HOTD has a misogynoir problem and it’s the reason why the fandom refuses to see Rhaenyra as a “villain” in Nettles story
The HOTD fandom has divided itself along the lines of the two factions of the Dance, team black vs. team green as if they themselves are actual members of the teams they root for. The inability to see nuance has resulted in major disagreements between the two camps. However, there is something seemingly that the majority of fans irrespective of their chosen team will agree on.
When it comes to the Rhaenyra, Nettles, and Daemon situation, Rhaenyra is viewed as an unquestionable victim of equal, near equal, or in some cases greater status to Nettles.
Despite the fact that she is the one that orders Nettles to be executed in her sleep, she’s somehow a woman we should all feel sorry for and take pity upon because she just had a little “breakdown.” It’s really Mysaria’s fault because she told a “lie” that Daemon and Nettles were sleeping(according to Team Black). Or it’s Daemon’s fault because he “groomed” Nettles like Rhaenyra(according to Team Green).
To put it plainly, Rhaenyra’s victimhood is due to the fact that the fandom will not view a “white” woman as the antagonist of the situation when a “black” woman is involved. It does not matter that she orders the death of an innocent young woman for merely sleeping with her husband. It does not matter that she used classism and racism(before you say “Rhaenyra isn’t a racist,” go ahead and replace “low creature” with the “n-word” then get back to me) to justify murdering said innocent woman.
Her actions are labeled as a result of stress brought about by the loss of her children. Pinning or rather passing the blame upon others who are less sympathetic. Mysaria(who though white in the books is now half Asian in the show and book(s) she is both a foreigner and a prostitute) and Daemon(who’s a white man). The HOTD fandom will not see Rhaenyra as being in the wrong because they view her as an innocent white woman. This article details this assumption, particularly in this paragraph:
In the case of Nettles, who is a brown-skinned black woman, while Rhaenyra does not cry she does have a strong emotional outburst that fans sympathize with. Nettles is seen as a victim, but the woman who tries to perpetuate racially motivated violence against her is also seen as an equal(and depending on who you ask greater) victim. Thus her own victimhood and innocence is lessened.
As far as the “lie” and the “grooming” accusations go, that too can be blamed upon fans' inability to see past their own innate racial bias.
To these fans, Nettles is only an acceptable and likable character when they can put her into a specific box of characterization. That box being that she is unquestionably a child.
She could not have slept with Daemon because she’s a child(she’s his child or he sees her like his child). Or she was groomed by Daemon because she’s a child. She can not be competition, sexual or otherwise, to Rhaenyra because she’s a child. If Nettles is a child she is not a threat because who is threatened by a child?
(Note, this is the whole reason why fans will “fawn” over Rhaena and Baela, when they don’t ignore that they exist or when they are trying to prop up a dead deformed fully white baby, because they aren’t “competition” in that way since they are Rhaenyra’s stepdaughters. Plus they are “white” in the books).
Nettles is a child in their eyes even though by Westeros standards she is an adult:
She did not sleep with Daemon even though the text explicitly frames their relationships as being romantic and sexual(unless you consider it normal for a father to bathe with his daughter).
She was groomed like Rhaenyra(again bringing in Rhaenyra’s victimhood so as to take away from her crimes) even though she’s an adult and her relationship with Daemon is described in a different manner than Daemon and Rhaenyra’s relationship beginnings.
This:
Versus this:
The only similarities are the gift giving and even then the gifts are of a completely different nature with a different motivation attached to them.
Nettles literally was homeless prior to the Dance so Daemon gifting her clothes, a hairbrush, and a mirror was actually what she needed. Daemon gifts these items and his affection without getting anything in return besides her company.
Daemon’s most selfless acts are done for Nettles. When it comes down to it, he is even willing to lay down his life for her. He sends her away to save her life, the life of a bastard girl who is looked down upon by even her defenders (like Corlys who calls her dirty and ill-favored) at the expense of his own. Disobeying his wife and queen's orders in the process, thus if he is grooming her, he sure is going about it the wrong way.
Unlike Nettles, Rhaenyra was actually underage(14 seeing how she was born in 97AC and the events detailed here happen in 111AC) by Westeros standards when Daemon begins his “courting” of her.
(The last little tidbit also proves that Daemon can not be Nettles' biological father seeing how he was in the Stepstones from late 111 AC until 115 AC and since Nettles turns 17 in 130 AC she was born on Driftmark in 113 AC).
Keep in mind that many of these fans who call Daemon and Nettles relationship abusive, label it as grooming, or deny it exists will gleefully ship Daemyra or Alysmond while saying that they are #toxic couple goals in an approving manner, that they are an epic romance and are or are going to be the OTP of the show, or wanting to see them be a #power couple.
Daemyra is straight-up grooming and as established earlier, even by Westeros standards Rhaenyra was actually a minor.
As far as Team Greens ship goes, Alysmond has the same power dynamic problems Dattles(Daemon x Nettles). Alys is a 40+ year(s) old woman(she’s described as being at least twice Aemond’s age). While Aemond is 19 or 20 in the books and 16-18 in the show.
Aemond is a prince while Alys is a bastard and a wet nurse. When Aemond takes Harrenhal he kills her entire family while sparing her and taking her as his mistress or rather a spoil of war. The stuff of romance novels people. (Note, I do like Alysmond, but to say it’s somehow better than Dattles is a huge stretch).
What do Daemyra and Alysmond have that Dattles does not? All parties involved are white. Fans don’t mind or are willing to overlook and ship emotionally manipulative incestuous based relationships or questionable power dynamic relationships, as long as both partners are white.
Both sides of the fandom infantilize Nettles to give her a sense of innocence, of blamelessness to the circumstances that befall upon her, while at the same time protecting Rhaenyra’s innocence by giving them a shared “villain.” Usually Daemon(and in some cases Mysaria).
The fandom can only sympathize with her when they view her as a child because a black woman who is a victim of racial violence at the hands of a white woman isn’t relatable. It just shouldn’t be because Rhaenyra is innocent.
Ultimately Nettles is not viewed as a dynamic character who is worthy of a complete arc that includes a heterosexual (I imagine fans would cheer on Rhaenyra and Nettles being together a la “Rhaenyra and Laena” which many fans cared more about than Laena’s relationship that she had with her husband, the father of her two girls who she had a loving marriage with in the books) romantic relationship. Especially with someone like Daemon.
She has to be a child because otherwise if Nettles is seen as a fully sexual being capable of making her own decisions, capable of consenting to a romantic relationship with a man who wants her in turn, a man who is willing to choose her over his white Valyrian(Aryan) wife, a wife who in her anger and jealousy seeks to enact violence upon her as a result of said consensual impossible relationship, she disrupts the natural order of things.
This phenomenon of desexualizing Black women characters who are love interests isn’t new or unique to HOTD. In fact, it’s pretty common in fandoms and is born as a result of misogynoir. This article is on the character Nyota Uhura from Star Trek, but it mirrors what is happening to Nettles right now:
The whole blog is a goldmine on fandom racism, particularly fandom misogynoir. I urge you to check it out especially if you are going to “speak out” on Black female characters when you yourself aren’t Black(this includes other “WOC”).
And before you say, “But Bohemian people ship Nettles with Daeron or Jace so they aren’t trying to completely desexualize her nor do they care about her being with white men because both Daeron and Jace are white,” hold onto that.
While there are some genuine fans of these crackships(neither have any basis in canon and Nettles never even meets Daeron) most of these “fans” are doing so because they know that it looks racist to desexualize Nettles, the only in-canon black character, to the point where she’s the only one without a love interest.
Yes, both Daeron and Jace are white, but you need to look at who their characters are. Daeron has no love interest in book canon so Nettles doesn’t threaten any white woman’s desirability since there is none to threaten.
Jace does have an in-canon love interest(s), Baela. and Sara Snow. They might change it up in the show, but in the books, Jace and Baela aren’t really a couple for long since he goes to the North and meets Sara Snow who he may have married. Sara Snow is a controversial character.
Most fans either don’t believe she exists(and they think she’s Cregan) or they don’t want her to exist(the fandom has a classism and a bastard problem in addition to racism, but again I’m not getting into that today).
Daeron hasn’t even shown up on the show yet(so mostly book fans are invested in him)and while he’ll probably be popular I doubt he’ll reach Daemon let alone Aemond’s popularity.
Jace dies soon into the narrative(he might die this upcoming season). He’s pretty boring in the show and outside of him being one of Rhaenyra’s baseborn sons I don’t think too many people actually care about him.
People are comfortable with putting Nettles with characters like Daeron and Jace solving many birds with one stone while not really stepping on any toes(especially the toes of white women who they actually care about).
It stops people from shipping Nettles with Daemon, because he is too desirable to be with a black woman especially when it would impact his Valyrian queen, it gives Daeron a love interest, keeps Sara Snow from showing up, and keeps the racist allegations off fans back. They are the comfortable choices. They are the non-threatening choices.
So to wrap this commentary up, the HOTD fandom has finally found something which to unite both the Greens and the Blacks. Trying to pidgin hole black female characters into narrow boxes of “acceptable” characterization that desexualizes them which serves to protect white female characters, who they sympathize with, innocence and desirability. As always, nothing brings together a fandom like good old-fashioned racism repackaged as “caring.”
Nettles unknowingly steals from Daemon, sparking his obsessive interest in her. Modern!AU
Read on AO3
Nettles moved like a shadow through the dimly lit corridors of the high-rise, her footfalls silent against the plush black carpet. The city skyline stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of King's Landing casting a glow over the darkened room. This wasn’t her usual target.
She had always preferred the mansions of the old money elite, the ones who flaunted their wealth in the gated communities on the outskirts. But tonight, the opportunity was too good to pass up so here she was in the heart of the city, breaking into someone’s penthouse suite.
Her contact had assured her it would be simple. The diamonds in the living room were the target. She’d slipped past security with ease hours before, and spent her day hiding out in the maid’s closet before making her move.
Her nimble fingers disabled alarms and picked locks without a second thought. The team she usually worked with had been dragging their feet, but Nettles wasn’t one to wait around. If she was going to risk her life, she’d do it on her own terms.
She slipped into the living room, her gaze sweeping the space. Everything was sleek, modern, and obscenely expensive. The kind of wealth that practically dripped off the walls. On the coffee table sat a small collection of glittering stones. Diamonds, just as promised. Nettles allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she quickly scooped them into a leather pouch at her waist.
“Too easy,” she muttered with a crooked smile, turning to make her exit.
She was halfway to the door when youthful curiosity got the better of her. It was always the downfall of a good thief, but Nettles couldn’t help herself. She paused, glancing back at the hallway leading deeper into the penthouse. What kind of people live here? What other treasures might they be hiding?
With a quick glance over her shoulder, she tiptoed down the hall. The first door she passed was closed, but the second was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. Nettles nudged it open with her foot and peered inside.
It was a bedroom, softly lit by a lamp on a nightstand. A girl with long silver hair slept soundly in the bed, her features serene, not having been awakened with Nettle’s almost cat like silent entrance. Nettles' heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t some faceless rich family. Whoever lived here had children, and from the looks of it, they were people who could afford to keep them in this kind of luxury.
On the nightstand beside the girl was something that caught Nettles’ eye. It was a small, round object glowing faintly pink and black. It was nestled under a heat lamp, like a precious artifact being carefully tended to.
Nettles stepped further into the room, her gaze shifting to the other side of the bed. There was another nightstand there and on it a similar object. This one silver and pale green, resting in a cradle of velvet. The bed beside it was empty, the covers neatly drawn back as if waiting for someone to return.
And that’s when it hit her. The hair, the wealth, the eggs. These weren’t just any rich kids. Nettles felt a jolt of fear as the realization sank in. This was Daemon Targaryen’s daughters’ room. The Targaryens—the most powerful family in the city. They ran everything from the government to the underworld. They weren’t supposed to be a part of the underworld, but Daemon himself was known to be ruthless, the head of the city’s security despite being the biggest criminal there.
She swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dried. She had heard the stories. How the Targaryens were the only ones who could touch the ancient dragon eggs without being burned alive. And here she was, standing in their home, her fingers itching to take one of the priceless eggs but her instincts screaming at her to get out while she still could.
Her thievery taking gems from the Lannister’s had cost her a scar on her nose. She knew getting caught robbing this family would cost her life.
Nettles backed away from the room, her heart racing. She had no intention of getting on Daemon Targaryen’s bad side but as she turned to leave, something caught her eye. In the corner of the living room, nestled under a spotlight, was another egg. This one brown and gold, with a rougher texture than the others. It seemed to pulse with warmth, and Nettles felt an inexplicable pull toward it, as if it was calling to her.
She hesitated, her fingers twitching. The diamonds were one thing, but a dragon egg? That was a whole different level of risk. And yet, Nettles had never been one to back down from a challenge.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she crossed the room and carefully lifted the egg from its pedestal. It was heavier than she expected, the heat seeping through her gloves and into her skin. But there was no pain but only a strange sense of connection, as if the egg was meant to be hers.
With the egg tucked away in her bag, Nettles made her way to the door. Her heart pounded in her ears as she slipped out into the hallway, moving swiftly but cautiously. She was almost there, almost free, when she passed the elevator, the doors began to slide open.
Nettles froze, her breath catching in her throat as she braced herself for whatever, or whoever, might be waiting on the other side.
Her heart pounded in her chest as the elevator doors slid open revealing a tall, imposing figure standing inside. Her breath hitched as she recognized him. Daemon Targaryen, the most dangerous man in King’s Landing. His reputation was well-earned, both as a ruthless enforcer of the law and the biggest criminal hiding in plain sight.
For a split second, Nettles considered bolting, but the cold, calculating look in his violet eyes told her that running would only make things worse. Instead, she did the only thing she could think of. She stepped into the elevator as if she belonged there, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t question her presence.
Daemon’s gaze traveled over her, taking in her simple clothing. It looked far too plain for someone who would live in a place like this. His eyes gleamed with amusement, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Nettles could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, and she forced herself to remain calm, even as her mind raced for an explanation.
“Long night?” Daemon’s voice was smooth, with a hint of something dangerous beneath it. His gaze never left her.
“Uh, yeah,” Nettles replied, mentally cursing herself for the unsteady tone in her voice. She cleared her throat, trying to muster some confidence. “Just, um…picking up something for a friend.”
“A friend,” Daemon repeated, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Must be a very important friend, sending someone like you to do their dirty work.”
Nettles’ jaw clenched at the subtle insult, but she forced herself to smile. “I’m good at getting things done.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by her response. “Is that so?”
“Yep,” she replied, finding a bit of her usual bravado. “People trust me with the important stuff.
Daemon chuckled, a low dangerous sound that sent a shiver down her spine. He didn’t say anything more, just continued to watch her with that predatory gaze, as if he were sizing her up and deciding what to do with her. Nettles tried to ignore the way his presence made her feel exposed, focusing instead on keeping her cool.
The elevator dinged, indicating it was ready to close its doors and Daemon pushed himself off the wall, moving closer to her. Nettles held her breath as he reached past her to leave, their proximity making the air between them crackle with tension. He paused for a moment, his face inches from hers and she could feel the heat of his body. The scent of something dark and intoxicating.
“Take care of yourself, little thief,” Daemon murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicked down to her bag for the briefest of moments, his expression unreadable.
Nettles blinked, stunned and too scared to speak. She could only look as he stepped out of the elevator, turning to watch her as the doors began to close. His gaze was sharp, piercing, and she couldn’t shake that he knew exactly what she had done.
The elevator doors slid shut, and Nettles exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. As the elevator descended, her heart still raced but she was grateful to have escaped the encounter without incident. She still had her head. It wasn’t until she reached the first floor that she noticed her bag. Her fingers trembled as she realized the zipper had come slightly undone, revealing a glimpse of the brown and gold dragon egg nestled inside.
Her blood ran cold. Daemon had seen it. She knew he did. Yet, she hadn’t heard alarms blaring, nor had security come running to stop her. The doorman at the front entrance even gave her a polite nod as she walked out into the cool night air.
Confusion and panic warred within her. Why hadn’t Daemon stopped her? Why had he let her walk away so easily when he could have had her caught, or worse? As she stepped outside, she glanced up at the tall building. Her eyes found the small, dark security camera pointed in her direction. She knew, without a doubt, that Daemon was watching her. He was letting her go with a dragon egg in her possession.
Nettles swallowed hard, the weight of the egg in her bag suddenly heavier than before. She forced herself to keep walking, her pace measured and calm, even though her thoughts were anything but. She didn’t know why Daemon had spared her, but she knew one thing for certain: she had just made an enemy out of the most dangerous man in the city.
And for some reason, he had let her live to tell the tale.
-
Daemon Targaryen had always believed in the superiority of his bloodline. The Targaryens were special, destined, chosen by the gods to rule. How else could they be the only ones able to handle the ancient dragon eggs without being reduced to ashes?
It was a truth he had never questioned, a pillar of his identity as firm as the power he wielded over King's Landing. And yet, the memory of that night in the elevator, of the brown-haired girl who had stolen from him, gnawed at him with a curiosity that bordered on obsession.
He had seen the dragon egg in her bag. There was no mistaking it, and he didn’t imagine it. He was crazy but not that crazy. Instead of being incinerated by its touch, she had walked away unscathed casually sauntering through his lobby. It shouldn’t have been possible. Daemon replayed the scene in his mind over and over, each time more incredulous than the last. No one outside of his family had ever done such a thing and lived. Yet, this girl had.
Nettles. The name had rolled off his tongue when he asked around, using the shadowy networks of the city’s underworld to dig into her life. Daemon was no stranger to hunting down those who crossed him, but this time, it was different. He wasn’t after retribution. Wasn’t looking to take a head off. Not yet anyway. He was after something far more elusive. That girl. His thoughts kept returning to her. Her wide, brown startled eyes when she had first seen him in the elevator, the way she had fumbled through their brief exchange speaking like a low born girl before regaining her composure.
She was different, not like the polished, highborn women who usually caught his eye. Her hair wasn’t silver, but a dark mass of curls that framed her face like a wild halo. She wasn’t elegant in the way of the noble ladies he was used to, but there was something undeniably captivating about her. Something raw, untamed.
It unsettled him how often she crept into his thoughts. In the dead of night, when the city was quiet and even the most hardened criminals took a moment to breathe, Daemon found himself sitting in his office, staring at the security footage. He had watched it so many times that he knew every movement by heart. The way she had slipped past his defenses, the brief hesitation before she took the egg, the calm, deliberate way she had walked out as if she hadn’t just done the impossible.
He was fascinated by her audacity, her nerves, but most of all by the mystery of her survival. The egg accepted her touch. What was it about this girl, this thief from the streets, that made her different? It was a question that refused to leave him in peace, driving him to obsess over her.
Late one night, as the city below him slept, Daemon’s computer pinged with a new message. He leaned forward, opening the email from one of his men. His heart quickened as the contents loaded on the screen: her name, her address, and a long list of criminal activities. Her rap sheet was long.
Netty, they called her. That couldn’t have been her real name, just the street name she went by. Her last known location was in the poorest districts of the city, where the buildings leaned against each other like drunkards and the streets were a labyrinth of desperation. The criminal record was extensive, a testament to her skills. She had been stealing since she was a child, her methods growing more sophisticated with time. Each arrest had less and less evidence against her.
Daemon’s eyes scanned the list, noting the variety of her targets. It was mostly the rich and she was always careful, never staying in one place too long. Yet, she had never gone after anyone like him before. That night in his penthouse had been a first, he was sure of it. He wondered what had driven her to take such a risk, and why she had taken the egg when she could have just walked away with the diamonds.
He leaned back in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his lips. This girl Netty had done the impossible. She had touched a dragon egg and lived. And now that he knew where to find her, Daemon was determined to see her again.
As he closed the email, Daemon’s thoughts drifted back to the security camera footage. He could see her in his mind’s eye, standing in his penthouse, the dragon egg cradled in her arms. She had taken something from him, yes, but in doing so, she had given him something far more valuable. A new chase.
He would find her and when he did, Daemon would discover exactly what made this wild, curly-haired thief so special. And perhaps, just perhaps, he would let her keep what she had stolen. After all, she had managed to capture something far more dangerous than a dragon egg.
She had captured his attention.
-
Daemon found her in the deepest parts of the city, where the streets were as untamed as the girl who had stolen from him. Netty was in her element here, surrounded by the noise and chaos of the slums. She moved with a swagger that belied her small frame, her short curly hair framing a face that was both mischievous and defiant.
She was no longer the frightened girl he had cornered in the elevator. Here, she was a queen of the slums, commanding the respect of the rougher men around her. Despite all the jewels and money, she had stolen, she remained living here.
He watched her from the shadows, his eyes narrowed with a mix of intrigue and something darker. She wasn’t his type. He had always preferred the refined elegance of women with silver hair and a Valyrian last name.
But there was something about Nettles that drew him in, something raw and untamed that made his blood stir. He had never wanted anyone like her before, and that made this all the more dangerous.
Nettles sensed him before she saw him. A prickle at the back of her neck, a feeling that someone was watching. She turned and there he was, leaning casually against a wall. His eyes fixed on her like a predator sizing up its prey. She felt a thrill of fear mixed with excitement, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she grinned, the kind of grin that dared him to come closer.
“Following me, old man?” she called out, her voice carrying over the din of the dirty street. “You got nothing better to do?”
Daemon pushed off the wall, his movements slow and deliberate. “You’ve been on my mind,” he said, his voice low, almost a purr. “I couldn’t stay away.”
Nettles snorted, crossing her arms over her chest. “That so? Must be losing your edge, chasing after little girls like me.”
His eyes darkened, but the smirk remained. “You’re not just any girl, are you? You’ve got a knack for getting under my skin.”
“Maybe I just remind you how old you’re getting,” she shot back, enjoying the way his jaw tightened.
He moved closer, and she could feel the heat of him, smell the expensive cologne that clung to his skin. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, Nettles. Or shall I say Netty? But you’re playing a dangerous game.”
She rolled her eyes at him trying to scare her by saying her name, but she didn't back down. “And you’re full of shit if you think I’m scared of you. You don’t scare me, Daemon Targaryen. You’re just another rich bastard who thinks he can do whatever he wants.”
His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. Not hard, but firm enough to make her pulse quicken. “You should be scared,” he said softly, his eyes locked on hers. “You’re a criminal. I could kill you and no one would care.”
Nettles met his gaze, her heart pounding, but she refused to show any weakness. “You’re not going to kill me,” she said, her voice steady. “You’re having too much fun chasing me.”
Daemon chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, pulling her closer. “Maybe I’m enjoying this a little too much.”
The tension between them crackled like electricity, and for a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Part of her wanted him to. Part of her wanted to see if the danger she felt around him was real, or if it was just another game.
But she wasn’t about to let him catch her. Not yet.
Just as his lips were about to brush hers, Nettles pulled away, slipping out of his grasp with a laugh. “Not so fast, old man,” she teased, taking a step back.
She turned to leave, but not before her nimble fingers slipped something from his pocket—a sleek, silver lighter engraved with his family crest. She waved it at him with a smirk before stuffing it into her pocket and away.
Daemon watched her go, a mix of amusement and frustration bubbling up inside him. She was playing with fire, and she knew it. But so was he.
He didn’t try to stop her. Not yet. Instead, he pulled out his phone and sent a quick text. She was bold, this one. But she wasn’t untouchable. As Nettles disappeared into the crowd, Daemon’s men moved in. They knew the plan, and they knew better than to question it. She’s a fast runner but wouldn’t get far.
She was halfway down the block when the black van pulled up beside her. She barely had time to react before the door slid open and strong hands grabbed her, pulling her inside.
She fought, kicking and cursing, but it was no use. They had her, and they weren’t letting go. As the van sped away, Nettles caught a glimpse of Daemon standing on the corner, watching her with that same dark, amused expression.
The last thing she saw before the door slammed shut was his smirk, knowing he had won this round.
Nettles awoke with a start, her head throbbing and her vision blurry. She blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of her surroundings. The last thing she remembered was punching the man who had grabbed her, the van speeding away, and then nothing. Now, she found herself in an unfamiliar room, the scent of rich leather and polished wood filling her senses.
She sat up, groggy and disoriented, taking in the room around her. It was a large, open space, but something about it felt off. She was in Daemon’s suite. The penthouse was almost empty, stripped of the expensive furnishings she remembered from before. The once luxurious décor was gone, leaving only bare walls and a few pieces of minimalist furniture.
The only thing that remained opulent was a dark red dragon egg on a stand in the center of the room, glowing softly in the dim light.
“Shit,” Nettles muttered under her breath, pushing herself off the bed. Her first instinct was to escape, to find a way out of this place before Daemon showed up. She ran to the elevator, her heart racing, but no matter how many times she pressed the button, the doors refused to open.
Panic began to claw at her chest, but she forced herself to stay calm. There had to be another way out.
She darted through the penthouse, her bare feet slapping against the cold marble floors. Every door she tried was locked, every window sealed shut. It was as if the place had been designed to keep her in a gilded cage with no escape.
The only thing left untouched was the dragon egg, its surface shimmering with a deep, pulsating heat. She could feel its presence, like it was watching her, waiting.
Frustration welled up inside her, and she was about to kick the nearest piece of furniture when she heard a door click open behind her. Nettles spun around to see a tall, stoic man in a perfectly pressed suit step into the room. He looked like he had walked out of another century, with his impeccable manners and air of servitude.
“Good evening, Miss,” the butler said in a calm, measured voice. “May I offer you some dinner?”
Nettles stared at him, her mouth dropping open in disbelief. “Are you fucking serious?”
The butler didn’t so much as blink at her language. “Yes, Miss. We thought you might be hungry after your journey.”
She barked out a laugh, unable to believe the absurdity of the situation. “Yeah, sure. I’d love a five-course meal while I’m being held hostage. Why not?”
The butler bowed slightly. “Very good, Miss. I shall prepare something right away.”
Nettles watched in stunned silence as he disappeared through the same door he’d come in. She wasn’t sure whether to be furious or amused, but the ridiculousness of it all finally tipped the scales. She found herself laughing again, the sound echoing off the bare walls.
She’d tried the door, and of course, it was now locked.
An hour later, Nettles sat at a small table in the center of the room, staring down at the most extravagant meal she’d ever seen. A perfectly cooked steak, glistening with juices, lay before her on a China plate edged with gold. A bottle of champagne, the label boasting a price that could feed her for a year, sat in a silver bucket of ice. The cutlery sparkled, each piece gold, black and red delicately inlaid with intricate dragon designs.
“This is insane,” she muttered, shaking her head. But her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in hours. Despite everything, she picked up the fork and knife, cutting into the steak and savoring the first bite. She moaned. It was delicious, almost sinful, and she hated how much she enjoyed it.
She was halfway through the meal when the butler returned, this time with a fresh set of clothes and a soft, plush red robe. “The Master has also requested that we draw you a bath, Miss,” he said, bowing slightly. “It's ready for you.”
Nettles raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. “What is this shit? A bath, huh? What’s next? A foot massage?”
The butler didn’t react to her sarcasm. “If that is your wish, Miss.”
She rolled her eyes, but the idea of a hot bath was too tempting to pass up. “Fine. Lead the way.”
He led her to a massive bathroom, the kind of place she had only ever seen in magazines. The tub was a giant, sunken affair, lined with marble and positioned right in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that offered a breathtaking view of the city below. The water was steaming, scented with an expensive fragrance. Candles flickered all over, casting a warm glow over the room.
Nettles sighed, slipping off her clothes and sinking into the hot water. The tension in her muscles began to melt away and for a moment, she let herself relax. She closed her eyes as she leaned back against the cool marble.
Her fingers had long since pruned. She had no idea how long she’d been there, but it’d been a while. She was staring out at the city watching the people walk by, when she heard the door open behind her. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The air in the room seemed to shift, growing heavier, charged with an undercurrent of tension that made her pulse quicken.
“Enjoying yourself?” Daemon’s voice with that dangerous edge. She heard the soft rustle of fabric as he walked in, the scent of cigar smoke curling through the air.
Nettles smirked, not bothering to turn around. “Didn’t realize kidnapping was part of your seduction technique.”
“Wouldn’t call it that,” he replied, his voice closer now. “If you really wanted to leave, you would have found a way out by now. Or taken that steak knife to stab the butler. Or even me.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, maybe. But where’s the fun in that?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him approach, wearing nothing but a robe, the dark silk fabric hanging loosely over his broad frame. He took a long drag from his cigar, his eyes never leaving her as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. The tension between them was crackling in the air like a live wire.
“Maybe I just wanted to see what you’d do,” she said, her voice low and teasing.
Daemon arched an eyebrow, amused. “And what do you think I’m going to do?”
“Something shitty, probably.” Nettles finally turned to fully look at him, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “You rich boys are always so predictable.”
Daemon chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound that sent shivers down her spine. “Am I now?”
Without another word, he let the robe fall to the floor, revealing the hard lines of his now nude body. He stepped into the tub with a slow, deliberate grace, the water rippling around him as he moved closer to her. Nettles kept her gaze steady, refusing to show any sign of reaction, but she couldn’t ignore the way her pulse quickened.
“You shouldn’t have been able to touch that dragon egg,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a growl. He was so close now, his presence overwhelming and the heat of his body mingling with the steam rising from the water.
“Guess I’m full of surprises,” she shot back, her tone defiant. She turned her back to him, resuming her people watching as she fought to pretend he wasn’t there. But she still felt his gaze.
Daemon’s gaze was intense, his eyes dark and predatory as he reached for a loofah. Without asking, he began to rub the soap and water across her back, the motion slow and deliberate. Nettles could feel the strength in his hands, the way his touch lingered just a little too long, the friction sparking a fire deep in her core.
She stared out the window, refusing to let him see the effect he was having on her. But the tension in the room was unbearable, the silence filled with unspoken desires. His broad, powerful frame towered over her smaller, leaner form. Yet, she didn’t feel small or weak. If anything, his presence made her feel more alive.
“You played with fire,” he whispered in her ear, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck.
“Maybe I like getting burned,” she whispered back, a sly smile curling at the edges of her lips.
Daemon’s lips found her neck, pressing a lingering kiss against her skin before he pulled away, leaving her alone in the tub. She could feel the heat of his absence, the way the air seemed colder suddenly without him there.
Nettles clenched her fists, annoyed at herself for liking any part of this. He had kidnapped her, for fuck’s sake. She should be furious, ready to stab him in the back the moment she got the chance. But instead, she found herself wanting more. More tension, more danger, more of him.
“Fuck,” she muttered, running a hand through her wet curls as she stared out at the city, her thoughts a chaotic barrage of anger, desire, and frustration.
The sound of the door closing behind her echoed through the room, and Nettles knew she was alone again. She didn’t move, didn’t turn around, just kept her eyes on the skyline, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions inside her.
Days had passed since Nettles had last seen Daemon, and the hours dragged on in a haze of boredom and restless energy. The penthouse felt like a fancy prison, luxurious yet confining, each day blending into the next. The only sign of Daemon’s presence was the steady stream of gifts he sent her through the butler. A delicate ivory hairbrush, a silver-looking glass that caught the light like a pool of moonlit water, a velvet and satin dress lined with sheep fur that clung to her form, and a pair of finely crafted leather boots that fit her feet perfectly.
Today, she wore the dress, the rich fabric whispering against her skin as she moved about the room. Her curls had been brushed, though they still framed her face in an untidy halo. Just the way she liked it. The penthouse was quiet, save for the soft ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance, the silence pressing in on her.
Boredom gnawed at her, and she found herself wandering over to the large mirror that hung on the wall, the silver surface reflecting back her own image. She stared at herself, her gaze drawn to the scar that ran across the bridge of her nose, a jagged line that had earned her a lifetime of sneers and insults. She had been called ugly, disfigured, and worse but she had never cared. The scar was a badge of honor, a mark of survival in a world that had tried to grind her down.
Her fingers traced the line of the scar absently, her thoughts drifting back to the day she’d earned it. She was so lost in the memory that she didn’t hear the door open behind her.
“It suits you,” came Daemon’s low voice cut through the silence.
Nettles jerked her hand away from her face, spinning around to see him standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. He was dressed in his usual black, the dark fabric emphasizing the sharp angles of his face, the dangerous edge to his presence.
“Does it?” she replied, raising an eyebrow, her tone laced with defiance. “Got it stealing. Should’ve seen the other guy.”
Daemon’s lips curled into a faint smile, though there was something darker lurking behind his eyes. “I imagine you gave him a good fight.”
“Better than he deserved,” Nettles said, turning back to the mirror, her gaze meeting his in the reflection. “You’ve been awfully absent, Daemon Targaryen. Afraid to face the girl you confined?”
“Hardly,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. He stepped closer, his presence filling the room, suffocating and alluring all at once. “I’ve just been giving you some space. Letting you get comfortable.”
“Comfortable.” Nettles snorted, turning to face him fully. “Is that what this is? Trying to butter me up with fancy gifts and expensive dinners?”
Daemon’s smile widened, his eyes never leaving hers. “Is it working?”
Nettles didn’t answer right away, but the tension between them crackled like electricity. She felt the pull of him, the magnetic attraction that had drawn her in from the start, despite every warning bell in her head telling her no. She wasn’t stupid and knew the kind of man Daemon was, the danger he represented. And yet, she couldn’t deny the thrill that shot through her whenever he was near.
The butler walked in, wheeling in a cart laden with dinner. This spread was as extravagant as the meals that had come before. A perfectly cooked roast, seasoned vegetables, rich sauces, and a bottle of red wine that likely cost more than she had ever stolen in one job. The butler set the table with quiet efficiency, the clink of silverware the only sound in the room. Nettles took her seat opposite Daemon, who watched her with a predatory gaze, his every move deliberately calculated.
They ate in tense silence for a few moments, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Nettles focused on her food, but her mind was racing, her thoughts tumbling over one another in a chaotic swirl. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore.
“Where’s your daughters?” she asked, cutting into her roast with a bit more force than necessary. “You just leave them fatherless while you’re out here playing games with me?”
Daemon’s expression was unmoved, despite her trying to get under his skin. “That’s none of your concern,” he said, his tone final.
Nettles raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. “So family is a touchy subject, huh?”
Daemon’s voice was dangerously low now as he looked up at her, “it’s none of your concern.”
Nettles bit back a retort, the atmosphere in the room shifting from tense to volatile in the blink of an eye. But rather than backing down, she felt a thrill of excitement at pushing his buttons, at seeing the cracks in his controlled facade. She didn’t know why she kept poking the bear, only that it made her feel alive, the danger of it all intoxicating.
They finished the meal in a silence that buzzed with tension, every glance between them heavy with unspoken words, every movement charged with something darker, more primal. When the last dish was cleared away, Daemon stood, his eyes locking onto hers.
“Goodnight, Nettles,” he said, his voice a soft purr that sent shivers down her spine. But instead of leaving, he turned and walked across the room, pausing in front of a different door. He pulled a key from his pocket, unlocking it with a deliberate slowness that made her heart pound.
She watched, entranced, as he pushed the door open, revealing a room beyond. He didn’t look back at her as he stepped inside, the darkness swallowing him up. For a moment, Nettles hesitated, every instinct telling her to stay put, to let him be. But curiosity, and something else, something far more dangerous, won out.
She rose from her chair, her footsteps silent on the marble floor as she followed him into the room.
Daemon’s bedroom was a reflection of the man himself. Dark, opulent, and suffused with a quiet, dangerous power. The walls were lined with deep, rich wood, polished to a high sheen. Heavy curtains of midnight blue and red framed the large windows, drawn back to reveal the city lights twinkling far below. The bed was massive, a king-sized affair draped in black silk sheets that seemed to absorb the light, making the room feel even more intimate, more enclosed.
The scent of smoke and leather filled the air as he stood near the bed, his shirt discarded, his broad chest bare and glistening in the firelight.
Nettles paused in the doorway, her breath catching at the sight of him. There was something about the way he moved, the way he carried himself, that made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down into a dark, endless void. And yet, she couldn’t stop herself from taking that final step forward, from crossing the threshold into the unknown.
Daemon turned to her, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his lips. “Changed your mind, have you?”
Nettles met his gaze. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Daemon. They say you started hanging out with criminals because the politicians didn’t want you around. Even your own brother wanted you gone.”
The words were out before she could stop herself, a jab meant to provoke him, to test his limits. She expected him to laugh it off, to shrug it away like he had every other insult she’d thrown at him. But instead, his expression darkened, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.
In an instant, he was on her. His hand shot out, grabbing her throat and pushing her back against the wall with a force that knocked the breath out of her. His grip was firm, his fingers pressing just hard enough to make her heart race.
“Careful, Netty,” he hissed, he was menacing. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”
She gasped, her hands instinctively going to his wrist, but she didn’t try to push him away. She stared up at him, her pulse pounding in her ears, waiting for him to make the next move.
“You want to know who I am, little thief?” Daemon leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “Earlier today, I killed Otto Hightower. Snapped his neck like a twig and watched the life drain from his eyes.”
His words sent a shiver down her spine, a thrill that made her breath hitch in her throat. She had always known Daemon was dangerous but hearing him speak so casually about murder brought that reality crashing down on her.
As she processed his words, his hand slipped from her throat, trailing down her body, slipping under her dress. His touch was rough, demanding, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of her thigh. She bit her lip, unable to suppress the gasp that escaped her as his hand moved higher, pushing the fabric of her dress up as he went.
“You think you know me?” Daemon growled, his eyes locked on hers, daring her to challenge him. “You don’t know anything.”
She gasped as she felt one of his fingers enter her. Not once did they break eye contact, not once did he stop touching her, his thumb stroking circles against the sensitive flesh, and she squirmed from his touch. Daemon looked feral.
Nettles felt his finger slide deeper and she bit her tongue to keep from groaning out loud. He moved faster, his movements harsh and impatient like this was something he had waited years to do. But then his pace slowed down. His finger continued moving, but his movements became languid, lazy almost before he removed it.
With a swift motion, he yanked the dress over her head, the fabric tearing slightly in his haste. The satin crumpled to the floor, leaving her exposed to his gaze, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
But even now, with his hand still on her thigh, his presence overwhelming, Nettles couldn’t bring herself to back down. She met him head-on even as the tension between them reached a boiling point.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered, the words barely more than a breath.
Daemon’s eyes flashed with something primal, something that made her knees weak. He leaned in, his lips brushing against hers, a barely-there touch that sent sparks through her entire body.
“Good,” he murmured, his voice dark and possessive. “Because I don’t want you to be afraid. I want you just like this."
With that, he kissed her, a fierce, demanding kiss that stole the breath from her lungs. She responded in kind, her hands tangling in his silver hair, pulling him closer as she pressed her body against his. The heat between them was unbearable, the tension snapping like live wire as they gave in to everything that had been building between them from the start.
Daemon’s hands roamed over her body, his touch both rough and possessive as he guided her to the bed. The silk sheets were cool against her skin as she sank down onto them, pulling him with her. The last of his restraint shattered as he joined her, their bodies tangling together in a frenzy of need and desire.
He broke their kisses long enough to take his pants off, tossing them aside carelessly. Then he was on her again, his mouth claiming hers hungrily, his teeth nipping playfully at her bottom lip before moving back down towards her throat. Her breath quickened, a small sound of pleasure escaping her lips as her arms wound tightly around his shoulders when she felt his cock at her entrance.
Daemon shifted above her, his hand finding purchase on her hip as he slowly entered. Nettles moaned loudly, arching her hips upwards in an attempt to relieve the pressure. His chuckle vibrated against her, his lips ghosting across her jawline as he trailed down her neck.
His fingers dug into her hip bone as he began thrusting deep. Nettles' toned legs clung to him, her nails scratching at his back while her hips arched upward. A strangled cry slipped past her lips as a wave of pure ecstasy rolled over her. It washed over her, filling her with a sense of utter bliss. She pulled him close as he continued thrusting in and out of her, Daemon filling her completely. He pulled back suddenly, releasing a guttural moan as she tightened around him. He wanted to collapse on top of her, kissing her deeply as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.
When he raised his head, there was a wild gleam in her eye that sent a shiver down his spine.
“I thought you might like that,” she whispered in his ear, her soft words a low rumble. Daemon was breathless. He wanted everything about her. Wanted to be inside her forever, fucking her senseless, driving her mad with desire. He could hardly remember the last time he felt like this, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold back.
Their groans and moans echoed across the room. Their breathing heavy as he struggled to regain control over himself. He moved lower, pressing his lips against hers, his tongue tracing along her bottom lip again until she opened her mouth, eagerly returning his kiss.
With a groan, he lifted his hips off hers, bringing their faces even closer together as they came together in what felt like an explosion.
Nettles sighed and fell back against the cool pillows as the aftershock rocked her body. The room spun as her senses slowly returned to her, the warmth of the room and the press of his body lulling her into a peaceful dreamlike state.
She could hear the steady beat of his heart, could almost smell his skin, feel his breath on her as she inhaled deeply. All she felt was a strange sense of satisfaction, of having met her match in a man who was as unpredictable as she was.
Daemon’s arm was draped over her waist, his breathing slowing and even as he lay beside her, his presence still dominating the space. She turned her head to look at him, studying the lines of his face, the way the firelight cast shadows over his features. He looked almost peaceful, but she knew better than to believe the facade.
She was in deep now, too deep to turn back. But as she lay there, her mind racing, she couldn’t help but wonder where this path would lead them next.
Shipper goggles aside, I fail to see how Daemon and Nettles’ relationship gets so much pushback by the fandom for being problematic when nearly every other ship on this show is just as problematic if not more so:
Alysmond has the same power imbalance as Dattles(Aemond is a prince and Alys is a lowborn bastard) and they have around the same age gap(Alys is at least 40 and Aemond is 19 in the books and 16 in the show).
Helaemond is incest and some of the theories surrounding it, Aemond fathering Helaena’s kids at 13, are borderline at best.
Helaegon is incest.
Daemyra is incest, has a significant age gap between Daemon and Rhaenyra, and there is actual abuse going on. And don’t go it’s only in the show that Daemon is abusive because in the books he’s a 30-year-old man taking his 14-year-old niece(who is still underage by Westeros standards) to brothels and teaching her sex acts.
Rhaeicent fans like to act high and mighty yet they are shipping a ship where one character is fine with the other character's son being maimed and did nothing to stop or punish her husband from murdering her ex-lover/friend’s grandchild.
I’m not even going to get into the most depraved ship of them all, Lucemond, where some of you, who are definitely adults, are trying to sexualize an irl minor.
All this backlash is said and done in the name of “protecting Nettles.” However, in any other case, you are okay with or willing to overlook ships where incest, physical violence, emotional abuse, power imbalances, and significant age gaps between partners exist, but Daemon and Nettles relationship is going too far.
Daemon and Nettles is taking it too far yet for the first time in Nettles life someone puts her first. Someone is willing to consider her. To care for her. To love her. To die to save her. That’s somehow too much?
We must protect Nettles, yet you are fine with other women characters being in incestuous relationships, being with a man who has killed their entire family, being with a man who has everything over them, being with a man who has choked them out, and being with someone who could care less about whether they and their kids live or die. Okay 👍🏽
No one is saying you have to like Nettles with Daemon or ship them, but if you find the relationship problematic and think that she should be “kept away from him” only to then turn around and go OMG I can't wait until Aemond meets his soulmate Alys and murders all the men at Harrenhal or try to convince us that Daemyra somehow isn't abusive despite the grooming and that Dattles is what is really creepy then you're being very disingenuous with your reason as to why you dislike her relationship with Daemon.
Each dawn Caraxes and Sheepstealer flew from Maidenpool, climbing high above the riverlands in ever-widening circles in hopes of espying Vhagar below...only to return defeated at dusk. The Chronicles of Maidenpool tell us Lord Mooton made so bold as to suggest that the dragonriders divide their search, so as to cover twice the ground. Prince Daemon refused. Vhagar was the last of the three dragons that had come to Westeros with Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, he reminded his lordship. Though slower than she had been a century before, she had grown nigh as large as the Black Dread of old. Her fires burned hot enough to melt stone, and neither Caraxes nor Sheepstealer could match her ferocity. Only together could they hope to withstand her. And so he kept the girl Nettles by his side, day and night, in sky and castle.
Unpopular opinion, but I don’t think that Nettles needs saving from Daemon. I won’t lie and say that the age gap(she’s 17 and he’s 49) isn’t disconcerting, because it is. Or that him being the Prince Consort and her being a likely non-Valyrian bastard girl who comes from nothing doesn’t put them on unequal footing, because it does, but Daemon clearly loves Nettles.
Regardless of whether you agree if it’s romantic love(it is, but that’s a conversation for another day) or not, he clearly loves her. He literally dotes upon with seemingly no ulterior motives, other than to provide her with simple comforts she’s so long gone without. He only wants to take care of her.
Daemon loves her enough to give up his life to defend and save hers. The man who ordered Blood & Cheese, has a reputation for misusing young girls, and commits countless war crimes, is willing to give his life up for a lowborn girl.
Nettles in all honesty wouldn’t be missed if she was murdered, but Daemon saves her. He could have easily let Lord Mooton’s men execute Rhaenyra, his wife the queen’s orders. I mean this is the Rouge Prince that we are talking about here. He murdered his own great nephew among other family members. It would have cost him nothing to hand Nettles over, but he did not. Instead he was going to fight through Lord Mooton’s men and die for her. If Nettles needs saving from that then I know nothing.
Description: The night that fate intervened to keep the Rogue Prince from his bastard girl.
AN: Requested by anon 👤
His sweet girl was beginning to drift off into the land of pleasant dreams. He could tell by the way in which her dark eyes fluttered as she fought sleep. Her voice lowered and the slightest bit slurred. She would let out a yawn with every other word spoken.
The Rogue Prince would call Lord Mooton’s maids in a moment to clear away their supper. A plain but hearty fare of boiled beef and beets. Helping to restore them after a day spent in the skies scanning for his elusive nephew.
He had kept her up too late the night before. Knowing that they had an early start, but he had a need for her and she for him though she would not admit that her need was just as great as his. Not with words that made an unlikely maiden hide her dark head in her lover's chest.
“Are you not tired old man?” His netty had said between little breathy moans. Trying yet failing to push him off her as he kissed his way down her figure, having only pulled himself out of her warmth with reluctance moments before. Her breath hitched when he landed a kiss on her stomach. His tongue peeked out from behind his lips to taste the salt upon her bare skin. Not letting her have a minute's respite to fully come down from her peak as he replaced his cock with his mouth.
“My cock might be.” He had chosen then to trace his index finger over her folds before inserting it into her still pulsing heat “But my fingers,” thrusting in emphasis as she curled into herself with a pant, “and my tongue is not sweet Netty.” Sweet indeed for she tasted of honey with only the faintest taste of him.
It had taken one well-placed lap upon her button and another thrust of his ring finger joined by his other index finger in her silky cunt, rendering her near speechless. Incapable of any noise apart from soundless mewls. She had clung to him well into the morning after having been thoroughly warned out.
Another yawn brought him back from his reverie for a moment. Daemon reached for her hand to take in his from where it rested by her discarded silverware. She let out a contented hum as he stroked the supple brown skin there. Sinking further back into her chair. Finally letting her eyes close to rest.
He asked her if she would like dessert, the maids having mentioned that the cook made honey cake which Nettles had grown a taste for, to be sent for. She replied with a small no. Her doe eyes remained closed as she shook her head in emphasis. Her next reply caused him to let out a round of chuckles. “I’m afraid I’ll just fall into the cake, my prince.”
He would have to keep her here with him tonight. There was no point in trying to maintain appearances by depositing her to her own bed. Or what had been her bed for she spent more time in his than her own across the way nowadays. Daemon was sure that half the castle knew of their change in sleeping habits.
If nothing else, but for the simple fact that the oak door which connected their rooms made a heavy creaking sound when opened which could be heard clear across the still castle. His netty would only awaken in an hour or two. Crawling into his bed to bury herself in his person.
Tucking her little coily head into his nape as her small hands would glide under his nightshirt to rest upon his chest, her icey feet would glue themselves to his legs to warm them. He would stroke up and down her exposed before his battle-hardened hands would wander to more intimate places.
That is if she did not forgo her own nightgown to crawl into their bed, into his arms, naked as her name day. Tugging on his nightshirt for him to join her in nakedness. She’d take to mouthing and nipping the pale scared flesh at his neck. Only pulling away so that the brown of her irises met the violet of his own. A dozy stupor overtook those dark orbs as she blinked down at him if he had not already flipped them over. Waiting for him to warm her in the way only he had.
All those nights were rare of course. Once the maids had served them their super, and they drew them their bath, he’d dismiss them from their sight. That chamber door would remain shut, never creaking open in the middle of the night or otherwise. It would be he who’d deposit his Netty into their bed.
A knock sounded at the door. His sleepy girl startled at the noise but calmed once he brought her hand to his lips. Placing a light kiss upon the back of her supple skin. Their quiescent conversation that was held together by a few words here and there came to a pause as he commanded whoever was on the other side of the door, more than like a maid inquiring if they wished for anything else, to enter.
Maester Norren, a short man of no more than two and twenty-name days, hardly older than Netty, peaked his sandy head into their chamber. He beckoned the boy not to linger in the doorway. He was always the skittish sort, but the look on his face was more glum than usual. With him, he carried a letter.
He wrung his hands beneath his robes. His chains clinked as he took to shifting upon the balls of his heels. He opened and closed his mouth a dozen times. Like a fish caught in the fishers net gasping for breath. Never quite able to get the words out. They’d be there all night with nothing said if it was left to the boy.
“Give it here.” He motioned to the letter. The hour was dark. Too dark for such a letter to be delivered to him. For it not being able to wait until the light of the morn. It had to be the cause for the maesters nerves. The prince had been right for his heart sank as he read the words inked in black. They were indeed dark words for a dark hour. Death orders.
“My prince.” His Netty’s sweet voice broke through the daze that had fallen over him. Her brown little face was taken over by worry. Her dark brow scrunched up. He wanted to kiss that frown away, but it would be so easily banished. “What does it say?”
She reached for his hand but stopped herself as her eyes flitted to where the maester remained shifting. She took to biting her lip to give herself something to occupy and console her mind with for the time.
His face must have ashen over. All life must have been drained from it. Paled beyond recognition. As he stood as white as a ghost. His violet eyes dulled in a way that would cause her to fret over him.
Daemon threw the letter into their chamber’s fire before her little hand could reach for the dreaded thing. The sound of embers crackling grew. Settling back to a low blaze as the paper turned to ash. She did not need to see it. To read those cursed words.
“A queen's words, a whores work.” Mysaria. Yes, they were Rhaenyra’s orders, but they had her doing written all over them. It would never occur to the queen to think that he would take Netty for a bedmate let alone something more than a bedmate. She was young, yes, but youth was the only advantage she had on her side. She was a common thing. A lowborn brown-skinned bastard. He would not dare. The girl had to have tricked him through more nefarious means.
Prince Daemon Targaryen had quite a reputation. He was overly fond of silver-haired fair maidens. Netty was anything but. Never mind that she was the very essence of the Maiden and had come to him as untouched as the famed Goddess herself.
It would take the queen's mistress of whisperers to open her heliotrope eyes to the improbable. In many ways, the white-haired Lyseni whore knew him better than Rhaenyra, than Laena had even. It was she who had fanned the flames of a mad queen’s, for that was surely what she had become, ire.
Daemon had left his beloved wife in a state. She had not yet recovered from a mother's loss. Lucerys at the hands of the one-eyed prince. The babe that was more dragon than child she named Visenya. Viserys, swept away in chaos by bands of blackguards. Jacaerys, trying yet failing to save his young brother.
Four children called to the Gods in the span of half a year. Her days of confinement to the birthing bed were past her. Now she was confronted with the possibility that another may take to her birthing bed by the year's end with her husband's bastard.
Birthing a little girl with silver curls with a honey face that reflected the sunlight as she played or a boy with violet who could not be parted from his training sword. The threat was too great to ignore.
Mysaria had her spy’s everywhere. Her army of vultures eager to report back to the worm. He had made it easy for her. The Rogue Prince had never been known for his restraint. His blood ran too hot for it. Embodying the words of his and moniker true.
He had not been very restrained with Netty. Not when they had been in King's Landing. Not when had beaten Addam Velaryon bloody in the training yard. Certainly not here at Maidenpool. Calling for adjoining bedchambers. Oh, he had not learned his lesson with age.
Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister. It would take Caraxes only mere moments to sense his wrath or the rush from any injuries inflicted on his person before his red blood wyrm would rouse from his resting place. Sheepstealer with him sensing his own rider's distress. Her dragon would fly her away from here while his would aid him. They would burn down Maidenpool if need be. “How many of your lord's men wait outside for us?”
“None at all my prince.” The boy hastily reassured him. His eyes grew wide at the sight of his sword, but he managed to keep some nerve. Looking him in the eye as he continued on. “I came alone. My lord does not even know of the letter’s existence.”
He sheathed his sword. He was not without his manners at this dark hour. He thanked the man for his discretion, almost sending a prayer to the bloody Seven that his Netty insisted upon worshiping. Mayhaps still they were not entirely benevolent for they were her too. A payment for his sins one might say.
For all the stunts he had pulled for his brother's love. His need for a son and heir by any means. For the bloody crown and that infernal throne. For Jaehaerys. For all the others he wished not to name. For those, he condemned led by his recklessness, misplaced dejection, and greed. This was his penitence, but Netty would play no part in it.
If it was the will of the Gods for him to be punished then so be it. If it was their will for him to give instead of take he would. If he was to stop another monster such as himself from being born then he would give his life in the process to do so.
That seven-faced God of the Andals had come for him at last. Daemon would meet the stranger as an old friend, but his Netty would not. For she was innocent of all crimes save loving him and love, no matter how foul the creature, could hardly be called a sin worthy of death.
“Then speak no word to lord nor my wife.” Maester Norren departed without another word spoken. He looked relieved to have escaped the Rogue Prince's wrath. Daemon doubted that the maesters discretion would hold. He would more than like set off to tell his lord or some other of the tale. It mattered not. All they would need was the morning.
Netty had been the one to break the silence that had befallen them after the maester's departure. “When do we leave?” Her small voice crept up behind him as she drew near. He wasted no time grabbing a hold of her once she was within his reach. Pulling her into his person to tuck the top of her inky ringlets under his chin. Placing a series of kisses into them. His grip was tight, but she seemed to not mind it as she burrowed herself into his doublet.
“You will take your leave at first light.” She stiffened in his hold. You will. She did not miss that. She could not miss it. It was the size of a mountain taking up space between them in the solitude of their chambers. One which they could not cross to reach the other.
“You will be perfectly fine without me.” He planted another kiss as she continued to clamp up. She had survived the streets of Driftmark. She’d survive this. His darling girl was clever. It was her wit that had saved her and brought her to him. She’d have Sheepstealer for company. Her dragon would protect her from those who wished her harm.
“No, I won’t.” She reached up to bring her hand to his cheek with a bite. Taking to stroking the aged skin there, determination abounds. “Not without you. I won’t be fine Daemon. I won’t be!” She had not called him Daemon for an age. It was a foreign thing on her tongue.
To hear it coming from her lips it sounded like a curse, but her fire extinguished as quickly as it was ignited. Her voice went soft again. Quiet all too quiet. “I will not leave you and you will not leave me.”
I will if it means that you are safe and whole. He thought better to keep from voicing his inner musings lest she see to argue against them as well and he give away. “I have my duty, Netty.” He settled upon that. Your life chief among them.
“And I shall help you with it.” She persisted with her caressing. Desperately so. Dark eyes scanned the face that would not meet her own before finally losing patience. Moving the offending pale head with a brush of her fingers. He let her. Finally giving into her gentle touch as violet irises met brown. He could never resist her for long.
Tears threatened to spill from her clouded eyes. He bent his head to rest his well-lined forehead on hers. It was now he who closed his eyes to rest. Breathing her scent in. The faint smell of sage and lavender from their bath last night mixed with the blood from the sheep she had slaughtered this morning and Sheepstealer himself, but it was all Netty.
Breathing her in he continued on. “You shall help me by taking yourself away from here.” She had to get away from here. She could not come with him. Her death was not a thought that he could entertain. Daemon could not risk her safety in battle. Nor could he risk going off with her. As long as the Rogue Prince and his dragon lived, whoever sat upon the conqueror’s throne would not leave him be. “The Vale has plenty of—”
“You would banish me to a place which brought you nothing but misery?” Her face was a picture of horror. One did not have to guess why. Anyone who knew Daemon Targaryen, and the sweet girl before the prince knew him in all ways, gained a mirror into his feelings towards his ill-fated first wife.
Lady Rhea Royce. The Vale was her domain. Or at least Runestone was the domain of House Royce. Daemon had been a year younger than Netty when he had married the heir of Runestone.
It was she who was thrust upon him by the good queen. His bronze bitch. He tried to think better of her. She had not wanted the marriage either. Netty had pointed it out so a thousand times along with his less than satisfactory conduct towards the woman who had long since parted from this mortal plane.
“You are not so easy a man to please old man.” Her words which were said with a little frown that he had promptly kissed away with a brush of his lips across the scar that lined her nose, reigned true, but he was incapable of those charitable thoughts when it came to her who hadn’t wanted. Even if he had tried to be a good and honorable husband to her, they were a dismal match. He had been handed a sour dullard for a wife and would make no apologies for their incompatibility.
They were but sufferers of time and circumstances which seemed to be his burden to bear. For if he had met Netty sooner, never mind the impossibility of it, he would have not been made to suffer through such torment. He and his Vale wife spent the duration of their marriage apart. Often with a sea between them. Daemon had visited the Vale all but thrice during the span of their eight and ten years of wedded disharmony. He never stayed for longer than a fortnight within the dreary land she called home.
Twas a good hiding place the Vale. The Mountains of the Moon especially with its savage people who did not take kindly to outsiders. No one would look for his Netty there. Not even Mysaria.
She’d suspect he would send her off to some island, Essos, or beyond that to some desolate land. Where she could be unknowable. Which she could disappear. Netty had to see the brilliance of his plan, but in that moment she was all a blaze of fear disguised as fury.
“Will you go back to her? Is that why you are so keen to see me off my prince.” Netty pulled from him at last with haste. Her eyes of earth alight. As if he had stung her. The dam broke with tears wetting her brown cheek. Her hands fell limp to her side. Backing away from him towards the door that connected the twin chambers. Drawing her arms up to enwrap herself in her own embrace. “The girl meant nothing to me wife.” She began to laugh as she shrieked further. The tears poured down like rain. “She was there, it was convenient. She was all willing too! Girls like her always are. A common whore she-”
“Do not call yourself that!” He shouted not caring if he woke the whole castle. His fist banged on their dinner table. The side of his left hand scraped against the knife he had used to cut his meat. Leaving behind a small trail of flood to run down his tunic, but her sting pierced deeper than the blade. She quieted upon seeing the gash but made no move to come closer.
The prince let out a sigh as he took to rubbing his temples. Abating the frustration he felt. “You know the answer to where my loyalties lie Netty.” They both did. He could lie. It would be easier to lie. To speak falsities laced with venom. Say that he would in fact return back home. I have had my fill of you. It is time we both get on. Mayhaps then she would turn that knob she was nearing and leave him never to utter another word to one another again, but that lie would kill their spirits if not their bodies.
At any rate, his clever Netty would see through it. She knew the truth of his loyalties. If she had not before she must know now. He was her slave. Her devotee. He would keep the seven hells, if they existed, at bay for her. He would give his soul, hardened blackened thing as it was, for her place within the heavens. He was hers to do with as she saw fit. Provided that what she bided refrained from endangering her.
Daemon felt every bit of his age gazing upon his wounded girl. She was so very young. Not a line from age marred her face. Her hair was as black as the midnight sky. A twinkle permanently affixed in her onyx orbs.
Her seventh and tenth name day had passed a mere moon ago. Netty laughed with giddiness, sang with glee, and grinned when she was within the company of those she loved best as any other girl of her age might. However, her brief years had taught her nothing, but cruelty.
Her mother died from some sickness that ravaged the docks of Driftmark a day and a half before her fourth name day. Her sire was more than like some slip-shot sailor or drunkard who slithered off into the sea or made his home in some den of vice once he had planted his rotten seed in her mother’s belly.
Netty had grown up in a place of damnation run by a merciless mistress. She was penniless and homeless by her eleventh name day. A fate that was preferable to the one of her mothers. Woe and malice followed her wherever she stepped foot in, even here. Even in a place that should have been her sanctuary.
Daemon did not wish to argue. To spend their last real moments together in bitterness. There would be sorry plenty tomorrow. For now, he wanted to get lost within her and forget that the morn would soon come and that they must part.
So he strode clear across their chambers, with two lumbering steps, to enwrap her in his arms. Netty was backed into that door with a thump when he encircled her. Enveloping her lips in a kiss. Her honey mouth parted with shock. He used that to his advantage to slip his tongue within that comely place.
She wriggled within his grip. Trying to break free from his hold with one small fist beating at his chest. He had been distracted by the enchantment found between her plump lips when the other managed to free itself. Striking him across the face.
He broke their kiss. Only to renew his affections tenfold after placing a kiss upon the palm that struck him. Finding her stun rather amusing, but the prince had other plans for her to attend to.
Daemon swept her into his arms. Lifting her off from the ground to carry her back to the center of the chamber. She clawed at whatever skin she could reach but when his lips reclaimed hers, her little hands found purchase in his silver strands. Pulling him closer to her as he deepened their kiss.
It was a hurried affair at first when she finally gave in to him. Tearing at each other's clothes. Riding wear forgotten. Their undergarments became tatters on the ground. Past the point of mending. They were left in a dreadful state, but they needed to feel the others' skin upon theirs. To breathe the others’ air. To taste the other and forget anything besides that taste upon their tongues. They would both lose themselves if they did not. In that instant, they were creatures of madness.
Some measure of calmness had returned to him once his Netty was completely bare spread out before him. His length twitched at the sight of her. A feast for one’s eyes. A feast he alone had been privy to. A feast which in due course some lucky bastard would gaze upon her soft brown curves with veneration.
The prince envied the faceless fellow. The man who would have her laughter, who she would birth babes for, who she would call her husband, who would have her love. Who no man, God, nor queen could separate him from her.
He wanted to run him clean through with Dark Sister and feed whatever was left to Caraxes. He would not deserve such a lovely creation. Daemon himself did not deserve her, but love him she did and he would do anything to repay her for the bliss she gave, damned as he was. If this was to be their last time in the other's arduous embrace, he wished to savor it.
Ungentlemanly as it was to say, Daemon had meant to enter her warmth without any preamble. She was soaked. Her slick left a glistening trail up his thighs and there was a growing wet spot underneath where she lay. Netty would have gladly allowed him to take such relief that could only be found within her for she was more than ready. There was no need to prepare her. However, it was the prince who wished to drink from his maidens' saccharine fountain. To make love to her in every sense of the act.
He must have surprised her when he joined her on the bed and made way for her bosom instead of entering her channel. For she let out a gasp that turned into a moan when his mouth landed on her breasts. Taking a dusky nipple between his teeth to encircle. Lavishing the bud with his wet muscle. Palming the other with his calloused hand as her nails raked down his back. Leaving her mark in red, but he did not feel the pain distracted by the mere taste of her skin.
When the little brown peak had become stiff he moved his attentions onto the twinning bud. His hands slithered down to her waiting center as his mouth played with her teat. Daemon grazed the back of his knuckles along her heat. Collecting her wetness on his forefinger and thumb before plummeting the former into her cunt. The latter drew slow rough circles into her clit. Her fingers moved to thread themselves into his silver strands as she arched into his touch.
He went on that way for a time, nursing on the two pebbled buds while curling his long digits upward into her sopping heat. Netty began to shake beneath him when he hit the spongy spot within her that made her see the heavens or some version of it on this mortal plane that they roamed. Her cries of pleasure were the loveliest serenade he had been fortunate enough to hear.
He crept down to her center, leaving a trail of wet kisses as her climax slackened its hold upon her trembling figure. Resting his head at the apex of her thighs he let out a groan. “I curse the man who gets to love you in truth. He won’t deserve you.” She laughed and the prince caught that joyful sound upon his tongue turning it into a yelp then a breathy moan when he dived back to lick a long stripe up her weeping slit.
Daemon entered her finally when she made a half-hearted attempt to push his head from her spasming cunt. Overflowing with her essence. Her prince had lost track of how many times she had reached her peak.
Climbing up her limp figure the girl livened when she felt his throbbing cock on her cunny. The head of which was leaking some of his seed onto her folds. Adding to her wetness.
The haze of her afterglow hypnotized the brown girl as she reached a hand down to their centers. Swiping a delicate finger across his cockhead before bringing it up to her plump lips. Her tongue peaking out to lap at the glistening digit she let out a little moan at the taste of him. Uncaring of the effect that her actions had upon her poor prince. It had taken Daemon all his strength not to flip his intoxicating girl over and take her like a beast in heat.
Netty meant to repeat her actions with that same lilliputian finger. As much as her prince enjoyed the alluring image of her sampling him he could no longer contain himself. Daemon pounced upon her. Wasting no time pinning her arms to the bed at their sides.
Capturing her lips with hunger. The sheets were ruined beyond repair, a second time in a week, but the Rogue Prince did not care as he carefully pushed into his Netty. Bottoming out with a groan as the maiden underneath him clamped around his length. He set a steady pace as he began to rock in and out of her.
The sound of their lovemaking, the wet squelching of their combined spends, filled their empty chamber with each thrust along with his whispers of adoration between breathless kisses she had long been rendered mute apart from her little moans when his head hit her spongy spot over and over. Content to mouth at the scars along his neck while he sang her his praises.
My sweet Netty. That’s my perfect little Netty. Cum for me, my sweet girl. Taking her clit between his fingers to bully the pulsing nerve till she shook clinging to him having moved her hands to bury themselves back in his silver mane. Daemon soon joined her in rapturous bliss, when his dear one's flutterings around his length became too much to hold back from. Bathing her walls with his seed.
It was Netty who was the first to catch her breath after he had slipped from her. Managing to climb on top of his prone form. Placing her brown thighs on either side of his legs before dropping down, trapping his softened member between her creamy folds.
Thinking she meant to ride him, Daemon reached out his hands to halt her movements, for was not a young man anymore, but she only leaned down to recapture his lips. Pulling away to rest her crown on his neck before they let their passions overtake them once more. Her soft breath whispered into the pocket-marked skin, ceasing the trance.
“Promise me you won’t leave me.” Remnants of the euphoria they shared moments before resided in her red-rimmed eyes that stared up at him. Swollen with tears shed and unshed alike yet she looked almost hopeful. “I do not want you to leave me.” He hated to tell her anything she did not wish to hear, but to make that promise would be a lie.
He took her face between the palms of her hand. Landing kisses upon her salty tears. “You will never be alone or unloved Netty.” Daemon could not tell her a lie. He had never told her a lie and he would not start now. He would make no promises, but her safety and his affections.
They slept fitfully that night. Daemon doubted they slept for more than an hour or two, instead laying in a locked embrace. He took to caressing her arm. Keeping her near him as he assured himself with the thoughts of the continued welfare of those who would live in a world where Daemon Targaryen ceased to exist. Those thoughts followed him into the morning’s light.
No one needed him. Baela was upon Dragonstone’s shores left in the care of Maester. He would protect the girl with his life. Rhaena with Lady Jeyne Arryn in the Vale. No army had been able to penetrate the Eyrie. Not even a dragon. The terrain being too harsh to mount a full-scale attack be it by land or air.
Naturally, Aegon was with Rhaenyra, but the boy was no real threat to his uncle's reign. Not when they only had a frightened girl and a bastard, if the claims that the Alys woman was carrying his nephews baseborn welp were to be believed, between them.
They were all safe. No one needed him. The sun would rise and set. They would laugh, cry, love, and fight on without him. Life would go on.
Daemon craned his head slightly to turn his focus to the girl tucked into him. Her breath had evened out considerably, her doe eyes were closed, but her hand had found its way to her flat belly. A hand that was now gingerly stroking the skin there.
He dismissed it that night. Trying not to recall her frequent trips to the chamber pot. the retching noises he heard which would accompany said visits. How she had grown to hate the smell of fish and ate honey cakes as if the cooks may never make them again. How she thickened and softened in her belly and thighs despite the strain and exercise of chasing after his fool of a nephew. How he only had to suckle at her sweet breasts to bring her to completion. Most of all how many nights such as these he had spilled his seed deep within her without pulling away from her heavenly warmth.
Daemon told himself that the dear girl was only comforting herself, but he had seen Laena, Rhaenyra, and even Mysaria do the same. His earliest memory had in fact been his mother resting her hands upon her belly. Where the babe that killed her lay. She stroked it with such reverence as his Netty did.
She repeated the action at dawn with Maester Noreen and Lord Moonton watching them as they walked towards the field where their dragons lay. He unsheathed Dark Sister and silently offered it to her to slay the poor black ram which would become Sheepstealer’s breakfast as had become their tradition.
Daemon could not take his eyes off her, but she looked anywhere but him when she handed back his sword. Their fingers brushed. He thought about taking her hand in his. Placing a kiss upon the tender skin. A proper goodbye, but in the end it would only add to their sorrow or prevent her departure for once they touched they would never let the other go.
Netty mounted her dragon with tears streaming down her brown face. Taking to the skies as his blood wyrm let out a scream. His gaze lingered on that spot in the sky where she vanished into the morning mist. Caraxes roar, still vibrating in his ears.
No one would need Daemon Targaryen. No one, apart from her.
His Netty would have need of him. Who would protect her? Who would care for her? Who would love her? She would be left without a soul to call a friend. To look after her. To care for her. To love her as he did. To be there when she was at her most vulnerable. When she needed him. He would leave her behind. Alone. Off to share in her mother's fate.
He could not leave her behind. Alone.
Daemon Targaryen was not finished yet. Not in this life. The Gods would have their due, their payment in blood, but this would not be his end. Not their end. He would slay his monster, defeat his nephew, and he’d find his way to wherever her dragon had landed her.
She needed him. That small brown bastard girl was and would always be his duty. A duty he would keep without err. Safeguarding her happiness for the rest of his days. Neither meddlesome mortals nor vengeful Gods could keep them apart. The Rogue Prince would find his way back to his Netty.
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Description: Nettles contemplates the price for her and her princes sins.
AN 🐑: This could be considered a prequel to The Letter.
Smoke, ash, and blood played through her head a thousand times over. So very easy to get lost in it. A smoke that wanted to engulf everything in its path apart from one. A fire burning off in the distance. She tried to keep her gaze from it, but it was a losing battle most days. It always found a way closer, but never left its mark upon her.
She had managed to pull herself from that smoke and been fortunate enough to be put above it all. She could only watch on now and see the spectacle play out in front of her. Haunting her. Bringing nothing but dread and sickness to her budding belly, twisting in knots with unease.
Eyes open, shut, and narrowed. Pale faces. Dark ones. Faces turned black from soot. Faces reddened by the flames. The eyes and faces of Strangers' faces. Ones she knew from half a lifetime ago. Ones she imagined. Ones she did not want to imagine.
Puppet masters. The victims of time and circumstance. Stuck upon an endless loop. A vicious cycle of pain and passion. The shades of life. The many shades of the bruises inflicted upon it. The imprints made on the mind and the body. She supposed it was what she knew. What she had grown used to till now.
War was never a pretty sight, but Nettles had been well accustomed to the cruelty which is inflicted upon mortals. Be it at the hands of the Gods or men who thought they were Gods. Death, destruction, and misery were old friends to a bastard-born brown-skinned small orphan girl from Driftmark with not a crown to her name, but a will, that accounted for everything in this bloody world. Often one of the only things that kept one sane in these maddening times.
The terror which befell over the Riverlands was but one of many in the growing list of tragedies. She had seen it in Spicetown, the docks, alleyways, and ports which she had once known like the back of her hand go down in a blazing ruin.
Nettles had seen it again in King's Landing. The capital had not been destroyed in the same violence as the isle. No permanent scars of battle could be found on the walls of the Red Keep. The Grand Sept and the Dragonpit remained untouched. Any stall that had been overturned had been set to right, but the blank look upon the city’s occupants, the trembles of its citizens, the watchful eyes, the teary faces, and murmurs from high and low born alike, told the tale true enough. She had seen it all play out like a performance on a grand stage. Always the observer in the mist.
At the center of it, all stood her prince. In the smoky haze for he was the flame. A man of fire and blood. Forged by war. By violence and brutality. By his stubbornness and moods. By his passion. That was his language. That was what he knew best. For he was more God than man sometimes and yet he was a man all the same as the rest. Her man.
It had not been an easy thing. It was a rather slow start. Even Sheepstealer was weary of him. The two dragons sized each other up in that field where they first laid their eyes upon the other, but neither man nor beast would bend. Only coming to a truce for her sake.
Restless creatures of molten magma they were. It ran through their veins. A gift from their Valyrian homeland lost to the hot-blooded temperament of the men who had built it.
His ancestors. He was not very different from them. Not at heart. Not as much as she would like him to be.
Prince Daemon Targaryen had quite a reputation. He was a rogue if there ever was one. Perhaps it was why he chose her this roguish nature of his. It was what the world, his world, had made him. What his lot in life had been. The curse of a second son of House Targaryen. A need to prove himself. Prove himself he did in his mercurial fashion. He was a man of deeds.
Deeds that led to cruelty. He was the cause of woe. Of death. Of calamity. Of this war even. His sword stained with the blood of a thousand battles, the blood of a thousand lives, and the Gods only knew how many more to come. Still, for all his mercilessness, for his injustices upon others, upon innocents, upon his kin, he was hers. Undeniably so. It was he who sought to protect her from the flames. To shield her from even the ones that he had made. She had
Why he took her away to where she could be untouched by the fire. Where the smoke could surround them, but would never burn her. Perched upon a golden mountain where all those trapped in the haze could only watch them as they met their fates. Some deserved others not.
They made an odd pair. Nettles could see that. She had eyes and a brain. She could see the stares. She heard the whispers. The titters of the servants, of the occupants of Maidenpool, of the castle's Lord and his family, when no one thought they could be heard. When no one cared what she thought.
What is he doing with her? She’s so very brown. A filthy little thing. She’s not very pretty either. She is not an especially ugly thing. She’s almost pretty if she keeps her mouth shut and if one were to overlook that scar marring her nose, but she is a rather strange creature for the prince. She’s a bit too exotic for my blood. I bet she is a wild thing. That must be why our dear prince has kept her.
“Pay them no mind Netty.” He would tell her as he laid a kiss upon the brown freckled skin of her bare shoulder while they lay in each other's embrace. “They have nothing better to do, but to distract themselves with idle gossip.” Such was the case in war. We all find a way to live in the numbered days. In what could be our last days. As the fire grows closer. The flames licking at their feet. This was only their way.
It mattered not. Not what these people thought of them. Thought of how very wrong she was for him. It was she who warmed his bed, she who he kept by his side day and night, it was she who was his Netty, but we can not help what weighs upon our minds for better or for worse. No matter what we know to be actually true. Not even in war. Especially in war when time passed so slowly until it sped up with such frightening speed one lost their bearings. When days become too precious, too few, to forget. When the eyes always watched. They had cast their eyes of judgment upon her and found her to be lacking.
There were plenty of girls at Maidenpool. Plenty of fair girls. Comely girls. Girls with backgrounds more suited for the paramour of a prince. Girls who thought themselves more chaste. Girls younger than she. A maid or two had tried as had a serving girl with white blonde hair. Her mother had been a kitchen wench upon Claw Isle before she had only come in the service of Lord Moonton, their gracious host.
Claiming widowhood, for her alleged late husband had died in another one of her princes' wars, she arrived six moons great with child. Three moons later out popped the silver-haired girl. She was more suited for him.
A bonnie lass for a Targaryen prince. She should be the one to warm his bed. The one who would comfort him after the day ended and was in need of some intimate relief, but Prince Daemon Targaryen remained undeterred by their flirting. Their attempts at seduction with a bat of an eye, a hand that accidentally brushed against his person with an Is there anything else I can get you my prince, or a Let me help you with that my prince.
He dismissed those eager hands and flirtations without a second thought much to the disappointment and dejection of said girls and the relief of his Netty. He frightened one away for good measure much to the horror of the silver-haired girl and mild amusement of Nettles once she had gotten over her initial shock at her part in it.
He was true to the brown-skinned bastard girl he had brought with him. More than true to her for she was more than a bed warmer. More than just a companion. She was his as he was hers. Someone which others may not understand, but they did not need understanding from others. He would have it no other way and neither would she.
They orbited each other. Where one went the other followed. They had found each other in the smoke. She could see him so clearly. She could see the vastness of him. Sometimes in the quiet of night when it was just them she did not know where she ended and he began. Sometimes she felt she knew him better than himself other times she was reminded of how much there was of him.
Daemon Targaryen was and remained all-consuming. It was so easy to get lost in him. In everything he was. In the myth of a man like him. In his title. In his house. In his ideals. In his reputation. To those who did not know him it was all too easy. He was a living breathing legend among men to some. One was fortunate enough to be in his presence. To others, he was a man as unforgiving and formidable as the Stranger himself. No, not the Stranger, the Warrior, or any of those Gods. He did not keep to the Gods of this land.
He and his were older than that. Ancient and cruder. The Gods of old Valyria. All Gods do as they see fit, but those Gods, her prince, her Daemon included had a savagery beneath their crafted shallow veneer of civility. To those who they deemed lesser. To those who they could gain from. One might liken Daemon to those Gods of old Valyria brought to flesh.
Recordations and judgments inked in black. Recorded in tomes that spanned the ages. Proud of their deeds they were. Or at least they did not shy away from them.
They were the very actions of their pyroclastic land that was rife with a magmatic mix of ardor and carnage. Opposites they appear to some for what can evoke both emotions, but they are not truly contradictions of the other.
Nettles' had long surmised that adoration and carnage went hand and hand in hand. Friends rather than foes. Both came from the same place of great emotion. Of great passion and her prince was a being of such passion.
His deeds were carried out by them. Born from them. That raging core within him. Cruel and uncruel alike. For hate. For retribution. For power. For love. What his love would do. What his hate would do. It could kill. It had killed and that was what was too much for Nettles.
That was what haunted her most. A son for a son. That was the smoke cloud she could not turn away from, that did of malice that could not be undone try as he might to vanquish her from uneasiness even now in the safety of their chambers. In the warmth of his arms on top of that mountain. Would that fluttering in her belly which she knew was more than just unease pay for that? For his father's sin?
He pulled her away from the reverie with a few words and a kiss into her midnight ringlets dampened from the steam of their bath water as he always did when it all became too much for her. When he could tell that her eyes were upon that fog below. “What is going on in your little head Netty.” The memories of a thousand yesterdays frayed for a moment as she turned to gaze up at him.
She was welcomed to the sight of a well pale lined face. Lines made all the more prominent by the worry upon his silver brow, but still managed to let the corners of his mouth curl into a kind twinkle. Reminding Nettles of a boy who only endeavored to make one smile and laugh despite his years and infamy.
The hour had grown late and all was quiet. Not a sound could be heard beyond the oak door of their chambers. Not even a creak from an old floorboard, slippers shuffling upon cold stones, a door shutting, or the scampering of little creatures in the cool night.
Their bath was growing cold. The fire which the maids had set was dying a slow death, but the face she knew best, the face becoming dearer to her than all others, that noble face with all its signs of the many roads of life it had taken warmed her better than any tonic or a thimble of ale from their host's cellars could.
She traced those lines until their eyes met. Brown upon violet and she remembered all that they were. They were eyes that loved. Eyes that killed. The faces came back with a vengeance. His and her eyes interwoven in them. It was too much.
“When does it become easier?” There was no need to explain her meaning. They were well past having to explain themselves to the other. Besides it was nothing which they hadn’t already talked about. That misdeed of his, his greatest, if she were to be asked.
“I’m not the one to answer such a question.” A grayness grew over his eyes, but it was gone just as soon as it had come. He was never one to dwell on what had happened for long. He was born for these violent deeds. It was in his blood. In his nature. His default. Just as worrying was hers. He could never make amends for them. Not truly when he was bound to repeat the sin again. If the circumstance called for it and Nettles feared it would.
Not their hunting of the one-eyed prince. No, something darker than that. Something that caused those knots, a fluttering in the depths of her belly to turn. Raising bile from their meal that she worked to push down. Not here. Not now.
“Try.” She breathed it into the skin at his neck, centering herself. Placing a kiss into the pocket marked pale skin. Old battle scars and new love bites reddened from their coupling not a half-hour past. A frenzied affair. What had been a light rain when they first set out in hunt of their elusive enemy turned into a downpour. For a while, they had been separated by thunder and storm clouds. Could barely see a foot past their dragon's heads. That had caused them both a freight.
Upon landing back behind the safety of Maidenpool’s high walls and freeing themselves from their soaked clothes they could not break away from each other. Becoming a mess of limbs warmed by the heat of their bath, the fire they were placed beside, and the other's bare skin upon their own. Forgetting the world outside that wanted to be let in with the smoke.
They could never be close enough. Whimpering when he pulled out from her heat. Only somewhat mollified when she had been tucked beneath his chin as he petted her and dropped kisses into her skin on occasion. Surrounded by him and that still had not kept cold reality from seeping in.
“For me try to.” For your Netty you stubborn old man try to. Any request she made he’d met. He did not like to leave her wanting. He would never deny her. He would of course answer her inquiry on his own, but that would not be good enough. She wanted a real answer.
“You haven’t-” Nettles knew what he was to say, but she couldn’t let him. She cut him off with a finger placed upon his lips. Tracing them as she continued on.
“I’ve done my share Daemon.” She was a killer too. Despite what her prince might say or think and he had whispered it to she was not as innocent as the maiden above or whatever her Valyrian equivalent might be.
She had taken her fair share of lives too. The bastard girl from Driftmark was no different than the rest in this bloody war. She was a killer who killed other killers. What was the word for that? Perhaps it was she who was the vilest of them all. The oblivious nature of it surely had to be the most abhorrent offense. For Nettles did not recognize their sins or her own. To take a life is a sin and a sin can not be washed away by another.
Those men who burned, plundered, and raped Spicetown, the green king's men who defended the capital to surrender, those men may not have been innocent, but they had families. Loved ones. Wives. Lovers. Children. Sons and daughters. Brothers and sisters. Mothers and fathers. They would be missed. They had been good to someone despite their actions of war as her prince had been good to her. Who was she, who was a common thing like her to take them away?
He shifted at the sound of his name. It was not spoken unkindly, but the tone meant that her query could not be dismissed with a few simple words of the placating motley and sweet kisses as he ushered her back from the mountain tops edge. The smoke was just out of reach, but still within Nettles’ eyeline.
Her prince's mouth thinned as he let out a sigh before he moved her so that she sat facing him. Their centers brushed against each other. It sent a welcome shiver through her when she felt the ridges of his length throbbing under her cunt, hardening from her wetness. Which still leaked their spends clouding their bath water. Their bodies called out for another, but for the time being though they ignored the call.
He took her brown face in between calloused hands to press their heads together instead. Breathing her in as he drew gentle circles into her cheeks. Sometimes it amazed her to know that she served to calm him as he did her.
“It never becomes something easier. It becomes something we have done.” He bent down to place a kiss upon the gash that adorned her nose. Tenderness to soothe the malaise. “There is no point living in the past. That is what is a true tragedy. To not go on living. A dishonor to the memories of those who are gone. Otherwise what you have done is pointless for you’ve taken a life twice over.”
Easy enough for him to say. It may not be so very simple for him, but he had years of practice. A lifetime of learning with what had been done. For Nettles, the past was too fresh. A burden that did not want to leave her.
“Do we ever pay for our sins?” Living was not amends. It seemed too selfish to be. To go on while one had taken a life. To go one while another never could. Trapped in time. In whatever came after while the one who had carried out the sin did as they pleased. It did not seem fair. The Gods could not allow that.
Had she not paid for her own poor departed mother's sins? The daughter of a whore. For whatever misdeeds her Blackard of a father had imparted on this earth? Had she not been forced to live the life of a beggar and a thief just to escape her mother's fate and even then that hadn’t amounted to much. Shad come out with more scars for it in the end. Nettles had paid the price tenfold. With her marred nose. An ache up her spine from sleeping on cobblestones, her spirit nearly gone, the soles of her bare feet blackened and rubbed raw.
If it hadn’t been for claiming Sheepstealer…two souls who had been disregarded and dismissed found each other. Lost together. A dragon and his rider. Then her prince came and she felt like a person again, perhaps for the first time since she could ever recollect, she felt seen, like she had a place in this world, but she had never been especially favored.
Why should that fluttering in her belly not suffer the same as she had? That little beam? Why should it not? Why should her babe be so lucky? A son for a son. A cruel ringing in her ear. Whispered in the smoke. Carried to the mountaintop. It was always the innocents who paid for our crimes.
“You have nothing to pay for.” She meant to say otherwise, but he cut her off with a bop to her nose. Drawing circles into the marred skin. At the hand of any other, it might have been patronizing, but she knew he had done so only to ease her.“ I let you speak falsities about yourself no doubt put there, “But now it is time that you hear the truth. You have not sinned Netty.” The truth from a lover. Can one even call such a biased account the truth? Such sentiments spilled from lovers’ lips.
“Laying with a married man is a sin.” His eyes narrowed, but she met them with a raise of her dark brow. She may be forgiven by the Gods for killing those who harmed innocents, but adultery was a sin. The seven would not overlook this amorous affair. Her prince couldn’t argue against what she spoke, though she knew he would try spite the presence of another. Despite the actual truth of the matter which couldn’t be ignored.
Daemon Targaryen had a wife living. Children. Two girls scarcely younger than she. A boy who she was not old enough to mother. A family scattered about.
They should’ve been back a moon or two ago to King's Landing with them. Not here with her. They took more time than this task required of them. He could’ve split them up. Should’ve split them up. Even Lord Mooton had suggested so.
Of course, the one-eyed prince surely would’ve found her and spared her no mercy, but her debt would be paid and the prince could go home and this little mountain would erode as if it had never existed. Living on only in his memories if that.
“To your Gods mayhaps.” He brought her hand up to his mouth. Nuzzling into her palm as he nipped at it. “But this is not adultery.” Her prince was ever clear on that subject.
He and his wife, their queen, had long not kept intimate company and hardly kept any other sort. Their marriage was confined to feasts and council meetings during the final days in King’s Landing and now only to reports on their efforts exchanged through terse missives read in said meetings.
The marriage bed of the black queen and the Rogue Prince was as cold as a grave. He had not visited her for over a year now, not since she had fallen pregnant with an ill-fated child, and they had always had a rather unusual arrangement.
A marriage born of convenience and perverted lust. Lust that had withered and faded and convenience that was becoming more inconvenient by the day. When he had something to look forward to other than pure convenience and lustful ambition.
Besides, his Gods sanction the unconventional. As far as her prince was considered their union was as pure as any other. As right as any other. For it only brought them happiness. There is so little of that in this world that one can not condemn someone for finding it.
The seven could not condemn them for taking. For finding each other. For loving the other. They could not help it. Why should they help it? There was more to life than duty. Then settling petty grievances, rigid propriety, and fighting pointless wars for something inconsequential. Love is what should be the most consequential. What we should devote our lives to.
After all, it is the only thing that matters in the end, got everything else is meaningless. The only thing that feeds one’s soul, brings smiles that light up one’s, delightful flutterings caused by belly laughter. All lightness, adoration, and gaiety.
If there were more love in this world than hate there would be less pain. Perhaps that smoke would go away and never return. There would be no need for a mountain though Nettles had come to enjoy its safety. Its warmth. Love can not wash out all the bad, but her prince was right that this world was for the living and the living deserve to live.
“The Gods command us to love and forgive. Even those among us who committed the most grievous of sins. Do they not?” A smirk had grown on his face. Crinkling up the corners eyes with a smile instead of worry. With some apprehension and more than curiosity, Nettles gently nodded her head. “You have loved the devil himself.” She laughed and met his smile with her own.
“Your Gods and mine see that Netty. If anyone is less deserving of punishment it is you.” He moved a hand to caress her belly. She tried not to let her breath hitch, twas was a vain effort though he did not seem the least deterred or truly knowledgeable of his actions.
“Or anyone who is dear to you my sweet Netty.” She wondered if he knew. If he suspected as she did. If he had noticed her morning runs to the chamberpot? How easily winded she got after climbing off Sheepsteler? How she had become extremely short with the maids as of late or could no longer stomach the taste of her favorites? Those were thoughts for another day. He banished them by placing a kiss on her temple. Resting his head there as he resumed his petting with a turn of her head. Lulling her mind away from those thoughts of dred with the press of his lips upon hers.
Nettles could not even bear the thought of ill deeds befalling an innocent babe much less a babe of her own. Her own flesh and blood. A son for a son had already been paid. It had to have been paid. She’d believe it had been paid.
She let herself believe him. Chose to believe him. For her babes' sack if not for her own. She grew weary of her memories. Of the past which she couldn't longer control. That had long since come and gone. She was content on her little mountain, for the smoke had vanished out of her sight. Malice could not touch her or the life that lay snug beneath her breast. Not while her prince was at her side.
Nettles leaned into his touch, closing her eyes and letting herself dream of a place where brown twined with violet, the sound of a children’s merriment, the patter of bare feet, kisses into her raven coils, a warm embrace making love to her on a grassy plain, and the open twilit sky.
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