#painter daemon

England, 1938

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Rhaenyra hadn’t had many boys in her rooms, though she supposed this boy was more of a man. Daemon Targaryen was twenty four to her sixteen, and he looked it. He was tall, and though not the most muscular of men, he walked and moved with a lithe confidence that spoke to his strength. 

She imagined he could be an intimidating man if he wanted to be. But in her presence he had chosen to be charming and he succeeded in that quite fantastically. They had met the previous morning—nods of recognition that were suitable to pass between a princess and a man—-her cousin, she thought? Or her uncle once removed? Her grandfathers, brothers, youngest son, if she recalled correctly. Farther from the throne than she was, but still with a strong current of royal blood in his veins. 

It was funny, how obvious that was. She didn’t need the nose of a hound to know his last name was Targaryen, no one would, not with his eyes and hair and smirk. But he was a bit of a pariah, the third son, and not one willing to fall in line behind the others. 

She didn’t know much about her cousins, at least not more than whispers her mother discouraged around the dining table but embellished when taking tea with friends. But she knew of Daemon—his photos were often in the papers, or rather, photos of him. 

Not him making speeches, or cutting ribbons. No, they were of him at bars, drunken in the streets and disheveled. She had to hide her grin when they met that morning, when she got to see him in the flesh—his hair slicked back save for a stubborn strand that fell across his brow. He looked every bit a prince then, as he did now, so many hours later. The newspaper didn’t do him justice, smudges of dark ink creating shadows where there were none, and hiding the best and brightest of his features. 

Daemon hadn’t gone into service—even with talks of war brewing. He hadn’t turned to the faith. He hadn’t even attended university to learn the laws and become a solicitor. He had gone to France, to art school. Her father had scoffed at the notion, of a son, of a man in line for the throne—albeit not near the front, choosing such a ridiculous path for life. 

But Rhaenyra had admired it then, when she heard. Thinking it must be nice to live a life creating things others liked to look at. She admired it now too, perhaps even more given that Rhaenyra spent her days feeling like she was one of those things that had been created for others to look at. 

A bit like a sculpture, maybe? Carved from marble. Chunks of what she could have been and would have wanted, chipped away until all that remained was pale and smooth and inoffensive. Until she was exactly what her parents wanted her to be. 

Because that was her purpose in life, wasn’t it? 

That was what they had always told her.

Her appearance—her actions, her existence, was a reflection of their parenting. 

Of their family. 

Of their country. 

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Daemon didn’t seem impressed by the space she called her own, despite the large size of elaborate quarters carved out for her in the palace. His seemed to carefully scrutinize the walls—the furniture, and even the floor. He wasn’t looking in awe at the grandeur, and his eyes didn’t widen in envy at the luxury she spent her time in. 

No, instead his first words were about what it lacked. 

“There are no mirrors?” Daemon said, looking around her bedroom curiously. It was an odd thing to notice, she thought—made stranger still by its relevance to the thoughts that had seemed to swim in her head throughout the day. 

Perhaps it was coincidental, but no one had ever noticed the absence of them in her rooms. For her walls were hardly lacking decoration—papered with something thick and expensive, with foiled vines stretching across it like they were trying to reach the sun. It was a droll tragedy, how they were doomed to end at the ceiling, never reaching the sky. Sadder still were roses entwined with them, all mere buds that would never bloom. 

She hadn’t chosen the paper. She had even tried to rid the room of it, once, finding a seam and picking at it with a hair pin until a maid found her and scolded her. Sometimes she looked at those marks—scratches in the thick paper that couldn’t be repaired that remained  a reminder she had tried to change her circumstances once. 

A constant comfort, perhaps. 

She had chosen the paintings on her walls, at least. The expanse of them big enough to hold several of her favorites—pieces deemed to garish for the gallery, but not inappropriate for a girl of her age. She liked some of the darker ones—the heavy oils that displayed realistic scenes of murder or adultery. Works from the Renaissance or when her ancestors walked these halls, then gruesome acts and religious imagery were some of the few subjects artists felt drawn to. 

But she liked pretty things, too. Viserys had once called her taste childish, scoffing at the bright colors and abstract styles that impressionists used. Rhaenyra thought it interesting, how so much could be said with so little detail. How much richer it was to look at, when such things were left up to imagination. 

It took talent, the modern paintings equivalent in her mind to a poem that shared as much as a published volume of history. More words didn’t make something better. Didn’t make something true. Perhaps that was why she hated her reflection, for it was more detailed than any picture or portrait, but it didn’t seem to portray who she was at all. 

Maybe it was part of what drew her to Daemon, curiosity not stemming from his unruliness but rather his shared interest in the world. Or maybe it was envy, either for his talent or his passion and ability  to commit years of his life to its study. She would have no such luxury, at least not within the walls of a classroom. 

She had her tutors, but her concerns once her education finished would be with the country, the people, not silly pictures, as her mother called them. Everything Rhaenyra liked was silly, her interests brushed aside while her mother insisted upon the importance of charity work and appearances. As if they weren’t one in the same, money directed towards causes that would make them look better, prop up their position even higher while doing alarmingly little for the lower class. 

Not that she cared about that, either. She was just tired. Tired of true intentions being hidden behind bobbed hair and bright smiles. Speeches about how they were doing their best that people would accept simply because her father was nicely dressed and descended from the King’s and Queen’s that lined the halls of England's finest gallery. 

It was exhausting, the inability to be yourself, even in your own rooms. Though this was the closest she could come, and so she shouldn’t have felt the need to justify her decor choices to him, a near stranger despite their shared blood.

But they were her choices and for once, she was curious what someone would think of them. What he would think of them. He had a quick wit that kept up with her own. He was handsome, and he knew it, but he didn’t hold that like a weapon against her throat—didn’t use it as an excuse to make cutting remakes. At least not towards her. She didn’t think he would tease her, if she told the truth—and so, she did. 

“I don’t like my reflection,” She admitted. The words sounded silly between them, and she suddenly cursed herself for not making up another reason. 

Her distaste for such a thing had stemmed from her childhood, the warnings of how she was a reflection of her family turning literal in her younger selves mind. She feared she would see them looming behind her in the pane of glass, like a shadow of ancestors warning her of the potential for disappointment. 

She grew out of the childish fear, but not the dislike for such objects. She didn’t like looking at herself—being forced to see what others did. See what others believed. The good girl who always had fresh stockings and polished shoes, skirts the perfect length—necklines appropriately modest. Compliments towards her were endless, and well earned by the effort she put in. She knew she was comely, not needing a mirror to prove she was pretty. 

Not just pretty, but perfect. 

She didn’t feel perfect. She didn’t want to be perfect. And she didn’t want to see evidence of the illusion her appearance gave. Didn't want to become convinced by her own tricks, for fear she might lose sight of her own self. 

“You surprise me.” He admitted, though the words sounded fond. “I thought a princess would want to do little but stare at her beauty.” 

She tilted her head up, trying to stand taller—as if that would disguise the feeling that curled in her gut, the one that made her feel uncertain and small from her inexperience .  She’d been called beautiful before—many times in fact, far more directly than his comment, which was really more of an implication than a statement. 

But it felt different between the four walls of her room. Different when they were alone. Different when it was Daemon, and he was looking at her like that.

She laughed, hoping it sounded natural despite the tightening of her throat— “Hardly so.” And then she smiled, though it wasn’t as genuine as she’d like, either, “Are all princesses not beautiful? What need does a rose have to remind itself of its petals?” It was his turn to laugh, a sound quite a bit deeper than hers—and one that made her feel something deep inside her own gut

“Are you a rose then?” He asked, and she shrugged. “Perhaps.” 

He took a step closer, “A proper english rose?” 

She took a step back, and it wasn’t lost on her that he was herding—for that’s what it felt like, her closer towards the bed. This was supposed to be her territory, but somehow he was the collie and this was his field. 

“I don’t know.” She admitted, feeling quite like a dim sheep. 

Daemon paused—seeming surprised that she had discontinued their banter. But he wasn’t discouraged, going so far as to reach his arms out and pull her towards him. She followed his lead, as he folded her into an embrace.  

Rhaenyra hadn’t hugged many men—perhaps a dozen? And none so recently as a girl—near women, of sixteen. She hadn’t realized how much she missed it. How good it felt to nuzzle closer against the crisp lapels. The warm scent of smoke and spicy cologne they used to try and cover it was so distinctly man . It distracted her into relaxing, though she had enough awareness to notice the comically loud sniffing noise. 

She pulled back, affronted—looking up at his grinning face. “You smell like a rose.” He said, and she laughed, tipping easily back into his arms and making a point to noisily sniff his collar—she had to go on her tiptoes to do so, and her lips brushed his jaw in the process. 

She didn’t think it was intentional on her part. But maybe it was. She certainly didn’t protest at his response, which consisted of catching her face  in his palm. Tipping her chin up until her gaze was forced to meet his own. His hand stroked down her jaw, thumb pressing at the hollow of her throat before cupping her neck.It was odd, the weight of a hand there, though not unpleasant. 

It fell to her waist, pulling her closer to him still before he tipped his own jaw and brought their lips together. Rhaenyra had kissed a few boys, and a few men, but none like this. This was the type of kiss children weren’t allowed to see—it wasn’t a promise of affection, it was a promise of more, of lust. 

She’d heard whispers of naughty stories, even thought she’d come close to being kissed in such a manner herself! But this was different. It was intoxicating, the way his tongue pressed against hers—exploring her mouth and claiming the territory as its own before his teeth followed, scraping against her bottom lip and inspiring her to follow his lead. 

They ended up on her bed, somehow. He must have had more awareness than her, because she felt them moving—felt his hands running down her back and gripping her hips as she attempted to straddle him. She swore at the style of her dress, too narrow for what she wanted. The rayon made noises of protests as it tore from the strain, but the stiff lining beneath trapped her legs all the same.

It wasn’t elegant how she huffed, jumping off Daemon before fussing with hooks to try and remove it. Daemon laughed, but it wasn’t a cruel sound—simply one of amusement over her antics. He pulled her closer to him, attempting to undo the hooks at her side while he remained seated on her bed. He wasn’t doing a very good job, she noted. He seemed distracted by looking at her. His eyes unapologetically meeting her own, as if looking for an answer to something.

Finally she grew frustrated, “What?” 

He shook his head, returning to the task at her waistline while he spoke, “I just, can’t imagine why you wouldn’t like looking at yourself.”

Her breath caught. “It’s not that.” She said, wetting her lips—her mouth that had seemed wet to the point of embarrassing when they were kissing now felt dry. “I just don’t think it’s very accurate.” she paused, “Or maybe it’s too accurate.” she pondered, wondering if that was the truth of it. 

“Have you had your portrait painted?” He asked, successfully freeing her from the taffeta skirts. She awkwardly slipped out of it, hating the inconvenience of side closures. She was sure she looked a mess now—hair rumpled and in nothing but a slip, but it was hard to be embarrassed with the way Daemon looked at her. 

“No,” she said slowly. “Not since the invention of cameras.” she teased. 

“A painting wouldn’t show you what you look like. It would show you what I see when I look at you.” He said, sounding awfully serious despite her state of undress. 

“Are they not the same?” She asked, fingering the undone  lengths of his tie. 

He smiled, leaning back against the bed. “Let me show you,” 

“Now?” She teased.

He shook his head, “No, now I’ll show you something else.” 

It was her turn to grin. 

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She hadn’t planned this. Inviting him to her room. She thought he was handsome, true. Interesting, perhaps. But she hadn’t expected this fascination —the way her eyes followed his every move. She understood now, the way maidens would wait on their suitors every breath. It would have been pathetic, maybe it was, but he was too charming to make her feel anything other than warm.

And then after dinner, he had cornered her. 

“I wish we had more time to talk privately, princess.” 

“Talk?” She had queried, a bit skeptical.

“In your rooms, maybe.” He had hinted, reaching to wipe something from her shoulder—a piece of imaginary lint, to be sure, her attendant would never allow her to leave her room with such a thing on her person.

“My mother would say you are seeking an invitation for something less savory than talking ” She said, blushing a little at the implication. If she was wrong, if he truly craved mere conversation, he’d think her probing foolish. 

“And if I am?” He asked, not looking the least bit bothered by her search for the true meaning of his words. 

“I suppose…I would say to follow me.” 

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She hadn’t spoken to him of her inexperience. She assumed he knew of it—she was a princess, with few opportunities, and few interactions with men willing to risk their place by propositioning her. Not to mention the scandal it would cause if news broke that she…before marriage, gods. It felt too late to mention it, when she had already agreed to have him in her rooms. She knew what the implications of that were, she wasn’t dim. 

When a man asked to go to your room, it was because it had a bed, and beds were for….

She knew the basics of what they were for at least. She just didn’t know about… this. She thought it would be awkward. A bit of fumbling before two nude forms met each other. She didn’t expect the teasing—the tongue tracing her shoulder blades while teeth plucked silk straps from them. 

There was so much kissing—endlessly their mouths met, drinking each other's moans and laughs and cries as their hips ground together in a way that inspired their lungs sing in pleasure. 

Rhaenyra didn’t have much insecurity about what lay beneath her slip, constant dress fittings and physicals long sense undoing her sense of modesty. She had un-stylishly full breasts that felt heavy but sat high on her chest, even when the hooks of her bra were undone. Her waist was small, but curved into hips that she swore made their own sigh of relief as she peeled her girdle off. Curves weren’t in fashion, much to her chagrin. The suit of nylon an attempt to hold in what her body begged to truly be. Because of this she was unsurprised by the fact the metal suspenders had dug in, leaving angry marks behind as she tossed aside her hose. 

When she turned back to Daemon—feeling relief over the removal of the offending garments rather than embarrassment over her bare body, she delighted in his expression. It was a bit awed, a bit dumbstruck. He looked younger—lighter, and it was so sweet she had to stifle a giggle. 

He made no move to well… move, and she huffed, her patience wearing thin even if he was looking at her so nicely. “It’s your turn.” She said firmly, and he nodded—his tie had been loosened by her wandering hands, so it came free easily. She was sure a few links for the buttons would be found in the plush carpets of her room, so that garment was swiftly set aside too. It was hard to care about her potential carnage, when she was so eager in wanting more of him to be exposed to her. 

And when he was… gods. 

Rhaenyra thought she knew what the male form looked like. She treasured her books on greek sculpture after all! She’d been to galleries across Europe. Her fingers had traced the marble lines of Michelangelo's most famous  works. And so she didn’t think a nude man would be a stranger to her, and it wasn’t strange! It was…gorgeous. 

She realized she probably had a similar expression that he’d had a moment prior—something dumb as she took in what was his naked body. As she came to terms with what she wanted to do to his naked body. Desires she certainly hadn’t felt when looking at the marble forms in a gallery. She swallowed, before gesturing for him to come closer. It tickled her, how he obeyed, how he brought his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. 

He was softer than a statue, made from flesh and bone and sculpted by the gods rather than the palms of a mere mortal. Perhaps that was why he was even more lovely than any creation she’d seen in a museum. But she couldn’t reflect on this for long, not when his fingers were roaming and tongue lapping at the swell of her breast. 

He was lazy in the exploration of her body, unhurried in a way that both tormented and thrilled her. Though he seemed to move too slowly, time was passing so quickly, pleasure seeming to turn to steam and rise through the air before grasp it with her palms or come to terms with it at all. And when his mouth met her cunt—

Gods. 

This must be what people lived for. What they killed for. What wars were waged for. This feeling, it was everything. She was lost in it, the tongue battling against her folds despite both being on the same side that was her pleasure. She didn’t know when her fingers found his hair, but they were twisted in the silver locks—holding on so tightly it must have hurt—but when she let go he growled. It was as if her grip had kept the beast at bay, and now it was freed from her thighs and ready to strike, its mouth meeting her own as they teeth clashed and in a sloppy kiss. 

Her hands found his hair again, and their bodies found each other too—slotting together like they were made for this, it took the simple guidance from Daemon’s fingers to press his length inside of her. She thought it hurt, but she was distracted by the fact she was being devoured. By the fact his teeth were digging into her neck and his thumb twisting the peak of her breast. There were too many sensations flowing through her for the contractions in her cunt to phase her. 

Not until they started feeling good. 

She was quiet now, she thought—no longer moaning, her lips silenced by Daemon’s own. The noise was of him inside her the slick slapping sound of flesh repeatedly meeting each other. The sound reminded her of a baker kneading dough until it was ready to rise, and that made her want to laugh too—but she couldn’t, she didn’t have space inside her to make sounds. She was too full of him.

Gods, perhaps he was kneading her rearranging her with his cock until she was perfect for him. And she was rising for him, too, everything seeming to tighten as she approached a new height she didn't think she was capable of. She was delirious now—comparing herself to baked goods! Whatever she was, whatever this was, it truly was good. It was better than good. It was… everything. 

It was perfect. But better than that. Because it was tangible and real. 

She was still holding onto his hair when he came, ducking his head in the side of her neck and pressing gentle kisses to the curve of it. She winced when he slipped out of her, the absence of pleasure making lingering pains noticeable. 

He stood and slipped the rubber from his length, which she was equal parts fascinated with and disgusted by, before lazily throwing it in a waste basket that was decorated with baroque scrolls. 

 She had a moment of fear when he reached for his pants—it was mixed with embarrassment and attraction to his nude form, but the fear overshadowed them both for she was worried he would leave. 

He didn’t, though. He fished out a lighter and a package of cigarettes before dropping the wool trousers to the floor. When he returned to her, he propped himself back against the headboard, and made no move to cover himself before lighting the coil of paper. 

“Have you smoked before?” he asked, looking at her curiously. She shook her head, eyes following the trail of smoke that blew from his lips. 

When he passed it to her, she took it eagerly—-following the steps she’d seen her father and his men do thousands of times before. She coughed inelegantly, inhaling too deeply and too much before cringing in embarrassment at her poor showing. When she caught her breath, she was happy to pass the offending thing back to him, shivering a little at the drag of his calloused fingers against her own.

“It takes practice.” He insisted, showing off by blowing a ring of smoke towards her ceiling. 

“Does that get better with practice, too?” She asked, looking at the space between them to implyl the true meaning of her words. 

“You hadn’t done that before, either.” He said, catching her gaze. She didn’t think it was a question but she shook her head all the same.

“When you come to my studio, you can find out.” He said, a little smug. 

She tried not to show her enthusiasm, her pleasure that he still wanted to see her again. She had heard of men and their appetites, knew that his charm might be as much of a facade as her own. Falling from his features when he was alone and had no need for her body for his pleasure. 

“You still want me to come?” She asked, trying to be brave as she stole the cigarette from his hand. She didn’t cough this time, which seemed to please them both.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He asked, his expression one of amusement, causing little wrinkles to form at the corners of his eyes. She reached out to feel them, stretching the skin that wasn’t her own with her thumbs and grinning because he let her. 

“Some might say a deflowered rose has little left to offer.” She said, a bit primly, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to see how he’d respond. 

He surprised her, putting the cigarette out on the lacquered surface of her night stand—chemicals melting and mixing with the scent of smoke. It would leave a mark, she realized. One she’d have to explain, but that was for later, and for now he was pulling her back into his lap—a duvet between their loins but leaving enough skin exposed to make her blush. 

“I don’t think that’s true.” He said, leaning back against the headboard and cradling her hips with his palms. “About the deflowered rose, they still have lots to offer.” He specified. 

She giggled, cupping his face, “Like what, exactly?” she asked. 

They were maybe an inch apart now—noses brushes, breath tangled, when he whispered, “They still have thorns.” 

.

Daemon left that night, like she knew he would. 

The smell of smoke faded.

Rhaenyra wrapped the rubber in toilet paper, stuffing it beneath every bit of garbage she could find in her room with hopes of disguising it. The sigh of relief she felt when trash was emptied with no question was astonishing. 

No one asked about the mark on her side table, but it remained. A divet in the lacquer, showing a man's defiance—only a few feet away from her own act of rebellion, scratches at the seam of foiled paper. 

It was the only outside sign of his presence in her rooms. Aside from the square of paper he’d withdrawn from his pocket before leaving. It had the address, for his apartment and his studio on it, written in the hand of a well bred Targaryen, not a loop out of place—too ingrained in them from a young age to be absent even in a casual missive.  

The paper was worn now, from being folded and carried in her pocket. Even though she had memorized the numbers that very night she took it with her everywhere. Too afraid someone else would find it. Too afraid to throw it away. She needed it as a reminder he was real. That this was real. 

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His studio was small, in a good part of the city but a poorly maintained building. The windows were big, and the amount of light extraordinary—but it was drafty, curtains doing little to hide this as they blew in the breeze from the gaps in the window panes. 

The floors were old planks, the finish long since having worn away, leaving them an uneven shade of brown that was barely remedied by the cedar oil she could still smell in the air. It hid the scent of damp, at least, mixing with the smoke of his cigarettes and his cologne. 

She loved it, though. The mismatched pieces of furniture and the large rugs clashed horribly but did a great deal to cover the damaged floors. And there was art everywhere. Not the type in her books, or in the galleries, or not just those types. 

His collection was varied—he seemed to dislike most of them when she inquired, which amused her endlessly. But he had such an appreciation for their existence and creativity. The way he talked about art, the way he respected things for being different, rather than trying to make them all the same.

It was…extraordinary. 

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He is extraordinary, she thought, when they reached his own works. The talents of the old masters mixed with a modern palette, creating something modern but respectful and not at all like she had expected from him. 

It was genuine, when she said she loved his work. 

It was scary how genuine she thought the same words might be in regards to her feelings for him.

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He drew her with charcoal first. Portraits and limbs and a dozen poses. Quick sketches that hardly looked like her but exposed so much in the ways they did. 

His hands were a sooty mess after, leaving prints on her hips when he fucked her. He’d laid her over the drafting table, every thrust of his hips pressing her breasts against his drawings, smudging the lines and obscuring the subject further. 

“They’re ruined,” She said, running her fingers over the dark lines that dragged across the page. Sweat and oils from her skin having distorted the beautiful forms he’d outlined on the paper. But he shook his head and sounded confident when he said, “They are exactly what I wanted.” 

She wondered if she was what he wanted. 

She was grateful she wore black that day, as she pulled the cotton twill over her smudged chest. Grateful for her etiquette lessons, for it kept the tears at bay when she said goodbye. 

“You’ll be back.” He said, and it wasn’t a question. But she wasn’t sure it was something she could promise, either. 

That night she was intentional in the way she looked at her reflection. Thinking for the first time she looked like something of her own making. Or of his. 

It washed down the drain, leaving behind once more pale skin.

.

She was punished for missing her lessons. Questioned about where she went and what she did. The unaccounted for hours in her life seemingly unacceptable to those who were paid to care for her. 

Viserys assigned her a new guard, a man of the faith turned devotee to the crown, who watched her like a hawk with clear blue eyes. Her every step was shadowed by his own, his looming presence at her door long after she went to bed. The worst of her indiscretions had not been realized, but she was being punished for them all the same. 

She saw Daemon once at a dinner, weeks later, but they didn’t have a chance to mingle or speak. 

He was not shy in the way he gazed at her, she would even say he was rude in how he started. But she didn’t mind it. She liked it, the feeling of being alive under his gaze, of being seen. She had forgotten how heady that feeling was, how desperate she was for more of it. 

But it seemed life was determined to keep her from it. He was noticeably absent from the small birthday celebration they had for her the following month, the larger party canceled due to talks of war which would make celebration seem uncouth.

 “Oh, his behavior towards you didn’t seem quite appropriate.” Her mother admitted, giving her an apologetic smile along with the explanation. 

His interest in her hadn’t gone unnoticed. And her mother—or the crown, did it even matter which? Had decided it wasn’t of her interest. 

Rhaenyra stared at the mark on her nightstand. 

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Then, one day, it was gone. 

“There was a dent—some sort of damage, I do apologize for it not being noticed earlier.” 

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It was replaced with something eighteenth century—white with gold gilt. It was pretty. It fit the room perfectly. It was as if the previous piece was never there. A priceless antique that had been in the palace for centuries was easily replaceable to a family like hers. 

She wondered if she would be replaced that easily too. 

Her brother Baelon was young, but of just as good breeding. His hair was platinum and his irises purple. He would have the same tutors as her, and tailors. Even more opportunities than her thanks to his gender. What would happen if she stumbled? If she became marred like the nightstand was. She might not be thrown away—but she would be set aside, something better taking her place. 

She didn’t get much sleep—her eyes were searching for something that was no longer there. 

Her mind was searching for a reason to stay here. 

.

She should have been ashamed, that when she heard the news of an invasion that could motivate England to finally act, that her first thought was of freedom. People were scared, and when scared they were sloppy. 

She stole a coat, giggling despite her unease in regards to this escape. It swallowed the red burgundy velvet of her gown, hiding the stretches of skin that had been allowed for the evening and falling past her hands. It was easy to slip away while cocooned in its embrace. She kept her head ducked low while she caught a car. 

The address spilled from her lips quickly, eagerly, the engine revving as it accelerated towards the outskirts of London. The driver was listening to the radio so loudly it hurt her ears, but she could barely hear it over the pounding in her chest. She was grateful for it, either way, that he didn’t try to make conversation. 

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The car didn’t linger, seeming to disappear as soon as her heel met the curb. Four steps lead to the door that boasted his address, something old and grand and appropriate for a member of her family to have. 

Leaves decorated the stoop, saturated with water and squelching unattractively beneath the leather soles of her shoes. She realized, somewhere between paying her fare and knocking on the door before her, that this was perhaps a foolish idea—what if he wasn’t there? What if he laughed at her? What if—

The door opened.

The hall behind him was dimly lit, and she realized he must have been sleeping because a pair of half buttoned pajama pants were all that covered his form. She couldn’t help but grin at his tired state, his rumpled hair. 

A giddiness at being close to him again overtook the nerves and then he was kissing her. 

.

The next morning he made her eggs, while she watched in rapt fascination—never actually witnessing the task before. He drank coffee instead of tea, offering her some only to laugh when she nearly spat it back into the mug. “It takes some getting used to,” he said. 

“I think I’d like to get used to it.” She admitted quietly, looking down at the mug of dreadful liquid. It may have been vile but she was grateful for the grounding nature of its heat in her palms, the euphemism it offered when discussing a more challenging topic. 

“There would be a media storm,” Daemon mused, though he didn’t look bothered by the thought. 

“We’re British, we can handle some rain, can’t we?” 

“I do have experience making women wet.” He said cheekily. She gaped at the jest, reaching over the counter to hit him, but he caught her palm and pulled her to him. 

“I’d like to weather a storm with you.” He said, more serious now. 

“I’d like to do more than just that.” She admitted, smiling before their lips met—and she found coffee didn’t taste as bad from his tongue. 

.

They went to his studio—the radio turned off, eating rations an older woman from upstairs insisted on dropping off. She was nearly blind, Daemon whispered to Rhaenyra before letting her in. Daemon told her that they were newlyweds and the woman grinned, saying she would be back—- muttering something about fuel before trudging up the remaining stairs. 

Daemon posed her, and sketched at a canvas for what felt like hours before they broke for lunch. They ate her offerings and napped on a dusty chaise lounge. They didn’t wear much clothing, too enamored with each other's nude forms to bother. 

Daemon became nearly frantic in his work—layering oils and mixing paint until the smell of turpentine permeated the air,  growing even stronger as hours passed. He was too caught up in his work to take breaks for smoking, or —to her annoyance, sex, at least not until the light turned bad. 

Then they would come together, in more ways than one. 

.

When he showed it to her, she almost wanted to cry. Because it was her. Hair long, eyes alluring, lips turned up in something her mother would call a smirk. Her form was bare but for a sheet, as was her face and she had never looked more...perfect was a cursed word on her tongue. She wouldn’t use it. 

But this was how she wanted to be seen. 

And it was how he saw her.

And that was all that seemed to matter.

.

She felt very young and small as they left his studio—dressed in an ill fitting navy suit and large sunglasses that hid the most notable of her features. She’d huffed, when the store didn’t have any pants—a novel style she had never been offered the opportunity to wear in her life in the palace. Daemon promised she could have all the pants she wanted, they just had to get out of this god forsaken country first. 

It was strange how no one looked at them on the busy streets, too caught up with their jobs and lives and concerns with war to be bothered by the pair of blondes slipping onto a train. 

Daemon had a friend file paperwork for them, ink drying on the license declaring them wed before they even stepped off the train. They stayed at an inn, a raunchy establishment named Silk Street. Daemon loudly exclaimed his intentions towards his new bride before the evening began, and though she had been embarrassed at first, she drank too much and had too much fun dancing with him to care by the time they retired. 

“They have to know I deflowered you,” he said between kisses, “Can’t let them take you away from me.” he insisted, sounding almost desperate, justifying the treatment he gave her with a few more whispers before dropping his mouth to her cunt.  

She tried not to give him the satisfaction of screaming—biting her fist until the marks bruised. But soon she couldn’t resist, whimpers and shouts turning to broken cries while her hands grasped his hair. 

.

When they left the next day, there were jeers and glares in equal measure. 

.

The room on their ship was, thankfully, better insulated. 

.

Rumors didn’t break of that night, or their travels. Though Rhaenyra had little doubt word of it made it to her parents—the crown. She hadn’t heard from them either, despite sending them her address months prior. It was her friend—another cousin, Laena, who told her that they placed a tiny announcement in the paper. There wasn’t even a photo, just a short message saying she had wed and moved to another country with her husband. 

Baelon was announced as heir a week later. 

Rhaenyra was right, she was easily replaced—at least in their eyes. 

.

There never was a media storm like they worried, she thought, looking down at a newspaper sticking to the wet concrete while she waited for the stupid beasts they called pets to find a place suitable to pee. They were unbothered by the rain that dampened the shoulders of her coat, the scent of wet wool mixing with the rose perfume she still favored.

It hadn’t been long, since they had left. Months, though it felt like a lifetime sometimes. Reminders were still easy to come by, poking at fears that had yet to come to fruition. Her parents held the strings too tightly for her betrayal to be fully revealed. But she had worn a veil at first, when she left their apartment—not  because she mourned her old life, but because she feared strangers would recognize her in this one.

She didn’t bother anymore. Between the flush that winter left on her cheeks, her loose hair, and the dark coat, she found there were few similarities to the english princess she once was. She liked wearing Daemon’s old things, hanging off her shoulders and belted tight around her tiny waist. But he kept his promise, buying her pants, though they both preferred her in skirts for… reasons. 

She painted her nails red. Wore red lipstick, too, and though Daemon complained about the marks it left on his neck, he didn’t seem to mind them late at night when it left rings around his cock. That was something she had learned about, too. There was freedom in this life, a type she’d never known. 

The pair of hounds pulled her towards home golden and red coats shiny even in the poor weather. They stopped twice to sniff in front of a barber shop, where a large mirror served as a backdrop for their list of services. She found herself unbothered by it, blinking mindlessly at her reflection before pulling the beasts towards home.

She was eager to be home—tossing the twill leashes, coat, and keys into a heap by the front door. Daemon would scold her for it later, but she didn’t care. He thought he was so much more dignified than her, learning menial tasks while he was at university. She’d had maids for those things, and hadn’t quite built the habits he boasted just yet. 

She hadn’t tried that hard, either. But she would rather learn than get a maid—she didn’t want to give up their privacy. The luxury of being responsible for the state of their own things. She wasn’t sure they could afford one, either. . 

They weren’t rich the way her parents were—how could they be, when they were people rather than an institution? But Daemon had his mothers old apartment and investments, teasing that she was his favorite,   given that she willed it to him despite being the forgotten third son.

“Is that why you are so attention seeking?” She had asked, “Worried they will forget you if you aren’t in print at the breakfast table?” 

“Me? Of course not. I’m unforgettable.” He had argued, and Rhaenyra found she couldn’t disagree. 

.

He made sure she would never be forgotten, too. 

.

Every stroke reads like a sentence, leaving the finished piece more akin to a love letter than a painting. It’s extraordinary how he captures her—his wife of twelve years, and the once princess, Rhaenyra Targaryen. It’s her nude body we admire, but it seems only a fair exchange given the way her husband bares his soul. 

It’s no wonder they’ve taken the art scene by storm, and I feel lucky to have been in its path. The wreckage of emotions left behind is a gift as it renders you more time to examine the beauty of their shared work. 

.

end

Edits by me! I Dividers by Firefly Graphics

this was written for my prompt summer snippet event!

this was written for reflection and storm.