beef then rests his head on your lap as he chews.
You both decide to meet the midwives and healers after, and though you could tell your husband's pride was still stinging, he held your hand the entire time, especially when the old men from the House of Red Hands decided they wanted to examine you. Daemon's eyes never leave you as they feel your belly, count your heartbeats, and question you about your affliction.
It was appalling then to be asked to leave when you suddenly went into labor. At first, he was calm enough to decline the midwife who asked him to step out of the room, but when you looked at him with your fearful, beady eyes, all hell broke lose.
What started out as low threats became full on declarations of apparent murder when the midwives insisted Daemon to exit the room. It only added to the pressure on your already tightening chest to watch him terrorize everyone.
It was the senior healer from the House of Red Hands that realizes you were slipping out of consciousness, and it was he that risked his life reeling the wrothful prince out of the room.
Daemon shoves him away upon reaching the door, and, in all his self-importance, readies to slay him where he stood, but the healer's words caught him before he could draw his blade.
"She has lost consciousness."
Daemon's fury is replaced with trepidation.
Before he could approach you, the healer yanks him by the arm and quips under his breath, "her heart is weak! She will not survive if you continue to insist on your way!"
Daemon ripps his arm out of his grasp.
"You must listen to me, boy," mutters the healer harshly, "I have seen greater men succumb to heart pains. You should be grateful your wife had the strength to take your child to term. If you cannot hold your peace and mean to throw another tantrum, get out," he looks walks off, "that is, unless you wish to hammer the final nail on her coffin yourself."
He doesn't get to reply as the healer is already by your your side, trying to help you regain your senses.
It quickly dawns on Daemon, that he, in fact, could not hold his peace. He paces around, restless and worried as he watches the midwives scramble around the room. He eventually decides to leave, but just as he does, he realizes he cannot do that either.
He is stuck walking to and fro from the room to the hall with agitation that could suffocate one even as large as Caraxes.
It worsens when you begin to scream.
More so when you begin to scream his name.
It is the most terrible sound in the world.
He does not come to you.
He cannot.
He is mortified.
He is paralyzed outside the door.
His heart racing.
Time eludes him. He doesn't know how long he just stands there curdling at the sound of his own name.
Suddenly, the fear of this being the last time you call him makes him run to your side. He freezes the moment he gets past the door.
You are sweaty, face is twisted in pain, leaning into the shoulders of two midwives. Daemon, who has run head first into war, hesitates as he walks over to you.
He calls out his love in his mother tongue.
You do not hear.
He raises his voice, "iksan kesīr. Iksan kesīr, ñuha jorrāelagon." I'm here. I'm here, my love.
You manage to look at him and immediately reach out.
Daemon takes the place of the midwives and you lean on him as your contractions persist.
It is a grueling affair. It takes two hours and some for you to crown. Your screams are heart wrenching and brings Daemon to tears. He rubs your back and hushes you, but it does nothing.
The silence that comes when your babe finally does come is equally relieving and worrying. When you close your eyes, it becomes apparent you are not strong enough to stay awake, much less to hold her.
"A girl?" Daemon mutters, tears streaming down his cheeks as the midwife's announcement. His joy battles with his concern as the healers pull you away from him.
He nearly fights them off, but thankfully does not act rashly.
Someone says something to him, but he does not hear, as he is too busy watching you bleed on the bed.
He flinches when someone tugs his arm.
The midwife offers him a smile... and his daughter.
He stares at the tiny thing— she is unbelievably little. He chokes up as she groans and fusses in his arms. She stole his face. Daemon looks up at you, filled with mirth as he calls your name, "she stole my-"
Your pale face and limp body make him go silent.
Had it not been for the midwife still beside him, she might have dropped his daughter. She tries to get him to focus. "What will you name her?"
Daemon turns to her, to his daughter, then back to you, "I- I... I don't know."
The woman rubs his shoulder, "you'll know soon enough."
He doesn't.
He leaves the girl unnamed for days, intent on waiting for you to rouse before deciding on anything.
Guilt grips him after three days of simply calling her babe.
Then soon, a moon passes.
The girl can hold her head up and smile back at him. The healers now tell Daemon if you do not wake soon, you will not wake at all. He refuses to believe it.
He points to you. His child looks. "bisa iksis muña. Iksis ziry daor gevie, Aelina." This is mother. Is she not beautiful, Aelina.
Aelina fusses. She is hungry.
Daemon struggles with himself before deciding to let the babe nurse on your breast instead of her wet-nurse this instance. He was told that it might help you wake, but there was something awful in how your involuntary form continued care for your babe while being unable to care for yourself.
Aelina immediately calms and sleeps against your bossom.
Daemon holds her in place. Aelina does the same with his sanity. He was her burning torch, her light during this time, just as her name meant.
Ever the fickle thing, the babe begins to fuss again and moves atop your chest.
"Shhh," Daemon rubs her back, "it's okay, kepa has you-"
A groan cuts him off.
He freezes, heart racing in anticipation. He calls out your name.
He realizes then that it was not Aelina that was fussing, but you.
Daemon's heart leaps into his throat when your eyes open. He breaks into a full on sob when you manage to reach for his cheek. You are disoriented as he helps you sit up. You soon follow in tears when you see the babe at your breast. Your lips wobble, "is this..."
"Aelina," he mutters, helping you hold the babe. He brushes your hair out of your face the moment you have your hold on her, "I named her Aelina."
You sob some more, unable to see her fully through the tears, "beautiful Aelina."
Daemon kisses your neck, kneeling beside your bed, watching you watch your child in wonder.
You can hardly breathe as you sob, but your joy keeps your grounded. You chuckle when she releases your nipple and you finally see her face, "she looks just like you."
He laughs, heart swelling the the sound of you, "she stole my face."
You lean into him, unable to pry your eyes of your babe as he is unable to pry his eyes off you. You sniffle, snot dribbling down your nose, "she's so beautiful."
"She is," he wipes your nose, "so beautiful."
You finally spare him a glance. You find him smiling through tears.
"I knew you would wake. I knew it," Daemon mutters.
Your lips wobble, "I'm glad I did."
He presses his lips on your temple, "so are we," he kisses you repeatedly, "so are we. Thank you, my love."
Summary: Daemon hasn’t seen his niece in a decade, and drama unfolds on driftmark.
Includes/warnings: hightower!reader, aegons twin. this is probably horribly written so thats a warning in itself, not proof read but i believe Y/N has been used on multiple occasions. Did not give reader a description other than female & lilac eyes. There is an age gap in this (reader is 15 and daemon is whatever his canon age was in that time. My memory is awful) like i said, not proof read, if you see any spelling errors feel free to point them out! If i missed any warnings, please lmk :)
🪐notes: its been a while since i’ve seen season 1 so please ignore any timeline mistakes. Daemyra does not exist in this. :)
Daemon hadn’t seen you in ten years, ten whole years. In his mind you were still that five years old little princess, cheerful and trusting, unlike your mother. Alicent Hightower. Daemon hated that entire Hightower-Targaryen bunch, but never you, he could see you weren’t like them. But he never spent much time with you, opting to steer clear of you so your mother wouldn’t rotten your mind like she did the rest. But now, you were five and ten. Standing next to your uncle, Gwayne Hightower, whom you had spent all those years with in Oldtown.
Daemon couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off you, which is odd because it used to be Rhaenyra who drew his attention like a moth to a flame. The first time he’s seen you in ten years, and its at his late wife’s funeral, lady Laena Velaryon. He wondered about you, did you know valyrian? Did your dragon egg hatch? Were you still that same girl?
You avoided his gaze, but it made you nervous nonetheless. You weren’t close with Laena, but it still saddened when you heard of her death. As boring as Oldtown was, it meant you didn’t have to be wed to anyone. After hearing of the late Queen Aemma, and now Laena, you hoped you’d never have to experience childbirth. It deeply frightened you.
Shaking off your thoughts and daemons lingering gaze, you decided to focus back on Ser Vaemond, Laena's uncle and Lord Corlys's brother, as he spoke.
"Tubī Velario Lentro Ābrāzme Laene iēdrarta mōrqittot, māzīlarē tubirri Elēdrion ziry umīsilza luo dāriot, hannagon Embrurliot gierūlti.” We join today at the Seat of the Sea to commit the Lady Laena of House Velaryon to the eternal waters, the dominion of the Merling King, where He will guard her for all days to come.
Among the other mourners, your family also sailed to driftmark to attend the funeral. You allowed your gaze to shift to them for a moment, your eyes landing on your father, King Viserys Targaryen, next your mother, Queen Alicent Hightower, and then your siblings. Your younger sister, Helaena. Your younger brother Aemond, who like you, was without dragon. And your twin brother, who couldn’t be more different from you, Aegon. When you noticed Aegon snap his gaze towards you, you quickly looked away, focusing on someone else. Your half-sister, Rhaenyra.
You kept the most contact with her, unlike your mother, Rhaenyra always answered your letters. Updating you on everything that happened in the red keep, and on her family. But Rhaenyra’s gaze wasn’t on you, it was on Alicent.
You took her from the only home she's ever known, Rhaenyra thought bitterly, her throat tightened. You took her away from everyone, From Daemon, From Corlys, from Laenor... from me. But I won't let you deprive us of her like you did before. Not if I have anything to say about it.
Vaemond, while delivering the eulogy, could not resist looking at Rhaenyra's alleged sons with Laena's brother Laenor – Prince Jacaerys, Prince Lucerys, and the baby Prince Joffrey. The elder Velaryon knight felt his blood boil and his face twisted in a scowling disgust at the lack of resemblance to Laenor, they looked nothing like him. "Velario ānogro rȳ lopor ojāris.” Salt courses through Velaryon blood. he continues. "Īlvo qumblī iāris. Īlvo drējī iāris. Se dōrī vajiñagon īlvo bēvilis.” Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin.
While Daemon is somewhat somber at his late wife's death, he cannot help but start giggling at Vaemond's pettiness in bringing this up now of all times. You, meanwhile, glanced briefly at your uncle, hearing his giggle. Corlys and Rhaenys also noticed the apparent disrespectful behavior during their daughter's funeral.
"Talus mandus ñuhus. Inkoso kostōbāpis aōhis jelmīs sagon, gīso lykāpas aōhas embis, se prūmȳsa lēdāpas aōhas manengīs. Hen embār masti. Va embrot āmāzīli.” My gentle niece. May your winds be as strong as your back, your seas be as calm as your spirit, and your nets be as full as your heart. From the sea we came. To the sea we shall return.
Gripping the ropes tightly, the Velaryon men-at-arms began gently pulling backward to slide Laena's stone coffin closer to the edge of Driftmark's coastal cliff before dropping into the sea, to rest beside her ancestors. Before long, the services slowly began to die down.
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Following the funeral, the mourners solemnly make their way to the cliffside courtyard of High Tide castle for the wake. Despite the atmosphere being predominantly filled with awkward silences and strained conversations, the presence of seven Targaryen dragons currently bonded to their riders soared overhead, including the likes of Rhaenyra's Syrax, Daemon's Caraxes, Rhaenys's Meleys, Laenor's Seasmoke, Aegon’s Sunfyre, Helaena's Dreamfyre, and Baela's Moondancer. The gathering is a significant event, one that has earned Driftmark the nickname "New Valyria" among observers.
The only one that was not present now was Vhagar, the Queen of All Dragons. Many speculated the ancient dragon was not in attendance because of the emotional grief over outliving another rider; others suggest that Vhagar had returned to one of her nesting grounds in the Narrow Sea to live out the remainder of her life as a wild dragon. However, there were sights of Vhagar apparently bereaved near the dunes of Driftmark's sandy beaches.
Rhaenyra looked amongst the gathering before finding one of her sons, Lucerys
"Have you seen your father?" she asked.
Lucerys shook his head. "He said he wanted some alone time," he answered.
"Your little cousins have lost their mother. They could use a kind word. Go comfort them?" And without further words, the boy went over to his nieces.
Meanwhile Rhaenyra found you, alone staring out at the sea. “Sister.”, you could hear the smile in her voice, and sure enough, you looked over and she had half a smile on her face. “Rhaenyra” you acknowledged her softly, your voice gentle as always.
As you two caught up, Ser Criston spoke to Alicent. "Lyonel Strong's son's been staring at you since the moment we arrived, Your Grace. Unabashedly," Criston informed her.
"It is only a look of pride, Ser Criston," Alicent remarked coolly. "Larys is the new Lord of Harrenhal."
Viserys, on the other hand, glanced at his estranged younger brother Prince Daemon whom he hadn't seen in over a decade. There were so many things he wanted to say to him. They did not part ways on good terms when it became known that Daemon escorted Rhaenyra to a brothel – little did he know it was not the case. He took Rhaenyra to a brothel, yes, but he did not have sex with her.
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As the skies began to darken with the arrival of dusk, King Viserys, like everyone else, began to retire for the evening. Ever exhausted with each step he took and Laena's death in childbirth clearly reminding him of his first wife's similar death years before, Viserys couldn't help but think of Aemma Arryn again. Oh, by the Gods, the king missed her so much. "I'm going to bed, Aemma," he accidentally said to his second wife.
Alicent looked quietly unnerved. "What did you just call me?" she said offended. Ser Harrold intervened. "Shall I send after Queen Alicent, Your Grace?" he gently corrected.
Viserys now realized who he was talking to. Trading glances between his second wife and Ser Harrold, he swears he was losing his mind. "No, Ser Harrold," the king declined and returned to the castle for a night's rest. "Very well, Your Grace," Harrold acknowledged. "You have the night's watch, Ser Criston," he instructed his subordinate.
Criston noticed the awkwardness as well. "Lord Commander," he acknowledged.
Alicent, however, curled her fists into a ball. How dare Viserys call her by his late wife's name? She was a living girl, and the king was still in love with a dead one! She was not going to forget such an insult.
Gwayne walked over to Alicent, guiding you along with him with a hand on your back. “Dear siste-“
“Why is she here? Take her back to Oldtown, i dont want her here.”
Your heart broke at Alicent’s words, you’d think she’d be happy to be reunited with her daughter after ten years, but alas.
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From a distance, Aemond observed his surroundings. Qarl brought Laenor back to the courtyard, but the heir to Driftmark broke free from his lover's embrace and entered the castle alone, still grieving for Laena. As he watched them, Aemond heard a dragon's faint but mournful roar nearby - Vhagar, the Queen of All Dragons, the oldest and largest in Westeros. As per the stories, her flames were so intense that they could melt a knight's armor and cook him inside, she could devour a whole horse in one gulp, and her mighty roar could shake the very foundation of Storm's End.
« There are other options in case an egg doesn't hatch. You need to know where to look. »
Aemond, being a Targaryen without a dragon, recalled his fathers advice. Heeding Viserys’ words, Aemond realized that there were alternative means to become a dragonrider in the event of an unhatched dragon egg.
After ensuring that no one was around, the young prince took the opportunity to secretly trail Vhagar's outline as it flew close to one of Driftmark's sandbanks. Little did Aemond anticipate the consequences of his actions, which would go down in history as a controversial political scandal.
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You were seated by the fireplace of your guest chambers when Ser Criston bursted into your chambers, “your mother has requested your presence in the hall, an incident has happened.”
Quickly pulling your nightly robes shut to make yourself decent, you follow Criston’s fast paces to the hall.
Upon entry, you see the hall divided, Rhaenyra, Daemon, both their children, Rhaenys and Lord Corlys on one side, your siblings, mother and the hightide maester, on the other. “What happene-“ you stop speaking when your eyes land on Aemond, one eye having just been sowed up by the maester. Your hand covers your mouth in shock as your eyes scan the room, wondering what the hell happened here. The room quickly went into disarray, everyone shouting at someone.
King Viserys rushed to the Hall of Nine upon receiving a warning from his grandchildren, but unfortunately, he arrived too late. The damage has already been done. He used his cane to demand silence and restore order. "How could you allow such a thing to happen? I will have answers!" he insisted, furious with the Kingsguard for not protecting princes of royal blood.
"The princes were supposed to be in bed, my king," Harrold informed. "That was until a certain dragon woke everybody up in Driftmark," Arryk mentioned. "Who had the night's watch?"
"Ser Criston did, Your Grace," Erryk answered. "The young prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace," Criston protested.
"You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!"
"I'm very sorry, Your Grace," Harrold apologized. "The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes, Your Grace―" Criston tried protesting again. "THAT IS NO ANSWER!!" Viserys shouted angrily.
Alicent looked at her son. "It will heal, will it not, maester?" she inquired.
Maester Kevlyn shook his head. "The flesh will heal. But the eye is lost forever, Your Grace," he replied. "You," the queen turned to her firstborn son, your twin brother. "Where were you?!"
"Me?" Aegon answered obliviously. But he was soon slapped across the face. "Ow! What was that for?!" he complained.
"That was NOTHING compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups and lusting after the serving girls AGAIN, you bloody fool!"
“This is not the time to turn against each other” you warned your mother, stepping up for your twin, not that he deserved it.
"They attacked me!" Aemond shouted.
"You attacked Baela!" Jacaerys shouted back.
"He broke Luke's nose!" Baela chimed in. "He stole my mother's dragon!"
"He was going to kill Jace and Luke!" Rhaena accused. "IT SHOULD BE MY SON TELLING THE TALE!!" Alicent shouted.
All the children began talking over each other; Aemond claimed the other children attacked him, and the other children said they were only defending themselves. Otto stood in cold silence, while Daemon leaned against the wall with his arms crossed; although the Rogue Prince did not express himself, he was furious when he found out what his nephew had done to his daughters. Both parties kept going at it until King Viserys felt a headache coming.
"Enough... Enough!" King Viserys ordered.
"He called us―" Jacaerys tried to speak.
"Be quiet," Rhaenyra instructed silently. Then, when nobody went silent, Otto raised his voice. "HOLD YOUR TONGUES!!"
"SILENCE!!" King Viserys shouted.
The room went quiet as both voices boomed with firm, authoritative tones. "He called us bastards," Jacaerys whispered to his mother.
You, having heard what he said, turned your glare to aemond. Bloody fool you thought. You felt daemon near you, his breath hitting your neck and his hand on your back, using the moment to be near you.
"Aemond," Viserys limped over to his youngest son, "I will have the truth of what happened. Now."
"What else is there to hear?" Alicent angrily interjected. "Your son has been maimed. Their sons are responsible. Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son!"
"It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves! Vile insults were levied against them," she defended.
"What insults?" King Viserys inquired.
"The legitimacy of my sons' birth was put loudly into question. To question their birth is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders."
"Over an insult?" Alicent questioned. "My son LOST AN EYE!"
Now that he has been made aware of the rumors surrounding Jace, Luke, and Joffrey from his grandchildren, the king redirected his attention toward his wounded son. "You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?" he asked.
"The insult was training yard bluster. The lot of boys. It was nothing," Alicent said. Viserys ignored her. "Aemond... I asked you a question," he reiterated. "Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys' father? Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter."
"Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?"
Rhaenyra felt the eyes drawn on her. "I do not know, Your Grace. I... could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk," she feigned ignorance.
"Entertaining his young squires, I would venture," Alicent snidely remarked. "That's enough out of you," Rhaenys warned harshly. Corlys glared at the queen as well over this insult. Criston smirked but ceased when he noticed Harrold staring at him.
"Aemond... look at me. Your king demands an answer. Who told these lies to you?" The king asked for the third time. “Aemond," you stared at him, "your king is speaking to you. Answer him."
Aemond, with only one eye remaining, felt his breathing tremble. Both his father and eldest sister were pressuring him. But after a tense moment looking towards his mother, he decided to speak. "It was Aegon," he answered.
"Me?" Your twin asked with disbelief at the insinuation that his brother used him as a scapegoat.
King Viserys turned to his second son and approached him. "And you, boy?" he said to his face. "Where did you hear such calumnies?" he asked. No answer. "AEGON!" he shouted again. "Tell me the truth of it!"
"We know, father. Everyone knows. Just look at them. They don't look anything like us."
"Doesn't mean you can insult them like that!" You shouted at your twin. "hush," Alicent said to you firmly. “Do you believe such lies?” Viserys now turned to you, his eldest daughter.
You hated this, seeing your ailing father like this, hoping for an answer. "I... can't deny i’ve heard the rumors as well, father," you spoke slowly. "It's not uncommon for Targaryens to not share our physical traits. Take, for example, Princess Rhaenys's mother, Lady Jocelyn, who was born a Baratheon. Despite not resembling us at first glance, your cousin proved herself once she reached adulthood. So is it fair to discriminate against a family based solely on their appearance, trueborn or no?"
Jacaerys and Lucerys both looked at their aunt, who spoke up in defense on their behalf. Meanwhile alicent glared, how dare her daughter speak up in defense of rhaenyra’s family.
Viserys was beside himself. How could things deteriorate so badly with his family? He turned to Rhaenyra, his only surviving child from his first marriage. His daughter shielded her sons, but kept a stoic expression at him. The king then turned to his second wife. "This interminable infighting must cease!" he shouted, distraught. "All of you! Now make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandfather, your king demands it!"
"Aemond has been damaged permanently, my king. 'Goodwill' cannot make him whole." Alicent hisses, making you clench your jaw. Let it rest mother, please, you pleaded with your eyes. “I cannot restore his eye” Viserys spoke.
"No, because it's been TAKEN!"
"What would you have me do then?"
"There is a debt that needs to be paid." Alicent turned to Rhaenyra and her sons. "I shall have one of her son's eyes in return." Rhaenyra immediately moved her sons Jacaerys and Lucerys behind her. "Alicent, stop! Enough! Do not... allow your temper to guide your judgment," viserys yelled.
"Your Grace," you addressed your father disappointingly, "I fear the queen is not in the right state of mind." Not that she ever was in the beginning, of course. Viserys knew there was no going back.
Alicent, upon regaining her composure, saw red hearing her daughter speak about her in such a way. "So be it. If the king will not seek justice, the queen will. Ser Criston... bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon," she ordered. "Mother!" Lucerys screamed. "He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son."
"You will do no such thing," Rhaenyra warned.
Viserys turned to Criston. "Stay your hand!" he commanded.
"No, you are sworn to me!" Alicent yelled. "As your sworn protector, my queen," Ser Criston said.
"This matter... is finished. Do you both understand?" Viserys turned to face the gathered assembly. "And let it be known, anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra's sons should have it removed."
"Thank you, father," Rhaenyra sighed.
Alicent, still shaking with fury that Viserys had apparently once again chosen his children's side over hers, refused to accept this. When the king's back was turned, the queen quickly snatched the Valyrian steel dagger from his belt and rushed across the room toward the ones responsible for maiming her son. "Your Grace! Stay with the king," Harrold beckoned.
"Alicent!" Viserys shouted.
"Hold your approach!"
"Sister, look out!" You warned, while moving forward to get in between your mother, who was charging to your sister, or lucerys. Or both.
As Alicent’s blood-curdling scream flooded the room, before she could reach them, You moved as fast as you could to block her. However, Alicent had gotten too close by then and stabbed you in the left shoulder with the dagger.
You growled in pain. But held on firmly by grabbing Alicents shoulder with your right hand and her wrist with the left. No matter the momentum, you forcibly stopped Alicent in her tracks and restrained her.
“Sister!” Rhaenyra yelled in shock.
Criston moved to Alicent but was held back.
"Do not, Ser Criston!" Harrold warned.
Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister and pointed it at the Kingsguard knight. Soon enough, the Rogue Prince and Lord Commander prevented Criston from helping the queen as more Kingsguard moved to restrain him. "Stay your hand, Cole!" Harrold reiterated. "Now, do you see what your queen has done?" Daemon asked. "You are a fool, Ser Crispin."
You suddenly gripped tighter. Slowly turning her head to meet Alicent’s gaze, the Young Dragon's pale lilac eyes burned with the fireplace's illuminating hue. You slowly raised Alicent’s hand, holding the Valyrian steel dagger out of your shoulder, the blade covered in your blood to the hilt. "Let them see you for who and what you are," you pushed against her. "An insignificant, disloyal, power-hungry wretch with no shame or guilt." Then, once you felt the dagger removed from your shoulder, you began twisting alicent’s wrist. "I bet that felt good, keeping up the facade hmm? Not so confident now, are you? The only loyalty you have is to yourself.”
Viserys limped closer, stunned by what he had seen: his second wife tried to go after his daughter, and grandchildren, but it was his second eldest daughter who withstood the worst of it with her blood. You coldly stared at your father, disappointed in him. Your blood stained your outer gown, and dripping blood trickled on the floor. Daemon, Rhaenyra, Rhaenys and Corys were quick to surround you. Daemon holding you softly, already looking at the wound you suffered.
The room falls silent; then everyone leaves for the night.
Aemond steps forward and, despite the grievous injury to his face, shows no ounce of remorse for what he did. “Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye... but I gained a dragon.”
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The next morning daemon sat across from you, as the maester sowed your shoulder and tried his hardest to mend the wound. Daemon was furious at you, for putting yourself in harms way. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“And then what? Let alicent hurt sweet luke? Let her cut out his eye?”
“You got hurt!”
You scoff, “i’ll live.”
Daemon sighs, “Come back to dragonstone with us, with me, Kostilus.” Please.
@just-some-random-blogger LOOK HANNAH, I DID ITTT 🫂
it is open to a part 2 if people want it (i didnt realize til now that theres barely any daemon x reader moments)
Summary: "The Dragon's Niece" tells the story of the intense bond between Daemon Targaryen and his niece, Maeliora (Melly), set in the world of House of the Dragon. From infancy, Daemon is drawn to Melly, forming a unique and deep connection that grows stronger as she enters her teenage years. As Melly struggles with the duties expected of noblewomen, Daemon becomes increasingly protective and possessive of her, especially as she matures. Daemon’s growing jealousy and desire to keep her close lead to moments of tension and possessiveness, especially as Melly faces the realities of her future and its responsibilities. Their bond becomes more complicated, blurring the lines between family and something deeper.
Warnings: rape, non-con/dub-con, sexual abuse, p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex, uncle-niece incest, medival sexism, forced marriage, virginity loss, abusive behaviour, pregnancy, possessiveness, etc.
Disclaimer: This is a dark fiction that includes heavy themes and adult content. Do not read if you are underage, or if you feel uncomfortable with +18 themes. You are responsible for your media consumption. Please read with caution!
This is the masterlist/moodboard for my new story called "To Lose Yourself" which I'm thrilled to share with you :)
This story is based on the HBO/Max TV show House of the Dragon and the works of George R R Martin. I don't own any of the characters.
Please only read if you're over 18 as this story contains adult content.
You can find the following themes in this story: rape, non-con/dub-con, sexual abuse, p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex (f & m receiving), choking, crying, angst, anxiety, arranged marriage, dirty talk, virginity loss, degradation, praise, themes of toxic relationships, HIGHLY problematic and abusive behaviour, pregnancy, possessiveness, canon typical themes like violance and death, sexism and medieval gender roles, political scheming (There will be detailed warnings before each chapter)
Disclaimer: This is a very dark fanfiction that includes dark themes like rape and sexual assualt. Please only read it if you're 100% sure that you are comfortable with it. There are lots of things that can trigger and upset people so carefully read the warnings before each chapter!
Summary:
If there are two things Daemon Targaryen hates, it is manipulation and political intrigue. No wonder he has despised Otto Hightower for as long as he can remember. To restore his honour and dignity after a particularly heated encounter with the Hand of the King, Daemon chooses a dangerous path involving Otto's youngest daughter, Anissa, that will lead to intrigue and sorrow not only for Otto Hightower, but also for the people the rogue prince holds dear.
Summary: You will become the wife of Daemon Targaryen, your uncle. He has long hoped for this union and is convinced that he will enjoy it to the full.
Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!niece!reader
Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Fluff; Fingering, sex (p in v)
pairing: daemon targaryen x fem!master of coins reader lol
summary: theres always been tension between you and prince daemon, something defiant but respectable. Then he finds you drunk amongst his goldcloaks, right before a council meeting and delights in watching you fumble for once. And he’ll use it to get closer to what he wants; you.
words: 3k
warnings: drinking, allusions to sex (pt.2..?), heavy romantic and sexual?! tension, brief mentions of masturbation, #delighteddaemon
notes: reader is a young woman who’s also master of coins because that’s fun and cool and daemon likes her aww cute yay chemistry insane
You were the master of coins under Viserys’ reign. Atypical, yes; a young woman in charge of the gold and its delegation. But you were good at such businesses, having learnt from your father the power of coin in this realm; and so you’d strided towards a path that wouldn’t marry you off to reside under the foot of some old lord. Avoiding that meant you had to be excellent, so much so that the realm would look past your gender. It was an ideal to reach for, and you were aware that being a woman would always cause discernment and doubt, would cast shadows on whatever path you chose. And Viserys was a just king you thought, even more so when he’d implored you to his council. Rhaenyra, his daughter whom you’d befriended upon visit to The Keep, had a gleam in her eyes that day, suggesting her hand in your new rank.
Now what this also meant was council meetings where you were smothered amongst male voices, old men who constantly proved they thought themselves superior to you even in matters you were expert in. Everyone except Daemon. Sure, he had strong opinions and were sure they were heard no matter what the business was, but whenever you outsmarted him, his eyes would crinkled in an impressed and amused manner before he’d sit down willingly. His gaze would linger, fingertips at the edge of his lips as you’d straighten your back and compose yourself. You’d stroke the folds of your dress, take an eager sip of your cup, redo your hair, all while under his watchful gaze and he knew you could feel it each time. He revelled in the way you refused to give him the attention he thought he deserved, and he wasn’t sure if you knew that was exactly how to stoke his fire.
And on rare occasion, when he’d had enough of the real talk, he’d make a comment; something irrational and stupid about the usage of the crowns coins, offering a slight of his own intelligence just to watch your eyes widen. How he wished you’d go amok, would fling a chair at him or curse the septa.
He therefore had a knack for pissing you off, but the discussion between you two was otherwise always intelligent, and more importantly fair. If you were right, he’d acknowledge it, and vice versa. Though sometimes, as it had to be with such a stubborn Targaryen on your hands, when things turned graver you would both not relent. When it wasn’t a folly comment but lives and power were at stake. His temper would make him smack the marble from the table and walk off. It bothered him, that even though he could rile you to raise your voice and stand up from your seat, you never really lost it.
Now you’d had a long day. Being around such power hungry people who’s empathy would dissipate like the fog if it meant they got what they wanted, could be tiring; especially when you were the one in charge of the coins. Everybody wanted a piece. You’d been discussing this matter with the grandmaester all day, had not seen a single soul that possessed an ounce of whimsy, of laughter or easiness all day. That is until one of the maids, Elinda, gets relieved for the day and takes you under the arm, a red dressed saviour. You go down into the cellars where the goldcloaks are sitting around, leftover wine and beer swishing in tankards and laughter bouncing off the walls.
They’re celebrating something, something smallfolk, something daemon, it doesn’t matter to you as someone presses a full jug into your hand. And you drink it. And maybe a few others after the first, the evening progressing as such evenings do. It’s enough to make you oblivious to the way Elinda jolts from her seat suddenly, hands and feet knocking together with a snap as she looks down and bows. The chatter extinguishes and you turn slowly.
Daemon looks down at you with a delighted smirk. Even more delighted, when instead of standing at attention, bowing to your prince, you raise your glass to him silently. The dim-lit cellar seems to hold its breath. In one motion he sweeps the tankard from you, takes the last swig and puts it down, a hand on your forearm. His white hair gracefully falls around his face as he leans in “we have a meeting to attend.”
You wobble more than you’d like to admit as he gently drags you to stand. So much so that you nearly tumble over the bench you were sat at, and both his hands envelop your waist to steady you with an amused chuckle. Your skin burns under you dress, where his hands press against it.
“We don’t have a meeting.” You say, a crease appearing between your brows. He hums another amused sound, and makes no effort to let go of your waist or take the appropriate step back.
“You seem to have forgotten how things work around here, master of coins. Are you that deep in your cups? When the king calls meeting, we meet. There’s not a time schedule for such things, I’ll have you remember.” He says, joyous to have caught you doing wrong.
Your heart hammers with more than one raging emotion that you don’t want to name. It sweeps your chest. “I’m not deep in anything, my prince.” You begin and he raises a brow. “I mean- I am most certainly aware of my duties and so we shall go and I shall most certainly enjoy it” you say, your voice so superior it forces a proper laugh from him as his hand smooths its way to the small of your back to guide you up the stairs.
“You don’t have to kiss my ass like you kiss Viserys’ and you know it. Don’t switch up on me now.” He muses. You jaw slackens and you swat his helpful hand away, because you can walk by yourself and because the touch is far too distracting.
“I don’t kiss ass on anyone. I’d rather kiss yours than his-“ you say and his one raised brow becomes two. You point at him sharply. “You know exactly what I mean.”
His lips tug down in thought, “I’m not sure I do,” he admits as you reach the top of the stairs, walking along one of the inner courtyards where the sun is almost set. The breeze catches you even here, reminding you that even behind these thick built walls, danger lurks.
“I don’t either.” You sigh, losing yourself in your own words, dragging a hand through your hair.
“You really are drunk; aren’t you?” He says with a furrowed brow, an intrigued one. You’re about to protest but he cuts you off, straightening his back to look down his nose at you. “You know I really should punish you for what I’ve discovered. You’re drinking about with my goldcloaks? Neglecting your duty?” He says, voice pitching, every word with an invisible underline. Under normal circumstances you’d scoff and retort him but the wine seemed to run thicker than your blood and humour was apparently lost on you.
Your head shakes so much your feet grow unsteady again as you take one of his hands and presses it between both of yours. This action was certain to mortify you, should you remember it on the morrow. “Please Daemon I needed a drink so bad. I’d been plagued by people all day. All day, and not a single one of them was funny or even nice to look at.” You say and bat your lashes at him in a futile attempt for mercy, an approach you hated taking. But since your gender so often got in the way of life, you might as well use it to an advantage when the opportunity presented itself. His jaw ticks rhythmically, but not in anger because you’ve never seen him in such a good mood as now. Maybe because he knows he finally won’t be the spectacle of the room, though he certainly enjoys to be most nights.
“Its a good thing I’m here then, isn’t it?” He asks, to him a rhetorical question. He looks down at the way you’re grasping his hand, and when you seem to notice he expects you to retract like his fire had burned you. But once again, you always take a left when he predicts right.
“Do you want me to let go?” You ask instead, but make no effort of your own to do so. He sighs, and gives you a long look, eyes darting between yours until your knees nearly buckle.
“Does not seem like you want to,” he states and you shrug.
“Please don’t punish me.” It’s earnest but breathy from your lips
“Maybe you’d like my punishment.” The amusement has dimmed in his eyes, something more possessive lingering instead.
It knocks the breath out of you, and the satisfaction that rolls through him is inexplicable. “We have a meeting to attend.” You say, barely registering it because of the sheer amount of willpower it takes to say it.
He straightens and retracts his hand from between yours. “Quoting my own words back to me, how original. Now stop wobbling and be smart if you are to get through this unscathed.” He says, a hooded smile in his eyes when you catch up to his now speedy walk.
“What if they offer me more wine?” You ask desperately, lifting your skirt to keep up.
He smiles, looks back at you as the guards open the door to the council room ahead. “Maybe it’ll have a reverse effect.” He says. Your eyes roll but it makes you a tad nauseous to do so.
Your names are declared as you enter.
“Apologies my king, the master of coins was discussing with my goldcloaks in the cellar” Daemon interrupts and you stiffen, trying to sit down as normal as possible. He is across from you, and you both reach for the marbles in the middle. Your hand fumbles and as Viserys talks, Daemon quietly places yours in your palm, the pads of his fingers brushing your skin. You retract, swallowing thickly, ignoring his insistent gaze.
Viserys says your name like he’s been repeating it for some time now.
“Yes, my king?” You stammer, eyes wide. Viserys’ smile is easy and pleasant, but there’s a small crease of confusion. It smoothes quickly as you offer him your attention.
“I said did you talk to the goldcloaks about their wages?”
Oh ever the faithful man he is. It’s an easy way out, and you nod firmly. “I did. They agreed to the terms.” You lied and Daemon snorted into his cup. If the table was slimmer, you’d kick his shin.
This meeting wasn’t really called for, you feel. Or at least it didn’t seem to crave your insight. And you couldn’t focus, ironically enough too fixated on appearing sober that the topic was a bit lost on you. Daemon could see it, the hazy look that seemed to slide to the crevices in the table every few minutes.
“If Aegon wants a new horse then maybe the coins could be-“
Your ears finally perked a little. A new horse for the little prince? Money from the smallfolk?
“Oh fuck him.”
Your hand smacks against your own mouth, fingers digging into your cheeks as if that could somehow swallow the words back down, cage them in where they usually exist in the safety of your mind. The silence of the room is so defeating, the air so suffocatingly thick. Daemon thinks he might be in love with you. Viserys’ brows are in his receding hairline and the grandmaester starts coughing and moving in his chair just to do something.
There’s a plea in your eyes as you look to Daemon, who suffices to make a weak gesture of his hand to say, you made the bed, now lie in it.
Bastard. “I am so sorry, that was- I was some place else in my head my lords. It had nothing to do with the present matters- why don’t we give the little prince two horses?” You say, rambling and gesturing wildly to the king.
“Are you ill?” Viserys asks, followed by your name. Your lips press together tightly as you nod slowly.
“I must be, my king. I must be.” You agreed woefully and Damon has to press his knuckles against his mouth not to laugh. After a breath he slaps the table, even a structure that broad and thick rattling under the force of it.
“It seems this meeting has no relevance to me, and I am in fact quite bored. I will escort the master to her chambers” he declares. Viserys sighs at his brothers impulsive, unbecoming nature but disregards it with a hand.
“The grandmaester will tend to you after the meeting” Viserys assures as you stand as well, gripping the edge of the table and putting your marble back with the other.
“That is most kind of you, brother” Daemon yells over his shoulder as he extends you an arm. You dig your fingertips into it, the leather there creaking as he walks you out.
“Gods you failed miserably” he declares once the double doors click shut behind you. You press the heels of your palms to your eyes and shake your head vigorously. Then you burst out laughing.
Daemon stands back and lets you, arms crossed with a softer crinkle to his eye. “Find it funny, do you?” He muses.
“As if you don’t. You love when people create havoc” you counter, clutching your knees for breath for a moment before rising to look at him.
“I do, but it’s not my head who’ll be under the sword for cursing out the young prince” he says with such a grave expression your heart stutters.
“They will execute me?” You ask with a gasp.
“Seven hells you are gullible when you’re drunk” he states with a scoff and nods down the hall for you to follow. Relief washes over you but it dries down with the embarrassment of falling for his antics.
“Did my goldcloaks bother you?” He asks then, pausing in a hallway, a dimly lit corner not far from your chambers. You lower your brows, shaking your head.
“No. Bother me how?”
He steps closer, head tilted slyly. “You’re a beautiful woman. You’re funny. Smart. Drunk,” he lists, his words a drawl that shivers down your spine.
“And what if I wanted to be bothered?” You ask defiantly because it was none of his business. Maybe he really was trying to look out for you, but you found that intention hard to believe.
“Then you should come to me, instead. And if they’re in their right mind, they wouldn’t dare lay a finger on you.” He lifts his pointer, letting it brush down your cheek “not even like this.”
“Why not?” You ask, words stumbling past your lips.
“Because I told them I’d slice off any limb of theirs that grazes you” he says, and his eyes twitch with something. You wonder if he’s saying this now, while you’re still slightly intoxicated, in hopes you’ll forget. You definitely won’t.
It’s an effort not to drop to the floor, a betraying warm feeling blooming low in your stomach. “You make decisions on my behalf now?” You whisper, trying to keep your cross nature but he’s pushing against it and the walls are caving in. He hums pleasantly at your response, his finger continuing down your neck, eyes following.
“I only make decisions on my own behalf, you know that.” He says, letting his finger stop at the hem of your dress, just below your collarbone, turning so his knuckles brush the skin where your chest heaves and prickles.
So he did it for himself. Self indulgently asked them not to touch you. For his sake. For his very own sake. The thought of it repeats itself and doubles in your head, down your chest where he’s sure to feel a heartbeat picking up.
“Is that too selfish of me?” He says with faux concern, a mocking pout adorning his face because you both know he couldn’t care less about selfishness, that it’s each man to themselves in this realm and he’s mastering it day by day.
“That depends how you’re gonna justify such an order.” You lift your chin
“They don’t need justifiable reasons, they’re my men.” he points out proudly.
“I didn’t mean to them. I meant to me.”
You see how he catches on, the flame on the wall flickering in his eye as he looks down upon you, letting the fingers that still dwell, hook under your dress, just at the swell of your breast as he slowly draws you closer. You let him, until there’s no space between you.
“You’re intoxicated.” He states again, brows raised. “And I am a gentleman”
You scoff. “Only when you want to be. When it benefits you.” You say, eyes narrowing.
“It benefits me that you don’t regret your decisions right now.” He leans into your ear, letting his lip brush the skin there and you shiver “because when I do get you into bed, and I will, im not planning on letting you leave quickly.”
His confidence agitates and grates your nerves just as it makes your thighs squeeze together and warmth shoot straight between them.
“You’re right” you say, putting a hand on his chest and pressing him backwards. He lets you, lets his fingers drop with a lingering drag against the hem, and lifts his chin. You continue “I am intoxicated. And you’re a prince. If I remember correctly, a married one. I know you’re used to getting your way, Daemon, but you’re going to have to do better than that. It’s a cheap point to exert power over a drunk woman.” You say, a newfound confidence rising with his declaration. He wants you, and now you know it. The information sits snuggly in your chest.
He hums slowly and nods. He thought he had you. A guard passes by, Daemons eyes following him without moving another muscle before his attention locks on you again. “Alright. I am not in a rush. I will have you, soaking wet and aching for me and sober as stone. In fact,” he draws closer again because he can’t seem to stop himself, his hand snaking around the back of your neck. And you automatically tilt your chin, eyes on his mouth. You weren’t so defiant after all, he thinks as his lips hover over yours that soften willingly, neck pliant under his touch. “I think I’m already one step closer, because you’ll be putting those pretty fingers into your cunt tonight, and you’ll think about me.”
The filthy words make you blush furiously, makes your mouth dry and stomach tighten hard. “And then you’ll regret I won’t be there to fill you with my own instead.” He whispers before letting his lips brush yours. Then he pulls away, and it physically aches, the coldness that replaces his presence.
“Goodnight. I will tell the grandmaester you are feeling better so he doesn’t come disturb your night.” He says without looking back. You stare holes into the way he walks, into the ground where he turns the corner before fumbling your way back to your chamber to quell the fire inside you.
He didn’t get you this time. But you both knew it was to come, especially as you writhed in your bed that night with the memory of his hands on your waist, your cheek, your chest, you were bound to cave in at some point. But who said you couldn’t torture him back just as sweetly, now that you know where he stood. The thought of making him beg, making him ache for you was what made you cum with a hand over your mouth that night.
