#daemon&rhaena.

he had spent a lifetime convincing himself that hope was another name for weakness, something men clung to before the world reached across the table to break their fingers, joint by joint. however, her words still found a place inside him to take root, spreading through old scars like decay. of all the accusations ever thrown at daemon targaryen, none had struck with such unbearable cruelty as the simple confession that she would not allow herself to hope for him again-- the death of hope was far crueler than any of them, because hatred demanded feeling, and disappointment still carried expectation. but this... was acceptance. and he could think of no greater indictment than his own daughter deciding he was no longer worth believing in.

his mouth threatened to answer before his mind had settled upon the lie it wished to tell, because lies had always come easier than truths, especially the ones he repeated often enough to mistake them for conviction. i did what was necessary. you were safer this way. i had a kingdom to win. every excuse was another stone laid atop a grave he himself had dug, and standing before it now, daemon found only emptiness where certainty had once lived. kings made sacrifices, princes did much of the same. fathers-- fathers were meant to know the difference between the two. somewhere along the road between flea bottom and dragonstone, between the stepstones and harrenhal, between every battlefield stained by men who had screamed his name in admiration or terror, he had ceased recognizing where daemon the prince ended and daemon the father ought to have begun.

king's landing had fallen back into rhaenyra's hands only days before, though victory had arrived dressed as something far more hideous than defeat. banners and crowns had changed, as well as the names spoken during council-- and yet, yet nothing within the castle's foundations had truly shifted. ambition still seeped from corridor to corridor, and daemon knew the feeling better than anyone. perhaps even better than rhaenyra herself.

the throne was not merely a seat; it was a sickness, and he had wanted it once. perhaps some part of him still did. ...that realization spread across his thoughts with the bitterness of spoiled wine coating his tongue.

daemon no longer trusted himself enough to know, as there had always existed two creatures inside him, one who loved with terrifying ferocity and another who devoured whatever stood between himself and the name history might someday carve into marble. sometimes they marched together... more often they tore at each other until neither could distinguish victory from self-destruction. and in that endless struggle, rhaena had become another casualty.

he remembered every occasion he had looked beyond her. remembered searching for dragons whilst forgetting to search for the child standing only steps away.

remembered baela astride moondancer, fearless and blazing against an open sky, as rhaena remained earthbound, carrying the silent humiliation of being born targaryen without fire answering her call. he had told himself she would endure it; targaryens endured. it was what they were bred to do: survive loneliness, survive loss, survive becoming strangers to themselves. but endurance was not love,

"hope was never the thing i deserved from you."

she had done the impossible: sought out a beast no sensible rider would approach. feral, untamed, and even older than reason itself. a creature that belonged to no one until it decided otherwise. of course-- of course daemon targaryen's neglected daughter would not wait patiently for destiny to hand her a hatchling wrapped neatly in expectation. she had reached into the mouth of death itself and returned astride it, proving every doubt wrong in the most daemon way imaginable, and the realization filled him with equal measures of pride and dread.

because he understood why.