#targarynes

Tension was a familiar guest when it came to family dinners—it had been ever since Aemma died, taking her seat at the table and making the atmosphere into something fragile and threatening instead of floral scented and welcoming, like her late mothers perfume and cadence had been.

Its presence had been nearly constant ever since Daemon was sent away for the first time. Since Viserys married a girl only a handful years older than his own daughter—a handful years older than her. Since said girl gave birth to a boy, the heir her father always wanted. It had been invited into her life by her fathers actions, and though it wasn’t a welcome guest, it couldn’t be excused, either, not when the relationships between them all were tenuous at best. 

Well, except for her relationship with Daemon. 

Or—the relationship she used to have with Daemon. 

He clashed with his brother, her father, and she knew that. But his frustrations always faded when he turned to her, smiles warming his handsome face and inspiring matching grins to light up her own. He traveled often, but he always came back to her. He always promised to come back. 

Their family business wasn’t a kind one. It was one built on fear and maintained with equal quantities of bribes and bloodshed. Nothing was safe, and nearly no one could be trusted —-a simple fundraiser was more of a menagerie than a place to meet people. Wolves and lions stalked around corners, looking for prey while disguised by their designer suits. Snakes slithered between tanned legs and heels, on their best behavior as they spoke only sweetness, scales and venom hidden by saccharine promises and shrill laughter. 

She’d had nightmares of vipers once. Of being lost in a  jungle, the screech and roars of wild cats closing in. Of being on a cliff with a pack of large canines approaching—forcing her closer to the edge, that seemed to crumble away with her every move. 

It was Daemon who had comforted her then, who wiped her tears and kissed her hair. Who told her that she was a dragon, and no other creature was immune to fire. 

“And, I’m a dragon too, so I’ll protect you.” 

She had believed him then. And in the years that followed. She had believed him the previous year—when she turned seventeen. 

.

Her party—(if you could call the gathering of hundreds collected in the gardens that seemed to extend miles from the mansion she shared with her father a party), was perhaps the only time she had felt something resembling tension between them. Though it was different—it was the sexual variety, even if she hadn’t recognized it as that at the time. 

It was the first time in two years she had seen him. And his behavior wasn’t so different from when she was younger—shorter— thinner. But now she was older, and—okay, she wasn’t that much taller. But what she lacked in height she made up for in hips—in her bust, curves that weren’t fully contained by the modest gown Alicent had insisted she wear this day.

But perhaps more importantly, she was legal. 

She had googled it once, out of curiosity. Telling herself it was natural to be interested, shouldn’t the daughter of the ‘ King’ know what the rules were—the laws were, even when her family weren’t required to follow them?

Maybe that was why the casual brushes of his thumb against her neck, and the way his palm ran down her arm felt different. The action hadn’t changed, but she had. The possibility of what they could lead to had, too. 

That thought had come to her early in the evening, and it hadn’t left. It hadn’t had a chance too—now when it grew and curled, flames being stoked by every stroke Daemon left against her skin. Of which there were many. Daemon was tactile, and she was too—she had been ever since Aemma died, craving the physical closeness and evidence that someone was next to her.

It was one of the things she missed most, when he was gone. Praise found her easily, from boys and girls and magazines. But the casual intimacy was one she couldn’t replace so easily. It required an amount of trust she couldn’t afford to give up.

But more importantly she couldn’t give up the flicker of hope that Daemon might—-well. 

Daemon had always indulged her, but it hadn’t felt like this. Hadn’t made little shivers run through her. Hadn’t made her feel warm inside. Hadn’t made her blush. He’d hardly left her side the night of her birthday, that night , and he was perceptive, he had to have known she didn’t drink more than a few sips from her cocktail—which was something fruity he stole for her from the bar.

“It’s your birthday!” He’d said cheerfully, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before pressing the cold glass into her clammy hand. She had nodded, taking a tiny sip—but finding herself too distracted to swallow much more throughout the evening. 

But even so, he teased her, asked her why she was flushed, implied she was tipsy when he knew damn well the only thing she was drunk on was his affection. 

They’d been seated apart at dinner, and every gaze—every sip of water, even every bite of food somehow felt like foreplay. Not that she knew much about that. She was well guarded, with her father being the ‘King’ and few men would dare to even consider deflowering her. It was annoying. 

She’d kissed boys, she’d flirted, she’d done enough to recognize that whatever was between them this night wasn’t the type of familiarity most would approve of—not between family. Not between her, and someone nearly twice her age. Not between her and her uncle. 

The tension she knew from previous dinners was a warning—something threatening to snap and lash everyone in its wake, but this— this was a tightening in her gut that warmed her to the very core. 

Still, in the end, she had been hurt by it. 

.

It was already late when she tumbled into her room, giggling as she rolled across the fresh sheets stretched taut across the pillowy mattress. They were pink. Girlish in childish, the way her father preferred her. It was easier to pretend then, that she wasn’t a person, that she wasn’t a woman. 

Gods, she was sick of pretending. 

And Daemon wanted to give her a night where she didn’t have to. 

The letter was crisp on her pillow—the handwriting familiar, one she’d seen on cards every year since she was old enough to read. But this one was more than that. It was an invitation. 

She didn’t see the hurt coming, then. Nor when she pulled on a simple tube dress that would serve as her disguise for the few hours remaining before dawn. She definitely didn’t see it coming when she slipped out the back door, running barefoot across the garden with her heels in her hand, before coming across the alcove where her uncle was hidden. 

If she was distracted then—when she giggled into his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him, she was delirious when they got to the club. She hadn’t drunk anything more—though Daemon had offered, and she hadn’t taken anything either, annoyingly—Daemon had stopped her. But she was grateful for it now, because she felt high from feeling of him against her. The pounding of the music. The dim lighting of the club, pounding in time with the beat of her heart that seemed to thrum only for this moment.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed like that. Until they were sweaty enough they feared drowning—desperate the escape the heat of the dance floor, but finding a different sort of heat in their embrace.

They spilled out a back door, and she sighed in relief as the air hit her—the humid night tempered into something cool thanks to the early hour. It was an alleyway that greeted them, she thought, but she didn’t see much of it—didn’t care much about anything at all, not when her hands were in his hair and his lips were against her own. 

It hurt when he pressed her against the wall —she felt the sting on her palms from the concrete, layers of skin peeled back, and she grinned at that. She laughed at the feeling of his  teeth, the bite of them into her tender neck that would turn to bruises on her pale flesh. She wouldn’t have minded if—in fact she resented that he didn’t hurt her more. 

She’d wanted to feel the stretch of him in her cunt—the bruising force of hips against her, as the hard member she’d felt in the club pressed into her, freed from the barrier of his dark washed jeans. So perhaps it was her fault, what followed. A manifestation of her misinterpreted dreams, a suffering that couldn’t come from the width of his cock, or the pressure of his palms around her neck. 

Because the true hurt came when he left. 

And for the first time, he didn’t promise to come back. 

.

He didn’t  say goodbye. 

.

He didn’t comment when pictures of that night were leaked. 

.

He didn’t  text when she turned eighteen. 

.

He didn't reply to the good news, either. 

.

Now, on this day—a year and some months since they had seen each other, there was once again tension between them. It felt like a blanket, smothering everyone within glaring distance of them. Even her father looked uncomfortable. Fuck, even Ageon looked uncomfortable, and that boy was as dull as an included diamond. 

She eyed her cutlery, because if she looked down she wouldn’t risk catching his gaze. Her fingers dragged across the polished ebony wood of the steak knife. You could cut the tension with a knife, she thought with a snort. Fuck, she wanted to cut him with her knife. 

She wanted to flay him open. Maybe rip out his heart, because maybe it could soothe the damage and hurt he’d done to hers. 

She swallowed her anger, returned her fingers to her lap. 

As she looked at them, without the distraction of tableware that could be used for violence, she found she needed to swallow a sob, too. 

Because the wedding ring was another reminder of what could never be. 

Written for THIS event, and THIS Ao3 collection.

My Ao3!