#bnhotdfic

The sound of dancing and a lively tune could be heard streaming in from just beyond the wrought iron door, but that had long been put out from her mind.                                            

Another tune entirely played reached her. It took her a great deal more effort than it perhaps should have to realize that the sound came from her.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

A whine which she felt clawing its way out from the back of her throat and breaking out into the quiet of her chambers. Desperate and greedy thing it was. Not in the least bit ladylike, but she supposed this was most assuredly unladylike and he was encouraging her with his murmurs of let me hear you sweet one and let go for me sweetling I have you.                                                                        

He did have her. Brown legs wrapped around his middle. She clung to him like a vine, splayed against the backdrop of her chamber, though she was mostly being held up by his strength. Hers having long since departed from her already spent form. 

The rest of her senses fared little better. Her ears felt like they had been stuffed with cotton, all she could taste was the salt of his skin mixed with an unearthly of smoke and dragon at his nape, and her voice had gone a while ago, but she had gathered that it hadn’t really mattered. Who needed oxygen when they had this? His breath breathed life into her better than undiluted  air ever could.

Who needed to speak when one could moan out her pleasure no. It did not matter. 

Words could never convey quite what she felt. Not at that moment. Not when there was this fire she felt spreading throughout her. Engulfing her. Turning her to flame. To pure heat and want. She could never describe that. What she felt. What was before. What was after. If there even was an after.

What was apart from this chamber, it truly did not matter. 

That world that she had ventured from so distant. So foreign. So immaterial. It was no more real than the creatures in old fisher wives tales told to scare naughty children who crept from their beds in the dead of night. 

Everything else had faded and turned to gray. There was just him and her in vibrant color and even then she had a hard time distinguishing between the shades that made up him and the ones that made her. 

The guests feasting below let out another round of shouts and cheers. Their stomping faintly registered in the back of her mind overcoming the haze for a brief moment.

They were getting quite loud. Quite merry. Quite drunk.

Twas probably for the best. She was being quite loud herself. With each mewl and breathless moan that broke free of her body increasing in duration and volume. Unrestrained as they serenaded a most captive audience. 

An audience that drew out a whine lodged in the back of her throat to pass through kiss swollen lips. The cause of which was no more than a mere swipe of ardent tongue upon her décolleté and the deft brush of fingers upon her all too sensitive nub sat atop her womanhood. Over and over again as she yielded to her pleasure. 

“That’s it sweet one,” he hummed. Voice thick and with something she could not quite name, but it was something which she felt too. Something that sparked another gasp for the air which he had taken from with another murmur and lap of the wet muscle at her neck. “That’s it.”  

She would have tried to stifle that moan if she had her bearings, if she had any sense or care for her name, but all manner of proprietary and good breeding had flown from her and floated down into the world of gray. Thankfully forgotten for if that gray had collided with her world of color, staining them with the red welts, yelps, and slick of their passion to which she would never forget the shame of it. 

She should have shame. She would have had shame at her own visage if she had any left. If she could gaze down at herself or look into the mirror she kept on the opposite wall of her chamber near her vanity and behind the changing screen which hid her bath, not that she needed to.  

Slacked-jawed, flushed, and incapable of any intelligible speech. She made a lovely sight. By the way in which the brute of a man before stood leering over her, the way his tongue lapped at her, tasting her, marking her as his, she knew she made a lovely sight, but she could not be more indecent.

Body given away to the haze of euphoria that enwrapped her courtesy of a pair of strong arms that kept her firmly pressed against a most willing figure complete with calloused fingers embedded deeply inside her reaching her in places where she had not know existed, but where nonetheless needed him most, and a set of thin, but determined lips upon every bit of exposed brown skin they could reach. 

She could hear the squelching sound that his fingers made as they rocked them in and out of her warmth. Clenching around them whenever he grazed over that place within her that had her seeing the stars of the night sky reflected on the back of her eyelids. Good girl he chanted when she gave into him. Gushing down on his arm with her slick. 

She could feel her curls glued to the wall by his exertions. See the wet trail she had left upon his robes and the deep purple bruises forming over skin on the tops of her ample breasts. Bruises that she’d have to explain away to one of her maids when they came to attend to her in the morn.

I tripped over my skirts and only managed to catch myself upon the railing would do or mayhaps a simple my stays were too tight would suffice. Would they believe her? Mayhaps they would. 

She would have to throw away the horrid garment on the second account. It would be replaced by some other God's awful contraption of death before she could forget the feel of it constricting her, and on the first—well she was a rather clumsy adventurer it had always been easy enough for her to bruise. 

A fall upon her knees would leave her looking as if she were a peasant girl who had been milking cows upon her knees and climbing up trees or traversing through the thistle field where Vermiothor liked to roam would leave her arms raw and red with her own lifeblood.  

But the days of childhood clumsiness had long since passed her and while she might fool a pack of serving girls who were scarcely older than she, she would most certainly not fool her Septa. 

No she wouldn't be so naive. 

She would see what had happened. What he had done to her. What she in truth had let him do to her even if she could not believe it so.

Her septa, a woman not quite old enough to be her grandmother, but a fair deal older than her mother had been, would have been alert that oher whines and whimpers. She was good natured, if not a little strict. She was a sweet woman above all. Wise. Dependable. 

Though unmarried at two and twenty she was getting rather old to need her septa as she did, but truthfully, she did not know what she would do without her. She was all she had known. The only maternal figure which she had and her septa seemed to love he in all the ways that she had seen a mother love their daughter

She could not recall her mothers laugh, the feel of her hands stroking her hair as she brushed and braided her riot of coils, and most importantly,  well important to her, her face which she had been told more times than she had inherited. 

She supposed she must have inherited it. She knew she had not inherited much of her fathers Valyrian countenance, the details of which she could not quite recall either. 

Though in that moment she supposed she could not quite recall anyone’s face apart from the man who had buried his head silver into her neck among other things laying heavy kisses into her flushed skin as she absentmindedly stroked down the planes and contours of his person that she knew better than her own image. better than she should have known. 

She was not the first to do so. The first to touch him as he had her, but she knew a part of him. Knew what he sounded like when he tried to contain his own grunts of pleasure, murmuring into her skin with pet names which she would not go without. 

“My sweet one,” he whispered as she drank up the praise. She knew what those saccharine groans tasted like upon her tongue. The sweetness. 

Knew what it felt like to feel his length pressing against her. rubbing upon her thighs, her womanhood. hard and wanting. She knew him like this and she enjoyed the knowledge more than she should. Letting it wash over her. Engulfing her with every grunt and groan intended or not that slipped from his lips. 

Daemon had been rough with his affections and she had not minded it. She liked it. She had not known she would, not knowing what had lied dormant within her, waiting to be awakened, but no that it had, she was wanton. She was utterly wanton. Every bit debauched. A creature which needed to be fed lest she wilt away to nothing. 

She had heard about girls like this. Her septa had warned her about girls like her. 

Wayward. Fallen. Ruined whatever one wanted to call it, innocence had been corrupted.    

Tainted with sin and damned for it. Their great shame and what a shame it was. 

She would have died from the shame of it if the older woman were to somehow apparate configured from her rapture before her very eyes. 

Or would she? 

She was desperate. Starved. Not caring on but propriety or for the gentle breeding of a lady which had been drilled into her skull since before she could even write her own name.

But now—now the only name which she knew was his. What a name it was. What it stirred within her. Who could have known that a single word could leave her so wanting.

“Daemon,” she moaned when he had nuzzled at a particularly sensitive patch of skin underneath her ear. Trailing open mouthed kisses down her neck. It was not as pleasant as what his fingers could stir from a few fervid rolls of the little pearl he had found at the apex of her mound when he he tweaked her to stiff , or the push of those digits in and out of her heat at the languid pace which he had set, but it was bliss nonetheless. A bliss she was happy to chase. 

Pulling the man as close as their still clothed bodies would allow her to as she wound her fingers through silver strands slicked by lust. Feeding her hunger. 

This, this is why they kept girls away from the truth of what went on between men and women in prowling hours of the wolf in the comfort of their chambers with fears of proprietary and damnation. 

Shrouding it with mystery and hushed chastisements that it was for the marriage bed and if that should be broken it one would risk body and soul as well as social ostracism to silence the more curious sort for if they knew the truth of what pleasure lied, of what lay within them, they should not forgo it. They should grow to want as she had grown to want and wanted and wanted. He had made her want. 

A gale, no, a raging thunderstorm had been awakened within her that she could not put out by her own hands. No matter what she had tried and tried and tried to her great frustration. 

Repeating those same ministrations that he had, the tips of drumming circles into her bundle of nerves, his rhythm steady. Long fingers pistoled in and out of her heat trying to reach that spongy spot he had found within her that had her mewling like one of the feral cats that roamed around the castle, but it was no good. 

Everything was wrong. So very wrong. The pads of her fingers had been too delicate in their movements. Her slender digits had not filled her in the way he had. Had not quite stretched her to find that spot and what they could reach had certainly not elicit that same intensity he had ignited. They had not the callouses which did not catch upon her clit no matter what way she had positioned them. And yet she tried. 

Tried chasing her high that he had taken from her for the better part of the hours between dusk and dawn.

She was in a frenzy of want. Of heat. Of fire, trying to stoke that burning fire until it burst before her into molten magma and still it eluded her. He eluded her and with him that delightful bliss he had set into motion by his strong hand. 

She was made to give up the feverish coxcomb of self pleasure all too soon. Forced herself to for she was gaining nothing from it except anguish.

Laying there in a empty bed, in the dead of night with soaked fingers, a sore cunny overflowing with her slick, a brown face marred with tears, and pride in her throat caught with a scream upon her tongue that she did not dare let it out lest her Septa find her in her ruin or that insufferable man howl with his own pride at having left her in such a state of unabashed avarice. 

Her mother had been in this exact position. Or something similar to it. 

It was how she came about. What bastards grew up with the knowledge of. Still while she may be a bastard she was the bastard sister to a king. Had grown up with his children, under his eye, and that acknowledge meant things were expected of her.

If her Septa happened to walk in this moment, if anyone happened to walk in, and see that she was no better than a common whore, no better than her mother she’d be ruined. Absolutely ruined

the blood of the dragon gone to waste. Common blood won out, unless the man who was doing his best to ruin her for all other men saved her. Unless Daemon asked for her hand and restored her honor. 

Would he do so? Would he save her or at least her virtue? Ask her to be his wife. Be the mother of his children? Would give up his life for her? Would he forsake all others, have her pass through his life at his side, and sully his blood with hers . Would he do that for her? 

She was not quite sure what he would do. After All he had pulled her into his depths and converted her to this nymph. Drawn her away from her, but did she care?

Marriage certainly did not have any bearing in this. Seven help her, thinking in its entirety had lost its place here with him.    

There was only divinity itself. She felt divine. Absolutely divine there with him. As if she had tasted the heavens and had touched the face of the Maiden herself. Gods oh Gods.

Did he find another? Had he been with her or was his hand enough? Was a rough hand scared by battle adequate replacement to her tight warmth or had he taken his pleasure in a whores cunt instead?

Was that why he left her or had he like her gone without satisfaction in its entirety? It seemed now when she had him worshiping her when his mouth was  and nipping at her commanding her to let go to give into him and he’d be there to catch her as she tumbled into her ecstasy so silly to wonder where he had been, but now was not then. 

Then he had left her to want. Left her to cry like a child and beg for him to return to her and make him put out that fire which he had so brought her to life. Make her feel alive for the first time in her short muted life. She’d never live down the shame of it. 

She had hardly gotten more than a few dreary hours of sleep because of him. Plagued by dreams of him and those fingers that held magic in their tips. In his tongue that left In the length of him. 

Him. All him. He consumed her. Burned her. 

It was all the cause of that man who was trailing hot open-mouthed kisses down her neck rough yet surprisingly nimble fingers caressing her in a place in a way that she was left in this sorrowful state, but nonetheless, only he seemed to know that she had been driven mad with passion and lorded it over her. She had found utter bliss and lost it in a few hours and had been left wanting in its absence. In his absence.  

Oh he had known what he was doing. What he had been doing for a good fortnight.

He had rarely let her side since he had arrived back from his latest excursion away to some distant land he would take her to. You ought to see more of the world than this place. He had told her. Arms linked and his head bent to hers as they took a turn about the Red Keeps gardens. Taking great pains to detail the full exoticism that his travels afforded him. Which could be afforded to her.

Her septa had not liked that. Muttering to herself with discontent when they had arrived back to her chambers, but there was not much she could do. For Daemon commanded her company to make up for his absence in that time between and who was she to deny a prince? 

How could she deny him when she insisted  that she be seated besides him at each feast. Asking for her favor at every tourney. Every dance was reserved for him lest she find the lord who dared to take her away from him for a mere round needing to be carried off his mount at said tourneys the next mourn. 

Daemon drew her in with whispers into her lips curl into a smile and a heavy hand upon her covered knee that sent a shiver through her for want of more than mere warmth. 

“Let them stare sweet one,” he had told her with a grin she did not wish to escape from. Wandering fingers inching up the silk which she had painfully stitched together by her own hand. It had taken her the better part of a moon to make the gown, but when she had shown it to her septa she could not have been prouder.

It was a ruin now much the same as her. 

The bodice ripped in two courtesy of the man in her grasps lust ridden possession to free her breasts from their restraints. 

He had been restrained up until that point, but that restraint had severed when she had begun to quake and drool around him. Needing to suckle upon her breast seemingly as much as she needed him within her. Taking the erect bud between his lips and to lavish them with his tongue as he had done so with her neck. Not caring that he had soiled the garment with his salvations and his essence. 

She did not know entirely how the latter had even over, perhaps he had taken himself in hand while she was preoccupied with the feel of him inside her, any part of him inside her, surrounding her, but whatever may be the case it smelled of his musk. Almost overpowering her smell with that smoky scent of warm salt air, dornish red, dragonhide, and open sky. 

She had hid it as best as tucked away under a loose bit of stone under her bed. She hadn't a choice on that matter. 

How was she to explain away that when they saw the state of it? What would they ask her? What would she say? She could feel the words catching in her throat beneath her high. Would anyone say anything?      

No one had said a thing when he had first laid eyes upon it. When he kept his gaze, his hands, his attentions a laugh at their guests  upon her. He kept her person firmly affixed to his side. Eyes darkened under his adore and the dim glow of the candlelight. It was quite hard to tell if his eyes had darkened, but they had lost their violet hue. 

They had gawked at them of course, received a few raised brows, but a brother, even a Targaryen brother, paying compliments to his dearest sister, his only sister, was not so very wrong. And from their eyes such affection did not resemble those of lovers. 

Her brown skin covered her blushes and the table covered his hand inching up her leg hiking  up her skirts or how her foot just so happened to be grazing whenever the wandering limb got particularly close to her cunt underneath such frills. Her own hand wished to touch him in the same way as she did. 

She was not completely naive. She had seen the hounds at it once. Twas a vicious affair consisting of a stubby appendage making rapid pumps in and out of a puckered hole that made her stomach churn and wish to expel her breakfast. It could hardly be comforting for his mate. 

One of the serving girls between fits of raucous laughter when her mistress had finally found the stomach and courage to do so told her it was how pups were made, but people were not dogs.  

Still the question and the answer to that circled back around her this sweltering fortnight.

How would it be with him? Would he be quick?  Would he be gentle? Would he take her from behind like a dog? He already had her pressed up against the wall twice now the ravenous mad dog he was. She knew that humans were different, but he had not even taken her to the bed as befitting her status. 

What would it be like if he had? What would it be like to have him hovering over her?  How would his flesh feel atop hers? How would his length feel like inside her? Would he let her touch him? Love him as he loved her?  Hand drifting to where a growing tent was ensconced under his robes? 

How would it be? 

He certainly had to be bigger than a dog. He felt bigger than what she imagined the hound did deep inside his mate. Would his length bring her pleasure in the way that his hands had? Blind her with it and turn her into some lust ridden beast. She felt like that. Then. Now. 

Oh, she was depraved, but he did not seem to mind her need when he had caught her staring at him with what she was sure was her need. Hands drifting.

“What's mine is yours sweet one,” the warmth of his breath fanned her nape as he spoke the words into her ear. Her cheeks warmed as he had taken her hovering hand in his bestowing a light kiss upon the supple brown flesh before he pulled away. His touch lingering where his lips could not. 

It looked more like lively banter, albeit laced with the affections from the depths of their kinship, than the makings of a passionate tryst. 

Even still she was not so green as to think that the eyes and ears of the Red Keep would not notice something if they kept on as they had. They were Targaryens after all and Targaryens were not so common as mere men in their desires and wants. 

She had not followed him when he had left the Great Hall last night well before dessert was brought in. Their brother huffed and eyed the top of the man’s pale head in the crowd of ravens and browns and gold with some measure of suspicion, but he did not command him to stay. 

Letting him leave without saying a word in protest. 

Daemon did as he pleased and there was no point in keeping him, especially when his behavior raised brows from their more stodgy guests and the ones connected by law than by blood. The ones who would not understand this. What they meant to each other or how natural it was even beneath the sin. 

After a time, which she had deemed appropriate where no one would guess what had been up to under the cover of that table where their hands had wandered and communicated what whispers and gazes could not in an overcrowded hall, she took her leave of the merriment.

Viserys did not seem to mind if she stayed either. Sending her off with a solitary flicks of his hand in the same direction that their brother had left.

She thought he was rather relieved to see her go. She could picture the small as her back turned to him. Feel his stare on the back of neck. He always seemed rather relieved to see her go. As did the rest of the hall save for her cousins. Her very existence raised brows and that was not limited to the ones who were supposed to love her best, the king included among them. 

True enough he cared for her. Their father had seen to that as had Daemon, but he was not brotherly, barely familial and though he was old enough to be her father he had never taken upon that role after Baelon had met his abrupt end. 

Too much like her mother she suspected. He had never been fond of the Naathni whore who had captured their fathers gaze. 

Then again Viserys did not seem very fond of anything apart from his daughter and the little prince she had birthed who looked no more Valyrian than she. His indifference to her was really less to do with her blood and more to do with his general indifference to all things Viserys was not so concerned with the purity of their family and her lack of it, but Daemon, Daemon who loved her, Daemon who had defiled her, Daemon he was  was another matter.   

Daemon had not been particularly brotherly either  with his comings and goings, but his indifference was a foreign concept to her. Her youngest brother had never hid his affections; his care for her even if those affections had turned into something more than it ought to be. Or something as it in truth should be. 

“You’re a Targaryen sweet girl as much as I am.” He would always say when she questioned why he was so affectionate with her without a breath spared. Whispering in her ear and sealing his words with a kiss to her temple or peppering her  face with sloppy kisses. Never mind the frowns and deep furrows they’d received for said affection. They wouldn’t understand.

Half was still a Targaryen. She was still a Targaryen no matter who her mother had been. That was the beginning and end of it or just the beginning. 

It was why they were here and why she was presently in a half state of undress stuffed with her brother's fingers, soaking his hand with her slick and his mouth upon her breasts. They were Targaryens and Targaryens did what they liked. Would have what they liked. Take what they like. Conqueror. 

As he had done with her. Twas in their blood. Her blood that was a siren call and he had answered. Like calling to like. Blood to blood. He had answered with his own call.  

Silly and naive as it was, she had thought he had actually gone to bed. That he had gotten bored of her of the game they played, but he most decidedly had not.

She had only managed to make it a quarter of the way to her chambers before a pale hand shot out from the dark and pulled her back into it. Pulling her into a hard chest while his mouth caught the scream she was sure to have let out if not for his tongue tangling with hers in the most lovely dance swiping across her lips to gain entrance circling the roof of her mouth upon hers she had given into him without much fight.

And now what little fight she had had vanquished along with the rate of rapidly deteriorating care for anything apart from the feel of him upon her. In her. around her. Him. She had not cared for anything else since last night. Just him. 

“Don't turn away from me, little one.” his hand had quickly enough found its way to up her skirts once more when his fingers finally pulled away from her lips. 

The pale Targaryen man wasting no time venturing them up her leg. Grazing the smooth embellished bronze skin of her thighs until he found her warmth waiting for him. Placing a toned thigh between her legs and spreading them apart.  Finding no resistance to stop him. To keep him from her. To keep this pleasure he wished to give her and she would take it all and thank him for it like a dog dying from thirst.

He could've commanded her to streak across that very dark, very quiet hall naked as the day she was and she would've gladly done so. She would've done anything with those digits working her through. A finger gliding across her glistening slit to collect her slick before bringing it up to tease her little button. Drawing crescents into the engorged nub as he grew moans and whimpers from her lips. Getting drunk off the noises. His breath upon her. 

She had been shamefully wet. She still had some shame in that regard when she had heard the sound of her wetness filling in that tiny enclave. The pool of slick he made which stained them both and reached something in her that had her tightening around him and arching back on to him. 

He found the places in herself she had never known and  had never dreamed of knowing. 

She had touched herself on occasion before. Feeble thing it was. Timid and unsure movements made when the castle had gone quiet and the only company she had were the moon's light, her slender hand, and her labored breaths. Each time no different than the last and neither was this attempt at self gratification. Not unpleasant, but it was not particularly eventful, nothing remarkable, nothing euphoric in it. 

She did not have those flutterings spreading from the pit of her core. Had never spasmed around her fingers. Wet them with her arousal. 

Only once had she ever attempted entering them within her channel and she had never tasted herself. She certainly had never lost herself in her fumblings. Not in this way. Never gone and she had been gone. She was gone. 

Every thought left from her body besides that cresting feeling overtaking her like a wave in the harbor and she a ship soaked through with love embrace. 

Gone enough to let him debase her there upon that wall where anyone might see them, see her like a common whore. Chanting his name like a possessed woman. 

Daemon. Daemon. Daemon.

Gone enough to let him kiss away her moans. To whisper sweet things into her dampened flesh. Things that made her cheeks flush with warmth and her stomach clench in pleasure. Bearing down upon his fingers as she clung to him.

She was gone, gone, gone. And then he was gone. 

“Patience is a virtue dear sister,” he had whispered onto her lips. 

Gifting her one last kiss upon the hot skin beneath the shell of her ear just as she felt herself cresting over that little hill of fire which he had built, halting her as he pulled the ground from out under her.    

He did not catch the gasp when he had pulled his fingers from her. A gush of her wetness went with him as he brought those digits to his lips to sample her excitement and left the rest to run down her thighs and stain that ruined silk that of course was then. A wink, and the inaudible groan he let out as he tasted were the last trendles of bliss he had afforded her, before he left her in that scorching void of need and agony, but that memory had been painted over with the vibrancy of desire. 

Now whatever had made him leave her, whatever lesson he had tried to impart upon her, whatever, whatever he had seared into her mind with his,  he had returned to her with great fury. 

Passion reignited as he had thrown open the doors to her chambers after she had tried to slip through them in search of him. His lips were upon hers with not a word spoken between them as he removed all traces of what he was to say to him. The only thing cushioning her head from hitting the wall which he had backed them into was his hands placed behind her that softened the blow. Then it did not matter. What her septa thought, what did not matter. There had only been now. 

Now she was not willing to let it slip through her fingers that were presently holding onto the pale man until she had her fill and more then. 

“Don't leave me,” she rasped with a whimper out into the shell of his ear. The last bit of consciousness before the fall. The words choked out with a gasp for breath over the sound of the squelches growing in their obscenity and his panting into her skin.  

it was pathetic it sounded childish to her own ears, but she was determined to let him know. To not have what had happened repeat to be left as she didn't think she could bear that. She would collapse into herself and never leave from this place he had set her atop above all the rest. 

Passion faded. Flesh rotted. Bones turned to dust. Withering away until whatever had been her, the old her and the new was gone too. 

She could not bear that.  

“I never left you. I will never leave you sweet one.” She believed him. 

Believed him as she could feel him at her fingers. The resolute beating of his pulse. Thump, thump, thump.  The heat of his skin she managed to pull. His blood strumming through him.

Believed him as he lifted his head at last from where he had trailed his kisses down from her neck to her décolletage. The warmth of his breath fanning her exposed skin dampened by his hearty ministrations. 

Daemon had come back, that is what mattered. He had never strayed. Not truly. Not in any way that mattered. He had come for her. He had found her and taken her for his own, giving her this gift of pleasure. This new her. 

“Is this all for me sweet one?” He crooned out the question. Goosebumps erupted across her body as those long digits of his hit the back of her cervix, his pace unrelenting. “Is this why you 

She wouldn’t have been able to contain her moan then even if she wanted to. Nor the shudder that wracked through her body as she folded into him. Nor answer him. Clawing at him. Pulling him tighter to her practically suffocating the man with her bare breasts having pulled down her flimsy gown as if he would flit away as he had before, but he did not. She would not. Not with the way he groaned into her skin. The way he lapped at whatever he could find as he sped up the pumps of his fingers within her heat.

There was something comforting in knowing that she had ruined him the same as he had ruined her. 

Help her mother. If she had found the Gods on the rough pads of his fingers stroking her, loving her, what would she find on the end of his cock? What would that cock make her see, stroking her, loving her, how would she feel? 

A moan interrupted her thoughts once more. 

“That’s it sweet girl.” He teased with a nip at the back of her ear. Taking her lobe between his teeth to suckle upon as his fingers worked her through. In and out over that spongy spot he had. Striking a delicate balance as he kept her on the edge. The balance that she had missed. Come to crave. 

A little heaven right under her nose which she had been kept from. Not that she was complaining, who would complain about heaven when they had reached it, but then she was in fact complaining. Whining again when he pulled his hand from her and with it that heaven. 

The sound of her wetness around his fingers filling the still. Twitching around nothing after being filled for so long. 

She felt empty. Cold somehow and empty. The air leaving out from her lungs. Left starving once more as she clawed at him. Her grip unrelenting. 

She had forgotten what it felt like to feel so empty. It was somehow worse than when he left her crying in the hall. She detested it with every fiber of her being. 

She whined and that whine turned into another moan when he brought those soaked digits to his lips to taste her. His eyes remained locked on her. Watching her as she squirmed around him.

He was a cruel man and he had chosen her to be on the receiving end of this cruelty. 

Cruelty seemed to beget more cruelty. With a pop those fingers were and had voyaged to swipe them  through her sticky folds. Torturing her, but she did not have to wait long. He plunged them back into her depths in the next breath. Reaching her cervix as he curled them. Leaving her shaking in his arms. 

“Do you feel how wet you are for me sweetling,” he growled out eyes scanning her face for acknowledgement and when he received no such thing besides her quaking in his hold silent by the pleasure, he emphasized the point. Pressing his fingers deep into that spongy spot atop her walls, she answered his growl at last with a whimper. 

She could do no more than whimper at the truth of it. The squelches of her heat playing on a loop. In and in and in. Not stopping. Never stopping as he worked her up the little hill he had molded. Her descent into the abyss threatening to undo came thundering down upon her like a clap of thunder. “Come for me sweetling.” And she did. 

Giving into that magma that had been boiling over. Seeping into the hot puddle of her own bliss. Her vision swirling with life and her body trembling with wave after wave until all that was left was her soul. 

Climax overtaking her until she felt nothing but those hands on her. arching into his fingers to draw out that fluttering feeling. Her stomach tightening with it. Body loosening into it until she was but a puddle of molten passion. 

Oh Gods. Nothing more for what else was there, but this bliss. What else was there but this? What else could there be?

Strange and unearthly as it sounded she had left this mortal plane for that brief duration of her orgasm which seemed to stretch endlessly. That puddle of bliss an overflowing fountain which kept replenishing with the sweetest liquid ambrosia. 

She hadn’t realized he had moved them to her bed until she felt the heaviness of his weight and the heat of his skin on top of her. Warming her now cool form contrasting with the feel of the soft linens and the fluff of her pillow at her back cushioning her. 

He wore a smile and greeted her with a tone as if he were frightened that she might float away from him, but how could she after this. 

“Hello.” The corners of his violet eyes which had regained some of their hue crickling with mirth as he petted her cheek with the back of his hand. Softer than she imagined it would be. It was the hand that had been inside with the way it glistened in the moon's light. 

“I think you’ve broken me,” she returned barely above a whisper and more breathy than she would like, but not knowing what else to say. She felt broken. Like a ragdoll. Breathless and listless with what remained of her orgasm. 

He laughed at her ragged state, but it was not the jeering sort. It was as airy as her own voice. Breathless happy if she would be so bold. Not just gloating he was truly happy. Pleased. Pleased with her. Pleased with pleasing her and he was far from being done doing so. 

“I shall endeavor to do that more often than.” He brought his hand up to her cheek. Caressing the flushed skin from brow down to her nape with the back of his knuckles. 

If she hadn't had the good sense to allow her maid to braid up her hair for the night as she had last night too restless with yearning for a relief that had never come till now to allow them to do such, He might’ve encountered loose coils which he could grip. Instead her mop of raven coils were braided neatly into two plaits resting upon her shoulders. 

Though she imagined he might have liked the sight of her mane unbound considering he could not keep his hands from brushing the back of those coils, for he knew better now than to try to attempt to comb through the delicate strands, last night when they had been as such during the feast. Only adorned with a band of rubies atop her head to restrain them. 

Her hair would have been a mess to comb in the morrow, resembling more a brittle bird's nest than hair and taking the better part of that very mourn to undo the damage which had been done, but she’d let him play. 

She’d let him play with her whenever he’d like. 

“Perhaps I can fuck the church mouse from you,” he mused. His thumb swiping across the expanse of freckles resembling a consolation across her nose. If he meant to raise offense to virgins sensibilities which had been bred into her that would have her hiding her embarrassment from his vulgarity he was surely to be disappointed at her reply for she met him in kind. 

“Mayhaps I shall fuck the cruelty from you dearest brother.” 

Wideyed staring up at him she expected a sharp quip for her cheek, perhaps another lewd castigation, but he was to disappoint her as much as she so joyously disappointed him. 

“You’re so beautiful,” his hand had ventured to her lips, eyes darting between them and her brown gaze with not so much as a hint of mischief. “So beautiful.” She should have felt subconscious, full of virgins blush at the intensity in which he watched her, but the flush of lust was still coursing through her waiting to be attended to. Waiting in this hellish limbo that kept her from celestial rapture. 

Bare before her, his robes discarded into a pile with her gown just outside the peripheral of her vision. Covering every inch of her person with his pale flesh and staring down at her. Staring straight through her and right down to her soul. The violet of his irises blown out, replaced with the black of his pupils, he looked the picture of it. Valyrian god come to life to lead her into wickedness. 

Through her haze, she saw he was motioning towards her slightly parted lips swollen from his kisses he commanded her with a solitary word. “Suck.” 

It was less vulgar and more reverent than one would expect from the meaning of the words. Less a command too, more like he had called her beautiful once more with that starry look in his eyes that suited him odd as it was though she did not need to be flattered and she certainly did not need to be told twice.

The taste was not unpleasant. Salty mainly, she did not taste of berries and honey, but there was a sweetness there. A sweetness which she could understand why men seemed to go wild from it, why Daemon seemed so eager to have her taste herself. 

If she were to admit to it, and she hardly thought she could even at his command,it satisfied some dark perverse part of her crawling that crawled out with a tiny moan stiffened by his fingers, but that darkness still hungered. Wondering how Daemon would taste on her tongue. 

To see him reduced to a mere husk of man that would see him beg her with that solitary word and throaty pants. 

Her hand had crawled between their bodies blindly with want. Instinct drove her around this new bend as she took him in hand. 

He was hot to the touch. His skin felt soft like velvet yet rigid with his arousal. Throbbing in her hand and far larger than that hound imprinted in her memory.    

He allowed her to go on like that. encouraging her in her explorations as his hand joined hers between their bodies. Guiding her little tugs upon his length, but halted her movements when she had felt him begin to coat her hands with his spunk. 

The haze of lust she found herself in abated somewhat with a slap placed onto the meat of her thigh which had her yelping at the sting of it. 

Another was placed in that same spot rubbing the brown skin tender for good measure when she had tried to bring her hand to her mouth to taste him as he had tasted her. She could not meet his eye when he sneered down at her. 

“I did not did not give you permission to do that sweet sister.”

Taking her hand in his as Daemon brought her fingers to his lips. Enveloping the digits into to suckle upon before releasing them not a half minute after with a pop that had her wetting her thighs that she tried clamping together for some relief, but was stopped by the hard body atop. Gods, did he have to keep her from this too? 

“Greedy little thing whatever am I to do with you?” His eye sparkled with mirth at her whines and squirms beneath his person, but he took some mercy on her.

“Next time sweet one,” her brother promised. The tips of his pointer finger on the other hand that had not been in her tracing her lips as his bent head smirked down at her. She desperately wanted to meet the small admonition with a protest of her own making. Why could she not love him as he loved him, but he supplanted the words with a moan by way of his lips returning to its rightful place upon hers. 

“Next time I’ll teach you how to use that pretty mouth.” He breathed into her his want. 

Next time his promise swimmed in her head as her tongue wet and wild battled with his. Giving in as was becoming a habit when he swiped it across the nerves atop the roof of her mouth. She did not mind waiting for the next time if it would lead to this. She could wait for next time. Next time. Next time. 

He wanted there to be a next time. He wanted a next time with her. Mayhaps even more than that if he made good on his promise. If he took her away from this half-life of dictums, indifference, and daggers hidden behind tight smiles. Mayhaps there will be a thousand next times. She could almost picture it beneath the clouds. Almost feel it if she just reached for it. If she just—

“Shh sweetling,” he panted out. Pulling away from the kiss, but only just for his lips still ghosted hers.  the warmth of his breath fanning her fevered cheeks as he moved his hands to back up to cup her face as he murmured plaintives. “I’m right here.”

She did not know why, but she had begun to cry. She had not even aware she had, hadn’t even felt the telltale sting upon her cheeks nor tasted the salt of her tears, the thought of next time and its pleasures gripping hold of her til Daemon leaned down to kiss them away. Peppered her face with kisses as he shushed her. 

Trying to calm her overtaxed state with his own branding. Bringing her back down from the skies which he had ascended her into with the gentleness of his touch. And yet he was far from sending her into that bliss. Next time could wait. There was a now to see too

She whimpered as he spread her legs, this time with his bare thigh which felt like a balm to that heat that was regrowing in the pit of her belly. Feeling the stretch and her own stickiness but mostly how sore she had become. Dear god he really was trying to send her to heaven or to whatever land of milk and honey he had come from or perhaps the land of fire and blood was a more apt description for it. 

“Daemon please,” she begged, but he had only answered with a laugh and the tilt of her 

“You’ve been neglected for far too long,” He was toying with her, teasing her. Controlling her movements as he grinded her heat down upon his thigh. 

It was too much. It was not enough.    

“I can’t promise it won’t hurt.” That hand which had been guiding the erratic dilutions of her hips had shifted to the apex of her womanhood cupping her curls before pulling her labia apart to renew their efforts upon her pulsing button; it did not take much to send her spiraling delirious with want as she was. 

“I don’t care,” and she didn’t. Feeling her orgasm crescendo once more with each circle he drew into her engorged clit. That hill so intoxicating a climb. Her sopping cunt pulsing around nothing as her clit thrummed, but so desperately needing to be filled as she once had. “I don't please.”

She wasn’t above begging now. Not when she had a taste. “I need you please I need you—- Daemon,” she choked on her moan as he answered her call. her nails digging into his back as he breached her pulsing walls. She could tell that she was drawing blood, but she had bled for him and the man atop her had choked out a groan of his own as he sheathed himself within her to the hilt. 

He had been right there was pain but it was but a prick swiftly overtaken by that wave of pleasure which he brought the heady concoction that he made for her.

 In out. 

Not stopping. 

Never stopping for she was a finely tuned instrument he knew only how to play. 

Ever the master of his craft his mouth hot on hers as his tongue soaked up every song she gifted him. The long digits of his right hand remained on her clit. The pads of his fingers rubbing circle while his length bullied that spongy spot within her heat which once pulsed around his fingers while the fingers belonging to his left hand wrapped themselves around her throat. Squeezing as her walls squeezed his length. Milking him for all that he would give her. 

She arched her hips up onto him when he tried to leave from her walls just to thrust himself deeper within them, meeting him thrust for thrust. Her need taking over as she let the man use her for their pleasure.

 His thumb had never abandoned her clit as he kept himself seated deep within her quivering walls as she watched black dots blanketing her vision. A little death of the color he had painted over her world of gray, blind as she was, but there was so much more to feel. 

This, this was the thing which she had needed. This was what she was meant for. 

His skin upon hers. Sweat, spit, and spunk gluing their bodies together. The squelches from their lovemaking her spend and his combining with each tilt drowning out whatever remained of the world outside or even within the walls of these sultry chambers. 

The push and pull of him stretching her. His rigid length dragged across her walls, filling her better than his fingers. She felt whole. 

Each thrust somehow deeper and deeper. Carving out a space that had not existed before this, but was always to be. that want and longing that had tormented her so quelled like a babe at his mothers breasts. 

She came around him, soaking him, squeezing him, without so much as a release of breath, but he was there to breathe for her. There to speak for her. There to be her anchor.

That's a good girl. That's my good girl. Gods, you're so tight, so tight. Naughty little thing you squeeze me so perfectly. That's it, he crooned, adores position by his low rasps of breath. Voice strained in the back of his throat as he commanded her, Let go for me. 

It was not his words that undid her. Nor his grunts of pleasure he did not refrain from gifting her. 

It was in his eyes that bore into her. Violet turned midnight eyes that mirrored her own which said You'll be my death you sweet thing, but I will not leave you. In. I belong here. In. In you. In. With you. In. You are mine. In. As I am yours.

 In. In. In. In. 

She shook beneath him and he groaned into the hollow space between her breasts. Eyelids fluttering shut as he bent into her. Squirting around his hot member as he spilled into her. 

He was everywhere. Had taken everything from her body from the depths of her being and she did not care.

This was the beginning, the after, everything. Her body curled into itself. Curling around him. He did not stop and she did not want him to stop going further and further up a cliff which she did not know only that it was more than last time. Stronger too as she tumbled over into the welcoming arms of elation.

Time had lost all its meaning as her orgasm wrecked through body. White and silver the color of moonlight flashing across her. The salt of his skin the only taste on her tongue. The little grunts and moans they let out to the other as effortless as one's heartbeat. Where he ended and she began extended past where their bodies were joined for there was no him, no her, just this. Just them.

It was his hand that she came to the world of color. Petting her cheek as he had before when she had returned back to him from that mountain of bliss. Hand upon her bare hip a comforting weight, but he made no move to exert her further. 

“I will not touch you, but I need to take care of you sweet one.” Another kiss, this one placed on the tip of her freckled nose as she exhaled, loosening that ball of energy that remained from her worn body. 

Cupping her warm face between his palms as he leaned in so that his damped forehead rested upon hers. “Will you let me take care of you?" she nodded, that ragdoll feeling coming about her again, wanting to do but she knew better than to take his words in vain.

She laid there doll like upon a mountain of pillows that as he fetched a cloth and thimble of water from her wash basin. Still as naked as she, backside turned, throwing  her a boyish smile every so often over his shoulder as he dampened the rag, but having no shame in her seeing him as such and she was too tired to be embarrassed by the sight of a naked man or to care what any others might think of it. Let them make what they like.

She would not trade this, seeing that lovely gaze with light in every corner of his face which made him look ten years younger for what had been before ruined as she was. 

There was no talking as he washed slick and spend from her body. Stilted breaths, trembles when he dragged the cloth against her sour cunny, and little gulps of water from the chalice he handed to her when he had deemed his washing the only tune which played. Even the feast below them had gone well and truly quiet. The moon that hung low in the night sky which would soon glow a bloom of red and orange their only company. 

Half bathed in the shadows he stretched out a pale hand towards her as he finally settled himself beside her. Having thrown the soiled rag clear across the room for one of her maids to find in the morning along with her, but that would wait til dawn broke free of the night.

The moon high his fingers glistened in its light with water droplets from the basin as she took that outstretched hand without pause. Daemon pulled her into him with one tug.

A feminine yelp and  a contented sigh the brief interlude that cut the still. Nestling her head beneath his chin as he resumed stroking down her body. 

Gentle. 

It shocked her how he who could be so maddening who could elicit such scorn and want, even from her,  yet he was still so gentle with her when it was all said and done. She couldn’t complain that he was so gentle resting there in his arms, but it was a shock albeit the most pleasant kind. 

They went on like that. Time continuing to be immaterial. The soothing caresses down her bare back pulling her tenderly to the land of dreams. That contented quiet having quenched the hunger prevailing until he broke it.

Pulling her head slightly away from his shoulder where she had rested to lift her chin up enough to face him but not quite enough to pull her in for another sweet kiss or a searing one to begin their lovemaking anew as she had thought. She was not so very tired and the sun was still aslumber, but then she met his eye. 

Brown met Violet as their gazes aligned. 

“Come away with me.” He whispered. His voice sounded just as boyish as he looked then. A slight bit of apprehension beyond the brilliance of his gaze, but so full of hope. A hope she would not leave unanswered. 

Meeting him the rest of the way she leaned into his touch. Her lips grazed his as she breathed her reply into him. 

“Okay.” She’d follow him anywhere. Into bliss and beyond.  

Ao3 Link:

“I love you.” He had screamed it at her. If they had been inside Maidenpool’s halls it would have bounced off the stone walls and echoed around the castle, but under the cover of twilight, it was carried away by the wind from the valley and hills which the castle sat upon.                                                                                                           

Nettles would’ve thought she had gone mad had the man not been drawing circles into her cheek with the pad of his thumb. The callouses upon well-worn hands having seen a lifetime of battles, reminding her of where she was. They were warm and solid and entirely too real for her to imagine.                                                                                                      

Where his tone was severe, his carasses were gentle. Lulling her into a calmness that she didn't feel only moments ago when her heart was racing. Feeling as though it would beat out from her chest.                            

He poured every ounce of sincerity he could command at the tips of his fingers into his touch. The same gentleness as in his gaze. A gaze she was slowly getting lost in. There was no were else to look, but the violet pools. As if that was not enough he repeated those words holding her to him so that she could not mistake them for any other. Vibrating through her. His breath fanned her face.                    

“I love you Netty.” There was no mistake.           

Three simple words belonging to her. They set her afire. Burning her. Setting her ablaze with want. She wanted to hear him repeat those words over and over until he grew hoarse. Until she heard she knew nothing except them. She didn’t care if he said them with that same harshness. With the same breathlessness as if it pained him not to. Giving as much breath as it took. She wanted them. She dreaded it. 

What they meant. Everything they meant. She wanted everything they could give her. Everything he could give her. Every promise. Every whisper. Everything. I love you Netty. Four words too many and too few.    

 She had wished she had reached Sheepstealer. She had almost reached him, if she looked back she could see the outline of him painted in the storm's light so close, but he was out of reach. Had flown away with Caraxes when Daemon had come thundering after her like the stranger himself. 

Only her feet could take her from here. 

He did not stop her when she pulled away. Plans forgotten. Not stopping as she let the wind carry her away. She didn’t stop until she reached her chamber. Barely remembering to bolt the door, lest he change his mind and pursue her and she lose herself in the insanity of it. 

She was shaking as she slid down the wood and rested her head in her hands. 

Nettles didn't know when she had exactly changed from her hiding place, but the sun had gone down by the time she had removed herself from the door. Calmed enough for her crying to have stopped as she peered into the darkness with bloodshot eyes. Seeing the disbelief state of her reflection in the windows glass. A sight she made. 

The sound of glass clinking against each other came from the other side of the door pulled her away from her own visage. Crystal lifted by steady hands up from their resting place. Hands she knew better than she should. He had arrived back at this late hour. Who was to say what that hour was she had not known. 

It was past super time no doubt, for the castle had gone still in the hours past and the world outside was covered in an inky blanket. No sound apart from him and the wind pounding against the shudders could be heard. The latter of whom Nettles could hear as if he were. In this dark chamber with her right beside her offering her a drink along with him. 

That thin little scrap of wood laced by iron doing nothing to drown out the noises of life in his chamber or her ability to hear them. 

How many thimbles had he had? Two? Four? Six? Was he in his cups? Had she driven him to it? Darting off and giving him a fright twice over. 

She heard the sounds of the crystal being placed back down again. Had he heard her? Was he coming to command her to open her bed chambers up to him? No if he had heard her he would have demanded she open her door to him a long while ago. 

She would be left with no choice. He would not leave her alone to wallow in her sorrow when he had been the cause of her tears. When he had confessed the depths of his affection and left her head spinning trying to make heads or tails of his declarations and her own powder keg of emotions on the precipice of combustion.

No she must have ceased her crying long before he had turned in. Or mayhaps she could only hear him. She was pressed up against the door like a child spying when they should be in the land of dreams.  A child. That is what she was. A frightened child. Hiding in the shadows where she shouldn’t be while he stalked around in the night. 

They were not the only ones awake past the hour of the wolf. Nettles could hear their dragons in the distance filling the night air with roars, loud enough to reach over through the valley and breach past Maidenpool’s stone walls.

She had grown used to their roars. Learning how to distinguish them. Enough to know that this one was a greeting from Caraxes. Sheepstealer had arrived back from his evening hunt with a few sheep in his belly. Mayhaps he had even shared his feast with the bloodwyrm. Well-fed and satisfied, the pair of dragons were settling down for the night.

It was their routine. Sheepstealer going out to hunt. and Caraxes alert and waiting up for him. In due time her dragon would come back to his companion with as many sheep as he could carry.  He would always come back. To their little sanctuary in the woods.

They had not separated as their riders had. Finding no problem with each other's company. Finding comfort in it or contentment without a care. The feelings of man are nothing of their concern. Lost in their own version of safety and mayhaps even bliss. 

He loved her. Daemon Targaryen loved her. The words danced around in Nettles' head. 

He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.   

She turned the meaning of those words backwards and forwards. Round and round a hundred times till she was giddy with it. Like a child. Letting it soak into her very bones and impart its strength where she had faltered.    

Love. He loved her, but what did love mean to a man like that? 

There were three before her. Three who had stood where she stood. Two still living among them. 

His first wife, the Lady Rhea Royce she decided did not count. The Lady of Rhustone had been thrust upon him by his late grandmother and it was the most unwelcome match. 

They had shared the title man and wife for six and ten years, but by all accounts they shared no more than if they had been strangers. Leading separate lives Nettles doubted she had ever held a place by his side or in his bed much less in his heart. She was his wife in name only and therefore would not be given any more consideration of, but the others more than would. 

Lady Mysaria had been first. The first woman he had chosen for himself that he had kept and claimed His first. The first woman he had loved. 

She saw how he was with her. Did he love her? 

He had taken her into his bed without a doubt. She had once even carried his child ill-fated as that may have been. She had been banished from his side for it, but it mattered not. She had returned back to his bed. Everyone knew that. 

It was no great secret even if it ought to have been with the impropriety of it, but war was seldom a time for prosperity and pleasure they took indeed.

 Addam had told her before she had left with him for this place that it was done with the queen's blessing. 

A simple arrangement that satisfied all. It seemed to serve them well. Though her mistress of whisperers shared her husband's bed, the queen did not treat Mysaria any differently than Lord Corlys or any of the others on her council. 

She did not even seem to mind the idle gossip that permeated about her court.  How It festered. Addam had been right when he had said that she  shared more than just the queen's confidence and the prince's favor for she had seen how they behaved. They certainly had not been discreet, even in the queen's presence. 

The two acted almost as if they were friends or at least she relied on her a great deal. Entrusting her with her secrets and her confidence in her council seemed impenetrable. She owed her or at least her gratitude towards her foreign adviser seemed endless. 

Placing her at the head of her table. Placing her between her husband and her, daring anyone to say a word against her. She cared not one bit about what they did with one another and they certainly had their way with each other. 

The two coming out of council meetings with hers lingered on his arm. She sat at his side at feasts giggling up a fit like a maiden and whispering things into his ear, making a spectacle of themselves, but that suited them well. Both liked the attention they got from their displays, never hiding their affections or Mysaria’s other role at court.

Even her chambers were close enough to the princes or they might have been Daemons for Nettles had seen the woman exit from the royal family's apartments with her own eyes. A curious place for one’s mistress of whisperers. A curious place even for Lord Corlys Velaryon who was very much family, but he had taken up apartments within the tower of the hand. All the others of her council of advisors had found chambers far away from the royal apartments, but she was not just any ordinary advisor. 

Twas the only time she had spoken with her. Well, she was spoken at rather than spoken to. The Lyseni lady had pulled her “Are you lost girl,” it had been said with a sneer. Taking everything in her to keep her chin up and meet her pale eyes when she apologized for her absentmindedness. Her voice thankfully did not desert her for she had been in a dreadful fright enough to descend into stuttering. 

Nettles had not gotten away from the woman soon enough. She did not spook so easily, but the de facto mistress of whispers was unnerving. Always lurking about. Those pale eyes watching her. 

Always watching. Always there. She had never approached her save that once but she felt her presence all the same. In the air. In the walls. The walls were painted with her eyes and listened with her ears. Even in her bedchamber she felt some presence gazing down at her as she slept. Something crawled up the back of her spine and planted itself like a spider she couldn’t shake loose. Everywhere and nowhere. 

She’d find herself hanging out high upon balconies like a vulture waiting for its prey to weaken and descend upon it for the kill overlooking the training yard when she would in halls, around the corridors. 

She had not wanted to acknowledge it. At feasts, those same pale sets of irises, the palest ones she’s ever seen almost devoid of color entirely, so pale they were, would find her for a second or two. 

Never blinked, for they did not seem to need to, but if she were to, if she were she’d not find them upon her again, but they were there. They had been there. 

There was something unnatural in them. 

Cold. They were cold and hard. Hardset like stone. Ghostly. Reflecting only back what they saw. Gleaming from the light of the candles, the sun, the moon, some trick of the shadows dancing with the light, but never from the brilliance of her own joy or happiness. 

Misery, the court called her. Half-whispered as they huddled together whenever she was within earshot. Recoiling back with their noses in the air clutching whatever they hand in hand close as she glided past them. Nettles had almost felt sorry for her for it before their run-in. 

Surely she hadn’t deserved that. Could they not see that? She had the look of a woman who had seen too much and had been changed for it. Written plain as day in that ghostly face.

 She could not possibly be more cruel than the rest.  A part of her knew why she was as she was. Why she had made her bed where she had. 

 A part of her could see herself in her because of it. How did anyone have the right to judge her?. These fine lords and ladies of the court, they had no right. They had never gone without, but no amount of bitterness was an excuse, but no longer she had seen her share but she had not been changed by it; she hadn't fallen into wickedness and had certainly not thought to enact wickedness on some other poor soul, but not Mysaria. She had indeed lived up to the jeers thrown her way. Nettles seemed to have become her favorite target of said misery. There was no excuse for that.

She would’ve thought herself gone mad if she had not spoken to her with such venom. It was an utterly ridiculous thing to picture even Mysaria being jealous, but there she was. With hate in her eyes and a barbed tongue turned her way.  She could’ve sworn that the Lyseni woman was trying to get a rise out of her then when she had found her where she felt hadn’t belonged. What a thought that was. She was hardly worth the effort. 

Or mayhaps she was right to be as paranoid as she was. She had eyes and ears around the Red Keep. She was the spider upon the wall. She was far from blind, unknowing, or willfully oblivious. She had to have heard something. Saw something. Something that would make her cease from her lurking and give voice to the shadows which were in. 

Mistress she may be, but she was no fool and more importantly she was his.  His first taste

at passion. His present passion. The woman who had invited back by his side. Constant in his patronage. She knew a threat when she saw one. She was his no matter how long or what she was, once he had claimed her she was his.

Mayhaps that was the way Daemon behaved with women too. Even with his mistresses. Even women whom he did not love, they were, all his mayhaps he had claimed that he would not take another to his bed, but he had not brought Mysaria here with them. Whatever claim he had upon her or promise he had made he had given it up. 

Nettles did not know when they had ceased their arrangement, but she had known it had reached its conclusion when he had dragged her here in this place of refuge in the midst of war. All to protect. He left her behind, it all behind to protect her. 

Mistress of whisperers she may not be, but Nettles herself had eyes and ears as good as any other, and him being with her told her more than she could ever see. It was all the proof she needed. Why he had rushed her here. Why he wanted her in his bed. 

All of them had, yet it had but she doubted he would after that incident in the training yard she had entered those bedchambers of his again. She had seen them.

He had discarded her. Deemed her something which he could live without for something he could not. Maybe once upon a time an age ago, mayhaps never even then, but certainly not now. Now he had no need or want of her. Had he wanted her like that? Had he ever loved her? Had she just been like the others? Was she to be like that? 

Loved.

Loved upon until he got bored and wanted a taste of something different. That wasn’t love. To be discarded and used, that couldn’t be love. It wasn’t something she even wanted to name Traded and then he too would get bored of her. Find another and forget about her. Was she to be just another one of those conquests? 

Something which to just pass the time with. 

Another young pound of flesh to slack his lusts with and then he’d move on to the next doe-eyed girl who caught his gaze. 

Nettles heard the rumors. She was young, very young even if she had seen and done more than those twice her age, but the man had a reputation.       

Of course, he liked them young. Young enough to be his daughter and then some. She was young enough to be his daughter and then some, but those girls were little things. Some were younger than her. Obscenely younger than her. Had never tasted anything apart from a world of spring, the bitter taste of winters cold an unfamiliar truth, or the darkness of that eternal winter had never been felt upon their flesh. Never gone without such dismal truths even in their state of squalor for they had something which always to depend upon. 

Valyria.

Most were Valyrian, or Valyrian enough with their pale silver-white hair, skin the color of marble and sheets of parchment without a blemish or mark upon them, eyes of various hues of violet, indigo, and lilacs. The blood of old Valyria ran through their veins. Unquestionably the seed of the dragon, but they had nothing to show for it, same as any other peasant. Same as her. Mayhaps they were worse off for it.

Nettles, after all, had managed to avoid the unfortunate pitiful of having to sell herself for whatever she could get. As had been the fate of her long-departed mother. 

Narrowly of course, there had been times when she thought she would have to sell the one thing which she alone possessed. The one thing that was hers left to give. Hers to batter for a bit of bread and ale in her belly and perhaps a warm bed for the night. It was tempting. Just for one night of respite and comfort she had so long lacked. 

It was not as if she would have a hard time finding someone who would be willing to lay their hands on her flesh for a night or two. 

Even with her scared nose and dirt caked upon her skin from sporadic washings, something she was exceedingly grateful to be rid of now, men were never too picky about what their whores looked like. She was not especially beautiful, but beauty was not needed for a whore. A whore was a whore. One only needed one thing from them. Nothing more. 

In any case while she was not especially comely she was not so hideous as to dampen a man’s passion. She might even inspire the right man. A man who did not mind her image. 

Nettles stood out from the rest with her brown skin, dark eyes, and inky mane of coils. Not a thing like the milkmaids that dotted up and down this land or the silvery vestiges of old Valyria in the streets of Kings Landing, Driftmark, and Dragonstone that blended in with the rest. 

She was different. Her own visage spoke of a place far removed from the petty squabbles and the dreary gray that enveloped much of Westeros. Far more foreign than the red mountains and sandy dunes of Dorne. 

Some place warm with the smell of the sea, and fruits, and flowers one could not pronounce the name of. A place one could lose themselves in. A place of savages who lived untainted by the customs of polite society.  No one would know what would happen there, no one would care. 

Naath perhaps or maybe the Summer Isles. Someplace entirely exotic. There were men who would pay good money for that, to sample the flavors of the known world. She’d have to close her mouth for it. Feign one of the lithe and airy voices she heard at port from the long way from home.

Perhaps she could even name her price for the charms of that exoticism, but she hadn’t had to use them. Thank the Gods she hadn't and she had Sheepstealer now. She’d never have to succumb to that.

Twas a sin what they did. She had no right to judge them. She could not judge someone for the choices they made.

She had done her fair share after all, every day when she gazed upon her reflection she was reminded of what she had done. When one lived as she did, and was born into, what she was. There wasn’t a choice. 

One did whatever they could to make it through the day without winding up six feet under, but in the eyes of the Gods, a sin is a sin, and they would not be so merciful to turn the other way. 

Not to her. Never to her. 

For they had seen all. All her miseries and misfortune and they had done nothing for it. Give her more pain for it. 

She was born to endure. Nothing more. And if she bargained with her body for earthly pleasure and comforts to grasp for something more which wasn’t to be hers she’d have a debt which she could not pay back. 

She couldn’t bargain for more. Twas her soul that hanged in the balance and because of it, she could not do as they could. 

And what was she compared to them? To all those silver girls. To the ones he chose and did not choose alike. To Mysaria. To his wives, both of them. All of them. Even to Rhea Royce. She wasn’t Valyrian. She wasn’t the daughter of a lord much less a king. She did not come from a great house nor any house. Not even a blacksmith. 

She was the daughter of a whore. The daughter of no one. She didn't even know who her father was. What he was. Where he was. If he lived or died. 

There was a time when she thought she could be Daemon’s. It was in truth next to impossible. Such a silly thing to even ponder when she knew in her heart who had sired, madam had all but told her the blackguard who had split his seed into her mother, but she could not picture him being anything else to her. 

So she had wandered for about a fortnight to be precise when they had first taken Kings Landing if madam had been wrong. Nettles supposed she could blame it on all the attention he gave her. All his staring, naive she hoped it had been for that reason. It was a want more than anything else. 

She did not wish to be a Targaryen or Valyrian, but she did dream, more importantly, she wanted as all living creatures with some soul of sorts did. 

Nettles wanted to belong. To have a home. A family. To have a person. It had been so long since she had belonged to someone. 

So very long since she was someone’s dear one. Since she was the center of someone’s world. Perhaps it may have been a bit shameful that she wished that she was someone’s dear one in a more intimate manner, annoyed at the Gods for dropping another surrogate for the one she had lost so long ago instead of in the arms of a lover, but beggars could ask for more than they were. 

Never mind that she wanted him. Wanted him in a way that was written in some ancient text somewhere. In the way the singers sang their ballads she wanted him, but she’d settle for the dotted cherished daughter and hope to find intimacy along the way. 

She spent her time trying to find any shred of familial similarity between them. There were scarce few to be found, but she was deterred by it grasping at whatever she could catch. Perhaps the glint of his eyes, the smile that spread, maybe in his laugh, or the attention he bade her. Fathers freely showered their daughters with affection with attention. However, the man's attentions soon turned less than fatherly. 

Anything, but fatherly.

 His conduct bordered on obscene no it was obscene with the way he pulled her in dark enclaves and trailed after her skirts in the Red Keep. His eyes watched her too following her into that field that had become her place of respite in those weeks.

 How he had behaved in the training year a week before they had departed had been the final straw. Picturing Addams bloody and bruised tan face pummeled into the dirt beneath his boots as clear as day. 

It took six men to pull him off the younger man and it had taken every bit of her resolve to push Daemon away when he had pulled her away after that. 

He was a madman. Full of red-hot molten fire. For her. He couldn’t contain himself for her. 

His lips upon her own. Hands on her body. Underneath her skirts. Hiking them up. Drifting lower and lower until they grazed her thatch of womanhood. She could barely breathe with the way his tongue and his thumb had found her sweet spots that made light dance behind her eyelids and her knees buckled, yet she hadn't wanted him to stop. Not even the need for air had brought her to her senses. 

She had only been inebriated a handful of times in her young life, hating the way ale would burn the back of her throat and her stomach when she imbibed too much, but he made her feel dizzy. Drunk on him.  Quenching a thirst she didn’t know she had and making her want more. 

Twas only when he had found a spot within her that made her toes curl whispering her name as if she were the one making him feel like she had entered within the halls of the seven heavens that she remembered where she was and who was making her feel such joy. 

He had whispered her name. The name he gave her. That had done it for her. Netty. 

Even the Targaryens had their limits. They would certainly never stoop so low as to take their own daughter into their bed. Not even the zealots among them.

Daemon would never dare touch her if he thought she was his. 

There was no familial connection between them and it was hardly more likely that she had a drop of the old country in her, but did that matter? It didn’t matter to him and she had never been ashamed of who she was. What she was. Where she came from.  Proud of it for she could never forget it. 

He most certainly had not said anything of her heritage. Even if he believed himself more than most men because of his blood he loved her. He said he loved her. He had proven in his own way the truth of those words.

Hell, perhaps he loved her more than all the others. Loved her mayhaps more than anyone else had as silly as that sounded, but did she not deserve more than what she was given? To be treated with love. Did she not deserve love? His love. 

Yes, they were just words, three simple words, but he had taken her away from the vipers’ nest that was a rotting den of sin. He had seen that she was safe. Even from himself. He had not forced himself. He had not pushed. Even now when he nursed a bruised ego from when she had run away from the declarations of his affections. 

They were all things that one should expect from another common decency, chivalry even. Being seen as someone worthy of protection, but Nettles had learned to live without expectations this existence was seldom what one could expect. One had a lot in life and it was up to them to change it. That is what she had grown to expect. She was alone. No one had ever come to save her. She had to save herself. She was the only one who cared for herself till now. 

We do not exist in the world to be alone.  Nettles had to believe that. That there was something more than what had been. 

She had not known him for very long but did that matter when he cared for her and she for him. Did that matter?

The grandson of a king. The son of a would-be king. A brother to a king, a prince in his own right, the husband of the queen, and yet, Daemon had been good to her. Kind. Honest. Self-sacrificing. To her at least, he had been every bit of food she had seen in this world. 

That had to count for something. It had to mean something. Especially for a prince and someone like her. He did not have to and yet he was kinder than the lot who had been her tormentors for more years than she’d like to count. That meant something. 

She may be nothing, she may come from nothing, but by the Gods, if she was going to sell her soul she was going to sell it for much more than pleasure of the flesh. 

She hadn’t been quiet when she turned the lock. The door had creaked as she pushed it open. She wore no slippers, nothing apart from a simple frock and robe. She had buttoned up the ivory thing up to her chin for her modesty. Her bare feet padded against the cold stones, loud enough for him to hear her in the still.  

Nettles had washed away her tears in the wash basin that she kept near her bed. The maids always kept the small pitcher full for her. It was a Godssend after she came back from an exhausting day of riding. 

She was especially thankful for it now when she crept out on shaky legs into the unknown without the evidence of her distress upon her face a beacon in the moonlight, but she had done no more than that. 

He had indeed heard her, whipping his head around to face her and with such speed that it would’ve startled her had she meant to be quiet, but she did not wish to be so. That’s not what this was about. 

“Do you have a lover?” A simple hello would’ve been polite, a have I disturbed you would've been even more appropriate, mayhaps even an apology was warranted for her trying to storm off in the middle of a storm, but pleasantries served little purpose here. There was a raging sea, as great as the narrow sea which to cross which could not be with pleasantries.      

“Had,” he breathed out and added in the next breath lest her mind start wandering again desperately trying to fill in the answer. “Lady Mysaria.” Her mind wandered. An answer for an answer. Questions begetting more questions

“Do you wish her here?” In my place. In your bed.  At your side day in and day out. 

For everything that the Lysenni woman was, she was many things, for how high she had risen, she had risen high indeed having wormed her way into the queen's small council from a common dancing girl, she was not a dragonrider and likely never would be.  

That is something Nettles could offer. Her youth. Her abilities. A dragon. A companion in the skies as well as inside this castles walls. Those were her services to the war effort. To a throne forged in blood. For a crown. The crown. It always came back to that bloody crown. Perhaps she reminded him of the one who wore that crown. “Or perhaps you imagine another here in my place.” 

Flashes of the proud woman with blazing violet eyes always narrowed in assessment down at her subjects seated upon the throne flickered across her eyelids. Did he picture her too? That thought worried her more.

Nettles had told him what she was and what she was not. They both knew she wasn't his or any other Valyrian. She didn’t look anything like any other Valyrian. Her mother most certainly and from what she’d been told her father was a simple ship hand, but she was young and a dragonrider.  

It was what he was used to. The familiar. Familiar enough at least. 

A dragonrider still in bloom. The things he loved best in a woman she supposed. Youth and the connection to his heritage. As long as a woman possessed some version of it, even a minute one. It would be good enough. She would be good enough.

Good enough. Was that all she was? Just good enough? 

“No,” The sound of his boots snapped her out of her reverie as he reached out for her. He’d not changed out of them. In fact he hadn't changed out of anything. He probably was to drink himself to sleep in that chair. Still clothed and slumped over staring into the flames while he thought her asleep. Comforted by the fact that she was safe and sound except she didn’t feel so sound. She felt a world away from it. 

It was funny how he always seemed to know what she was thinking and how she felt without her having to voice it. Her confidence failing her, he reached out a pale hand to her as his irises widened in recognition.

 “No Netty,” she flinched back when his skin grazed hers. 

To his credit, he pulled that hand as if it had never been reaching for her, but the damage was down. Violet eyes downcast. Reminding her of a boy burned by her actions, as if she was the one who had been the cause of this all. As if she had wounded him from her rejection yet pitiful they may be those eyes did not part from her. 

Was that love? A need to console no matter if she had bruised him. That she was paramount. That her needs and wants came before his own. 

“If I did not wish for your company I would’ve taken another as my—,” he hesitated, his eyes unblinking as his eyes scanned over her face as if looking for the right word, eyes softening when he had seemingly found it. “—companion,” Companion. That was one way to put it. It was certainly something. Something with meaning something akin to what he spoke of and she supposed that was its own truth she was to face. 

Was that what she was? Her contribution to this plane of existence. A companion? His companion? Was that what was to be written when the old men in their robes with their chains set her name down in their great tombs by the flick of their quills they wielded like swords? 

Here lies what is left of the small brown girl known as Nettles, daughter of a nameless whore, rider of Sheepstealer, the companion of Prince Daemon Targaryen. Was that the truth of it? 

She supposed that it was true enough. At least in the practical sense of the word. They rarely parted from one another. He had seen to that when he had dragged her across Westeros to this place. This place where there was some semblance of peace intertwined with duty.

Unmoored by the court's expectations or the constant demands of a war council breathing with spies watching their every move. 

Where there was some state of being here. Just being. Their presence, the way they flitted around each other, the way they sought out the other, had been ever since she had landed atop Visenya’s hill, into his field of vision, was unnoticed or at least not trampled upon. It was freedom

Daemon had seen to it to take full advantage of that.

Nettles was at his side in the open skies and within the walls of this stone castle. They slept in adjoining bedchambers. They spent their days roaming on dragonback searching for his crazed nephew They broke their fast and suppers together. The only time they parted was for slumber and even then that was no guarantee. 

She liked to believe in knights and shining armor coming to rescue fair maidens. Daemon was no knight riding upon a white stallion and she was no fair lady of the court, but he had come for her. He had taken her under his protection. 

Made her his companion in deed if not yet in bond. She was his companion, his only companion here, his only companion now. Or she could be. If she just reached out and grasped the battle-worn hand he was so willing to give, she could have that.

On that account, she would take his sincerity for what it was. For she was the one he had forsaken others for. Even if he had not told her everything even if they could not have everything he had done so for her.  

Nettles had not been spying upon the man, but there hadn't been a need to. They were with each other day and night. They slept in adjoining bed chambers. Sometimes she’d even fall asleep in that armchair he had just now been sulking in. He’d cover. Respectable 

If he had been with someone else, if he had taken one of the maids to bed, she’d know. She’d hear it. See it. By the seven some of the less than friendly ones who glared at her while they filled her bathes and made her bed would’ve made sure that she’d have known, a hand gliding down his back when they helped him into his doublet showing one the serving boys away to do so, no she had seen no evidence of that, but Nettles couldn’t help thinking bitterly of the thought. 

She’d conceded that she was indeed his companion, but that wouldn't stop him if he wished for another. That hadn’t stopped the Targaryen prince before. That hadn’t stopped him from being with Mysaria when he was his wife’s. That hadn’t stopped him from marrying Rhaenyra only half a year after his most beloved wife had died. 

She was mad to think herself different. To think herself better than the women who had come before her for many women held the title of that and yet here she was. If he wanted to, he could find the time. If he wanted someone he would find her and take her into his bed. 

“That’s never stopped you before. You’ve never only had one woman, my prince.” She regretted it as soon as the words came out from her lips. Biting her lip in embarrassment as she took to looking at her feet feigning interest in her reddened soles. 

Lady Laena Velaryon. He had been good to her. So she had been told by Lady Baela. Though she was, but three when she went to her watery tomb from which she remained, youths bloom eternal. her memory never to be clouded over and withered with age. What did a child truly know of her parents and their marriage? How would Nettles trust what the girl had to say there? A girl even younger who had not seen half of what she had. A child by all measures. 

But even if she were not to trust what a child parroted, by all accounts Lord Corlys Velaryon, who Nettles knew with as much confidence as the elder dragon twin, did not seem the type of man to tolerate his daughter being mistreated. Much less to bear witness to said mistreatment within his halls. And if the late Lady Laena Velaryon had any of her eldest daughter's ample spirit, her own independent will would not permit him to.  

“She’d have been fond of you.” There was a wistful look in his eyes. She didn't doubt him. Not with that look. Not with the way they described her. She’d like to think she’d be fond of her too and yet she.  Do you picture her? She had almost asked it, but this too he sensed. “You’re you Netty.” He smiled. Twas the dreamy kind. “She would’ve loved you for it. As I do.” 

Odd as it was,  for the thought of a woman who was long since dead and would’ve always had to be as such to ensure their being here, to ensure what they were about to become to one another was an odd thing, nonetheless the notion was comforting.

 In another life, another time far distant from here in some way they could’ve all been happy together.

“Have you taken a lover?” The teasing was back in his voice when he had seen that she was not to contradict him. Levity returned to his chamber. Twas she now who moved closer to him. She who let him take a curl between his fingers. 

He twinned her dark ringlets around until those calloused digits grazed her skin. Dropping the curl in favor of letting the back of his hand caress down the apples of her cheeks. Nettles leaned into it. What would be the point not to? What would be the point of denying him or herself any longer? 

“No,” it wasn’t needed. They both knew that. He’d know just as well as she knew of him if she had, but she imagined male pride made him wish to hear the words coming from. She would grant him that wish. It was a simple enough request just the same asher. She smiled. Shy thing it was and met her with one of his own grins. 

“Your hands are freezing sweet girl,” he brought them to his lips. The warmth of his breath fanning her cold skin before kissing it. Warming up more than the cold of her hands. 

Gods, why was he so warm? His hands. His breath. Was it due to his blood? The dragon's fire which flowed within all Targaryens did it keep him in this perpetual furnace state?

Was he warm everywhere? That pale skin lay just beneath his robes. Was that warm? What would it feel like to have him surrounding her? To be underneath him. She would have blushed at that, should’ve blushed at that if she could, but the memories kept the heat off her cheeks. 

There were nights when she had forgotten what warmth was. When all she knew was cold. The bowl of the wind or the gust of the sea breeze bearing down on her. Winter’s storm wreaking havoc upon Driftmarks shores. Cold burying itself into her skin like a needle into a thread. She'd doubt ever growing cold again there with him. 

“I—I—” standing there stuttering with him looming over her and she was forced to look up at him. Nettles felt like the girl she never intended to be, but she didn't know what she was going to say. Mayhaps telling him that he was warmer than afire and she never wanted to leave out from its radiance. His radiance, in any case, she had never finished it.  

“You’d know if I had,” she breathed out, finally finding the words with a burst of heat brought to her cheeks with the admission helped by his fondling of her.   

Nettles closed her eyes and breathed out with a gasp when he began to nip at the skin behind her ear and opened them when pulled back. He had that boyish look upon him again. 

“I’ve never been with a man,” she whispered looking up at him. Blurting it out was more like it. Blunt and course. Her voice was low as she kept her gaze on a freckle underneath his right eye. A not-so-small part of her had hoped her words were indistinguishable, but he heard her well enough. 

“Do you mean to tell me you prefer the company of women Netty?”

Silver brows raised as the corners of his thin lips curled into a lopsided smile.  

It was the teasing sort. Boyish shaved several years off his face, but it was arrogant. Far too cocky. The kind which would’ve earned him a slap a couple of moons back and had if she was well within her mind, but Nettles could do little more than give in to her nerves, hide her head into his robes, and let out a quiet I’ve never been with anyone. Thankful at least that her brown skin hid her blush. What a sight that would've been. 

She had debated about telling him, had more than half a mind to keep it to herself, just because she allowed him into her bed or rather she’d come to his bed didn't mean he had to know the state of her he couldn't

expect much after all, but Nettles had figured it was no good keeping it from him. 

Of course, If she were a man she wouldn’t have told him, but it was different for a man and she doubted she’d be in his bed if she were one. 

Thankfully she was very much a woman and happy to be one for all the troubles it brought her, but women bleed. He’d know whether she told him or not in half an hour or two and she wanted him to know. She’d wanted to know if she were in his place and wanted to give him everything she could, but she hadn’t been expecting him to know. Most certainly not to voice it then and there.

“I know.” She could not help how her eyes bugged out.  Feeling the strain to the socket which they were attached to. If Lord Moonton had sprouted up from the embers of the fire speaking fluent Valyrian she couldn't have been more shocked.    

He knew. Sure enough, he had known. He thought her an innocent and he was right to think even though the fact of the matter was that she should not be an innocent. He should not expect her to be one. 

She was six and ten and she was a baseborn girl with barely a coin to her name. There were younger girls who had given up their virtues long since past. There were girls younger than her with a babe at their hips to show for it. Some highborn girls even and she was as lowborn as they come.

It was harder for girls like her to keep her innocence and in the grand scheme of things twas not important. Such was the price of life. What good was one's maidenhead when one was bent over with an ache in their belly for morsels of something that would take that pain away. Nettles had, but plenty of girls had given theirs. He knew.

“Whenever I touch you, you behave like a frightened colt,” he was grinning now. 

“I could be frightened of you.” It was a half-hearted statement if she had ever heard of one. She didn’t even believe herself as she said it. Nettles could feel her brows furrowing with her confusion. An act which caused Daemon to swipe his thumb gently across the crease as he smiled down at her and then repeated the caress on the scar that graced her nose. It was a sweet and maddening gesture.   

He knew. She did not know why she thought he would react any other way, but arrogant and proud man as he was he laughed at her. It was not a quiet thing either. It rumbled deep within and shook her along with it.

 I’m glad of it. Not for that— I’m glad they did not take away that from you either. She tried to look away then, but he kept their gazes affixed onto each other. Transfixed by the green reflecting off the candlelight. 

“You do not know the way men look at you, sweet girl.” He kissed and coed at her. Hands cupped her face as his thumb drew circles into the apples of her cheeks. Gentle. His touch was delicate despite the calloused upon the pads of his fingers.  “My innocent sweet girl.” 

“I’m not innocent.” Because she was not. She had done things. Seen things that no innocent had which she should not have ever seen, but he shushed her. It didn't matter. 

“I have seen my share of devils and monsters,” his thumb reached to brush against her scar. Caressing it as he swiped the pad of the digit across the marred skin. So sweetly. So undeserving for such violence she had inflicted upon herself. 

Shame, shame came over her then and there when she should have been feeling anything but it. She should have. been in the throes of passion and sempiternal ecstasy, but there was only shame. Shame for such a hated thing. 

Hate did not even begin to describe it, but there was no other word which Nettles could use to describe l. 

She Hated how she’d gotten it. The desperation and the shame coming over her whenever she remembered what transpired and she so tried not to remember. She tried not to, but it was a hard thing to ask of a girl of, but seven and ten. “You are the most innocent of creatures, Netty.” 

She had to protest that. Feeling the lump form in the back of her throat with her protest. I've stolen.

I’ve killed. I’ve seen war. I’ve been at war. Far longer than these past moons I've been marred by it. My body may remain untouched but no more innocent than you are, but that most worthy, most admirable protest ended with a flick of his tongue across the roof of her mouth. 

Arching where she stood she felt the rancor leave her with a waver in the pit of her belly. Words could wait. The words were stolen from her in truth, but she didn't mind that. They were not important. 

She’d been here before. In what seemed like a lifetime ago. An age clouded by grief and ignominy. The touch of his lips upon her own was a sensation shameful as it was to admit it that she had already been privy to. 

Nettles would be lying to herself if she said she did not like it then as she did now. Not stopping him when he grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her into him.

However, that stolen kiss had never been like this. It was quick and greedy and maddening. She had been kissed with the force of a man dying of thirst, but this was a man who wished to savor them.   

Anticipation. That was what was different. It may have been there before, but it was shrouded by fear rather than unrestrained desire. She couldn't give in. Couldn’t get lost in it. She couldn't have him. She couldn't want him. He was not hers to want much less need. She needed him. Mayhaps she shouldn’t have, but she did. 

Her robe had too many buttons. Far too many buttons. Gods she should’ve picked something else. Forgone the insipid thing. There was a part of her who liked its frills. Cornflower etched into neat little rows on the border. It was pretty despite its plainness. The buttons were the most intricate thing about it. Marked with the sigil of his house. A bronze three-headed dragon, a gift she had allowed to adorn her, to brand her even when she had been too proud to accept more than that, when she would’ve never accepted this supposed the Daemon had a different branding. 

He stripped her bare. He was patient in his doing. More patient than she expected. Oh he huffed and he groaned at the amount of layers she wore. He certainly seemed annoyed by the amount of buttons on her robes, but he was gentle. Taking every button at a time. His fingers worked to undo them with a gentleness that did not match the hot current buzzing through the chamber. 

So very gentle and so very maddening. For she wanted it off her. Needed it off her.  Needed his skin upon her own. Needed not a stitch between them.  She must've said something in her haze for when the breath returned to her lungs and her mind floated back to body she was greeted by the rich cadence of his deep laugh.

“We have all night Netty,” he said when hands had finally undid the last of them. Freeing her at last from the garment as he threw it off somewhere behind them to be forgotten, the cold of the chamber hit her like an ice bath, but she did not remain cold long, placing a kiss upon the skin above her heart, another beneath her breast. Hovering above her as his lips ghosted her flushed skin leaving trails of wetness in their wake. 

“All morning.” She was in his arms before he had finished his sentence. Sweeping  her up off her feet and  into his arms. He cradled her like one would a bride Nettles could almost pretend that she was one. This was after all a beginning of sorts. A most thrilling little beginning. Perhaps they could be happy in this life with what they had. 

“I do not intend on leaving these chambers until you are well looked after.” His mouth captured hers in a kiss mid yelp from the suddenness of being carried around like a doll. 

Enveloping them in a sultry dance with the keen swipe of a wet muscle against the roof of her mouth. The fervor of teeth clashing in their pursuit of the other. Thin, but no less stimulating lips, softer than she expected, enraptured her plump ones as their tongues battled for domination or at least she tried to match his intensity as he folded the rest of her into him. 

It faintly registered to her that she had been placed upon the bed when she felt the soft linens greet her as he pushed her back. Silk glided across her bare back as Daemon draped on top of her, encasing her between his arms he had dropped by her head. His knees knocked her legs apart to spread her wide and open for him.  

He hovered above her on his knees as he divested of his own robes. Pulling the tunic over his head and tossing the garment that had become as much a hindrance as it had been a necessity before behind them to join her gown.

Standing there as naked as the day which he was born with all his might. A marble statue carved by the Gods, all for her as she was all for him. 

Nettles wondered what she might look like in those violet eyes that stared down at her.

Shivering. Bare skin the color of earth spread out before him in her glory. Before a God. Every common flesh was exposed for his eye to see while she was left to wait and wait for that God.

He had left her cold, exposed for that spell, exposed in ways that had her flushed, chilled, and trembling with something more than anticipation, but he seemingly had his fill of feasting upon her. Taking up his rightful place within that empty space which had been left waiting for him. The cold was replaced by him and she was left to worry no more. She wondered why she ever had when he looked at her like she had set him ablaze. When she could feel the heat of that burn. 

Daemon was warm. Warm everywhere. His flesh fire to her ice. 

Warm and hard. Rough in places where she wasn’t. 

“Have you ever touched yourself?” Perhaps he was right in saying she behaved like a freighted colt. She certainly felt like one then. Trying to hide her. No forming upon the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite get the words out. Too distracted. He had wanted a reply. Drawing it out from her with his lips upon hers. That smirk he wore was not so hidden by a small peck. Diligently awaiting an answer as he remained affixed on driving her to distraction. 

“Yes.” Her cheeks felt as if they were burning under her embarrassment. He must have known the answer before it left her plump lips, but a silent knowing was different than an explicit confirmation that set her face ablaze and set him to claim the victory. 

Daemon chuckled and the vibrations of his laugh grazed the skin under her now heaving breasts just where her ribcage sat encasing her lungs which at the moment she had a great deal of trouble getting air in from. Causing a new round of goose pimples to break out across her skin from the exertion and lack of air to her head. 

That familiar feeling of pins through her. The deliciousness of that chill going down her spine that somehow warmed her when it reached her center. sent her trembling like a leaf not for warmth, but for him.

“You’ve been neglecting yourself.”  Nettles  would’ve been embarrassed by the admission of what he could feel. Of what she felt. His fingers plunging into her with 

She should’ve been embarrassed by his touch at that most intimate place between her legs, the way in which but she was too far gone to care. He had barely touched her in truth, only a few simple thrusts and she had already gone hazy with something other than the emotions which had overwhelmed her these past moons. 

“You’re so wet for me sweet girl.” As if to accentuate it he pistoled his forefinger back into the hilt her warmth. The sound of her wetness echoed throughout the chamber “Let me take care of you.” 

She felt that stirring within her core. Want pure unadulterated want and yet despite that molten heat she froze at the last words. Trying to curl into herself despite the fact that he surrounded her. 

Did she wish for him to take care of her in this way there would be no going back after this? She could not feign disinterest. Or curiosity for merely a friendly connection. That stubborn pride which she had clung to which kept her from him would sever. Gone. Banished to the ether. 

Twas what she longed for even against all her self-righteousness, but a final bit of self-preservation made its last grandstand as she shifted her body, however fleeting it was. She had to make for as much 

But he saw her fright and abated with a kiss placed behind her ear. Hands around her hips steadying her. Keeping her from crawling away from him further up the bed and curling into herself like a frightened kitten even if he could not stop her shivering. “One word,” he paused to gift her another kiss, this time upon her neck bared to him as he made his way down her body—“one word Netty and I will stop if that is what you wish.”

One solitary word and yet stop or its simple cousin of no could be the furthest thing from the tip of her tongue. Not with the way he looked at her, eyes glazed over with what sins his tongue concocted upon her. 

Words were immaterial. Fickle simperings that men whispered to their lovers, but did not ever intend on making good of. Like wind. 

Coming and going without planting any real roots. They might as well have been the wind pounding at the pane. The storm letting itself be known just beyond the warmth of these chambers. 

And yet words were as real as that storm. As real as the Gods speaking to them. As real as her prince spoke to her. For they were more than just pretty troths. She knew better than that. “It is at your command that I obey, precious girl.” 

He didn't give her time to doubt him. A set of rough hands planted themselves upon her hips to stop her from. Drawing little crescent shapes into the brown skin underneath his fingertips while his mouth had reached her center. The warmth of his breath fanning her bare cunny. Hot with desire and she froze again when she realized how he wished to take care of her. 

“You do not have to—Daemon—,” Nettles cried out when she felt that wet muscle of sin upon her womanhood. That delicious tongue at last upon her dripping center. Lapping at her. The very thing she had tried to prevent, the very thing she thought herself undeserving of and yet there was nothing she could do except lie there and take it. Enjoy it. 

Did she not deserve this? Had she not expected this There was no point in denial or hiding now.  Not when they had come this far. Might as well trust herself. Trust him. Trust this. 

There was nothing that she wished to do, but lie there and let him lap at her folds. Hands gripping his locks to bring him closer. Curling around him. 

He drank from her heat like a starving man and she was his only salvation. She yelped out her pleasure. Whined and tried to stifle her moans into her pillow, but he reached a hand up to tilt her head back down to them. 

Their eyes met, violet on brown as he groaned into her folds. It was The most erotic noise she had ever heard if that had not been the most erotic thing she had ever felt.

Daemon pulled away with a nip at her button to mumble something or another about a fountain of youth lying between her legs, but her mind had become too much of a hazy place clouded over by the fog of her impending orgasm to make much sense of what he spoke of.

It was intoxicating. Overwhelming and yet she itched still with want. With need. She wanted more so much more she never wanted it to end building and building what awaited her. She knew there was more and she needed that. She needed him. 

“Take me.” She shuddered around his silver head, arching further into his touch, her body washed over with pleasure. “Please take me.” She cried once more, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t so much as flinch at her whines. 

Fingers still gliding in and out as his tongue continued his lapping at that button resting atop trembling thighs. “I want you to take me.” A new flush overtook her body. If she grew any warmer she might very well melt into a puddle she had said every last word before but not in this way.

“I am.” An answer at last. Though it was a false statement if ever there was one and it did little to pacify the squirming girl in fact all it did was spur on that yearning. That burning wildfire within her being denied for moons for a lifetime and wanting so now that it had been stoked at his sinewy hand.

“I want you inside of me. Now,” she pleaded like a child. The word please playing on loop upon the tip of her tongue. Whining and panting hoping he’d listen. Give in. Do something to end this  purgatory of lust and bring her to the abyss of euphoria, but he barely noticed how she had begun to thrash underneath his grip. Her cunt spasming around his tongue like a woman possessed. 

He didn’t care that he was torturing her. Not caring one bit of the fevered state he had worked her to. Loving doing so judging by the way he would not let up. The way in which he aptly elicited her rapture. Egging her on and taking it in like a starved man. 

Her whines were the tune of a siren to his ears. Every lick begot a new note. Every moan he drank and met with his own ardent lust of groans into her slick. Every tremble he caught with that velvet grip. Caring for her. Meeting her for all that she would give him. For all that she was. 

Nettles had to be practically suffocating, no she was suffocating the silver haired man with her grip held firm as she pushed his head, his wonderful tongue further into herheat. There could hardly be any air left for him to breathe with his nose upon her clit, it caused the most delicious friction as she ground down on him. 

Almost satisfying that itch that he built deep inside her he was so lovely bullying, but only almost. For and his mouth latched onto her sopping cunt. On and on and on. Lap after lap. Turning her into a mere puddle of want and need before him. 

He had indeed been right when he called her a fountain. A fountain overflowed with passion. Covering them both in her spend which would surely leave a mess for the maids to clean on the morrow, or for her to try and clean, but that was for then to worry over and now to bargain. He set her a light and now she was boiling. 

“Please.” She choked for breath, for him. “Please.”

“Patience sweet one.” He whispered into her folds. Pulling away briefly from His tongue swiping across the expanse of her cunt as she quivered around nothing desperately wanting to be filled. Desperately wanting him. “All good things come to those who are patient and sweet.”

“I’ve been good.” Begging it had come down to begging. “Please, I need you.” Her mind had become a scatterplot of moans and pleases in her quest for mercy. Black spots blanketed her vision, her tongue loosened on the verge of madness. She felt far away and so close that all that was worth living for. 

He took pity on her at last. Perhaps he could no longer resist her and whine more than she could he. Calling to each other with blackened glances singed with fire and words left unspoken. 

His cock head in hand hardened red and angry as he loomed over her before pouncing upon her. Sheathing himself into her quivering channel with one swift thrust. He knocked what little air remained from out her lungs to join her in that bliss at last.

“Is this what you wanted, sweet thing?”  If Daemon expected her to say something he would be at a loss for she could not reply to him. Not with words. Barely with whines. Only her breath upon his scarred nape. But even in that haze that had enveloped her, she could see his questioning was more rhetorical than anything else when lauding her with lust-riddled admiration. 

“Gods you're tight. So tight for me,” he crooned into the shell of her ear. Falling over to praise her. with such sweet simperings that left her mewling beneath him. 

Her body curled around him. Bare skin against bare skin. Sweat and blood and slick. Legs wrapped around his middle. Clinging to him. Nipping at the scars upon his nape from battles of old. Drawing him nearer. Nails digging into the meat of his forearms. 

The bit of her claws sharp enough to draw blood, she should’ve cared about that, but Daemon did remove her hands back to resting by her head, where he had placed them before, and the sting of her bite was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth rather than floating away into the ether into the bliss of oblivion. 

She was going to burst. She was filled to the brim. That stirring inside of her was too strong to resist. She could not resist feeling her walls fluttering around his length. Pulsing with each pump into her walls. It was too much. Entirely too much and everything and he felt it too. 

“You squeeze me so well. That’s it sweet girl.” In and out and back in again. Each thrust was punctuated with the soft squelch of her cunny echoing around the chamber. Sucking him in further into her heat. In and out. 

He barely left her. only just pushing out of her cunny with his throbbing length to push back into her center to the hilt. Hitting her cervix with each thrust. She met him with a fluttering of her walls around him.

He moaned; he actually moaned into her ear. The breathy kind. The kind that one could not keep in. The kind too exhausted, too weary, too good to keep in for one might burst if they did not let it out. It was too good. She was too good. 

Here and now beneath the cover of darkness a storm and in a far and distant place away from everyone they had ever known, she unbound the rogue prince in every way that mattered. 

In the way her cunnys walls squeezed him, pushing him deeper inside her as she cared down upon him. In the way she dripped around him down to her little mewls at his ear and scratches down his back. The brown bastard girl with nothing but a dragon to her name unmoored him.

“I want you to come with me.” He choked out. His voice was a strained grunt. Just holding onto what little sanity remained left between the two for she had long given up on anything besides tethering herself to him.

“Come with me,” Daemon whispered, letting go at last with a groan and she followed into euphoria. Her body was shaking around him as he spilled his seed in her. Painting her walls with his essence. Marking her with him as she milked him dry. Marking him with one final rake of her nails down his pale back scars to join hers. 

He did not move from her when all had gone quiet except for the howl of the wind. Quite the opposite for as they lay there panting bare with slick and sweat in each other's arms trying to catch their breaths, his softened length remained seated inside her heat pulsing with the aftershocks of their coupling.

Finding warmth in the lingering of bliss. Statues and satisfied at least for the time being at least until they wanted again until the longing became too much to bear as it surely would. 

“Rest now sweetling, rest.” 

Nettles headed the Targaryen man once more. Resting her head upon the space she carved for herself between his reddened nape and the heat of his shoulder blade as their spends leaked onto the sheets below them with.

Took comfort in him and let him take comfort in her for she knew one thing that night and night after and the night after that. She never wanted to leave his side nor would Daemon ever let her. 

Ao3 Link:

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115 AC - Dragonstone

Naerys had been told by her septa that a woman’s place in this world is a precarious thing, but she had not known what it meant until now. She was the blood of old Valyria though she did not feel it. She lacked the true spirit of her dragon rider ancestors. It mattered not now. Today was her wedding day and she had been every inch the Valyrian bride. She knew her duty. Naerys was to be her uncle’s long-awaited prize.

Her uncle’s wife, the Lady Rhea Royce, had died. It had been an accident. Lady Rhea had fallen off her horse and broke her back hawking. A tragedy, but that did not stop the murmurs around court and the Vale. The whispers only grew when her uncle had gone to Runestone to claim his late lady wife’s seat.

The king dismissed them of course. Daemon had been away from the Vale in the Stepstones at the time. Short of him being in two places at once, Lady Rhea’s death was an unfortunate incident. And with it, Daemon was freed from his ill-fated union. Free if he chose to take a woman to wife.

Her uncle did not have to remarry. He was a second son who stood to inherit nothing. Daemon had not been his brother’s heir for years. In that time, king Viserys had more heirs. His eldest daughter had sons of her own now. House Targaryen’s future stood secure, but the prince had made it clear that he intended to marry again.

The small council suggested that a match between the Prince of Dorne’s daughter and the rogue prince would be ideal. She was said to be beautiful, she was an avid rider, her High Valyrian was near perfect, and most importantly she was her father’s heir. A second son could not want more in a bride. Daemon had rejected the match with a chuckle that bounced around the throne room.

A Martell bride would bring him his own seat. It would finally bring Dorne into the fold with the rest of the kingdoms Viserys ruled over, but he had not wanted it. He had already been made to take one wife he did not want. He would not take another. This time around Daemon Targaryen had wanted a wife of his own choosing.

Daemon had informed her uncle’s small council that he wanted a Valyrian wife and Dragonstone. He would take his niece Naerys, his half-brother’s only daughter, to wife. The prince had Caraxes, fought in wars, and he would now have her. His final trophy. A young Targaryen wife. A naive impressionable girl and a seat for them to rule over.

The council had all scoffed at his initial request. “Our niece is too young for you brother,” her uncle, the king, had told him.

“She is not Rhaenyra my prince,” Naerys uncle Lord Corlys Velaryon had chimed in as well. “You will find her wanting.” As she was his ward it was his job to worry over her safety and future marriage prospects.

Daemon’s involvement with the king's heir and oldest daughter, Princess Rhaenyra was an open secret. Though she was herself now married to Lord Corlys son Ser Laenor, with them both being at court it was only a matter of time before the two might rekindle their affections for one another.

Naerys was too sweet. A shy little thing who had seen little of the world outside of Driftmark. She would not be an adequate replacement for the worldly Prince’s true desires. It was not until Daemon threatened to go to Lys, find his mistress, and take her to wife, that the king then conceded much to the disappointment of some at court.

No one had dared to voice their objections once the king agreed to the match apart from the queen and unsurprisingly the princess. Her father had once been the king's hand. Ser Otto Hightower and Daemon had never seen eye to eye. It seemed that the father's grudge had passed onto the daughter. Queen Alicent had tried to remind her husband of his brother’s ways, but the king dismissed her concerns.

Rhaenyra had initially laughed upon hearing the news that Daemon had wanted to take her for a wife. “Let my uncle have his little Targaryen bride,” she had exclaimed with glee to anyone who asked her opinion on the matter. “My dear little cousin and his duties at court should keep Daemon occupied. He will do his duty to his king and his heir.” The meaning was not lost to those around the Red Keep.

“If he wants to plot it will not be easy with the whole court watching him,” the princess had added. Naerys would often find her cousin staring across a room in search of their uncle. The man would sometimes meet her hopeful lilac gaze though his eyes would often drift to a pair of deep violet ones.

Rhaenyra’s tune changed upon finding out that they would not reside in the Red Keep and would be given Dragonstone. She then joined in with Alicent. Naerys own opinion on the match had not been asked for her opinion on her future union with her uncle. In the end, Daemon had gotten what he wanted. A young unspoiled niece for a bride and their family’s seat Dragonstone.

The ceremony itself had been nerve-racking. Her uncle had insisted upon a Valyrian ceremony. Naerys did not know half the words. Her Valyrian had always been less than satisfactory. Daemon had not laughed when she stumbled over the words. He never had when it came to her. Even when her face grew hot at his vulgarity he simply grinned at her.

Naerys had not been able to cut herself nor when the priest had called for the binding. Daemon had to do it for her. Seemingly taking pleasure in her anxiousness as he brought the blade to both of their lips and then hands with a self-satisfied smirk. The feast afterward had been a blur.

“Come here sweetling,” Naerys' new husband had called her once her new lady’s maids had left, breaking her out of her daze. They were alone in her bed chambers. Her uncle had been kind enough to allow the dispensation of the bedding ceremony. There was no need to when they all knew that this marriage would be unlike the prince's first.

Naerys felt the urge to pretend she had not heard him. She had been made to change into a sheer gown that did little to hide her figure. Her aunt Princess Rhaenys had tried to warn her of what might occur on her wedding night, but it did little to calm her. When Daemon called for her again she knew that she could not avoid him.

Naerys reluctantly made her way out from behind her changing screen, her eyes briefly landing on her uncle who stood by her fireplace. The fire's glow bathed him in its warm light and cast shadows across the room. From the corner of her eyes, she could see that her husband's gaze followed her across the room. He did not waste time pulling her into his arms when she finally reached him.

Daemon did not say anything as he stroked her silver curls. For a time they stood in silence. His gaze fell back to the fire. The only thing that could be heard was the crackle of it and the faint sounds of the feast down below.

“I suppose I will need to break you in.” He seemed to be thinking out loud, but that did not stop Naerys from pulling back from him. Daemon did not move to stop her as she turned away to face the side of the room. Her arms came up to cradle herself as her dark eyes landed upon what would soon be her marriage bed.

“Give him heirs Naerys.” Her uncle Ser Vaemond had whispered in her ear before her husband took her away to her new chambers. That is what she was there for. A mere plaything for her uncle. To appease him, birth his children, care for them, and console him when needed.

Naerys was wanted for her blood and what she could offer him with it. She was the blood of the dragon even if she did not feel it. She was a dragon rider. She might have even been queen had her father, but she felt even younger than her sixteen name days at that moment.

“Come niece, I will not harm you.” Naerys turned slightly to see that he held out a pale hand towards her. She hesitated to take it, but her fate was sealed whether she took it or not. She gave into her husband's demand, reaching for his outstretched arm with her small brown one. He laid another kiss on her head when she was close enough. She heard her husband sigh as he pulled her back into him.

“Ao issi gevie byka mēre.” Naerys only made out half of his words.

“Do not worry little wife,” Daemon hummed lightly. He drew circles upon her back with his right hand. It was almost soothing until he began to pull her gown up with his other hand. “I will not mind teaching you.” His hands drifted down to her newly exposed rear making the young bride tense up once more. As she closed her eyes she was confronted with the realization of why they were here, to begin with.

With any luck the sooner they consummate their union, the faster he would leave her and go back to his own quarters. Rhaenyra was with them on Dragonstone. The young bride was not naive. She was not her uncle’s first choice, Naerys knew that, but she would do her duty.

Translations:

Ao issi gevie byka mēre: You are beautiful little one

Ao3 link:

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116 AC-Kings Landing

“That was then Rhaenyra,” Daemon's quiet voice could be heard from their solar, awakening Naerys from her restless nap. She had tried to sleep but had not been able to find an agreeable position in which she could take her mid-day slumber. Instead, she lies in the realm between reality and dreams. Constantly drifting in and out of consciousness.

In the fortnight they had spent at the capital it seemed as if Naerys could not get enough rest. She woke up tired and went to bed in the same state. Her days had become a monotonous string of court proceedings that she struggled to find her footing.

The sun set and the sun rose and a new day of court would begin. An endless parade of pageantry and tittering empty-headed smiles. The young princess longed for the quiet solitude of Dragonstone. Some nights she would lie awake going through every interaction she had that day.

Laena, her husband, and the rest of house Velaryon were stuck on Driftmark. A coming storm had made their journey to Kings Landing impossible. Alicent and Rhaenyra had taken it upon themselves to entertain her in her cousin's absence. If it was not Alicent with her constant teas, sewing circles, and worrying looks it was Rhaenyra and her jibs. Searching her face to see which one would hit its target.

Naerys' husband's general absence had not helped matters. She knew that her uncle had not meant to neglect her. Perhaps neglect wasn’t even the right word for it. The simple fact of the matter was that duty had called. One could hardly say no to the king. Least of all when he is your elder brother.

Daemon was back in the Viserys good graces. All was forgiven since the debacle of their wedding had put further strain on the brother's relationship. Daemon had been invited to attend small council meetings. Lord Strong surprisingly did not object to her husband’s presence on the small council. The lord undoubtedly wanted to keep the peace and was willing to make sacrifices to do so. The rest of the council had followed the hand’s lead.

The rogue prince's seat at the meetings was in an unofficial capacity of course, but some position on the council would no doubt be offered to him once more. He would take it. Daemon was never one for the shadows. Dragonstone was less than stimulating to the mind. At court he was in his element once more.

Naerys herself had been offered to attend a council meeting, but Rhaenyra had put her off from taking up the offer. “Naerys will be bored out of her mind uncle. Wouldn’t you aunt?” It was said with the same condescending tone that she always spoke with. The remark stung, but not as much as her other taunts.

“Children are a joy.” Rhaenyra had found her bullseyes. As Rhaenyra cooed over her black-haired sons, Naerys had to hold back from snapping at the woman. The realm's delight had gotten with child without having to bat so much as an eye. She had given birth to two healthy sons. Two healthy heirs. Not all women were so lucky.

Naerys apparent lack of children had been a source of gossip throughout the Red Keep. Rhaenyra had seen to it. Among the ladies at court, the detail of her empty womb was a favorite topic of conversation. She’s barren. She can not give him children. Poor thing. Perhaps the prince will take a lover again. The young princess would have faltered under the growing weight of the chatter had she not suspected that their efforts to have an heir might yet be fulfilled.

“It wasn’t very long ago.” Rhaenyra’s high-pitched whisperings interrupted the younger girl from her memories. Bringing her back to her present reality, Naerys reached for the robe hanging off her changing room's screen to cover her nakedness. The capital was much warmer than Dragonstone. Even when Daemon did not join her in sleep, she remained comfortable throughout the nights.

“She has yet to give you a child.” Naerys hand flew to her stomach. Peering through the crack in the door that Daemon had left to take a look to see the scene that was playing out in their chamber. Her husband stood by a freshly lit fire with a drink in his hand. Rhaenyra’s back was turned towards her as she faced their uncle.

“So has Laenor.” Naerys could see Rhaenyra visibly wincing from where she stood. Her body jumped slightly at their uncle's words. Daemon looked unbothered, almost bored with the flow of conversation as he swirled the amber liquid in his goblet before taking another slow sip. He had not taken his eyes off the firelight in their chambers.

“She may never give you heirs.” A sneer was evident in her voice. Her spine stilling, holding her head high once more. “What good is my cousin, a Valyrian bride, good for if she has not done her duty to you?” It was a bluff. Naerys could not be put aside so easily. The king would not allow it. Both Ser Vaemond and Lord Corlys would raise hell if an accident were to occur. She was the blood of old Valyria, not a common Andal lady.

“She’s my wife Rhaenyra.” He had lowered his voice. Daemon had finally turned around to glare down at the realm's delight. The dying light of the day coupled with the glow from the fire cast his eyes in a tenebrous haze. “You will do well to remember that.”

“Lady Rhea Royce was your wife as well.” Rhaenyra let out a bitter laugh as she continued on. Unconcerned with the shadows that crossed their uncle's face. “What did you call her? Your bronze bitch. Have you forgotten her already?”

It was easy enough to forget that Daemon had ever been married to another. Her husband never brought up his ill-fated union with the vale woman. Naerys had never even met the woman. She only existed in the outer reaches of her mind as a faceless memory.

“You promised me and yet you married her.” Her cousin's anger and desperation had grown into something else. Rhaenyra grabbed Daemon. Pulling the tall man into her space. “You promised me.” Her husband did not move from her cousin's grasp. Daemon began to stroke her forearm. The touch was intimate. As if they had done it a million times before. Rhaenyra’s words echoed in Naerys' mind.

Naerys did not know what the two got up to during her visits or what happened between the two before their respective marriages. She would not ask now. The past lay in the past. It was best kept that way. Daemon was ever the attentive husband these days. She would not bring up old misdeeds, but it seemed that these wounds appeared whether she wanted them to or not.

“Rhaenyra.” It was said with a sigh. The venom was gone from his gaze. Her husband closed his eyes briefly as if to gather his bearings. His fingers continued their descent across Rhaenyra’s arm. Naerys could feel her blood begin to boil. She was grateful that no objects lay within her reach or else she would have hurled them at her uncle's head.

“Kosti sagon biare kesīr.” Daemon did not reply. His fingers had finally ceased their movement. He cast his violet eyes towards the door where his wife hid behind. Naerys froze hoping he had not seen her.

“Would you abandon Ser Harwin so easily?” Naerys could see her husband leaning down as if to whisper a poorly kept secret in her cousin's ear. Rhaenyra had taken a lover herself. She was not left without companionship. She found her own distractions.

“I had no choice.” Rhaenyra sputtered at her uncle's question. Her desperation returned as she reached out to bring him near her.” I was alone. We both were.” Excuses fell from her lips, but came upon deaf ears. Daemon spurred his niece’s advances this time. Moving further away from her grasp back towards the fire.

“I am not alone Rhaenyra.” Daemon turned his back fully towards the fire to face Rhaenyra, but he did not look at his niece as he had said the words. Naerys felt her husband's gaze lock onto her. A grin spread across his face which seemed to grow when he saw the fury within his wife.

Rhaenyra had yet to see her, but the woman was burning up with her own barely contained-rage. She almost fluttered past her as she made her way to exit their chambers, but her lilac eyes finally landed on her cousin. The princess yanked open the iron-framed oak door, bringing in a draft, to face her cousin. Naerys pulled her robe tighter around her body to ward off the chill.

“He never stays in one bed for long.” Rhaenyra’s eyes cast down at Naerys stomach with a mirthless sneer. The older girl bent down slightly to spit her next words in her cousin's ear. “If he ever puts a babe in you he’ll just move on to the next one.” The older girl cast one last look at their uncle, before storming from the room.

A wave of dizziness came over Naerys. Daemon was by her side with surprising speed. His smirk had fallen as he helped her into his chair, seating her on his lap before handing her a goblet of water fussing over her as if he were a mother hen. “I’ve sent for Maester Orlys.” He urged her to drink the cooling liquid. Her anger at her husband faded with each sip. “We are not going.”

Naerys had nearly forgotten Jacaerys name-day feast. Rhaenyra had pushed it back as far as she could, but now that Ser Harwin and the Velaryon party had finally arrived the feast was to take place that night.

“We must.” They hadn’t much of a choice. Their absence at the festivities would be noted. Daemon may not care what the “sheep” gossiped about, but Naerys would not add fuel to the growing pyre. They still had to do their duty.

Naerys made ready to climb off her husband’s lap though her Daemon would not release her. He merely shushed her as he brought the back of his hand up to stroke his niece's sable cheek. He gave her a dark look before he leaned in, catching her open mouth by surprise. Their pink tongues danced tangling with one another briefly before her uncle pulled away.

“Ao issi issa vys issa byka mēre.” Daemon buried his silver head in her neck. He was breathing her in as he softly petted the silver coils at her nape. Naerys let herself be fawned over. Her husband's words and gentle ministrations soothed the last remnants of the dull ache she had felt moments ago. “You mean more to me than you could possibly know.”

It occurred to her that for all of his bolstering and saccharine remarks Daemon had never spoken those three little words. They had been married for a year now and yet in some ways Naerys still felt like she did not know her husband at all of his true opinion of her.

Was a man like her husband even capable of such feelings? Was he even capable of feeling that way toward her? Love was not a requirement of marriage, but Naerys was certain that she carried half of him inside of her. Surely that meant something. Was she to share a child with a man who ran hot one minute and cold?

“Get dressed sweetling.” Daemon snapped Naerys from her thoughts with a start. Releasing her from his lap with a final kiss on her temple before turning quickly to head to his own antechamber to do the same.

The rogue prince did not stop to check back on her, but his wife did not miss the glance he gave her before he had left to change. Nor did she miss when he hesitated to leave her in the first place. Naerys knew that she was burning under his fire, but perhaps he burned in hers as well. Or perhaps she was too hopeful. Believing in fairytales, words made of wind, and gallant knights where there were none to be found.

If it was something Naerys mother's family were known for it was how to make an entrance. In Velaryon fashion, they arrived late. They were the last ones to arrive at the Red Keep for the little prince's festivities and what an entrance they had made. Particularly Laena’s girls.

The little darlings had stolen the show. Baela and Rhaena were not yet half a year old and yet their presence dazzled the court. They were small little things that had inherited their mother's silver waves and the lilac eyes of house Velaryon. Sans their coloring, which was all Ser Harwin, they looked like the spitting image of their mother.

Naerys held onto the belief that babies could change until she saw Luke and Jace near their sire. Laenor’s “sons” had not a stitch of their “father” in them, nor their mother for that matter. One had only to look at Ser Harwin to see who fathered them.

Naerys had not meant to ambush her cousin, but Laena had arrived too late for a private chat over tea as she had wanted. She and Daemon were officially due to depart for Dragonstone in the coming days. Regardless of whether they made that journey together or not, the feast was likely Naerys' only chance to learn the truth of the situation.

Her cousins had not denied the affair. “My daughter will be queen,” Laena smiled at the passing ladies of the court as they took a turn about the room. “My youngest will likely be the lady of Driftmark.” She was a daughter of house Velaryon and a dragonrider. She held her head high as they passed by her husband. Ser Harwin smiled at his wife, bouncing one of their daughters in his hold. “I am happy with what I have dear cousin.”

Naerys could not understand how her cousin could be so calm in the face of everything. Laena had the patience of a septa. The young princess did not believe she could endure being around her husband’s mistress day in and out, much less embrace the situation with open arms. She would have grown mad by now, but her oldest cousin possessed a quiet acceptance that was lacking in even those twice her age.

Princess Rhaenys bristled whenever Rhaenyra or her sons came near. She seemed to avoid her good son altogether. Leaving for the opposite side of the room when the captain of the city watch ventured too close to her. Her behavior was a stark contrast to how her husband approached the subject of their grandsons and their sire

Lord Corlys for all intents and purposes appeared unconcerned. Baela, Laena’s oldest, was already betrothed to the future king of the seven kingdoms. From Laena’s own mouth Rhaena would be betrothed to the heir of her father's seat. As long as her uncle's blood sat upon the Driftwood throne he would not deny the strong boys the privilege of the Velaryon name.

Naerys' other uncle was a different matter. If there was any question of Ser Vaemond’s views on the future king and the Lord of Driftmark one need only to see the sneers the dark man gave his good niece and her sons to decipher his true opinion.

Laena was called away to deal with a teething Rhaena. Naerys was left alone. Daemon stood on the opposite side of the hall with Lord Boremund and her aunt Rhaenys. Her husband met her eyes, giving her a smirk. She might have gone over to join them, but though he was good-natured she always found the storm lord too brutish for her tastes.

“You glow my princess.” A foreign voice emerged from the shadows. Naerys turned to its source to come face to face with a ghost. Lords and Ladies gilded around the great hall with practiced ease. Not paying any attention to them. Naerys wondered if the woman was a figment of her imagination, but she knew that her eyes did not deceive her when Rhaenyra stared at her from where she sat at the high table with a mocking leer.

Lady Mysaria stood as an unnaturally pale thin creature cloaked in a hooded robe. Naerys had only seen her husband's former mistress from a distance. She had been a child then, but The woman had not changed much from her memory.

“Thank you.” Naerys did not know how else to respond. It was best to take her words at face value than see them as something more. The woman reached out a milky hand to brush her stomach. Her hands were cold. Cold enough to feel through the layers of dark gown she wore. Naerys tried not to flinch at her touch. Something told her not to falter under the pale woman’s stare.

“You have not told him have you?” The white worm continued to caress her stomach. Naerys dared not to breathe. She feared that if she did her body would give into the cold. “Children are fickle creatures. A blessing from the Gods that can be so easily taken away before they are even born.” She smiled and the chill spread. “Fear not princess, your husband shall have his heir.” Mysaria turned her violet gaze on the other side of the room towards where the princess had last seen her husband.

Naerys did not want to follow it, but she could not resist. Lord Boremund and Rhaenys had left from Daemon's side. Their presence had been replaced by a visiting Lysenni lady. Her white hair gleamed and reflected off of the hall’s ember glow. The lady had her hand resting on Daemon’s arm.

The rogue prince leaned into her hold bending his silver head so that she may whisper in his ear. Whatever she had said made the two descend into laughter. Naerys felt her face heat up. She tried to contain her fire, but she felt herself spiraling at the next words the white worm's breathed into her ear. “His heir and more to spare.” Mysaria was not known for her gift of prophecy, but she had known Daemon.

He will get bored of you. Rhaenyra’s unspoken words rang around in her head. She could no longer hear the noise of the festivities around her. Daemon had his fill. Naerys was just a plaything to him. A useful necessity that he was bound to, but the bonds of marriage meant little to her husband. He was back to where he wanted to be. He can not survive in one bed alone. It did not matter what pretty words he muttered to her in the dark of their chambers. Daemon was not built for it.

“Are you well princess?” Ser Gwayne had removed himself from his post and was by her side before she could blink. Holding her forearm up with practiced ease. Concern was written plainly across his face. Lady Mysaria had slinked back to whatever hole she had crawled out from, but the princess could still feel the chill she had left behind. Naerys felt eyes watching her every move. She could barely breathe under their stares.

“Would you escort me to my seat Ser?” Naerys did not have to explain she would not make it there herself. The Hightower knight was not the only one who had noticed her distress. Daemon was thundering across the Red Keeps great hall. The fury of the dragon blazing in his eyes.

Naerys met Ser Gwayne’s dark eyes before nodding her head in the direction of the oncoming storm. I do not want him whisking me off somewhere to simper out more empty words. The knight gave her a small smile in understanding. Taking her arm to escort her into the crowd, but Daemon had made their way towards them before they could.

“Thank you Ser Gwanye, but your assistance is no longer required.” Daemon sneered at the younger man. His empty sword hand twitches at his side. Viserys had not allowed her husband to bring Dark Sister to the feast. Only the guards had a need for weapons. Naerys thanked the Gods for her uncle’s foresight.

“I will go when the princess dismisses me.” The Hightower knight stood his ground this time. His dark eyes stared her husband down. The two were at a crossroad. Naerys wondered if the two would cause a scene.

“She is my wife Ser. You will release her this instant or you will not see to the end of this feast your dear sister has so dutifully planned.” Daemon's grip tightened on her. Only relaxing it when she let out a wince. Naerys would not meet his eyes. Her husband had no right to his foul temper. He had embarrassed her enough for one night. She would no longer placate him.

“Aunt,” a small voice called from the edge of the crowd. Aemond stood beckoning Naerys over to where he and his siblings sat on the far end of the high table. Naerys had never been more grateful for the distraction. Ser Gwayne let her go upon hearing his nephew, but Daemon would not fold.

“Our nephew calls for me my lord.” Naerys felt herself burning up as she finally lifted her head to gaze up at her husband. “May I go to him or are you mistrustful of little boys as well as the knights of your brother’s City Watch?” She expected her husband, but instead, he began to drag her to the king's youngest children.

They passed by the Lysenni lady Daemon had been enchanted with moments before. “Princess.” It was said with a curtesy and a polite smile. One which Naerys did not return. How could she expect her to when she had so blatantly made a pass at her husband with her in the very same room?

“She’d sooner take you into her bed than see me in it, you spoiled thing.” Daemon went to caress her arm, but the princess jerked from his touch. Her husband’s boldness would never cease to astound her. Naerys dug her heels into the floor. A move that she would regret as he threw her over his shoulder. Some of her uncle’s visiting guests looked their way, but the lords and ladies of the court were far used to the rogue prince's antics.

“Are you ill aunt?” Aemond asked with a frown as Naerys' uncle deposited her in an empty seat to Helaena’s left. Daemon moved to sit in the chair to her right, next to his brother's second son.

“Your aunt is fine.” Daemon placed a kiss on the back of her hand before setting their joint hands on the oak table. “She’s just tired.” Naerys sunk her nails into the back of her uncle's hand. It was not enough to draw blood, but it did cause the prince to grunt in discomfort.

She challenged her husband with a raised eyebrow. The man relented with a smirk breathing a threat into his niece’s ear. “Behave or you will not be able to walk tomorrow.” Naerys released her claws with a glare.

The children seemed to pay no mind to the older prince and princesses' heated exchanges. Aemond began to prattle on about some Valyrian text he had come across to his “nuncle.” Aemond and Damon's relationship had improved greatly. It was in no small part to Naerys.

With Naerys' increasing dizzy spells Daemon had forbidden her from flying alone. The royal couple would take turns riding Caraxes and Silverwing together. Carving out some time in the day to visit their dragons. By the second week of their stay in the capital, Aemond would often wait for them at the Dragon Pit entrance. Trying to catch a glimpse of their dragons with wonder in his eyes.

The young prince had no dragon of his own. His egg had long since turned to stone. Aegon had already begun to tease his brother about his dragonless state. His siblings' dragons were too small to ride, but they would soon even little Daeron would become Dragonriders while their brother remained without so much as a dragon to call his own.

The queen was not overly fond of her children’s dragons, but she understood the importance of the bond between a Targaryen and their dragon. She knew how her second son longed for an end to his dragonless state. It took little to convince Alicent to allow him the privilege of a dragon ride. Daemon had not been able to say no either after she had ambushed him while he was still coming down from his high one night.

“I would be grateful kepus if you— if you were to take Aemond with you and Caraxes on your next ride.” The two lay panting in each other’s embrace. Naerys combed her fingers through silver locks as he lay on top of her. The princess winced as her husband replaced his spent cock with his fingers. “Kostilus kepus.”

Daemon's eyes remained glazed over as he watched his digits move in and out of her spasming cunt. Fucking his cum back into his niece while his thumb drew small circles on her clit. “Ao issi sīr gevie byka mēre.” The rogue prince suddenly removed his fingers from within her as the princess was on the crest of another release. Naerys whined at her ruined climax, but her husband only shushed her. “Ao drējī issi vēttan syt issa”

Some of his seed leaked out wetting the silk sheets below, but the lovers paid it no mind as Daemon brought his fingers to his niece's waiting mouth. Naerys eagerly lapped at their combined spends while her husband gave into her demands.

The boy had been ecstatic when Daemon had helped him climb upon Caraxes back. Naerys watched them from the dragon pit entrance with a less than enthused Ser Criston who acted more like the boy's father than his mother's guard as they made their descent into the horizon. Aemond took to the sky’s with a fever she had not seen apart from Daemon and Laena.

Naerys reached for the goblet of water that was placed in front of her. Most of the nausea she had felt in the past had dissipated, but the dizziness remained. Helaena looked up at her with a smile. She was a sweet quiet girl, if not a bit spacey. Alicent’s daughter placed a small hand on her belly with a wistful smile.

“Do not fret aunt. My sister shall be healthy and beautiful.” Dragon dreams. Naerys did not know what to say. Daemon narrowed his eyes at their niece's words, but he made no comment. Only Aegon would grace the table with his thoughts on his sister's riddles.

“Mother isn’t pregnant you nitwit.” Aemond looked as if he wanted to throttle his own brother. Even Helaena had turned her nose up at the unruly boy. Aegon’s ill-mannered behavior remained unchecked by both the king and his mother. His sire seemed to barely acknowledge his existence while Alicent remained at a loss for how to best deal with it.

The king made his way to retire for the evening. He had stayed far longer than he usually did at the feasts of late. Those seated at the high table rose with him as was customary before Viserys would depart. Naerys tried to rise with the rest of the table, but Daemon rested his hand on her shoulder to stop her. As she looked at the pale hand Naerys felt what little was left of her restraint vanish.

She no longer cared if she made a scene. Let the court see how the rogue prince viewed her. The princess managed to shake free of her husband's hold. In her haste, she rose too quickly. Tripping over the leg of her chair she had pushed too far back, Naerys felt herself lose her balance. Her husband caught her before she could hit the Great Hall’s stone floors.

Daemon's voice was the first Naerys heard when she returned to consciousness. She felt sluggish and drowsy. The princess spied from the corner of her eyes one of Maester Orlys’ tinctures on her vanity. Whatever the kindly man had given her had a foul aftertaste.

“How long have you known sweetling?” Daemon did not look angry as he sat in a chair that had been placed by their bed dragging the back of his hand softly across her cheek. He in fact reminded her of a kicked puppy. His gaze was as tender as his touch. The rogue prince looked more like a boy of ten than a man grown. Naerys supposed that was really what he was underneath his bravado.

“When Alicent first invited me to tea.” She felt a weight lift off her shoulder at the revelation. Naerys had her suspicions before, but she had not been sure until Alicent had made it plain to her.

“Ser Gwayne was only trying to help.” Daemon winced. He should have been there for her, not the Hightower knight, but he would apologize for jumping to conclusions. It was not in his nature to express regret for his actions. Naerys understood why. Their fires burned too hot to allow them to. “How far along did Maester Orlys say I was?”

“Three moons.” The baby would arrive in time before the new year. Enough time to get her affairs in order. Enough time to travel to Dragonstone and then Driftmark if she so wished. Naerys wondered if she could fly there now. Daemon answered that question for her.

“We can journey back home.” He gave her a small smile. Petting her silver twists as if she were a child. Her handmaids must have come in at some point to braid up her hair. Something that she would be thankful for in the morning.

“You may stay.” Daemon began to tense up at her words. She reached out in search of the scars on her husband's neck. Stroking the rough skin with a soft hand. It was funny enough, but Naerys felt much calmer now. Looking back on the day the princess had realized that she had let others draw conclusions for her now. Conclusions that only one man could provide.

“I will go to Driftmark.” She tried to sound absent-minded as she said it. Continuing to trace over her husband's scars, threading her fingers into his hair. A storm cloud came over her husband. Naerys could not contain her smile at seeing her uncle's reaction.

Daemon noticed it, but he made no comment as he fell to his knees to kiss the top of her crown before burrowing his silver head into her neck. “I am yours you stubborn girl. I am no one, but yours as you are mine.” The man was exhausted. A day of pointless fighting had worn them both out. “We will go to Dragonstone. I’ve had enough of this city and it’s gossip.”

“I could lose it.” Daemon tensed up once more underneath her fingers. He removed himself from her neck. Violet eyes met a pair of amethyst orbs. It was bad luck to speak of such things. Especially in the early days, but the thought gnawed at her. So many things could go wrong. Naerys never considered herself a very lucky person.

“Ao issi daor nykeā jaes kepus.” Daemon was a man. He behaved as if he were a dragon, but he was still a man and Naerys was a mere woman. They were flesh, blood, and bone. They could not bend fate to suit them. Mortals had their limitations. The king talked of prophecies, but Daemon was little better with his blood obsession.

“Your mother doubts you byka zaldrīzes.” Her husband bent down to place a kiss on her still flat belly. “She worries too much.” Lifting up to face her once more Daemon grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. Lending her the strength that had left from her body. “Iksā ñuha ābrazȳrys. Iksā emare ñuha riña. Īlva riña. Iksi jāre lenton.”

Naerys was too tired to argue with her husband. There was still plenty to sort out, but the day had been long. The princess let herself be petted as she drifted off into a dreamless wonder. She would worry about their future in the morning when her head was clear.

Translations:

Kosti sagon biare kesīr: We can be happy here

kepus: uncle

Ao issi issa vys issa byka mēre: You are my world my little one

Kostilus kepus: Please uncle

Ao issi sīr gevie byka mēre: You are so beautiful little one

Ao drējī issi vēttan syt issa: You truly are made for me

Ao issi daor nykeā jaes kepus: You are not a god uncle

byka zaldrīzes: little dragon

Iksā ñuha ābrazȳrys. Iksā emare ñuha riña. Īlva riña. Iksi jāre lenton: You are my wife. You are having my child. Our child. We are going home.

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116 AC- Dragonstone

“Do they hurt?” It was early morning, the sun had not come out yet. Naerys hovered over her husband admiring the scars on his pale neck. The pair lay naked as their name days. They were a mess of limbs. A couple of moons back Naerys would not be able to meet Daemon's violet eyes as she did so, but there was no need for shame anymore. The two had done everything together.

As Naerys traced over her husband's battle scars she was reminded of the fact that her uncle had led a full life before their marriage. One steeped in war, distant lands, and exotic people though the latter she tries not to think of too much.

“Not anymore,” he hummed before taking her hand to bring to his mouth landing a kiss upon each digit. Her husband she had found out was a night owl. not an early riser. Daemon could sleep half the day away in their bed.

Her husband had moved her things into his chambers. The Sea Tower, where Naerys' old chambers were located, was too far away from the main tower. They would have more space to expand in the Stone Drum where her husband had taken up residence. The rooms in the tower were much more spacious anyway which afforded them greater privacy.

“īlon emagon nykeā early rhaenagon kepus.” Daemon had resumed her Valyrian lessons at her insistence. Naerys was a perfectionist at heart. She did not want to be just good enough in her language abilities. Her husband had not been easy on her and for that she was grateful.

“The name day of one of Rhaenyra’s bastards can wait.” Naerys frowned at her husband’s choice of words. Her cousins' boys were children. They were not responsible for the alleged sins of their parents. They were victims of it.

“You are being cruel.” She pinched him on his thigh. Apparently not hard enough as her husband only laughed at her attempts to scold him. Daemon had once said that her grip was that of a small child.

“On the contrary byka mēre.” Daemon pulled her down to seat her firmly on his lap. Naerys let out a yelp at the sudden movement feeling a spell of dizziness that was becoming all too common these days. Her husband’s cock brushed against her folds. A wave of arousal overtook her. Giving her a new reason to feel dizzy. Daemon was not totally unaffected as he planted a firm smack upon her backside which only added to the heat of the moment.

Naerys was tempted to sink down and remedy the predicament they often found themselves in, but thought better of it. They could not laze around in pleasure all day. If they wanted to “I rejoice every time our niece gives birth to another strong black-haired son.” No one would accept a bastard to the throne, least of all a bastard born from a woman.

Daemon’s position and her own would advance, but the young princess did not want to be queen. She had grown quite content with their life on Dragonstone. There they only had to live for themselves. The crown was a burden she did not wish for. Viserys had sons, but with a succession crisis, there was no way to be certain that their claims would not be counted.

“My aunt has black hair kepus.” Rhaenys mother had been a Baratheon and had looked every inch a lady of her house. Her aunt had inherited her dark hair from her. Rhaenyra’s own mother had been an Arryn. They had their fair share of dark-haired children born of the Vale house.

“I suppose Rhaenys has a pug nose as well?” Jace and Lucerys were still babies. It was not unheard of for a young child’s features to change as they age. Naerys herself had been born with lilac eyes that had turned deep violet by the time she had reached her tenth name day.

“Ser Harwin is married to Laena.” Naerys could not picture the daughter of Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen being content in a marriage where her husband could care less for her feelings. Nor could she picture her uncle the Sea Snake allowing the affair to go on without any protest.

“Poor sweet little niece. You do not know the ways of men.” Her husband still babied her. A great deal in fact. Daemon could not seem to go a day without infantilizing her. He mostly did it to tease her though. There was no rancor behind his words. His lilac eyes had gone soft despite his expression.

“Are you not a man kepus?” She arched a silver eyebrow at him. She knew what his answer would be of course, but it was now her turn to goad him.

“I am but your humble servant princess.” The pale man tried to look penitent, but a humble man Daemon was not. Naerys had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at her husband. Naerys briefly looked out the window near their bed which earned her another smack. Ever the impatient man. He too was like a child in some ways.

The sun had finally decided to make its appearance. They would never leave their chambers, much less Dragonstone. Turning her attention back to Daemon, Naerys leaned down to kiss him, snaking her right hand into his silver hair. Her husband grew sensitive when she tugged on the hair at the nape of his neck while her other hand traveled down and slipped between them.

She only stopped when she reached his member. Taking it within her small brown hands she began to pump his length which caused a groan to spill from his mouth into hers. The rogue prince became compliant and easily distracted by his wife’s touches. Distracted enough for Naerys to slip out of bed if she was quick.

“Your princess commands you to rise my prince,” she leaned down to whisper in his ear. He had not yet realized her intent until she released her grip upon him. Her husband flopped back on the bed with a groan. He reached out for her but she took advantage of his lazy state and escaped to the opposite side of the room giggling.

Kings Landing had not changed much in the year since Naerys had last seen it. The capital had never been a pleasant place. In the summertime, the sweltering heat made the city unbearable. The people made it even more so. King's Landing was never planned for the number of citizens it housed. On some especially hot days, the smell of human waste could travel to the Red Keep. Dragonstone’s smell of smoke and earth was preferable to the stench of the overcrowded city.

They had been the first of the guests invited to arrive; Rhaenyra and Laenor had been the ones to receive them upon their arrival into the city. The two were waiting at the entrance of the dragon pit when they landed Silverwing and Caraxes. Their “sons” were nowhere in sight.

Rhaenyra had greeted Daemon first with a look Naerys did not want to place (her husband had thankfully not returned said look) before turning to greet her with a tight smile, calling her aunt and kissing her lightly upon the cheek.

Naerys had long since told the king's heir to not refer to her as such. Rhaenyra was two years older than her. Laenor had welcomed them both with a simple cousin and a slight nod of his head.

Her quarrels with her cousin-turned-niece had started long before her marriage to Daemon. Rhaenyra had so affectionately dubbed her “a Targaryen in name only” when she had first mounted her dragon Syrax. As if Naerys did not have a Velaryon mother as well as a Targaryen father. She may not have the spirit of the conqueror, but in blood, she was every inch the proper Valyrian princess as Rhaenyra was if not more so.

The royal couple then showed their aunt and uncle to their chambers. They were given Daemon’s old apartments near the kings in Maegor's holdfast. Rhaenyra and Laenor had moved their chambers near Laena and her husband in the tower of the hand. The last time Naerys had stayed at the Red Keep she had been put in chambers above the serpentine stairs near Alicent and her children.

They did not see the rest of their family until dinner which had been a strained affair. Alicent and Rhaenyra sat on opposite sides of Viserys who seemed to serve as a buffer between his family's two factions. Aegon and Laenor sat next to their mother and wife respectively. Naerys and her husband were seated by Aemond and Helaena. Both of which had both been deemed old enough to dine with the rest of their family.

Aemond, who was seated next to Daemon, seemed in awe of his uncle. Naerys had to contain her laughter at her husband’s annoyance with being fawned over by the boy. Aemond spoke to his uncle in near-perfect Valyrian which irritated both Alicent and Daemon.

He had even tried to converse with Naerys in the language of their ancestors, but quickly gave up the endeavor when he realized she was not proficient as she stumbled over half her words. She could understand Valyrian better than she could speak it, but she was far from mastering their native tongue.

“I’d be willing to teach you aunt if you like.” It was said with the pride of a child who knew his accomplishments. Alicent’s children had taken to calling her aunt. Though the term seemed more sincere coming from the mouths of the youngest of her cousins than their half-sister.

Where Aemond possessed a good sense of childhood wonder and curiosity his brother seemed to lack basic human empathy. Aegon spoke before he thought. When there had been a gap in the conversation at the table Aegon had so dutifully chosen to fill it.

“Should you not be with child by now aunt?” He had been observing her throughout dinner as had most of the other dinner guests though they were polite enough to not comment about her failings as a wife. Half their family thought her barren. Daemon had managed to get his mistress pregnant and would have had a child by now had she not lost it so the problem could not lie with the rogue prince.

Alicent quickly reprimanded the boy, ordering him to apologize to his aunt. Daemon had not held his tongue threatening to “tan his hide,” which he was met with a wide-eyed look of horror from the queen. The king dismissed his youngest children displeased with their behavior, sending them to bed before dessert could be served. Even Rhaenyra looked aghast at her half-brother’s boldness, though once the children had taken their leave her cousin's sympathies had ended.

“My aunt looks tired uncle.” The Realms Delight gave her a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Perhaps you should send her to bed as well.” Naerys cousin acted as if was a naughty child who had stayed up past her bedtime. It was infuriating, but even more so when her husband had taken Rhaenyra’s advice. He had looked sympathetic enough, but he sent her to bed all the same.

Naerys had meant to tell her husband off, but she had fallen asleep before her uncle could make it back to their chambers. She had truly been quite exhausted. The stress of packing and getting ready for their journey had taken up most of her energy and her husband had sensed it. That did not give him the right to order her around in front of others.

Naerys woke up nauseated before. The sun had yet to rise. She barely made it to her chamber pot before she emptied out the contents of her stomach. It was not until she had finished expelling what remained of last night's dinner that she realized Daemon had yet to come back to their chambers.

The young bride debated where she might look for her husband or if she should even look for him in the first place. Daemon had been more attentive in the last six moons of their marriage, but they were back in the capital. There were so many distractions to be found. Old wounds could reappear and fester with a vengeance.

Naerys made up her mind that she would not hide away in her chambers as though she were a frightened chambermaid. Better to know the truth of last night now than wonder about it later. Thankfully the truth had been easy to recover. Boisterous laughter could be heard upon exiting their chambers. The source of which came from the king’s apartments.

Daemon had been the first to notice her after Viserys guards let her into her uncle’s chambers. “Is it not the prettiest little thing in all of the seven kingdoms coming to grace us mere mortals with her unearthly presence,” her husband's eyes lit up as if he had been waiting for her.

He greeted Naerys with a not-so-innocent kiss, lifting her up bridal style as he walked back over to where he was seated by Viserys' dying fire. “Did you sleep well sweetling?” Daemon had become more affectionate in the past six months, but he was usually this open with his tenderness towards his young bride in the company of others.

Her husband was drunk. She would learn from Alicent later that the king had dismissed the rest of the dinner guests last night shortly after Naerys herself had been sent to bed. The two had been up drinking and reminiscing fondly on their youth the whole night.

Naerys noted that the ruby-faced king looked more refreshed than he had in years. It was as if a weight had been lifted off her eldest uncle if only for the night. If one did not take notice of his missing hand they would think that Viserys was the picture of health.

Daemon reached for his glass, but Naerys was faster, lifting the glass from his hand and downing it in one gulp. The liquor burned the back of her throat. She had expected sweet wine instead greeted with the sour taste of ale.

“If you drink kepus then I shall as well.” Both men let out a laugh at their niece’s boldness. Daemon never liked her drinking much. On occasion, she was allowed wine, but never anything stronger than that.

“Was she not made for me brother?” The king let out a hearty laugh. Her husband continued on his conversation with his brother without touching another drop of ale. Naerys knew that it would take him several hours and a long nap before he sobered up, but it was a start and he would no doubt thank her for it once he came to his senses.

It was well past dawn when the king began to grow tired. Naerys had enlisted the help of one of her uncle's guards to get Daemon back into their chambers. Her husband had managed to strip himself and collapsed onto their bed once Ser Erryk (or Ser Arryk Naerys could never tell the two apart) had left.

He had tried to convince his wife to stay with him as he slept, but Alicent had invited her to tea much to her husband's ire. Naerys uncle only let her leave when she promised that she would be back before he woke. With the ale in his system Daemon would no doubt not awaken until the next morning.

“How do you like Dragonstone Naerys,” Alicent questioned as she poured the steaming liquid into her good niece's cup. The queen and Naerys took their tea on the edge of the back gardens overlooking the bay. Helaena had been made to attend, but the girl grew restless which led to her mother dismissing her, letting the young girl venture further into the garden with her septa, no doubt in search of bugs to play with.

“Well enough your grace.” Naerys had never given much thought to her good aunt. Alicent was too close in age to herself to be looked at as a surrogate mother and too far apart to be thought of as a peer. They did have their commonalities of course. Both were motherless young girls who had married men who were out of their depth. Perhaps it was for that reason the queen had to impart some words of wisdom to her the morning after her wedding.

“Take comfort in the mother Naerys. She will give you strength.” Alicent had hugged her for dear life. Whispering the words into her ear almost a year past. Naerys had been a different girl then. One scared and lonely married to a man who saw her as a possession. Alicent knew that pain better than anyone.

A wave of nausea hit Naerys before she could take a sip of her tea. She had tried to push down the feeling, but her body had won out the fight. She left the table in just enough time to retch into a nearby flower bed.

Alicent was over in seconds holding her silver braid back from her face. “Have you seen a Maester yet?” The older woman helped her back into her chair. Ordering a nearby servant to fetch them some ginger tea. Naerys could not meet the queen's eyes as she shook her head.

She had been meaning to see Maester Orlys before they had left Dragonstone, but she did not want to get her hopes up. “Maester Mellos can be discreet,” the pale woman took her hand in her own. Gently rubbing comforting circles on the back of her brown one. Before Naerys could answer, the two were interrupted by a member of the city watch.

“The little prince is asking for you, my Queen.” The knight addressed Alicent, but his eyes had not left Naerys as he had. He was tall, dark-haired, and handsome enough with a familiar air of grace that Naerys could not quite place.

“You remember my brother Ser Gwayne?” The Hightower knight gave her a curt nod finally turning his gaze towards his sister. Naerys felt almost ashamed that she had not recognized the man before.

“Gwayne, please escort Naerys back to her chambers.” Rising from her chair with Naerys hand still in her own, Alicent gave her a knowing smile. “You should rest before the feast tonight. I will send Maester Mellos to check on you.” With a final squeeze, the queen let go of her hand. Her green skirts trailed after her as she exited the garden making her way back into the Red Keep in search of her youngest son.

It had been years since Naerys had last seen the Hightower knight. The last time she had was at a tourney. He had been but a boy of fifteen name days under the thumb of his father. Ser Gwanye was a man grown now.

Ser Gwanye had been the first to break the silence that had enveloped them as they journey back to Naerys quarters. “How do you find your stay, princess?” Ever the soldier, his brown eyes flitted around the corridors of the castle looking for any sign of danger that might come their way.

“Unchanged.” Naerys decided to get a good look at the knight. He was younger than Alicent. He could not have been much older than Naerys herself. He had been handsome from a distance, but up close he was a sight. Naerys had never met Alicents mother but she imagined that her youngest children had inherited her looks rather than their father’s.

They had reached the serpentine stairs when a wave of dizziness overtook Naerys. She had been careful to take the steps one at a time, but she tripped on a loose piece of stone before they could reach the bottom. Ser Gwanye had grabbed her, pulling her into his arms. Saving her from tumbling down the steep steps. The knight had meant to set her back on her feet when a growl could be heard at the bottom of the stairs.

“I’d advise you to unhand my wife Ser,” Daemon barked at the man from where he stood. His violet eyes were overtaken by the black of his pupils. His sword hand rests on Dark Sister. No doubt waiting for the Hightower knight to make one wrong move.

Ser Gwanye hesitates to release her seeing the mood that her uncle was in. He only does so when Naerys gives him a small smile, thanking him for delivering her to her husband. Daemon wastes no time in grabbing her from the Hightower knight once he freed her from his grip.

“He was being kind Daemon.” Her husband was practically dragging her back to their chambers. Keeping pace with him had always been a struggle, but Naerys could hardly compete with the prince's gait when he was angry.

“He’s a Hightower. They always want something,” the rogue prince replied with a curse under his breath. Naerys would have laughed at her husband's silliness, had she not found it difficult to catch her breath.

She debated if she should tell her uncle to take her to the maesters rather than their chambers. The princess put aside the idea when she thought of what he might reveal. Daemon seemed to realize that his young bride was struggling. Not wanting to waste any more time, Naerys husband picks her up and throws her over his shoulder as if she were a rag doll.

“Kepus.” Daemon could never behave for very long if at all. The gardens were on the opposite side of the Red Keep from their chambers. Half the court would see them before they could reach them. Naerys tried to worm free from her uncle’s hold, but it was no use.

“Ao issi tolī paez ābrazȳrys,” Her husband jostled her as she continued to squirm. He planted a smack firmly on her backside. Jason Lannister passed them right as he had, sniggering at the sight. Naerys wanted to die from embarrassment, but the lord had ceased his laughter when Daemon turned to face him.

Whatever look he had given him had shut the proud lord up and sent him on a brisk pace in the opposite direction. To Naerys' relief they had made it back to their chambers without so much as to come across another living soul.

Translations:

īlon emagon nykeā early rhaenagon kepus: We have an early start uncle

Kepus: uncle

Byka mēre: Little one

Ao issi tolī paez ābrazȳrys: You are too slow wife

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115 AC- Dragonstone

Dragonstone was the place of Naerys birth, but it did not feel like home. Nearly everything about the seat of her ancestors' was grim. The island itself was bleak with the smell of smoke lingering in the air. Aegon I was said to have enjoyed the smell. The princess found the smell headache-inducing if she was outside for too long. The actual castle was even more dreary. One could not turn their head without meeting a dragon motif or statue carved within the walls. Talons, wings, tails, and fire encircling every surface.

Her new husband had taken his mistress and set up camp upon her family’s ancestral seat some years back, but he was gone within half a year. The castle had not been occupied since. Naerys uncle the king meant to give the island to her cousin Rhaenyra as his heir, but it had remained unclaimed. It was little wonder Rhaenyra had not taken up residence there.

The island held little apart from dragonglass which was worth next to nothing. The small fishing village and port at the base of the island boasted of little trade. Dragonstone stood more as a testament to the might and reach that Valyria once held in the known world rather than a proper home in which she was expected to raise children.

Naerys new home was so unlike Hightide. Her uncle's seat held life within its white stone walls. Even her Velaryon family’s ancestral seat of Driftmark seemed less gray than Naerys current residence.

Naerys pondered on why her uncle had asked for the old outpost in the first place. She hadn’t wanted to ask why he had, but curiosity got the better of her after their nightly Valyrian lessons one evening. Lessons that Daemon had insisted upon as he had wanted to rectify her education which he saw was less than fit for a Targaryen bride.

“You have been learning Valyrian since you were a babe and yet your cousin Aemond has a better command of our ancestors' tongue” Daemon had sneered at her. A boy of five name days with Hightower for a mother. Her uncle saw her young cousins as little better than bastards. Naerys was of pure Valyrian blood. Her mother had been of house Velaryon and her father was a Targaryen. She should know better.

Daemon had threatened to take her over his knee and spank her when she had mispronounced words. Several times in fact. She had begun to wonder if he would actually make good on his word until he made her strip naked to recite the Valyrian alphabet after she had mixed up some of the letters.

The punishment had been effective. Her Valyrian had improved greatly since that humiliating night. Naerys had managed to please him by reciting a chapter in Valyrian. It was a children's book, but she had done it all the same and Daemon rewarded her with an answer to the mystery, to Naerys at least, behind why he had chosen Dragonstone for them.

“My brother believes that dreams made us kings.” Naerys knew that Daemon greatly cared for his brother, but her husband took little stock in his beliefs. “Dreams saved us from The Doom. Dragons made us kings.”

Her husband motioned to the painted table in front of them. They would often take lessons in its chamber. As if to emphasize his point further, he placed a wooden piece down on the table. The spot that depicted Dragonstone was a mere speck on the map of Westeros in comparison to even Driftmark, but from the island where they stood, Aegon and sister wives were able to conquer kingdoms. Kingdoms that had stood undisturbed for thousands of years

Daemon was not a hard man to understand. She knew that he saw her as little more than a vessel that would bring his own children into this world. It was the reason why he would spend their nights perfecting her Valyrian or why he would praise her for her dragon-riding abilities. Her blood was the reason why she was chosen. It was too soon to panic, but Naerys felt like she was failing to do her duty as a wife.

“These things take time my prince,” Maester Orlys had said after her latest moonblood’s appearance. Five moons into their marriage and she was not yet with child. “The princess is young.” Dragonstone was hardly a place of excitement. Visitors were few and far between.

Naerys had tried to make friends with some of her maids, but Daemon had laughed when she had told him of it. There was no one who was her equal on the island apart from her husband and he barely acknowledged her presence outside of their Valyrian lessons, their weekly dragon rides, or when he tried to put a babe in her.

“Perhaps a change in scenery might do her some good.” Driftmark and Kings Landing were suggested.

Naerys doubted they would journey to court anytime soon. Her uncle grew sicker by the day. His hand, Lord Lyonel Strong, and the small council ruled mostly in his stead. Although Lord Strong was no Otto Hightower, her new husband cared little for her brother's new hand.

“He’s a dull brute sweetling,” was his simple reply when she had asked why he disliked the hand at dinner two moons after their arrival. He had been in one of his better moods. They had gone riding that evening. The rest of their meal, however, was a quiet affair. Daemon sent her to bed once she had finished with an absent-minded kiss.

Naerys would later find out from Rhaenyra during one of her visits, which were far too frequent for the young princess’s taste, that her husband partly blamed Lord Strong for his second banishment from court. He had been the one to suggest that her husband’s head be taken for the alleged defilement of the crown princess. Only the king's love for his rogue brother had saved him.

Daemon conceded to their maesters advice. They were set to leave for Driftmark, when a raven from her aunt Princess Rhaenys arrived. Laena had gone into labor and had chosen to give birth upon Driftmark's shores. Her husband, Lord Strong's eldest son Ser Harwin, had gone with her. Daemon was not overly fond of the lord’s son either. Their journey was canceled. Ser Vaemond, Naerys mother’s brother, was sent for instead.

Her uncle's party was a lively bunch. The spirited knight had brought his lady wife, a pleasantly plump woman with a penchant for gossip, his sons who were just as arrogant as their father, their wives rather plain things, and his grandchildren with him. They had filled up Dragonstone's dreary halls bringing with them much-needed cheer. Not since the early days of King Jaehaerys rule did Naerys believe that its halls had been graced with such life. Even Daemon seemed to enjoy their company.

“If you will recall my prince,” Ser Vaemond had begun as he and Daemon sat by the fire five days into his stay. The two had been laughing and drinking beforehand. Recollecting on their war days mostly, but the merriment had stopped with her uncle’s next words.

“My late sister was always a sickly woman. I believe our dear little Naerys has inherited her constitution.” Ser Vaemond had always been a prideful man. Daring to speak his mind no matter the cost, especially with some liquid courage in his belly.

Daemon drifted his violet gaze toward where his young bride sat on the other side of their hall playing a game of Cyvasse with one of her cousins. His hands gripping the armrest of his chair with enough intensity to turn his knuckles white. Naerys attempted to keep her concentration on the game, but Vaemond was as loud as he was boastful.

“It is a shame that your brother would not allow you to take Rhaenyra as your second wife.” His dark brow was glistening with sweat as he took another sip of Dornish red. From the corner of her eyes, Naerys could see that barely contained storm brewed upon her husband’s face.

Ser Vaemond was either too drunk to care or did not notice her husband's increasing irritation with him. “She would have given you sons by now.” The hall went silent. Her uncle’s words were quite clear. Daemon would have had his heirs. Sons that would have one day inherited the iron throne. Instead, he was stuck with a sickly little bride who had yet to give him so much as a daughter.

“Mind your tongue Ser Vaemond lest you lose it.” Her husband's face had turned to stone as he stood up to tower over the drunken man. “Your sister gave my brother Naerys. My wife, your niece, will be the one to give me my heirs.” Daemon stormed over to where Naerys sat, snatching her from the game, wordlessly taking her to her chambers.

Daemon lovemaking had been vigorous. Her husband has always been passionate; he was more dragon than man some days, but Naerys had never been on the receiving end of his intensity. His fire was usually reserved for the training yard. His affections both frightened and thrilled Naerys more than she liked to admit.

Daemon had only stopped that night when she had made the mistake of grazing the scars at the base of his neck after she had pulled him up from between her legs for a kiss. It had been an accident of course. Her uncle made her taste herself on his tongue a couple of times before, but he had always pinned her arms above her head when he had.

Naerys had been distracted by the taste of her slick on his lips when he had yanked her hand from his neck. Her husband had redressed quickly and was out the door dismissing her apologies without so much as a glance spared her way.

Ser Vaemond made no move to give Daemon his opinions on anything else. He had taken to avoiding the prince altogether for the rest of the duration of his stay, but the damage had been done. In the weeks since her uncle’s visit. Naerys felt more alone than ever.

Daemon had ceased their Valyrian lessons. He had cited that her Valyrian was “adequate enough.” His visits to her chambers were few and far between and never with the same intensity that he displayed that ill-favored night. Even their rides over Blackwater Bay had come to a halt.

Naerys felt herself growing restless. The weather had not helped. It had been raining for the past week. Daemon had forbidden her from flying. Naerys had not ridden in a storm. She was simply not experienced enough to navigate the open waters of the bay in one.

“It will rain today sweetling,” her husband said as he came into her chambers, interrupting her breakfast. It was the first time he had spoken to her in two days. Daemon always knew what she was up to. She suspected that one of her maids was a spy of his. “Best to stay in the library.”

“I am not a doll kepus.” Daemon had requested she call “valzȳrys” him after she saw fit to call an “uēpa vala” once she had learned how to properly pronounce the words. Naerys had begun to call him “kepus” as a compromise. It was only fitting since he treated her as if she was an errant child one moment and a misguided wife the next. “Nor am I your child.”

“Of course not. You're my wife Naerys.” It was said in a teasing tone as he inspected some of her silver curls that had loosened from a braid in her sleep. Naerys did not miss the look he gave. The same look a parent might give to a child when they do not want to be questioned. However, Naerys would not back down this time. Rain or no rain she planned on going for a ride. She needed the fresh air. She had been cooped up inside Dragonstone’s walls for far too long.

“I will accompany you.” Daemon left the room before she could voice her objections.

Rhaenys had taken Naerys to claim Silverwing for her dragon mount on the eve of her fifteenth name day. The dragon had not had a rider since her great-grandmother Queen Alysanne had passed. If her cousin Laena had claimed Vhagar the oldest at twelve name days there was no reason why the young princess could not claim the most docile of the dragons. The she-dragon had accepted Naerys as its rider with little fanfare.

To Naerys, dragon-riding was one of the best if not only freedoms that she had. Her schedule as a child was always dictated by lessons. Not much had changed now that she was a married woman. She was only now beholden to her husband's wishes and scolded like a misbehaving youth, but on the dragon's back, she came into her own.

While her Valyrian was less than ideal her flying was not. Her uncle had encouraged her to keep to the skies. Daemon never seemed to find fault in her flying. He had even made Rhaenyra and Laenor watch her flying during one of their visits. A look of pride was clear upon his face.

“Issa byka ābrazȳrys istan vēttan kipagon.” He had said to them once she had landed back at the spot from where they had watched her fly. Rhaenyra had turned red at his words and looked as if she wanted to storm off back into the castle while Laenor simply chose to focus on the muddy ground below. Naerys was able to piece together his meaning from her cousin's reactions.

Daemon had simply laughed and ushered them back inside. That night Naerys noted that she had not heard the faint opening or closing of any doors nor the sounds of light feet upon the castle's stone floors usually accompanied her cousin's visits. Rhaenyra and Laenor had left before breakfast the next morning. Rhaenyra had not been back since.

By the time they had made the trek to the cave where their dragons lay it had begun to rain in earnest. Silverwing and Caraxes resided in the same cave along with Vermithor, Sliverwing’s mate. The older dragon tolerated Caraxes' presence, but he mostly kept to the back of the cave away from the younger male.

“We can check on the dragons, but we are going back inside.” Her husband stopped them at the cave's entrance, turning her to face him. The prince had to tilt her chin up. Naerys had tried to walk ahead of her husband but his long limbs met her brisk pace without much effort. She was quite agile and his grip was rather loose. She wriggled free from her husband’s hold with ease.

“Where is your sense of adventure kepus?” She began to saddle Silverwing with a grin turning to face her husband. Daemon did not look amused. He had not moved to ready Caraxes. Remaining at the mouth of the cave with a frown.

“Naerys I mean it.” She pretended to not hear him as she seated herself and spurred her dragon on. The last thing she heard was her shouting at Silverwing to stop in Valyrian. She did not obey his commands. They both knew that he could not keep her from riding.

It had been a relief when they had reached the open sky. The rain pelted around Naerys but she had not minded the cold droplets that rained down her face. For the first time in weeks, she felt alive.

Naerys heard the sound of wings in the distance. She turned around to see Caraxes and Daemon not far behind. The rain had blocked her visibility a bit but could make out that her husband was still sporting a frown.

“Stay close.” Daemon's voice boomed out. Naerys dismissed his chiding once more. She urged her dragon to climb higher wondering if they could break through the clouds to look at the storm below them. The thunder came before they could reach their destination.

Silverwing was a nimble pretty thing, but Naerys was a fair-weather rider. Daemon was right when he had said she remained untested on the open sea. She could sense that with each bang of thunder that came, Silverwing began to grow more unsure of herself and her rider's commands. A particularly loud bang that rattled Naerys' bones caused Silverwing to bolt off further into the storm.

“Lykiri Silverwing.” Naerys could not see beyond her dragon's head. The dragon's sudden darts loosened her grip upon the saddle.”Silverwing lykiri.” The princess tried once more, but Silverwing would not listen.

Another crack of thunder set the dragon off again diving for whatever surface lay below. Silverwing had moved too suddenly. Her rider's grip on the saddle had finally slipped. Naerys felt herself falling as she was thrown off her seat.

Instead of hitting the open water as she had expected, the princess felt a pair of hands pulling her up onto another saddle. Her husband wordlessly positioned her on his lap as she struggled to make sense of where she was. The rest of their ride was in silence. Daemon only began to berate her once they had landed back near the dragon's cave.

“When I tell you to stop, you stop,” everything sounded as if she was underwater. Naerys' head was still in the clouds. Thunder was still banging in her ear. Daemon shook her then, breaking her from her trance. “Do you understand girl?”

Dragons were temperamental creatures. As much as their house liked to believe they were Gods among men who had tamed these great beasts of fire they were in truth mere mortal men. Made of flesh and blood as any other. They were beholden to these creatures as much as they were to them if not more so. “You would have been dead if I had not come with you.” It came to her then.

“You could have been rid of me.” Her husband looked at her as if she had grown a second head. Which caused her to let out a laugh. How could he not see it? Daemon could be on his way to the capital once the storm cleared. He had not wanted to marry her truly. He had only wanted a Valyrian wife. A dragon rider with the blood of old Valyria. His heart lay with another.

Rhaenyra was married, true enough, but accidents happen every day. A little sweet sleep or a drunken brawl at some tavern and the crown princess would be a free woman once more. Or perhaps Laenor would allow Daemon to give her cousin children of unquestionable Valyrian blood.

Alicent’s questions would seize. Daemon could have his heirs. Rhaenyra her crown. It could all stop. If her husband had let the storm take her it would have stopped. If Daemon had not saved he would have been free. Well and truly free.

Naerys was brought from her musings when she felt herself being wrapped in her husband’s arms. “I chose you, dōna hāedar. I have no taste for another.” He placed a kiss on her forehead. She looked up to meet Daemon's red-laced violet gaze. He did not laugh at her. There was no mischief in his eyes. Nothing of malice or deceit.

Naerys did not know what possessed her, perhaps she was still in shock, but she reached up with a small brown hair to curl her fingers around the short silver hair at the base of his neck. She pulled him down with a soft tug. Naerys still had to crane her neck to look up at her husband, but they were more on equal footing.

She reached up using her other hand to trace his lips. This time it had been Daemon who had drawn her in. He tasted of smoke, the sea, spiced wine, and something heady and warm that she could not name. Daemon had only stopped to pull away for air after she had begun to sink further into him from a lack of oxygen.

The storm had begun to let up as they stood there breathing each other in, their foreheads lightly touching, before her husband picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder as if she weighed no more than Dark Sister. Naerys could not help but let out a girlish giggle at the sight they must have made which prompted her husband to land a firm swat on her backside. At that too she let out another round of laughter. Daemon had not left her bed that night or the night after.

Translations:

Kepus: Uncle

Uēpa vala: Old man

Valzȳrys: Husband

Issa byka ābrazȳrys istan vēttan kipagon: My little wife was made to ride.

Lykiri: Calm down

Dōna hāedar: Sweet girl

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120 AC-Dragonstone

Children are a blessing from the Gods. They fill one’s halls with cherubic laughter. Gracing each chamber that they occupy with sweet little melodies. Their little feet pattering about taking them to some curious mischief that remained thus far undiscovered. A whole new world waiting at their fingertips to be explored. And yet Dragonstone’s halls remained empty apart from the sounds of one small silver-haired girl.

Daenys Targaryen had been born in the middle of a late summer storm. It was an easy enough birth for all intents and purposes. Or at least that's what Maester Orlys had told her mother, but the kindly older man had never given birth himself. He did not know the battle women fought to bring their children into the world.

It had been a restless fortnight leading up to her daughter's birth. Most nights Naerys simply drifted in and out of consciousness rather than fully surrender to the land of dreams. She had been having contractions which had increased with each passing day. False labor the Maester had said. Getting her body ready for the birth of her child even if she herself was not fully prepared for all that lay ahead.

Naerys' water broke before the sun rose. The membranous fluid spread out from between her legs wetting the entire bed. Awakening her from her half-dreams. Naerys in her embarrassment tried not to alert her husband of the change in her condition. Nor the ruined state of their bed.

Daemon had become just as restless as his wife. Taking to staying up half the night or waking before dawn reading ancient texts of various natures in their solar by the hearth. Naerys joined him on occasion when the worst of her insomnia overtook her. Sitting in his lap while he rubbed her belly or stroked her coils. It was by that very same fire that Daemon was found the night before his daughter's birth. Rushing into their bed chambers when Naerys let out a pained scream.

Princess Rhaenys, her daughter Lady Laena, along with the little Lady Strongs, and half of house Velaryon had journeyed from Driftmark for the birth of the youngest Targaryen. Arriving just before the storm came in.

Laena had been more of an older sister than a cousin and the older princess had always been like a mother rather than an aunt. “The seven hells will freeze over before I miss the birth of my grand-niece.” Rhaenys had insisted that Naerys was carrying a daughter instead of the son and heir the young princess hoped to give her husband.

Laena had agreed with her mother. Citing the fact that Naerys belly was high, the same as her own when she carried her girls. “The next one will be a boy no doubt, but this one will be a girl dear cousin.”

The two women clothed still in their robes, for they too had been woken up by Naerys screams, shooed her husband away. Making him wait in the hall and later the library with Lord Corlys, Ser Vaemond, and his eldest son, Daeron. The Velaryon knight had insisted that he and his son accompany his brother’s family for the birth of their youngest great-niece. The only man allowed in the birthing chamber was Maester Orlys.

“To a healthy son and heir my prince.” Ser Vaemond had raised his glass of Golden Vintage with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. The umber man then proceeded to drink the early morning away. His son had to enlist the assistance of a servant, after trying and failing to enlist the service of his uncle, to help him drag his incapacitated father back to his chambers in the Windwyrm tower. The Sea Snakes brother was not seen again until the next evening, blaming a headache caused by “bad wine” for his absence.

Naerys' labor had been long. When she was allowed to push, Naerys felt like she was on the verge of death. Rhaenys and Laena would later say that it was completely natural laughing at her bewildered face. The pain had been unbearable. During a particularly gut-wrenching round of contractions, she had screamed for Daemon who was halfway across the castle. Her husband had heard her nonetheless, but Laena turned the man around at the door of their chambers with the help of her father.

“Best to leave the women to it. They know what they are doing Daemon.” Naerys spied her uncle placing a good-natured pat on the younger man’s arm which Daemon proceeded to shrug off. The man uttered a string of threats at the maester, midwives, and even Rhaenys herself before exiting the room.

Naerys was sure that her husband would have gone off for a ride with Caraxes had the storm ceased, but they did not. Her labors continued through the day without further interruptions. Laena and Rhaenys took turns wiping the sweat from her brow or lending a hand to squeeze. After a series of contractions and subsequent pushes that felt like she was being split into two out came Daenys.

“A girl princess.” Maester Orlys held up the babe for Naerys to see. A small healthy girl rather than the hopeful son and heir of Daemon Targaryen. Rhaenys had been the first one to hold her after one of the midwives had cleaned off the blood and vernix from the babe. A pink little pale thing with a set of lungs on her and a full head of silver curls. Her aunt had said that it was like turning back in time.

Daemon had burst through their chambers after the second round of their daughter’s cries. Naerys could not look at her husband as Rhaenys deposited their babe into his waiting hands. “You have a daughter cousin.” The queen that never was face was set to stone as she inspected her cousin. Looking for any signs that he might voice his disapproval at being handed a girl instead of a proper heir, but the man simply laughed.

“Are you sure you did not clone yourself little one?” He beamed at his wife as he kissed the top of their daughter's downy head. The babe had stopped crying after she had been handed off to her father. “Ao jurnegon raqagon aōha muñnykeā, issa byka zaldrīzes. Kirimvogon se Gods syt bona.” You look like your mother, my little dragon. Thank the Gods for that.

Naerys had never seen her uncle smile as much as he had that night. He would not put the babe down. Only when she began to fuss out of hunger did he hand her back to her mother. Stroking a large hand down her cheek while whispering words in Valyrian as she nursed from her mother's breasts.

The name Visenya had been discussed. Along with both of their mothers' names, but Daemon and Naerys agreed that neither Alyssa nor Shaera suited the little girl before them. Naerys had not planned for a girl. She had been sure that the babe she carried within her those nine moons was a son.

“There is no need to think of names kepus. We shall name our son Aenys.” Daemon had not questioned her insistence though Naerys wished he had when out popped their little dragon and they could not think of a suitable name for her.

The name Daenys was settled on after Laena’s suggestion. “She looks like a Daenys.” Laena declared with a soft smile while looking down at the babe as she bounced her in her arms. Daemon had procured a golden dragon egg from Silverwings newest clutch. Placing the egg in the newly christened girl’s cradle. The Rogue Prince stood watch over his wife and daughter's bedside. Placing kisses upon their heads or taking a rough pale to gently stroke their cheeks. Both mother and child slept fitfully through the night.

Despite her exhausted state, Naerys refused for a wet nurse to be called. Birth was only half of a new mother's battle. The princess was determined to nurse her own daughter. Waking up to feed Daenys whenever she cried for her.

Dreams floated through Naerys' mind whenever she managed to drift off. A tangled web of children and dragons though she could never quite make out the fine details. Naerys had decided on their meaning and had told her husband so the next morning. They were dreams of future babes to come. Their future heir. Their next child would be a son. She was sure of it.

Nothing on this earth comes for free. Not even Targaryen’s were exempt from that fact. They paid for their dragons with the price of blood. Blood that made them mad with the delusions of Gods. Gods with no real claim to this land or the subjects they ruled over. Foreigners In a foreign land. Conquerors of flesh, blood, bone, and ashes. A price too high for many.

There had been four pregnancies after Daenys birth. Three miscarriages and one stillborn. Naerys body rejected each one. Each paid with the price of blood. The first three had ended too soon to tell the sex of their babe. Usually ending no later than the second moon of her pregnancy. They were little imperfect creatures. Some with no eyes. Others missing an arm. There was never enough to burn. Never enough for a proper Targaryen funeral.

It became numbing after a while. An expected pain for Naerys. One which Daemon had tried to shield her from. “You need to rest sweetling.” They had stopped trying for a year. Her husband had forced it. Three pregnancies in less than three years put a strain on one’s body. Maester Orlys brewed her a steady supply of moon tea. Her uncle watched her downing every bitter cup after one of the maids reported seeing her chucking the contents into her chamber pot.

He refused to bed her otherwise. Naerys in her shame had tried to bed her uncle after a night of drinking. Surely he would forget about the encounter if he was drunk enough. He had not. Daemon would not touch her for a fortnight.

When her moon blood came and went he returned, but he refused to bed her properly. Tongue fingers and unmentionable objects were used to bring her to a peak, but her uncle would not put his cock in her. It had been torture for them both. Naerys folded within a week with the reassurance that they could try again for an heir. The man had surprising willpower when it came to denying her what she most wanted in the name of her health. At the start of the new year, the moon tea was disposed of.

The last one had stuck around until the sixth moon. Naerys could feel the babe kicking. Just as strong as Daenys had been. Daemon had taken their daughter’s small little hand in his own much larger one and pressed it to her belly. The girl had beamed up at her and giggled with glee when she felt where her sibling lay. Babbling on in Valyrian to her growing bump.

They had journeyed to the capital for Princess Helaena’s tenth name day. Rhaenyra and Laenor were once again the ones to greet them upon their arrival. However, this time they were joined by their two “sons” along with their newest edition, the little Joffrey Velaryon.

“She’s a pretty little thing aunt.” It was said with the same smile Rhaenyra always greeted Naerys with. A strained smile that now extended to her daughter. “She doesn’t look anything like you uncle.” Rhaenyra had tried to greet Daemon with “kepus” when they had landed outside the Dragon Pit, but the man snapped at her.

“I am your uncle Rhaenyra. You may call me nuncle if you wish, but not kepus.” The crown princess had not uttered the Valyrian word for uncle again. Instead, she had taken to openly glaring at Naerys whenever she referred to Daemon as such. The younger princess paid her no mind. She had staked her claim. There was little Rhaenyra could do about her place in Daemon’s life.

“You are my kepus husband just as I am your wife. I have given birth to your daughter and I carry your son, your heir within me, not some Hightower knight’s.” It was breathed out into her husband’s ear as she sank her soaked folds down onto his waiting cock with practiced ease. Her husband pounded up into wetness leading them both into a blissful haze.

Daemon had forbidden her from riding Silverwing by the fourth moon of her pregnancy at the advice of Maester Orlys. Dragon riding alone was too strenuous for her already delicate constitution and small stature. However, that did not stop other arduous activities.

“Ao kostagon nykeēdrosa kipagon aōha tolie zaldrīzes byka mēre.” You may still ride your other dragon little one. Her uncle never let her take full control during “her rides.” Always seating her atop him, bouncing her in his lap while she clung to him, burying her silver coils into his neck and mouthing at the pale pockmarked skin there. The amorous sounds of the lover's coupling echoing throughout their chambers.

The prince was possessive, but so was his dear little niece-wife in her own way. Naerys could not stand the way Rhaenyra looked at Daemon with want while she spoke the word kepus to him. Daemon was her husband. The father of her children. Not Rhaenyra’s. All it took was one mention of Ser Gwayne whispered into her husband’s ear while his blood ran hot in the mist of their rapture to set things right.

“She’s quite the Valyrian beauty like her mother.” A look of pride was evident in the Rogue Prince's brow as he affectionately petted his daughter's chubby face. It was laughable to question the legitimate status of their daughter, but it was an offense that Daemon would not let pass.

Though she had inherited most of her mother’s looks, there was plenty of Daemon in Daenys. Daenys had her father’s violet eyes rather than her mother’s dark amethyst ones. When she smiled it mirrored Daemon’s infectious grin. The expressions the little princess made with it echoed her father’s.

“As I’m sure this one will favor his sire.” Daemon’s free hand that was not holding onto their daughter reached out to caress his wife’s belly. Rhaenyra could not take her eyes off it. Her face was rapidly paling as if she had seen a ghost. Naerys was reminded of her cousin's reaction to the news of their first pregnancy.

The color completely drained from Rhaenyra’s face at breakfast the morning after Jace’s name day feast. The crown Princess had to be prompted by her father to congratulate her uncle and aunt. After which Rhaenyra went to bed early claiming exhaustion from the festivities of the previous day. She did not see them off when they finally departed for Dragonstone.

Naerys could not help but shift around uncomfortably which did not escape her uncle’s notice. Her husband’s face began to redden with anger and it looked as if he might snap once more at his older niece, but Laenor hastily ushered his own wife into their carriage that would take them back to the Red Keep.

Where Rhaenyra treated her daughter with cold indifference her sons could not help but adore their little cousin. Jace and Luke were of an age with the young Targaryen princess as well as their cousins the Lady Strong’s, Baela and Rhaena. The fivesome could be found getting into mischief around the castle, giving their nursemaids and parents much grief. Naerys was happy for her daughter's enjoyment. Though she was exhausted from chasing after her daughter while six moons pregnant.

Alicent had advised her son’s to be kind to their little cousin, but they were less than enthused with Daenys. A fact that seemed to annoy Daemon, particularly when it came to Aemond’s opinion of their daughter. “That boy my brother calls his son is jealous of our little dragon.” The man had sworn that he had seen Aemond eyeing their daughter's dragon hatchling with envy.

Naerys did not doubt her husband's beliefs, but Alicent’s oldest sons were boys on the verge of manhood and Daeron was at an age where he wished to be like his brothers. It was only natural that they would not coo over a girl babe. Daenys herself did not suffer from a lack of attention from her uncle’s youngest children. Their sister more than made up for it.

Helaena had taken to dressing up Daenys as if she were her little doll. Parading her around the Red Keep while introducing her to the passing lords and ladies of court as “my little sister.” The younger princess had not minded being babied and doted upon by her elder cousin until she placed a spider in her hands while they had gone to watch the boys in the training yard. “Spiders are excellent judges of character sister. This one’s name is Willard. Say hello Willard.”

Daenys violet eyes widened in confusion. Flickering between her cousin's wistful face and that of the spider in her hand before she descended into wails. The training yard plunged into chaos at the sounds of her distress. Helaena’s septa, who was tasked with the care of the two young princesses, was a skittish mousy woman who was half scared of her charge and the pests she kept as company. The woman did little but add to the confusion of the episode with her shrieks all the while Helaena had tried to calm her cousin. “He is a friend sister. He means no harm!”

Ultimately it was Aemond who had “rescued” the little princess from harm. Taking the spider and releasing it back into the “wild.” As a result, Daenys began to follow Aemond around the castle calling him “Ser Knight.” Glued to him as if she was his shadow. Even going as far as making crude favors for the boy which he accepted with a strained smile under the watchful glare of his uncle.

Aegon laughed at the pair when he saw Daenys muddy skirts trailing after his brother hand in hand with her septa(Naerys had sent for the woman after the spider fiasco) in the training yard or when the princess moved her seat so as to be closer to her cousin.

Dubbing Aemond Daenys nursemaid with a chortle during their visit to the Dragon Pitt one morning. An act such caused Alicent’s middle son to turn beat red while the oldest son was pummeled by pebbles from Daenys who did not take kindly to “her knight” being mocked. Sporting a bruised cheek Aegon had apologized to his brother and Aemond became more agreeable to his small cousin toddling after him.

Daenys seemed to enjoy her time in the company of her cousins. That is she enjoyed the company of her cousins apart from the youngest of the bunch. Little Joffrey was a sweet babe, but Daenys was used to being doted upon even though she insisted she was not a baby herself. Daenys could often be found with a small scowl that rivaled her father's jealous gaze whenever Naerys lavished affection over her baby cousin.

“You will have to share me with your siblings one day my love.” Daenys was far used to being the only child around and as a result, was used to being admired above all else. The young princess had become spoiled. All she had to do was bat her silver eyelashes and mother and sire, Daemon especially, were all too keen to meet her requests.

She would not sleep in her room and would often make her way to her parent's door sometime during the night. Slipping herself into their bed under the guise that there were monsters under her own bed or that her chambers were too dark. She was attached to her parents at the hip and was far used to having both at her beck and call.

“Nyke jāhor daor.” I will not. It was said with a little frown and surprising conviction for a girl of only three name days old. Daemon had roared at their daughter's declaration. Calling her his little dragon while saying how she was like her mother. Naerys was less than amused.

“Aōha byka zaldrīzes gets ziry hen ao kepus daor issa.” Your little dragon gets that from you uncle not me. Daenys may have her mother’s looks, but she was truthfully her father’s daughter in temperament. Daemon had not gotten better at sharing his things. Lest of all his prized “possessions.” His daughter had inherited his possessive nature over her mother. Naerys' husband had not been able to deny it.

“Should she not be Lady Targaryen rather than Princess father?” It was the last day Rhaenyra and Helaena sat on each side of their father at the feast. Alicent was regulated to sitting after her daughter a slight to some, but Naerys saw that the Hightower woman almost looked happy to be sat away from her husband or further away from Rhaenyra. Perhaps it was both.

Rhaenyra made the appearance of being cordial to her babe cousin. She had realized that Daemon would not take kindly to his daughter being given the cold shoulder, but one did not have to look hard to see how she truly felt.

It was in the tight-lipped grins that never reached her lilac eyes or how she stared blankly at the small girl when she felt that no one was looking. Naerys tried to keep her daughter away from the crown princess, but the girl adored her cousins, even the bastards among them, and Rhaenyra was never far from her boys

The ailing king replied to his daughter’s inquiry as if she was oblivious. “She will be Lady of Dragonstone after my brother has gone to his grave Rhaenyra. As you will be queen after I have gone to mine. Gods willing it will not be anytime soon.” Rhaenyra fumed, but the matter would have been put to bed had not Ser Otto Hightower spoken.

“Should not one of your own sons inherit Dragonstone after Prince Daemon your grace?” The former hand of the king had been permitted to journey to the capital from Oldtown for his granddaughter's name day. The man had mostly kept to himself, but he was a practical man. Waiting to strike when the opportunity arose.

“If the babe is another girl or Gods forbid another-” Ser Otto had not been able to speak another word before Daemon flew from his seat across the table. Ordering for Dark Sister to be brought from their chambers. The dragon had awoken and the rest of the Great Hall had gone silent.

Everyone knew of the miscarriages. Maesters from the citadel as well as court had been called for. Dragonstone had become a revolving door of maesters, midwives, and healers brought back from as far away as Essos. Rumors flew from Dragonstone to Oldtown. No one said anything to Naerys face, nor Daemon’s lest they risk meeting the wrong end of Dark Sister or Caraxes, but she knew what a look of pity was when she saw it.

It was the king's words that put the ordeal to rest. “Choose your words carefully Ser.” It was said with gritted teeth. Viserys stood up clutching his dinner knife in his good hand while pointing it at his bewildered good father. “You will not speak ill of my niece nor my brother's children.”

The king sounded as exasperated as he looked when he turned towards his brother. “Sit down Daemon, Ser Otto knows his place. Let us enjoy the rest of this feast in peace.” Ser Otto did not breathe another word, nor did his gaze ever venture towards Daemon who appeared ready to strike at any moment, for the remainder of the feast, leaving early so that he was not caught unaware.

Naerys' labors began later that night. This time the princess awoke from her short slumber to blood pooling out from between her legs. Grand Maester Mellos as well Archmaester Orwyle were called for. Daemon flew to Dragonstone for Maester Orlys not fully trusting the maesters at court, but it was too soon. They all knew it. The babe was not supposed to arrive for another three moons. The birth was a blur. Over before Naerys could wrap her head around it. There was no joy to follow.

Their babe had been a girl. Smaller than Daenys had been, but just as beautiful. She would never open her eyes or wail out at being thrust into the world as her elder sister had. They named her Alyssa.

Naerys cradled her in her arms. She would not let the silent sisters take her. Stroking her pale cheeks as she sang lullabies to her babe. It was only after being administered dreamwine as Daemon held her were the sisters able to take Alyssa’s body away. There had been enough to burn this time. Naerys buried her head into Daenys neck when Daemon gave the command to lit the funeral pyre afire.

Daemon placed a cup of moon tea in front of her two moons later. Naerys wanted to try again. She was healed. They needed an heir. Her husband refused to bed her until she agreed to his demands. There could be no more children. He had meant it.

“Gaomagon ao daor jaelagon syt nyke naejot bare ao iā tresy? Iksin nyke daor sȳz enough syt ao valzȳrys?” Do you not wish for me to bear you a son? Am I not good enough for you husband? Naerys spat at him as she threw the cup at him. Daemon had not even flinched as some of the hot liquid splashed on his impassive face.

“Gaomagon ao daor jaelagon naejot glaesagon naejot ūndegon īlva tala riñar ābrazȳrys?” Do you not wish to live to see our daughter's children? Daemon held her in his arms as the weight of Naerys' despair came crashing upon her.

Naerys felt as if she was a helpless child as her husband wiped away her tears, rocking her back and forth as he did with Daenys when their daughter was in a foul mood. There had been so much loss in the past three years and yet she was willing to risk more. She had to.

Daemon called for her aunt and cousin to visit. “You could die, Naerys.” They had gone down to the beach. Resting on top of a piece of driftwood. Watching Laena chasing after her daughters and Daenys. The tide had waned. “Think of your daughter. Would you leave her alone in this world?”

“She would not be alone.” Daemon loved their daughter more than life itself. He would move the heavens and earth for her. Their little dragon would never be alone. The ache would dull and Naerys would become a distant memory, but Daenys would have her father. Daemon could always take another to wife. He had done so once. He could do so again, though Naerys hoped that his eyes would not land upon the one woman he had wanted all those years ago.

“She would not have you.” Naerys yielded once more. For six months at least. Another bargain Daemon accepted. The prince still needed an heir. She had seen the way her husband looked when they journeyed to the capital. Seen the way his eyes lit up with longing as he spared with one of the strong boys or Alicent’s sons. All men wished to have heirs. Her husband was no different though he claimed otherwise.

Daemon had taken to treating Naerys as his heir. He would perch her on his lap on Dragonstone’s throne during petition meetings. Explaining to her why he had made each decision. Depositing her on a nearby bench in their training yard as he spared with his men.

He had tried to give the girl a practice sword, but she threw it away with interest in favor of her dolls. Daenys had become his little shadow. Following his every move. The two were rarely seen without the other. Their daughter relished in the attention she received, but she was not a proper heir. A son was needed.

This would be her last pregnancy. Maester Orlys had warned her. Her body would give out if she were to have another one though it would likely never quicken on its own again. Daemon had taken to treating her as if she were glass. Their daughter had followed his lead. It could be suffocating at times. One or the other would constantly fuss about her. Though it was much more amusing to see the little Daenys order her mother about than her stern father. Naerys accepted it as the price she would pay for her babe.

“Lord Strong and Ser Harwin are dead.” Ser Vaemond wasted no time with formalities. Though he did lend a strained smile. He had arrived on Dragonstone at twilight one evening in the ninth of Naerys final pregnancy. Apart from the servants and Maester Orlys the castle was empty. Daemon and Daenys were out riding upon Caraxes around the island. They were due to arrive back any moment.

The two had been hesitant to leave her, but Naerys had convinced them otherwise. She had been experiencing false labors, but she was not due for a. Her maids rarely left her side in the absence of her husband. Even if her labors were to begin in earnest, the two would be called back to Dragonstone with enough time to spare.

“Rhaenyra has fled to my brother’s keep. Apparently, she and the queen had a disagreement.” They were always at odds. The two could not see eye to eye even if their lives depended upon it. “She’s brought those boys she calls sons with her.”

“They are her sons' uncle.” It did not matter who sired her cousin's sons. Rhaenyra gave life to her boys just as Naerys had given Daenys hers. No man, father or not, could change that. Children were children to a mother.

“You should see it. She’s more bereft than Laena.” Poor Laena. She had brought her daughters to Driftmark for peace and yet there would be none. Her husband, the father of her children, had died while she still stood to give birth to his last child. A child who would never meet their father. Naerys was not sad to learn of Ser Harwin’s demise, and even less sorry to hear of Lord Strongs, but she was sad for her cousin and her children.

“She has her rights.” Naerys sighed, placing a hand on her belly. The babe had made its presence known with a swift kick. Ser Harwin was the father of her sons as well. Her lover and a confidant of sorts. Rhaenyra should be able to grieve the loss of Ser Harwin as well as Laena. Truthfully Rhaenyra might have cared for the strong knight towards the end more than his wife had.

“To think that she is to be our queen after her idiot of a father departs this earth.” Ser Vaemond sneered with every word he spoke. Naerys bristled. She knew where this conversation was going. “You should be queen.” Vaemond had been her father's fiercest supporter. Aenys Targaryen was Baelon's eldest son. From an ill-fated union with her Velaryon grandmother, but a union that put him second in the line of succession after his own uncle's death.

When Naerys father died he had tried to push her mother on the issue, but she was too young and her mother far too fearful. She had fled from court taking Naerys back to Driftmark with her when her father had died. Shaera Velaryon had not trusted the council her good grandsire kept. “I should have never let your mother take you away from court.”

“I am no queen uncle, we both know that.” Naerys was a babe, younger than Daenys, when the great council had been called. Her claim had easily been pushed aside with a laugh in favor of her half-uncle. No one wanted a queen upon the Iron Throne, especially not one that still needed a nursemaid. Naerys had come to realize it was for the best. The Iron Throne was a curse she had been lucky to escape. “Why are you here?” The hour was growing late and Naerys was growing weary of where the conversation was heading.

“I remember when you were your daughter's age.” The umber man went to touch her belly. The babe let out another kick. This one was less active than his sister, but his kicks were just as strong. Naerys wanted to flick her uncle's hand away so that she may soothe the restless babe within but she dropped her own hand to the side. “Daenys is just as beautiful as her mother.”

“She’s four.” A betrothal was out of the question. Her uncle knew that. Even if Naerys agreed to it Ser Vaemond Velaryon could not have possibly come all this way for a union between one of her uncle’s grandsons and their daughter that would not be consummated for at least ten years. It was not up to her to decide her daughter’s fate anyway. The Velaryon knight wanted something else.

“Ser Otto Hightower has been reinstated as hand.” It was said innocently enough. Though one could never tell with the commander of the Velaryon fleet if it was a threat or a warning until his temper made itself known. Her uncle continued to stroke her belly.

“Otto Hightower is not a man to be trusted.” Another kick sharper than the rest. Naerys moved her hand to grip the painted table. Biting down on her lip to ease the discomfort. Her uncle had made a servant show him to Dragonstone’s map chambers when he arrived. The man wanted a stage for his theatrics.

“He is keen on seeing the rightful heirs sit atop both the Driftwood and Iron thrones.” Ser Vaemond finally removed his hand back to his person. Turning his violet gaze to the map in front of them. “Perhaps Dragonstone’s as well.” A warning and an offer. The first of many messengers to come.

Naerys knew the wants of a second son well. She had married one and grown up partly in the care of another. Otto Hightower, Vaemond Velaryon, and Daemon Targaryen were not really much different from one another. They all wanted to set themselves apart from their elder brothers. To carve out their own legacy so that their names may live on in the history maester’s diligently recorded.

The hand’s legacy was to be the Iron Throne. Or at least that is what he hoped for when he married his daughter to the king. In Ser Otto’s eyes, Rhaenyra was only supposed to be a placeholder until Viserys' son could be born from this union. The birth of Aegon should have changed the line of succession, but the king would not push aside his son for his beloved firstborn.

Rhaenyra remaining heir did not stop Ser Otto from wanting to seize the Iron Throne for his grandson. A want his daughter no doubt shared with him. It was Aegon’s birthright. Son’s come before their sisters no matter their birth order. Why would the king remarry if not to secure a son after him? Why break over a century of tradition for one woman? Why pass over scores of Targaryen women, Rhaena the Black Bride, Rhaenys, and Naerys herself only for the throne to land in the hands of an entitled woman? Viserys spat in the face of them all to ease his guilty conscience.

Naerys doubled over in pain, not from a kick, but from an unmistakable contraction. Leaning on the painted table she felt a steady stream of fluid trickle down her legs. The princess lifted up her skirts to reveal a dark puddle on the chamber’s stone floor. Just as the last one ended another wave of contractions arrived. Her labors had begun for the final time.

Birth was never easy. The birthing bed always posed a risk, but it was a woman’s war. A mother's burden. Death hung in the air ready to take both mother and child at the drop of a feather, but the reward, in the end, was worth it. To hear the cries of a squirming healthy babe made the pain bearable. Naerys had only been rewarded with that sound once. She was desperate to hear it once more.

A messenger from Driftmark had come while Naerys struggled to bring her babe into the world. Laena had gone into labor as well, but she and the babe had perished. Vaemond had tried to shush the man away but Naerys had heard. Her cousin had always been harder than her. Vivacious and full of life yet she had succumbed to her labors. What hope was there for her?

“Will she live?” Naerys did not know when Daemon had arrived back, but her husband stood pale and grave-faced at the door to their chambers with Maester Orlys. Speaking in hushed voices so as not to disturb her. The maester and the midwives had given up on telling her to push. It was a fool's errand at this point.

Naerys had neither the strength nor the energy left in her body to do so. She was exhausted. Each round of throbbing spasms that wrecked her body began to meld into one another. She could barely move. She could not tell her head from her hand. Feeling herself slowly drifting towards something unseen.

“No my prince, but the babe might.” Their heir might live. If he were to cut her open they might have a son, but there would be a price that would be paid. Naerys had been too young when her late aunt had died trying, but she remembered seeing the bloodied sheets.

“And if we do not?” Daemon’s violet eyes cast his gaze toward her. Naerys eyes felt another round of contractions radiating throughout her body. She could only whimper out in pain. Curling further into herself. The ache within her was overwhelming.

“She will live my prince.” The maester wavered at his next words. His dark eyes traveled past Daemon’s to land upon her belly. “But the babe will die.” They could not save both her and the babe. A choice was to be made. A sacrifice she was more than willing to make. For Daemon she would pay that price to bring their son into the world.

“Do what needs to be done.” Daemon’s voice was just as solemn as his face. Naerys had not thought of death truly until that moment. She was no stranger to death. Even when she was a girl death followed her around as if she was an old friend. Taking both her parents with him before she had known what life was.

Naerys had not known her father, but she remembered glimpses of her mother's face. Her laugh. Her smile. Soft brown hands that would lovingly braid her hair. “My daughter needs her mother and I need my wife.” She thought she had hallucinated what she heard until Daemon moved towards where she lay a writhing sweaty heap on their bed.

“Byka mēre.” Little one. Daemon placed his hand in hers lightly squeezing it. Naerys tried to return the grip but she failed. “Ao jāhor jorrāelagon naejot indigon skori pōnta ivestragon ao naejot” You will need to push when they tell you to. He kissed her forehead brushing away the sweaty coils that fell from her braid. Her uncle's face has been overtaken by grief.

Naerys in her hazy state spied a midwife handing a large set of clamps to the maester. They reminded her of giant spoons. “Kostilus issa dōna riña. Indigon syt issa.” Please my sweet girl. Push for me. His voice was strained. Daemon brought his forehead to her own as another midwife spread her legs apart.

The princess winced as she felt the cold metal of the clamps being pushed into her before coming to a stop at her babes head. She had to push. Just a little one, but she had to try. Her husband squeezed her hand once more. With the remaining strength left in her body, she made a feeble attempt at a push. After the first round, the pressure became too much to bear. Naerys felt herself fading into the abyss.

When she came to, she heard the babbling of Daenys and her septa in their solar. A reminder that the Stranger had seen fit to spare her. The linens had been freshly changed. The smell of death was gone from the room though an air of dolefulness lingered on.

Naerys placed a hand on her slowly deflating belly and turned her head to gaze upon the near empty crib that was placed near their chambers warming fire. Only a dark dragon egg their daughter had picked out lay in it. Heat for a dragon. A dragon that would remain unclaimed if it ever hatched

“Skorkydoso gaomagon ao feel byka mēre” How do you feel little one? Daemon’s melancholic voice broke her from her thoughts. Her uncle's eyes were bloodshot and his complexion resembled that of a ghost, but he gave her a small smile. Relief. He felt relief with every breath that his young wife still took.

Naerys felt sore and listless beyond belief. She knew that her breasts would begin to leak soon and she would more than likely be forced to drink some milk of the poppy for the dull aches she felt, but the physical reminders of birth did little to compare to the mental torment she felt inside.

“What was it?” She barely recognized the sound of her own voice. The croak it made did not belong to her. It could not have. It belonged to some other woman. Not her. Some broken little lifeless thing. Not a daughter of House Targaryen.

Daemon looked hesitant to answer. Shifting on the balls of his feet as he held his head down. He sighed before grabbing her hand. Bringing her willowy arm up to his thin mouth. Placing a kiss on the back of the smooth skin there. She knew what the answer would be, but she needed to hear it from his lips.

“Nykeā valonqar. Ziry gōntan daor botagon syt bōsa.” A boy. He did not suffer for long. Their child was gone. Their heir was gone before he could live. There would never be more children. No more babes to fill their halls. At least not from Naerys. She was not strong enough to birth a healthy son for her husband. She had never been.

“Nyke emagon qringōntan ao istin tolī.” I have failed you once more. Naerys let out a pained sob turning her head into her pillow. There was not much the Targaryen man could do but comfort his weeping wife. Joining her on their bed. Gathering her in his arms as he let her cry into his chest for their lost children. “Nyke emagon qringōntan ao se nyke kostagon daor tepagon ao tolī.” I have failed you and I can not give you more.

“Ao could dōrī qringaomagon issa dōna riña” You could never fail me sweet girl. Daemon rocked her as if she was a babe. Wiping away her tears and placing half-hazard kisses across her streaked cheeks. “Ao emagon given issa tolī than nyke gūrogon. Ao issi alive, bona iksos skoros matters.” You have given me more than I deserve. You are alive, that is what matters. Naerys was reminded of Daemon’s pleadings a year back. If only she had listened to him then. She could not turn back now.

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131 AC- Dragonstone

Marriage is an institution. It is the oldest institution in existence. The very foundation of polite and chivalrous society. It can be characterized by duty, affection, and fidelity though the latter two are rare to find in most unions. Love is not a precursor to marriage. Nor is it a requirement. Love matches are rare. Even rarer are those who grow to love one another.

For those fortunate enough to be born high in society we marry those who we are told to. Duty and love are like oil in water in most unions. Perhaps the institution is kinder to those who are less fortunate. Matrimony can be a joyful gift to those lucky enough to have been blessed by the Maiden, but so few are.

Liberation within its sacred vows is few and far between. This is the case for women especially. A woman is first the property of her father and then later her husband. Devoting her life to both. She lives in service of others. To be a devoted daughter to birth her husband's heirs. When she fails that duty she is shamed. Cast aside if not physically she is mentally iced out. She is looked down upon. Reprimanded for her faults, but when she succeeds she is the embodiment of the mother herself.

Marriage of course has its benefits for women as well as men. It offers the chance for a legacy. A way of serving past death. Cheating the very nature of mortality. Life is fleeting, but we can live from beyond the grave. Through our children, we go on. We endure for them so that we may preserve in some fashion or another. It brings legitimacy to children created within its union. The role of marriage at its heart. We all have our parts to play.

Naerys went into her marriage with the same expectations as most highborn women. She did not ask for much. She knew her duty. She was to bear her husband a male heir and at least a spare. She was to educate her children in the customs of old Valyria. If the Gods willed it she would fill the halls of Dragonstone with plenty of children to go around.

There had been a time when she had seemingly failed this duty, that the princess had thought she would have to share her husband with another, but that time had thankfully passed. Though doubts lingered in the back of her mind, the past was the past. She could not change it. Nor would she wish to. Her deck had been set. The cards had been handed out. She would make the best of the hand that she had been dealt. It had not been a bad hand in the end.

Where the first five years of her marriage had been hectic, full of uncertainty and pain, the past eleven years of Naerys' marriage had been as close to felicity as she had ever reached. Daemon was a loyal and attentive husband. Though he could be hot-headed and brash he was a passionate and devoted man. She could not complain. She had more than she could have ever dreamed of.

Nothing could beat her husband's smile when he was thrilled with her or something else that excited him. The way his violet eyes crinkled up at the corners brought light to his pale face. His boisterous laughter filled her up, warming her up on cold nights as he held her in his arms after a heated round of lovemaking.

Her uncle's consideration of her needs was unparalleled. Over the years he had grown to value her opinion above all others. Seeking her council for decisions or problems that arise with their vessels and Dragonstone’s small folk. The day-to-day of their household was left mostly in Naerys' care. An arrangement that worked out the best for both.

Rarely did Daemon miss their evening rides on Silverwing and Caraxes around their island. Nor the chance to recount each other’s days over a cup of warm mulled wine while they sat by the fire. The Targaryen couple relished the time that they spent in each other’s company. Whether it be sharing a simple meal in their chambers solar, reading texts of various natures to each other, or a shared bath to wash off the stress of the day. Daemon always made time for his little wife no matter how busy their days got.

When Naerys had given birth to Daenys and no sons had followed after she had grown weary, her husband had not seemed to mind that his heir came in the form of a girl. Her strength regrew from his conviction. Their daughter was a blessing from the Gods. A miracle that they cherished above all else. Anyone who asked the Rogue Prince’s true opinion on the issue of his lack of sons would receive a firm challenge. “Why would I wish for sons when I have my little dragon?” They would not make the mistake of questioning the prince again or his daughter's position as his heir.

A sweet sentiment, but Naerys had held out a silent hope that her womb would quicken again the first three years after Aenys birth. That the maesters had been wrong. That she would be able to give her husband a son and heir. Praying to the mother every time she lay with her husband and he released inside her that his seed would take, They had not been. By the fourth year after their son's tragic birth, it became clear that Daenys would remain their sole living child.

Daenys was a vivacious girl with a charming disposition. She excelled in needlepoint, dancing, and court etiquette as well as high Valyrian, literature, and ancient histories. She found politics and sums to be tedious, struggling especially with the latter, but she rarely gave her septa or Maester Orly's much trouble for it. Much to her father's disappointment, and her mother's relief, she did not enjoy swordplay, but she had grown to love archery almost as much as her daily rides upon the slender dragon she had named Moonbeam.

Though the young princess had her mother's looks she had inherited her father’s stubbornness. Preferring to do things as she saw fit though she could be persuaded to see the merits in others' opinions if she was given enough reason to. Daenys was a true daughter of House Targaryen. Every inch the Valyrian beauty, standing tall with her silver curls, honey complexion, and violet eyes she had inherited from her father. Her loveliness only grew with each passing name day. The young princess was shaping up to be a fine lady of impeccable breeding.

While Daenys may not have been an ideal heir due to her sex, no one could doubt her legitimacy or her position as Daemon’s successor. She had no brothers. No other siblings legitimate or otherwise. The young princess was the sole living natural-born child of both of her parents. There could be no question of who would inherit Dragonstone after her father would depart from this earth. This was not the case for her older cousin.

The question of legitimacy was presented with Rhaenyra. The presumed heir to the Iron Throne. The firstborn daughter of the king. Born from Viserys first marriage to his late cousin Aemma. Though Rhaenyra was undoubtedly her father's eldest child, the king had since remarried. Her stepmother had given birth to four children, three of whom were sons. Viserys long hoped for heirs. Their births should have pushed her further down the line of succession except they had not and the crown princess remained heir.

Every heir has certain expectations. The continuation of the family line is one of them. Under threat of disinheritance, Rhaenyra had been married to her Velaryon cousin the late Ser Laenor. In their many moons of marriage, she birthed three sons. The eldest two, Jaecerys and Lucerys, had been named the future heir of the Seven Kingdoms and the future Lord of Tides respectively. In the king's mind, his line and Rhaenyra’s position as the heir appeared secure.

Despite Naerys' cousin claiming each dark-haired pug-nosed son Rhaenyra bore, the question of the legitimacy clung to them. Ser Laenor’s proclivities were well known. Whether the two had tried to work past his urges if the Velaryon heir was truly sterile was not known to the realm at large, but regardless of the finer details, everyone knew who really fathered the realm’s delight’s children. They were unquestionably the baseborn sons of the crown princess sired by her late lover and good brother Ser Harwin Strong.

Lord Corlys and his lady wife Princess Rhaenys said nothing publically to contradict Rhaenyra’s son's parentage for the sake of their granddaughters. The little strong sister twins, Baela and Rhaena were set to marry Jace and Luke. The elder was to be the queen of the seven kingdoms while the younger lady of Driftmark was like her grandmother before her. Privately, it was obvious that Rhaenys was less than enthused at her good daughter's lack of discretion. The fact that she had turned to her late daughter's husband as a means to provide herself with heirs had further soured their relationship.

In the wake of Ser Laenor’s death, Rhaenyra and her children fled from Driftmark. I can not bear to be in the place where my husband has died. I am so alone here uncle. All I have are my sons. An excuse and a plea. It was what she wrote to Daemon. Keeping true to his word that there were to be no more secrets between he and his young niece-wife, the Rogue Prince read over the contents of the letter to Naerys as they were preparing for bed.

When he had finished, Naerys expected her uncle to return to his writing desk. Wasting no time to extend an invitation to Rhaenyra, he kissed the worry lines that had appeared on her forehead and tossed the letter into the fire. Pulling her silver coils back from her little brown face before he bent down to capture her sweet mouth in a kiss. He began to pull the loose tie to her gown to reveal the sheer gown underneath. She shivered in the cool night air that had seeped into their solar, but she did not suffer for long. Warming up under her husband’s amorous attention.

“Ao emagon daorun naejot zūgagon issa dōna riña.” You have nothing to fear, my sweet girl. Naerys' husband wrote back to Rhaenyra in the morning. He offered her their condolences once more, but he did not offer her a place by his side in Dragonstone’s halls.

Not receiving the reply she had hoped for, Rhaenyra and her sons made their way to the Vale. Having heard of her plight Jeyne Arryn, her cousin for her the princess's mother had been an Arryn, and Lady of the Eyrie offered her a place at her hearth.

The Warden of the East was a virtuous woman who held little love for those who sought to usurp a woman’s rightful position in favor of their male relatives. She knew all too well what it was like to be looked down upon for her sex. Her own cousin Ser Arnold Arryn had twice risen against her to claim her Inheritance.

Her opinion remained low among those who sought to replace her cousin as heir due to her sex and her children's questionable legitimacy. She dismissed the claims of Rhaenyra’s son's bastard status as harsh untruths. “Your sons have inherited the Arryn look, my dear princess.”

Lady Jeyne Arryn and the crown princess got on well enough with the exception of one subject. Prince Daemon Targaryen. Lady Arryn's distaste for the Rogue Prince had been well known. She had never held a high opinion of the man, but what little regard she had held vanished after the death of Lady Rhea Royce.

“She believes I killed that unfortunate woman who I happened to have been tied to for her inheritance, little one.” Her husband's first wife was a topic that only came up a handful of times in their marriage. It was for all intents and purposes a cold barren union that had embittered them both. The two had only slept together a handful of times and saw each other with little frequency. A stark contrast to the affections he held for his niece-wife.

Naerys sometimes wondered, mostly to herself, if her uncle had done away with Lady Rhea. True enough, Daemon was away from the Runestone at the untimely death of his first wife, but he hated the woman and he hated that he was not allowed to take another for a wife. He had wasted no time in demanding his baby niece's hand in marriage when she finally succumbed to her injuries. Flying to Driftmark to claim his prize for enduring a frigid marriage bed for so long.

Curiosity got the better of Naerys when she asked in a haze of lust and Dornish Red one night if he had. Daemon laughed before breathing into her ear as he thrust his middle and index fingers into her cunt to prolong her peak. Pulling out his digit from her overspent heat when she began to whimper. Bringing their combined spends to her slightly swollen lips. A love-drunk look overtook her husband's pale face when she eagerly suckled on the pads of his fingers. “If my brother had not let me have a taste of you I would have.”

Naerys had been told that Rhaenyra would hear no ill words against her beloved uncle. “It is not his fault dear cousin. My uncle would have never turned me away had it not been for another who has crawled in his bed and takes joy in whispering fables into his ear.” Lady Jeyne spoke no more on the subject.

The Eyrie for a time became a place of diversion for the crown princess. Her cousin was gracious enough to let her have a run of her own household. Giving her the freedom she so desired as long as she did not interfere in her role as Warden of the East.

Still, life in the Vale grew dull for Rhaenyra. The ancestral seat of House Arryn was beautiful, but a small remote castle. Served the purpose of defense well, but for entertainment, it fell short even in comparison to Dragonstone which sat in half isolation. Guests were few and far between besides the young lady Strong‘s who on occasion would fly upon Baela’s mount Moondancer to visit their betrotheds.

I confess that I have grown weary of this place. Though Lady Arryn is kind, the Eyrie is not home. The crown princess had written once again to their uncle. It was Naerys who extended the offer of a visit to Dragonstone’s shore. It was in part born out of her duty as a mother.

Daenys was fast approaching her fifteenth name day. The young princess was a beauty, an accomplished dragon rider, and possessed an overall sweet disposition. She did not lack for admirers, however, her eyes were firmly set upon her cousin Aemond. A fondness that was returned in kind.

“She’s too infatuated with him.” It was said as Daemon glared at Aemond from the high table as Aemond spun Daenys around the great hall during their nephew's last visit. “And you are encouraging it little one.” The Rogue Prince had tried to separate the two after Prince Aemond had asked for his daughter's hand in marriage. An act that had ended poorly.

“Iksan ojūdan mijegon zirȳla nuncle. Wed zȳhon naejot issa isse se tradition hen īlva lentor.” I am lost without her nuncle. Wed her to me in the tradition of our house. The young prince had promised her parents that he would not remove his future bride from all that she loved. Daenys preferred the quiet tranquility of Dragonstone’s smoky shores. The Red Keep with its gossip and foul air held little appeal for the princess. Aemond truth be told found his father’s court to be tiring. It was no place to raise children. He knew that all too well. This had been the final straw for the princess’s father.

“My dear nephew, I’d sooner wed my daughter to a pig than you. At least then we’d get a meal out of it.” Daemon sniggered at his nephew who had dropped down to his knees with his sword clasped firmly between his hands in a show of fealty. The older prince's face turned to stone as he sneered down at the red faced one eyed prince. Daemon ordered him to take leave from Dragonstone. “Your nursemaid will be missing you.” A pair of guards flanked Aemond on his involuntary march to Vhagar. Taking flight without so much as a being allowed a goodbye to his young love.

Daenys had given her parents the fright of their lives when she flew from Dragonstone in the middle of a storm without so much as a trace. They had begun to expect the worst until a raven arrived from the Red Keep informing Naerys and Daemon of their daughter's whereabouts. The young princess had made the trek in perilous weather, a course of action which her cousin had advised her not to undertake, to entreat upon her uncle’s goodwill. Surely he would force his brother's hand and allow their union to take place.

When the appeal was posed by the young lovers to the dying man he was said to have turned away from his son to gaze upon his young niece with a slight look of confusion. Taking her unblemished hand in his frail one with an apologetic smile on his face. “I do not think that is wise Naerys.”

The broken-hearted young princess was retrieved from the capital with haste by her father and barred from leaving so much as her chambers without the presence of at least one of her maids. Daemon threatened to send for her old septa, but Naerys was able to calm her husband. “It was a mistake. She has learned her lesson kepus.”

Daenys complied with her parents' demands without complaint, but she was a restless girl. Her spirit would rally again. She would not be satisfied until she had gained what she wanted and Aemond was unlikely to give in unless he was told to by the young princess herself. The will of youthful pride and passion could not be underestimated.

It came as no great surprise when Daenys came to her mother begging for her help. “Ziry mazverdagon issa sōpagon muña.” He makes me laugh mother. The young princess broke down into sobs as Naerys stroked her silver curls. “Nyke kostagon daor jikagon va mijegon zirȳla” I can not go on without him.

Daemon had not mellowed much with age. Remaining every bit as stubborn as the Rogue Prince of his youth. He disliked Aemond as a match for his daughter and his opinion of him was unlikely to change, but perhaps if Daenys affections were to transfer to another of another they could move past this. Young love was fickle enough. The first passions of youth could fade just as quickly as they began.

“It is good to be among family again uncle.” In the fortnight that Rhaenyra and her sons stayed in Dragonstone’s stone halls she had made herself quite at home. Taking up residence in the Sea Dragon tower, far enough away from Naerys and her family’s residence in the Stone Drum, the princess, and her children were given free roam of the place.

Naerys was reminded of the early days of her marriage when Rhaenyra had been a constant presence in their home, though to her relief her husband did not seem half as interested in his niece this time around. He in fact had left the entertainment of the crown princess to Naerys. “You brought her here little one.” Daemon had told her with a teasing smirk when she had grumbled about her cousin's ways. Having to sit through sewing circles, dinners, and gatherings with a pinched-faced Rhaenyra had been a less than joyous experience, but for Daenys she endured it.

“Joffrey has grown so very fond of Daenys.” The three Targaryens peered down from the courtyard rafters to gaze upon their children in the training yard below. Rhaenyra and Naerys stood on opposite sides of Daemon who had pulled Naerys hand in his. A sight that had drawn the older princess’s attention as revulsion was written clearly across her pale face.

The Rogue Prince echoed the crown princess’s sentiments as he continued to draw circles with his thumb into the back of his wife’s hand. “It is truly a shame that she has no brothers.” It is a shame that your wife has given you no sons. Naerys stifled, but that did not go unnoticed by Daemon.

“As it is a shame that you had no daughters.” The crown princess’s lilac eyes brightened for a moment before her uncle continued on. “Or silver-haired sons.” Rhaenyra gave a tight-lipped smile before making her excuses. Leaving back for the safety of her guest chambers in Sea Dragon tower.

That night Naerys confessed her plan to her husband. Joffrey had not been her first choice for her daughter's potential betrothed, but she had run out of options. Daenys had found fault with every boy she had tried to thrust their daughter's way. He is too dull mother or he is too arrogant or I hate his laugh. While Rhaenyra’s youngest son was a well-mannered boy, she did not know how much longer she could take from her cousin's leering presence.

“Send them away.” Daemon had laughed lightly as he pulled her into his lap. Placing his forehead to hers. “Īlva byka zaldrīzes does daor raqagon joffrey isse bona ñuhoso nor does ziry ūndegon zȳhon hae mirros tolī than nykeā mandia. Ziry jorrāelagon daor dīnagon nykeā bastard.” Our little dragon does not like Joffrey in that way nor does he see her as anything more than a sister. She need not marry a bastard.

Naerys had dreaded telling her cousin to leave from Dragonstone’s shores. She had never been good at confrontation. Preferring to avoid it at all costs. The princess had found silence to be the best course of action when dealing with something or someone unpleasant. In the end, there had been no need for her anguish over the issue.

Two ravens arrived at Dragonstone. The first from Driftmark. The second from King's Landing. Both told the same tale. Lord Corlys Velaryon had fallen ill. A fever. Sudden and unexpected.

The Velaryon lord could not leave his bed. His wife Princess Rhaenys and their eldest granddaughter, Lady Baela, worked tirelessly to nurse him back to health. Rhaena spent most of her days praying for her grandfather's recovery in Hide Tide’s sept. It was when his condition took a turn for the worst that his brother chose to strike. The balance that they had crafted was steadily collapsing.

Ser Vaemond had always held firm to the belief that it was he and not Rhaenyra’s sons who was the rightful heir of the Driftwood Throne. He was Lord Corlys’ only living brother. He was the commander of house Velaryon’s navy. He was a true Velaryon with the undiluted blood of old Valyria running through his.

Though he had some minor disagreements with his nephews all had been in agreement that Lucerys Velaryon and his brothers were really bastards born of Strong seed. They were unfit to rule over them as the Lord of the Tides nor would they suffer through the embarrassment of house Velaryon being headed by a bastard welp of a whore. The Velaryon men had put aside their differences in support of their uncle's claim. It was with one unifying mind that Ser Vaemond, his sons, and his five nephews set sail for the Red Keep.

Naerys had always suspected that Ser Vaemond and Ser Otto Hightower had struck up a bargain with one another. They had a common enemy. The Driftwood Throne and the Iron Throne could be theirs respectively if Rhaenyra’s heirs were officially declared illegitimate. Aemond’s letter to Daenys all, but confirmed their unspoken agreement.

Tell your mother not to worry sweetling. My grandsire will be proceeding over Ser Vaemond’s petition. The king is too ill to leave his bed. Mother believes that we have worn him out from our little ambush. Naerys doubted that her uncle had been informed of the events that were transpiring around him.

Rhaenyra had been unfortunately present when Daenys had been made to read the letter aloud when they broke their fast. “I beg you uncle if you had or still have any love for me please save my boys.” With tears streaming down her face she implored Daemon to see to her children's “safety.” The crown princess’s sons were sweet true enough, but there was not enough sentiment to warrant defensive action. Their lives were not forfeit if they were publicly declared bastards.

Daemon agreed to it. “I would want Viserys to do the same for Daenys' little one.” His simple reply when his wife had asked why. Naerys did not object. If it gave her husband piece of mind that he had done what he could for his great nephews and their mother she would not dare try to sway or guilt him into changing his mind.

It had been suggested by Rhaenyra that she stay within the confines of Dragonstone when they were gearing up to leave for the Red Keep. “We will not be very long dear cousin.” She took all too much pleasure in ordering her around as she moved to smooth down imaginary lines on their uncle's riding leathers.

“My wife could talk some sense into him niece.” Daemon flicked Rhaenyra’s hand away. Naerys knew that her husband could care less for the fate of Ser Vaemond or his kin. However, he was not unaware of his niece-wife’s sentiments. For all his faults the Velaryon knight had been true to Naerys. She could not remember her father, but she could recall every instance that Vaemomd had tried to serve in his absence. She had to try to save him from his own self if she could. Naerys did not spare her aunt another look as she climbed upon Silverwing’s back and took to the skies.

The Dragonstone party arrived in Kings Landing well before Ser Vaemond and Alicent had been the ones to welcome them when they had arrived in the courtyard of the Red Keep. The queen gave a curt greeting to her good daughter before pulling Naerys to the side reiterating what her son had written in his letter. “The king is ill. We do what we can, but it is in the Mother's hands. My father will be the one to make the final verdict.”

Rhaenyra demanded to be taken to see her father almost immediately once the children had left to find some amusement. “I wish to see him.” Naerys could not blame her. If she was in her position she would request the same. The crown princess's visits to her father in the ten years since she had left had been minimal. The Red Keep of her youth was gone. The emblems and regalia of house Targaryen had been replaced mostly by the religious doctrine of the Seven. One was hard-pressed to recognize the castle.

Rhaenyra tried to leave Naerys waiting in the solar outside of the king's bed chambers, but Daemon chastised the crown princess with a frown upon his brow. “She is my wife Rhaenyra.” With a glare thrown in her cousin's direction, she conceded, not even bothering to hide distaste at being reminded of her position in comparison to the Lady of Dragonstone.

True enough the king was confined to his sick bed. The room was kept cool and the shudders were drawn so as to keep the sunlight from streaming in. A gauze covered half his face and the half that was exposed was gaunt and pocket marked with sores.

Viserys had not even recognized his own daughter until she had identified herself. “I am here with Daemon father.” Naerys ignored the omission as Daemon took her small hand in his. As he gazed down at his elder brother she was reminded of the worried look he wore during Aenys birth all those moons ago. The king seemed to come alive upon seeing his daughter and brother's faces together no doubt, but It was not long before a coughing fit overtook him. They left him to the care of maesters then.

Rhaenyra tried to collapse into Daemon when they exited the king's bed chambers. Feigning fatigue and exhaustion as she tried to push aside Naerys hand so that she may be encircled in their uncle’s arms, but the man brushed her off. The crown princess had to grab hold of a nearby chair to keep from falling. Turning to his wife he gave her hand a squeeze and placed a kiss on her soft cheek. “I’ll check on our daughter.” The man still looked like a lost boy as he made his way to search for their daughter. Daenys would set him to rights or at least provide him with enough of a distraction so as to keep his mind off of his brother.

The rest of the day leading up to the petitions passed by slowly. Princess Rhaenys, Lady Baela, and Lady Rhaena arrived not long after the Dragonstone party. While Naerys was glad to see her aunt and little cousin it was not their arrival that she anxiously waited upon. It was not until well in the afternoon that Ser Vaemond and his party finally arrived. At the Lady of Dragonstone’s behest, the queen had brought the Velaryon knight to his niece's guest chambers after she and her father briefly spoke with him. A courtesy that she would not forget.

“You are a Targaryen niece, this does not concern you.” Ser Vaemond tried to dismiss Naerys fears, but she would not let him. She had no dragon dreams, but something told her that this would not end well. The Stranger encircled the Red Keep. The princess could feel that it was not for the ailing king. “I have already received a lecture from one woman of your house. I will not listen to another.” Rhaenys was well-meaning, but she was not a Velaryon. Her interest lay with her blood the Lady Strongs. She would support the bastard's claim as long as her granddaughters sat beside them.

“Was my mother, your sister not a lady of house Velaryon? Was my grandmother, your aunt, not a lady of house Velaryon as well?” Naerys may have the blood of the dragon, but she was just as much if not more so a Velaryon. “Se uēpa, se drēje, se nēdenka.” The old, the true, the brave. House Velaryon’s words. Words she carried in her heart alongside Fire and blood.

“I am your blood. I beseech you uncle. Do not do this.” Naerys would not see the ruin of her mother's house due to her uncle’s ego. This scheme all hinged upon a delicate balance that could topple over at any moment. A set of what-ifs that could turn against him as quickly as they had turned for him. Rhaenyra may be a woman with bastards for heirs, but she was not without her allies. All it took would be a word or two in her favor and Ser Vaemond would be done for.

The Velaryon commanders' friends were few and far between. Ser Otto was loyal to what would put him closer to the crown. The shrewd hand of the king would abandon her uncle without so much as blinking the moment it no longer served him to be his ally. The queen had been kind to her, but her kindness only extended so far. Her interest lay with her children.If she thought that lending her hand would endanger their position or herself she too would turn her back on Ser Vaemond.

Daemon would not speak in support of Ser Vaemond. To do that would mean that he had abandoned Rhaenyra and her cause. He would not defend her Velaryon uncle unless Naerys were to somehow tie her fate to his. Her husband would stop her before it came to that. If Lord Corlys were to recover, there was no telling what he might do to his brother upon finding out that he had “usurped” his chosen heir. It was not too late to turn back, but time was running out.

“It is for house Velaryon that I do this niece.” Ser Vaemond made his way to the door, but his violet eyes softened. A rare moment for the proud man. Naerys was reminded of when she had been a girl. A distant memory of her letting her cry into his arms during her mother’s funeral played back in her head. “Nyke would dōrī deny bona ao issi aōha muñnykeā’s tala. Gaomagon daor ivestragī aōla forget bona.” I would never deny that you are your mother’s daughter. Do not let yourself forget that.

Ser Vaemond was lost to her as he left her chambers with a sad smile, clearing his throat before softly closing the heavy oak door. His fate lay with fickle Gods who had hardly been known to show mercy. Naerys crumbled to her knees as she let herself give in to her emotions.

The petition had been surprisingly short, but the ramifications were not so. Naerys was made to stand near Rhaenyra and her sons. The pale woman ambushed her on the way to the Great Hall. She reached out a hand out to grab hold of her forearm. “I need your strength aunt.”

Wearing a smile as her claws dug into her cousin's skin the crown princess dragged her across the Red Keep as if she were her lap dog. By the time they made it to where Daemon and Daenys stood on the opposite side of the queen and her three eldest children in the throne room Naerys felt her arm go numb from the pain.

Rhaenyra only let go of her grip when Daemon barked at her to release his niece-wife. Taking hold of her forearm to soothe the blotchy brown skin. “Look what you've done.” It looked worse than it felt, but Naerys was likely to be left with a dark bruise by morning. The crown princess apologized, stumbling over her words under her uncle’s dark stare. She was spared the worst of the Rogue Prince’s anger when Ser Otto called for the petitions to begin.

Ser Vaemond was called first to speak. Blood was his argument. Blood is what it all came down to. His blood was pure. The blood of the seas, the blood of old Valyria. He was his brother's rightful heir, not some bastard boy with no blood ties to House Velaryon.

Rhaenyra tried to cut the Velaryon knight off. Reminding the court that Luke was the son of Ser Laenor Velaryon. Lord Corlys' only son. He was a Velaryon just as much as his great uncle. His claim was the true one, but he was a Velaryon in name only. The queen reminded her that she would have her chance to speak. The crown princess quieted with a glower at Ser Vaemond who sported a self-assured smirk across his dark brow, but it was she who the Gods shined upon.

The king was announced not a moment after Rhaenyra began her defense of her son. The throne room went silent. The chamber's occupants and petitioners stood in shock as they gazed upon their ailing king. Even the crown princess looked surprised at her father's sudden appearance.

In the light of the throne room, Viserys looked worse than he had in his shrouded bed chambers. He wore a golden mask strapped to his frail wispy head in replace of the gauze that had covered the decaying side of his face. He stood low with the help of his cane hobbling over to the throne. A startled Ser Otto had no choice, but to hand judgment over to the king.

All attempts at assistance were shooed away until Viserys dropped his crown. Daemon swooped in to aid his brother up the steps leading to the Iron throne. Placing his crown upon his head when he finally sat upon that infernal chair. The brothers exchanged a look before her husband made his way back to where they stood. Naerys knew that all was lost for her uncle.

The king had more of his wit than he appeared. From where he stood Driftmarks succession was settled. Naerys glanced over to see Alicent’s face mirroring her own unease. The princess went to clutch at her daughter who returned her grip with a comforting squeeze.

The king called upon Rhaenys to speak. She was the only one who knew what her husband wanted. She would speak for the dying man. All eyes turned to her. It would be on her word that would deal the final blow.

She might have been swayed to support her good-brother had not Viserys arrived. The queen that never was would not have protested too much had Ser Vaemond offered her one of his eldest grandsons for Lady Baela. As long as her granddaughters, her blood, was not cheated of their inheritance she would not have cared who sat claimed the title of Lord of the Tides. It is what Naerys would do, but the king had arrived.

It came as no great surprise when Rhaenys reiterated her and her husband's support of Lucerys' claim. Calling the boy Ser Laenor’s true-born son. Reminding the court that her granddaughters were to wed Rhaenyra’s sons. Lord Corlys’ blood would appear to sit upon the Driftwood Throne twice over. The matter was once again settled with Viserys reaffirming his grandson’s position as heir of Driftmark upon his grandfather’s death.

Or at least it would have been settled had Naerys uncle been able to put aside his vanity. Ser Vaemond could have walked, but he would not give in so easily. He would not allow anyone, especially a king who championed his daughter at the expense of his own sons, to dictate the fate of House Velaryon. His sons and nephews echoed his protestations.

Naerys tried to go to her uncle, but Daemon grabbed her uninjured arm. Pulling her into her before bending down and whispering into her ear. “Bisa iksos daor ao vīlībagon byka mēre.” This is not your fight little one.

The king warned Ser Vaemond. Reminding him that Lucerys was the grandson of a king. His grandson. The Velaryon knight should have remembered his place as the second son of a second house of Valyria, but he still would not fold. The Velaryons may not have dragons, but they had the blood of old Valyria flowing through their veins as well. They had survived centuries of trials and were stronger for it. They would not be brought low if Vaemond Velaryon had anything to say about it.

“Her children are BASTARDS!” Shock once again rained across the throne room as Ser Vaemond roared the accusation at Rhaenyra and her sons. The color had drained from the crown prince's face as she scowled at the Velaryon knight. Naerys felt her heart quicken as she squirmed in Daemon's hold. “And she is a whore!” Time seemed to speed up and slow down. Everything happened all at once

The king called for Ser Vaemond’s tongue. His daughter for his head. It was Rhaenyra who got her wish. Calling upon Daemon to carry out the sentence. The Rogue Prince glared at her as his wife clutched onto the arms he had wrapped around her. He turned both her and Daenys into his chest so that they would not see the Kingsguard who struck off the Velaryon knight's head. A clean break. The great hall's occupants flinched away from the blood spray. Naerys felt her own blood rush through her ears as she turned back around to face what was left of her uncle and the court.

Ser Vaemond’s sons, Daeron and Daemion stood frozen in shock. Ser Otto and Alicent, who had done the same as Daemon in shielding Helaena, looked horrified at the sight of the severed head which had landed a few feet away from them. Aegon had turned his head to avoid staring at the headless knight's body. The warm pool of blood nearly touched his boots. His brother wore a startled expression on his pale face, but he was not able to turn his silver head away from what was once Vaemond’s head before it and the rest of his remains were gathered to be fed to Syrax.

The hall descended into chaos as protests from Naerys' Velaryon cousins were shouted out at the king and Rhaenyra. Ser Maltine and Ser Rhogar, the oldest of the lot, led the charge. Their uncle was a knight of house Velaryon. He deserved a proper trial not whatever this farce had been.

Ser Vaemond had been guilty of nothing except daring to speak the truth and claiming what was rightfully his. The princess’s sons were bastards. Everyone could see that with their dark hair and pug noses. There was not a drop of Velaryon blood in them. No dark Valyrian gentility or grace that those of house Velaryon possessed. They looked more Strong than their true-born lady sisters. Rhaenys clutched both her granddaughters closer to her then. Staring down her good nephews with a stone face. Daring them to speak another word on Baela or Rhaena.

There were no other words to be spoken. At least not by Naerys' cousins. The five Velaryon brothers were seized by members of the Kingsguard. One by one Viserys ordered their tongues to be cut out. No one uttered a word in their favor. Not even Daeron and Daemion who still stood paralyzed from their father's beheading. Their shock no doubt spared them from joining in their cousin's fates.

For the second time within the span of less the posturing of the overly ambitious could have ended there, but when one feels above even the Gods it is hard to stop them. Viserys was on the verge of dismissing the court when Rhaenyra chose to strike.

“My aunt should be questioned, your grace.” Rhaenyra moved over to position herself at the foot of her father's throne. Bending her head slightly in a mockery of fear as her voice trembled with what Naerys supposed was her best attempt at unshed tears. She should have anticipated that her cousin would not miss the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

“For what reason, niece.” Daemon spat the words at Rhaenyra. Viserys echoed his inquiry. Standing up as best as he could to gaze down at his brother and daughter. “What crime has my wife committed?” The crown princess did not flinch as her uncle moved his hand to Dark Sister as he walked toward her with a dark glimmer. One could hear a needle drop as the hall held its breath.

“For conspiring with the late Ser Vaemond to usurp my son's rightful place as heir to the Driftwood Throne.” Penitent was not a look that suited her cousin. It merely came off as posturing. Naerys held her tongue. She would not let pride be her downfall as it had her uncle. She would not let her words be used against her though she did not hide her disdain at the show her cousin was putting on. Not even the king appeared to believe his daughter's tale. Only a fool would believe her accusations. She would let her be her own destruction

“You were there when your daughter received that letter uncle.” Rhaenyra turned her lilac gaze towards her second-born half-brother briefly before turning her attention back to her uncle. Reaching out a hand to calm him. To make him see her reason, but Daemon was not moved.

“You saw how she reacted.” Daenys stirred at the mention of herself and the attacks on her mother's character, but Naerys stayed her daughter. Rhaenyra wanted a reaction from them. The younger princess would not allow her cousin to gain one up on her.

“A frightened niece concerned for her uncle’s safety, that is what you saw. I would expect you to know the sentiment well.” Daemon's grip tightened on his sword. Twisting it slightly within his grasp. “Ser Vaemond raised her since she was a girl. Have you forgotten that? It was not an attack on you and your sons and you know that Rhaenyra.”

“She has forgotten her place uncle!” Naerys did not have to wait long for her cousin to spiral. Her patience had one out in the face of Rhaenyra’s petulance. “Questioning the legitimacy of Luke means to question the legitimacy of his brother, the future king! To question my right to my father's throne. She knows the truth!”

The emotion was thick in Rhaenyra’s voice though Naerys doubted that it came from a place of true sorrow. “She stands to gain everything from this and yet you defend her!” Daemon. It always came back to her husband. Her cousin would never leave her alone as long as her husband remained outside of her hold, but her threats and schemes would only work if the man himself willingly went along with them.

“What do you stand to gain from this Rhaenyra?” Daemon sneered down at his niece. Luring over her as his violet eyes blazed with barely contained fury. Some members of the Kingsguard went to unsheathe their swords in defense of their princess, but Viserys ordered them to hold their ground. “Everything you have ever wanted I imagine. You truly do not see yourself. Be careful what you sow sweet niece.”

“Enough of this!” The king bellowed, standing up from his throne with as much celerity as he could manage in his poor condition. Weariness was evident on his cadaverous face. “You all will cease your bickering at once. The matter is dealt with. There will be no more talk of this. Naerys has committed no crimes except that of acting like a frightened child.”

Viserys turned his attention to his young niece and grandson. “Your daughter is still in need of a husband brother as is Joffrey in need of a wife Rhaenyra.” Daenys paled. Her mother had to tighten her grip on her so that she would not collapse under the weight that was yet to come. From the corner of her eye Naerys spied Aemond stiffening at his father's words. His pale eye landed on Rhaenyra’s son who shifted under his young uncle's glower.

The king seemed to miss the rage upon his second son as he managed a half smile showing off an assortment of rotting and missing teeth in his gummy mouth. “Have them wed after Lucerys and Rhaena.” With that, he dismissed the court. Inviting, or ordering, his family to a private dinner in his apartments so that they may finally put to rest the last of the bad blood that lay between them over good food, drink, and merriment.

Naerys had not realized she had held her breath until they had left the stifling walls of the Red Keep's great hall. The princess tried to catch the eye of her late uncle’s sons, but they remained in a daze as they headed for their fleet that would take them back to Driftmark’s shores with their now silent cousins. Rhaenys and her granddaughters trailed after them, no doubt sending them off before they would ready for tonight’s feast. Daemon ushered her and Daenys back to their chambers before they could be ambushed by either Aemond or Rhaenyra.

The first held his sister's hand as he turned his head towards their daughter's departing figure. His mother and grandsire trying to gain his attention. The latter stood with her sons flanked by two members of her father's Kingsguard. No doubt the king put them there as an act of caution. Her eyes darted with want between her uncle and irritation at her cousin.

“I will not marry him. I will not. I shall not.” Daenys repeated. Her violet eyes watered over as she turned her gaze toward where she had last seen her one-eyed prince. The willowy princess had to be held by both of her parents lest she bolt off. “Gaomagon daor mazverdagon issa dīnagon zirȳla kepa.” Do not make me marry him father. Daemon shushed their daughter. It was not a discussion they would have in front of prying eyes within the king's halls.

Naerys had wanted to leave the Red Keep. “I can not stay here. I wish to go home kepus. Now.” The princess did not care if she sounded like a child. She did not want to be here where she was picked apart or where her daughter was made to play along with petty ruses. Where Rhaenyra watched her as if she was the prey waiting to be slaughtered.

Her husband simply gave her a sad smile pulling her silver coils back from her brown face to place a kiss of placation on her forehead. Daemon promised that they would leave in the morning. It was better to indulge the dying man than to make an enemy of him on his deathbed.

They would sort out the issue of Daenys betrothal once they were within the safety of their own stone walls. After all, it was likely that his brother would die before she would be forced to marry Rhaenyra’s bastard. Naerys would have protested had she not seen the rage still in her uncle's eyes. He was not so easy to forgive her cousin's games at court.

Dinner that evening was a strange affair. The tension and disquietude from the petition proceedings had yet dissipated. The Stranger still clung to the foul air of the Red Keep. It was as if a pot had been left on the fire too long and its contents would boil over at any moment. Burning all those who happened to be within reach.

All were in attendance, except Rhaenys. Her granddaughters apologized for their grandmother’s absence. Claiming that the older princess was fatigued from the stress of the journey as well as the care of her husband.

Viserys called for his family to put aside their grievances for his sake. Pulling off his golden mask so that they may gaze upon his true form. Naerys did her best to hide her revulsion at the sight. She had to grab a hold of her husband who sat to her right to regain her composure. Her uncle had become a walking corpse. The king's right eye was lost. The cavernous tissue of his socket stood in its place. One could see straight clear into his corroded mouth from the flesh and muscle that had long since wasted away. Her uncle would not be among them for much longer.

A mummery of goodwill was exchanged between the factions of Viserys family. First between Alicent and Rhaenyra who toasted to one another and their respective houses. After a minor scuffle over a pass made at Lady Baela by Aegon, Jace toasted his uncle's good health. Recollecting their misspent youths with hope for friendship between them in the future. Alicent’s eldest grumbled in agreement.

Helaena toasted to her little cousin's future marriages.“It isn’t so bad, mostly. He just ignores you. Except sometimes when he’s drunk!” The only sincerity among the farcicality. A round of chortles passed between her grandsire and Daemon. The rest of the guests in attendance wore a mixture of confusion, embarrassment, and horror at the princess’s speech.

The mood lightened for a time. Though Naerys remained disillusioned with all that was around. She would not celebrate after all she had witnessed. Shoving the food pushed in front of her aside. Daemon’s eyes softened, but he did not say anything. Merely taking her hand in his to caress the back of it. She could not eat with a heavy half frightened heart.

The king called for music. Dancing commenced with Jace asking for Helaena’s hand which she eagerly accepted. Her husband was more interested in the wine in his cup than his wife who was led across the king's solar by their nephew. Joffrey looked as if he might follow his elder brother's lead with his newly betrothed, but when his eyes met his one-eyed uncle's glare he thought better of it.

All too soon Visery was taken ill by his exertion after the day’s events. Not a moment after he was carried off to bed a pig was placed in front of Aemond. What possessed him Naerys did not know, but Luke laughed at the sight of his uncle’s irritation. Old wounds had reopened. The merriment and masquerading stopped. The pot finally boiled over.

The one-eyed prince called for a final tribute. Raising his glass, an action that his elder brother readily copied, to toast to his nephew's health, before drawling on. “Come, let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys.” Daenys let out a little giggle though thankfully Naerys did not think that anyone heard apart from herself. The air became thick with apprehension. Jace dared him to repeat his words, but Aemond was not intimidated by the younger prince. “Do you not think yourself Strong?”

A brawl ensued between the Strong boys and their uncles. Jace threw the first punch, though Aemond did not so much as stumble from it. The dark-haired prince slid across the floor from his uncle’s shove in retaliation. Luke made to get up from his chair, but he was pushed down by Aegon into a serving platter.

Joffrey was to join his brothers, but Daenys held his hand to keep him from the fray. The self-willed Baela had to be held back by her own twin sister Rhaena. Guards had to restrain Jace and Luke as Alicent chastised her son for his lack of restraint, but that did not stop his taunts.

The children had to be sent to their rooms. Aemond would not leave for his own quarters until Daemon made his way over to him. Whispering something unintelligible in Valyrian to his nephew with a slight smirk on his pale brow. The younger prince backed down with a huff of annoyance. Leaving from his father's solar with a lurching gait.

Alicent looked, but Daemon wasted no time in grabbing hold of his wife’s hand. “We are leaving little one.” Her husband bent down to give her a small smile. Naerys felt lighter as he led her back to their own chambers. Imagining the smoky shores of her birth. They should have left Rhaenyra to defend herself, but it mattered not now.

“Uncle.” Rhaenyra called out running after them. One could never get rid of her. She was like a rat clinging to a scrap of wood after a shipwreck. “My father is ill. He needs you. He needs us.” With each word, she sounded more out of breath than the last. “ We can not leave now!”

“Do not worry niece.” Daemon had not slowed his stride as he brought them to a brisk pace. His long legs did most of the work for his wife whose short legs could not keep up. Rhaenyra had height on Naerys but she had grown soft in the belly after Joffrey's birth. She easily grew breathless at their speed. “We will be leaving, not you. You may stay here with Viserys if you like. I think it would do him some good. The Gods know what that Hightower woman has done to him.”

“This den of vipers.” They had finally come to a stop at their guest chamber doors. Rhaenyra wasted no time yanking Naerys' bruised arm to pull her away from their uncle. The younger princess let out a hiss of pain, but she did not notice nor care. Her lilac eyes were overtaken by desperation when she tried to turn Daemon to face her. Rhaenyra failed to take note of the dark look growing on his face or the tick of nerve on the unscathed side of his neck as she continued on.

“You would leave me here? You saw what happened today. They will never stop coming for me uncle. Not unless I give them an heir of unquestionable Valyrian blood. Not unless I have your—” Naerys froze when Daemon gave in to his baser nature. His eyes had blackened over as he reached out a large hand to grab hold of her cousin's neck. Pinning her to the oak door of their chamber. Rhaenyra’s hands flew up to protect herself, but it was too late.

“Yes, Rhaenyra I would leave you here in a den of vipers where you accused my wife of treason.” Rhaenyra clawed at their uncle's hand as his grip tightened. The princess's sputtering coughs bounced off the keeps stone walls. Her face was turning a light shade of blue from the lack of oxygen. “I would leave you here when you continue to make a mockery of yourself at my Naerys expense. At the expense of my marriage.”

Naerys thanked the Gods that there were no guards within earshot as Rhaenyra’s choking grew louder. Thanking the Mother that her husband did not have Dark Sister with him either. She shuddered at the thought of what he might have done with it. “Heavy lies the head that wears the crown Rhaenyra. One could so easily topple under all that weight.” The younger princess remained stock still at her uncle's actions until she realized what he still might be capable of even without his sword.

“Stop.” Naerys cried out. The emotions of the day crashed around her as her pleads began in earnest. “Please kepus, stop. Please. Please stop. Daemon stop!” Rhaenyra may have a childish fixation on her husband, but she did not deserve to be harmed for it. Not at the hands of their uncle who had been in part responsible for her delusions, but she was not so instant either.

“Find someone else to give you your heir's niece.” The Rogue Prince finally released her at the sound of his name on his wife’s lips. His eyes returned back to their violet shade. As he took hold of Naerys hand Rhaenyra fell to the stone floor in a coughing heap. Her throat likely burned as she tried to regain control of her breathing. A red Daemon-shaped handprint graced her pale neck. Though it looked painful, the bruise would likely be no worse than the one she had inflicted upon her cousin-aunt before Ser Vaemond’s fateful petition.

“Do you not think I have not tried?” Rhaenyra crooked out. The whites of her eyes were as red as her neck. Tears bumbled at the surface as she let out a snort. The crown princess turned her bloodshot eyes towards the younger princess with venom, but only briefly before she landed her cloudy gaze on her cousin's husband.

“Even with Harwin. I couldn’t see any man but you. Ao lua īlva hen īlva biarves kepus.” You keep us from our happiness uncle. What pity she had for Rhaenyra disappeared. Naerys let her husband tug her inside with him before shutting the door to their chambers. Leaving her cousin to her misery.

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