“Red,” he said, offering one. “The Pentosi varietal the sommelier recommended. Viserys ordered twenty cases for the cellars.”

“Of course he did.”

Daemon’s mouth twitched. “He’s planning a gala for the autumn. Apparently, Alicent has been nagging him about entertaining more. Networking.” He pronounced the word with a particular disdain, the way another man might say vermin.

You took the wine, mostly because you needed something to do with your hands. “Alicent’s networking is called ‘securing her position.’ She’s smart.”

“She’s a social climber with a spreadsheet and a prayer book.”

“Daemon.”

“What? It’s true. You know it’s true. Even Rhaenyra knows it’s true, and Rhaenyra is pathologically incapable of thinking ill of anyone her father deigns to marry.” He took a long drink of his wine, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “I still don’t know what Viserys was thinking. Otto Hightower’s daughter. It’s like bringing a fox into the henhouse and handing it a napkin.”

You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but you were too tired. Three days of enforced proximity to Alicent’s brittle smiles and Viserys’ oblivious paternalism and Rhaenyra’s increasingly desperate attempts to play peacemaker had worn you down to a nub.

Rhaenyra was the only one of Daemon’s family you genuinely liked, she was fierce and funny and surprisingly self-aware for a woman who’d been raised to believe she was the center of the universe, but even she had been grating on you today. She’d cornered you at breakfast to ask if everything was “okay” between you and Daemon, her violet eyes too knowing, too sympathetic. You’d deflected, but barely.

It was Daemon’s fault. All of it. If he hadn’t insisted on moving the family back into the Targaryen ancestral pile, if he hadn’t dragged you into his obsessive crusade against Alicent’s influence, if he hadn’t treated your unhappiness like a software glitch that could be patched with shopping and sex and those devastating smiles he deployed like weapons...

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Daemon observed.

“I’m thinking about divorce.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “The storm’s getting worse. We should go inside.”

“Daemon.”

“The boys are waiting for dinner. Viserys wants to eat at eight, which means Alicent wants to eat at seven-thirty, which means if we’re not in the dining room by...oh, the look on her face.” He grinned, sharp and wicked. “It might almost be worth being late.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Her face goes all pinched, like she’s sucked a lemon. Rhaenyra and I used to have a drinking game around it.”

“Daemon, I want a divorce.”

This time, he did react. A tightening around his jaw, barely perceptible. The way his fingers flexed against his wine glass. But his voice, when he spoke, was perfectly even. “We’re not having this conversation on a balcony in Pentos while our children are inside.”

“We’re not having this conversation anywhere. That’s the problem. You refuse to engage with it. You act like if you ignore it long enough, I’ll forget.”

“Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Forget.” He turned to face you, and there it was again, that flicker of something raw beneath the arrogance, gone so fast you might have imagined it. “Will you forget that you love me? That we have a life together? That we have two sons who adore you and a home and a history and...” He stopped himself, jaw working. “No. You’re right. We’re not doing this here.”

He drained his wine and walked back inside, leaving you alone with the storm.

Dinner was excruciating.

The dining room was all white tablecloths and soft candlelight and sweeping views of the coastline, the storm pressing against the windows. Viserys sat at the head of the table, beaming benevolently at his assembled family as if he’d personally arranged the weather for their entertainment. Alicent was at his right hand, her auburn hair pulled back in an elegant twist, her expression one of careful serenity that you knew from experience masked a constant, low-grade anxiety.

Rhaenyra and her husband Laenor were visiting from their place in Spain, their three boys seated between them in various states of restlessness. And then there was your family: you, Daemon, and the two small boys who were currently attempting to build a fort out of bread rolls.

“Aegon, stop that,” you said quietly, removing the roll from his hand before it could be added to the precarious structure. “We don’t play with food.”

“Uncle Laenor said the Pentosi build forts to keep the sea monsters away,” Aegon protested.

“Did he.”

“It’s true,” Laenor said, his expression perfectly solemn. “Ancient maritime tradition. Very sacred.”

Aegon turned to you with the triumphant expression of a child who had just been validated by an adult, and you made a mental note to have a word with Laenor later. Probably with a heavy object.

“How are you finding the resort?” Alicent asked, her gaze fixed on you with an intensity that suggested she was already composing a report for some internal database. “The spa here is supposed to be excellent. I booked a hot stone massage for tomorrow morning, if you’d care to join.”

“That’s kind of you,” you said, “but I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh, you should go,” Rhaenyra said, leaning forward. “I went yesterday. There’s a sauna and everything. Very relaxing.” She caught your eye and added, with just a hint of emphasis, “Good for stress.”

You smiled tightly. “I’m sure it is.”

Daemon, seated beside you, had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meal. He’d exchanged a few barbed pleasantries with Alicent, agreed with Viserys about the superiority of Westerosi wine, and otherwise devoted his attention to his plate with the air of a man who was planning something. You knew that look. You’d seen it before board meetings, before confrontations with business rivals, before the night he’d decided to move your family into Dragonstone Manor without consulting you. It was the look of Daemon Targaryen marshaling his forces.

It made you nervous.

“I heard the most interesting thing today,” Alicent said, and something in her tone made the entire table go quiet. “About the Ashford deal.”

Viserys looked up from his lamb. “My dear, perhaps business at the dinner table...”

“It’s just that I understood we weren’t pursuing Ashford anymore. The board voted on it, I thought. And yet I received a rather curious email from our legal team this afternoon suggesting that Daemon had reopened negotiations.” Her smile didn’t waver. “On his own authority.”

Daemon set down his fork very carefully. “The board voted to table the discussion, not to abandon the acquisition entirely. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“There is to anyone who actually understands corporate governance.”

“Daemon,” Viserys said, a warning note in his voice.

But Daemon was already leaning forward, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. “The Ashford portfolio is worth forty million pounds. Their logistics network alone would give us a foothold in three new markets. I wasn’t about to let it slip away because the board is too risk-averse to see past next quarter’s earnings report.”

“The board is risk-averse because we’re still recovering from the Dornish expansion,” Alicent said, her voice cool. “Which you also championed. And which went significantly over budget.”

“It went over budget because we were sabotaged by incompetents you personally recommended for the project.”

“I recommended no one. I suggested a shortlist of candidates, which Viserys approved.”

“After you’d spent three months whispering in his ear about how essential they were.”

“That’s enough,” Viserys said, and for a moment he sounded like the patriarch he was supposed to be, his voice carrying the weight of decades of authority. “We’re not discussing this here. We’re on holiday. There are children present.”

Everyone looked at the children. Aegon had abandoned his bread fort and was now trying to teach Viserys the younger how to balance a spoon on his nose. Neither of them had appeared to notice the adult tension crackling around them.

“I’m just saying,” Alicent said, her tone now one of wounded reasonableness, “that it might be wise to keep the family informed of major business decisions. For the sake of transparency.”

“Transparency,” Daemon repeated. “Rich, coming from someone whose father just happened to acquire a significant stake in the shipping company we use for all our Narrow routes. Purely coincidental, I’m sure.”

Alicent’s face went stone cold. “My father’s investments are his own business.”

“Are they? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like a conflict of interest. Or would, if anyone were looking.”

“Daemon.” This time it was Viserys, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We talked about this. Otto’s investment was vetted by our ethics committee. There’s no conflict.”

“The ethics committee that reports to you. And that you appointed. After Alicent suggested the members.”

The silence that followed was the kind that made you want to crawl under the table. Rhaenyra was studying her wine glass with intense fascination. Laenor had developed a sudden interest in the storm outside. Even the children seemed to sense something was wrong; little Viserys had stopped his spoon-balancing attempts and was looking at his father with wide, uncertain eyes.

You reached for your wine and took a very long drink.

“I think,” you said, into the silence, “that we should perhaps change the subject.”

Alicent’s gaze snapped to you, and for a moment you saw something ugly there: resentment, perhaps, or suspicion. It was no secret that she considered you an extension of Daemon, his ally in whatever Valyrian power struggle was currently consuming the Targaryen family. The fact that you’d spent the last several months trying to extricate yourself from precisely that role was not something you could exactly explain over lamb and roasted vegetables.

“You’re right, of course,” Alicent said, her smile returning like a curtain falling back into place. “I apologize. This was entirely inappropriate dinner conversation.” She touched Viserys’s arm with practiced tenderness. “I’m sorry, darling. I let my concerns get the better of me.”

Viserys patted her hand. “No harm done. Daemon, we’ll discuss the Ashford matter tomorrow. Privately.”

“Can’t wait,” Daemon said, in a tone that suggested he would rather have oral surgery.

The rest of dinner passed in a haze of forced small talk and barely concealed hostility. By the time dessert arrived, some elaborate chocolate confection that you ate without savoring the taste, you had a headache building behind your eyes and a desperate longing to be anywhere else. Alone. Away from Targaryens and their endless, exhausting drama.

You caught Rhaenyra’s eye across the table, and she gave you a small, sympathetic smile. She, at least, understood. She’d grown up in this family. She knew what it was like to be caught in the crossfire.

But even Rhaenyra’s sympathy couldn’t pierce the cold knot of resentment that had settled in your chest. Because this, this dinner, this family, this entire suffocating situation, was exactly why you wanted out. Not because Daemon was a bad man. Not because he didn’t love you, in his way. But because being married to Daemon Targaryen meant being constantly, endlessly embroiled in Targaryen affairs.

The feuds, the power plays, the ancient grudges dressed up as business disagreements. Alicent’s machinations. Viserys’s willful blindness. The way the entire family seemed to orbit around some invisible sun of their own making, pulling everyone else into their gravitational field.

And Daemon, for all his talk of protecting you from it, was the worst of them all. He didn’t just participate in the drama, he was the drama. He generated it, cultivated it, fed on it like some kind of chaos vampire. And now he’d dragged you back to the family estate, back into the heart of the storm, and expected you to just…endure it.

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

After dinner, you put the boys to bed in the adjoining room of the suite. Aegon went down with minimal protest, exhausted from a day of swimming and running and terrorizing his cousins with a water pistol. Viserys was fussier, clinging to you with sticky fingers and demanding a third bedtime story, but eventually even he succumbed to sleep, his small face slackening into that angelic expression that always made your heart clench.

You stood in the doorway between the children’s room and the master bedroom, watching them sleep. Aegon had kicked off his blankets already, sprawling across his bed like a starfish. Viserys was curled around the stuffed dragon he refused to sleep without, the one Daemon had bought him when he was born, its silver wings worn soft from years of clutching.

They were the reason you’d stayed this long. The reason you’d tried so hard. Every time you’d been ready to walk out the door, you’d looked at their faces and thought: I can endure a little longer. For them.

But you were starting to wonder if enduring was actually doing them any favors. If growing up in a house with parents who were slowly, silently falling apart was any better than growing up in two houses with parents who were, at least, honest about what they were.

Behind you, the door to the suite opened and closed. You didn’t turn.

“They’re asleep,” you said.

“Good.” Daemon’s voice was quiet, stripped of its usual sardonic edge. “I’m sorry about dinner. Alicent has a talent for getting under my skin.”

You turned then, leaning against the doorframe. He was standing in the middle of the room, his jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that snaked up his forearms, dragons, of course, and something in High Valyrian that he’d gotten in his twenties. His silver-gold hair was disheveled from running his hands through it, a nervous habit he’d never been able to break.

“She gets under your skin because you let her,” you said. “You seek her out. You look for fights.”

“Someone has to. Viserys won’t.”

“It’s not your job to protect your brother from his own wife.”

“It’s not about protecting Viserys. It’s about protecting the family. The company. Everything our forefathers built.” He moved closer, and you caught the scent of his cologne, woody and dark and infuriatingly familiar. “Alicent and her father are parasites. They’ve been trying to sink their hooks into Targaryen holdings for years, and Viserys is too besotted to see it.”

“And what does that have to do with us? With our marriage?”

He stopped. “Everything. You’re part of this family. What affects us affects you.”

“I don’t want to be part of this family.” The words came out harder than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. “That’s the point, Daemon. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching you wage war against your sister-in-law over business deals. I don’t want to raise our sons in the middle of a battlefield. I want a normal life.”

“Normal.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What does that even mean? A house in the suburbs? A nine-to-five job? Bake sales and PTA meetings? That’s not who we are. It’s never been who we are.”

“Maybe it’s who I want to be.”

“No.” He was close now, close enough to touch, his eyes burning into yours with that intensity that had first drawn you to him all those years ago. “You think you want that, but you’d be bored within a month. You’d miss this. You’d miss me.”

“You arrogant...”

“I’m not being arrogant. I’m being honest. You married me knowing exactly who I was. You knew what my family was like. You knew what you were getting into.” His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “You’re just tired. It’s been a long year. Let me take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me. I need you to listen to me.”

“I am listening.”

“No, you’re not. You’re waiting for me to stop talking so you can tell me why I’m wrong.” You pulled away from his touch, stepping back into the children’s room and pulling the door partially closed behind you. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months. I’m done, Daemon. I want a divorce.”

His expression shifted. The mask slipped, just for a moment, and you saw what lay beneath. Fear. Then it was gone, and he was the Daemon Targaryen everyone saw, the charming rogue, the untouchable prince.

“We’re not discussing this tonight,” he said. “The boys are right there.”

“They’re asleep.”

“I said, we’re not discussing this.” And then, softer, almost a plea: “Not tonight. Please.”

You had never heard Daemon Targaryen say please before. Not like that. Not as if the word had been dragged out of him against his will.

The storm was directly overhead now. Lightning flashed outside the window, bright enough to cast the room in stark white relief, and you started counting instinctively, one, two, and the thunder cracked so loud and so close that the windows rattled in their frames. Two seconds. Right on top of you.

In the children’s room, Viserys whimpered in his sleep. You slipped back inside to soothe him, stroking his silver-blond hair until he settled, your heart pounding from more than just the thunder.

When you returned to the master bedroom, Daemon was standing by the window, watching the storm with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t turn when you approached.

“Do you remember our honeymoon?” he asked quietly. “The villa in Myr. There was a storm like this on the third night. You said you’d never seen lightning so beautiful.”

You remembered. You remembered everything, the way the rain had hammered against the shutters, the way the candles had flickered every time the thunder rolled, the way Daemon had pulled you onto the bed and made love to you until the storm passed and the sky cleared and the stars came out like scattered diamonds. You’d thought, lying in his arms afterward, that you’d never be happier than you were in that moment.

You’d been right.

“That was a long time ago,” you said.

“It was eight years. That’s not so long.”

“It feels like a lifetime.”

He turned then, and the look on his face made your breath catch. He looked older, suddenly. Tired. The weight of all those years pressing down on him, on both of you.

“I know I’m difficult,” he said. “I know I’m not…easy. To be married to. I know I drive you up the wall.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“Daemon...”

“Let me finish. Please.” He took a breath. “I know I’ve been…distracted. The situation with Alicent, with the company, it’s consumed more of my attention than it should have. More than you deserved. I can see that now.”

“It’s not just the company. It’s everything. The way you handle things. The way you handle me.”

“I know.”

“You throw money at problems and expect them to go away. You treat my concerns like they’re inconveniences to be managed. You make decisions that affect our entire family without consulting me.” The words were pouring out now, a dam finally breaking. “You moved us to Dragonstone Manor without even asking me. You just...announced it. Like it was a done deal. Like my opinion didn’t matter.”

“I was trying to protect you. All of you. Viserys was already changing, Alicent was already getting her hooks in, and I needed to be closer. I needed to be able to watch what was happening.”

“And what about what I needed? What about what our children needed? Aegon had just started at his school. He had friends. I had a life in London. And you ripped it all away because of your paranoia about your brother’s wife.”

“It wasn’t paranoia. Everything I suspected has turned out to be true.”

“That’s not the point!” You were almost shouting now, and you forced yourself to lower your voice, acutely aware of the children sleeping in the next room. “The point is that you didn’t talk to me. You never talk to me. You just…act. You decide what’s best and you do it, and I’m supposed to just fall in line.”

Daemon was silent for a long moment. The storm was moving past, the thunder growing more distant, the lightning flickering further away. Rain drummed steadily against the windows.

“You’re right,” he said finally.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re right. I should have talked to you. About Dragonstone. About everything.” He ran his hand through his hair again, and this time the gesture seemed less nervous than helpless.

“I’m not asking you to stop being who you are. I’m asking you to include me in it. To treat me like an equal instead of an accessory.”

“I know.” He moved toward you, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I know. And I’ll try. I swear to you, I’ll try.” He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch but not reaching out. “You want to leave Dragonstone? Fine. We’ll leave. We’ll move back to London, or anywhere else you want to go. You want me to step back from the family business? I’ll step back. Viserys can handle his own mess. You want me to stop antagonizing Alicent at every family dinner?” A wry smile. “That one might take some practice. But I’ll try.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted it so badly it was a physical ache in your chest.

“I’ve already spoken to a lawyer,” you whispered.

Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t look away. “I know.”

“You...how?”

“The retainer on the new black card. I’m not an idiot. You think I don’t check the statements?” He shook his head. “I’ve known for months. I’ve just been…hoping you’d change your mind.”

“Daemon…”

“I’m not going to make this easy for you.” His voice was steady but hollow. “I’m not going to sign papers and smile and pretend this is what I want. It’s not. I want you. I want our family. I want to grow old with you and watch our sons become men. I want all of it. Every messy, frustrating, complicated part of it.”

“Then why didn’t you say that? Instead of just...ignoring me and hoping I’d give up?”

“Because I’m a coward.” He laughed shortly. “I was terrified. Terrified that if I actually talked about it, if I actually acknowledged what was happening, it would become real. And I couldn’t bear that.”

Another flash of lightning, further away now. This time you didn’t count the seconds.

“I’m not saying I’ll withdraw the petition,” you said. “I’m not saying everything is fixed. There’s too much damage for one conversation to repair.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll…think about it. About whether there’s something left worth saving.”

His eyes lit up. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The storm was dying now, the thunder reduced to a distant grumble, the rain softening to a gentle patter against the glass. The room felt different than it had an hour ago. As if the lightning had cleared something in the air.

Daemon reached for you, and this time you let him. His arms came around you, pulling you against his chest, and you felt the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. He was warm and solid and so familiar it made your eyes sting.

“Come to bed,” he murmured against your hair. “We don’t have to sort out everything tonight. Just…come to bed.”

You should have said no. You should have slept in the children’s room, or on the sofa, or anywhere that wasn’t wrapped in Daemon’s arms. But you were tired, and you were sad, and despite everything, you still loved him. You had never stopped loving him. That was the problem.

“Fine,” you said. “But I’m still angry with you.”

“I know. You should be.”

“And I’m still thinking about divorce.”

“I know that too.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Let me try to change your mind.”

The hotel bed was vast and soft, dressed in linen that smelled faintly of lavender. Daemon undressed with his usual careless grace, tossing his clothes onto a chair in a way that would have annoyed you if you hadn’t been so tired. You changed into your nightgown in the bathroom, taking longer than necessary, staring at your reflection in the mirror and trying to decide if you were making a terrible mistake.

Your reflection stared back, offering no answers.

When you emerged, the room was lit only by the intermittent flashes of lightning and a single lamp on Daemon’s side of the bed. He was already under the covers, propped against the pillows, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“Get in,” he said. “You’re letting the cold in.”

You climbed into bed beside him, keeping a careful distance between you. The sheets were cool against your skin. Outside, the storm was circling back, the thunder growing louder again, the lightning more frequent.

“Remember how we used to count?” Daemon asked quietly. “Between the lightning and the thunder. When we were first married.”

“I still do it,” you admitted. “I can’t help it. It’s automatic.”

“Me too.” He turned onto his side, facing you. “What do you think? How far away is this one?”

As if on cue, lightning split the sky, illuminating the room in stark white. You counted, one, two, three, and the thunder rolled, a low, grumbling bass note that vibrated through the windows.

“Three seconds,” you said. “About more than half a mile.”

“I think it’s closer. Two seconds at most.”

“You’re wrong.”

“We’ll see.” Another flash, brighter this time. One, two, and the crack was immediate, sharp and loud. Daemon smiled. “Two seconds.”

“That one doesn’t count. It was a different bolt.”

“Lightning moves. It’s getting closer.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me anyway.”

You didn’t answer that. You couldn’t. Because he was right, and you both knew it.

The next flash came almost immediately, and this time the thunder followed so fast it was nearly simultaneous, a tremendous crash that made you jump despite yourself. Daemon’s arm came around you, pulling you closer, and you didn’t resist.

“Right on top of us,” he murmured. “The hotel probably has lightning rods.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

His hand was moving on your back now, slow circles that were probably meant to be soothing but were doing something else entirely. You could feel the heat of him through your nightgown, the familiar geography of his body, the way you fit against him.

“Daemon.”

“Hmm?”

“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

“I know.” His lips brushed your forehead. “This doesn’t mean anything. We’re just two people in a bed, waiting out a storm.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“For now.”

His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your spine, and you shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. You knew what he was doing. You’d always known. Daemon Targaryen had many weapons in his arsenal, and seduction was one of his favorites.

You should have stopped him. You should have pulled away and reinforced your boundaries and reminded him that nothing was resolved, that you were still furious, that sex wasn’t going to paper over the cracks in your marriage.

But his hand was on your hip now, his thumb pressing into the hollow there with expert precision, and you were tired of fighting. Tired of being angry. Tired of the endless, exhausting distance between what you wanted and what you had.

“Come here,” he said, and it wasn’t a command but a plea, raw and honest in a way Daemon rarely allowed himself to be.

You went.

His mouth found yours in the darkness, and it was like coming home after a long, lonely journey. Familiar and strange all at once, the taste of him, the way his hand cradled the back of your head. You’d kissed him thousands of times, millions, maybe, but this kiss felt different. Desperate. As if he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips.

“I love you,” he breathed against your mouth.

“Daemon...”

“Let me finish. Please.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark in the dim light. “I know I’ve failed you. I know I’ve been selfish and arrogant and dismissive. I know you have every right to walk out that door and never look back. But I’m asking you, begging you, to give me a chance. Not because of the children. Not because of the family. Because of us. Because what we have is worth fighting for.”

Thunder crashed outside, shaking the windows, but neither of you flinched.

“I’m so tired of fighting,” you whispered.

“Then stop. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting this.” His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized you’d shed. “Let me take care of you. Let me love you. Let me prove to you that we can be better than we’ve been.”

“And if we can’t? If we try and it’s still not enough?”

“Then I’ll let you go.” The words seemed to cost him a lot. “If we try, really try, and you’re still unhappy, I won’t fight the divorce. I’ll sign whatever you put in front of me. Just please, let's strike a truce for now.”

Part 2: see here

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist. Also, I lowkey hate the title of this fic, so if anyone has a better idea, let me know.

You probably shouldn't have wandered off, but you were bored. The Red Keep was dreadful and you had long since run out of places to explore. So you took a secret little stroll outside and hoped you would be back before anyone noticed. Your husband certainly wasn't going to miss you, he was too busy whoring and gambling off in some far distant city. Doing whatever deplorable thing suited his fancy that day.

And now you were sitting at a dingy table, in a castle that was so run down it was more like a ruin, being held for ransom by a bunch of morons. They seemed to think they were getting some great prize by holding you hostage. As if your husband would ever lift a finger to get you back.

The chains around your wrists and ankles were heavy and uncomfortable, your skin chafing from their weight. It was difficult to lift your goblet of wine to your lips, your hand shaking from the effort.

"Drink up, Princess." Lord Byrch said from across the table, chewing on a turkey leg with the sort of vile gluttony that would make even a pig nauseous. "I won't have the Prince thinking I've mistreated you."

Your hair was tangled and your dress torn and dirty, your face bruised and bloody from the initial fight. You hadn't let them take you easily, and you were quite proud of the fact that you had managed to scratch Lord Byrch's son right across his ugly face.

You raised your goblet towards him, lifting it as high as you could, keeping your eyes locked on his before you poured it all over the floor. He watched you in silence, chewing, chewing, chewing, until a slow smile spread across his lips.

"Fiery." He commented and you narrowed your eyes, "I see why the Prince married you."

He married me because his brother and my father told him he had to. You didn't say it out loud. You wouldn't give Byrch the satisfaction of hearing your marriage reduced to its ugly, political truth. Instead, you leaned back in your chair as far as the chains would allow and let your lips curl into something cruel.

"My husband will come for me," you said, your voice surprisingly steady and confident. "And when he does, he will kill every last one of you. He'll feed your entrails to his dragon and string up what remains as a warning to any other fool who thinks they can touch what belongs to him."

Inside you only had doubts. Will he, though?

You remembered how excited you had been when the betrothal was announced. The Rogue Prince. The most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms, and he was to be yours. You used to dream of him sweeping you off your feet, of dragon rides and passionate nights, of a love story that would make the bards weep. You thought of your wedding night, the way his body had felt, so warm and firm, pressing you into the bed. How he had been so gentle with you, so tender. How he had called you wife and kissed your mouth as if he were trying to drink you down and drown in you. 

You actually thought, for a brief, beautiful moment, that the fairy tale was real. But a year of marriage had shown you a very different side of your husband. One that was cruel and cold. One that cared only for himself.

But Byrch didn't know that, so you were satisfied when a flash of fear crossed his features and he put that bloody turkey leg down.

"Father."

Byrch's son strode in behind you, you looked over your shoulder to see the scratch you gave him still looking a little swollen, raw, and definitely not healing well…You quickly turned to face his father again before he could see you smile. But it didn't matter, the son’s hand came down hard across the back of your head. The force of the blow made stars burst across your vision, a cry tearing from your throat.

The son chuckled as he walked past you and towards his father, clapping a hand on the back of his own chair. "What have you learned?" Lord Byrch asked, gesturing for him to sit.

"King Viserys has responded to our ransom demand. He's willing to pay. Fifty thousand gold, just as we asked. He's sending envoys to negotiate the exchange."

Your stomach dropped.

Viserys. Not Daemon. Of course.

"Your good-brother is a reasonable man," Byrch said, taking another bite of his turkey leg. "He understands that gold is cheaper than blood... I knew Daemon wouldn't risk open war with his brother over a woman." He tilted his head, enjoying your silence. "You see, my lady? Your husband is on a leash, just as I predicted."

The son's smirk widened. "From what I hear, the Prince has been in Pentos this past week."

Pentos. Fucking Pentos. Of course he was in fucking Pentos. Probably so deep in his cups he forgot his own name let alone yours.

Some small, foolish part of you had hoped. But you knew better, you had always known better. It was always going to be Viserys, probably by the urging of your father... And of course the reputation of the Targaryen name. It was his duty to try and bring you back. He would pay, and send the envoys. Perhaps you would get to wear some of the better royal jewels at the next public event, a consolation prize for your suffering.

Lord Byrch waved a hand. "Take her back to her cell. No point letting her sour the wine."

The son grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into the bruises already blooming there, hauling you to your feet. You stumbled on the chains, but he didn't slow. He dragged you down a cold stone corridor with a rough hand, until he reached the heavy wooden door of your cell.

He shoved you inside and you hit the damp stone floor hard, the impact jarring through your knees and wrists, the chains clinking loudly. The door didn't close behind you, instead a shadow fell over you, the son's boots crossing the threshold, his foot landing dangerously close to your head.

"I'd watch that mouth, if I were you." He crouched down and grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze upward. His thumb pressed into the bruise on your jaw, and you bit back a hiss. "I'm sure the gold is coming," he murmured, almost thoughtfully. "But if it doesn't..." He smiled. "Father said I get to fuck you first. Might even scratch up your pretty face to match mine. Would you like that?"

Your stomach turned to ice at his words, but you didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. Instead you held his gaze, you wouldn't look away. Wouldn't give him an inch of your fear.

He squeezed your jaw tight enough that tears welled in the corners of your eyes. "No? You don't look so pretty anymore, anyway. Not much a man would want."

He shoved your head down, pushing you into the ground before turning and walking out. The lock clicked heavily in the quiet.

You lay there for a long moment, face pressed into the floor, the taste of blood and dirt on your tongue. The son's words echoed in your mind and your whole body began to shake.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up and leaned against the wall. Your wrists were raw. Your head throbbed. And somewhere deep in your chest, a sob was building.

Daemon wasn't coming. Daemon was in Pentos, drunk, probably with a whore on each arm. And these men were going to-

You pressed your palms to your eyes and bit down on your lip until you tasted copper. You couldn't cry. You wouldn't. You were stronger than that.

But the tears came anyway, hot and humiliating, the kind you hadn't cried since you were a girl. You curled in on yourself, forehead to your knees, and let them fall. You cried for the girl who had dreamed of a gallant dragon prince. You cried for the wife who had once reached for her husband in the dark and found only cold sheets. You cried because he had been gentle once, and you had been stupid enough to believe it meant something.

He's not coming.

The thought was a cold stone in your gut.

He's not coming. He was never going to come.

Your honor and safety would be traded for gold and Daemon Targaryen would continue to forget he ever had a wife at all.

You cried until your throat was raw and your eyes burned, until you were shivering and weak.

Finally, you took a shaky breath and looked up at the small, barred window. The sky was darkening, the sun sinking beyond the distant hills. You were exhausted, the weight of your chains a terrible burden, your eyes drooping and heavy.

Sleep took you before you could think to fight it. Your head fell back against the stone.

You didn't see the small black dot that appeared on the horizon. So small one might mistake it for a distant bird. But it grew. Larger. Faster. Until the beating of wings echoed through the walls.

And the screams began.

Flames. Everywhere. But they didn't burn. They cradled you, lapped at your skin like warm water. Is this what dying feels like? It wasn't so bad. Not as bad as what Byrch's son had promised.

Screams.

You stirred. The dream flickered.

Screams. Real ones.

Your eyes cracked open. Smoke stung your throat. The cell was awash in orange light. Outside the small window, the world was nothing but flame. The castle was on fire.

And then you heard it. A sound you would know anywhere; a long, stretched-out shriek that was half roar and half scream, and yet all dragon.

Caraxes.

Something like relief washed through you, even as your heart beat faster. If the castle was on fire and Caraxes was outside, then that could only mean-

Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried.

You scrambled backward, pressing yourself against the far wall. The lock scraped, the mechanism groaning, and you held your breath as the door swung open.

Byrch's son filled the frame. His face was streaked with soot and blood, his eyes wild. The smug cruelty from before was gone, burned away by fear. Fear of dragonfire and its vicious rider.

"You-" His voice was high and shaky as he grabbed a fistful of your tangled hair, yanking you to your feet. "You're coming with me. Now. H-he'll gut me if he finds me, but I'll make sure you-"

His words stopped, because the tip of a blade punched through the front of his throat.

He released you. Stumbled. His hands flew to his neck, but the blood was already pouring, too fast, too much, and his eyes went wide. Confused. Then dim. Then he collapsed at your feet. The last thing he ever heard was you screaming at the sight of his throat gaping open. 

You stood there, shaking, staring down at the body in shock. He had been threatening you a heartbeat ago. Now he was just meat.

And then you saw him.

Daemon stood in the threshold, his dark armor was slick with crimson, his face streaked with ash. His pale hair was braided and he held a dagger in one hand, blood dripping from its edge.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your gaze locked. The crackle of flames and distant screams filled the silence.

"Wife."

He sheathed the dagger and crossed to you in three quick strides. You couldn't speak, couldn't move, but you let him take your face in his hands. His fingers were gentle as he tilted your chin this way and that, inspecting the cuts and bruises, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he did.

You lifted your wrists to show him the heavy shackles. He stepped back and unsheathed his sword and brought it down upon the chains. They fell from your limbs and clattered to the ground.

"I thought you were in Pentos," you managed, your voice hoarse and raw.

He tilted his head. "Why would I be in Pentos?"

"They told me-"

He chuckled, low and humorless, and reached up to push a loose lock of hair from your face. "Pentos?"

You opened your mouth to yell at him. To demand he tell you where he'd been and why you'd spent days believing he'd abandoned you. But a shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the clash of steel.

Daemon's hand found your wrist. "Stay behind me."

He pulled you through the doorway, and the corridor was chaos. Smoke billowed, thick and choking. Two of Byrch's guards rounded the corner, swords drawn, their faces twisted with panic as they laid eyes on your husband.

Daemon moved before you could breathe.

He met the first guard head-on, his sword singing as it caught the man's blade, disarming him in a single twisting motion. The second guard lunged, aiming for Daemon's exposed side, but Daemon spun, driving his elbow into the man's face, then burying his blade in his chest before he could fall.

The first guard tried to scramble for his fallen blade, but Daemon's boot came down on his wrist, and the crack of bone made you feel sick. Then Daemon swung and the guard's head rolled away.

It took seconds. Less.

"Come." He didn't look back, just reached out his arm for you to grab.

There were three more guards in the next passage. Daemon didn't slow. He shoved you backwards, his body a wall between you and the attackers, and then he struck them like a viper. His blade was a blur. Parrying, slashing, driving through armor like it was parchment. One man fell with a gurgle. Another dropped his sword and tried to run; Daemon's dagger found the back of his head. The third lunged, aiming for you, and Daemon caught him by the throat as he tried to rush past him, lifting him off the ground, driving his sword through the man's gut before letting him crumple.

The corridor was slick with blood. Daemon's chest heaved as he retrieved his dagger from the guards head. Then he stalked towards the exit.

"Keep moving."

You stumbled after him, past bodies, past flames licking at tapestries and wooden beams. The heat was suffocating, but Daemon's pace was relentless. He kicked open a side door and more guards spilled out and Daemon carved through them without hesitation. 

And then he pulled you onward.

Finally, the great doors to the courtyard loomed ahead. Daemon didn't slow. He raised his boot and kicked them open.

The smell outside hit you like a wall. Fire raged across the courtyard walls, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. 

But the fighting was over.

Byrch's men were on their knees.

Dozens of them. Lines of them, forced onto the cobblestones with gold cloaks behind them, swords at their throats. Targaryen household guards stood at attention, their armor black and red, their faces hard and grim. And above it all, perched on the broken walls like a god of old, was Caraxes. His long neck craned toward the sky, and when he opened his maw, a plume of flame burst forth.

The heat made the air shimmer. Byrch's men flinched. Some wept.

Daemon walked you through them.

His hand wrapped around yours, and he led you past the kneeling men with a slow, deliberate stride. He wanted them to see. He wanted them to know. That the prince's wife was alive. That he had come for her. That this wreckage, this blood, this brutality; was the price of touching what belonged to him.

Your bare feet left bloody prints on the stone. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled, your face bruised. But you walked with your chin held high, because Daemon was holding your hand, and you would not let these men see you break.

At the center of the courtyard, Byrch knelt alone. His face was pale, streaked with sweat and ash, and his hands were bound behind him. Two gold cloaks held him in place.

"Byrch."

Your husband's voice was like silk, calm and smooth, his arm came around your waist and pulled you against his side. He kissed your temple gently before letting you go, gently guiding you to a waiting gold cloak. The guard wrapped you in a clean cloak, the targaryen sigil stitched into the fine material. It struck you in that moment, that this was all for you. His men. His dragon. The blood on his hands. Every corpse in this courtyard was a gift laid at your feet.

The lord's head snapped up. His eyes darted to you, then back to Daemon. "Mercy, my Prince. Please. You've already taken everything. Mercy."

Daemon cocked his head. "Everything?"

"Mercy," Byrch begged again. "I beg you-"

"Begging," Daemon said, chuckling to himself before he placed the point of his blade against Byrch's throat. 

Byrch's eyes were wide, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

Daemon leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Why should I show you mercy?"

"Because I- because-"

"What's done is done," Daemon smiled, and it was the cruellest thing you'd ever seen. 

Then he drew his sword back. And plunged it straight down Byrch's throat.

The gurgle was wet, horrible. Daemon pushed the blade deeper, through flesh and bone, until the tip emerged from the back of Byrch's neck. He held it there for a long moment, staring into the lord's empty eyes, before he wrenched the sword free.

Byrch's body slumped. Daemon wiped the blade clean on the dead man's clothes.

Byrch's remaining men cried out. Some begging, some cursing, a few trying to rise. The gold cloaks drove them back down to their knees.

Daemon looked at the prisoners, then at his men. He nodded once.

A flash of steel. A spray of blood. And without a single word, one by one, the kneeling men fell.

You watched, frozen, as the courtyard became a slaughterhouse. It was over in moments. Dozens of bodies lay sprawled across the cobblestones, their blood pooling together, running in dark rivulets between the cracks.

Daemon turned to you.

He crossed the distance to you in an instant, his hand finding yours again. His fingers were slick with blood, but you didn't pull away. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. 

"Burn it," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I want no trace left of this place. Take everything of value and bring it to Dragonstone."

"Yes, my Prince." His men shouted out in unison.

He pulled you away, past the bodies and towards where Caraxes waited. And that's when you saw the way he was favoring his right leg, barely, but you saw it.

"You're hurt," you breathed.

He didn't slow. Didn't respond. But you knew he heard you.

You wanted to argue, to grab his arm and make him stop; but then you were at Caraxes's side, and the dragon's heat washed over you, and your words died in your throat.

A sudden base instinct to flee gripped you, the sight of the great red dragon enough to freeze your limbs. But Daemon's grip was firm, his pace steady, and before you could process what was happening, he was lifting you up onto the dragon's back.

He climbed up behind you, a grunt escaping him as he swung his leg over. His arms came around your waist, and you felt the warmth of him, solid and real.

"Sovès" Daemon yelled.

Caraxes roared, a long, high sound, and lifted his wings. For a brief, terrifying moment, you were weightless.

And then the dragon launched itself into the air.

You didn't scream, didn't even cry out. You couldn't. Your mind was still catching up, your thoughts a jumble. Your mouth fell open, and your hands grasped at the saddle, your fingers digging in so hard your knuckles turned white.

The air rushed past, and you looked down, and the sight made you dizzy. The castle shrank beneath you, the bodies, the smoke, the flame. Everything was so small. The world was vast and the sky was endless and you were soaring.

A laugh bubbled up, the thrill of it filling your lungs. Then tears. Tears because you were safe and Daemon had come for you and it wasn't a dream and your chest was so tight and you were gasping for air-

You leaned back against your husband and sobbed, tears streaking down your cheeks, the sound swallowed by the wind.

Daemon's arms tightened around you, and the feeling of him there, his heartbeat against your spine, made you cry harder.

"Paghā" he whispered against your ear, the word rumbling through his chest. You didn't know Valyrian, but the tone was clear.

It was alright.

You were safe.

At first you thought you were going to Dragonstone, you could smell the salt in the air, the tang of the sea.

But no, Caraxes moved south, along the coast leading to Dorne. Daemon kept a firm grip on the reins, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He was silent.

Your sobs faded as you flew over the waves, and you settled in, watching the water, and the horizon, the sky painted in shades of red, orange and purple as the sun sank beyond the distant peaks.

Finally, Caraxes began to descend. He landed gracefully near a stone tower that looked out over the ocean, his body shuddering and his claws digging deep into the ground.

Your heart was still beating wildly, and you were grateful when Daemon slid down first and offered his hand. You took it, his warm touch bringing you back to earth, and let him guide you down.

Caraxes snorted and shook his wings, the gust of wind nearly knocking you off your feet. Daemon chuckled, pulling you against his side as the dragon's tail swished and he launched himself into the air, his huge wings beating so hard that dust billowed.

"Where are we?" you asked.

"A place I keep," he said, already moving past you toward the tower door.

You followed, watching the way he favored his right leg, the slight hitch in his stride he was trying to hide. He shouldered open the door and held it open, gesturing for you to enter.

The tower was not what you expected. Not the cold, damp ruin it looked to be from the outside. It was well furnished, with a large bed in the corner piled high with furs and pillows, a table bearing wine, bread wrapped in cloth, a basin of clean water. The hearth was cold, but fresh wood was laid and waiting.

This wasn't some abandoned hole he used for hunting. This was meant for something far more intimate.

"Is this where you bring your whores?" You didn't mean to say it, but the words escaped anyway, the bitterness in them a surprise.

"Why would I do that?" He crossed the room and grabbed a flagon, filling a cup with wine.

"Because they're easier than a wife," you snapped.

He laughed, and you bristled, but didn't respond. You watched him let out a quiet groan of pain as he knelt in front of the fire. It made something twist in your chest. He grabbed the wood and flint, struck a spark, and coaxed the flames to life. You watched as the flames licked up the dry wood, slowly consuming it.

"Your leg," you said, when he didn't speak.

"It's fine."

"No, it isn't."

He didn't answer. He was staring into the flames.

"Daemon."

He glanced over his shoulder at you, and then rose to his full height, turning to face you fully. He looked tired. Dark shadows hung under his eyes , and there was a pallor to his skin beneath the ash and blood. You hadn't noticed it before, when you'd seen him in the castle. He must have been riding all day, flying, killing...and he hadn't stopped. Not for rest, not for food, not until he had you back.

"I'll live," he said. "Sit."

You stayed standing. "Let me at least help you with your armor."

His lips twitched, but he nodded, sitting down heavily next to the table. You crossed to him, your hands reaching for the buckles of his pauldrons before you could second-guess yourself. He watched you, silent, his eyes tracking your movements as you worked the leather straps free.

The first piece of armor clattered to the floor. Then the second. Each buckle you loosened revealed more of him. The sweat-dampened tunic beneath, the way his shoulders sagged slightly without the weight of the steel.

"Did they hurt you badly?" he asked, his voice a soft rasp.

"They wanted to," you replied. "They said a lot of things."

You weren't sure why you told him. Perhaps because you wanted him to know what had happened. What might have happened if he hadn't come. Or maybe you simply needed to say it. To put the words into the air.

He reached up to where your hand was struggling with a strap at the back of his shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around yours, stilling them for just a moment before he helped you work the rest of the buckles free.

"I should have killed them slower."

"And more creatively." You smiled despite yourself.

He returned the smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

You stepped back as he rose and began stripping the rest of his armor. Greaves, gauntlets, bracers, until finally he was free. His white underclothes were stained red, blood seeping from the wound in his thigh.

"That needs stitching."

"I'm not some green knight who needs tending." He pulled a dagger from his belt and cut the fabric away, revealing a jagged cut down the outside of his thigh, the edges dark with blood. "See? It's not deep. It'll heal."

"Fine." You threw up your hands and turned away, anger simmering beneath your skin.

You could hear him moving, and you imagined him grabbing his sword and leaving. You wouldn't care. Let him leave. Let him go fly off wherever the hell he pleased.

But he didn't. Instead, his hands came around your waist, his warm breath tickling the shell of your ear.

"Paghā," he whispered, his voice low and soothing.

"What does that mean?"

"It means," he murmured, kissing your shoulder gently, "breathe."

"Breathe," you repeated.

"Aye, you're shaking."

You hadn't noticed, not until his hands slid over yours and took hold, his chest warm against your back. He brought one of your hands to his mouth, pressing his lips to your knuckles, looking over the raw flesh around your wrists.

"You look to be the one who needs tending," he said.

"I'm fine," you echoed his own words.

"Not yet." He led you over to the basin and guided you to sit on the bed, and then he dipped a cloth into the water, and began to clean the wounds.

His touch was gentle, the water soothing. You watched him in silence, your gaze tracing the line of his brow, the sharp angles of his face. Flashes of him fighting Byrch's men filled your mind. You'd never seen a man kill before.

"Why did you come for me?" you asked.

He paused, before dripping the cloth into the bowl.

"Because you're my wife."

"Am I?" You couldn't keep the bitterness from your voice.

"Do you think I'd have gone through the trouble otherwise?"

You didn't know what to say to that.

He finished cleaning the last of the wounds, then wrapped a bandage around each wrist, the feeling of his fingers on your skin sending a shiver through you.

"It doesn't mean anything," you said. "Being your wife."

"Make meaning then."

He rose and crossed the room, his movements stiff, and filled another cup with wine. He drank it quickly, then refilled the cup and came back to where you sat.

"Drink."

You took the cup, and sipped. The wine was rich and sweet, and after a few swallows you felt warm. You let out a slow breath and met his gaze.

"I didn't think you would come."

He said nothing.

"They told me Viserys was to pay a ransom," you went on. "I thought-"

"I'd let my brother handle the responsibility of saving my wife?" He smirked.

You looked away. The room was warm now, the fire roaring and the heat suffocating. You rose and went to the door, opening it, and the cool air rushed over you, making you sigh.

The sun was nearly gone, the stars bright in the sky, and the waves lapped gently against the cliffs below. It was beautiful, and quiet. It made the fear of the past days feel distant.

"If I matter so much, why have I not seen you since our wedding night?" You kept your gaze on the horizon, too afraid to look at him, all the pent up emotions you'd held inside threatening to spill over. 

He let out a quiet laugh, a short, derisive sound, and rose, coming to stand beside you. He leaned against the door frame and looked out at the night sky.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"The truth."

"You won't like it."

"That doesn't change it." You finally turned to look at him, a sudden surge of anger rising. 

"I don't know how to be a husband." He said simply, his jaw tense. "I didn't want a wife. I didn't choose this. So, what should I have done? Made empty promises? Made you think you were special? That I was besotted? What was the point?" 

He pushed off the doorframe and walked down the steps, and you stood frozen, staring at his back.

"You are right," he called over his shoulder. "This is where I bring my whores."

He kept walking. Away from the tower, down the path towards the shore.

Your heart was pounding. Anger, pain, frustration, relief; they were all warring inside you, and it made your head spin. Your feet carried you after him, the grass soft beneath them, the path winding down to the sand.

By the time you reached the beach, he had already stopped at the water's edge. He didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge you. He just reached for the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric stained dark with blood and ash. His boots followed, then his breeches, until he stood bare in the moonlight, the waves lapping at his feet.

He walked into the sea without a word.

You stood frozen on the sand, watching him wade deeper until the water reached his waist. He stopped there, facing the horizon, letting the surf wash over him. The cold didn't seem to bother him, or if it did, he didn't show it. He just stood there, washing the gore from his body.

You should have let him be. Should have turned around and gone back to the tower, wrapped yourself in furs, and waited for him to return... or not return. But something in you refused to let him walk away again.

You reached back and worked loose the ties of your dress, letting the fabric pool at your feet, the night air raising goosebumps across your bare skin. The shift followed a moment later.

The cold hit you like a slap as you stepped into the surf, the water shocking and sharp against your cuts. You hissed through your teeth but kept going, wading out until you were beside him, the water lapping just below your ribs. He still didn't turn, but you saw his jaw tighten.

The waves rolled in, cold and rhythmic, pulling at your legs. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just the sound of the sea and the distant cry of gulls.

"What was your plan?" you asked finally. "To come, rescue me, and then ignore me again? Go back to drinking, fighting and whoring?"

"Something like that."

You crossed your arms over your chest, though it did little to ward off the cold. You weren't sure what to say. He had given you no false promises, no declaration of love. But your wedding night was etched in your mind, a memory you couldn't let go.

"Then why did you treat me so kindly on our wedding night? Why were you..." You trailed off, your face suddenly warm despite the cold.

He laughed, a short, loud bark that echoed across the water. "Would you rather I have hurt you? Is that what you're asking?"

"No!" You scowled, feeling foolish. "I mean...you were gentle."

He finally turned to face you, the moonlight catching the sharp lines of his face. "What would you have preferred? A whore's treatment?"

"Shut up."

He laughed again, a rich, deep sound that made your stomach flip. His hand came up, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek.

"If it makes you feel better, my wife," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I enjoyed our wedding night very much." He shifted closer, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you against the warmth of his chest. "Maybe I'll enjoy it again tonight."

You shoved his shoulders, but you were smiling despite yourself. "I don't even like you."

"I just saved your life. I'd say you should start liking me."

"You are a terrible husband."

"I'm the worst." He kissed your jaw, his mouth moving along the line of your neck, his breath warm against your cold skin. "Tell me how terrible."

You let him kiss along your skin, a soft sigh escaping.

"You're selfish."

"And?"

"A cheater."

"Keep going."

"Infuriating."

"More."

"Unkind."

"Very."

He tilted your chin up, and you let him, his lips were a breath from yours, and then you turned your face away. Not hard. Just away.

He went still. The water lapped against your ribs. You felt his breath on your cheek, unsteady. His hand didn't leave your jaw, but he didn't force you back.

"So what am I, then? Just another whore you'll leave in the morning?" you asked, the question quiet in the night. You weren't sure you wanted an answer. You were already regretting the words. They made you feel weak, desperate. But they were the truth.

He slowly let go of your chin, letting his hand drop back into the water. He looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw something there in the moonlight, something raw and unguarded.

"A cage," he said. "My brother. Your father. This marriage."

He paused, then reached up, his thumb brushing over the bruise on your cheekbone. "And you," he added, softly. "It was-" He broke off, looking away across the water. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, almost angry. "It was good. And I didn't want it to be."

You stared at him.

He turned back to you, and his eyes were dark, unreadable. "I don't get given things."

"Well this might surprise you," you said, a sudden surge of boldness washing over you. "But I am not a thing."

He looked at you for a long moment, then let out a short, sharp laugh. "I'm aware." His gaze dropped to your lips. "That's the problem."

"You've never once asked me what I want."

He tilted his head. "What do you want?"

You didn't know what to say, your mind was racing. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you were scared to say it. Scared he'd laugh, or worse, agree. But you were tired of being scared. And you were standing naked in the sea with your husband who had just slaughtered a castle for you.

"I want a husband who doesn't ignore me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "One who maybe, occasionally, eats dinner with me. I want to not feel so alone in my own chambers."

You paused, gathering your courage. "And I... I want you to stop being a stranger to me."

"Anything else?" he asked, and you couldn't tell if he was mocking you.

You took a shaky breath. "I don't know... I didn't hate that ride on Caraxes... It was thrilling."

A slow, genuine smile spread across his lips. "No?"

You shook your head, a small smile of your own. "Perhaps the occasional dragon ride."

"I can arrange that," he said, pulling you close again. His hands were on your waist, and yours rested on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. "Is that all, wife?"

"I'm freezing," you admitted, shivering now as the cold seeped into your bones.

He let out a soft chuckle, his arms wrapping around you, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he started wading back to the shore.

You should have protested. You should have told him to put you down, that he was still wounded, that you could walk. But his eyes were fixed on yours, and you were in his arms, and all you could think was how safe he made you feel.

"Better?" he asked, his mouth close to your ear.

"Getting warmer," you murmured.

He carried you back up the path, into the warmth of the tower, and set you gently on the bed. The furs were soft, and you sighed, letting your body sink into them. A real bed. Clean. Safe. The feeling was so overwhelming that for a moment you just lay there, eyes closed, breathing.

When you opened them, Daemon was kneeling by the hearth, feeding logs to the fire. You watched him through the haze of your exhaustion. The broad plane of his back, the way the firelight caught the edges of old scars, the careful way he stacked the wood.

He rose, and you saw him favor his right leg again. A hitch he smoothed over almost instantly. Almost.

"How's your leg?"

"You will probably be a widow by morning," he deadpanned.

"I doubt that." You couldn't hide your smile, and his answering grin sent a flush of warmth through you.

He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, not touching you, just… there… and you realized he was waiting. For you to sleep. For you to speak. For something. He didn't know what to do with a woman in his bed who wasn't there for his pleasure.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, the furs pooling around your waist. The fire had warmed the room enough that the air no longer bit at your bare skin. You were acutely aware that you were both still naked, but the awareness didn't feel urgent. It just felt… present.

"You're very far away," you said.

He glanced down at the small space between you. "This is far?"

"For a man who just saved my life and carried me naked up a cliff…yes."

His lips twitched. "I was giving you room to breathe."

"How considerate."

"I have my moments."

You shifted, sitting up fully, letting the furs fall away. He watched you move, his gaze steady but unhurried. He wasn't going to reach for you. You understood, suddenly, that he was waiting for you to decide. If you wanted him, you'd have to give him something. The realization was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.

You reached out and pressed your palm flat against his chest. His skin was warm from the fire. You felt his heartbeat, steady and slow, under your hand.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low.

"I don't know," you admitted. "I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"Take what I want."

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Interest. His hand came up and covered yours, pressing it more firmly against his chest. "And what is it you want?"

You swallowed. "I'm figuring it out."

He laughed, short and rough and utterly charmed. "Take your time, then."

You moved before you could talk yourself out of it, shifting onto your knees and then, carefully, deliberately, climbing into his lap. It wasn't graceful. Your knee caught his injured thigh and he grunted, but his hands came up to your hips anyway, steadying you.

"What's all this for?" he murmured.

"Because I want to."

"Not because I rescued you?"

"No." You met his eyes. "Though… you are owed thanks."

His grin was slow and sharp. "And you want to thank me with your-"

You pressed your fingers to his mouth before he could finish. "Do not say it."

He kissed your fingertips.

"I don’t like crude words. I am a lady."

"You are a lady who is currently sitting naked in my lap."

"Then stop talking and let me concentrate."

He leaned back on his hands, the picture of obedience, his eyes dancing. "By all means."

You glared at him, but it was hard to maintain, with the way he was looking at you like you were the most entertaining thing he'd seen in years. You were suddenly, acutely aware of your nakedness. The way your thighs bracketed his hips, the heat of him, the fact that you had no idea what to do next.

Your cheeks flushed.

His smile turned knowing. "I recall how shy you were on our wedding night."

"I recall you being rather drunk."

"That, I was." He sat up, his chest now a breath from yours, one hand coming up to brush the hair from your shoulder. "You were prettier than I expected."

"Is that meant to be a compliment?"

"It's the truth."

You looked at him, the sharp lines of his face, the pale lashes, the mouth that had just confessed more in the sea than you'd heard him say in a year. He was still a stranger in so many ways. But he was yours. And he was here. And he wasn't running.

"You're still too far away," you said.

"I'm right here."

"Then kiss me."

His eyes held yours for a long moment, searching. Then, slowly, he leaned in and brushed his lips against yours. It was deep and unhurried and certain, his mouth slanting over yours like he'd been waiting for you to ask. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back, and you made a sound against his lips, a soft, needy thing you didn't recognize as your own.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathing harder than you wanted to admit. He looked far too pleased with himself.

"You're very good at that," you said, a little accusatory.

"Years of practice," he smirked.

You shoved at his shoulder, but you were smiling.

"I don't want to hear about your practice."

"Then don't ask."

You wound your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your hands tangling in the soft hair at his nape. "I want to be the only practice."

His smirk faded. His gaze was serious now, searching your face. Something in your chest tightened, an old, familiar fear. You'd said too much. But then he was kissing you again, and this kiss was different. Deeper. Possessive. It wasn't a question or an answer; it was a statement. Mine.

Your body responded before your mind could catch up. You shifted in his lap, trying to find a better angle, and the movement brought your bodies flush together. He was half-hard beneath you, the heat of him pressing against your thigh, and the contact made you gasp against his mouth. You'd done that. The thought sent a sharp, unfamiliar thrill through you.

His hand slid down your chest, over the swell of your breast, the pad of his thumb brushing against your nipple, which pebbled instantly at the contact. He moved lower, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, until his fingers found the heat between your legs. He paused there, a feather-light touch against your seam, and you held your breath.

"Daemon," you whispered, the name a plea against his lips.

He answered you with a touch, a slow, deliberate glide of his fingers through your wetness. Your hips jerked, a moan escaping your lips. He found the small, hidden spot at the apex of your thighs and circled it once, twice, a gentle pressure that made your toes curl. He was watching your face, absorbing every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, and the intensity of his gaze was almost as intoxicating as the pleasure itself.

You tried to kiss him again, needing the anchor of his mouth, but he pulled back slightly, his focus entirely on the movement of his hand. He slid one finger inside you, a slow, deliberate intrusion that stretched you, filled you. Your head fell back, your neck arching as he began to move, a steady, maddening rhythm that had you rocking against his hand. He let you move with him, let you find a pace that built the tension in your core, a hot, tightening coil. You were losing yourself, the world narrowing to the sensation of him touching you. The sounds you made were uninhibited, wanton, and you didn't care.

Just as you felt the precipice of your release, he pulled away. You made a sound of protest, your eyes flying open to meet his. He was smirking, that infuriating, handsome smirk that made you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.

"Why did you stop?" you demanded, your voice embarrassingly breathless.

"Impatient," he chuckled, not ungently. He shifted you in his lap, adjusting your position until you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips, your core flush against his hard length. "I thought you wanted to be in charge."

Your breath hitched. The reality of him, hot and heavy against your most sensitive flesh, was a shock. You could feel your own wetness slicking him. The power was yours to take.

"I am," you said, though the claim felt less certain than you wanted it to be. Your hands on his shoulders trembled.

"Then take what you want, wife."

The challenge was clear in his eyes. You braced yourself, your hands flat on his chest, and lifted your hips. He held himself steady for you, one hand gripping the base of his cock, guiding the head to your entrance. The slow press as you began to lower yourself was a sweet, aching stretch. Your body welcomed him, a familiar, perfect fit that you remembered from your wedding night, but it felt different now. More intense.

When you'd taken him to the hilt, you paused, adjusting to the feeling of him. He was breathing hard, his eyes locked on where your bodies joined, the muscles in his neck taut. His self-control was admirable, and you wondered what would happen if you pushed it.

You started to move. Tentative, at first, just a slow roll of your hips that made you both gasp. You found a rhythm, unpracticed and a little unsteady, but it was yours. His hands stayed on your hips, but he let you lead, his head falling back slightly, his fingers digging into you tighter and tighter. The sight of him undone beneath you sent a surge of confidence through your veins.

"Does that feel good, husband?" you asked, and the word came out teasing.

His laugh was half groan. "You're a fast learner."

Your pace quickened, your thighs burning with the effort, but the pleasure was building again, that tight coil low in your belly. His thumb found that spot once more, pressing in time with your movements, and the combination shattered your rhythm. You cried out, your nails raking down his chest, and he sat up suddenly, one arm banding around your waist to keep you steady as you came apart around him.

He let you ride it out, your face buried in his neck, your body shuddering. Then, gently, he shifted. You felt yourself being lowered onto your back, the furs soft beneath you, his weight a warm, solid anchor, his forearms braced on either side of your head.

"Look at me."

His voice was rough. You opened your eyes, and the firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, the vulnerability he was letting you see. His thrusts stayed slow, deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.

"You're beautiful."

The words were whispered against your lips, and for a moment you thought you imagined them. But he said it again, and again, each repetition timed with a deep, rolling thrust, until the pleasure crested and broke and you were falling apart beneath him, his name a broken cry on your lips.

He followed moments later, a low groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you, his forehead pressing to yours. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled. The sea whispered against the cliffs below.

He pulled out gently and rolled to his side, but he didn't let you go. He pulled you against his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you felt his lips brush your hair.

"Still hate me?" he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without needing to see it.

"A little less," you whispered, running your hand down the side of his face. He caught it and pressed a kiss to your palm.

It should have felt strange to lie naked in the arms of a man who had, up until this afternoon, been little more than a stranger. But instead it felt comfortable. Safe. Like something that had been waiting for you both to stop running.

"Perhaps I was hasty," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft with exhaustion.

"In what regard?" His voice rumbled under your ear.

"I do think you could be a good husband, after all."

His arm tightened around your waist. "I can try."

"You'll be here when I wake? You won't run off?" You murmured sleepily. "If you're going to run, just tell me now."

"I'll be here, little wife. Sleep."

Sleep took hold before you could say more. Your last conscious thoughts were of how safe you felt, in this man's arms, in this strange little tower on the edge of the sea. And the strange realization that he was no longer a stranger. He was yours, and you were his.

He was still there in the morning, wrapped in furs and snoring softly beside you, your legs tangled with his. You smiled against his chest. It was a good beginning.

He stands beneath a stone archway, watching you, before he steps forwards, his boots crunching softly against the gravel. 

You lift your head immediately, a polite smile on your lips. “Uncle.”

Daemon has seen you like this plenty of times before, your perfect posture, the perfect obedience, and it makes his teeth grind. He’s not the only one that notices what a stark contrast you are to your older sister, acting exactly the way that’s expected of her as the heir. 

A muscle twitches in his jaw as he approaches. “That is a dull way to spend the day,” he says, eyeing you with caution. 

You know there is not truly ill intention behind his words. Someone like him—someone that would rather spend weeks on end in his dragon’s saddle in complete freedom—just can’t seem to be enthusiastic about things that are required by duty. 

Your fingers briefly curl against the parchment of the book, before you’re smoothing it out with your thumbs again, schooling your expression in serene neutrality. “I was told it is my duty to read this,” you reply evenly. “Queen Alicent said knowledge of proper conduct is essential for a princess.”

There’s no protest in your voice, and no hint that you want to do something else entirely. It’s not accompanied by a sigh, a roll of your eyes or a completely different way of rebellion like your sister might’ve shown at being forced through another lesson.

He steps forwards without a warning, reaching out, and closes the book with one decisive snap. “Duties,” he repeats, tasting the word on his tongue like it’s sour. “Gods, you sound like a septa already.”

As the book snaps shut, you stiffen briefly, your wide eyes darting up to meet his. Surprise is etched onto your features, because even your uncle has never before dared to interrupt your studies like this. 

Daemon exhales through his nose, his jaw tightening as he looks down at you. It’s always about duties. He’s spent his whole life bound by them, too. The duty to serve Viserys, the duty to be loyal despite their differences, the duty not to cause trouble even when every fiber of him screamed for rebellion. 

But seeing it in you—in this sweet girl who he used to take for rides over King’s Landing on Caraxes’ back—makes something rise in his chest. “And there’s not a single thought of your own?” 

Daemon reaches out, and plucks Queen Alicent’s precious gift from your lap. The title glints on its cover—The Virtues of Noble Women—and you can’t help but remember when she has presented it to you with a saccharine smile on her lips, and the soft praises about “raising the future lady of a noble house”. 

Your fingers twitch instinctively at the sudden loss, and you simply watch as your uncle flips through the pages with deliberate disinterest. 

“I think plenty, uncle,” you say. 

He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he turns over another page, and then another, scanning the dense text with thinly veiled disdain. Scoffing under his breath, he tosses the book to the side where it lands with a dull thud against the grass. 

“Plenty?” he echoes, turning his attention back to you. “And what do you think about when no one is watching? When you are alone in your chambers or walking through these gardens?”

His voice isn’t mocking—not quite, at least—but there’s an edge beneath it; something between curiosity and protectiveness. 

Your lips part slightly, as if the question genuinely surprises you. No one ever truly asks you what you think, and no one ever cares beyond checking if you’ve memorized the correct answers to questions about proper court etiquette or history. 

They want to know whether your lessons are being absorbed, not what swirls behind your lilac eyes when no one else is looking. 

Daemon waits patiently, enduring the silence between you without pushing. He studies you; the slight part of your lips, the way your lashes lower just a little as if you’re searching for an answer that doesn't exist. 

The garden hums softly around you with bees drifting between flowers, leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. The world keeps moving… but you stand still. 

“You read all these stories about perfect women who never stepped out of line,” he muses, raising a brow. “Tell me, do you think they were happy, or just… obedient?”

It has never occurred to you. The queens and ladies in these stories—these perfect, noble women—were always praised for their virtues. They were happy, weren’t they? At least, that’s what everyone implies with their approving nods whenever you recite a passage from one of these books out loud during lessons. 

You consider it, and for the first time in years, doubt creeps into your mind. And your uncle sees it. It’s a tiny crack in your polished mask, flashing across your face. 

That look hits home, because he’s had the same one back when he realized that Viserys would never truly see him as an equal, but just as a younger brother that is tolerated at court and not trusted with real power.  

A lifetime of being told who you are supposed to be until you forget who you really are. 

“You have been told your whole life what you must be,” he says. “Perfect, pure, worthy. But no one has told you what you do not have to be.”

A breeze lifts strands of his short, silver hair as he steps closer again, and crouches slightly so you’re nearly on eye level. 

You stare at him for the first time since he’s stepped into the garden; not as your uncle or a prince, but as Daemon Targaryen, the man who never bows to anyone’s expectations. Your breath hitches, and your hands still remain in your lap, but something inside of your chest tightens with an emotion you can’t name. 

“And what is that?”

An almost fond smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “You do not have to be perfect, niece,” he says. “You can frown when you are bored, or sigh if a lesson is dull. You can want things just because you want them, and not because someone says a princess should.”

You inhale a sharp breath before you can stop it. The concept of wanting something just because is foreign to you. They have drilled the idea that a princess’ desires should be controlled at all times into your mind, and a good lady doesn’t indulge herself. 

He rises to his feet, and takes a step back. “If you are content being what they have made you, then forget this conversation ever happened.” His lilac eyes drag over your sitting form. 

“But if you are not,” he starts, tilting his head slightly, his eyes sharpening with intent. “If even a small part of you wonders what it might feel like to choose for yourself—”

The sentence hangs between you, and he doesn’t finish it immediately. 

He turns, and begins to walk away, but stops just before the stone archway, glancing at you from over his shoulder. 

“Come find me.”

With these words, he disappears where he came from, leaving you frozen on the bench. Your heart pounds beneath your ribs with a traitorous rhythm that doesn’t match your composed exterior at all. 

Is it a command? An invitation? You can’t tell. Daemon never does things by half measures. He’s either direct or cruel or charmingly vague, but never in-between. 

—

When the night comes, you don’t find sleep. And if you do, it’s interrupted. You doze off, more than once, but always wake up plagued by thoughts.

You don’t want to admit it, but his words have left you not as unaffected—and uninterested—as you’d like to claim. And so, you rise, in the middle of the night. A simple robe is thrown over your dark nightgown, tied at the waist. 

You don’t choose to leave through the door, no, that would be too obvious at this hour. You push a narrow door close to your bed open, and disappear into the cold and dark tunnels that have been once built by Maegor the Cruel. Rhaenyra has brought you along more often than not, and therefore you’re quite confident in finding the path leading towards Daemon’s chambers. 

With a soft knock, you just wait, listening carefully to hear any commotion behind the door. It’s not a surprise you startle when the door suddenly opens and you’re standing across from Daemon. 

His eyes drag over your frame, and your widened ones do the same. He wears a simple tunic, unbuttoned at the throat with the sleeves rolled up, and some pair of dark trousers. 

The intensity of his gaze tears a shiver through your body, before you quickly hush past him into the warmth of his chambers. 

He closes the door behind you, and watches as you just stand in his chambers, the flames of the hearth casting long shadows across your clothes. He steps towards you, and catches the hem of your robe between his fingers, adjusting it slightly where it has slipped off one of your shoulders. 

“Should you not be somewhere… proper?” he asks idly. 

You open your mouth, and close it, swallowing thickly. The word proper sits heavy in the air, because proper would be your chambers with you tucked safely away behind locked doors with a guard posted outside to ensure no one disturbed your rest. Proper was attending the morning prayer or practicing embroidery under the septa’s watchful eyes—not sneaking through secret tunnels built by mad kings at night to find Daemon Targaryen of all people. 

A shiver runs down your spine, but not from the cold. “N-No, I–I should not,” you stammer beneath his curious gaze, pressing your lips into a thin line. 

His lips curve slightly, just very briefly, and make you terribly aware that he knows all too well that his words have burrowed into your mind like thorns beneath gloves. As he cocks a brow, you start to fidget with the fabric of your nightgown. “I could–I could not sleep,” you admit. 

Daemon scoffs and steps closer, slow and deliberate like he’s approaching a skittish animal. A hand rises, brushing a strand of your silver hair behind your ear. “No,” he replies simply. “I suppose not.”

You feel his fingers linger near your temple for a moment longer than necessary, the pad of his calloused thumb grazing your cheekbone. He studies you, the stiffness of your shoulders like you expect a punishment for being there. 

But that doesn't come. 

Something dark and possessive stirs in him at the sight, because you’re so clearly nervous. It plants a seed in his mind: the ambition to unravel all the training Alicent has forced on you to show you what it means to want, not just to obey. 

A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, not mocking, but close. “Now why did you come, niece?”

Your tongue darts out briefly to wet your lips before you answer: “I–I thought about what you said,” you admit, your eyes flitting down to the floor. “About not being perfect.”

The confession—small but monumental for a princess that has spent her entire life striving for perfection—prompts you to swallow thickly. “And I did not know how to sleep with it.”

A low hum rumbles in his chest as he leans back slightly; not retreating, but giving you space. His gaze sweeps over you again. “And what did you think?”

“That I do not know if I want to be perfect,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I–I also do not know what else there is.” Exhaling a shaky breath, you glance up at him, searching his face for something. 

His expression darkens at your confession, and he’s suddenly close enough that you have to tilt your head up to keep meeting his gaze. “There are plenty of things,” he replies, and without a warning, he brushes his knuckles along your cheekbone. 

Despite the touch being featherlight, it sends a jolt through you. Your breath hitches, and your eyes widen as he moves with deliberate slowness. No one ever touches you like this. 

Without breaking eye contact, he leans in. The movement is gradual, giving you every chance to flinch or protest and say this isn’t right. 

But you don’t. 

He’s close enough for your breaths to mingle, yours coming in tiny, shallow puffs of air against his lips. Your lashes lower slightly, a subconscious tilt that betrays your curiosity—and perhaps even want. 

Daemon closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss as though he’s testing the waters first. 

For half a heartbeat, you freeze, before your body responds. It’s just a tiny lean forward, a quiet press back against his mouth and the slightest parting of your lips, and it’s enough to be noticed by him. 

A low sound rumbles in his chest, and his hands rise slowly; one cradling the back of your head with his calloused fingers threading into your silver strands, and the other sliding around your waist to pull you closer against him. 

His warm lips start to move against yours with hunger, his tongue brushing against your lower lip experimentally. It causes your lips to part, and he is quick to seize the opportunity to slip his tongue past them. 

Your hand finds his shoulder at the sudden intrusion, while the other rests at his chest with his tunic clutched tightly between your fingers, torn between pushing him away and pulling him in. 

You hardly notice him reaching for the bow at the front of your robe, and eventually tugging on it. Only when it glides off your shoulders, a chill hitting the now exposed skin, do you draw back from him. 

It suddenly feels too overwhelming, even more when you let go of him and the robe slides down your arms and to the ground, pooling at your feet. You now stand before him in nothing but the thin silk of your nightgown, a delicate strap slipping slightly from one shoulder where the movement has disturbed it. 

His gaze trails over you—slowly and hungry—forcing you to take another step back. As you put some distance between you, your calves are met with a nearby chair, the impact prompting you to sit down on it. With a slight shift, you adjust your position, and press your thighs together. 

You look up at him with wide eyes, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths that betray your hesitancy. “We sh–I should leave,” you mumble. 

But Daemon doesn’t argue.

Instead, he simply lowers himself, and kneels before you on the cold stone floor. The flames cast shadows across his sharp features, accentuating the strong line of his jaw, and these piercing eyes that study you carefully. He’s not towering over you anymore, at least not physically. The position shouldn’t be intimidating, no, it should’ve made him smaller, less imposing—but somehow it does the exact opposite. 

One of his large hands rises slowly, and rests gently against your knee where it peeks out from beneath your nightgown. 

“You were eager enough to come,” he muses. “Strange that courage fails you now.” He looks at you with patience written all over his features, clearly understanding that this scares you. Yet it’s evident he doesn’t let it stop him completely. 

“I–I do not know what I am doing,” you admit softly, flattening your lips. 

“Of course you don’t,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a mocking smirk. “If you did, this would hardly be interesting.”

You don’t have a chance to truly ponder over his words, not when he suddenly leans forwards and presses his lips gently against the side of your knee. It sends a jolt through you, and you watch silently as he slowly inches his way up. “B–But…” you try to protest, although you don’t really want him to stop, do you?

“Hush now,” Daemon purrs, pressing kisses along the inside of your thighs. He gathers the skirt of your nightgown in one hand, and brings it up to rest at your hip. “You need not think so hard, niece.”

The whimper you release is enough to bring heat to your cheeks, more so when his tongue suddenly makes contact with your cunt and coaxes another one to slip past your lips. A shiver ripples through you when he pulls back to drag his tongue through your slit. 

“You’re drenched, little princess,” he remarks, his dark blown eyes gazing up at you from between your legs. 

The profanity of it all prompts you to press your lips into a thin line and look to the side, a wave of heat crashing over your whole body. But Daemon isn’t having any of that. He merely tsks, and serves a light slap with the back of his hand to your cunt. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”

Although it’s not harsh, you still squirm in your seat, meeting his gaze with your head nodding eagerly. 

“Good girl,” he praises, and takes that as his cue to continue, his lips finding your little bundle of nerves. One swivel of his tongue already has you arching your back, and the steady rhythm he builts is enough for you to start grinding your hips. 

Two of his fingers slowly ease into of you, the thickness foreign for a moment but forgotten when they start to brush your sweet spot in a come hither motion that has you tightly locking your thighs around his head. Your hand finds the short strands of his hair, fingers threading into them to tug on it not-so-gently which has Daemon groaning against your folds. 

No matter how badly you try to keep your eyes on him—knowing his own flicker up to meet yours every now and then—your head eventually tilts back slightly, and your eyes fall shut. Soft, quiet moans slip past your lips, slowly but surely growing in their intensity. 

The knot in your belly tightens far too quickly with the pace he sets up, lapping and sucking at your little bud in tandem with his fingers scissoring in and out of you. But it doesn’t seem like that’s what your uncle wants. He reads the telltale signs of your impending release as if he has never done anything else, and stops his ministrations without missing a beat. 

You can’t help but whine as the pleasure disappears at once. Your eyes open, and when you look down at him, you spot his chin, lips, and cheeks being coated in your arousal, glistening in the dim light of his chamber. 

“W–Why did you stop?” you whimper, your lips dropping into a pout as you try to reign his head back between your thighs. But Daemon is stronger, making it clear that that’s not sufficient enough for him. 

“I have scarcely begun, and you are already trembling, niece. Do you truly think that this will be all?” he asks, and rises to his feet. 

Not only do his words make your breath hitch in your throat, but also the visible, straining bulge in the front of his trousers. He’s achingly hard for you already, wanting to be buried inside of you. 

“You are always trying to be perfect,” he continues, leaning in to brush his thumb across your bottom lip. “Now let me see how lovely you are when you stop trying.”

Staring at the strained fabric of his trousers, you bite your bottom lip and nod sheepishly. He grabs your wrist, and pulls you to your feet. Noticing how shakily you stand on them, Daemon wastes no time and throws you over his shoulder. 

It catches you off guard, and you squeal right before your back already hits the silk sheets of his bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he rids himself of his tunic, the trousers, and the boots. 

One hand curls around his hard shaft, stroking himself slowly, and clearly making a show out of it for you. A shaky exhale is all that makes its way past your lips, not knowing if you should keep your gaze on his cock, his face or trail the countless scars littered all over his torso.

You settle on the first, and watch with hooded eyes as he comes closer, climbing onto the large bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and soon enough he’s towering above you. Your pulse thunders in your ears, much more when he roughly yanks the skirts of your nightgown up to your waist, before he aligns himself with your entrance. 

Your arousal makes it easy for his cock to slip inside, greedily sucked in by your cunt with little resistance. Despite the burning stretch of his girth, the feeling of him being buried inside of you brings you a sense of pure bliss, prompting you to clench tightly around him. 

Daemon sucks in a sharp breath, and when your hands fly to his shoulders for leverage, he starts to grind his hips against yours. His girth splits you open over and over again, reducing you to a submissive mess.

“S-Seven save me,” you whimper, arching your back beneath him. You have crawled willingly into sin, and now you pray for someone to rescue you from your own desire. It’s not like you actually want to be saved, it’s that you’re scared of the possible consequences. 

As your head lulls back into the pillows, your hands seem to have a mind on their own and land below his navel, weakly pushing him away. But Daemon tsks, swatting them away. “None of this,” he growls. “The gods have never saved anyone from me, sweetling.”

An impatient tug at the neckline of your nightgown is enough to free your tits, all but bouncing freely as he fucks you harder, slamming his hips into you. No words or sounds other than hiccuped moans and whimpers leave your lips, and you can’t focus on anything but him. 

The tremors that the snaps of his hips force through you have you gasping and whining, a tightness building in the pit of your belly. You have spent so much time being untouched that even the drag of the coarse hair at the base of his cock against your little bud brings you a pleasure beyond imagination. But not only does your need to peak become more apparent; Daemon doesn’t seem to know how much longer he will last, too. 

He towers over you, your small frame completely hidden by his. It’s such an easy game for him to keep you where he wants, to use you however he pleases, and at this point you’d let him do whatever he desires with you for as long as you get to relive the sensations you feel over and over again. 

Therefore it’s no surprise that your relief washes over you in an ambush, the pleasure all but soaring through your veins. Yet his assault on your cunt doesn’t stop, and when the urge overcomes you to squeeze your thighs together, it doesn’t seize either. 

Your mind goes blank, and you hardly notice Daemon toppling over, mercilessly grinding into your quivering cunt and filling you to the brim. You squeeze his throbbing cock ever so tightly in response, all but milking him for every drop. 

Daemon rocks into you with reckless abandon, your sweet whimpers and squirming body spurring him on. Squeezing your flesh, he trails both his hands over your body, mapping out the parts that are still hidden by your nightgown. 

But at last, the frenzy seems to leave him all at once. 

He exhales sharply through his nose and collapses onto his side beside you, remaining like this for a brief moment. You adjust the neckline of your nightgown and stare up at the carved canopy above you as though it might offer you absolution, while he proceeds to sit up, lazily draping one arm around his bent knee. 

“You regret it already,” he states. 

You can feel your throat tighten at his words, much more when you finally notice his seed seeping idly from your cunt. “I did not say that.”

“No,” Daemon replies, huffing a breath. As you meet his gaze, you spot his lips curving slightly. “You merely look as though the gods themselves witnessed this.”

Heat crawls up your neck, and you press your lips together. 

“Poor little princess,” your uncle continues, a mocking edge to his voice. “No one warned you that wanting something could feel so ugly afterwards, mh?”

The words make you flinch slightly, but still enough for him to notice and reach for you. His hand comes to rest at your wrist, his thumb pressing lazily against the frantic beat of your pulse. 

“You think this has ruined you now. That one night in my bed has turned you wicked,” he murmurs, his pale gaze drifting slowly over your face. “But sweetling, you were wicked the moment you thought about coming to me.”

Daemon shifts closer to you on the bed. There is no softness in his gaze, just the same consuming fascination he’s worn since you stepped into his chambers. 

“You wish to know the amusing part?”

“What?”

A low hum rumbles in his chest, and he leans in to press his lips to your shoulder. Once. “You are ashamed,” he says. “And yet, if I touched you again, you would still let me.”

The truth of his words settles over you like a heavy blanket. You are ashamed, yes, but not because you regret it. It’s the sheer intensity of it—the way your body has responded so eagerly to him despite you being raised to be proper. It’s that desire has overshadowed every moral teaching Queen Alicent and your septa have drilled into you. 

And despite that you would crawl straight back into his bed if he asked you too. Without hesitation.

Daemon looks forward again as they approach the doors of the great hall, where the sounds of music and laughter already spill into the corridor. Yet the thought lingers bitterly in his mind, because the truth is painfully obvious to him.

Rhaenyra wants you out of his reach.

She cannot stand watching the way he treats you, the way his attention lingers on his eldest daughter in a manner he denies the others. She sees the way you drift closer to him whenever he enters a room, the way you instinctively seek the warmth of his presence, your gaze resting on him with a quiet intensity that borders on reverence.

“There is no blame to assign here, Daemon,” Rhaenyra says firmly as they near the hall. “Your daughter is of marriageable age, and it is time we secure a suitable match. Alliances must be made.”

“Alliances?” he scoffs, the word dripping with contempt. “She is a Targaryen princess, not a cow to be traded.”

They step into the great hall, which is already alive with music and voices. Lords and ladies move across the dance floor while servants weave through the crowd with trays of wine, the air thick with conversation, laughter, and the soft melody played by the musicians.

Yet none of it truly captures Daemon’s attention.

His gaze finds you almost immediately.

You stand slightly apart from the others near one of the pillars, though it does little to keep the attention of the court from settling on you. Your long silver Targaryen hair falls freely down your back, several delicate braids woven into the strands, and the gown you wear — elegant yet modest in its embroidery — still manages to accentuate the curves of your figure.

Rhaenyra had the dress made especially for you.

Tonight, you are meant to be particularly beautiful.

Your violet Targaryen eyes lift, and the moment they meet Daemon’s you feel the familiar pull toward him, the quiet desire to leave the polite conversations of the lords around you and stand instead at his side.

Daemon takes his seat at the royal table, though his attention never truly leaves you. His eyes remain fixed on you even as he settles into the chair, as though the rest of the hall fades into little more than background noise.

Rhaenyra lowers herself into the seat beside him, and she does not even need to follow the direction of his gaze to know exactly where it rests — or rather, on whom. The realization stirs a sharp irritation within her chest.

She is his wife.

Yet in moments like this, it hardly feels that way.

Determined to draw his attention back to her, she reaches once more for his hand, intending to reclaim at least a fraction of his focus. But before her fingers can brush against his skin, his hand lifts his wine cup instead, the movement smooth and deliberate.

Your eyes flick briefly toward him.

His never leave you.

Rhaenyra exhales quietly through her nose before turning her head away, annoyance simmering beneath the calm mask she presents to the court. Still, she reminds herself that this situation will soon resolve itself.

Once you are promised to a suitable lord, this tiresome display will finally come to an end — and with it, the closeness that so clearly binds you to Daemon.

Daemon keeps his seat at the royal table, though the wine in his cup does little to distract him. His attention remains fixed on you across the hall, following every movement as the lords slowly begin to circle you one by one.

He watches them the way a predator watches intruders straying too close to something that belongs to him.

The first of them approaches you with the easy confidence of a man who believes the world already bends in his favor. Lord Lannister moves through the crowd with a polished smile and the kind of arrogance that seems to cling to him like perfume. It does not surprise Daemon in the slightest that the lion would try his luck tonight. A match with a Targaryen princess would tie his house to one of the most powerful bloodlines in the realm, and men like him rarely hesitate when opportunity stands before them.

Daemon lifts his cup and drinks, though his fingers tighten around the metal as he watches the lord speak to you.

From across the hall he can see your expression clearly enough, and the moment your eyes flick upward in thinly veiled irritation he almost scoffs into his wine. Of course you dislike him. You have never been particularly skilled at hiding your distaste for fools, a trait you inherited from your father.

Lord Lannister continues speaking, leaning slightly closer as if charm alone might win your favor. Daemon watches the exchange with open mockery already flickering in his eyes, certain he knows how it will end.

He is proven right only moments later.

A tall figure steps between you and the lion with quiet confidence, his dark cloak brushing the floor as he turns toward Lord Lannister. Even from across the hall Daemon recognizes the sigil.

Blackwood.

Amusement curls faintly at the corner of his mouth as the golden lion’s confidence falters almost immediately. Whatever words pass between them are too quiet to hear, yet the result is clear enough. Within moments Lord Lannister withdraws with stiff politeness, retreating into the crowd far more quickly than he approached.

Daemon almost laughs into his cup.

The amusement fades just as quickly when Lord Blackwood does not leave.

Instead he remains at your side, speaking with easy familiarity. Daemon’s grip tightens around the cup as he watches the young lord brush a loose silver strand of hair from your face. The gesture is innocent enough, yet it sits poorly with him.

Blackwood may have frightened the lion away, but that hardly makes him suitable. The man carries a warrior’s reputation — ruthless, cunning, and hardened by battle — and despite the dragon’s blood in your veins, Daemon cannot help but think you far too delicate for such a man.

His thoughts are briefly interrupted when a nearby lord attempts to draw his attention into a dull conversation about ships and trade routes. Daemon offers the barest courtesy before dismissing him with a vague nod, his gaze drifting back across the hall the moment the man stops speaking.

Only then does he notice that Rhaenyra has left his side.

His eyes scan the room until he finds her speaking with a small cluster of nobles at the far end of the hall, composed and regal as always. Daemon does not need to hear the conversation to guess its subject.

More negotiations.

More alliances.

More careful arrangements for a marriage she clearly intends to secure tonight.

The thought irritates him enough that he drains the rest of his wine in a single swallow before setting the cup aside.

When his attention returns to you, the sight that greets him makes something darker stir in his chest.

The man now standing beside you wears the colors of Dorne.

Martell.

Daemon recognizes the sigil immediately, and with it come memories of old battles and shifting alliances across the Narrow Sea. The idea of a Dornish prince standing so close to you, speaking with that smooth diplomatic confidence, makes his jaw tighten.

Of course Rhaenyra would favor such a match.

A union between Targaryen and Martell could soothe old tensions and bind two powerful regions together — while conveniently placing you very far from King’s Landing.

Very far from him.

Daemon pours himself more wine, though he remains far too sober to ignore the men who circle you like merchants inspecting something valuable. His violet eyes track them carefully, weighing their intentions, their arrogance, their greed as they look at you as though you were a prize to be claimed.

Across the hall, you feel his gaze again.

When your eyes finally lift to meet his through the crowd, you find him already watching — silent, still, and very clearly displeased with every lord who dares stand too close to his daughter.

He studies you with such focus that the rest of the court fades into little more than background noise. Music plays, dancers move across the floor, servants refill goblets of wine, yet none of it truly reaches him.

What does reach him is the tension in your posture.

You try to remain polite, offering courteous smiles and careful answers, but the discomfort in your eyes is unmistakable. Every few moments your gaze drifts across the hall until it finds him again, and the brief relief that softens your expression when your eyes meet does not escape him.

Daemon knows that look too well.

You do not want this.

You do not want to stand here while men measure you as though you were some rare prize to be claimed, nor do you want the future they are quietly discussing — a marriage arranged for alliances and politics.

More than anything, you do not want to leave him.

Daemon tries to force his anger down as another man approaches you, though his patience has already worn dangerously thin.

The sigil catches his attention immediately.

Hightower.

Something cold settles in his chest. Of all the men present, that house has no right to approach you with such confidence. The mere thought of a Hightower believing himself worthy of a Targaryen princess is enough to ignite the irritation Daemon has been barely containing all evening.

Across the hall, the lord leans closer to you, speaking with far too much familiarity.

That is the moment Daemon’s restraint finally breaks.

The goblet in his hand strikes the table with a sharp crack as he sets it down harder than necessary, drawing curious glances from those nearby. Rising abruptly from his seat, he ignores the startled murmurs around him.

He has had enough of this parade.

Daemon moves through the hall with purpose, paying little attention to the people who hastily step aside as he passes. His gaze remains fixed on you alone, dark and burning as he closes the distance.

From where you stand, you barely notice his approach at first. Your attention is still trapped in the conversation you never wanted to have, the Hightower lord continuing his carefully rehearsed compliments while you struggle to remain polite.

Then suddenly he is there.

Your father’s hand closes around the man’s arm with a grip that is anything but gentle, abruptly pulling him away from you.

“Leave,” Daemon says, his voice low and dangerously calm. “Before I have your tongue removed for speaking where it does not belong.”

The threat hangs heavy in the air between them.

Lord Hightower pales visibly, the arrogance draining from his expression almost immediately. For a moment he looks as though he might attempt to protest, but the cold fury in Daemon’s eyes quickly convinces him otherwise.

Everyone in the realm knows better than to test the Rogue Prince.

The lord retreats without another word.

For a brief moment the hall falls strangely silent around you.

Yet the sharpness that had filled Daemon’s voice moments earlier fades as soon as his attention turns fully to you. The anger that had driven him across the room softens into something far gentler when he reaches for your arm.

His hand closes around your forearm, firm but careful, guiding you away from the cluster of watching nobles.

“Come,” he murmurs quietly.

His touch slides downward until his fingers find your hand instead, lacing with yours as he begins to lead you through the hall. The gesture feels almost instinctive, protective in a way that leaves little room for argument.

Daemon already knows exactly how to prevent the future Rhaenyra is planning for you...

And it does not involve leaving his side.

Together you move toward the doors of the great hall, leaving behind the music, the watching nobles, and the carefully constructed alliances that had been forming around you all evening.

Behind you, at the royal table, Rhaenyra watches the two of you leave.

The fury in her eyes burns brighter than the candles lighting the hall.

The noise of the great hall fades quickly behind you once the heavy doors close, leaving the corridor wrapped in a quiet that feels almost unreal after the constant hum of music and conversation. Daemon leads you through the long stone passageways of the castle and his hand never leaves yours.

His grip is firm, protective, though no longer harsh with anger the way it had been in the great hall.

You do not question where he is taking you.

The direction already feels familiar.

Your chambers.

Relief slowly settles in your chest as the distance between you and the court grows with every step. The voices of the nobles, their curious glances, their endless attempts to charm you all feel far away now, as though they belonged to another evening entirely.

For a moment you simply walk beside him in silence, the soft rustle of your dress brushing against the stone floors as the torchlight casts long shadows across the walls.

You glance up at him.

Daemon’s expression is still tense, though the sharp anger that had flared in the hall seems to have cooled into something quieter, something more controlled. His jaw remains set, his gaze forward, yet the hand holding yours never loosens.

A small, hopeful thought begins to form in your mind.

Perhaps he simply wishes to escape the evening as much as you do.

Perhaps he had seen how uncomfortable you were among those lords and decided to spare you the rest of the spectacle.

It would not be the first time.

Your father has never been particularly patient with courtly traditions, especially when they involve you.

As the corridor opens toward the familiar wing of the castle where your chambers lie, you feel a small warmth bloom inside your chest. The tension that had followed you all evening slowly melts away, replaced by a quiet anticipation.

You have always loved these moments.

When the court grows distant and the world seems to shrink down to just the two of you.

Since you were small, Daemon had often appeared in your chambers late in the evening, sometimes after long hours spent in council meetings or courtly duties that bored him more than he would ever admit. You would already be waiting for him, curled comfortably among the cushions, and the moment he stepped through the door you would reach for him without hesitation.

And he had always come.

Even now, years later, the routine has never truly changed.

You still love to sit beside him, leaning comfortably against his side. Sometimes the words fade into comfortable silence, and he simply lets you rest against him while his hand drifts absentmindedly through your hair, caressing you.

Even as you grew older, the closeness between you never truly faded.

It was only then that Rhaenyra began to look at the two of you with growing suspicion, sensing that the bond between father and daughter had begun to blur into something far more difficult to name.

Yet neither of you seemed particularly troubled by her unease.

But Daemon rarely seeks out Rhaenyra at all.

Your steps slow slightly as the familiar doors to your chambers come into view at the end of the corridor, lit softly by the torches mounted along the walls. The quiet of this part of the castle feels almost peaceful compared to the crowded hall you left behind.

Your quiet voice finally draws his attention.

“Father…?”

Daemon slows as the word leaves your lips, and when he looks down at you the sharp anger that had filled his expression in the great hall seems to soften almost immediately. In the dim light of the corridor his features appear calmer, though the tension of the evening still lingers faintly in the line of his jaw. His thumb moves slowly across the back of your hand, the small gesture instinctive and reassuring, as though he needs to remind himself that you are no longer standing among those circling lords.

“I thought I might have to drag you away from them sooner,” he murmurs quietly, his voice low with lingering irritation. “Another few minutes and I suspect half the realm would have tried their luck.”

A small breath of laughter escapes you despite the weight of the evening still pressing on your chest.

“They would not let me leave,” you admit softly, glancing up at him as you walk beside him through the torchlit corridor. “Every time one of them finally stopped speaking, another appeared as if they had been waiting for their turn.”

Daemon makes a quiet sound that carries more disdain than amusement, and although he does not slow his stride, his fingers curl slightly more securely around yours.

“I noticed,” he replies, the faintest hint of dry humor threading through the words. “You were trying very hard to be polite.”

You lower your gaze briefly, almost embarrassed.

That is answer enough for him and earns a faint smile from him, the expression brief but unmistakably fond.

“You have never been particularly convincing when pretending to enjoy things that bore you,” he says, his tone softening further as he glances down at you again. “It is one of the many qualities you inherited from me.”

The quiet warmth in his voice makes something inside your chest loosen, and by the time the familiar doors of your chambers come into view at the end of the corridor, the tension that had followed you throughout the evening has begun to melt away.

Daemon releases your hand only long enough to open the door, pushing it inward with a steady movement before stepping aside to let you enter first.

Daemon closes the door behind you, and for a moment the quiet settles around the two of you with a familiarity that feels comforting rather than awkward.

You drift toward the bed almost automatically and Daemon follows a step behind you, his presence so familiar that you hardly need to look to know he is there.

You sit on the edge of the mattress and smooth the fabric of your dress across your lap while he lowers himself beside you a moment later, the weight of him causing the bed to dip slightly beneath both of you.

The tall mirror positioned across from the bed catches the movement immediately, reflecting the two of you in the warm light of the fire.

For a while neither of you speaks, yet the silence feels comfortable rather than strained. Your eyes drift toward the mirror almost absentmindedly, and in its surface you see the familiar image of the two of you seated side by side — your pale hair falling across your shoulders, his darker figure beside you, close enough that your arms nearly brush.

Daemon studies the reflection for a moment before leaning slightly forward, resting his forearms loosely against his thighs while his gaze lingers on you.

“You handled yourself well tonight,” he says after a while, his voice quiet but thoughtful.

You tilt your head faintly, still watching your reflections.

“I did not feel particularly impressive,” you admit, your fingers absently twisting the fabric of your sleeve.

His mouth curves slightly at that.

“You looked like a dragon surrounded by sheep who believed themselves wolves,” he says, the faint humor in his tone drawing a soft laugh from you.

Yet the amusement fades quickly as the memory of the evening returns, and your gaze drops briefly to your hands.

“They were all watching me,” you murmur, the discomfort still lingering beneath the words. “It felt as though they were already deciding who would claim me.”

Daemon’s expression darkens slightly at that, the easy warmth leaving his features as he watches you through the mirror.

“They were hoping,” he replies quietly.

You hesitate for a moment before lifting your eyes again, meeting his gaze through the reflection.

“I do not want that,” you say softly, the words leaving you more honestly than you had intended. “I do not want to marry some lord I barely know, and I certainly do not want to leave the only place that has ever felt like home.”

The room falls quiet again after that confession, the fire crackling softly behind you as Daemon studies you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken slightly.

After a moment he lifts his hand, reaching toward you with the same familiar gentleness that has always existed between the two of you. His fingers brush a loose strand of silver hair away from your face before tucking it carefully behind your ear, the motion unhurried and oddly comforting.

“You are not going anywhere,” he says at last, his voice calm and certain in a way that settles the restless knot in your chest.

Your eyes remain fixed on the mirror as his hand lingers briefly near your cheek before falling away again, the reflection showing the two of you sitting close together on the edge of the bed while the firelight flickers softly behind you.

He pulls you closer against his chest, one large hand splayed possessively across your stomach as he gazes at your reflection in the mirror. His silver hair in unison with your silver locks, and there's a dangerous glint in his violet eyes.

“Those fools think they can marry my daughter off like cattle,“ he growls lowly. 

“As if I'd let anyone lay a finger on you without my say-so.“

His other hand comes up to tilt your chin, forcing you to meet his intense stare in the mirror. “You're a Targaryen. Born of dragon blood and stardust. No mere lord is worthy of you.“ He presses a kiss to your temple, then trail his lips along your jaw. “But I have something in mind how we could prevent that...“ he punctuates his words by sliding his palm higher up your thigh, pushing up the thin fabric of your gown.

A shiver runs down your spine at his touch and you find yourself leaning back further into his strong embrace. Your breath quickens as his fingers inch higher, grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You've always known your place were by his side and now, in this intimate moment, you crave more than just his guidance.

“Father...“ you breathe out, your voice barely above a whisper. “What did you have in mind? What would stop them?“ you lean further into him, while you look into the mirror. The reflection shows him pushing your skirts up to reveal your stockings and the soft skin of your thighs. You gasp slightly as your legs spread, while the sight of your creamy thighs encased in sheer silk stockings makes his cock twitch eagerly in his breeches.

But your innocent question makes him smirk darkly. He leans in close, his hot breath ghosting over your ear.

“They won't be able to claim you once you bear my seed,“ he murmurs, “Once everyone knows you belong to me.“

With deft fingers, he gathers the skirt of your gown and hike it up around your waist, exposing your lower body to his hungry gaze. “So beautiful,“ he rasps appreciatively, trailing his fingertips along the delicate lace trim. “A true princess...“ sliding his hand higher, he cups your mound possessively, feeling the heat of your womanhood.

Maintaining eye contact with you in the mirror, he slides his middle finger between your slick folds and strokes your tender flesh. His fingers circle your entrance teasingly, coating his digit in your arousal.

Your soft whine fills your chambers as your hips instinctively rolling against his hand seeking more of his touch. The thought of bearing his child, of being claimed so thoroughly by him, sends a thrill straight to your core. The warmth between your legs is followed by a pressure and you whine slightly again.

“Yes, Father...“ you whimper needily, your cheeks flushed with desire. You can’t stop grinding yourself slightly against his exploring fingers. The mirror shows the obscene picture of your skirt bunched up, revealing your most intimate area to his heated gaze. The pleasure building inside you is unlike anything you've felt before, stoked by the taboo nature of your actions. Your untouched flower clenches hungrily around nothing, aching to be filled, as he smears your wetness along your folds while watching in the mirror as his fingers slide between them.

He can't help but drink in every bit of it — seeing you squirm so wantonly beneath his touch, knowing that it's him giving you these new sensations, fills him with a sense of power and lust unlike anything else.

“That's it, my sweet girl,“ he encourages huskily, relishing the sounds of your pleasure. “Grind yourself on my fingers. Show me how much you need your father's touch“.

As you moan and whimper so sweetly, he slips his longest finger inside your tight channel, groaning at the way your walls grip him so snugly. “Gods, you're so small and virginal here. So perfect...“ he groans at the exquisite vice-like grip of your silken walls. His thumb finds your sensitive pearl, rubbing firm circles over the engorged nub.

“Such a greedy little cunny,“ he praises darkly, pumping his finger in and out of your sopping cunt. “Clenching so tightly on me already. Can you imagine how amazing my cock will feel stretching you open?“ he adds a second finger, scissoring them apart to prepare you for his girth.

“Ah! Oh gods,“ you keen — all you can focus on is chasing the rapidly approaching peak. But when he adds that second thick digit, you nearly sob with relief, your slick walls fluttering wildly around the welcome invasion.

Leaning in, he nips at your earlobe before soothing the sting with his tongue. “I'm going to fill this sweet cunt to the brim,“ he vows wickedly. “But first... look at you,“ he commands roughly, holding your gaze in the mirror. 

“Watch how well you take my fingers.“

At his filthy words, your cunt clamps down greedily, trying to draw him deeper still.

The intrusion of his finger stretches you in a delicious burn and you cry out sharply, your hand flying to grip his muscular thigh. It feels so full, so deep, even though you know it's only the beginning. The combined stimulation of his fingers plunging into your untried depths and his thumb strumming your aching pearl quickly builds the tension coiling low in your belly.

You breathe heavily, while looking into the mirror. His one hand holds your skirt up, while the other hand pushes back and forth. The squelching sound fills your chambers as his fingers slide in and out of your tight heat. Your cheeks are flushed... this looks so filthy. But you spread your legs even more.

The erotic sight of your pretty pink petals stretched wide around his pistoning fingers makes his cock throb almost painfully in his breeches. Seeing you present yourself so wantonly, offering up your maidenhead for him to plunder, ignites a primal hunger within him.

“Fuck, yes,“ he hisses approvingly, his voice rough with desire. “Spread yourself open for me like a ripe peach, ready to be devoured.“

He continues pumping his fingers in and out of your tight channel, relishing the way your velvety walls clench around the digits. With his free hand, he push aside your hair and baring your shoulder. He latches onto the sensitive skin, sucking hard enough to leave a mark — a brand of his possession.

“You're mine. This sweet body, this untouched flower... it all belongs to me,“ he rasps fiercely, punctuating his words with sharp thrusts of his fingers. “No one else will ever have you. I won't let anyone else claim what's rightfully mine.“

Growling low in his throat, he pumps his fingers harder and faster, fucking into your soaked channel with abandon. The obscene squelch of your juices filling the air spurs him on, urging you to bring you to the brink.

“Come for me,“ he demands, curling his fingers to stroke that special spot deep inside you. “Let me feel this greedy little cunt squeeze my fingers like it's begging for my seed.“

At his command, your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave. You throw your head back with a silent scream, your entire body seizing up as ecstasy rips through you. Your untried muscles spasm wildly around his fingers, milking them for all they're worth as you ride out the intense waves of pleasure.

“Oh gods, oh gods,“ you babble incoherently, lost to the overwhelming sensation. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all.

Panting harshly, you slump bonelessly against his chest, completely spent. But even as the aftershocks fade, you can feel the ache of emptiness, the desperate need to be filled and bred by him.

“Please, Father,“ you whimper brokenly, turning your head to press your lips to his.

Chuckling darkly against your lips, he watches you come undone, reveling in the knowledge that he’s the cause of such blissful rapture. When you go limp in his arms, he carefully lays you back on the bed, looming over you with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

“Shh, I've got you, little bird,“ he croons, gently removing your clothing piece by piece until you're bared to his hungry gaze. 

“Such a good girl, coming so hard on your father’s fingers.“

Once you're naked and spread out before him like a feast, he’s about to shed his own garments. Standing at the foot of the bed, he undresses with purposeful movements, baring his battle-scarred torso and powerful thighs. His rigid shaft springs free, thick and proud, the swollen head glistening with pre-cum. At the sight of his thick cock, you hesitate slightly because it looks so big that you're not sure it will fit — your eyes just flutter close.

Stroking himself slowly, he admires the debauched picture you make — rosy nipples peaked from arousal, thighs slick with your release, and your swollen sex still fluttering from your orgasm. Crawling onto the mattress, he settles between your splayed thighs, running the broad tip of his manhood through your sodden folds. He pushes your legs further apart with his knees while rolling his hips. Gripping his length at the base, he slides his cockhead through your slit, making you whimper, while your eyes are still closed.

“Open your eyes, little one,” he rumbles.

Obedient to the gentle command in his voice, you slowly open your eyes until your gaze finds his, your violet Targaryen eyes meeting in the dim light.

He presses his thick cockhead against your entrance, making you whimper again. He emits a low, throaty sound, but he restrains himself — he is desirous of proceeding in a gradual manner. After all, it's your maidenhead he's taking, and he wants to spread you open slowly.

He still can see the hesitation flickering across your face because of the intimidating size of his cock, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to simply sheath himself balls-deep in your welcoming heat.

“It's alright, my sweet,“ he reassures you, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Your father will take care of you. Just relax and let me in.“

Slowly, excruciatingly so, he begins to ease forward, the bulbous head of his member parting your drenched folds and breaching your resistant barrier. A guttural groan tears from his throat at the exquisite vice-like grip of your untouched walls, and he pauses to let you adjust to the unfamiliar stretch. Slowly, gradually, he starts to press more forward, grunting at the tight squeeze. Your maidenhead yields with a rush of fluid and he pauses again, allowing you to adjust to the burning stretch.

“Gods, you're so tight,“ he grits out, his hand flexing on your hip. “Like a vice gripping me. Just relax, sweetheart. Let me in,“ he repeats his words.

You try to relax, breathing deeply through your nose as he continues to sink into you. There's a sharp sting as he breaches your hymen, and you let out a choked cry, your nails digging into his shoulders. But beneath the discomfort, there's a growing ache, a desperate need to be filled and claimed by him.

Tears stream freely down your face, but you don't ask him to stop. This is what you want, what you need. To be joined with him in the most primal way possible. Your walls flutter around his thickness, drawing him in further.

The burn fades, replaced by a strange sort of fullness that makes you squirm with a confusing mix of pleasure and pain. Your hips slowly start to move. You whine as you start to slowly fuck yourself on his cock. He still doesn’t move, but a growl fills the room and he follows your movements, slowly rolling his hips.

Seeing you take his length so beautifully, your tight sheath hugging him like a glove, is almost too much to bear. Every instinct scream at him to rut into you like a beast in heat, to mark you inside and out as his. But he forces himself to maintain control, savoring each delicious inch as it disappears into your hot, clasping depths.

“Sweet girl,“ he praises hoarsely, sweat beading on his brow from the effort of holding back. “Taking my cock so well. You were made for this, made to be bred full of my seed.“

Each thrust sinks you deeper onto his shaft until he bottoms out with a low curse. He remains buried to the hilt for a moment, letting you adjust to the sensation of being so fully impaled.

Leaning back, he gazes down at where you're joined, mesmerized by the erotic sight of your delicate pink folds stretched obscenely around his girth. Slowly, carefully, he begins to move, withdrawing until only the tip remains nestled inside before surging forward once more, driving deeper into your previously untouched depths.

You follow his movements and you become more eager which makes him smile slightly as he begins to meet your thrusts. A noise follows that almost sounds like a whine, but you do not stop.

“Breathe,“ he encourages, peppering kisses along your damp temples. “You're doing so well. Just a little more...“

His praise and encouragement spur you on, and you find yourself eagerly meeting his thrusts, your hips rising to greet his. The slight discomfort has faded, leaving behind a deep, pulsing ache that seems to center directly on where you're joined.

With each snap of his hips, he hits something deep inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. Pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your lower belly, threatening to snap at any moment.

“Ah.... this feels good,“ you gasp, feeling your walls flutter. Your legs wrap slightly around his waist almost out of their own accord, using the leverage to pull him impossibly closer, as if you could somehow merge your bodies into one. The thought of carrying his child, of being forever tied to him, sends a fresh gush of moisture flooding your core.

Hitching your leg higher over his hip, he angles his penetration to stroke that special bundle of nerves within you with every pass.

“Fuck, I can feel you getting tighter,“ he groans, his pace increasing. The way your velvety walls ripple around his cock drives him wild, and he can no longer hold back. Sneaking a hand between your sweat-slicked bodies, he finds your swollen pearl and rubs swift, insistent circles over the sensitive bud.

His thrusts grow erratic, losing rhythm as he chases his own impending release. “Come for me again,“ he commands breathlessly, angling his hips to grind against that secret spot within you. “I want to feel you squeeze every last drop from my balls.“

One hand grips your hip bruisingly tight as he pistons into you, the obscene slap of flesh on flesh echoing through the chambers. Sweat drips down his temples, and his muscles tremble with the strain of holding back.

His filthy words send you hurtling towards the edge, and when his fingers don’t stop to stroke your aching clit, you shatter with a keening cry. Your vision whites out as ecstasy crashes through you, your inner muscles clamping down on his pistoning length like a vise.

You practically scream, your nails raking down his back as you convulse beneath him. Wave after wave of mind-numbing pleasure rolls through you, and you can feel his cock twitching inside you, signaling his own impending climax.

“Fill me, “ you beg shamelessly, locking your ankles at the small of his back. The thought of conceiving his child still lingers in your mind and sends another mini-orgasm rippling through you, and you clench desperately around him, silently willing him to lose control.

With a roar that shakes the very foundations of the castle, he buries himself to the hilt and erupts inside you. His cock pulses violently as he paints your fertile womb with thick ropes of his potent seed, marking you irrevocably as his.

“Take it all,“ he grunts, grinding against your cervix as he empties himself into your spasming depths. “Fuck, you feel incredible. Milking me dry like you were born for it.“

Collapsing atop you, he captures your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries of rapture. Your tongues tangle fiercely as you share the same air, basking in the aftermath of your passionate coupling.

Finally, he breaks the kiss and rest his forehead against yours, your rapid breaths mingling. “Mine,“ he declare possessively, nipping at your bottom lip. “Forever and always. No one will ever take you from me.“

“Laenor is too old for you to be babysitting him, wife. He should be able to take care of himself.” Your annoyance grows at how cynical your husband is being. He saw how devastated your brother is over Joffrey’s death; you’re sure he also heard the way the court spoke of your brother. How could he be so insensitive?

“He’s my brother, and he needs me here. I’m not going to leave him alone just because you’re offended by Viserys again. You can come back when you’re past your temper,” you stated firmly, making it clear to Daemon that you weren’t going to change your mind. If he wanted to leave, then he’d leave without you or your son.

Your words only cause your husband's anger to grow. It's not just about Viserys disrespecting you, but about your safety and that of his children. How do you expect him to want to stay in King's Landing knowing that his brother wouldn't do anything if something happened to you or your children? How did you expect him to stay here and see Criston Cole's face every day without being able to harm him after that man dared to touch you?

“Do you care more about your brother than the safety of our children?!” he accused you, finally losing his temper and raising his voice.

Before you can lash out at him for daring to say that to you, you hear crying. Both Daemon and you fall silent instantly, paralyzed because you both know that cry perfectly well. It's Baelon.

“Baelon?” you call softly, and the crying continues. You hear him nearby, so you don't hesitate to get out of bed and bend down to look underneath. Your eyes instantly meet your son's violet eyes and and his face full of tears. “Can you come out, please?” you ask, feeling pain in your heart at seeing him so distressed.

You move away, and he's not long in coming out. You immediately take him in your arms and sit with him on the bed. “I'm sorry you heard this, Baelon,” you apologize as you rock him, hoping he'll calm down, but he keeps crying. “It's all right, I swear,” you say, trying to reassure him.

“I don't want Kepa to leave! Kepa, don't leave me!”

Hearing his son's cry and how his eyes looked at him, sad and desperate, made Daemon finally move, he sat next to you and didn't even have to ask you to give him the child because you were already giving it to him. You knew your comfort wouldn't be enough; your son wanted his father.

You looked at your husband attentively, waiting to see if he would take this opportunity to impose himself on you and tell your son that the three of you were leaving.

“I'll never leave you, Baelon,” Daemon assures him as he hugs him. He means it; he'd already missed enough when he'd been fighting at Stepstones, and he's not about to miss out on anything else in his son's life.

“Do you promise?” his son asks, still crying.

“I promise,” he replies without hesitation and kisses his forehead. “Don't be sad anymore,” he says, stroking his back, hoping he'll start to calm down.

“I don't want to leave either. I like playing with Aegon,” he whines, and Daemon sniffs as he watches you hold back a smile. Of course, you didn't listen to him when he told you he didn't want his son around Alicent Hightower's son. You thought your son should be around his cousin, no matter who his mother was. Besides, it seemed like the little prince didn't spend much time with the Valyrian side of his family.

“Maybe we can stay a little longer,” Daemon says, not wanting to give in completely. For a moment, it seems like he’s saying the right thing because your son’s sobs stop, but then he frowns and crosses his arms. “What now?”

“You yelled at Mommy and didn't say you're sorry,” his son reminds him, and Daemon smiles because, of course, Baelon wouldn't let that happen; he's a mama's boy, after all. He's proud to know his son would never let anyone treat you badly.

“You're right, it was wrong of me,” he admits, looking into your eyes. You don't look as upset as you used to, but he knows that later, when the two of you are alone, you'll have to continue this conversation. It wasn't right of him to accuse you of not caring about their children. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes sincerely, not just to make his son happy.

“I can only accept your apology if you bring me a cake from the kitchens,” you say. Daemon knows that you don't talk seriously, but he still decides to indulge your whim.

“It’s a fair request,” he agrees, placing Baelon back in your arms. “But before that,” he kisses you. It’s short because he doesn’t want to make a big scene in front of his son, but you can still feel the love he has for you. “I’ll be back.”

And you smile as you watch him leave, knowing he won’t go anywhere without you.

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hotd masterlist daemon's wife au

A smirk that has your hole clenching around nothing. 

He doesn’t look away as he deliberately slides his trousers down and lies on the bed, cock hard and ready. Your pulse pounds between your legs. 

He puts one arm behind his head. “Climb on. Don’t be shy. You must be swift and confident to win the dragon’s favor.” His voice lowers. “So it doesn’t buck you off.”

Your blood sparks alive with the thrill of the game. Garments hit the floor like they’re made of wildfire. Then you sashay to the pretty prince and straddle him, hovering just above your target.

“Now spread your legs as you sink down. As far as you can go.” 

Air flees your lungs as the thick head presses you open. His deep moan curls your toes.

“How flexible are you? Dragons are very large. Very… thick. Feel the stretch from the inside as you fully take your seat.”

You feel so stuffed full, even with only half of him inside you.

“Sink all the way down.” 

You throw your head back, sounds spilling from your lips as you glide until your ass anchors on his hip bones. There’s no pain, only a taut fullness that ignites every nerve.

“Gooood dragon rider. You’re nearly there.” He lets you adjust for a minute, stroking your thigh. His skin brushing yours soothes and stirs you at once.

If only he’d rub a little higher—

“Last step. Ready?” His eyes blaze with an inner flame. “Hold on.” 

He cages your hips and draws himself out enough to fuck up into you. You cry out at the delicious drag of his cock along your sensitive insides. His strong thrusts make you grasp his shoulders until they’re dented white under your fingers.

Would his hair make a better handle?

The set of his jaw and the curve of his mouth tell you he’s not done with his lesson.

“I’m afraid I have bad news. I’ve been taking it easy on you.”

His stare scorches your bones.

“Prepare yourself for the full force of a dragon unleashed.”

YOU WONDERED WHAT you had done to offend Cregan Stark so. Perhaps he had become infected with his wife’s matchmaking spirit. Perhaps you had not bowed low enough when his army had passed your father’s lands.

When the events that would later be called The Hour of the Wolf transpired, your family had rejoiced. With your liege in power, you would finally, finally benefit from backing Queen Rhaenyra after what felt like years of enduring losses. Instead, you reflected, this was another punishment.

As if the taxes were not enough.

You watched in dismay as the Stark men lowered trunks and coffers. There were far too many for your tastes. Enough to know they were expecting him to stay here. Forever.

Cregan himself approached, dragging a thin, blonde man with him. He looked battered, but he was dressed in even finer clothes than you were. The dragging seemed a bit unnecessary, as the man was not opposing any resistance.

“Lady Dustin,” Lord Cregan grabbed your hand and kissed it, as if you were some great lady. He stank of guilt. “My condolences for the death of your father.” A bit late, his condolences. A year late, in fact. Your father had died fighting those damn Hightowers back in Tumbletown. Your grief was now a dull, small thing, shrunk by time and too many moons spent worrying about what you would do if the greens decided your lands, with no man to defend them, were now a suitable target.

“Lord Stark.” You curtsy to him because no matter how much he bows down to kiss you, he is still your lord. Guilty or not. You do not reply to his condolences, though. You still have some pride left.

Cregan fumbles for a few instants, not quite sure how to lead on from there. You agree that going from condolences to a marriage isn’t exactly the smoothest transition.

“I... Yes, I am deeply sorry. However, we must move on.” Cregan attempts to get back on topic.

“Yes, you know a thing or two about that.” You mumble under your breath, prompting a snort from the man next to him. The sound startles you into looking at him, and you have to face the unfortunate reality that he is very much real and not going away. So far, you had been doing great at pretending he didn’t exist.

The man stares at you, dark purple eyes fixed into yours. He is as tall as Cregan is, though much less broad. His war had cost him quite a lot, it seemed. But not enough to stop him from being handsome.

You stare back, unwilling to cower before him. He cannot hurt you, you remind yourself. He no longer has a dragon, he is old, and he has no grievances with you.

“Be as it may,” Cregan says, in a far more stern tone. “This will be good for the two of you. Moving on is what the Seven Kingdoms need. Your marriage will give Prince Daemon a dignified…” He struggles with the wording. You do too, inside your head. Imprisonment? Dungeon? Hiding hole?

“You can call it by its name, you know?” Prince Daemon turns to Cregan. “I will not be offended, boy. Exile. I have been in it enough times to not shy away from it. And here I thought northerners were made of sterner stuff…”

“And what will it give me?” You say, sharply, not wanting them to be derailed and being unable to let your protests be known. “A more likely chance of being murdered in my sleep?”

“As I said in my letter, Lady Dustin, there will be a monthly stipend for his upkeep, and you will get back the lands in…”

“Oh, come on!” Prince Daemon laughs. “I never murdered anyone in their sleep. Did I?” He turns to look at Cregan. You pinch the bridge of your nose.

You know for a fact that he ordered to have a child murdered in the middle of the night. Does it count?

Cregan keeps talking to you, as if Daemon had not interrupted.

“Again, you have made your grievances perfectly clear. Still, it is my will that you marry. You have been widowed for far too long, and you hold lands in a strategic position…”

“And you think I cannot defend them without a man?” You scoff. “How am I supposed to defend myself when he tries to murder me, then? Or when he flees? Am I supposed to stop it?”

“Oh, great, you are one of those types.” Daemon mutters. “Don’t tell me you wear breeches, too?”

“Whatever I wear is none of your business!" You round on him, incensed. You do not, in fact, wear breeches, but are now considering getting a pair if only to spite him.

“Oh, but it is! How else will I undress you later tonight?” He taunts, making your face heat up. You think the veins in your forehead must be throbbing, with how enraged he is making you.

It is then, perhaps sensing your heightened murderous intent, that Cregan intervenes. He grabs Daemon by the collar of his cloak and hisses in his ear. Unfortunately, the northern lord has a rather loud voice, and you hear it anyway. “Do try not to antagonize her. If this doesn’t work, it is the Night’s Watch for you.”

“I think it would be a terrible omen to have the father of the king at your wall, wouldn’t it?” Daemon answers through clenched teeth. It is clear that it bothers him more than he is comfortable showing. Or perhaps he objects to the rough treatment, unused to being disrespected.

They always say that the higher you are, the more it hurts to fall. And no one has ever been higher than Daemon Targaryen, Prince Consort of Queen Rhaenyra and father to the boy king Aegon.

And now, because of him, your watch begins.

THE SUN SETS early this time of the year. The snow, shining like crushed diamonds, crunches under your feet. It is more ice than anything else, yet it looks beautiful as the sun sets and night begins.

Your Godswood looks beautiful. You had asked the servants to place a few torches alongside the path to the heart tree, and the guests carry some as well. The clear sky, alight with a thousand stars, makes it the ideal night for a wedding.

It feels anything but ideal, to be getting married tonight to a man you despise. You had never been one to put stock in rumors alone, but Daemon had already shown you his colors. No man who truly loved his wife would be as apathetic to her passing as he was showing himself to be. Suddenly, the fact that he betrayed the Black Queen made a lot more sense to you.

Before the heart tree, Cregan stands next to Daemon. Never one to be ruffled, your future husband stands, indolently leaning against your sacred tree. In contrast, the lord of Winterfell looks as stern as always, and his voice is loud and clear when you approach.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

“I do.” You say, trying to sound firm. You had no one left to give you away, except for your liege. Since Cregan was needed to officiate the ceremony, the two of you had to improvise. “I come here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. I come to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim me?” You feel the wording is awkward, but clearly not as much as Prince Daemon does. Neither of you are strangers to weddings, but it isn’t your first time marrying under the Old Gods.

He steps forward.

“Daemon, of House Targaryen. Prince of the Realm and father of the King. Who gives her?”

“Myself.” You state, meeting his eyes in open defiance. His lips twitch, as if amused.

“Lady Dustin, will you take this man?” Cregan asks you.

You hesitate for a few seconds, only to make Cregan sweat. Your decision had been made before even setting foot on the Godswood. Traitor or not, you would marry him because your liege ordered it so. But your loyalty to the Starks didn’t mean you couldn’t make them suffer a little for asking such a sacrifice of you. “I take this man.”

Daemon kneels in the snow, and so do you. He offers you his hand. It is the first time you will ever touch him, your mind tells you. You don't understand why you fixate on that detail, but you do.

His hand is warm and big around yours, with a few calluses. He is sweaty, despite the cold. Nervous, though his face doesn’t show it. You close your eyes, silently praying for a good, calm life. When you open your eyes again, he is already looking at you.

He tugs you to your feet. He removes your cloak and hands it to Cregan before taking his off and putting it around your shoulders.

You thank the Old Gods no one has dared to put a kiss in the script all weddings seem to follow. You reach for his hand, to hopefully walk hand in hand to your hall, but only find empty air. Much to your surprise, Daemon is bending his knees and getting ready to…

You yelp when you are suddenly lifted in a bridal carry.

“What are you doing?” You hiss.

“I hear this is the traditional way to ensure good fortune in marriage.” He replies, loudly, to the cheers of the guests and even Cregan.

“You are insane. I am not a maiden anymore, and you are getting on in years too, cease this ridicule.”

“What, you think I’ll strain my back? I have lifted barrels of ale heavier than you.”

“Yes, when you were twenty years old, perhaps!” But you cannot continue to spout your disbelief because you are already reaching the hall. Showoff that he is, he sets you down only after reaching the dais.

The feast prepared for the occasion is lovely. Plates filled with delectable dishes and cups overflowing all over the hall. It is as extravagant a wedding as they had been before the war started, much to the joy of your guests. Nothing else would do, after all, for the father of the king.

Widow that you are, you do not dread the bedding. As the lady of House Dustin, you do not hold to those dreadful southron customs, and your guests know it. No one will call for it, and consummation itself doesn't scare you.

When the last dishes are being cleared away, Cregan clears his throat, giving a pointed look to your husband. Daemon stands up and takes your hand.

Instead of addressing or saying anything to you, he turns directly to Cregan.

“I am sure my bride and I will be the happiest couple in the Seven Kingdoms.” Then, as if an afterthought, he seems to remember your existence. “You could change your words. The most happy.”

You smile at him, barely containing your urge to insult him. Instead, you breathe in and try not to embarrass yourself.

“Perhaps you shall change yours, husband.” Your smile is as tight as it gets. “To the most blessed. Our wedding was beautiful.”

Daemon scoffs. He begins dragging you out of the hall, still holding you by the hand. Since he has no idea where your rooms are, he has to stop once in the hallways of your castle. Too proud to ask for your help, he simply glares at you until you begin leading him to your room.

Once inside, he looks around, eyes lingering on the soft furs covering your bed, the desk full of books and papers, and even the small loveseat by the window. His gaze feels malicious. Judgmental.

“I assume I will have my own quarters.” Daemon states, clearly finding yours lacking. It's fine by you. You would rather not sleep with the enemy, and you do not wish to have him lurking in your private space. No matter what Cregan says, you have too much common sense to believe he might not slit your throat as you sleep.

“There is a set of rooms on the northern tower that has been arranged for you.” You inhabit the southern one. You have placed him as far as you can.

Daemon steps closer to you, smiling. It unnerves you. He hasn’t smiled at you before, only smirked. But he only leans in and tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“You remind me of someone.” His voice is low. Intimate. His tone sounds seductive, and despite yourself, you can feel your resolve to hate him weaken. It makes you think of how charming he must have been, once, before all the realm knew of his treachery.

“Whom?”

“One of my wives. She was… Fierce. She rode as well as any man.” His eyes unfocus for a moment, as if he were truly remembering her. You wonder who he is talking about. Lady Laena, perhaps? You cannot help being curious.

“What happened to her?”

Daemon leans in, embracing you. His arms circle your waist and pull you in. His body feels firm against your own, despite his gauntness. Only when his lips kiss your hair, right above your ear, he whispers.

“I killed her.”

Your blood goes cold. Your stomach feels heavy, and you cannot move. It feels as if you have been turned into stone. The feeling only intensifies as Daemon releases you and leaves the room, leaving you unable to even ask where he is going. Instead, you stand alone on your wedding night, with the feeling your watch has just begun.

CONTRARY TO POPULAR belief, Daemon does have some sense of self-preservation. He wouldn’t even attempt to go outside the castle walls with that damn Stark still prowling around, sticking his snout where it didn’t belong. While he would like to go whoring, burying his pain into warm bodies, he couldn’t. Instead, he makes his way to his new rooms.

He had plenty of nights to explore the nightlife of the town after he left. He had only promised to stay put in your lands, not to not go outside the castle. The town was under your supervision, after all, so visiting would not betray his word.

Gods, he wished he could be with Aegon now. Only the Old Flames of Valyria knew what nonsense they were filling his head with. That Daemon was craven and a traitor, and had forsaken his mother when it mattered the most.

Lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, Daemon could feel his eyes sting. To think that Rhaenyra was gone… It was not right. His girl had always been so bright, so full of life, burning hotter than dragonfire. To think the usurper had killed her in such a gnarly way broke his heart. But to know he had been too old, too injured after facing Aemond to be able to do anything that helped her, hurt him the most.

Here is a truth for you: Daemon had never betrayed his queen. He would have never done so. Nettles had been there, yes, and it was only natural that things had transpired as they did. By then, his relationship with Rhaenyra had been strained, between the war and the miscarriage, and they had no longer been sharing a bed. It meant nothing.

Clenching his eyes tightly, Daemon willed himself to sleep. He would not cry. He refused to give his enemies the satisfaction. His age and the injuries he had sustained had emasculated him enough. No longer was he the proud warrior he had once been, having lost even his very sword. He would not continue degrading himself further.

The night seemed an eternity. He tossed and turned, unused to the unfamiliar stillness of your castle. When the sun rose, Daemon felt almost relieved. He got out of bed, dressed, and made his way to the training grounds. The space seemed in disuse, as was to be expected when a woman was leading the castle. Daemon would soon change that.

Between angry parries of his sword against a target, and drilling himself into exhaustion, his grief bled out. Just like an infected wound, it needed to bleed constantly, lest he become mad with it.

Daemon had a feeling it wasn’t quite working. He had always been mercurial, but now, he had moments where he didn’t recognize himself. It frightened him. Because if there was one thing Daemon had been known for, it was being sure of who he was, and proud of it.

Suddenly morose, he threw his sword down and walked back inside, leaving some unfortunate page to pick it up. Without even washing himself, he went straight to the hall. There, he found you, scowling at your pudding. You didn’t bother to greet him.

A shame you were such a beautiful woman. It would be easier to ignore you if you had looked like Rhea. Instead, you reminded him of another woman who had ruled her lands, and dared to stand tall, another who was as proud as she had been beautiful. It was fucking awful.

“Do you always scowl while you eat? Or is the food here just bitter by vocation?” He asks, sitting next to you. He serves himself some eggs, making sure to plaster his body to yours, so you can feel exactly how sweaty he is. In his head, he can already hear your screeches when you realize, a soothing, grounding melody to start his day. There was a certain pleasure in scandalizing ladies.

This morning, though, you do not take his bait. It makes him frown. Thinking it a fluke, he decides to try again.

“I must say, marriage does become you. That look in your face, as if it physically hurts you to breathe the same air as me…. Almost romantic, really.” He serves himself even more eggs, wolfing them down as he speaks and showing the worst table manners known to man. Still, no reaction, beyond scooting yourself away from him. “Did the glare come with the dowry, or is it an extra that Stark asked you to throw in just for me?”

When you still do not respond, Daemon feels his eyebrows raise. Yesterday, you had not struck him as someone who would take all these insults and crassness lying down. It seems strangely out of character, how quiet you are behaving.

Set on making a pest out of himself, he keeps talking.

“You will forgive me, of course.” It is said as if it is a given. He reaches for the teapot, and you flinch. Interesting. Are you afraid of him? “I have not eaten with a lady in such a long time.” And just to test his theory, he slams the teapot back down after he serves himself, making you jump nearly a foot in the air.

You fear him, Daemon thinks, an amused smile stretching his lips. How funny, that a quick-witted little thing like you had been so frightened by his words alone that you became meek. Yet the road you chose is not to please him in all things, but to ignore him.

If there is something that Daemon cannot stand, it is to be ignored. It hurts his pride. Once he had been the man every single woman wanted, and the one all men wished to emulate. Now, branded a traitor by those sheep like Stark, he couldn’t even hold the attention of his own wife. It was unacceptable.

He would make sure you never ignored him again.

His plan starts as soon as you are finished breaking your fast. Instead of exploring your lands, as he had thought of when rising, he decides to follow you without you noticing. He watches in the shadows as you mount your horse and ride out. After a few inquiries, he is informed of the time of your arrival and makes sure to give you a proper welcome.

“Ah, lady wife. There you are!” Daemon says, as he pushes aside a page who was attempting to help you dismount. Instead, he is the one to grab you by the waist and aid you in descending. “I wasn’t aware you could mount a horse with such dignity. I almost knelt.”

You do not react, but it is fine. Daemon has played the game of making a nuisance of himself long enough to know it takes patience. He had done it to Viserys before, and the experience had taught him one had to play the long game.

From then on, he becomes your shadow. There is not a single second of the day in which you are alone. He follows you around the castle, not giving you a single respite, unless you are in the privy or your rooms.

When you are filling a jar with flowers in your solar, Daemon materializes by your side.

“Are those flowers for me, dear wife? You shouldn’t have bothered. How fast did you surrender to my charms.”

Or when you are reading by the fire, inside the library of your keep,

“Is there a reason for reading in hiding? Or is it to hide you have feelings?” He sits down next to you, draping an arm over your shoulders. When you get up, and close the book, in annoyance, he shouts after you, cackling. “No need for that, my lady wife! I so enjoy your company. Or your disdain. They are one and the same, really!”

Daemon can tell he is wearing you down, and it amuses him to no end. As you sup together, at his insistence, he fills the silence with chatter of his own.

“How lucky I am to have a wife who hates me in silence. What every man desires.” He says, as he slurps at his soup obnoxiously. He gestures to a dish near you. “Serve me, please, wife. No, not that one. That. Yes. No, a bit to the left.” It is finally too much for you. He watches in amusement as your face grows more and more furious, filled with righteous indignation.

“By the Gods, I thought you northern women were at least good at domestic…” But before he can finish his phrase, you stand up.

“Die, you deranged worm!” You shout, finally losing your temper. Daemon only laughs. You storm off, with him laughing behind you.

And because he cannot stand not to have the last word,

“If you are about to poison my dinner, at least stay to watch. I like having an audience!”

Daemon remains seated, eating his dinner with much improved manners now that you aren’t there to watch. It is so delightful to irritate you. Especially because now that you are actually answering his taunts, focusing on toying with you might help him focus on something else than his past and all those he left behind.

TODAY, YOU SEEM set on not being found. A few moons have passed since your marriage, and Daemon has grown used to your presence. He spends a good part of his day chasing you around the castle, seeking your company and your sharp tongue. When he is not training the pitiful lot you call your men, he is by your side. Yet today, you evade him.

After finishing a training session with the fools that, given enough time, could shape up to be decent guards of your household, Daemon had set out to find you. It was always so delightful to verbally spar with you and see you grow more and more indignant as he intruded into your life as best he could.

Daemon reasoned you didn’t hate him as much as you claimed. After all, you kept going to where you knew he could find you. Whenever he wished to see you, he just had to visit your solar, where you would be hard at work answering your correspondence. Or visit the library, where you would be reading curled up in a windowsill. Hells, you even spent time seated at your own hall, listening to the inane chatter of your tenants.

They were mostly public places, accessible to all your servants, guards, and him. It wasn’t as if you locked yourself in your rooms. Then Daemon might have believed you didn’t enjoy his company as much as he enjoyed yours.

There was something refreshing in how awful you were to him. Unlike most, you didn’t belittle him for being a traitor. Instead, your insults of his character consisted only of digs at his stupidity, appearance, or manners. Not once had you mentioned the war during your verbal spars. And best of all? You didn’t single Daemon out. He clearly remembered seeing you offer similar verbal lashings to that damn Stark pup. You would employ your silver tongue against anyone who taunted you. He just happened to do it often.

He had spent the whole time he had been running your men through drills thinking of what he would say once he saw you. Perhaps something about those murderous eyes of yours? No, he had already complimented them yesterday. It would be unoriginal and might give you the wrong idea. It wasn’t as if Daemon liked you. You were just amusing.

You did have beautiful eyes, though. Lethal, even. He liked that your eyes were always honest, he supposed. Everything and everyone had been so guarded during the war that it was refreshing to look at someone and know exactly what they thought.

Your eyes, though, took it further. They were soulful in ways lesser women could only hope to achieve. A single glance and Daemon could gauge exactly how angry or amused you were.

But just as he had thought of the perfect argument conversation starter, he realized he could not find you anywhere. You weren’t in any of your usual haunts. Daemon had even checked your rooms, which he never did, but you were not there either.

Questioning the servants only earned him disdainful looks. While he had earned the respect of your guards, the maids were a wholly different story. Loyal to you to the very end, they didn’t seem as willing to forgive past mistakes. Not even if he was the father to their king.

His boy. His chest squeezed painfully to think of him. Baela and Rhaena were women grown, married, and with lives of their own. But his son, forced to wed that green cunt, as mad as her mother and treacherous as they come. Daemon’s heart ached for him.

As he wandered the castle and determined you were not inside, he thought of how much he missed Rhaenyra. She wouldn’t set him on this foolish errand, not even if she had been upset with him. His little dragon preferred to make her displeasure loudly known, just as her mount did. She would never hide away from him.

The two of you were so different it pained him to even compare you. You had nothing to do with the other, and yet, when you stood your ground, or when you directed the pitiful men you had, you looked so much like her it was uncanny.

Not like the Rhaenyra of the end, twisted by mania and distrust, trapped inside her own mind. Like the little girl he had cradled in his arms, the one he had taught everything she needed to know about love.

Perhaps it was that thought, or it was luck. Maybe even instinct. But something told him to search for you in the goodswood. And there you were, just as Rhaenyra had once been in a very different keep, sitting under a tree.

Yet, instead of reading or indulging in sweets, you were crying quietly. You were not at the heart tree at the center of it, but tucked under another weirdwood, a bit out of sight. Had he not been looking for you, he would have missed you entirely.

This was why the servants had not answered. They either didn’t know, or didn’t wish to disturb their mistress in her secret shame. Who else cried in hiding, but someone who didn’t wish to let anyone find out she was crying?

Your shoulders shook, back turned to him. You were muffling the sobs with your hands, and your hair, much too dark, was in disarray. This time, he thought of Nettles, and her face when she had mounted Sheepstealer for the last time. Her thin body, limbs much like those of a delicate frog. She had been no dragon, and yet…

Slowly, and making sure his footsteps made no noise, Daemon approached you. He placed a hand over your nape, making you startle. You looked over your shoulder, features exquisite even when struck with grief. Perhaps, made even lovelier because of it.

And your eyes, glassy and with lashes that clumped together from the wetness of your tears, pierced him like a bolt straight to the heart.

“I am not in the mood, Daemon.” You hiccuped, sobbing too hard to manage more. It was the first time you called him by name, and he savored it. “Not today.”

“Why not today?” He asks you, voice pitched low. He squeezes your nape once more. Fatherly. Reassuring. He would rather not think of the last time he did so.

“If you must know, it is my father’s nameday.” You say, and Daemon finally understands. Grief, of course. The insidious bitch. Not even here, up in the North, could he escape her.

He hesitates. He feels any of his jokes would fall flat. So would his more hurtful thoughts. But to attempt to soothe you… Is it even his place to comfort you?

Soft, still doubting his ability at it, he begins to speak.

“I knew your father.” Daemon starts, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth. He finds it difficult to speak. To think of those times, of the war, and the death and all the grief that came with it. Of the chill that clung to his bones and hadn’t allowed him a moment’s respite since. “Roddy the Ruin, the men called him.”

You give a wet, shuddery chuckle.

“Aye, they did.” And you look up at him, with those devastating eyes of yours. “He was so proud to fight for the dragon queen…”

Daemon flinches. He doesn’t mean to, but to hear one of her monikers in your mouth spooks him.

He has been neatly dividing his life. His past with Rhaenyra. His present with you. Both exist at separate points in time and space, never crossing. While near you, he tries not to think of the before, and you are so engaging it nearly works. And now, his two lives collide, her name in your mouth, his lips speaking about a war that he tries pretending is a faded dream.

“We won in the end.” Daemon squeezes your shoulder. As you look at him, a sad smile playing on your face, he thinks of what to say to soothe you. Daemon has been the sword so many times, he has forgotten how to be a light in the darkness. “Her claim still lives. Our son sits on the throne.”

“With a Hightower Queen.” You wrinkle your nose. “A pyrrhic victory if there ever was one.”

“Don’t be so sure.” A look at your face, and he thinks you so painfully young, yet so strong. It causes him to have confusing feelings. Unnerving ones, that make him think of Nettles, and a young Rhaenyra, and tell him to protect, to shield, yet to destroy. Kill the threat before it can hurt him. “No one remembers queens.”

“But you do.” Then, softer. “You are allowed to grieve for her, husband.”

Daemon doesn’t answer. He grabs you instead, and kisses you with bruising force. He can barely taste the salt of your tears before you move your head away. Somehow, the tender rejection hurts more than if you had shoved him off you.

YOUR HUSBAND IS behaving oddly. You watch him from the corner of your eyes, as he slowly, but surely, attempts to steal your seal from your desk without you noticing.

After that day at the godswood, you have stopped trying to run from him. All the fear he inspired had evaporated, leaving behind an odd sense of pity. Daemon behaved erratically, you realized, because he was grieving. His antics were much easier to tolerate knowing it.

Unfortunately, now that you were ready for his scathing sarcasm, he had chosen to leave it behind. No more of his usual taunts were heard. Instead, he escalated.

It had started yesterday, when you had come from your morning ride to find your room full of the most awful, sickeningly smelling flowers you had ever seen. When you had grabbed them and thrown them out, a task that had taken nearly an hour because the damn things were everywhere, Daemon had nearly smiled.

Now, he was attempting theft.

“I thought you were a Gold Cloak once.” You muse, as you reach for your seal. His hands are still on it, and yours barely brush them when he moves it out of your reach. “How did you catch thieves if you cannot steal to save your life?”

“Considering I still hold it, I would consider myself successful.” Daemon smirks. “Do you want it back, little wife?”

“Keep it.” You scoff, and continue to write your letters. With a shrug, Daemon pockets it. And waits. Patiently, which is not a word you would have used to describe him before.

You continue writing letters. You have always been methodical about it, writing them all before placing them in envelopes, addressing them, and then sealing them. It makes the task more efficient, which you appreciate, since it can be the dullest part of being a lady.

Hence, why it takes you so long to notice you cannot finish your letters unless he relinquishes the seal.

“Husband.” You try, hoping he has forgotten. “Could you hand me the seal?”

“I don’t know, could I?” He asks you, leaning back in his chair. He has the look of a satisfied cat. The whole morning, Daemon has just been sitting across from you, toying with the knickknacks on your desk. It had made no sense to you, but now it does. He had been waiting for a chance to make a nuisance out of himself.

“May I have my seal?” You stress the word my, because it is your seal, and you need it now.

“No, you may not. “ Daemon smirks even more. His eyes crinkle up in that way you hate, infuriatingly handsome. “Though congratulations on your improved grammar. It only shows that I am an extraordinary teacher.”

“Husband. The seal.” You say, through gritted teeth.

He sits up and reaches for your face. Cupping your cheek in his hand, warm and big, he smiles. You tense. It is the first time he touches you so, with such proprietary softness.

“I am feeling generous. Give me a smile, and I’ll give it back.” Daemon brushes his thumb over your lower lip. “Come on, sweet thing. Smile.”

Much to your chagrin, you feel yourself slowly begin to get shy. To cover it up, you scowl.

“Really?”

“I guess you do not really want it…” Daemon speaks with such smug satisfaction, you know you have been unsuccessful in hiding how much he is affecting you.

“Hand me the damn thing!” You say, standing up and looming over him. He tuts, jumping up with far too much agility for a man of his age, and raises your seal over his head.

“Now, now, wife, what sort of manners are those?” He clicks his tongue at you, as if you were some unruly child. “Say please. Or give me a pretty smile. Both will soothe my aching heart.”

“Daemon, I swear to…”

“A kiss then?” He interrupts, purple eyes shining with amusement. “Let it be known I am a generous creditor.”

You glare at him, feeling yourself grow even more embarrassed. Then, knowing that Daemon is capable of dragging this nonsensical conversation on for hours if he so pleases, and that you need to finish your task, you give him a tight smile, with closed lips.

“Come on, love, put a bit more in it, will you?” Daemon leans forward, and fixes your smile with his hand. You bat it away, annoyed. It is all so absurd that you cannot help but laugh. When you grin, Daemon does too, and places the seal back on your desk once more.

WHAT DAEMON HATED more in young knights was the sheer arrogance of them. He shuddered to think he had been one himself, in what felt like a lifetime ago. And even then, really, he had been justified in being so. Daemon had been born a Targaryen Prince, closer to Gods than to men.

The silly things you had in your service had probably been born from a donkey and a sow, though. They had no reason to be as cocky as they were.

To even claim that you were too lovely to be married to a traitor and that Daemon didn’t deserve you. The nerve! So of course, Daemon had to show the arrogant little shit exactly why Cregan Stark had given you to him. He might have lost his dragon, but he was still the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. He was more capable of protecting you and your little keep.

And look, back in Daemon’s day men were made of sterner stuff. When they got injured during friendly sparring, they didn’t run crying to their daddies.

“Lord Husband, would you be so kind as to explain why Lord Whent is claiming you attempted to kill his son in the courtyard?” You say, in what you believe to be a frightening tone, but sounds rather cute to his ears. You round on him, skirts opening like a flower in full bloom, face askew in the most delectable little frown.

Daemon sighs. Knights these days, by the Fourteen Flames.

“I didn’t attempt to kill him.” He explains to you, as his hands find their home in your hips. You squirm a bit, surely mad at him, but he only holds more firmly onto you. “Besides, isn’t he a bit too old to go sniveling to his father? By the Gods, he acts as if I cut his sword arm off.”

“Daemon, you took three of his fingers!” You say, in absolute exasperation. Your lower lip sticks out in a tempting pout. He taps it with his thumb, distracted.

“Put that away before I have to bite it.” He threatens you, absolutely fascinated by the give in the plush flesh. When you only scowl more, Daemon sighs. “Oh, right. The Whent boy. Well, it isn’t my fault he doesn’t know how to hold a sword proper. If he did, he would still have his fingers.”

“By the Old Gods…” You mutter, sounding astonished. Daemon would be too, if he were faced with such a useless excuse for a knight. “He is a knight. He knows how to hold his sword.”

“Which only shows how lax the standards for knights have fallen, because no, he doesn’t.” He protests. He continues to rub your lower lip, until you get annoyed and move your face away. Instead, he focuses his attention on pulling you even closer. Only when the two of you are nearly hugging, and his chin is perched over your head, he speaks. “Even if he did know how to hold a sword, no northern man would begrudge me for what I did.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Ask the Whent boy what he said about you. I was only defending our honor, I assure you.”

You sigh. It is charming. Daemon likes the shape your lips form when you do it. You abandon the discussion in favor of rummaging through your desk’s drawers. He hates it. He wishes to hold all your attention, all the time. But before he can voice it, you turn to look at him again, holding a jar of ointment in your hands.

“Come here.” You demand. “Shirt off.”

“Why, Lady Wife, won’t you offer me dinner first?” He teases you, even as he obeys. You have that effect on him lately. He cannot resist a chance to indulge you.

“Don’t be stupid.” You mutter, even as your eyes stray to his naked chest. Daemon preens under your hungry gaze. “I noticed you favor your left side. Did you get injured while defending my honor?” Little disrespectful thing that you are, you continue. “Perhaps, pulled a muscle? Must be your old age.”

Daemon had, indeed, pulled a muscle. He had already been training the whole morning when he had sparred with the Whent whelp, and he might have overdone it. Not that he will ever admit it, of course.

You warm some ointment between your hands and carefully begin to rub his ribs. You do not touch him often, not out of your own will. That you are seeking contact on your own, and doing him such a kindness, is telling.

He has you right where he wants you, Daemon thinks to himself, as he enjoys the touch of your warm hands. You apply just the right amount of pressure to make it both an ache and a relief. Soon, the pain in his side is diminishing, and he can stop overcompensating for it by leaning left.

“Thank you, lady wife.” He tells you, placing one of his hands over yours. You look up at him, as if finally realizing what you are doing.

“Do not mention it.” You step back, stumbling in your haste to pull distance between the two of you. “I just don’t want to have to explain to our king that his father was killed in an accident while defending my honor.”

Daemon smiles. For once, the reminder of his son doesn't sting as badly. He knows it then. He needs to have you as the dornishmen need water. Nothing less will sate him.

THE MESSENGER COMES when you are busy tending to your tenants. Your hall is full of petitioners, and you are attempting to settle a dispute over two herds of sheep that got mixed up after a fence fell. Daemon has retired already, with a charming remark about not even your presence being enough to lure him into debating the merits of more humane branding methods.

You read the letter. Once. Twice. Then, in the firmest voice you can manage while shaking in your boots, you give the order.

"Seize him.” The guards, trained by your husband, and loyal as dogs, do not hesitate. They pounce on the man, dragging him away even as he protests. "The hearings are postponed. You are all dismissed.“ You tell the petitioners, as you rise, clenching the parchment in your fist. It bears the royal seal. Inside, the message is simple. Sparse. Three lines, communicating the death of the Queen and that Prince Daemon Targaryen is wanted for questioning.

You wish to rush to Daemon’s side and tell him about it. You wish to question the man that now sits on your cells. But there is no time. Instead, you rush to the courtyard, and order your men to prepare for a siege.

Soon, the chaos begins. Your servants remember well the horrors of the war. Maids are sent running into the town, to buy all the supplies they can without leaving the smallfolk with a shortage. The maps are brought out, the river is cut, a curfew is established.

Amidst the panic, you refuse to explain your reasoning. It is too dangerous. If you do, they might ask you to surrender Daemon. And you cannot do it.

Once, during the war, you had prided yourself on being a lady who did everything for her subjects. You had been willing to marry for convenience, to set aside your hopes and dreams, to spend every waking hour attending to the affairs of your lands. Now, you cannot.

It is said that the men of the Night’s Watch vow to take no wife and father no children because love is the death of all duty. Because when you love, you turn selfish, suddenly unwilling to sacrifice everything, including your very life or the life of those you love, for the cause.

Summoned by the unrest, Daemon appears by your side while you are overseeing the posting of the guards. You pass him the parchment you still hold, without a word. He stands next to you as he reads, eyebrows raising.

You do not need to say anything. The sight of the bridge being readied to be pulled up at a moment’s notice speaks for itself.

“So you are going to war.” Daemon crosses his arms over his chest. Then, voice full of derision. “You silly girl.”

“Would you prefer to die?” You ask him, sharply. You turn to look at him, hands on your hips. “I wasn’t aware the rogue prince was anything more than a selfish bastard.”

Your words are harsh. He would probably strike any other person who dared utter them at him. But with you, he only smiles.

“My parents were married, as you well know.” He grabs you by the nape, pulling you close, until your foreheads touch. Until you are sharing the same breaths. “Stupid girl. You should just do as they say. Save yourself. There is no need for martyrdom, no dishonor in abandoning a lost cause.”

“Is that how you see yourself?” You ask him, feeling a strange pity blossom in your chest. Daemon’s eyes meet your own. He looks tense, as if fighting an inner war. But he doesn’t look as a man who has no will to live would. He isn’t broken. Instead, he looks as if he cannot bear to think of a world without you in it. “You want me to live.” You realize. “You want me to live, to be safe. Even if…” Even if he has to die for it.

You remember then that this is not the first time Daemon has willingly walked to his death to spare a woman he loves.

“Do not look at me like that.” Daemon barks, his hold on your nape turning harsher, tugging at your hair. His face twists into a snarl. “Stop it.”

You cannot help it. You smile. Despite the pain in the back of your head, despite the fact that he is looking at you like he would like nothing more than to murder you.

“Like what?” You challenge, eyes soft.

“Like you care.” He growls, low and threatening. “Like you understand.”

You grab his hand, taking it in yours.

“But I do.”

He pounces on you, kissing you as if his life depended on it. It is harsh, all teeth and spit, and absolutely no finesse. Daemon’s hands find your hips, and he squeezes, acting like a man starved. And you, scared to death that they will take him from you, do the same, nails digging into his shoulders to keep him here. With you. Where he belongs.

That is precisely why you miss Cregan’s entrance. When you part, lips kiss swollen, and panting for breath, you see him standing there, an amused look on his face. He must have ridden for hours to reach you so soon after the news broke.

“I see the two of you are getting along.” He comments, in that infuriating tone of his. “I come to inform you there is no danger to your husband, Lady Dustin. I handled the matter as soon as I found out.”

You wipe your mouth, suddenly embarrassed. Daemon, as always, looks shameless and even proud of himself.

“Thank you, my lord.” You say, fighting the urge to run and hide under your covers, and never again daring to show your face in front of Cregan Stark.

“The two of you are under my protection.” He says, as he turns towards the stairs. “I do not take kindly to uppity southrons daring to order around my bannerwoman.”

“How do you know I didn’t do it?” Daemon calls after him, frowning.

“Oh, Prince Daemon. You didn’t believe I would just leave you alone and unsupervised with Lady Dustin?” Cregan looks from between your stunned face to Daemon’s angry one. “I take care of my people. The North remembers, after all.”

The Queen bristles from her seat, "do not wait for me to punish you before you listen."

Aegon whines and leans back.

She sighs, expression softening slightly now that her first born has reacted to her. She turns to her side when she hears Helaena singing the song her sister had taught her, "all the birds sing sweetly for you, so come rest ye darling wee head."

The Queen wipes her face. How badly she wishes that you were here with her. She never did know how to properly discipline Aegon. She always fears she was either too cruel or too lenient, considering her father knew only the former and she did not want to mirror him. "You will apologize to those servant women, do you understand me?"

Aegon crosses his arms, slumping in his seat. He mutters under his breath, "I don't want to."

Alicent narrows her eyes, "what did you say?"

Aegon looks at her mother in defiance, "I don't want to!"

"Well, it doesn't matter," she seethes, "you will!" then slams he fists on the table, making Aemond drop his spoon in shock. She notices and sighs, "apologies, love."

Aemond leans into his mother's touch when she brushes his head.

Aegon grits his teeth, heaving in anger.

Helaena continues singing, "the apples grow up the trees, and flowers rise up from the ground—"

"My son," Alicent says a notch softer, "your actions are a reflection of the Crown," she speaks in a low voice, hoping it would calm them both, "you are the first born son of the king. You will be measured against him as–"

"What of my first born son?" Viserys walks into the solar, weight shifting from his feet to his cane.

She comes to an abrupt stand and immediately helps him walk towards the table.

Viserys gratefully leans into his wife as he goes to the head of the table. His eyes are fixed on Aegon the entire time, "skoro syt se laehurlion?" Why the face?

Aegon refuses to answer. He has grown to detest the sound of High Valyrian.

The king sighs, "iksan sure skoros mirre issa, aōha muña iksis paktot." I'm sure what ever it is, your mother is right.

Alicent steals a glance at Aegon before helping the king sit. After,, Viserys notices Aegon's gravy laden plate. He furrows his brows, "are you awfully fond of gravy?"

Aemond turns to Aegon's plate then his father, answering for him, "ziry iksos sȳz, kepa." It's good, father.

Viserys turns to Aemond.

Aegon groans and rolls his eyes, annoyed at his brother, annoyed at his father, annoyed at his mother, annoyed at his sister, who should really just- "SHUT IT!"

Helaena stops singing. She turns to older brother.

"Aegon!" Alicent snaps, pointing a finger.

"She's fucking annoying!" he sneers.

"LANGUAGE, BOY!" the queen hisses in frustration as she scoops some peas and meat for the king.

"Let him be," Viserys waves her off, "you cannot blame him," he takes his spoon and begins eating, "he probably learned that from his uncle."

Aegon hardens at the mention. Alicent grits her teeth.

"When is uncle coming back?" Aemond mutters in between bites.

"Don't be fucking stupid-"

"Aegon!" Alicent can't help but chide.

"- they're clearly never coming back," Aegon snaps, heart thumping loudly behind his ribcage. He stares at the brown goop that has overtaken his plate and grunts the instant he sees a tear drop from the bridge of his nose.

"But they can visit for my nameday, can't they?" Aemond asks his father softly.

Viserys does not even look up from his plate.

Aegon roughly scratches his face, "they didn't come for my nameday," he glares at the imbecile.

Aemond catches the redness of Aegon's eyes.

"They didn't come for Helaena's or mother's," the eldest slams his hand on the table as he comes to a stand, "why would they come for a dragonless moron like you?"

"AEGON, GO TO YOUR ROOM!" Alicent snaps, heaving in anger at the boy.

"With pleasure," he snaps, flipping his plate over, making the gravy splatter all over the table and to Heleana who was sat across Aegon.

Viserys hears his daughter's gasp and watches his son walk away, "stop!"

Aegon ignores him.

"Come back here and apologize to Rhaenyr- Jaecy- Heleana!"

Alicent turns to king as he stammers. Her eyes water as Aegon storm out the room.

"DAEMON!" Viserys screams, immediately regretting it as his head begins to hammer.

Aemond watches as his father leans his head into his hand. He vaguely hears him mutter, 'what's that fucking boy's name?' in High Valyrian. He turns back to his plate as Alicent takes Helaena away to change.

Aegon bolts his door and drags a chair beneath the knob, more than certainly locking himself in his chambers. He runs to his bed and grabs a pillow. He hacks it against the sheets repeatedly while screaming in frustration.

Once he was tired, he jumps into bed and flails his limbs. Once he was tired of that, he sighs and lets the tears fall. He cries and stares at the ceiling as he thinks of you.

He slowly sits up and walks towards his desk. He gets a vial of scented oil and uncorks it. Citrus. Lavender. You.

More tears fall.

He leans on his desk, continuing to take in the smell as he sobbed until his mouth went dry. He grabs the ewer of wine beside him and drinks directly from it until it was empty.

Aegon is immediately tipsy.

His vision is blurry and he finds it difficult to cork the vial of fragrance, still, he manages. He opens his drawer and pulls out parchment and a quill.

𝔄𝔲𝔫𝔱. ℑ 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔬 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥. ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔲𝔫𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔶. 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝑒… 𝐼 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝓊𝓅𝒾𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔. 𝐼 𝐻𝒜𝒯𝐸 𝒴𝒪𝒰. 𝒟𝒪𝒩'𝒯 𝒴𝒪𝒰 ᎠȺ𝖱Ɛ 𝖢ටⱮƐ βȺ𝖢Ҡ Ƒටའ ȺƐⱮටហᎠ'Ϛ ហȺⱮƐᎠȺӋ į చįꝈꝈ ҠįꝈꝈ ǶįⱮ!

Aegon slashes his quill across the paper. He screams, crumples it, and chucks it out his window before throwing himself back onto his bed.

The balled message thumps upon the head of a prince.

Laenor looks up after feeling the hit. Upon seeing nothing but a clear sky, he examines the floor, looking for whatever it was that hit him. He slowly begins to walk off upon finding nothing out of the ordinary, but just as he resumes in his usual gait, the wind blows the crumpled letter towards his boots. He picks it up before it is blown off again.

Lines weigh his face immediately when he reads it, "my poor boy."

It takes two days for that letter to come to you, or rather your place of current residence.

You weren't accepting letters anytime soon, not if your husband had anything to say about it.

"D-Dae-" you could barely manage to bring his name past your lips, not when his own were lapping your weeping womanhood like a man starved.

Your legs tighten around his head and he chuckles as he pulls out yet another peak from your aching cunt. You begin to sob when he doesn't let up and try to kick him away.

He only stops because the knock and grating call of his name from the door kills the mood. Daemon slowly pulls away from your thighs, licking his lips. His nose, chin and neck were glimmering with your sticky arousal.

You were helplessly sprawled on your back, arms by your head, chest heaving. You were teary eyed and flush. Your night gown stuck to you from how sweaty you were. You closed your eyes, thinking a nap would do you well, but you couldn't help but look at your husband as he placed a hand on your swollen belly.

Daemon is terribly proud of his work. His wife was panting from blissful exhaustion and won't be going anywhere anytime soon. Well done, man.

His head snaps to the door when the knock and the voice grows louder. He groans and rises from where he knelt at the edge of the bed. He sits at the foot of the cushions, fastening your legs around his bare torso, "what is it?!"

A servant with terrible skill of Westerosi mumbles something unintelligible from the door.

Daemon groans, set on merely ignore her.

That is, until you stir and try to prop yourself on your elbows. It's a challenge, considering you were incredibly top heavy, with your round belly and your heavy teats, not to mention your husband incessantly wedged between your thighs. He makes a face, "don't move."

You whine, "no... I really can't."

Daemon huffs, pulling away from you just to grab your shoulders and push you down.

You whine louder in protest.

Your slick dribbles down his throat, "I did not make you peak four times just for you to get off bed and answer the call of a wench."

You take a much needed deep breath and wipe his chin, "you are in no condition to speak to anyone."

He watches you rub your stickiness between your fingers. He smirks and grabs your wrist, licking them and making you squeal when he bites a knuckle. "You think so little of me."

You try to grab him when he pulls away.

Daemon chuckles and waves a hand when the bang of the door persists, "yes, yes, a moment."

"Daemon!" you call in horror, "at least wipe your face!"

He turns around merely to smile at you and opens the door anyway.

You cover your face with your arms as you hear conversation happen. Horrifically, it becomes quite long.

You cannot even relax after hearing the door close.

Daemon sees your form, the line that formed between his brows dissipates. He quietly walks over to the unlit fireplace as he opens the letter that was handed to him, "you needn't hide anymore, dearest, the girl is gone."

"You're terrible—"

He pops the waxen seahorse seal and chucks it into the fireplace.

"- uncouth, and ill-mannered."

Daemon's furrow returns when finds two papers, one uncreased and one crumpled. He skims the former, finding it was penned by your beloved Laenor, as he expected, then the latter. His brows raise when he realizes it's from Aegon.

His silence makes you pull your arms away from your face. You slightly lift your head, finding his back turned from you, "v'you nothing to say to me after such embarrassment?"

Daemon laughs loudly to mask the sound of him crumpling all the papers into a ball.

You watch him turn to you, hands behind his back, shit eating grin on his face, and groan, covering your face with your arms again.

To your unwitting detriment.

Daemon chucks the paper into the fireplace and quickly finds something to light the fireplace with, "only that I am utterly offended my slick covered skin brings you embarrassment and not pure, unadulterated pride."

You watch him crouch down to light the fireplace. You slowly roll on the bed and sit yourself up, "I'm not cold, duck."

He watches the letters burn, "I have never quacked once in my life."

You rub your belly as you giggle.

Daemon looks over his shoulder. The sight and sound of your mirth makes his lips curl into an adoring smile, "I like it when you're dumb-fucked."

You watch him stand and saunter over, chest and feet bare, trousers low enough to show the beginnings of his pubic hair. He brushes the hair that stuck to your forehead behind your ear. You lean into his touch.

"You say the oddest things."

You hum, "I still wouldn't walk around filthy, dear."

Daemon chuckles, kneeling down in front of you again.

You whimper and try to push him off before he can push himself between your thighs, "I'm tired."

"Mmm, well I was hoping you'd be exhausted," he makes a stupid face as he places his hands on your knees, "I suppose I should— aw!"

He laughs as he clutches the cheek you just slapped. You point a finger, "I'm serious. I will die if you make me peak one more time."

He leans onto your lap, rubbing the sides of your thighs, "well, you spoil sport, not only do you offend me by being embarrassed by my sincere love for you, but you doubly offend me by thinking the worst of-"

"Stop speaking," you grab his jaw, smushing his lips, "I am too hot for this conversation. You shouldn't have lit the fireplace."

Daemon growls playfully as he tries to bite your hand.

You sigh and push him away again, "enough, cow."

The prince loses his balance and falls on his bum, "rude," he watches you get to your feet, "how would you like it if I called you cow?"

You sigh, gripping your swollen breasts, "halfway there, methinks."

Daemon rises as you head to the bathroom. He opens the door for you and helps you get out of your nightgown before guiding you into the tub. You hiss at the water.

His brows furrow, "cold? I can ge-"

"It's fine," you shake your head and slowly sink down, "someone kept me from bathing for far too long."

Daemon removes his pants and comes in with you. He hisses, "fucking hell, it is cold."

"Daemon! No! Out! Now!"

He happily ignores you, even as you punch his arm to prove your point. He turns to avoid your assault but then takes some soap and begins to wash the arm you used to hit him.

You glare, "get out."

"I don't know why you're complaining," he says, focusing on your arm, "I'm literally helpi— aw!"

"You're helping to get your cock wet."

Daemon looks at you, "well, obviously— AW!"

"Get out!"

"I was going to say obviously I'm helping because I love yo-" he clamps his mouth and eyes shut when you splash water onto his face. Just as he opens his eyes, you splash him again.

You giggle as you hear him groan.

"Ao tymagon lēda perzys, riña." You play with fire girl.

You tilt your head, "funny," you splash him again, "kostan emagon kivigon bisa iksin iēdar." I could have sworn this was water.

Daemon gives you a look, as if daring you to splash him again.

So, you do.

You squeal, as soon, he grabs you and seals you in his arms. He pulls you on his lap and bites your neck.

"You think I won't fight back?" he bites your shoulder next, "I'll make you peak on my knee, don't test me."

"Alright!" you wrangle against him, "I'll stop! Please, don't make me peak again."

He makes a face, "that doesn't sound right."

You take the soap from him and rub your arms, leaning into his chest, "it is right if you don't want me to die."

He pauses then brushes your hair aside, "I don't want you to die."

"Good," you raise a brow at him, "I should like to grow old with my child after I give birth."

All of Daemon's smugness is completely washed away as you wash the stickiness on your thighs. He takes a breath and adjusts you on his lap, arms coming around to clutch your belly. He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, kissing you there, "you will. I swear it."

You lean into him, "you cannot swear it anymore than I can, pup."

"I can," he mutters, rubbing your bump, "their maesters will burn if harm befalls my wife—"

"They do not call them maesters here, darling."

"— or my heir."

"..."

"..."

You look at him.

He looks back at you.

"I thought you said you've no need of heirs?"

There is an irritation upon him, "I don't."

"I cannot guarantee you a boy, m-"

"I know," he raises a hand, "I don't need a boy. A girl can happily inherit nothing from me."

You press your lips into a line and look down when you feel the babe kick. You take his hand and place it there.

Daemon looks at his hand, silently awaiting movement with gentle rubs. His hand stops when he feels his baby move.

You smile softly, "do not be so disappointed in us if the babe is a princess."

He furrows his brows, "I would not."

You smile wider as he brushes your hair. You hum, "you needn't pretend you don't prefer a son."

He says nothing.

"For both of our sakes, I prefer that it be a boy as well."

He calls your name.

"That I would have completed my duty."

"Your duty is to live with me until my last breath," he speaks with conviction, hands on your bicep, "do not speak as though our child's beginning is your end."

You smile again.

His expression crumples at the tears that accompany it.

"It is not," you muster, hoping to convince the both of you.

"It isn't," he kisses your forehead. He begins to soak your shoulders, "now, let's get you clean."

After bathing, you both emerge from your chambers wearing the fine silks your host gifted you. Daemon drones about his dragon ride yesterday and you lean into him as you head to the dining room for an awfully late lunch.

"Ah, my friends!" Mitker calls from the balcony at the end of the hall. He inhales deeply then exhales grey smoke as he speaks, "you finally emerge!"

You smile at him squeezing Daemon's arm tightly.

Your husband doesn't even look at you and raises a finger at the approaching man, "put out your pipe."

You squeeze him again, always anxious by his bluntness. You can already smell the smoke wafting over and it only makes your belly churn further. You smile and rub your bump, "it's just the smell—"

Mitker raises a hand, puts his pipe out, and props it down on one of the outdoor tables. He then takes a prepared lemon slice and sucks on it as he brushes himself off. He sequentially walks over, smelling of smoke and lemon, "my friends."

Daemon raises another finger, "that's close enough."

You mutter his name under your breath, masking it further with a smile.

Mitker laughs, clasping his hands together, "the dragon's fire for his bride never wanes."

Though you could tell he truly found no offense in Daemon's speech, you couldn't help but feel remorse, "forgive me. I am just incredibly—"

"There is nothing to forgive," both men say, one reassuring and one pointed. It's obvious which came from Daemon.

Mitker gestures, "my second wife does not enjoy my smoking habit either. Do not worry your pretty little head."

You smile sheepishly.

A servant passes and her master pulls her aside. After she nods and walks off, Mitker turns back to you, "I've asked food be served. I am sure you are very hungry from coupling all morning."

Your entire body burns while Daemon flourishes with laughter. Mitker walks off, nonchalant, and talks about the food he had the cooks prepare for today.

You glare at Daemon, tugging at his arm.

‎He looks at you, lips still spilling with amusement.

‎"You're being inappropriate," you quip.

‎Your husband chuckles, "twas not I that brought up our marital conduct."

‎You swat his arm, "I meant the way you speak to Magister Mitker."

‎Daemon furrows his brows.

‎"Lest you forget, prince, we are in Lys, and rely on the kindness of our host."

‎His nostrils flare, "if he wasn't already greatly indebted to me for freeing the Triarchy from the Crab Feeder so he can freely deploy his trade boats," he raises his brows, "he should be honored host us," he tilts his head, speaking carefully, "and my dragon."

‎You clench your jaw, "Daemon."

‎"He enjoys my impertinence, you know. I play into the part he expects me to"

‎Your voice comes out as a sharp whisper, "your awareness of your own impertinence is shocking and irritating."

‎Daemon's grin deepens, "do not pretend you don't enjo–"

‎"Silence."

‎

‎"Ah," Mitker turns to you once you reach the dining table, "your midwives and healers have already arrived. If you should like to meet them before giving birth, I would be most glad to introduce you after your meal."

Your lips part as Daemon pulls the chair for you. You smile as you sit, nodding eagerly, "yes. I should very much like to meet them."

"I employed only the best," your host shrugs for effect, "midwives who have overseen the births of my 6 brides and 20 of my children, soon to be 21," he points with a laugh.

You join in his laughter.

Daemon sits next to you, watching your expression closely.

"My hired two healers have come from the famed House of Red Hands itself," Mitker nods, "they are here to help where the midwives might not, and hopefully might even help with your affliction."

The sentiment leaves you different. So much so that you, in fact, have to pull a smile when the magister stares at you a second too long.

Daemon notices. He takes your hand and squeezes it, "that is good."

You turn to his hand then back to Mitker, "it is... I am honored by your intensive care."

The man raises his arms through laughter, thoroughly pleased by the reaction, "the honor is all mine, my friends."

That moment, the servants come to serve your food.

"To have a Targaryen babe who might one day sit on the famed Iron Throne be born in my home is an honor I will have forever."

You smile at the servants as they pour your some water.

"Now," Mitker says, "eat. I must go to my children," he laughs, "I promised to play with them in the garden after smoking."

As your host disappears, Daemon serves himself some food, piling up potatoes and meat on his plate while you idly stare at your empty one.

He begins placing potatoes on your plate, "some beef, dear?"

You shake your head.

"It smells scrumptious," he gives you one despite it, "it will be good for you and the babe."

"I cannot stand the taste," you grimace then finish a cup of water.

Daemon watches. He sighs as you lower your cup then retrieves the meat with a fork, promptly eating it. His eyes remain on you as you heap more vegetables on your plate. After he swallows, he says, "they're apparently very good."

You down some more water.

"The House of Red Hands, I mean."

You turn to Daemon as he silently offers you more food. You let him serve you some stew.

"If you are worried you will be subjected to primitive methods that will yield no results, know that I will personally—"

"Their methods are not primitive, Daemon," you begin to eat.

"Yes, well, I'm saying is if they hurt you, I will whet my sword with their blood," he speaks with a nonchalant sort of seriousness.

You shake your head, "they will not. They are far gentler than most maesters."

Daemon knits his brows at that.

You offer a soft smile, "I have met two in my youth," you bring your fork to your lip, "hired by my father, of course."

He freezes where you begin eating.

A moment passes.

Daemon is no longer interested in his meal though how much his stomach cried for it.

"Your food will get cold."

Your husband cuts up some beef then turns back to you, "will you not tell me about it?"

You shrug, "there is nothing to tell, darling. They came, they looked at me, and left."

Daemon raises his brows and shakes his head.

"I told you my father tried everything," you speak between bites, "I know you find it hard to believe, but you must believe me."

"I believe you," he mutters.

You look at him as he eats some potatoes. You sigh and stroke his hair, "but you cannot believe Otto Hightower tried his best."

Daemon sighs again, leaning into your touch as you rest your hand on his shoulder, "well, he is a fucking cunt, isn't he?"

You stroke his cheek with the back of your hand. You press your lips into a soft smile, "he does love m-"

He groans and rolls his eyes.

"He does," you mutter, rubbing his nape, "just as you."

"You would compare us?!"

You do not respond.

He is thoroughly offended, so much so, he pulls away from you.

You sigh and retrieve your hand, turning back to your plate.

"We are not the same," Daemon bristles, shoulders growing tense, "I would never let you be trampled or besmirched. I would not let your condition worsen."

Though a rebuttal was on the tip of your tongue, when you lift your head, you smile instead and say, "I know."

Daemon, ever so easily placated by your subservience, easily relaxes. He suddenly feels bad that you are inclined to defend your father even in his absence, "you can stop pretending you care for him, you know."

You look at him.

"He cannot touch you here. And even if he could, I will not let him."

As your husband feeds himself, the tears in your eyes grow heavy enough to fall on your lap.

Daemon stops midchew when he notices.

"I don't pretend..." you whisper, lips wobbling, "... I just do."

The prince throat tightens but he brings himself to swallow. He wipes your tears

.

"I thought that-" your voice cracks, "-if I tell myself he hates me," you sniffle, "which he probably does..." you scratch your nose, "now more than ever..."

He mutters your name as he shakes his head, "alright, that's enough. I should not have said it."

"...I thought I could pretend I never felt his love, and deny it is there at all, but I-" you choke, "I do love him," you shrug and chuckle dryly, "I understand why he does what he does."

Daemon scoffs, "you understand why he casts your heart to the dogs to eat?"

"He doesn't," you shake your head, "he plots and plans, and I am a piece in the mind puzzle he's built decades strong. I must be in place, regardless of my condition."

He shakes his head as he looks away, "and my self-awareness is appalling to you."

"But you are the same."

He whips his head back at you.

You gulp and raise a hand, "similar," you correct, "you are more similar than you-"

"I have not once intentionally broken your spirit," he snaps.

"... so.... intention determines innocence?"

"Yes."

"Then why does it hurt more to know you didn't think of me at all when you were in the Stepstones?"

He is caught off guard and it shows with his dry laugh, "but I did think of-"

"Not enough to write back," you blurt, "I wasn't even enough to make you sta-"

He comes abruptly to a stand.

You stare up at him, eyes widening, "but I understand!" you take his hand, "I understand that was the course you had to take!"

"You reopen scars from years ago to defend your father."

"I am not defending hi-"

"Then what?!" he snaps, pulling away from your touch, "you do this to get even with me?!" His expression curls, "I spoke to assure you of my protection and you spit at my face -"

You slowly come to a stand.

"- by likening me to a man you know I detest."

You bite your lip to contain your sob. You press your hands on his chest and shake your head, "you know-" you inhale sharply, "you know I do not ever mean to anger you."

"And yet-" he laughs, taking your hands, "here we are, my love."

You try to place your hands on his cheeks, but he does not let you. Though it frustrates you, you do not force yourself, "Daemon... I only wish that you understand my-" you shake your head, "I mean that I understand. It is the order of things. I understand that I am either with you along the way or I am in your way."

His eyes twitches, "you are my wife."

"... I was speaking of my father."

He wipes his face roughly and slowly steps back.

It agitates you, "Daem-"

"Do not call me," he raises a finger.

So you don't. You grit your teeth as he walks off. You chest grows tighter the farther he steps away.

Abruptly, he stops and turns, "I AM NOT LIKE THAT CUNT!"

You only stiffen at his words. You do not flinch. You were used to it. Your father shouted at you often like this.

Daemon turns again and starts walking away.

You no longer try to dampen your cries when when he disappears into the corner. You clutch your belly as you sit back down. Stupid, stupid girl. You promised not to speak back, remember? How could you fucking forget?

Daemon hears your cries and rips at the hair by the sides of his ears. He grits his teeth, pacing back and forth angrily down the hall before heading off.

You gasp when your chair is pulled back. You lift your gaze and try to stand when you see your husband before you. He prevents you from moving and moves your chair until he can kneel before you.

He grips your skirts then bites it through a groan.

Your lips wobble as you frown, "Dae-"

"I told you not to call me," he quips, squeezing your skirts until his knuckles were white, "I cannot bare it right now."

You sniffle and bite your lip. You tentatively try to reach for him. When your hand finally touches the crown of his head, he perks and grabs it, bringing your wrist to his mouth.

Daemon is visibly distraught as he forces your flesh against his lips. A few moments later, he's biting you, teeth digging deeper and deeper.

You gulp as the pain slowly amplifies. Soon, you cannot contain your whimper of discomfort.

He releases you then yanks your chair closer. He brings his hands to the small of your back, then rests his chin on your belly. He looks up at you, not actually putting any weight on your form. His eyes are pink. You smoothen out the messiness of his silver hair.

"I have no appetite," he mumbles.

You shake your head, "neither do I."

"You cannot afford to skip another meal."

"Yes but..." you gulp, "I do not want to eat without you."

"I will not leave," he says, "I spent the whole day pleasuring you so that you would be too tired to go to those orphans you love more than me."

"My heart," you whimper, "I do not love them more-"

"I know," he cuts you off, "but you visit them so often I am jealous anyway."

"They have no one to help them. Teaching them what I can will hel-"

"I know," he cuts you off once more, "yet all the same your generosity makes me jealous."

"D-" you cut yourself off and cover your lips with your fingertips.

He takes your wrist again. He kisses it then bites it again, "call me... and eat. Please."

You nod, brushing his hair, "Daemon." He moves your chair again.

He remains sat by your feet as you consume your meal. You wipe your philtrum and realize you were starving after the first bite

Daemon perks when you bring your fork to his lips. He silently eats the beef then rests his head on your lap as he chews.

You both decide to meet the midwives and healers after, and though you could tell your husband's pride was still stinging, he held your hand the entire time, especially when the old men from the House of Red Hands decided they wanted to examine you. Daemon's eyes never leave you as they feel your belly, count your heartbeats, and question you about your affliction.

It was appalling then to be asked to leave when you suddenly went into labor. At first, he was calm enough to decline the midwife who asked him to step out of the room, but when you looked at him with your fearful, beady eyes, all hell broke lose.

What started out as low threats became full on declarations of apparent murder when the midwives insisted Daemon to exit the room. It only added to the pressure on your already tightening chest to watch him terrorize everyone.

It was the senior healer from the House of Red Hands that realizes you were slipping out of consciousness, and it was he that risked his life reeling the wrothful prince out of the room.

Daemon shoves him away upon reaching the door, and, in all his self-importance, readies to slay him where he stood, but the healer's words caught him before he could draw his blade.

"She has lost consciousness."

Daemon's fury is replaced with trepidation.

Before he could approach you, the healer yanks him by the arm and quips under his breath, "her heart is weak! She will not survive if you continue to insist on your way!"

Daemon ripps his arm out of his grasp.

"You must listen to me, boy," mutters the healer harshly, "I have seen greater men succumb to heart pains. You should be grateful your wife had the strength to take your child to term. If you cannot hold your peace and mean to throw another tantrum, get out," he looks walks off, "that is, unless you wish to hammer the final nail on her coffin yourself."

He doesn't get to reply as the healer is already by your your side, trying to help you regain your senses.

It quickly dawns on Daemon, that he, in fact, could not hold his peace. He paces around, restless and worried as he watches the midwives scramble around the room. He eventually decides to leave, but just as he does, he realizes he cannot do that either.

He is stuck walking to and fro from the room to the hall with agitation that could suffocate one even as large as Caraxes.

It worsens when you begin to scream.

More so when you begin to scream his name.

It is the most terrible sound in the world.

He does not come to you.

He cannot.

He is mortified.

He is paralyzed outside the door.

His heart racing.

Time eludes him. He doesn't know how long he just stands there curdling at the sound of his own name.

Suddenly, the fear of this being the last time you call him makes him run to your side. He freezes the moment he gets past the door.

You are sweaty, face is twisted in pain, leaning into the shoulders of two midwives. Daemon, who has run head first into war, hesitates as he walks over to you.

He calls out his love in his mother tongue.

You do not hear.

He raises his voice, "iksan kesīr. Iksan kesīr, ñuha jorrāelagon." I'm here. I'm here, my love.

You manage to look at him and immediately reach out.

Daemon takes the place of the midwives and you lean on him as your contractions persist.

It is a grueling affair. It takes two hours and some for you to crown. Your screams are heart wrenching and brings Daemon to tears. He rubs your back and hushes you, but it does nothing.

The silence that comes when your babe finally does come is equally relieving and worrying. When you close your eyes, it becomes apparent you are not strong enough to stay awake, much less to hold her.

"A girl?" Daemon mutters, tears streaming down his cheeks as the midwife's announcement. His joy battles with his concern as the healers pull you away from him.

He nearly fights them off, but thankfully does not act rashly.

Someone says something to him, but he does not hear, as he is too busy watching you bleed on the bed.

He flinches when someone tugs his arm.

The midwife offers him a smile... and his daughter.

He stares at the tiny thing— she is unbelievably little. He chokes up as she groans and fusses in his arms. She stole his face. Daemon looks up at you, filled with mirth as he calls your name, "she stole my-"

Your pale face and limp body make him go silent.

Had it not been for the midwife still beside him, she might have dropped his daughter. She tries to get him to focus. "What will you name her?"

Daemon turns to her, to his daughter, then back to you, "I- I... I don't know."

The woman rubs his shoulder, "you'll know soon enough."

He doesn't.

He leaves the girl unnamed for days, intent on waiting for you to rouse before deciding on anything.

Guilt grips him after three days of simply calling her babe.

Then soon, a moon passes.

The girl can hold her head up and smile back at him. The healers now tell Daemon if you do not wake soon, you will not wake at all. He refuses to believe it.

He points to you. His child looks. "bisa iksis muña. Iksis ziry daor gevie, Aelina." This is mother. Is she not beautiful, Aelina.

Aelina fusses. She is hungry.

Daemon struggles with himself before deciding to let the babe nurse on your breast instead of her wet-nurse this instance. He was told that it might help you wake, but there was something awful in how your involuntary form continued care for your babe while being unable to care for yourself.

Aelina immediately calms and sleeps against your bossom.

Daemon holds her in place. Aelina does the same with his sanity. He was her burning torch, her light during this time, just as her name meant.

Ever the fickle thing, the babe begins to fuss again and moves atop your chest.

"Shhh," Daemon rubs her back, "it's okay, kepa has you-"

A groan cuts him off.

He freezes, heart racing in anticipation. He calls out your name.

He realizes then that it was not Aelina that was fussing, but you.

Daemon's heart leaps into his throat when your eyes open. He breaks into a full on sob when you manage to reach for his cheek. You are disoriented as he helps you sit up. You soon follow in tears when you see the babe at your breast. Your lips wobble, "is this..."

"Aelina," he mutters, helping you hold the babe. He brushes your hair out of your face the moment you have your hold on her, "I named her Aelina."

You sob some more, unable to see her fully through the tears, "beautiful Aelina."

Daemon kisses your neck, kneeling beside your bed, watching you watch your child in wonder.

You can hardly breathe as you sob, but your joy keeps your grounded. You chuckle when she releases your nipple and you finally see her face, "she looks just like you."

He laughs, heart swelling the the sound of you, "she stole my face."

You lean into him, unable to pry your eyes of your babe as he is unable to pry his eyes off you. You sniffle, snot dribbling down your nose, "she's so beautiful."

"She is," he wipes your nose, "so beautiful."

You finally spare him a glance. You find him smiling through tears.

"I knew you would wake. I knew it," Daemon mutters.

Your lips wobble, "I'm glad I did."