#collaborative ocs

Neurodivergent mlm 🥹

Daemion was born alongside his younger twin sister Shiera — the exact date is unknown as different records say conflicting things, but they were born between the years 147 and 148 AC — to King Aegon IV Targaryen and Serenei of Lys, the King’s last mistress of noble blood. Serenei regained consciousness after the birth just long enough to name her children before dying, their names meaning Blood of the Rhine and Star of the Sea in the Lysne variant of High Valryian respectively. Perhaps because of their Lyseni heritage, perhaps because Sherenei was the last descendant of a noble but impoverished Valyrian house, perhaps because everyone tending to them merely forgot, the twins were never given the tradition bastard name of Waters, as was befitting of Crownlander basterds, but instead chose their own surnames as they grew.

One might expect the King to turn the two out as he had turned out the children of Melissa Blackwood, but the twins had nowhere to go and no one to go with if they had, so Daemion and Shiera was raised in the Red Keep alongside the royal family – although their father had no regard for them and Queen Naerys, while kind, held them at an arm’s length, fearing the potential threat Daemion could pose to her son Prince Daeron (not an entirely unfounded fear considering what Daemon would later do). Aemon the Dragonknight taught Daemion how to use a sword. The Prince and Princess were kind, and shared their lessons with the twins when they could, the four of them bonding over shared interests such as poetry and tales of far away places and the magics of the peoples there (and if Daemion and Shiera listened harder, and shared a look, and squeezed each other’s hands under the table, no one noticed).

But it was not Daeron or Daenerys or Naerys or any servant that doted on the twins the most, that taught them how to play the great game, and taught them many other, many less savory things on the twins’ own urging, bringing them gifts of sweets and jewels, and taking them for walks around the gardens, and showing them the best place to make the cut so life spilled the most freely from the veins. It was not Daeron or Daenerys or Naerys.

It was Visenya, the Blood Witch.

The Bloodletter, Salt Tongue,The Butcher–

Whether it was true or not (it was) didn’t matter, Daemion Rhineheart was a witch. And so was his sister. A core of rot, around which grew a glittering, shiny exterior. A pearl, a poisoner, a blood magiker. All this and more was whispered on the wind, from the mouths to the ears of the court, trailing after them no matter where they went. They were witches, dangerous and evil.

And irresistible.

Maiden’s Bane, The Maiden Braker, Heartswallower—

Daemion and his sister were fond of standing side to side, holding hands, so as to appear a matching set, disjointed apart, but whole together.

Inhumanly beautiful, rumored to be the most beautiful man in the world, Deamion was his sister’s mirror image. He had a heart shaped face, yards of curling silver-white hair, and skin that was impossibly soft and supple, the color of porcelain; scarless despite the hundreds of battles he’d been in, except for his shoulder, where Bloodraven had put an ashwood arrow through him in one of their many fights for Shiera’s heart (Brynden might go to his knees again and again, begging for Shiera’s hand, but Daemion would not demean himself so, would not fight a losing battle, would not delude himself into thinking this time she might say yes), leaving a silvery, vaguely star-shaped mark on both sides, although the angle was different, and his cheekbone, high and sloping, where Aemon the Dragonknight had accidently left a slice angling towards his eye from when he’d trained Daemion as a child, fading with time and age from a bright, vicious red to a papery white. Even Daemion’s eyes were mirrored, blue and green, yes, but switched in direction to Shiera’s.

Considering most colors to be garish, he wore only whites, blacks, grays, and all manner of blues and greens, only occasionally indulging in browns, and one specific shade of blush pink (not at the same time, obviously). He was fond of sapphires, but mostly wore emeralds, and never wore gold, considering it gaudy. Even his armor was silver and enset with pearls, earning him the moniker the Silver Fury for the ferocity in which he made battle.

But Daemion was not just Shiera’s mirror image in appearance and tastes in fashion, but also in attributes. He never married, and took thousands of lovers over his lifetime, although only Shiera was actually loved by Deamion, and the only one that could be considered a paramoure.

Ballads and songs were written about him, women hurled themselves into the sea when they lost him favor, he fought hundreds of duels for besmirching a sister or a daughter’s honor, and won them all, his opponents always ending up on the ground in front of him, speared through the heart by his sword The Drowning Quiet. He would be seen with Lady Merryweather on his arm one day, the next be spotted with a Targeryan cousin on Dragonstone, the day after that a pair of twins from Asshai. His tastes ran to both sexes, and all countries and classes, but he never laid with sex workers. After all, it wasn’t any fun if he couldn’t break their hearts.

But matters of the heart and the bedchamber wasn’t the only lust Daemion Rhinehaert was legendary for satisfying.

Silver Knight, The Knight of Pearls, The Knight without Banners–

Whispers behind closed doors and opened fans, then he went to war — indifferent to who sat the throne itself, but loyal enough to the Targaryens — and they no longer had to whisper.

They called him the Butcher.

His enemies didn’t call him anything at all. They didn’t have time.

Once, he’d cut a man’s horse down. The soldier was thrown, breaking his legs, and losing his sword into the churned muck of the battlefield, a single shining blade buried amongst mud and corpses. He’d prayed when Daemion lifted The Drowning Quiet to remove him of his head. Who are you praying to, he’d asked, blade resting on the boy’s – and he was a boy, barely past sixteen – shoulder in the way Daemion imagined a father might have had rested his hand there, in the way this boy’s father might have had done, had either of lived through the battle, had he been proud of his progeny. The Gods, the boy answered. Daemion laughed and hefted his sword. You should have prayed to me. If I will you–

He never needed to use two strokes.

And if corpses were mutilated, if he came back from the front looking as young as ever, if he advanced through the ranks too quickly? Well, they were all too grateful to question too much, to investigate too deeply. And besides, it wasn’t anything that he hadn't been known for before.

Daemion had morals, he never killed or hurt or even tried to frighten women and children, or cripples, or men and women of the Faith, but he was good at killing, and he enjoyed doing what he was good at. He was beautiful and brutal, kind and cruel, an art-maker and a heartbreaker.

Daemion was a tangled knot of contradictions. But above all else, no matter who you spoke to, there was one undoubtedly true facet of his soul: he was Shiera’s.

I realized how dangerous this prompt is for me