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 | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, noncon/dubcon, implied smut/cunnilingus, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.
A/N: pls comment and reblog because 🥲 i wanna nuke this again and could use the reassurance | cross posted on ao3
tagging: @arabellasleopardcoat
You are changed after that, you both are. When Caraxes lands in the dragon pit, Daemon helps you down, something he's never done. The prince knits his brows in offence when you break away from his hold. You walk towards the two knights in white cloaks, gazing in wonder, "twins."
You look between them, smile spreading across your face as you tried to make out one for the other. You point to the one on the left, "Ser Arryk?"
The man smiles back and nods, "well met, princess."
You giggle and clap you hands, "tis dumb luck." You turn to the other, "greetings, Ser Erryk. A pleasant afternoon to you."
You feel someone come up behind you.
Erryk returns your smile and bows, "a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, my princess."
You look over your shoulder as Daemon places a hand on your waist. He looks between them, "you need not follow. I will be with my wife until later this evening."
Your brows quirk, "you will?"
Daemon turns to you, lip curving upward, "don't you wish to know the pleasantness of fucking in one's bed?"
In unison, the Cargyll brothers turn away and clear their throats. Meanwhile, your heart leaps into mouth and your jaw hangs low. You cannot even speak as you feel your face burn. Your devilish husband chuckles and rubs your back, "worry not. You'll find yourself making noises soon enough."
With that, the twins step aside and you cower into Daemon's shoulder as he leads you off. He laughs, both in mockery and amusement, enjoying your reaction thoroughly. There was something in the way you retreated into him that made his chest uneasy. The feel of your forehead upon his arm was rather unnatural. He does not like the effect on him, so he pushes you away.
You squeak at the sudden action. Your features spare no reflection of your confusion and hurt.
Daemon grins at it, then pulls you back in, one arm snaking around you.
Your face falls back into a state of rest, that is until his hand begins to travel up your breast. You whimper at his squeeze, "D-Daemon."
He hums, "feels good, doesn't it?"
Your hands tremble as you bring it up to his. You slowly push him away, "later."
His brow quirks. Defiance?. He drags you across him, eliciting another squeak as he traps you between his body and the stone wall. Your heart begins to race when he gathers your skirts. You press your hand on his chest, "Daemon-"
"Is this not my right?" he hangs his head low to press his nose upon your jaw, "if I take you here in this hall, I would only be exacting the will of the gods for a married man and woman."
You squeeze his shoulders, "but there are peo-"
"People should know of my efforts to produce an heir."
Your body burns at the thought. But then, you both turn to the side upon hearing the sound of skidding and footsteps running off.
"Daemon!" you whine, hiding into his chest.
That's enough. He smirks then looks down at you. He releases your skirts in lieu of taking your hand. "Very well, prudish wife. I will claim you in our marriage bed, as you insist."
And Daemon does, right after he claims you against your chamber door and your vanity table. In truth, you do not understand how he had the wits about him to leave bed when it was all over.
The next morning was strange. It felt like a dream, in both parts that you enjoyed yourself coupling with your husband, and that you could not believe the turn of events. You get out of bed when your servants come to rouse you with a, "good morn, milady."
"Good morn," you stand, pushing your long hair behind you. Your servants giggling catches your attention. Your forehead curls inquisitively.
"The prince is a very passionate lover, milady."
You are bewildered by the sudden remark.
"Shall you wear a turtleneck today?" one says.
"Or perhaps a large necklace?" the other adds.
You look into the mirror and only then do you realize why they were offering such things. Red and purple blossomed on your throat, travelling even beyond the collar of your nightgown. Your body burns and you promptly cover yourself.
Your servants giggle and come to your side, "you need not hide from us, your grace."
"My cousin works in a brothel and she has— aw!"
You watch as one of them rubs their arm. The other who had pinched her turns back to you, "many apologies, your grace."
"Apologies," she mutters, rubbing her arm.
You stare at the two of them, feeling something bitter creep up your throat. "Did you..." you take a deep breath, "mean to say your cousin has... lain with my husband?"
She give you an apologetic expression, "forgive me, I-"
You cut her off with your nod, "you need not say more. I would like never to hear about this in future."
The two curtsy and speak no more as they ready you for the day.
By the time you're dressed in a modest turtleneck dress, and your brown hair is braided and adorned with silver pins, there is a knock on your door. You open the door yourself, dismissing your servants on the way.
"Ah," you smile at the sight of Cargyll, "good morrow, ser."
He bows, "good morrow, princess."
You rub your hands together as you examine his face, "... is it Erryk before me?"
He smiles, shaking his head, "tis Arryk with you this morn."
"Ah," you raise a finger, "you misheard me, ser. I clearly said Arryk and not Erryk."
Arryk chuckles softly and nods, "apologies, your grace."
"Perhaps you might teach me how to tell you apart," you mutter, "as a twin myself, I would be most offended if someone mistook me for my brother."
His laugh is more pronounced this time. He links his hands together as he thinks momentarily, "well, I would say he is uglier than I, but then again, he has my face."
You giggle under your breath. You bring a hand to your lips, "I understand you completely."
"As of late," he rubs his chin, "my beard has become longer."
You hum, "good to know." You exit your room, closing the door behind you, "have you broken fast, ser Arryk?"
"Indeed."
"Oh," you pause, "... you... would not happen to know where Prince Daemon is, would you?"
He turns to his feet.
You raise your brows.
"Would you like to know the truth?"
You stiffen at the thought, "...yes, ser. Always."
"Last I heard he was drinking with Gold Cloaks in Fleabottom," he mutters before looking up at you.
"I see," you say softly, "I— thank you for your honesty."
He nods, "of course, my princess."
You needlessly inspect your fingers, "my siblings would be eating with my father," you turn to Arryk, "and I do not wish to face him. I am sure he would say the same about me."
He clenches his jaw. He remembers the argument yesterday, and how Lord Otto moaned and hissed as Arryk escorted him out the maester's ward.
"Do you mind accompanying me as I break my fast?" you mutter, "I do not like eating alone."
He bows his head, "it is my duty to accompany you wherever you may go."
"... Ah," you look to your feet. You meant to offer that he drink a cup of tea with you, but the thought becomes preposterous the longer it lingers. He is not your friend. You have no friends in the Keep, "yes... it is."
Arryk knits his brows then finds himself correcting, "but I do not mind it at all. It is my pleasure to serve."
You offer him a soft smile. He is taken slightly off-guard by the sadness he catches in your eyes, which is why he does not smile back.
As you masticated your first meal of the day, you absentmindedly mashed your food while looking out the window. You longed to seek refuge in your twin, but you knew it would not be long until your father came around to chew you out. It would only be worse if you went to your sister, though, if she was under the refuge of her princess, perhaps not.
You decide it would probably be better for you to look for your husband, for after all, you were no longer a Hightower.
Arryk watches how your hair blows with the wind. He remains five paces behind you at all times. You were a lonesome thing, he thought, fragile and melancholic. You appeared as though you were searching for someone, and yet your gait felt rather aimless. Suddenly, your back straightens when you spot something— someone from across the hall, in turn, so does his.
Before you could speak his name, he calls out yours and smiles at you. Daemon even adds, "there you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."
Your brows quirk as you walk towards each other.
Arryk allows an extra five paces to come between you.
You examine your husband's face, the dimples on his cheeks, the silver hair tickling his curled lips. You simultaneously feel the urge to push his hair away and debate whether or not his fair expression is truly borne form the fact he was searching for you and has now found you.
Your brows furrow as he tucks his hair behind his ear.
Is this what sex does to a man?
"Come," he says, grabbing you, "we mustn't delay."
Your heart races as you look at your arm. He tucks it underneath his own and hastily leads you off somewhere. You do not know where your feet take you, but you do know that the prince looks lovely when he speaks through a grin, just as he does now.
In truth, you catch not a single word from his mouth, which is why you are turned to stone when he begins kissing you. However, whatever rigidness your form holds quickly melts as his lips urge yours to a slow dance. You go putty against the window sill he pushes you against.
There is peace in the warmth he radiates. Your fingers finally find what they had longed to touch and unabashedly crawl up his nape to tangle in the roots of his hair. When he moans and pulls away, you stiffen and come back to reality. Had you hurt him?
"Daem-"
He turns about and says, "ah, Lord Hand."
Your stomach drops. You feel sick as you peak past Daemon's shoulder to see exactly him, glaring at the both of you.
"Or shall I call you father?" the prince grins, as to show the venom on his teeth.
"It would do you good to comport yourself," Otto blurts, face calm, but you knew better to believe he was anything but.
He tilts his head, "what for?"
Your heart squeezes when Daemon takes your hand and brings you to his side. You cannot bare to look at your father as your husband speaks, "you have created such a desirable creature. It would be more tactless of me not to worship her body with my own."
You feel your breath quicken as you hear your father grumble.
Daemon is victorious to see the old man walk away with a dark cloud over his head. He chuckles, "do not be so sullen, my lord. Tis a fine day!"
You feel your palms go sweaty. You lick your lips frantically. You screw your eyes shut, trying to calm yourself.
He chuckles as he turns back to you, "very goo-"
Your brows tighten.
Daemon catches your chin between his fingers. You are forced to open your eyes and you see the glimmer in his violet ones as he repeats, firmer this time, "very good."
Your heart does not calm though he rubs your back.
"You did well for me."
Your eyes begin to water, "Daemon, I-"
"Shh," he shakes his head, "there's no need for this."
"I—'ve upset him. "
He feels your body begin to tremble beneath his palm.
"But-"
"You spoke the words yourself, he's tormented you, has he not?"
"D-Daemon-"
"Shh, shh, shh," he leads you back to the window sill and sits you down.
You are gasping for air at this point, but he does not stop hushing you. He even begins to rub your cheeks with his thumbs. He pushes himself into your skirt, making room for himself between your legs. You gawk at him as he mumbles in a language you do not understand. He is impossibly close, as though you were kissing without kissing.
You do not know how many minutes pass, but you do know his timbre is just as serene as the voice of water. You only realize you had been crying when you take his wrists and feel water drip to your fingers.
He speaks that language again and you shake your head, "I do not understand."
"It does not matter," he mutters, pulling away to examine your face, "you are calm, no?"
You cannot reply because the sensation of his rubbing your cheeks is far too arresting.
"There is magic in the High Valyrian," he says, pulling away. It is so abrupt and unwanted that you chase after his hold and involuntarily attempt to stand.
Of course, Daemon is in the way and prevents you from doing such a thing. His head inflates ten sizes bigger upon unveiling how deeply affected you were of him. But as he looks at your wet cheeks, he thinks, how could such a pathetic creature not be so affected by one such as he. He further amuses himself by tracing your collarbones.
Your body tingles at his gentle thouch.
"Think of it as revenge."
Your lips part and brows knit, "r-revenge?"
"Yes," he taps your nose, "to your tormentor."
You gulp and clench your jaw. Daemon grins, but you are no longer blinded by it. "I- I do not-"
"Your very existence is torment to him, is it not?" he tilts his head, "must I remind you of your own words, my love?"
You are flabbergasted by the pet name, but before you could even tell yourself he did not mean such words, his airy chuckles tells you himself. You turn to your lap.
Daemon takes your chin again, "look at me."
Your heart races and your breath heavies.
"You want to be a dutiful wife, yes?"
Your release a deep sigh through parted lips, "... yes."
"It pleases me greatly to watch your cunt father suffer," Daemon rubs your chin before releasing it, "that is all I require of you."
Your brows furrow.
"Then you are free to do all that you desire, notably all those that your father has forbade."
"I-" wait, what?
Daemon catches the way your face shifts when his words finally click. His grin only deepens as he nods, "yes, yes. If he did not let you go out and play, oh, I do so beg you to play at your heart's content."
Your lips part further at the thought.
"But be sure to always play with me when I so desire," he says, cupping your cheek, "I do not like to be kept waiting."
Your heart skips a beat when he swipes your lips before walking off. He nods once at ser Arryk, who you had no idea was still here.
The said man then walks over to you, offering you an arm, "princess."
You look at his armored limb and feel sheepish. He must think you uncouth and ill-bred upon witnessing what he did. You take his arm— amongst sickly and feeble. You weakly mutter, "thank you."
"Would you like me to escort you to the maester's office?"
"W-wha- why?" you stand.
His brows tighten, "you were having an attack, were you not?"
You release his hand and step away from him. You smile softly and shake your head. He watches as you clasp your hands together. "They would only supply me milk of the poppy to ease my pain. There is no medicine for my affliction, Arryk."
He nods, "I see. Th-"
"Apologies. May I call you Arryk?"
He nods once more, "you may call me whatever you so desire, princess."
You smile, "very well," you turn to your feet, "I desire to call you by your name. You may do the same with me," you lift your gaze but do not turn to him, "I admit, the title princess does not suit me."
As you walk, Arryk follows closer this time, "it suits you well for you are a princess."
You sigh and smile at him from over your shoulder.
For the rest of the day, you retreat to your chambers and lay in bed. You stare at the ceiling, repeating over and over what had happened to you. As much as your father's searing glare burned in your mind, it was somehow not as hot as Daemon's gaze. You could do nothing but go between dread because your father and- and... affection because of your husband.
You rub your chest as you feel it tighten, thinking of your prince. You begin to fight your own breathing though, and sit up to calm yourself. You screw your eyes shut as you bring to mind things that calm you: swimming, Gwayne, Alicent, you-
Your eyes open when you hear the door swinging. You straighten up as Daemon walks over.
"Mmm," he chuckles, "did you wait because I asked?"
"I-" but your words are cut off by how the bed dips when he crawls over to you.
"I would prefer you with less clothing next time," he says, leaning into you, pressing a hand on your thigh.
Your heart quickens at his kisses. He smells and tastes of wine. He pushes your skirt up and comes down to kiss your knee.
You gasp when he pushes you back. And then you realize your breathing is heavy, but not strangling. You squeal when he kisses up your thigh, "D-Daemon-"
He gives you a warning look and mutters in a foreign tongue.
Suddenly, your smallclothes are being removed and your husband is sinking between your legs. You yelp, "D-Daemon, you're drunk!"
He holds you in place by your thighs. "No," he dismisses, "but I will be once you let me taste your cunt."
Your eyes widen and you immediately try to sit up.
All he has to do is lift your legs and speak your name for you to- "cease your needless wrangling," Daemon grunts, "you will quite enjoy this."
"P-pl-"
"You enjoyed my fingers did you not?"
Your mouth goes dry.
"Then you will more so enjoy my tongue, shaky thing. Quit trembling."
The strangled moan that is pulled out your throat is more confirmation than any word you could have ever told him.
By the time Daemon was satisfied playing with you, you were sticky and sweaty and naked lying next to him on your bed. You tense when he stands and you immediately cover your body with your blanket, "w-where are you going?"
"Mmm," he walks towards the drawer and pours himself a cup of wine, "to my bed."
You turn to your lap, unable to help the pinch you feel at the confession he does not see this as his bed.
You watch him as he grabs his clothing, then quickly stand, "let me-e help you!"
Wrapped in a blanket, you come to Daemon's side and help him get dressed. He lets you, slight amusement falling on his features as you so ardently assist him.
He allows you and stares at your glowing face, glowing because of how good he fucked you. The blanket rests heavy on your shoulders, but your neck is bare to him. He finds himself reaching out after you tie his breeches.
You still when he pushes the blanket off your shoulder. He tilts your head to the side to behold his work. You begin to breathe through your mouth when his thumb rubs over the new and previous purple marks he's put on you. You gasp when he makes the blanket fall to the floor. Instantly, a shiver creeps up your spine.
He rubs your sides and kneads your breasts. He's made such pretty marks all over your chest.
"Come to me tomorrow," he rubs his hands down your bare bum.
You whimper as he squeezes you there.
"I will be with my Gold Cloaks," he tilts his head, "I wish to parade my prize, so wear something pretty," he rubs your shoulders, "something that shows my good work."
Your lips tremble, from both the cold, night air and his words, "I do not think it-"
"It is not a question, wife."
Your skin breaks out in goosebumps.
He leaves after and you scramble to wrap yourself in your blanket.
The next morning, Erryk Cargyll assumes his station and knocks on your door to announce himself. When the door opens, he is pulled inside before he can speak.
"Good morn," you clasp your hands together as you look him up and down, "Erryk?"
He smiles softly and bows, "yes. Good morn, my princess."
You smile back and him and motion to yourself, "I must enquire your opinion as a man and not a knight sworn to serve me."
Erryk straightens up and nods, "very well."
You rub the cowl upon your shoulders and sigh, "what do you think of my attire?"
The man looks over your red dress and black cowl. He takes a moment to think of what might be out of the ordinary with it, but finds nothing, so he says, "it suits you very well, my lady."
You sigh at this and untie the bow of your cowl. You remove it, revealing your décolletage and his eyes widen at the sight of the marks on your skin. He clears his throat and looks away.
Your face falls and you cover your shoulders with your dark curls, "is it very tasteless?"
Erryk opens his mouth but he cannot form more than a stutter.
You shake your head, gripping your cowl tightly, "Daemon wishes to... parade his work."
The man's brows furrow and jaw clenches.
"Perhaps the cowl should stay on," you mutter, feeling your breath begin to shorten. You turn to the said object and feel your hands shake. You try to put it on, but it feels as heavy as a boulder.
He catches your cowl just before you drop it.
You release a deep, shaky breath, looking up at him with watery eyes, "will you help put it on, Erryk?"
A line forms between his brows as he nods. He takes your cowl then circles around you. He gathers your hair and places it upon your shoulders one side at a time. As he circles back to fix the piece, he feels your trembling, but says nothing as he does the bow.
"What is a wife supposed to do?" you mutter, tears becoming too heavy to remain unshed.
Erryk feels a pinch in his chest upon seeing your pink eyes. He feels rather helpless as he retorts, "I confess, I am unsure."
Your throat tightens. You rub your lips and shake your head, "forgive me. It is a cruel question to ask a kingsguard."
"Did you not say you ask this of me as a man?"
You fiddle with the ring on your finger.
"I do not imagine it oft, for I will never have one, but I imagine still, if I had a wife, she would wait on me and help me out of my armor once I return. She'd nurse me to health whenever I'm beaten. She'd trim my beard and braid my hair. She'd give me children as fair as she."
Your brows raise at his solemn words.
"And in return, I would honor her. I would worship her like the gods," he motions, "I would not allow harm, or shame to befall her, not if I could help it."
You chuckle at the way he says this. You shake your head, "you are man of honor. It is both a blessing and a curse that you are kingsguard."
You feel light headed.
Erryk hovers when you lean your face into a hand.
You barely turn to him as he takes your arm. You mutter, "this is what he requires of me."
His brows knit.
"That I be a conduit of his chaos," you gulp, "and in return... I will have my freedom."
"Freedom?" he leans his head forward.
You finally face him fully and shrug, "many a thing my father forbade me to do. I once believed he did it with love... now, I am not so sure."
The line between his brows only deepen.
"I should like to do most of what I could not before I die," you chuckle, as if it was a jest, to soften the mood. It does not work; it was not a jest.. You rub your chest and walk towards the door.
He guides you, but grows wary upon noticing how you lean your weight into the knob, "perhaps you should take a seat?"
You smile and shrug, "it matters little if I sit or not, Erryk."
You open the door and step out. He links your arm into his. You lean into him and sigh, "apologies-"
"There is nothing to-"
"-I have been calling you by your name."
He places his hand atop yours, "you may call me whatever you so desire."
"Mmm. You truly are quite like your twin," you lead down the hall, "you should do the same for me."
"Very well, princess."
"Hopefully not princess, and simply my name."
He shakes his head, "too late. You told me I could call you what I desire, and I desire to call you my princess."
"Except princess."
"Once more, too late."
"Hmp. You are less kind than your twin."
His jaw drops, "you wound me so deeply, my princess."
"I am glad to hear it, Erryk."
"My princess is quite cruel."
"Relent, I beg."
You realize you unconsciously walked yourself to the training yard by the time you got there. You also realize then how famished you were. On cue, your stomach grumbles, making Erryk look to you in concern.
"Have you not broken fast, my princess?"
"I- no."
"Then why did you walk us here?"
You were about to explain that your body had a knack of going to the areas in which your brother frequented, but before you could speak, the said man was calling your name.
You instantly come alive at the sight of your twin walking over.
"Good morn, sister," Gwyane nods, "Cargyll." He looks at him for a moment, "I wager... Erryk?"
You gasp and chuckle, "how could you tell?'
Your twin turns to you, "mmm, it might have to do with the fact I passed Arryk, who was stationed at the gate today."
"Oh, bother," you swat Gwayne, "I thought you could tell them apart."
"I just did, simpleton," he raises a brow.
"No, you're the simpleton, you nincompoop."
"No, you're the nincompoop, you daft sod."
"No, you're the daft sod, you freakish dunderhead."
"No, you're the freakish dunderhead, you ratty ninnyhammer-'
"You dare speak to the princess this way?"
You all turn and see Daemon's severe expression. He steps between you and Erryk, imposing upon Gwayne.
You tense and take his forearm, "Daemon, tw-"
He silences you by raising a finger. He narrows his eyes at your brother, "I should have your tongue for that."
Your twin chuckles in disbelief, but whatever amusement he might have had instantly melts into irritation, "a jest, prince. You act as though you are not capable of doing the same to your older brother."
"There is a time and a place for jests, yet I doubt there is a time or a place to publicly slander the Princess of Dragonstone."
"Daemo-"
"Believe me, I would be the first to demand satisfaction to whomever dare slander my twin sister," Gwayne grits his teeth.
Your husband laughs loudly, "then perhaps you should go shove a-"
"Daemon, please," you quip, finally raising your voice enough that you could not be ignored.
Both Daemon and Gwayne turn to you. You grab the former's arm and undo the ties of your cowl, "my silly brother is not worth the headache he's about to give you."
Gwayne's jaw tightens as he looks at the face you pull as you look at Daemon.
"He's not, but I can-"
His mouth goes dry when you remove the cowl and hand it to Erryk. Daemon's eyes rove over your cleavage. The marks on your skin were more apparent than he remembered, but then again, he had only seen it in candle light.
"I... dressed so prettily for you," you mutter, pushing your hair back, "perhaps we should go for a stroll instead?"
Daemon's lilac gaze falls upon your pleading eyes. For a moment, he's so distracted he'd forgotten all about your brother, but when he remembers, he turns to him with a chuckle and grins, "yes, you're quite right, wife."
When you look at Gwayne and he immediately turns away from you. Your throat constricts because of it.
"A good stroll would do us good," Daemon turns to you, "then I will shall show you the might of my City Watch. Tis far more entertaining than whatever you could behold here."
With that, the prince leads you off, turning to Erryk as he did, "that is all, Cargyll. I have her now."
You watch as the kingsguard nods at the instruction, stepping back to let you pass. You look over your shoulder, finding Gwayne already looking at you. You give him a sorry expression before looking away.
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)
