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Chapter Text

97 AC

Daemon did not expect this day to hold much significance. 

Few days did, for the young man who was merely a second son. 

It was early autumn, the leaves were beginning the to color. The air beginning to cool. His routine did not change, even though the seasons were. He practiced swordsmanship and tended to Caraxes — taking him for a long ride, made all the more pleasant by the crisp air. 

He enjoyed his routine, though not the monotonous nature of it. He had always been somewhat restless in Kings Landing. His quick temper and moods had grown worse with age, though now they were offset by good looks and a certain charm. 

It was difficult, being on the cusp of manhood — old enough to be a warrior, yet not fully trained as one. It was difficult to look to his brother, who had already wed at his age with babes on the way. He did not lack for friends, or companionship — no, he perhaps had too much of both. But he felt he was lacking something. Perhaps some certainty for his future, for now it looked bleak. 

Daemon loved his family, he did. There was little in life that mattered more to a Targaryen, for family was the center of all they had — their power, their love, their dragons. It was how they had reigned for hundreds of years, the marks on their flesh bonding them to each other in every generation.

A soul bond was a match stronger than any other. It could not ensure a life of happiness, but it guaranteed you would never be without the support of your partner. Strong marriages made for better parents, and better children, and better rulers. 

Soul marks were not so uncommon, but finding your match was. Many did not have the good fortune to travel in search of their intended partner, or such luxury to decline proposals that came closer to home. That is why the Targaryen’s were so prosperous, so highly regarded. Almost every babe born with a mark would see it brighten before they reached maturity. 

Because a Targaryen did not have to travel to find their intended. 

They were almost always born of the same house. 

…

Daemon’s had been told stories of their lineage since birth. His father had matched with his mother when she was still a babe, when she was first set in his arms they both cried out — for the blaze of the match could be felt, and left colorful marks behind. 

Viserys, his brother, had similar good fortune. He had been no more than a small boy when he met his cousin Aemma, and their match was made. A formal betrothal had followed, mere hours later. For who would fight what the fates divined? 

He tried not to be envious of his brother. Both the fact he would likely wear a crown one day, and the fact he was blessed with a match as a boy. His brothers life was not perfect, he was not as good looking nor as cunning. The years of his marriage had been cursed with miscarriage, one babe being born but never moving from its cradle. His brother was lucky in love, but not in life. 

Yet Daemon sometimes felt he was neither. The dark mark marred his arm, the color of soot as it had been since he was born. At sixteen it was strange he had not yet found his match. Some said he was fortunate — to not be tied down. To be able to train, fight, and fuck, and not worry about a woman at home. 

He did not entirely disagree. 

But he was surrounded by matches, colorful swathes of skin that reminded what he was missing. The fact there was someone out there for him, and he had not yet been offered the privilege of meeting them. 

Or maybe, they weren’t out there any longer — maybe they were dead, and his mark would stay unchanging until he too was taken. If there was an afterlife, would they be united then?

It was almost a fate worse than no mark at all. The promise, but no resolution. The hope preventing you from wedding another, but stalling your life if you did not. A mark that went unmatched was seen as a failing in his family, and he could not help but to feel a failure. 

It was not something he liked feeling. He had excelled in sword fighting, and dragon riding, and never struggled with his more traditional education. He was handsome, and had been called charismatic from a young age. He had never lacked confidence, even if he lacked a match.

But he felt like he lacked something. 

He longed to escape the reminders of that, and hoped travels to different kingdoms and reaching adulthood would soothe what marred his flesh and existence. 

Today may not have been significant to him, not yet at least, but it was to his brother. It was the second week of his child’s life, the day he intended on introducing her to all. He was proud in his fatherhood, but hesitant to celebrate her life too early. The memories of an unmoving pale infant was all too present in his mind, and he would not be premature in declaring this child’s life. 

But at two weeks, by all accounts, she was healthy — quick to cry, difficult to soothe, but strong. And her dragon had hatched, a promising sign if there every was one. 

She was also, Daemon knew, marked. A small smudge on the child’s arm. It would be rare if she wasn’t, for a couple blessed with a match was all the more likely to produce a child that would have the same opportunity. 

But still, this also implied a future for her — a future beyond a deathbed. 

Daemon was glad for his brother, and hoped this child lived. Hoped she brought life and happiness to the cold castle he called home. 

He was not overly excited to meet her, an infant having little interest to a sixteen year old boy. His brother may have taken joy in fatherhood, but the thought of that felt foreign and far away to Daemon. Still, appearances mattered, as did his brothers feeling. He was due to visit the babe, and he would not delay.

…

He was surprised — given his disinterest, how eager he was to see the infant. It seemed to intensify as he approached, and even from the doorway of his brothers chambers, he felt a pull to the crib — his eyes falling on it, curious at what the infant inside would look like. There had not been many children in the palace, and he was not sure if he had ever held a babe at all. 

But then his eyes finally settled on her, he found he wanted to correct that fact immediately. 

“She is beautiful, brother” Daemon said, holding the small babe in his arms. “Perhaps the most beautiful baby in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

He meant it, too, despite his inexperience with children he was sure there was not a more beautiful child or creature in existence. Her skin was pale, and her hair even paler. But her eyes were bright, enchanting and seemed to follow his. 

She was swaddled in a red blanket, which brought out the ruddiness in her cheeks and made her liveliness clear, even in her restful state. 

“I think she is in love, for I have not seen her more settled, even in sleep.” Aemma, said, still bedridden from the excursion of labor. It had been a fortnight now, but she remained weak — alert enough for company, and to be bathed and dressed, but still ordered to rest as she recovered. 

The council had spoken their concerns to Viserys, which came from the Maester Physician himself. Aemma had a difficult labor. There was a lot of blood, more than there should have been. He questioned if she would ever recover — and if she did, if she would ever be able to birth another child. 

Viserys was too deep in denial to consider the possibility. Brushing the councils concerns away, saying it was still early. Spending every spare moment with his wife and daughter. 

And now that Daemon could finally see her for himself, he understood why. There was something magnetic that seemed to radiate from the infant — a unique aura despite her young age. Holding her was a gift that allowed you to bask in her presence. 

The baby freed an arm from its wrappings, exposing a small hand, and a flash of black that contrasted against her fair skin. 

Though she was too young for it to be possible, he swore her lips curved into a smile. He wasn’t sure if it was magic, but he felt to be under a spell. He could not help but to smile back. 

She was going to be the Realm’s Delight, Viserys said. 

She may become his delight, too.

He cradled her in the crook of one arm — the baby was alert now, making little hiccups and stretching her limbs, as if desperate to touch him. He couldn’t help but indulge her, and reached for her. Her small hand wrapped around his index finger and —

It burned. 

Targaryen’s could not be burned by fire, they would only experience its pain in this moment. The flash against their skin, boiling, bubbling, blistering and then dissipating — leaving behind matching colors on their flesh.

Twin flames. 

A match alight, only to burn out in death. 

Chapter Text

97 AC

The small council was not pleased, nor was Viserys himself. 

“T-t-this is a great shock, and blessing, brother.” He had mumbled, after several moments of stunned silence following the forming of his match. Smoke still rose in the air, and he could still feel the sizzle of his flesh, where the brand he had been born with had finally flared into something more. 

Rhaenyra, the babe, continued to hold onto his fingertip — pleased to have his attention,  and unknowing that anything was wrong. 

Daemon closed his eyes, clearing his head of that moment and taking a deep breath, nothing was wrong. 

His grandfather, the King, seemed to be the only optimistic presence in the room. He had seen this happen with his son, when Baelon first touched his fingertips to Alyssa's cheek. He had seen Baelon love Alyssa as a babe, as a child, a sister, and eventually — a wife. He had all the confidence Daemon could do the same, and he was plain as much in his words.

“It is unusual. They didn’t have so many years between them, my son and daughter. But their love changed as they grew, and theirs will too. I experienced the same, with Alysanne.  This is not a curse, it is a blessing for this household and Daemon and Rhaenyra both.”

No one could argue with their King, but the silence spoke volumes. 

Daemon himself was disgusted, he could not imagine how Viserys felt — or those outside the family who were less accustomed to their traditions, even if they served their house and the crown. How was he supposed to see a babe, and correlate that with the thought of his future wife? 

Meeting your match — it was supposed to be a happy thing, a sign of good fortune, of a strong future. But how was anyone to look at the freshly drafted betrothal contract between the two — an infant and a man and feel any of those things? It caused his own stomach to roll. It was sick. It was wrong. He didn’t know how to exist, with this weighing on his chest. 

“Daemon,” Baleon — his father addressed him. His expression was grim, speaking of any sort of bond was difficult for him. Since Alyssa's passing, he had truly lost all spark, any semblance of himself. It was hard for him to find happiness in others bonds, when his own was lost. 

“You cannot shy from this. From her. Love her for what she is now, do not think of what she will one day be. But do not take for granted, what the gods have given to you this day.” Daemon nodded. 

“And—“ Baelon continued, “You must let him Viserys, for it is cruel to keep those destined apart.” 

Two sons, both somber, said “Yes, Father” in unison. 

98 AC 

Daemon had expected when he met his match that things would change. The burning sensation would extend to more than just his wrist, that the flames would lick at every part of his life turning it into something unrecognizable. 

Something better, people said. 

But life was not so different, for his intended was still an infant. And things did not feel better. He felt the glares, heard the whispers. The broken look Visersys gave him, whenever they were in each others presence. He had always thought his feelings of failure would be remedied when he met his match, but If anything they had intensified. 

He still trained with a sword, he still tended to Caraxes. He still escaped to Flea Bottom at every chance, spending time drinking, gambling, and more, as he always had. His exploits and activities remained the same, but they almost felt tainted now. As if his purpose for doing those things had changed, even though he had not intended it to be so. 

Rhaenyra was however…an unexpected bright spot. He had heeded his fathers advice, as had Viserys. He spent hours in the girls presence everyday. Usually finding himself in the nursery chambers during council meetings, when Viserys would be away. He had felt bad, at first, shirking his minimal council duties — but spending time with Rhaenyra was a duty of a different sort, and one he enjoyed far more. 

Aemma was often there, who was far more amicable to the match than many others. She thought it odd, but was unwilling to question what the gods had gifted them with. And the more time she spent in the presence of Daemon and Rhaenyra, the more convinced she became that their match was in fact a gift. 

Daemon was a knight now, a boy turned man of seventeen. She knew of his reputation in the city, in the silk streets. She had reservations about him being her daughters intended, knowing of this. She was worried he would not have any interest in her until she was of age. She was worried he would have too much interest, before she was of age. 

And she remembered herself, how much she longed for Viserys presence by her side, even as a child. Would Rhaenyra be deprived of that, if he refused to give her attention? How would one grow tall when missing the person who was supposed to stand at their side?

Aemma could not share her fears with Viserys; he had far too many fears of his own. His delight in being a father had almost soured when the match occurred. And though he still spent time with Rhaenyra, it was almost like he couldn’t see her without seeing her future — one he felt was doomed, by his brothers hand.

Viserys loved his brother, she knew he did. But his brother had a fierce temper, and was quick to anger. He was charming enough that he did not always have to be truthful. He was spoiled, in a way, used to his desires being met and becoming frustrated when they were not. He was not a man Viserys would have picked for his daughter. He feared happiness would not be a possibility for her, with Daemon by her side. 

Aemma wished he would see them together, she thought it would soothe his doubts. For Daemon adored the young girl and they were far happier together than apart.

In the first month of her life, Daemon became her favorite face to see. 

In her second month, when smiles started to curve on her lips, it seemed she saved them all for him. And he could do nothing but return them, grinning down at the babe. 

In the third month, she gained the ability to hold onto things, grabbing toys and blankets and exploring textures with her knew found grip. But it seemed her favorite thing to have in her grasp was Daemon. When she was in his arms, she would take a lock of his hair, or his tunic captive. Refusing to let go, even when hours passed. 

Month four brought on teething, which brought on fits. Rhaenyra was not an easy baby, not in anyones arms other than Daemon's. She fought sleep and she cried often, and it was made worse by this new development. But still, the babe saved her sweetness for when Daemon was around. The beginning of chuckles starting to burst from her lips, which never fell from a smile in his presence. 

The next three months passed in a blur, she started to babble, she started to roll over. She started to copy people's movements, finding entertainment in her ability to mimic. She was still a difficult baby, rarely settled, often noisy. The wails at all hours that came from the nursery were a frustration to all who roomed nearby. 

In her eight month, she began to crawl — it was if in her newfound freedom, she found some comfort. Sleeping longer hours, and finding sleep more easily. 

The tenth month was not as kind, it seemed her awareness had developed to the point that now she knew when someone was missing. And she seemed to live most of her young life feeling as though someone was missing.

On her first birthday, Daemon visited her in the early hours to give her a gift. But he was the one who left with a gift, for she cried out “Da!” Upon seeing him, as if trying to sound out his name. Aemma felt the breath leave her — he was going to be her first word, and her first everything else. 

But she still could not help the soft smile that formed on her face. At her grinning child, arms reaching out, nearly bouncing in her excitement for she was so eager to be reunited with her Uncle.

Daemon’s arms were out too, scooping her up quickly and praising her enthusiastic greeting. Cooing that she was one year old now, and how he was proud of her. She was going to get cake today, her favorite, and wasn’t she excited? And you’d swear, with the look of interest and adoration the baby gave him, she understood every word. 

And she did not care one bit about the cake, for what she favored most was right in front of her. 

That evening, after a day of celebrations, she watched Daemon press a kiss into the babes blonde hair, before wishing her sweet dreams and good night.

She did not know where Daemon spent his nights, or who he spent them with. She didn’t want to know.  But the fact he never failed to say goodnight to Rhaenyra before he left the palace grounds seem to speak to a commitment that he lacked in any other relationship in his life. 

Aemma did not know what the future would hold. But she knew what love looked like, and if it was so strong already, she could not be anything but optimistic about what it would grow into. 

99 AC

The nursemaids would not be so bold as to call the princess difficult, but Daemon heard what wasn’t spoken — murmurs of frustration. Aemma had said Rhaenyra’s birth was difficult, which was only foreshadowing for the child she would become. 

As a baby, she had wailed and refused to sleep, and as she developed so did the extent of her tantrums. She had been crying, when he entered the nursery quarters she still slept in. Dramatic sobs that echoed through the hall as he approached. 

She sat on a rug in the middle of the quarters, her face red and scrunched as tears tumbled down her cheeks. Several maids looked on, unsure how to comfort the child, since she seemed only to get louder when touched. 

“Princess, what is wrong?” Daemon asked, his voice loud and clear to be audible through her tears. 

“They fell” the Princess sobbed, gesturing to the blocks around her as she got up and threw her small body against Daemon’s leg. 

“What do we do when we fall, Princess?” He asked, while patting her head. 

A hiccup — “Get up.” 

“Blocks are no so different,” he kneeled on the carpet, continuing to pat her blonde locks as she settled herself in his lap. 

“Will you help me?” He asked, reaching his arm out and stacking two of the wooden bricks. Rhaenyra nodded, reaching out her much smaller hands to do the same. 

In the hour he stayed before her nap, the blocks fell down many times. But the Princesses tears did not, for she never seemed to see a reason to cry in his presence. 

100 AC

“She is too young, Prince.” The nursemaid insisted, but Daemon brushed he objections aside, as he sat across from his apt pupil.  

“I was her age when my mother began teaching me.” He said. It was one of the last things his mother taught him, too, and one of his few memories of her before she passed. Perhaps that was why he treasured the language so much, not just for its connection to their history, but for the connection it provided to his mother. 

“And so, it is at this age I shall teach her.” He tapped Rhaenyra on the nose and she grinned up at him. She rarely sat still or showed much patience for others, but she delighted in their short lessons — repeating the foreign words in her own voice. Often reciting them long after he left, and insisting on High Valyrian spoken stories before bed. Even if she did not fully understand them, the language seemed to soothe a part of her. 

Viserys and Aemma complied, for there was little they could deny her.

…

Rhaenyra was offered more freedoms than most children her age would be. She truly was the Realm’s Delight, a reputation that was all the more felt inside the palace. Though Rhaenys visited Kings Landing often, it was rare for her to bring her children. 

At one point, when Viserys had looked at the mark on his daughters dainty wrist, he wondered if it was Rhaenys’ son was who she would match with. Or if they would be blessed with another child, who would bear her mark. But they had not been so lucky. 

Neither had Rhaenys, for her son, Laenor had matched with another boy. And her daughter did not have a mark at all. It was obscene, given her lineage that her children would suffer such fates. A true blight on their family name. It almost guaranteed she would be passed over in the line of succession now.

Rhaenys kept them away from Kings Landing, for that reason. Not wanting their ears to hear the nasty whispers and rumors that swirled around them. Which meant Rhaenyra was the only child whose presence had been felt in the palace in…years. She was spoiled for it. Allowed to wander through the halls freely, with only a nursemaid and guard close behind her. 

She often found herself in the kitchens, eating sweets. In the gardens, picking flowers. Or in the council rooms, in her fathers lap.

She did not like being around most people, barely tolerating and still frequently screaming at the maids responsible for her care. But she despised being parted from her family. If her mother was not available, she would demand for someone else’s attention — often finding it in her Uncle’s arms.

Despite only being three, the Princess had a strong will and strong personality. It was often easier just to give into her whims, so that was what the palace did. 

It was how she found herself on her Uncles lap, while the council discussed something unimportant to her ears. She was focused on her favorite person, and playing with the rings his hands featured. It had not gone unnoticed, how many more rings Daemon wore now, and how they seemed to delight the child who was still too young to wear her own. 

The council was used to her presence now, though it made them uncomfortable at first. It was now clear the small girl was deaf to their discussions, focused only on the highly decorated fingers of her family members. If her uncle was absent, it was Viserys she would go too. 

Viserys tried not to take such a thing personally, for he knew his daughter loved him. He was just painfully aware she did not love him the most. 

…

“Dragon!!” The princess shrieked, grabbing at her uncle’s arms in an attempt to free herself. Her efforts were rewarded, for she was set down and allowed to run to the bars that contained the beast.

The masters and trainers who manned the dragon pit were not pleased with this. They never were, thinking it unsafe to have such a young child in a dragons presence. But they were not Targaryen’s. They may have devoted their lives to dragons, but they did not share their blood — share their mark. 

They could not understand the bond that formed when a dragon hatched in a child’s cradle, any better than they could understand the bond Daemon had with Rhaenyra. But both mattered above all else, both were what made them Targaryen’s. 

Daemon had been overseeing the training of Syrax closely. It would usually be a task left to her father, but Viserys found spending time around dragons difficult since the death of his mount Balerion. 

Daemon found he clashed with many people, and the trainers were no exception. They wanted to crush the beasts spirit into submission, but he knew that like her soon-to-be rider, she was much better behaved when given what she wanted. 

A well fed dragon was better mannered than a beaten one, and he threatened to use any weapons or force shown on Syrax against the man who had wielded it. He may still be young, but he was a Prince and his abilities on the training ground were well known. No one dared question him.

He walked up behind the princess, her arm and half her body pressed through the bars of the beasts cage. “Can we go in?” Rhaenyra begged, when the young dragon did not get up to approach her. Daemon nodded to the guard, who opened the gate and hesitantly let them inside. 

Syrax was similar to the young princess in many ways, easily frustrated and not always willing to listen. But she loved her family, and turned sweet and nearly docile in their presence. Often placing herself before the princess and allowing herself to be petted. 

Caraxes, his own mount was fond of the young beast. Perhaps it was true, that they mimicked their riders own feelings. Because his fierce nature seemed to soften in her presence, turning almost adoring despite their size and age difference. It was reminiscent of how Daemon felt, when around the young princess. 

Rhaenyra had her face pressed against her dragons scaled flesh, which she was scratching periodically. Syrax was leaning into her touch, clearly enjoying the attentions of her future rider. “Can we fly?” Rhaenyra asked, looking at him hopefully.

“Syrax is too young, still. We can take Caraxes.” He said. The trainers thought she was too young to sit atop a dragon, even when accompanied — but Daemon had first been on dragon back as an infant. A strong grip and good saddle was all that was required for her safety, and he had both. 

He reached his hand out for hers — “Come, we shall saddle him together in preparation for flight.” She grinned and grasped his hand in hers. 

She would follow him anywhere. 

Chapter Text

101 AC

The knock on his door took him by surprise, given the late hour. He answered it all the same, hoping it wasn’t an emergency. And perhaps it wasn’t, but being greeted by his niece’s tear streaked face he immediately thought the worst. 

“What’s happened?” He asked Rhaenyra, kneeling so he could pull her into his arms. When she responded with a sob, he addressed the question to her assigned maid and guard. “We do not know, Sir, she insisted on coming here. We are sorry for interrupting you in your chambers.” 

He waved them away, dismissing them, and pulling Rhaenyra into his rooms. “Why does my niece cry?” He asked again, setting her down on her favorite cushion, the one she often ran to when in his quarters. 

“I had a bad dream!” She wailed, tucking her face into his neck. “Grandpa is sick, isn’t he?” The girl questioned, pulling away from him so she could read his face.  “Father has not been the same since they returned, and grandpa has not visited me!” it was said with some petulance, despite her sad state. 

Daemon knew his father cared much for the girl, but found it hard to be in her presence. She reminded him too much of a young Alyssa, it was painful for him. Still, he often took time to visit with her — and he had not since they returned from the hunt. 

“You are too observant, Princess. It is true, he is not well. He had a pain on our trip, and it has only worsened since.”

She hiccuped from her perch, eyes still watering. “Is he going to die?” She asked quietly. 

Daemon paused — he did not want to worry the child with thoughts of death. But he did not want to lie to her either, for that may be more painful than the truth. “I do not know, only the gods can be certain.” He finally said, which was honest as he could bring himself to be. 

Rhaenyra nodded her blonde head, her voice steady but tears still falling as she said — “I don’t want him to die.” 

Daemon let out a sigh, “Nor do I, but it is the consequence of life.” 

“Can I have a hug?” She asked quietly. 

His only response was pulling her to him — he would not leave her to want for anything, especially not an embrace. 

…

It was a week later, the day of the funeral that she returned to his door once more. He didn’t wait for her to ask this time, merely lifted her into his arms as soon as he saw her tear streaked face. 

She was not the only one who cried that night. 

…

Death often led to difficult conversations, Daemon found. And this was no exception — with his father passing, there was no longer the King's son to serve as an obvious line of succession. Decisions that had to be made, and they were too grand for the mere small council. Over the past six moons, nearly a thousand lords had convened to determine the fate of the kingdom, and who would eventually rule over them.

Daemon thought it a waste of time. The answer had been obvious from the day of his fathers passing, and remained obvious now as the final vote was tallied. Viserys was to be heir to the Iron Throne. 

The only other worthy claim came from Princess Rhaenys and her son, Laenor. But it was soured by her sons match — who happened to be another noble man. With little potential for him to carry on the line, there was little reason to put him on the throne. 

Viserys may not have had a son, but he had a daughter — who was matched to another Targaryen. It made him the more logical candidate, and though Daemon felt councils of any sort rarely saw logic, they did on this day. 

He was proud of his brother — though somewhat jealous. Daemon was not sure if he had the temperament to rule, but he did not think Viserys did either. Viserys was eager to please, often to his own detriment. Perhaps it would be to the kingdoms detriment, as well? 

But he would rather his brother sit atop the throne than his cousin, so for that he was grateful. 

He was most grateful though, for this to have ended. To be able to return to Kings Landing, to his princess, he thought. 

Funny, how the place that felt like such a prison in his youth now felt like a paradise, all due to the young girl that now lived there. He had visited a few times, and sent letters — Aemma had promised to read them out loud to the girl. But he had been accustomed to seeing her everyday, and he felt the loss greatly while he was away.

Rhaenyra was not unaffected, either. Nor was the staff attending to her. They complained of her random moods, her wild temper. Her refusal to listen during lessons, her refusal to do much at all. She was too wild to be soothed even by her dear mothers presence. 

What Daemon regretted most, was missing her birthday. It spoke to her spoiled nature, how much she enjoyed the day — being the center of attention. But he couldn’t help but indulge her, basking in her joy as she savored every moment of it. He had been sorry to miss it this year. He took his fathers words from several years ago to heart, — he would not take her presence in his life for granted. She could not always be the only priority, but he would not allow her to feel like anything less. 

It was true, it wasn’t the relationship he imagined to have with his intended when he was twenty, but he still treasured it. Still loved her, in a way where all he wished for was her happiness. 

His life had not changed so much, at least not his activities. But it seemed now everything revolved around those moments spent with her, or moments he would eventually be allowed to have with her. She had invaded his mind in way they truly took him by surprise. 

He did not think himself immune, to the magic that lorded over soulmates and matches. But he had gone so many years of his life — all of his childhood, and the beginnings of manhood, without any taste of it. He began to doubt that he ever would know the feeling of it on his tongue. 

What a fool he had been.

…

Though Rhaenyra was bitter at his late arrival, she was too excited to see him to be in anything other than good spirits. She hurled herself into his arms, and refused to let go for an age, claiming they had making up to do for how long he had been away. 

Eventually, he lured her from their embrace with the promise of a present — a set of small golden rings, for her small fingers. The quality was fit for a princess, but the stones merely semi-precious. He knew she would grow out of them quickly, even with them sized for her largest fingers. But he had every intention of buying more for every birthday to come…and having each set be more grand than the previous. 

She was spoiled, but she was his to spoil. 

After a midday meal, they found themselves in the dragon pit. It seemed Caraxes and Syrax had been in a sorry state without each other, as well, for they made little chirping noises and nuzzled snouts as they reunited. 

“No one has been taking me to visit,” Rhaenyra  bemoaned as she clutched Syrax’s head to her chest. “Why is everyone so scared of dragons?” She asked, patting the head of her loyal beast as if she was a house cat. Even at her small size, Syrax had an intimidating presence. Though perhaps not as intimidating as the frustrated princess. 

“Targaryen’s are a different breed, my dear niece.” He simply said, and he meant every word. “It is why we must stick together.”

Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose, “Then you must never leave again.” She said insistently, but her words merely brought a sad smile to his face. 

“I can make no such promise, but I swear to you I will always come back.” 

Her lip jutted out, “But I missed you. And Caraxes.” 

His face softened, “I missed you and Syrax too,” he meant every word of that, also. 

They spent several hours in the pit, bonding with the creatures they had been born alongside. Bonding with each other. It was only the dimming of the lights, and the changing of the guard that alerted them to the passing of time. 

“Super will be soon,” Daemon said — but the Princess yawned, and when he offered to carry her she didn’t bother to respond — just lazily raised her arms in confirmation. He heard her breath even, a sure sign of sleep, long before they reached the palace. The decision to take her to her quarters instead of the supper room was an easy one. 

Perhaps it was later than he thought, for Aemma was already in Rhaenyra’s chambers, looking equal parts startled and pleased to see them. He lay her small sleeping form on the bed — for she was no longer a babe, she no longer required a crib or rails. 

“She missed you.” Aemma said, “I missed you, that girl is a handful when not by your side. ” 

“So people keep saying.” He saw the petulant pout on her lips sometimes, and believed what others said about how fearsome she could be when mad. But he was rarely on the receiving end of her tantrums. 

“I thought the palace would be quiet with you, my husband, and so many others gone but no — that girl makes me noise on her own than the lot of you combined.” 

Daemon laughed, “I don’t doubt it. She is a dragon, they breath fire and do not hesitate to destroy things in their way.” 

Aemma nodded, the comparison one she had heard before but still apt. “We are lucky she did not sprout wings and fly to you.” 

Daemon grinned, “Soon she will have Syrax for that.” 

Aemma did not find that to be a comforting thought. 

102 AC

“Uncle!” The princess cried, happy to find him sitting in her quarters. 

“I thought we could lunch together today?” He asked, though it was hardly worth posing as a question. The young princess would never deny his company, and often sought it out when she felt neglected. Her grin was a sign enough that his presence was welcome. 

“What are your lessons on today?” Daemon asked as they dined. Gone were the days where Rhaenyra’s time was consumed by blocks, and drawing. Or even by their private lessons in High Valyrian — for she had long since mastered it.  Now she had tutors, training her in the arts and education she would need given her future station. 

“I’m learning about soul matches!” She responded eagerly, this topic clearly of more interest than the majority of her lessons. She rarely spoke with such enthusiasm, outside of the dragon pit at least. 

“About Grandpa, and my Great Grandpa, and even his Great Grandpa! They all had soulmates. The Maester says they are rare, but Targaryen’s are lucky.” Her gaze fell to her exposed wrist, and the twisted shades of black and red that marked it. 

“Maester says I have one too.” She said, more quietly, before looking up at Daemon. “Is it true?” She asked. 

He closed his eyes, it was not a secret from the princess. But it was not something spoken about in her presence, either. She was still so young, so free of the pressures and expectations that her future would hold. No one was eager to taint that, even with something that was considered to be a blessing. 

“Yes, it’s true, you found your match when you were still a babe, as is the Targaryen way.” 

She nodded, “When did you find your match?” She looked at him accusingly, and at the bit of colorful skin exposed beneath his sleeve. He wondered who had told her. Or if she really had come to the conclusion on her own, it’s not as if the clues were well hidden. 

“I found my match when you were still a babe, also.” He said carefully, as he unbuttoned his cuff and rolled his sleeve up, exposing the mark that marred the entirety of his forearm.

 “See? How it matches yours.” He set his arm next to hers on the table, using his free hand to rotate her wrist, so their marks were aligned. The swirls of red and grey and black were identical, truly as the gods said, twin flames on two pieces of flesh. 

Rhaenyra was looking down at their arms in fascination. It was rare, for him to have his arm bare — the mark fully visible. But even if it was common, without knowing the history it likely would have been of little interest to her. 

Her eyes were wide when she looked up at him, “What does that mean?” 

He thought for a moment. “It means the gods made us for each other,” the young princess just rolled her eyes, clearly this explanation wasn’t enough for her. Perhaps it was even one her tutor had shared, and now she was needling him for a different answer. 

“It means one day, when you are of age, we will wed. And perhaps sit atop the Iron Throne, like your Great Grandfather and so many before him.” 

Her fingers brushed across his mark, it once again having stolen her focus. Then she looked up and smiled, “I can’t wait.” 

He laughed, of course she would take everything in stride, with enthusiasm even. 

“You’ll have to wait, you are young yet.” 

Her nose wrinkled, “That’s not fair — you’re old already.” He snorted, 

“That isn’t a polite thing to say, Princess.” 

She just smiled, “You said I didn’t have to mind my manners with you! Since we are family!” 

“Ah but now you have offended me so deeply with your cruel words.” 

She looked saddened for a moment, before meeting his gaze and realizing he meant it in jest. “You tease me, Uncle! That is not polite either!” 

“Perhaps neither of us are, and that is why we are matched.” He said — taking a small amount of joy in being able to speak casually about the damn thing. 

She just giggled, “You’re silly! They wouldn’t match us because of that!” 

“Oh? You are silly too, perhaps that was their reason.” 

She shook her head, “No!” 

“Hm, then why?” He asked, and she looked considerate before wrinkling her nose, as she did when frustrated. This was followed by a huff. 

“I don’t know but I will figure it out.” He had no doubt she would, his stubborn girl. 

103 AC

“I’m nervous,” Rhaenyra admitted — fiddling with the jewels on her fingers and looking every bit the princess she was, in her formal robes for the day of her fathers ascension. 

“Why are you nervous?” Daemon asked, hoping he would have words to reassure the girl. 

“Because today father becomes King. And mother becomes Queen.” She said, her eyes wide and glassy.

“But they will still be your mother and father. And you will still be a princess.” 

“And you’ll still be a prince?” She asked, as if she could find more comfort in the fact his role would not be changing. 

“Yes, still your uncle and your prince.” He said with a smile, tapping her on the tip of her upturned nose. 

“It’s a happy day, you’ll see Rhaenyra. And at the feast tonight, there will be so many sweets…”

Her eyes lit up, “Like cake?”

He nodded, “Definitely cake.” 

…

He did not lie to her, but his role did change. For he was no longer merely a second son — he was truly the spare, second in line to the King. He was prepared for his potential role with an official place on the small council.

He enjoyed staying somewhat informed of the kingdoms ongoings, but found the meetings long and tedious still. Though he had grown a great deal since he started attending them, in the last half decade, he was not so changed. A man, no longer merely on the cusp of manhood. But still much happier riding a dragon, or whore, then the coattails of his brother. 

But one only had so much control over their life. He would do what he could, in this unimportant role. Vent his frustrations in private, on the training courts, and on sheets in silk street. He would relax on Caraxes and in the presence of his dear niece and princess. He let out a deep breath. 

The gods had been kind to him, he could not deny that.

He was not King, not yet. 

But if the gods continued to be kind...

Chapter Text

104 AC

It was the day after her nameday and the sun had barely risen in the skies, but Rhaenyra was awake. She had been for what felt like hours. She was dressed in her riding trousers and woolen coat — she had worn similar outfits before, when riding on Caraxes with her uncle. But today she was going to ride her own dragon, Syrax. 

The dragonkeepers all agreed she was large enough to be ridden by Rhaenyra, and she responded well enough to commands— at least when they came from Rhaenyra or her uncle. Her Syrax was a fickle beast, often caring little for the keepers commands. But Rhaenyra found she could not blame her dragon for that, for she did not take kindly to being told what to do either. 

She had watched her uncle a week ago go through commands with Syrax, confirming she was safe to be saddled and ridden. And then it had been her turn, to repeat his words and actions, to ensure Rhaenyra herself was ready. She was nearly bursting with excitement through the whole thing, and begged to go riding in that moment. But her parents insisted she must wait until the was seven. And then they had wanted to have a feast, a celebration! 

As if that would compare to getting to ride a dragon! That was all she wanted to do! Having to wait an extra day was torture, and she had woke early to escape it. 

Her maid was still asleep. The guard at her door looked at her with and expression that was truly the opposite approval as she left her rooms, but he did not try to stop her either. He was a Kingsguard, she was a Princess. 

The walk to her uncles cambers felt long given her eagerness to start the day, but she took even steps, for it was unladylike to run.

She knocked at her uncles doors, feeling nervous all the sudden. Was it too early? She twisted her rings, in anticipation and then — the door opened. He was clearly not as prepared for their flight as she was! Though to be fair, she hadn’t warned him of her plans. His silver hair was mussed, and he was dressed in only a robe. Rhaenyra huffed, clearly he had just woken up. 

“Uncle! We are to go riding!” She said, stomping her foot to make the depth of her feelings known. 

He let out a laugh, and looked to the window, seeing the sun still low in this sky. “Is it not still early?” He asked. 

“It is not too early to fly.” She said, stubbornly. 

He nodded, “I suppose it is never too early to fly.” 

…

With him in his riding leathers, they made their way to the pit. The morning was chilly, but Rhaenyra felt warm from her anticipation, practically vibrating with excitement. She had been waiting for this moment for her entire life. 

The pit was empty, aside from their dragons and the guards. The keepers would not be awake for hours, but she did not think their presence necessary. She was capable of saddling Syrax, Daemon had shown her how! She had even saddled Caraxes before, with his help, and he was a much larger beast.

Syrax was in good spirits this morning as well, chirping and huffing plumes of smoke. She seemed as restless as Rhaenyra herself, though she supposed, Syrax has also spent her entire life waiting for this moment. 

“Are you nervous?” Her uncle asked, and she merely huffed. 

“I am a Princess and a Targaryen, I was born for this.” She said, with a haughty tone and all the confidence of a spoiled child. 

But Daemon found he could not disagree, she was a Princess and a Targaryen, dragons blood ran through her veins, as did the blood of generations of dragon riders. He did not doubt her abilities for a second, and he was glad to see that she did not either. 

They saddled their beasts quietly, working in tandem — the actions the same, but on different scales, for Syrax was still small. Rhaenyra took the task seriously, double checking every strap and smoothing the padding to ensure her dragons comfort. She may be spoiled, but she knew the importance of such tasks. 

When she finished, she asked Daemon to look over her work, he nodded — “Only if you check my bindings.” The girl wrinkled her nose and giggled, “But you’ve done this thousands of times! You’ve never asked me to check before.” He shrugged, “You were not a dragon rider then, today you are my equal in that.” 

Her grin was infectious, as she dutifully checked the leather straps on the larger ceatures saddle. 

 It was true what she had said, he had done this thousands of times. Caraxes was not overly tolerant, often threatening to bite or blaze many who approached. It was often safer and easier for Daemon to prepare  the dragon himself, and he did not mind the task. He found their pre-flight routine calming, a way to relax and bond before the an invigorating flight. 

It had surprised him, how tolerant Caraxes was of the princess. He seemed to preen in her presence, in a way he did not even do for Daemon. The dragon stood patiently while the princess checked what bindings she could reach, the beast almost leaning into her touch when she stopped to pet him. 

With their dragons saddled, and the dome open, all it took was a deep breath and command for them to take flight. 

…

“My Queen — the princess is not in her chambers.” The maid said nervously, wringing her fingers as if to soothe her anxiety.

“Then where is she?” Aemma asked, having little patience for the absence of her daughter. 

“Her guard said she went to Prince Daemon’s chambers, early this morn, in her riding leathers. The Prince dismissed the guard before he followed.” Aemma let out a sigh, she should have expected this. Rhaenyra had spoken of nothing but flying for weeks. It had been a topic of interest since the could first talk, often returning from visits to the pit with questions about when she could fly. 

Daemon indulged her, insisting it was safe for her to sit on dragon back with him. And so, she had a taste of flight even before her third birthday. But flying independently? Viserys and Aemma agreed she must be at least seven, and Syrax must be large enough for it to be safe.

The dragon keepers swore the dragon would not be grown enough until the Princess was ten, at least. Maybe even thirteen. But it seemed they were both eager to fly together, for Syrax grew at such an alarming pace it was merely the Princesses age that served as a restriction.

She had been restless during her party the previous day — usually she basked in the attention, but she had seemed almost impatient. No doubt impatient for this. 

Aemma dismissed the maid, feeling confident — though not entirely calm, about her daughters present location. 

She wandered out to her rooms balcony and looked to the hill that housed the pit. Sure enough, two dragons circled it — like twin flames, she thought. One yellow, one red, seeming to dance together though still low in the sky. 

It wasn’t clear who was leading, who was following. It was like they were equals, despite their differences in size. Syrax was small and nimble, while Caraxes was fierce and fast. They were well matched, she could see, even from this distance. 

Perhaps not unlike their riders. 

Aemma had a healthy respect for dragons, which verged on fear.  She could not discourage her daughters interests, for she was a Targaryen and it was in her blood. But she had hoped her interest would fade, and Syrax’s growth would stall. That she would not have to watch her fly — potentially watch her fall, when she was still so young. 

But, despite her hesitation, she knew Daemon would not let that happen. The man cared more for her safety than any other, she thought. He grew bored easily, but never seemed to tire of Rhaenyra’s presence. He took the training of Syrax more seriously than even his role on the small council. If she had to trust her daughter with someone, she trusted her with Daemon. 

Her eyes didn’t stray from the dancing dragons, not until she heard steps and felt a presence next to her. She looked over, to see her husband, also bracing his arms on the balcony railing, looking out at the sight with a similar expression of resignation. 

“She is so eager to grow up.” Viserys said sadly. Aemma could not disagree, their daughter seemed too mature quickly. Both in whit and stature. It was the nature of royalty, Aemma supposed. Since Viserys was declared King, there was little time for Rhaenyra to be a child — she was truly a princess now, and was being educated as such. 

“She is not so grown, yet.” Aemma said, and that was true too. She was hardly a lady, still only seven. It would be nearly a decade before she was wed, if the gods were kind. Kinder than they had been to Aemma. 

Aemma did not regret her match, or her marriage. She loved Viserys, and she loved their daughter — their life together. But she had been too young, when she had wed. Her blood came early, when she was only eleven, and as her betrothal contract specified, she was married a mere two years later. 

It seemed her early blood was a sign of all the blood to come. Miscarriages had plagued them, and the two births she had been through were nearly as fatal to her slim form.  She shook herself from the thoughts, she prayed for better for Rhaenyra. 

She had insisted Rhaenyra was not to be wed before her sixteenth day.  She had begged, pleaded for it to be part of her betrothal contract, and she had not been denied. The small council had pitied her, and the sentence of one day losing her newborn daughter to the Rouge Prince. It was one kindness they had offered her, and she was grateful for it. 

“I should like to take her hawking this afternoon, if she is not too tired.” Aemma mused. It was one activity she loved above all others, though her body was rarely capable of the walk through the hills that it required. 

When she was well enough, she treasured the time her hawk could take to the sky. She had learned as a small girl in Eyrie, with her father, and she had been eager to teach what she knew to her children. Rhaenyra liked it too, though the girl favored scaled beasts over feathered. Still, she had been pleased to receive a hawk of her own on the previous day.

“I worry she will never want to come down.” Viserys said, his eyes still drawn to the pair of dragons that now flew higher in the sky. 

“What goes up must come down eventually, my husband.” 

…

Aemma was right, eventually the pair stumbled back behind palace walls. Rhaenyra was rumpled — her loosely braided hair now hanging mostly free, too windswept to stay in place. She had a slight limp, from too long spent in the saddle. But she was grinning, giggling, and clutching her uncles hand. She had never looked more radiant, or more happy. 

“My daughter returns at last!” Aemma said, rushing to her and kneeling before her, “Do not leave without informing your maid in future. Do you understand?” Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose in frustration but nodded solemnly, “I understand.”

Then after a pause — “Can I go riding again tomorrow morn, though? It is so fun mother! Invigorating and exciting and not like anything I’ve done before! And Syrax loves it so! Now I never want to be away from her.” Being on her own dragon could not compare to riding another. It felt like her body and Syrax moved in one, flying through the sky as a unit instead of two separate bodies and beasts.

It did not feel so much like riding a dragon, but being a dragon, and she craved to repeat the experience as soon as possible. 

Aemma patted her cheeks, flushed from the wind and her exuberance. “Perhaps but — you must breakfast with me, first.” Rhaenyra’s lip jutted out, as if this was an unreasonable request. But Daemon agreed, “For then we can stay out until lunch, not turning back because of hunger.” And that won her over. She clutched his hand, looking up at him with wide eyes of wonder, “You are so clever, Uncle!” 

Aemma just shook her head, “Change for lunch — we shall eat, and then perhaps go to the hills with your new hawk?” Rhaenyra nodded eagerly, rushing as much as she could with her limp towards her rooms. 

“She did well?” Aemma asked, though she already new what the answer would be. 

“She is a natural.” Daemon confirmed. “A Targaryen is as comfortable in the skies as a fish is in the sea, and she is no exception.” 

Aemma hummed. “She is a true Targaryen.” 

When she saw her daughter with her uncle, or heard her speak of her dragon, she sometimes thought Rhaenyra was perhaps too much of a Targaryen. 

Chapter Text

105 AC 

Rhaenyra fiddled with her decorated fingers as she watched the joust. She was unsure of what to think of the form of entertainment. It was fast paced, exciting, but frequently ended in injury or death. She wasn’t sure it was right to find amusement in such things, even if the participants were willing. 

Rhaenyra was not just nervous about the joust — she worried for her mother, too. Her labor was due to begin any hour now, and she knew how much her mother had struggled previously. She wished not for her mother to suffer, even if it was her duty to provide a son. 

Her mother had complained of cramping this morning. It was hard not to think of her pain, when knights were unseated or wounded. She wondered if her mother was suffering similar agony. She was restless, eager to check on her but not allowed to leave until the days joust was finished. 

She was forced to watch the matches, the bloodshed. Hear the shattering of bones and see smashed flesh. It did not turn her stomach, violence was unavoidable in these times. But wondering if her mothers labor would leave her in a similar state to the unlucky knights did make her feel ill. 

She was similarly conflicted watching her uncle joust. She treasured his place in her life above all others, and found his success in these games invigorating. But when he fell she cried out — and when he lost the melee, she had to fight back tears. She did not like seeing him beaten, he was a dragon he was supposed to conquer all! Dragons were not made to yield by mere knights, even handsome ones such as Ser Cristin. 

After unseating and harming her uncle so, Ser Cristin had the nerve to ask for her favor, and she had no choice but to give it. It would be unseemly to deny the victors such spoils. It would make her look ungrateful for his interest, make her look like a spoiled princess. 

But in that moment she felt spoiled, like a piece of rotten fruit that would turn to mush if touched. She felt fragile in a way she was unaccustomed to, from the stress of the day. 

She saw her father get up, leave the joust — something must have happened, for him to leave his own celebration. Or as he claimed, the celebration for his unborn child. But his child, even once birthed, would not remember these festivities. They were to soothe her fathers ego, and little else.  

She rotated the favorite of her rings nervously. It was a faceted red stone outlined with black diamonds — it matched her mark so perfectly that it almost looked like her flesh pressed in gold. On days like this, when she had to wear long sleeves and keep her mark covered, it served as a constant reminder of its presence. Of Daemon’s presence, in her life — it had been a gift from him, after all. Both the ring, and the mark, in a way.

He brought her many gifts, but her favorite were the rings. She remembered being much smaller, and fiddling with the ones that decorated his own fingers. It had been a favorite pastime of hers, and not one that faded as she grew. Though now she played with the ones he had gifted her to wear. 

She looked away from her ring and back to the joust, new people were fighting now — but all she could concentrate on was the pool of blood where her uncle had fallen. 

…

It seemed today was going to be defined by pools of blood. Rhaenyra looked at the mess staining her mothers bedding. It seemed wrong, to see something that belonged inside the body spread over her sheets. She had never seen so much spilled at once before, not even on the training grounds when men brawled. 

It meant she was dead. 

No one had told her, not yet, but she knew. 

If all was well, she would have been in her chambers, with a newborn babe in her arms. But neither could be found.

Only blood. 

So much blood.

The lack of response to her questions only confirmed her thoughts. No one wanted to be the one to break something so significant to the princess. Her temper remained legendary, even though time had soothed it somewhat. They feared too much for her reaction. 

She was not sure what her reaction was. Not entirely sure of what to feel, for this was perhaps her greatest fear — and how do you greet that? Simply with sadness? 

No, that word did not feel adequate to describe such devastation. 

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there. Her legs felt shaky, but she didn’t know if that was from strain or horror. Her eyes were closed, as if not seeing the scene would make it imaginary. But even then, she could tell something was wrong — if all was well, she would hear her mother cooing, an infant crying. 

She wanted to cry. 

Eventually, she felt fingertips on her shoulders — and she wished so badly they were Daemon’s, that he would give her a hug and then fix things. Tell her he was fine, that her mother was fine. 

But when she turned, it was not Daemon, and even he would not have had the power to do such a thing. 

It was her father, and when she saw the look of sorrow on his face, her own surfaced. 

She did not know how long she stood there, in his arms, crying. She felt heavy after, but empty at the same time. As if the tears had taken her energy while weighing her down. It was an awful feeling, it was an awful day. 

Eventually, Viserys escorted her to her rooms. They stayed silent, matching the tone of the palace which was somber. It felt all the more in contrast to the exuberance of celebrations that morning. 

He stood in her sitting room while she changed for bed. She wasn’t sure if it was night yet, but she felt incapable of doing anything other then resting.

Viserys sat by her side until she fell asleep. She could not remember the last time he had done so — it was usually her mother that made sure to tuck her in and wish her sweet dreams. 

But her mother was gone now. She would never do that again. 

Maybe today was a bad dream. She thought, as her fatigue took her. Maybe she would wake up tomorrow, and everything would be okay. 

…

Daemon groaned, his head pounding and body bruised from the melee. The defeat hurt worse than his wounds, it was an embarrassment. The young knight had then gone on to ask for Rhaenyra’s favor, too, adding insult to injury. 

His body would soon forget its pain, but he would not forget this day. He raged, of what was required of him. It seemed he had so little to do, yet had to remain highly regarded in everyone's mind. His brother merely had to be King, Daemon had to be cunning and charming and cut-throat, and on this day he felt to be none of the three. 

It had been an interesting few years, as he tried to find his place in the palace and on his brother's council. He had served briefly in the boring role of master of coin, but shirked the duties and was soon replaced. He was master of laws for a time, but found the job similarly tiresome. 

Finally though, he had been appointed commander of the city watch, and that he could succeed at.

He knew people did not have high expectations of him in the role, given his previous failures when it came to governance. He was tossed the position with hopes it would placate him — giving him men to argue with and vent his frustrations onto. They hoped it would be an outlet for his aggression, and the council would no longer suffer his moods. 

And it had worked somewhat, but it had done more than that. He thrived with men under his command, felt like a true knight and natural born leader. Improving their spirits and talents gave him a purpose too, driving him to become better and stronger. He spent more time around people his age, spent more time training. He had never felt more confident in himself, or his abilities. 

But the success he had in being commander — in life in general, over the past years made this defeat all the more bitter. 

The day continued to sour.

…

News made it to him of Aemma, brought in by the servants along with his evening meal. The news left him without much appetite. The pain of her loss cut deeper than his wounds, hurting more than his pathetic defeat. 

It seemed to compound his other injuries, almost digging into them and making everything worse. 

A decade ago, he would not have mourned much for the death of his cousin. He saw her as Viserys’s wife, and little more. They did not speak much, or have much in common. He would have been sympathetic to his brother, but little else. 

But a lot had changed in the last decade, or at least the last eight years. He couldn’t help but grow to care for the woman who had brought such a treasure into the world, into his arms. 

She loved Rhaenyra as much as he did, and they were precious allies in that. Ever since Rhaenyra was born she had argued in his favor, in their favor. They grew to respect each other, over their fondness for Rhaenyra and desire for her happiness. 

Where Viserys saw the worst in him, Aemma saw the best and tried to sway his views. He had lost not just a friend on this day, he had lost one of his only supporters. And Rhaenyra had lost her mother. He hurt for her, perhaps more than he hurt for himself. 

He recalled the pain of losing a mother. He had been young enough to not feel it fully, to not know the extent of what happened at the time. But the shockwaves of her death hit every part of his youth, shaping him into the child he was, and the man he became. He could not think of a greater loss for a child to experience. 

He wanted to tend to Rhaenyra, to offer her comfort in whatever way he could. But the maid said she was indisposed — with her father. Resting, after the long day. 

He should rest too, the maid said. He had taken numerous hits, though he was not overly worried about his injuries. Nothing fatal had been hit, and it was said a Targaryen’s blood was warm enough to fight off infection. 

Still the pain of it — both the loss and his wounds, made him desperate for sleep. He didn’t disagree with the maid, even if she was a mere servant. But he was too restless, could not escape his thoughts for long enough to slumber. 

He needed a distraction. He needed a drink. 

…

He was not proud of how he spent that evening. In some house of ill repute off the silk street, surrounded by his men. His reputation and face still showed wounds from earlier in the day and his tongue did all it could to overcompensate. He knew naught what he said, only that it was nasty. 

For his spirits were low, and he thought to raise them through the cups. But it hadn’t worked, he didn’t forget his loss, he merely lost his head too. Not literally of course, he was a commander and a prince. No one would dare to harm him, and if they did, they would be swiftly punished. 

But he was apparently capable of harming himself. 

He awoke in a state — sore all over, from the top of his head to his boots, which he had been too drunk to take off before bed. He was in bed, he thought. In a room. A room that was too bright and noisy, aggravating the stabbing sensation in his skull. He wasn’t sure if it was from the joust, or from drink, or some unfortunate combination of the two. 

The previous day's events came back to him in waves — jolts of memory that assaulted him and only increased how much he hurt. The things he had said. The things he had done. He looked beside him in bed, where two women lay nude and still asleep. 

He had been so desperate to forget what happened, he forgot himself.

He knew this, with every motion he made. Every step brought on a stab of pain, it was like his body was refusing to hide the reminders of his wrongdoing.

If that was not enough to make him regret his actions — the welcome he got when returning to the palace was. He was rudely greeted by the guards, and roughly taken to the throne room. 

His sins had not gone unnoticed, and his brother intended on making him pay for them.

...

“You would pass me over for a comment meant in jest? I was drunk, brother.” Daemon argued. 

Viserys just shook his head, “The fates may have decided you will have my daughter but I decide who has the throne. I have discussed it with my council, my hand—“ 

“Your hand despises me,” Daemon shouted — as did most of the council. 

“Perhaps he has a reason too!” 

“He would rather see a pig on the throne than I, brother!” 

“Perhaps you are worse than a pig!” Viserys roared. 

“Rhaenyra will be my heir. Rhaenyra will sit on the throne and you by her side as consort. Your children will carry the title of King one day and that is more than you deserve.” 

Daemon huffed — he knew his brother was angry, he knew his comment was in poor taste. He’d been tired, sad, deep in his cups — he regretted his words. All the more now, that he was feeling their consequence. 

But Daemon couldn’t help but wonder if his brother’s true goal was driving a wedge between him and Rhaenyra, as if losing his title to her would cause him to resent her and push her away. 

Viserys was jealous of the relationship Daemon shared with his daughter. Jealous that it was he she favored, and his rooms she went to for comfort. It was too great of a reminder that he would someday be more than that to her. 

“Being King is more than you deserve.” Daemon snarled, he had known his brother's nature would make him a poor fit for the throne, and the past few years had done little to convince him otherwise. 

“I want you to leave King's Landing, Daemon. Take your gold cloaks, fight the battle you cry for in the council.” 

He was in disbelief, he was so desperate to get rid of him he would grant his wish for war? He should be glad for the opportunity, even if he meant it to be a banishment. But all he could think was of her. 

 “You want me to leave Rhaenyra, now? Are you trying to lose all your family on this day?” He asked. For that would be the outcome. His son and wife in the grave. His daughter and brother, estranged. Viserys was punishing himself, and those around him in the process.

“I want you to leave.” He repeated. 

“As my King demands.” A shake of his head was the only goodbye he gave. 

…

Things were not better the next morning. 

Rhaenyra opened her eyes to the new day and found her mother was still gone. 

And now, so was Daemon. 

Chapter Text

  105 AC

Rhaenyra, 

I am sorry that this letter is the only thing I can offer you. You were young and perhaps do not recall, but I have not forgotten how much your presence meant to me when my father passed.  I wish more than anything I could be there to provide you with the same comfort.  

It has been decades but I still remember the pain of  my mothers passing. It is a loss I would only wish on my worst enemy, never my dearest niece. Aemma was a wonderful woman, and a wonderful mother. I shall miss her, though I doubt anyone will feel the loss as deeply as you. 

I have been called to the Stepstones most urgently to deal with conflict. Coryls, the Master of Sails will be fighting alongside me, as will several thousand men. I must put the safety of the place we call home above my desire to be by your side, and I apologize greatly for it. 

I will be boarding at Dragonstone, unless I find my circumstances changing. I do not know if you recall the way, but Syrax will. I hope you will be allowed to visit, for I have not yet left at the time I’m writing this but already miss you.

Your Prince and Uncle, 

Daemon 

  106 AC

It was an odd time, the months that followed her mothers passing. She felt both heavy, as if her body had sunk like an anchor. Yet so fragile, she might float away like a feather. Time seemed to fly by for days, then drag on making minutes feel like hours. 

She had few friends at court, and the ones she did have had grown both distant yet overly familiar since the ceremony naming her heir. They seemed to want to be near her, yet feared offending her too deeply to actually converse with her.

It was frustrating, feeling as though everyone she had once knew was so far away. Feeling as though there was no one to talk to. 

Her solace had been her father, he seemed determined to provide the love of two parents, now that she had lost one. They supped together, and she was made his cupbearer — meaning they were rarely parted, even during his long meetings. She did not like the task much, but she enjoyed the time with him. It gave her something to do, which was a relief for she felt lost without her mothers presence by her side. 

Without Daemon by her side. 

She tried not to mourn his loss too deeply, for he was still alive. He just wasn’t there. She knew something had happened. Even wondered if her fathers recent doting was motivated by the fact he sent his brother away and felt guilty for it. 

She was still too young to be told the whole truth directly, still didn’t know exactly what had happened. But she heard rumors — of them fighting, of her father renouncing Daemon’s right to inherit. Banishing him from King’s Landing. Sending him to war, and perhaps, his death. 

These were partially confirmed to her, when she was announced as heir to the iron throne. 

It was official now. Completed with an awkward ceremony in which many men had begrudgingly pledged their loyalty to her. She did what she could to forget that day, it had been long and tedious, the garments heavy and sweaty. People swore it was one, but with the proximity to her mothers passing it did not feel much like a celebration at all. 

She wasn’t sure she wanted the throne. She wanted her mother back. She wanted Daemon. She wanted things to return to the way they were a year ago. 

But it seemed the more she wished for the past to return, the faster the present kept changing. 

Her role as cupbearer provided her with insight to the ongoings in the kingdom. Allowed her ears to hear what the council desired of their King. His hand, a man she did not care for named Ser Otto, was the most  vocal of them, but they all seemed to share the same thoughts: They wanted her father to marry again.

It was not unheard of for a man to remarry after their match passed. Especially if they did not have an heir. And though she qualified as one, she knew her claim was not strong — she was just a girl, as the council seemed so fond of reminding her. 

Her grandpa, Baleon, had never remarried. Nor had his father, the old king. But they both had sons — heirs and spares, so the situation was not as dire. They were allowed to mourn, and honor their late wives passing by not taking another. 

It did not seem her father would be offered the same luxury. 

She tried not to think of it as him replacing her mother, for there could never be a replacement for a soulmate. But it was hard to think of it as anything else. 

The first day they spoke of it was the first time she visited Dragonstone. She was a competent dragon rider, she knew this. Daemon had told her often, and though he was fond of her he was always honest with his compliments. He would not lie about such a thing.

But still, she had never taken such a long flight alone. It made her nervous. It made her a little excited. And that was what motivated her to do it, because it was so rare for her to feel something other than grief. 

She was grateful for the decision, as she flew. 

The flight was plagued with fog — she would have easily gotten lost if not for the good sense of direction Syrax had. But she enjoyed herself nonetheless, the nerves fading to joy as she luxuriated in the sense of freedom flying offered. The trip was long, but the time passed quickly as she swooped through the skies. 

Daemon was pleased to see her, coming out to greet her when he heard Syrax call to Caraxes, the unmistakable screeching of a dragon was audible from even inside the imposing castle. 

He welcomed her with open arms, and a kiss to the top of her head. He looked so glad to see her that she felt a smile curve on her lips for the first time in months. 

“Are you terribly angry at me for leaving?” He asked her, when they were seated inside the stone building. His voice sounded soft and genuine, as if he feared her response. 

“Father did not give you much choice, did he?” 

Daemon pursed his lips, “Your father did what he thought was right.” 

Rhaenyra wanted to cry that it wasn’t right for soulmates to be parted. She just wanted to cry. 

He seemed to sense her mood, as he stood from his seat and settled next to her, pulling her into an embrace. She could not fight the tears then, it was as if the mask she had to keep on in King's Landing fell and all her tears were falling with it. 

After a time her sobs quieted to little hiccups, “They want him to remarry” she whispered, knowing Daemon would understand what she meant. She could not see his face, for hers was pressed into his side but she felt him tense.

“It is very soon to be considering such things.” He said, placatingly. 

“But they are considering it, I’ve heard them.” She looked up at him, “Why can’t I be enough?” She bit her lip, angry with herself when her voice cracked. “Mother died trying to have a son, and even that isn’t enough to halt fathers attempts.”  

Daemon just continued rubbing her back, “I think every king is cursed with concern for the future. Sometimes to the point of ignoring the present, for it is the only way he could overlook a treasure such as you.” 

“Rhaenyra,” he said seriously. “You are enough, do not let any man or woman tell you otherwise. If they do not realize that, then they are a fool.” 

She hiccuped, “Then you must think everyone in the small council is a fool!” 

He smiled at her, “In fact, I do.” 

…

Seeing her uncle and riding Syrax had done her some good. She felt in better spirits than she had in an age…though unfortunately those feelings did not last long. It was perhaps a week later when her father announced his choice of bride. 

Alicent Hightower. 

It was made all the worse by the fact she truly was his choice. She was not the woman his council wanted, which meant he had acted on his own desires. His desires for a woman other than Aemma. It made her feel sick, it made her feel betrayed. This was not him being forced into a marriage by his advisors, it was one he had chosen for himself. 

The girl was young too, perhaps a decade older than Rhaenyra herself. They had spoken often enough, being the hands daughter she was a common sight at court. Alicent took herself very seriously, and was very devoted to her faith and to the crown. She was a pretty woman, if plain compared to the Targaryen traits she and her mother shared. 

The council had wanted her father to wed Laena Velaryon, her family was closer to their Valyrian heritage, it would have been a good match. Laena’s lack of soul mark had been much gossiped about since she was born, a blight on their good family name, they said. However –  it could have been a benefit and given her the opportunity to be the King's second wife.  

But he had refused her. 

And now, in a matter of weeks, he was to wed Alicent. 

One small blessing was that this had briefly calmed the tension with Daemon. Apparently the acquisition of a new wife soothed wounds regarding words spoken about the old one. And Rhaenyra  was grateful to have Daemon back in Kings Landing, even if it was only a brief visit. 

Even after months apart, her affection for him had not faded. If anything she thought it was true — absence did make the heart grow fonder. The time away made her all the more pleased to be by his side. And his side was a place she refused to leave, often dining with him and insisting on long flights. He was only here for a few days and she was going to make the most of them.

He indulged her, as he always did, and brought her gifts too. Books, perfumes, silks, and more rings to add to her already weighted fingers. She took them all happily, but his presence truly was the best gift of all. 

He sat next to her throughout the wedding ceremony and the feast that followed it. His hand was tightly clutched in hers, and she was sure her rings were sharply digging into his flesh. But he didn’t complain, it seemed his only purpose was to be there for her. 

She appreciated it more than she could say. 

…

It was perhaps three months later, when they were reunited again, and it was at a wedding once more. This time in the castle of Driftmark, where her fathers cousin Princess Rhaenys lived with her husband and two children.

They were wedding their children to each other. 

Rhaenyra shouldn’t judge, given her current betrothal. And the marriages her grandfather and great grandfather had, which were by all accounts very happy despite their relation. But it still seemed strange to her. Perhaps because she could not imagine having a sibling. 

Though…she was not sure that would be the case for much longer. Rumors swarmed in court that Alicent was pregnant already, that her dresses had to be let out by an inch because her waist thickened so. 

But even still, her family wed family for the fates decided it with soul marks. But Laena, the bride, didn’t have a mark. And Laenor, from what she heard, shared a mark with a man. She thought this was very odd, but supposed the fates worked in mysterious ways. 

Her uncle had told her that the Velaryon’s only hope of keeping their bloodline intact was to make his daughter heir, which would bring shame to his son. Wedding them together was their only choice to keep Velayron’s strong both in name and standing. 

Laena was not much older than Rhaenyra, perhaps fifteen she thought? But with the war in the Stepstones, her father was eager to see her marriage settled. And Rhaenyra was pleased to be in attendance. A change of scenery — and a chance to see her dear uncle, were both welcome occurrences. 

She was also eager to see their dragons, they had three in their pit! Including the largest of the living beasts, which the young Laena rode. It was rare to find other dragon riders, and she hoped to find their friendship too. 

Dragons must stay together, Daemon had once said. 

…

The wedding was a beautiful, but somber affair. The groom and bride were not lacking looks, but clearly lacked romantic feelings for each other. Even Rhaenyra — only a girl of nine, could tell that much. She did not know much of romance, but she knew enough to tell the pair was unhappy. 

The siblings both looked quite ill, as they took their vows. They picked at their food throughout the feast, and only seemed to perk up when the music and dancing began. Rhaenyra was too young to dance, which she thought unfair, since she had been in lessons since she was five. 

It seemed cruel to learn so many steps, only to be able to practice them in private until she reached womanhood. But she did enjoy watching the dancing, still, it was one of the most entertaining activities royalty took part in.

She also enjoyed watching Daemon, though she felt a twinge of jealousy watching him dance with Laena. 

She had hoped they would be friends, and maybe they would be one day, but as of now their age difference was too grand. Laena was a woman grown, she was wed now, for gods sake! Where Rhaenyra remained a child. And she felt that oh so plainly in her presence. 

The older girl’s beauty seemed to easily draw every eye in the room to her, making her the center of attention. That was something Rhaenyra was accustomed to being, as the Realm’s Delight. But this evening she was not in her Realm, and she did not feel delightful. 

She felt young, and short, and slim, and very much the child she was. 

Rhaenyra knew Targaryen’s were all blessed with good looks, and she was no exception. Bards praised her fair skin, her long hair that shone silver and gold in the sunshine. Her large light eyes, and sweet face. She looked every bit the Princess she was. 

She just…did not look like Laena. And people did not look at her the way they looked at Laena. 

But she would not be jealous. One day, she would have a crown and rule the seven kingdoms. And she would do it with her match at her side. 

Laena could have a dance, for she would never know the joys of that. 

…

“My sincerest of congratulations to you both, cousin.” Daemon said, as he led the young woman in a dance.

She let out an inelegant snort as a response, “There is nothing to congratulate me on. For my brother looks to me as a sister, not as a woman — and he does not look to women at all.”

“Tis a shame, for a lady of your beauty to not be looked at by their husband.” 

“Will the dear princess be suffering such a similar fate?” Laena asked, glancing over to the girl.

Daemon bit his tongue, “Save a dance for me at our wedding, and I shall tell you then.” 

Her eyes narrowed, not the answer she wanted. “That is many years away, no? Until she can offer you her…company, perhaps you could accompany me tonight?” 

He stiffened, his grip on her arms tensing, “I have whores at home, thank you.” 

“Aye, but they do not seek to have children.” She was bold. 

“I have no need of bastards when my children will sit on the iron throne.” 

“Perhaps mine will too, our families have always been so close.” Her arm dragged down his front.

“Our blood will meet then, but our flesh will not. Not tonight.” He said firmly. 

“Your loyalty to a child is admirable, my Prince.” 

“My loyalty to my match. I see you are unable to understand the significance.” She stiffened — it was a low blow, but she had earned it. 

“Thank you for the dance.” The music had not stopped, but he pushed her away and returned to his seat at the head table. Next to Rhaenyra. 

God the nerve, this girl had. To ask a near stranger to father her children, based on blood relation alone, at her own wedding! He usually appreciated bold women, women who were unafraid to seek what they wanted. But this was so blatant it was shameful, propositioning him so plainly during a dance. 

He was a rogue, he knew he had a reputation but the thought of him agreeing to breed bastards all because of her good looks and good last name was an offense to him, Rhaenyra, and the Targaryen dynasty itself.  

Perhaps, in another life, they would have been a good pair. She was beautiful, she was of good breeding, she had a dragon. He could admit they had enough in common for a contract to be written. But this was not that life, for he had a match. And her being a child mattered not, not when one day she would be more than that. 

One day she would be everything. 

Sometimes, he felt like she already was. 

Chapter Text

107 AC

Daemon found himself in Kings Landing for two reasons — well, perhaps three reasons. Rhaenyra was always a reason to visit, and his favorite reason to visit. She had gained confidence in the last few years and when the weather was good she would often come to Dragonstone. The trip took several hours, but it was an enjoyable trek by dragon. With even better company at the end of it, he jested. 

He had his men — his friends in Dragonstone, and his sometimes mistress, Mysaria. Coryls often came to strategize. He found his mind and body adequately entertained and he was not lonely there. But nothing could compare to his niece, and the joy he felt in her presence. 

Still, that was just an added benefit of this trip. He had come to ask for additional troops, arms, and aid for the war raging in the Stepstones. And to welcome his new nephew — his brother's son. 

He cared not for his bride, the Hightower girl, but he knew his brother had long since dreamed of a son. He had put that dream above his wife’s health, and his daughter's happiness. But Daemon could not be too harsh on him, he too dreamed of a boy of his own blood. 

Someday. Though he had years to wait, yet. 

For now he would give his brother regards on his good fortune, while waiting patiently for his own to come.

“I hear congratulations are in order, brother.” Daemon said, approaching the figure that stood slightly stooped — looking through the shaded window and holding a glass of amber liquid in one hand. 

“Perhaps not so many congratulations.” Viserys responded,

“Is it not a joyous day, when a son is born?” 

Viserys stiffened, “I recall a day that was quite the opposite.” 

Daemon winced, “I’m sorry brother.” Though often his intent was to chafe at his older sibling, this was not one of those occasions. And he had no desire to poke at wounds of his lost love, and son. “I spoke carelessly, I came to give you nothing but my sincerest good wishes.” 

Viserys was silent for a time, and then — “He’s unmarked”

Daemon paused, Alicent was not a Targaryen by birth, nor were they a match. It was unsurprising that he would be unmarked — though sure to be a disappointment. On the matter of succession, he supposed it was a relief to him. A council would never argue for an unmatched man on the throne, not over a matched heir, even if they typically favored man over woman. 

 “And his egg?” Daemon asked, for there was more to a Targaryen than a match. 

“Gone cold.” Viserys responded. 

Daemon sighed, “I am sorry brother — but he is healthy? Is that not the most important.” 

Viserys nodded, “Aye. But I fear this is the gods showing their disapproval.” 

Daemon paused, “It is merely the gods showing he is not a Targaryen. But there are worse things to be, than healthy.” 

Viserys nodded, but did not look convinced. 

“I have taken her for granted, as I took Aemma for granted. I see that now, that they were the gods' gift to me, and how did I repay them? By continuing to desire a son. If Rhaenyra was a blessing, will this child be a curse?” 

Daemon was not sure he had ever seen his brother so deeply distraught before. He had expected him to be pleased, smiling, delighted with the strength of his new wife's womb. He was not prepared for such a serious, somber topic. He was not sure how to respond, either. 

“Rhaenyra is indeed a blessing, but that does not mean Aegon is a curse. A child is what you make of it, and how you raise it.” 

“And,” Daemon continued, “At least you don’t have to worry about this one matching with me.” 

Viserys let out a sad laugh, “Thank the gods for that, at least.” 

…

“I have a brother now,” Rhaenyra said as they ate lunch in his chambers. “I met him today. He is pink. And loud. And stinks.” Daemon couldn’t help but laugh, for he did not think dissimilar thoughts when meeting the boy. 

“Do not say such things in Alicent’s presence, she will surely take offense.” 

Rhaenyra sniffed, “Perhaps she should take offense.” — She was not fond of her stepmother, nor was she secretive of that fact. 

“I regret to inform you that Alicent’s involvement has little to do with those things. Most babes are noisy and stinky.” 

Rhaenyra’s face took on a concerned expression — “Was I pink, and loud, and stinky as a babe?” She looked so worried, this possibility had clearly never occurred to her before. 

Daemon laughed, wiping his mouth. “You were the loudest.”

“No!” She yelled, only proving his point. 

“See! You are still the loudest!”

She wrinkled her nose as she always did when frustrated, for any disagreement would only prove his point.  “But was I stinky? Was I pink?” 

He shook his head, “No, I said you were the most beautiful baby in the seven realms when I laid eyes on you. And the maids were quick to take care of any messes.” 

That seemed to calm her at least, “I suppose if he was very cute I could tolerate the noise, but he is not.” She said firmly. 

“That’s why I tolerate you,” he responded. 

Her mouth dropped open, “You jest, Uncle!” 

“I mean it truly, you are very cute.”

She huffed, “I’m not noisy!” But it came out as more of a shout, which did her argument little favors. 

108 AC

It turned out Ser Corlys had no need to move his children's nuptials. The war finally ended — and most importantly, ended in their favor. 

It had been a brutal final battle on the beach. The day had been clear and seas calm when the fight began, but by the end it was tainted red. Bodies and blood decorated the shoreline — some of it being Daemon’s own.

 He was grateful for the victory, and more-so that he had not needed to sacrifice his life in the process…Though it had come close, he thought. 

He had never feared for his life quite like he did on that day. He had been shot, how many times? A half dozen? It was amazing he was still standing — much less standing well enough to cleave down Craghas Drahar. 

The battle was blurry in his mind, the hours too full of adrenaline and pain to recall clearly. But the battle itself mattered little, not when the outcome was good. 

Or, so he told himself on the day.

Now, two weeks into his recovery he was feeling far from good. He was feeling restless, knowing with the end of the war that he could finally return to Kings Landing. Return to Rhaenyra. 

He felt foolish, for how much he missed the girl. But he supposed soulmates were supposed to be part of you, just in a different body. So perhaps it was natural to feel as though something of him was missing when he was not at her side.

He took some comfort in the fact she missed him also. They would both be eager for his return. In the meantime, since he had sent word of their victory, she had visited twice. She insisted that both he and Caraxes needed her company, and he did not disagree. 

She had told him tales of the castle, of Alicent and her young brother — she was fond of neither, and liked being able to speak plainly of that to him. 

“Some of my maids favor her. And father is besotted.” She said with a sigh. It was difficult, seeing her father find happiness in a woman other than her mother. In a child other than her. She did not feel unloved exactly, she just wished she felt more love. 

“I can’t speak a negative word about her in Kings Landing, it’s exhausting! And her father — the kings hand, I know he whispers into Viserys ear about making his grandson heir.” She sighed again, then spoke more softly, “I feel like he has replaced mother, and now he is trying to replace me.” 

Daemon thought of what Viserys said when he congratulated him on Aegon's birth. They were words he had kept to himself, not wanting to break his brothers confidence in him. But he had long since prioritized his niece’s favor over his brothers, and would share all he knew that could offer her comfort. 

He took her hand from her lap and held it in his, “Do you know what your father said to me when I congratulated him about Aegon?” 

Rhaenyra shook her head. 

“He spoke only of his love for you. How you were a blessing, and how perhaps Aegon was a curse by comparison.” 

Her eyes looked misty, and her voice cracked when she spoke — “Truly?” 

He nodded. “I would not lie about such things. Your father may struggle to show it, but you matter to him more than any other.” 

She wiped at her eyes, but he continued “You matter to me more than any other. You are a Targaryen, a Princess, and the heir to the Iron Throne. Do not let yourself forget that.” 

She took a deep breath, “Will you come home soon? So you can remind me?” 

“As soon as I’m able to.” 

Another breath — “Good, because this Targaryen Princess is heir to the Iron Throne and demands it of you.” 

If he was going to listen to anyone's demands, it would be hers. 

…

He did return, a few months later. Presenting his crown and title to his brother with hopes of getting in his good favor. And it had worked — he was welcomed back to the palace, greeted with his open arms. 

He had missed his brother. The feeling of being around family. He felt little love for the castle, but Kings Landing had long been his home. He felt respected here — loved even. Perhaps not by court, but by the people who mattered. The people in flea bottom, and his gold cloaks. 

He had been to places that were more grand, more beautiful. But he had never felt so familiar in a location other than Kings Landing. Though that would change one day. He rarely let his thoughts wander to it, he was betrothed to the heir to Dragonstone. When she was of age, he could easily spend the next few decades of his life there. 

They would spend the next few decades of their life there. 

What a thought. 

He liked Dragonstone, too. Liked the freedom living there provided for him and Caraxes. He felt closer to his history there, like magic seeped through the cracks in the walls. His time there had been pleasant, even in exile. He imagined it would be even more enjoyable with Rhaenyra and Syrax living at the keep. 

She was too young for him to imagine being married to her, but imagining a life with her was easy. She had always seemed to slip into his life with ease, even when she was a baby and he was almost a boy. Even when they shouldn’t have. 

That was the thing about matches, they always fit. 

Fit in your arms, your life, and your heart. 

Chapter Text

109 AC

Rhaenyra’s absence from the council chambers was felt as he took his place at the table. He looked around curiously, spotting a nervous maid but little else that was out of the ordinary, aside from his niece’s disappearance. 

When everyone had settled in the chairs, the maid stepped forward. “I will be attending today…The Princess remains in bed, for her courses have come.” 

Daemon closed his eyes. If he was a worse man, he may have longed for this day to come. Where she would technically be a woman in the eyes of the law. But he had seen her the previous evening, and regardless of her bodies changes she was still but a girl, not ready to be a bride. 

Still — this was news. A girls courses were usually a private matter, as natural as they may be, it was considered a time when a woman was unclean. It was something to be embarrassed about, not to be discussed. 

But Rhaenyra was a Princess, someday to be Queen. Her development meant something to this council, and to this kingdom. Daemon knew this, but still felt a flash of rage at how her privacy was being disregarded. Her body's ongoings were being broadcasted to a council of men and to be discussed by them, as if they had any right. 

There was an awkward silence for a moment, as the news was taken in by the men. Viserys looked shocked by this revelation, he was determined to view Rhaenyra as a child, and did not like being confronted with evidence to the contrary. 

“This is good news.” One of the masters said, “It means she can be wed in two years time — she will be fourteen, a good age for marriage.” 

“No.” Daemon said firmly, he rarely spoke during the council these days. For him speaking often turned into him arguing, which did little for his position in court. “No.” He said more softly, “The betrothal contract stipulates we will not wed until at least her sixteenth name day.” 

Aemma had begged for such a thing, blaming her early marriage on her difficulties with bearing children. Daemon had not argued, being too numb after the match to argue much at all. 

The master just huffed, “Such a thing can be renegotiated, with the King’s permission.” 

Every face turned to the king, who looked slightly ill. 

“It cannot be renegotiated without my permission.” Daemon said, “I will not betray her late mothers wishes.” He was not eager to do more to besmirch Aemma’s passing. Nor was he in any rush to wed the Princess. 

He knew one day, he would look at Rhaenyra and see more than a child. See a woman, his future bride. But that day had not yet come. He feared it would not in two years time. He would not rush a bond that would not fade in his lifetime. 

Viserys coughed, “I agree. We will respect the original contract and discuss this further as her sixteenth birthday approaches. Thank you for informing us of this development.” He said to the maid, “You may fill the glasses and go.” The maid nodded, tending to her work quickly and scurrying out the door. 

The meeting progressed as usual, until the end when Viserys spoke — “With Rhaenyra absent, I would like to speak on another matter.” His gaze found Daemon’s. 

The conversations true intent became clear almost immediately. 

“Rumors are running rampant, of your exploits in King's Landing — in brothels.” 

They had had this argument before. Viserys had even had this argument with his wife. Years ago Aemma claimed it was good for Daemon to have some sort of outlet separate from his niece. Some way of soothing his ever present temper. 

But Viserys thought it was disgusting, and that his dirty reputation would cause people to question whether the princess, his daughter, was clean. Daemon insisted he was mad, that no one would question a Targaryen princesses virtue, especially when she had not yet even come of age. And if they did, they would see his own sword as their last sight. 

Viserys believed him. He was a fierce man, and fiercely protective over his niece, he always had been. He never doubted his love for Rhaenyra, and perhaps that was the problem. It was so clear, to see how he cared for her — how he would always care for her. 

The reality, that one day he would no longer need whore for he would have her. 

And so, Viserys could not hear the rumors of his brother's actions without imagining them involving his daughter. He could not help but think of the day when his appetites would turn to hunger for the Princess. And the thought of her receiving such treatment…it made his usually calm mind burn with rage, and sickness pool in his stomach.

The fact she had bled now, another step in her approach to womanhood, made his heart hurt all the more.

Daemon just scoffed, “I do not see the issue. Many men have both wives and whores and there is little correlation between the two.” 

“But you will not have a wife Daemon, you will have a Queen!” 

“And I shall be loyal to her then, but now she is a child. Courses or no.” He continued, “Brother you cannot pretend you went to your wedding bed chaste, and Aemma was a mere three years younger than you!” 

Daemon let out a sigh, “I will not set my desires on Rhaenyra until she is of an age to return them. But they must be set somewhere.” 

Viserys closed his eyes. “People will presume the way you treat a woman publicly is how you will treat the Princess. I will not have it any longer. We will house two whores in the palace, and you must swear not to have another unless behind closed doors.” 

His teeth clenched, “Of course, as my King wishes.” 

Daemon had received the lecture when he was still a boy, nearing his thirteenth birthday. His fathers words had been firm, more a demand than anything else. 

“You will not bed women with diseases, you will not bed women with the intent of making bastards. We are in line for the throne, we have the coin to hire whores with the good sense to prevent both.” 

He had listened to that, taking extra care to never spill inside a woman. He did not want to shame his family or future bride, he just wanted release damn it. The fact that even these actions were worth discussing in the council, no worse, worth berating in the council made him livid. He felt chastened, like a little boy. 

Moving his activities behind closed doors, behind palace doors would not disprove the reputation he had gained since his youth. He was the Lord of Flea Bottom, and nothing would change that now. But if Viserys wanted to limit his public appearances to drinking and gambling, so be it. He could fuck in his chambers. 

He was still angry as he left the council room. But he was also determined to see Rhaenyra — the maid had said she was still in bed. 

He knew little of a woman’s courses, but he had lived with Mysaria for a number of years, and she was a proud woman — unwilling to feel shame over what she could not control, unwilling to hide such things. 

He had been shocked at first. He was a knight, he was accustomed to bloodshed. He just did not realize how much a woman experienced it outside the battlefield, and how much pain could come with it. But Mysaria had told him plainly, and he was grateful for the knowledge now.

He knocked on Rhaenyra’s door and announced himself. A few moments later a maid let him in, her eyes narrowed “It is not a time for visitors.” The maid said, rudely. 

He didn’t care for her thoughts on the matter of visiting a woman during her courses. He may have to be lectured by his brother, the King, but he did not need to be lectured by a mere maid.  

 “Is the princess awake?” He asked, and when the maid nodded, he pushed past her. 

The canopies around her bed were pulled back, and the windows were open to let in fresh air.

She lay curled on her side, clutching a pillow to her abdomen. A cup of tea balanced on a silver tray sat next to her, along with some plain looking cakes. None of it appeared to have been touched, and if her posture wasn’t enough of a sign of her discomfort, the lack of appetite was. 

“I came to see my ailing Niece.” He announced, as he approached the bed. He tried to sound jovial, but it saddened him to see her in such a state. 

Her nose wrinkled — “I am not ailing Uncle” she said, then whispered, “I am bleeding.” 

He merely shrugged, “And have you not sat by my bedside while I bled?” 

Now it was her forehead that wrinkled, clearly thinking back on the many times she had tended to him while he recovered from one injury or another. Finally, she said, “That’s different.” 

He shook his head, “It’s really not. You did not ask to bleed, and neither did I. We must accept our bodies and the pains they bring us.” 

She looked a bit embarrassed as she asked, “How did you know it came with pain?”’

“I know everything.” He said confidently, 

“You do not!” She protested.

“You’ll have to test my knowledge if you wish to disprove it.” 

Oh she looked determined now, she haughtily told him to grab her lesson books. 

Clearly his attempts at lifting her spirits were working, nothing motivated her like the opportunity to prove someone wrong. 

 …

He had lost their game of trivia, but it was hard to feel defeated when she was smiling. After a time of silence, she asked how the council meeting had gone. 

“I think you listen more during them than I do.” Was his only response, for he did not feel like rehashing that day's topics. 

“Perhaps that is why I am the heir.” She meant to tease, but she looked thoughtful for a moment after— “Do you think that is why we match? You shall be the King of the people, and I the Queen of the council!” She said with a smile. 

He thought for a moment, before responding — a little awestruck by her. It seemed so natural for a man to want to be King, so much so that he rarely stopped to consider if he would be a good king. It did not really matter, when you were going to inherit the title anyway. 

Finally he settled on saying, “All I know is that I will be a better King with you as my Queen.”

The smile remained on Rhaenyra’s face.

…

The year had brought changes to her body and life, Rhaenyra thought, as she looked down at her new sister. She was cuter than her brother. And did not smell nearly as bad.

She had the pale hair of a Targaryen, though her features were not nearly as fine. Daemon insisted that Rhaenyra was a far more beautiful babe, and she secretly delighted in that. Perhaps Helaena would be beautiful, but not as beautiful as her. 

She felt as though she was finally growing into her features. Her face beginning to lose its baby fat while the rest of her body seemed to gain some. Her gowns had to be let out in the hips and bust in a way that had embarrassed her greatly at first. But her maids were kind, insisting it was part of maturing. 

She did not feel very mature. Still so much younger than the women around her. Made to feel dull and dumb in all but her maids presence. At least she had Helaena now, too. 

Helaena had a mark, something Alicent took great delight in. Her previous child — her son, had been born without one. People said he was a Targaryen in looks only, his lineage tainted with Hightower blood. Rhaenyra did not disagree, for she despised the child, and thought the gods had been right when they denied him the opportunity of a soulmate. 

She wasn’t sure how a two year old could be so infuriating, he just was. With his blonde locks, like a demon disguised as a cherub. It was astonishing that a child could come from the same womb but be so different. Helaena was as sweet as could be. 

Rhaenyra was happy she would have someone to love her someday. She wondered who it would be — a cousin? A brother? Her uncle is already taken, she thought with a snort. Alicent surely had brothers, but she knew they weren’t marked. 

Rocking the babe in her arms made Rhaenyra wonder what being a mother would be like — what it would be like if this was her own babe. She had years to go before she would be married and that would become a possibility. But the reality of her future had never felt closer than when Helaena was in her arms.

It did not seem so scary, with Helaena in her arms, either. 

Chapter Text

110 AC 

“My maids are being annoying.” Rhaenyra said, petulantly. She was hiding from them in her uncle's rooms. They were to sup soon, but for now he was sharpening a sword while she was laying on a nearby couch. 

“Pray tell, how they dare to annoy a Princess such as yourself?” He asked. 

She wasn’t sure where to start. Her maids and ladies were all older than her — only by a few years, but those years made all the difference. Some of them were engaged, some of them had paramours! They were always gossiping about who they wanted to kiss —or, when they thought she wasn’t listening, who they had kissed. 

Now one of them was getting married and they spoke about even more personal activities! She couldn’t escape the chatter of it that surrounded her. 

It seemed half the girls in her employ were in love with her knight, and the other half with her uncle. She couldn’t blame them, her uncle was a wonderful man, as was Ser Cristin. She valued their protection and their roles in her life dearly. And she knew they cared for her, also. 

But wanting to kiss them? Was it truly such a queer thought?

Or had it upset her because she, too, wanted to kiss them?

She rolled over on her cushion, to face her uncle. “They won’t stop talking about boys.” Though ‘boys’ felt like the wrong term to use in regards to her uncle, and knight, who were both at least a decade her senior. If she was a woman now, that she had her courses, surely they were men not boys. 

“Does my Niece have such little interest in boys?” 

She thought about how to respond for a moment. The answer was, she didn’t have much interest — at least not until her maids filled her with thoughts about kissing, and marriage, and babies!

She was heir to the seven kingdom, her station meant she had things to do that were far more important than dreaming of the opposite sex. But now that those thoughts had been brought up, she couldn’t escape them. 

“No.” She said firmly, not wanting to be mocked by him of all people on this matter. “They say dragons only mate with dragons, I have little interest in anything else.” 

Her uncle snorted, “What do you know of mating?” 

She blushed, feeling her cheeks heat, “More now than I did yesterday! One of my maids is getting married.” She said, and it was the truth. 

“If she is not yet wed, she should know nothing of it either.” 

It was Rhaenyra’s turn to snort, for her uncle to talk about the expectation of innocence was too funny! She couldn’t help but poke at him, “Just as you, not yet wed, know nothing of it?”

He threw back his head and laughed, “A point for you, my Niece.” He said, as if they were playing a game and keeping score. 

“I just can’t believe some of my maids are no longer…maidens!” She said, frustrated. 

Daemon raised a brow, wondering if it was jealousy he heard in her tone. It was certainly not disgust, as it would have been a few years previously. She had grown since then, and thankfully not grown into Alicent’s ways with morals higher than her stuffy necklines.

She continued, “My mother was wed by my age and I’ve not been kissed.” She wasn’t envious, really! She just hated feeling so…behind. Being a Princess meant she got to do things most girls her age could not hope for. But it also meant she was sheltered, in matters like this. 

Matters of the heart, and of the flesh.

“Do not compare yourself to Aemma, she was given little choice in the matter. She ensured that you would have a choice in the matter.” He said, knowing how strongly Aemma had felt about her daughter getting to be a girl before being forced to be a woman. 

“Does that mean I get to choose when I get a kiss?” Her eyes lit up and she sat up on the settee, staring at him.

He immediately regretted his wording and tried to placate her, “Rhaenyra, you’re still young.” 

She huffed. It wasn’t fair! She couldn’t help her age. 

“I’m old enough to kiss!” She insisted, feeling petulant from the days chatter. 

Daemon rubbed his face, 

“I want a kiss.” She said, in her attempt to seem mature she came off more childish than ever. 

He sighed. He had never been able to deny her a thing. 

He set down his sword and grinding stones. The settee was a mere few steps away, which he cleared quickly. She was sitting now, and staring at him expectantly. Though not fully necessary, he held her chin in his hand and gently tipped up her face. He leaned down, and softly pressed his lips to hers — more a peck than a kiss, lasting a mere moment. 

When he pulled away her nose wrinkled, “That’s it?” She asked, and he couldn’t help but let out a laugh. Was there any other girl who would demand her first kiss, then complain about the quality? She truly was a spoiled princess, though he would have her no other way.

She clearly realized that was the wrong response, following it up with a petulant, “That wasn’t a very grown up kiss.” Not that she was an expert, but her maids had spoken of tongues! Of passion! 

“You aren’t very grown up, yet.” He simply replied.

“Will you give me a grown up kiss when I am grown up?” She asked. 

“We will do a great deal more than just kissing when you’re a grown up. I will promise you that.” 

She sighed. 

…

For the second time in as many years, she found herself greeting a new sibling. It was odd, she still regarded herself as an only child. For in her eyes, she was just as much her mothers daughter as her fathers, and she was her mothers only child. 

Well, only living child. 

Perhaps in a different world she would have had two full blooded brothers and her mother. 

But that was not the world she lived in. No, in this one she had two step brothers and a stepsister. The result of her fathers union with Alicent. 

She still did not get along well with Alicent, they tolerated each other at best, despised each other at worst. They had not been friends before she wed Viserys, but they had certainly been friendly. Unfortunately all vestiges of that had faded quickly, and their relationship only seemed to worsen with time. 

The resentment rolled out of Alicent in waves when she was in Rhaenyra’s presence.. Rhaenyra knew why she didn’t like her — she was a reminder of Aemma. The marriage the fates had divined. The fact they had not done such with hers. 

She was heir to the throne, when Alicent and her father thought it should go to Aegon. She had a dragon. She had a match. She had Viserys' love and attention. 

Perhaps worse, she looked the part of a Targaryen Princess, and was a Targaryen Princess. Something Alicent could not compare to, even if she was Queen. For the blood that ran through her veins was that of a Hightower, not a dragon. 

Despite her distaste for her mother, Rhaenyra had doted on Helaena throughout the year. She had been saddened when she heard the new babe was a boy, she feared he would be as insufferable as Aegon. 

And in some ways he was, he was loud — drove Alicent and all his maids mad, but Rhaenyra respected that. She respected anyone who irritated Alicent, even if they were merely a baby. Rhaenyra herself had also been vocal as an infant, or so she had been told many times by her uncle and father. So perhaps they had that in common. 

He was little too, and that made something inside her want to care for him. 

There was no clutch of eggs ready to sit in his cradle, so if he was to be a dragon rider it would not be determined from birth like it had with her and Syrax. However, unlike his brother — he had a mark. 

More than that, he had a match. 

It seemed this little babe would grow into a man fit to marry Helaena. 

She had not seen the match occur, only heard about it second hand. Viserys was delighted that the fates had gifted two of his children soulmates, and to each other. He had seen his parents — both siblings and soulmates —  and the happiness they found in each other. He wanted nothing less for his children. 

Alicent had a harder time stomaching it, inner house marriage was not common outside of the Targaryen’s. Raising two children to wed was not a concept she had grown up around, nor one she was eager to foster. 

Dragons don’t understand dragons, Rhaenyra thought. 

And this child? Little Aemond, he was most definitely a dragon. 

…

She visited her own dragon that day. Syrax had continued to grow, though at a much more rapid pace than Rhaenyra. She was a beautiful, imposing creature, and her scales shone in the sun like jewels. But it was not her looks that drew Rhaenyra to the beast, it was their bond — how they almost became one when flying. If she closed her eyes, the feeling of her saddle and chains dissipated, leaving behind only the freedom of flight. 

She enjoyed her dragons temperament, too. It was said a dragons personality favored their rider, and she thought that was true. Syrax was stubborn, rarely following anyones whims but her own. She seemed to be almost…prim in the presence of others, even larger, more intimidating creatures. It was as if she looked down on them, knowing her beauty and breeding was better. 

Syrax was quick to snap at other dragons or keepers — it seemed her time kept with Caraxes did little to improve her behavior. If anything, he taught her his hatred for anyone not of Targaryen blood. The pair often slumbered together in the same cell, seeming to take comfort in their love for each other and their hatred for others. 

Perhaps not so unlike her and Daemon — though she blushed at the thought of slumbering with him!

She was glad their dragons had each other, but she was sad they remained so confined. When she had visited her uncle at Dragonstone, he had left the dragons free. They could roam the grounds, circle volcanos, sleep in the mountains, eat what they hunted, and do what they pleased. 

It seemed like a far better life. She was glad she could provide it for Syrax, someday, even if that day still felt far away. 

Though, perhaps not too far away. 

She was thirteen now. She had her courses. She had been kissed, though she still thought it was barely a kiss. Having a husband and having…more wasn’t so far off, now. Just a few years. 

The thought of leaving her birthplace, and all she knew was frightening. But also exciting — even from her few visits, she had become fond of Dragonstone. Daemon regaled her with stories of the island, and its creation.

He said the island itself was forged from the fire of a volcano — and nothing could be a better place for a Targaryen, than a place created by fire in its fiercest form. The castle was built by sorcerers, hundreds of years ago. But despite its age, he claimed the magic had never faded — that it still flowed through the walls, and through you when you visited. 

It had been the Targaryen’s home before Kings Landing. She was eager for it to be her home. 

They had summered there, once when her mother was still alive. She was too young to know the feel of magic for herself, but she remembered liking the palace a great deal. 

Her maids had all complained of the dreariness, the storms, the sea, the unavoidable scent of sulfur. They were relieved to go, but Rhaenyra had been sad to leave. She felt calmed by the crashing of clouds and waves. 

Daemon said Dragonstone was stormy and unpredictable, like Targaryen’s themselves. The turmoil in the sky soothed what tormented them inside, allowing them to feel true peace. 

She looked to the sky — it was a calm day. She could go for a long ride, maybe give the lonely keep some company. 

It would provide Syrax with a little taste of fresh air and freedom. 

It would provide her with a little taste of fresh air and freedom. 

Some day, they would both wake with the flavor of freedom on their tongues. 

And perhaps, they would both have handsome creatures by their side. 

She thought back to that morning, holding Aemond. Maybe someday, both Syrax and her would have baby dragons too. They shared infancy, why shouldn’t they share motherhood? 

For dragons and riders were so much alike.  

If Caraxes could get Syrax with eggs, perhaps Daemon could get her with child...

She blushed. Maybe someday. 

Chapter Text

111 AC

It was that winter that she truly bloomed. 

He did not regret his words to the council, refusing to change their contract. He would not wed her before she was sixteen. He would not bed her before she was sixteen. 

But that was two years away, and she was already taking the shape of a woman. A beautiful woman.

It should not have been a surprise, for she had been a beautiful baby and child too. She was a true Targaryen if there ever was one, in blood, spirit, and looks. And Targaryen’s were known for their looks. 

Her hair had always been kept long, and was the color of wheat with silver intertwined, turning it into the most unique pale blonde. It shone in the sun, often brighter than the sun, reflecting shades of gold back at the sky. 

Despite its light tone, it contrasted against her even fairer skin. Her round face still showed her youth, but was sharper than it had been in the years prior. Her eyes were large, and lined with heavy lashes. Her nose was slightly upturned, and still wrinkled when she was frustrated, as it had since she was a babe. 

Her lips were pouty when relaxed, naturally falling into an expression of slight irritation — which to be fair, usually matched her mood. But when she smiled, it lit up a room. So magnificent you could hardly look away, for where else would you see such a grand sight? 

But gods, the true changes had been in her form. Gone was the straight figure of a child — or even the straight figure of some maidens. Suddenly she had hips, and breasts, and despite her short stature she could no longer be mistaken as anything but a girl on the cusp of womanhood. It was like her body was overcompensating for her height with curves. 

Perhaps she was not a fully formed woman yet. But she was so very close. 

In every stage of her life, he had been charmed by her. Gravitated towards her as if the gods themselves willed it — and in a way, they had. 

So he could not fault himself for continuing to feel that way. There was nothing wrong with how he felt, and if now he felt more than that… Well, it didn’t make his previous feelings any less innocent. 

He tried to shove down those thoughts in her presence, tried to enjoy her in the innocent manner he always had. He didn’t want to sour their interactions just because he realized she was beautiful, that wouldn’t have been fair to either of them. 

So during the day they dined. At meetings, they sat next to each other. He bought her trinkets and gifts, as he always had. They took their dragons on long rides through the skies. 

And at night…well, he rode something else entirely. 

And so what, if he perhaps took both women in his employ to bed that night? Most nights.

So what if he imagined their hair was a little longer, lighter. 

Imagined hips a little wider, the curve of their tits a bit heavier. 

He was only a man after all. And he promised to be good to Rhaenyra, but he didn’t promise to be a good person. 

…

He looked down at his cup, it remained full. Rhaenyra’s was empty — she was finally old enough to enjoy wine, but too young to know her limits. She was flushed and giggly, making large gestures and speaking loudly. Viserys looked amused, charmed by his daughter as he always was. Alicent looked angry, her face pinched in the way it often was. And everyone else just…looked. 

He was not the only one who noticed the Princess, and her developing beauty. He could not blame them.

She had been the Realm’s Delight since she was a babe, and as she grew, so did the courts favor for her. And how could they not? 

She was smart — always asking questions during meetings, sharing her opinions, and ignoring other advisors when they complained of her contributions. She was a Princess, and she knew that title provided her with respect. And so, she demanded to be respected. 

Some people hated her for that. She had the confidence and competence they would have treasured in a Prince, but they looked down on her for being born a Princess. It was almost funny — the reason they disliked her was for her sex, the very reason they couldn’t stop looking at her. Truly a gorgeous example of her kind, she was beautiful, in the way only a Targaryen could be.

He thought they were alike in some ways — they could be charming, they could have a temper. They had little patience for stupidity. They had dragons, and the desire to do little but ride them. 

But they were different, too. She was not cruel, not yet. But she was still young. He wasn’t sure how much of her kindness was her, and how much was naivety. 

But even if she sharpened over time, he knew she would be a good leader. She would be a loved leader. 

He would love her. And he would be by her side. And he would be cruel, if he needed to be. He would do anything he needed to, for her. 

The girl in question tugged on his sleeve, “Can we dance, Uncle?” She begged. 

It seemed couples had taken to the floor while he was lost in his thoughts. And if he did not lead her to the floor, someone else soon would. For she was a flame, and moths gravitated to her. 

…

He had been her favorite dance partner since she first started learning, nearly a decade back. She had never cared much for dancing, it was so much less exciting than riding! It felt like a waste of time, especially when she could not show her skills in public until after she had bled. An archaic rule, about how dancing wasn’t for children. Never mind that you had to learn as a child, to be adequate in adulthood. 

Because of her frustrations, Daemon’s interruptions in the dance hall during lessons had sometimes been the only thing that caused the lessons to continue. 

Rhaenyra was a spoiled child, she knew that. She learned early that her displeasure would not be ignored, for there would be consequences for the servants. The servants feared those consequences, and so they feared her. Screams and cries could get her out of almost anything she disliked, and they had for years. 

It wasn’t until her tenth or eleventh year, when Daemon had sat her down and said— 

“People will try to control you if you cannot control yourself.”

“There is a reason people keep dragons in chains. We are dragons. We must chain our tempers, before someone else fears enough to do so themselves.” 

So she learned to close her eyes and breathe when angry, to try thinking before shouting. It was not something she had mastered, but she took comfort in the fact that at more than twice her age, neither had Daemon. 

After all, dragons could not avoid breathing fire forever. 

But before she learned that, when her temper had been fierce and she didn’t know how to calm herself, Daemon would calm her. That was why he was her favorite dance partner, and favorite person. 

Steps seemed to come easier when he was leading, mistakes seemed to matter less. Everything seemed so much more enjoyable when she was in his arms. She thought she might grow out of those feelings, as she grew into her own person. And she had, in some ways — but she found even when standing tall, she preferred to be standing at his side. 

After all, he wasn’t a crush, he was her match. The burning would only intensify over time. 

She was reminded of that now, as they danced — for she had eventually mastered the steps. And she found as she got older, she enjoyed it a great deal more. Especially when Daemon was her partner.

Their chests practically touched when they danced, her face was mere inches from his neck. Hands sat firmly around her waist — her back, moving in time with the steps just as their feet did. She got to be close to him, physically, in a way that otherwise wouldn’t be considered proper.

It was addictive, being so close to him. Being able to smell him — his cologne, his skin, his sweat.

She could feel the warmth radiating from his flesh, as if his clothing was the only thing preventing from burning her. But she wanted to burn, it was like dancing allowed her to feel the flames and she wanted to jump into the fire. 

She couldn’t stop thinking about pressing her front to his, about kissing him, or licking the bead of sweat off his neck— 

Her thoughts were interrupted as they swapped partners. Daemon had been replaced with her knight, the loyal Ser Cristin. He was a good man, but even when his gaze lingered on her — and it did, she felt no heat in his presence. 

She cared for him, and how gallantly he guarded and protected her. She did not care for him as a man, or as a lover.

When had she started to care for her uncle that way?

True, she had always been drawn to him. Always felt no greater comfort than being in his arms. But even a year back, when he gave her that chaste kiss, there had been no real romance. She had not fantasized about more — certainly not licking his neck. Gods the wine must be having an effect on her!

Perhaps she should drink less, these thoughts were indecent. She had two years to go, before she would lay in her marriage bed. 

She bit her lip, focused on her steps, smiled when she was passed off to another man. She felt his gaze heavy on her chest, but his hands were chaste. His grip more gentle than Daemon’s. 

Would he be gentle with her when it came time? 

She excused herself from the dance and found herself on the balcony, hoping the cool breeze would sober her. Make her thoughts less loose. Make her morals less loose. God she felt wanton. It was terrible to crave something, but not to know what you were craving. 

Did Daemon deal with this? Did he feel this way towards her? 

He had an infamous reputation, she knew. He’d been with women before she was born and she could not hold that against him. She couldn’t hold him being with women now against him, either. He was a man grown and there were different expectations for a Prince. 

But it was unfair, that he knew release, when she had to show restraint. 

It was unfair that he knew the bodies of other women, when she had never seen a man. 

Were his lovers more beautiful than her? She shook her head. Daemon was the one who told her she was a Princess and a Targaryen. She would not insult herself or him by lacking confidence, no one was more beautiful than her. Nearly the entire court said so. 

She hoped Daemon would think so too. He was so careful with her, she worried he would always see her as a child and be unable to treat her as a woman. 

“What plagues my Niece so?” – The question came from the man she was just thinking of. 

“Are you well?” He asked, as he took a place beside her. 

She nodded, suddenly feeling quite tired in the cool air. 

“I was worried you were ill, with how you rushed out of there.” 

She giggled, “No — just, warm.” There, that wasn’t inaccurate or inappropriate

“I think you broke Ser Harwin’s heart, abandoning him as you did.” 

She hadn’t even realized she was dancing with Ser Harwin. 

“You broke mine too, we did not get to finish.” He said, holding an arm out to her. 

She smiled, taking his hand in hers as they swayed in time with the music, fainter from their place outside, but still audible. She found herself less concerned with posture — and propriety, now that the prying eyes of the palace were off her. So perhaps she leaned in a little more than she should. She could blame it on being tipsy, no? 

“Did you indulge too much?” He asked.

She tipped her head up to look at him, “Are you of all people lecturing me on indulgences?”

“Ah, but I have so much more experience in handling mine.” 

She snorted, he had more experience in everything.

…

His Niece was a surprisingly docile drunk. He thought with their similarities, the spirits would cause her spirit to flare. But she was being sweet, tucked up against his chest as they swayed. He was grateful she hadn’t shown such ease in her other partner's arms. 

He did not blame them for looking at her, for lusting at her. It was hard to do anything less, with what a woman she was growing into. But he would not have been so forgiving if she returned a mans blooming affections. 

He had wondered, once, if she had a crush on her knight — he followed her around like a puppy, and looked at her like a bone. But she never seemed to look back at him, or anyone else for that matter. He was grateful for that, for he knew he was prone to jealousy. A woman had never evoked such emotions in him before, but Rhaenyra was no ordinary woman. 

He felt possessive over her — he always had been. Of her time, of her smiles, and her laughter. He liked that she seemed to light up the brightest for him. 

And now, he liked her body, too. 

So he was not surprised to find he felt possessive over that as well.

But still — his desire was a heavy burden, and he would carry it alone until she was old enough to return such feelings. 

It was queer, how quickly two years had passed when she was young. 

How long they seemed to feel now. 

Chapter Text

112 AC

She picked at her food, finding she had little appetite for supper. 

Her day had started off well enough, she woke well rested. She changed into her riding leathers and went for a flight on Syrax, which always seemed to both calm and invigorate her. Even after riding for more than half her life, she had still not had enough. Would never get enough of taking to the skies with her beast. 

Unfortunately, when she returned to her chambers to change for lunch and lessons, she was confronted by the queen. 

She could not remember the last time Alicent sought her out alone — it must have been years! They seemed to get their fill of each other, and then some, over routine dinners and feasts. 

When Alicent had first wed her father, she had made a small attempt of being a mother to Rhaenyra, often coming to her rooms with gifts or hopes to speak. 

Rhaenyra had little patience for it, the loss of her real mother much too fresh. She did not hide her objections to Alicent being in her life, and it seemed neither of them had forgotten it. 

If anything, their relationship had worsened in recent years. At the tourney celebrating her fathers fifth year of marriage they nicknamed Alicent’s party then ‘greens’ and Rhaenyra’s the ‘blacks’ after their favored colors. The disparity in their knights performance during the joust had not helped matters, with the blacks reigning victorious. 

It seemed the court was ready for them to battle, like their champions had. But Rhaenyra tried to pay it little attention – she remained first born, and heir, and soon she would have a marriage to strengthen her claim to the throne. Aegon’s lack of mark, and lack of dragon, had diminished the Hightower’s power for it made their lineage seem unstable. 

He would most definitely be passed over, with the leap potentially being to Aemond – who was matched. But he was still young, and it was hard to argue in favor of an infant when she was nearly a woman grown. 

This made Alicent’s place in her rooms all the more of a surprise, and not a particularly good one. 

“Why have you honored me with your presence?” Rhaenyra asked, pointedly refusing to use her title. 

“Can’t a mother want to visit her stepdaughter?” She responded sweetly. She paused to take a sip from the cup before her, then gestured for Rhaenyra to sit. 

She did, hesitantly. Wondering what sort of trap she was going to fall into, for she knew better, Alicent had no desire to visit her. Not without some sort of cause, or larger motivation. She often dressed herself in green, claiming it was her dear house's color — but Rhaenyra thought it was because she was a snake. 

“You are nearly a woman now, and it is a mothers duty to tell their daughter of what expectations come with that.” Alicent stated, setting her teacup down and placing her hands in her lap. Alicent wore two rings, having loudly declared that any more would be garish and unnecessary, displeasing to the gods, even. Coincidentally, she often said this in the direction of Rhaenyra and her more decorated fingers. 

“My expectations?” Rhaenyra asked, hoping for clarification. 

Alicent’s fell into mock sincerity, “You shall be wed soon. I wanted to make sure you were prepared for what would come with that. Unless Daemon has already…” she trailed off, giving a pointed look at her. 

Ah. She tried and failed to fight a blush, looking down at her hands. 

“I know how much time you two spend together — and how mates can be, almost like wild animals! I wasn’t sure if he had already pursued you in such a manner — given his reputation.” Alicent paused, “Though I suppose he wouldn’t feel that way for you, practically a daughter to him.” 

Rhaenyra bit her tongue — the implication Daemon had taken her maidenhood out of some irresistible animalistic urge was both offensive and ridiculous. To follow it up by claiming he wouldn’t find her attractive at all, was contradictory and insulting. 

“Daemon has never been anything but kind to me.” She said, hoping her words sounded calmer than she felt. 

Alicent looked sympathetic. “Of course, he was given little choice. Just as he has little choice about your match, and your betrothal.” 

Rhaenyra huffed, “The gods you value so greatly made that decision.” 

Alicent ignored her. “That is what I’m really here to talk about — what comes after you are wed. What do you know of men and women?” 

Rhaenyra fiddled nervously with her rings. She hated how little she knew of that. Just what her maids had gossiped about, and what she had read in a few tawdry stories, which somehow managed to be both vague and overwhelming in their descriptions. She wanted to know more. But she didn’t want to learn it from Alicent.  

“Fornication is when a man penetrates a woman — repeatedly, until he spills his seed inside of the woman, which if the gods are kind — can then grow into a babe.” Was Alicent’s efficient description, which seemed to lack the…enthusiasm regarding the activity that some of her maids shared. 

“The first time will be very painful.” She paused, “Daemon surely has enough experience to be gentle. But experience can breed unique…appetites, so I am not sure he will care to be.” 

Rhaenyra winced, she didn’t like the sound of any of that. 

“Men that are accustomed to whores don’t always care for, or know how to find pleasure from a lady of higher breeding.” 

She continued, “Regardless, You must do it as often as your husband requests, it’s your duty to provide him with pleasure, even if you do not find it so."

Rhaenyra wasn’t sure how she could provide that, when she was a lady of higher breeding? How could Alicent say so much, but make so little sense. She did not want to be in her presence any longer though, so she didn’t dare ask for clarification. 

“Thank you for informing me of this, your Grace.” She said as politely as she could through tightly clenched teeth. 

“Oh course dear, I just want you to be prepared for what awaits you.” 

Of course, Rhaenyra thought, sarcastically. 

Despite the hours passing, she still felt sick when she recalled the conversation. It was hard to think of anything else, when she was seated across from Daemon. Would he really hurt her? Not be able to find pleasure with her?

She was conflicted — she knew of Daemon’s reputation, but he had never been anything other than kind and honest to her. Two traits Alicent often lacked in her presence. She shouldn’t believe her over all others, but she hadn’t really heard others speak about the topic either. 

You are a Princess. A Targaryen. Be brave. Rhaenyra thought, wondering how to broach the topic. 

But she was rescued from her worries by Daemon’s voice, “What bothers you my Niece?” 

She usually hated how easily he saw through her, as if every bit of turmoil was broadcasted across her face. But now she was grateful, it would make this easier, she thought — she hoped. 

“Alicent spoke with me today…about my marital duties.” She said, the last part coming out as almost a whisper. 

Daemon coughed, perhaps even choked on his bite of food, but recovered quickly and stayed silent. 

“She did not make them sound…pleasant, for the woman.” Rhaenyra continued, hesitantly. 

Daemon snorted. He was sure that was an understatement. The Hightowers were a faithful flock, with outdated beliefs — he was not surprised to hear that reputation extended to intimacy. They were the sort to think sex was an action merely made to have children. Or something done by a man to a woman, due to their inherent lack of control. No, he did not imagine she made it sound pleasant, especially not to Rhaenyra. 

“Is it true? That it is very painful?” She asked, catching his gaze — looking almost fearful. And fuck he was not ready to have this conversation. He was not ready to soothe her thoughts on the matter when he could not act on the matter. And she continued, “Is it true men do not find pleasure in women of noble birth?” She looked up at him, so beseechingly. 

He thought for a moment, the ridiculous notions Alicent had put in her head made him want to rage. 

“Men care more for looks than lineage. To be honest, it doesn’t take much of either to make a man find release. But it does not have to be painful.”

He gritted his teeth. How was he to describe this — how was she to believe him, when he was a man? Did having his share of maidens really provide him with enough knowledge to explain this to one? No. Surely not. 

He stood then, walking to his cupboard, opening the highly decorated doors and ripping a pair of plain breeches from a hook. He rifled in a drawer for a moment, before pulling out an old tunic in need of patching. He tossed the two garments to Rhaenyra, who looked surprised. 

“I cannot…speak about this, I can not make you believe the truth without you seeing the truth. So we shall go on an adventure. Get changed.” Her eyes lit up, for even if she did not know what that adventure would be, she was delighted by the prospect of going someplace new. 

“This is boys clothing,” She whispered, looking down at the pants and shirt. He snorted, “It’s my clothing, not a boys.” Her nose wrinkled. “Put it on, think of it as a disguise. I shall change in the bedchambers.” She merely nodded, still confused but placated. 

The pants were tight on her hips, but loose on her waist. Leading to her curves looking far less exaggerated than they did in her own clothing. The tunic was rougher than her own chemises, and chaffed against her breasts in a way that was not entirely pleasant. But still, the opaque fabric covered what it needed to, and the loose waistline of the breeches allowed its tails to be tucked in. 

She turned to look in a nearby mirror — her features and hair would make her unmistakable as a princess. But her body looked almost boyish, and unworthy of a second glance. 

Her uncle returned a moment later, dressed in similarly drab clothing and lightweight leather chest plate. His features were that of royalty, too, but the clothing disguised his riches. She still could not imagine him going unrecognized anywhere, not when his face and name were so known to the common folk. She knew they called him the Prince of the City, and sometimes even the Lord of Fleabottom. 

She wondered if that was where they were going?

He beckoned for Rhaenyra to follow him, as he pulled back the rugs that hid the secret exit from his rooms. She had played in the exit as a child, before being told it was very dangerous. So she could not recall the last time she saw it, much less used it. Was this adventure to be a secret, then? That just made her all the more excited. 

Apparently it would not be such a secret, for they went to the stables next and saddled two of the unnamed horses. Daemon said their normal mounts were too flashy, that they could be stolen. She nearly gasped at that, she thought his gold cloaks had crime under control! But perhaps they had become more lenient, with him away at war for so many years. 

The ride into the city was short, but loud — people waved to them, cheered at her uncle and shouted out her name as they passed. It brought a blush to her cheeks, unused to the attention from common folk. She could not recall the last time she rode through the city, she often flew above it, and had taken carriages during celebrations many times. But to ride through the streets as if common herself was…well, uncommon.  

They went deeper into the city, and streets became darker, though no less populated. Buildings became more grand, with elaborate stonework and large windows. There were no carts of food and drink filling these streets, no, people came here for a different sort of sustenance. The Silk Streets, she thought. She had not been to them before, it would not be appropriate.

Was it odd that she had lived in Kings Landing her entire life, and never seen this part of it? She knew her uncle was familiar with it — very familiar, if the rumors were to be believed. They claimed even her father and grandfather partook in passions here, before they were wed. 

She wasn’t sure why her uncle was bringing her here now, but she wouldn’t question him either. 

They traveled down an alley, and her uncle dismounted his horse — then held out his hand to help her do the same. The reins were passed on to a guard of the establishment, along with a few coins — either for their care or discretion, she was not sure. 

The purpose of the building became obvious as soon as they broached the door. She may know little of sex, but the sounds and smells and sights were unmistakeable. Moans, and the slapping of flesh rang through the room. The stench of sweat, and something else lingered in the air. 

She realized she hadn’t moved from the doorway, but her uncle pulled her further in. She would have been lost without his hand to guide her, for she could not bring herself to move — too distracted by the sights.

The room did not look unlike a bar or pub, which she had been into before — albeit briefly. But when you looked closer, there were bodies everywhere, writhing and thrusting against each other, all in a state of undress. Men sat nursing drinks, with nude women on their laps. People weren’t conversing  privately in corners, they were fucking. Large cushions were set up, and men gathered around to watch what took place on them. More fucking, she was sure. 

She was pulled to a table, and a glass of something — ale, she thought — was set in front of her. “Drink” her uncle insisted, nudging her and taking a sip from his own glass. 

“Why are we here?” She whispered, still in shock at what was happening around her. 

“To soothe your fears.” He said simply, “Alicent has told you what she knows of intimacy — I think you are old enough to see the act for yourself.” 

She looked around with wide eyes, staring more intently at various pairings. As if his words had granted her permission to really watch and not just glance at her surroundings. One couple in particular caught her gaze, a  handsome pair relaxing on a settee. The woman writhing in the mans lap — rotating her hips into him and bracing herself on his shoulders, as if she was riding a horse, not a man! 

She knew her mouth had dropped open in surprise. Daemon leaned over to her, “Does she look to be in pain?” He asked her, following her gaze. It was all she could do to shake her head. The women looked distraught, but not from pain. Her hips moved faster now, and she pressed the mans face into her bosom. Her head was thrown back and she was panting — and then crying out, and draping herself across the man, who continued to thrust up into her relaxed form. 

“What happened to her?” She asked quietly, wondering if the woman would be okay. 

“She found her pleasure.” Rhaenyra’s eyes met his, “So women can…?” She trailed off embarrassed. 

He laughed, “Yes, they can. Perhaps not in every marriage, but in some, when the man and woman are well suited.” 

She looked down at her lap, shy all the sudden, “We will be well suited, do you think?” 

Fuck. He was glad she wasn’t looking up at him when she asked that, for he was not sure he would have been able to resist her. He cleared his throat, the thought alone filling him with so much anticipation he could barely breathe, much less speak. 

“I think we will be very well suited, Rhaenyra.” Was all he said. It was an understatement, he thought, but the truth all the same. 

She gave a small nod, then her eyes caught the gaze of another couple. She seemed to be lost in her voyeurism, not noticing as men — and women, greeted him with slaps on his back and words of jest. No one dared mention the Princess by his side, and he did not feel it necessary to bring up himself. 

He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that. Perhaps an hour? He was distracted by watching her reactions, far more interested in her responses to the carnal acts than the acts themselves. Their drinks were swapped out several times, and Rhaenyra’s movements seemed looser — more relaxed, as he had hoped they would become. 

It was then that Mysaria approached. Mysaria had always been bold, and their familiarity only increased the liberties she took. She did not require an invitation to settle herself at their table, and soon became seated across from both the prince and princess. She did not feel shame in her near nudity, either. A square of linen was knotted around her waist, hiding what was between her legs but little else. 

Rhaenyra’s gaze fell to her, for how could it not? She was practically blocking her view — and he thought her nose wrinkled slightly, in frustration for that. She hated to be interrupted, even from this.

“What brings my dear Prince, to my humble establishment, this eve?” Mysaria asked, leaning forward in her seat. Though his presence there wasn’t uncommon, he didn’t usually bring friends. He didn’t partake any longer, either. She knew his reasons. He had complained to her of his brother's judgment, and now took whores to his rooms at the palace. She had acquired them for him — a pair of pretty sisters. They were beautiful, though perhaps not blonde enough, for the taste of a Targaryen.

“We are here to watch,” he said simply to his old friend. 

Mysaria raised a brow, “Not here to fuck?” 

He glared at her, “Don’t use such language — you are in the presence of a Princess.” 

She threw back her head and laughed. It was sweet, how much he cared for his niece. How he worried for her innocence, while taking her to a brothel. 

“It is delightful to meet you Princess, I have heard much about you.” She said, taking one of the girl's hands in hers. The girl seemed unable to find a response, far too focused on Mysaria’s breasts — though she could not blame her. 

Daemon noticed her gaze, not sure if it was astonishment at being so close to another nude form. Or attraction, to the form itself. Mysaria had always been a beautiful woman, and the years were kind to her. Her skin remained taught, her form lithe. Unmarred by violence, despite her history, nothing but miles of tan flesh tipped with bronze nipples. 

He knew from experience that a patch of dark hair was hidden below her cloth, matching the thick waves that fell to her bust. 

Was it any wonder Rhaenyra was looking? Or even, admiring? 

“Perhaps,” he thought for a moment then continued — “We could use a lesson.” 

Mysaria laughed! “You are here for lessons? To teach her how to pleasure you?” 

He gritted his teeth — “I believe I am quite capable of educating her on that matter myself.” He said firmly. “She has been told that pleasure is not for a woman. She has now seen that is not the truth, but I believe she should learn to find it in herself.” Mysaria grinned, understanding immediately. 

“What fool has told you such lies?” Mysaria asked, leaning forward until her eyes were level with the shorter girl, and her breasts were pressed against the table. 

The girl seemed to find her voice, though her eyes were still distracted. “The Queen, my lady.” 

Mysaria laughed again — “I am not a lady!” She said, “But clearly I have more sense than a queen. Come,” she stood and gestured for them to follow her. Rhaenyra looked hesitant, but Daemon gave her a push in her direction. 

The trio ventured deeper into the brothel, away from the public rooms and up a flight of stairs to the private ones. She selected one of the larger chambers, though none of the rooms were huge. They had little need to be, for what people did inside them. As long as they could hold a bed, cushions, and candles, they were suited for her clientele's needs. 

Still, this room was nicer than most — outfitted with a tufted chair and canopied bed, though the heavy red drapes were tied back to reveal the sheets. She steered the young girl towards the bed, until she sat primly on its edge. She had heard much of the Princess, both from town gossip and Daemon himself. 

Mysaria may have shared his bed for a number of years, but she did not share his heart. He had been upfront about his match, what little future they would have with each other. But even if he had not, his feelings for the girl would have been clear for he spoke about her with such great fondness. 

She could see why, even based on her looks alone. Though still young, the girl was truly beautiful. A good match, physically, for the Prince. However she seemed quite meek — clearly out of her element and lacking her usual confidence because of it. Daemon swore this girl was a dragon, stubborn and fiery. She hoped she would see that, before the end of the evening. 

“Have you not found pleasure before?” Mysaria asked the younger girl, who responded with a slow shake of her head. Rhaenyra wasn’t really sure how to respond — or what was happening. She had seen lots of things happen downstairs, in the public rooms. But none that one could accomplish on their own, or with another woman's help. 

Daemon had settled himself in a chair a few paces away, apparently he was not going to participate in whatever was to come. 

That just made her all the more puzzled — but she didn’t feel nervous exactly. She felt warm, in the pit of her stomach and flesh. Curious about what she had seen, and what was to come. A little fuzzy, from the alcohol, as if her mind and body were delayed from its own actions. 

The woman — Mysaria, Daemon had called her, was very pretty. She may have said as much out loud.

Mysaria was tan, and exotic looking, while still having delicate features that she couldn’t help but feel drawn to. They were framed by dark hair, and dark eyes that were almost piercing in their intensity. She seemed to have a familiarity with Daemon, but she supposed most people in Silk Street probably did. So that didn’t surprise her, exactly, but the fact she was acting so very…familiar with Rhaenyra herself. Well, it was unexpected. 

Tan hands danced across the linen covering her shoulders, but they did not linger, instead moving to her waist and lightly pressing on her midsection. “What do you feel?” Mysaria asked. 

Rhaenyra thought for a moment — “Warm? Fuzzy?” She wasn’t sure how to describe it, it was odd. The outside pressure almost made her insides clench in an unfamiliar way. 

“Perhaps an ache? But it does not hurt, no?” The woman clarified, and Rhaenyra nodded — that was more accurate, yes. 

Hands glided from her stomach to the top of her breeches, nimble fingers undid the lacing before tugging them from her hips. She was shocked by the actions, and the partial nudity she was left in — but her body acted on impulse alone, allowing the pants to slip from her legs until only the tunic provided her modesty. 

“You see, your body aches to be filled. It aches for a man. But you are not yet wed, so you must make do without one.”  Fingers tangled with her own, dragging her hand to the point between her legs where she never wandered. Under the tunic, until she could feel her own damp flesh — warm and wet. She shivered at the contact, but it did not stop there. 

Her fingers were being gently gripped and guided, pressing up into her and parting her folds until she felt something more. “Without a man to please you there, you can use your fingers.” She gasped, as her body seemed to pull her fingers further inside of her — she was so slick, so soft. The skin felt warm, wet, desperate to welcome something inside of it. A man? That was what her body wanted? That was where he would go. 

Her hand was released, but Mysaria did not stray far, brushing her fingers up to the top of her folds. “You can please yourself here, too.” She said finding a bit of flesh — a nub? That was so unbelievably sensitive even the slightest touch caused her to arch against the mattress. “Use your thumb — like so.” She guided, contorting her hand and pushing her fingers deeper inside in the process. 

She was left, penetrated on her own hand, her thumb brushing that delicate spot she had just now discovered. It felt so odd, so good. If she had been warm earlier, now she was burning. Writhing against her own hand, like the whores had writhed against men. She felt like she was chasing something, but she didn’t know what. She was desperate to find out though, pushing her fingers even deeper — pressing harder on her own flesh, her eyes were squeezed shut and then, finally, she let out a gasp as she finally reached what she had been after. 

She wasn’t sure how to describe what took hold of her body then. It was like bursting into flames, she thought, as if the warmth inside her exploded, and its release left her exhausted. She was panting, she realized now, her fingers slippery and splayed out on the bed. 

She opened her eyes and there — there Daemon was, gazing at her so intently that her body seemed to clench in anticipation. Mysaria was there too, somewhere off to the side, but she couldn’t break her gaze from Daemon’s.  

“So you see, that is pleasure — and a girl as fine as yourself, does not have to stop at one.” It was now Mysaria’s hand alone, between her thighs — fingers curling into her, palm pressing down on her, as if they were trying to meet and only her flesh was a barrier. She arched again, continuing to pant — her gaze not dropping from her uncle’s, until the pleasure was too much she couldn’t help it — she had to close her eyes, toss her head back, and let it take her over. 

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but she knew she was still bare below the waist, curled onto her side. If she felt loose from drink earlier, this…pleasure, had turned her to liquid. She felt as if she could turn into a puddle on the sheets. 

But that was not permitted — large hands, larger than Mysaria's, turned her over, so her back was against the bed. She was breathing more regularly now, no longer panting. 

It was Daemon that stood before her, and pulled her to the edge of the bed. She wondered if this was it — if they were going to do what the people downstairs had.

But she was left disappointed, for Daemon simply placed her legs through the trousers, and gently guided them up her hips. His fingers were warm against her waist, as he tied their lacing back into place. She couldn’t help but see how large his fingers were by comparison to hers, how would they feel against her? How would he feel inside of her?

The warmth seemed to serge inside her again. What had Mysaria said? You don’t have to stop at one. Perhaps you didn’t have to stop at two, either. 

Though her legs still felt too shaky to stand on, Daemon pulled her to her feet. With his support they left the rooms, navigated a flight of stairs, and stumbled out into the street. The air felt cool, and fresh compared to the heady humidity of the brothel. The clear air seemed to clear her head, and take her out of her daze. 

She winced as she got on her horse, the head and dampness between her legs flaring to life in this posture. It felt good, but almost too good — oversensitive in a way she wanted to ignore.

“So,” Her uncle said once they were on the outskirts of town and approaching the palace, “Do you fear your wifely duties any longer?” 

She snorted. “I think I could, perhaps, grow to enjoy them.” 

He hoped she did. 

…

Rhaenyra slept well that night, and late into the morning. She woke feeling satisfied, as if she had eaten a large meal after going hungry. She wondered if this is what men felt, and if It was why they sought out whores. She felt calmer too, as if the heat of her release had soothed her ever present temper. 

The calm did not last as long as she should have liked. She was nearly late to the small council meeting, and somewhat flustered because of that throughout. Her mood did not improve, as the meeting came to the end and her fathers hand insisted upon speaking. 

“There is one more thing I would like to speak about.” Ser Otto said, his gaze looking more like a glare as it pierced Rhaenyra and Daemon. 

“I heard rumors of the Princess and Prince in town last night.” All eyes were drawn to them, then, and she fought a blush. “People claimed they visited a brothel.” He spat, as if the prospect was of personal offense to him.

Daemon just shrugged, uncaring — then glanced to Alicent, “The Queen gave Rhaenyra a verbal explanation of what takes place in a marriage bed yesterday, but I thought she would more thoroughly understand it after seeing it with her own eyes.” A few hushed gasps fell around them, and Viserys seemed to turn pink. 

“It is not illegal to drink in an establishment In the city, is it?” He questioned, looking at the men around the table. “For that was all we did, I cannot imagine anyone mentioned something more untoward?” His gaze found Ser Otto, daring him to say more. He had picked the establishment they visited for a reason, and Mysaria ran a tight ship. Gossip would not leave freely, and there would always be a reliable witness to defend Rhaenyra’s honor, if required. 

Otto’s eyes narrowed, “No. Though visiting a brothel itself is deeply inappropriate for someone of Rhaenyra’s station.” Daemon rolled his eyes, “Viserys and I visited when we were younger than her, and our reputation and succession was not questioned.” 

Viserys coughed, before agreeing — “I do not approve, but I suppose there are worse things. I do not think we need to discuss this further.” 

Rhaenyra let out a sigh of relief, she had enjoyed their evening together. 

She had enjoyed what she learned. 

Enough that she planned on testing her newfound knowledge again that evening.

She just did not want her father to know how much she enjoyed it. 

Chapter Text

113 AC

On the morning of her sixteenth birthday, she woke early. So early that her maids were asleep, and the sky was still dark. But she knew it was past midnight, and knew on this day she was sixteen years old. 

This day was significant — there would be a feast, a celebration, likely keeping her up until early hours of the next morning. If she wanted to do something of her own volition, she needed to do it now. 

It was that thought that drove her from her bed, down the chilly halls, and to her uncle’s chambers. The two guards stationed outside the door gave her unapproving glares but she would not be swayed in her mission. With a deep breath, she opened the chamber doors — not bothering to knock for fear she would be refused. 

Daemon was sleeping, as she expected. She was going to wake him, in a moment…she just wanted to stare at him for a time. He was so painfully handsome, and she felt like she didn’t spend nearly enough time appreciating that. It had been such a fact of life, that he was good looking, that she had taken it for granted. 

It wasn’t until she got older, and heard her maids gossiping about him — rumors of his exploits in flea bottom, that she realized other people knew he was good looking too. And somewhere along the way, she realized he was more than just good looking, he was the best looking. He was one of the first people she had ever seen, and still remained the most handsome. 

He was every bit a Targaryen prince, with his pale skin and refined features.  A sharp jawline, but soft lips. Not to mention the silver hair that almost glowed in the moonlight as it pooled around defined shoulders. 

She had grown more confident in her looks, over the past few years. And after their adventure in the silk street, she did not fear that he lacked attraction to her. 

She may not know much of desire, aside from her own feelings towards Daemon. But the look he had in his eyes that night, as he watched her find pleasure — that gaze burned. That was a gaze that didn’t want to look away. A gaze that wanted to see more, do more. 

She had asked once — why he hadn’t touched her that night. He had scoffed, said, ‘I fear I would not have been able to stop.’ She had recalled those words, and his heated gaze, when she was in bed that night — a hand under her chemise, teeth biting her lip. Wishing it wasn’t her slim fingers between her thighs, but his.

She wondered if he did the same, palming what laid between his thighs while thinking of her. 

As for affection — he had never lacked that for her. He had always been doting and generous with his time and gifts. It may have been innocent when she was younger, but it was not so far off from being romantic now. She had learned about courting in her lessons, and heard about it from her maids. It was not dissimilar to his treatment of her. 

She knelt next to the bed, so her elbows were on the covers and her face was level with his. 

“Uncle,” she whispered, hoping to wake him gently — it did not work. He shot up, going from sleep to an upright posture in less than a second. Startled eyes glared down at her, still kneeling next to the bed. She had perhaps forgotten that he was not unused to sleeping on a battlefield where weariness was a habit quickly broken. 

Though he looked perfectly awake, his voice was thick with sleep when he said her name, “Rhaenyra?” She merely nodded, confident the moonlight provided enough of a glow for him to see her silent response.

“Is something wrong?” He asked. 

She shook her head, “It’s my birthday today.” She stated, standing up and seating herself on the bed next to him. 

“You said, when I was grown, I would get a grown up kiss.” She continued, looking at him expectantly. “I’m grown up now.” She specified, when he did not move closer. 

“Is that so?” He asked. 

She nodded again. 

“Old enough to wed and bed.” 

He laughed, “And so you thought to visit me in my bed?” 

She sighed. A part of her had hoped he would be so mad with lust he wouldn’t have time to discuss things, they would just…well she wasn’t completely sure what they would do. But it would be more than talking and teasing. 

But he wasn’t a boy with no restraint, he was a man. He had been patient for nearly half his life waiting for her. He may be mad with lust for her one day, but perhaps they had to work up to it. 

She was okay with that — she could be patient too. 

“I, as the Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Seven Kingdoms demand you to kiss me.” She said, and then, in a less confident and distinctly whiny tone she said, “and it’s my birthday.” 

He laughed again, but pulled on the tie of her robe, dragging her closer to him. “Well, since it is your birthday.” He said, but his mouth was so close to hers at that point that she could feel the whisper of the words across her skin. It made her shiver. 

She couldn’t remember the last time they were this close. Had they ever been this close? One of his hands was braced behind her, and that made her realize his chest was bare, and his arm was thick and muscled — and when was the last time she saw that? 

She was so distracted by the expanse of his shoulders, that she forgot what she came for: a kiss. 

But, clearly, Daemon had not. When she met his gaze again, his other hand reached up to gently cup her face. And then her hands felt left out, so she raised them to them to his shoulders, one finding its way to the notch of his neck. 

It seemed finally they were working towards the same goal. They both leaned in, and their lips barely touched. It had been nearly three years ago when they had last done this, and this was all they had done — before he pulled away. 

But this time he didn’t pull away, he pushed forward. His lips more insistent upon hers, then something scraped across her bottom lip — were those his teeth? Which made her gasp in surprise, and like a true knight, he took advantage of the opening. His tongue pressed through the seam of her lips, and an involuntary moan escaped her. 

She realized her hands had tensed, no longer gently poised on his chest, but digging into his skin as if attempting to drag him closer. But he didn’t seem to mind, if anything he had the same idea — his hands finding her hips and pulling her smaller form into his lap. His fingers dug into her flesh too, sliding up her robe and chemise, smoothing across her thighs before forming a vice at her waist. The autumn air was cool, but his hands were so warm — she couldn’t help but arch into them. 

Despite her enjoyment, she didn’t think that was fair, she wanted to move too! So her arms encircled his neck, allowing her to rise up and push down into the kiss. To her surprise, he went down with her — falling back against the pillows. 

The bed frame creaked under them, as if it couldn’t stop itself from moaning either, but their lips never parted. She couldn’t get enough of him, enough of his lips — his tongue. She wasn’t sure if you could win at kissing, but gods she was going to try. 

It was filthy, nothing like the dry peck from years ago. It felt so good. If she thought the feeling of his breath on her skin was good then the feeling of his lips was indescribable. Could they lay in bed and do this forever?

She wanted to lay in bed and do this forever. 

She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but her thighs straddled his and she could feel firmness — a length of flesh pressing against her core, his length. She was reminded of the previous year, in the brothel — the woman who had ridden a man like a horse until she was limp and gasping. Would he let her do that? Could she do that? 

She wanted to do that, too. 

Eventually one of them pulled away, she wasn’t sure who — but they didn’t pull apart, his lips found her neck sucking and nipping on the flesh and making her moan. She didn’t even know necks were sensitive! 

And then they rolled — and suddenly she was on her back, and he was atop her, with every inch of his body pressed against hers. She could feel him, she wanted him so badly, and he must want her too.

One of her legs wrapped around his waist, and involuntary attempt to drag his body closer to hers — inside of her. That wasn’t what she had come here for, but gods she wasn’t going to complain either. Her hands tangled in his hair, holding his face to her neck as he sucked and nipped. 

They were both breathing heavily now, still wrapped up in each other. Daemon pulled away, just for a moment, before meeting her gaze and leaning in again. Fingers transversed to his face, cupping the lines of his jaw that she had been appreciating a moment ago, when he was still resting. 

She knew his lips looked soft when he was sleeping, but gods they felt soft too. Yet firm, insistent, like he always was. Confident and determined. Kissing him now made it clear he was a man, and it felt so good to have him treat her like a woman. 

But — all good things come to an end, as did their kiss. He pulled away, when they were both breathing too heavily for their kisses to have any precision at all. It was just lips pressing together and mouths panting against each other — though still, she found, not entirely unpleasant.

As his breathing slowed, his head found purchase on her chest, pillowed by her breasts. They were still pressed against each other, her legs still wrapped around his hips. But as she calmed, her legs unwound, and his body seemed to relax on top of her, putting them even closer together. It was perhaps a left in a less indecent embrace than the precious one, but felt even more intimate due to their closeness. 

She thought, maybe it wasn’t kissing she wanted to do forever, but just…this. Being with him, in his arms. She found comfort in them as a babe, a child, and now a different sort of comfort as a woman.

…

His eyes were closed, as he willed his harness to subside. He thought at the age of thirty, he had a good amount of control over his cock. Correction, he used to have a good amount of control over his cock. Before he saw Rhaenyra find pleasure with her own hand, and caught her gaze as she came. 

He wanted it to be his fingers so badly. He wanted it to be his cock. He wanted her cries of pleasure and moans to be of his own making. He just wanted her, and his cock was painfully aware of that. It seemed ever since, it was always aware of that and had hair a trigger around his niece. 

He knew she was affected too, she had admitted appreciating her lesson and jested about the relief it provided on a near nightly basis. She blushed less now, and smirked more often. 

But that did not improve his situation, if anything it made him lust more knowing she returned his desires. And when he tried to focus on making the hardness go away, his thoughts got distracted by the feeling of his niece’s hips wrapped around his. Pebbled nipples dragging against his chest. Bodies pressed together, and mouths entwined.

He could not have her now. Not like this. But he would have this memory. He would never forget it.

He knew as Rhaenyra’s birthday approached, this was inevitable. She was too much like him — too curious and too confident. As the years passed, she had learned what liberties her title and appearance allowed her to take…and she took them. 

The date of her sixteenth birthday loomed, the year she would be old enough to wed — and bed, as she crudely put it. He had promised her things, when she was of age, and now she was of age and had expectations. 

He just hadn't expected her to act on them so soon. Hadn’t expected her to come to his rooms. 

Perhaps she was as desperate for him as he was for her. 

They certainly both felt desperate, in those moments where they kissed and writhed, before relaxing with their bodies pressed together. It was amazing, how something could feel so good — but still so far from enough. 

He wished they were naked, he wished he was inside her, fuck he wished they were married. His sixteen year old self would have laughed at him, not only waiting for a wedding to take his bride, but also longing for it. 

Her hands were combing through her hair, and his head remained pillowed on her breasts. She was so soft, and supple, he wanted to see every inch of her, feel every inch of her. 

And he would, in time. But for now this was…good, this was inappropriate perhaps, more than he intended to do. But not breaking any explicit rules. Not breaking her maidenhead. 

Though, if this is what she planned for the day of her sixteenth birthday, he feared for the year to come.

…

Eventually, they moved from their embrace — with just a few kisses passed between them, none so intense are the previous ones they shared. Rhaenyra complained that it was her birthday and she didn’t want to move. He said if she didn’t, she had to be prepared to explain herself to the maids. Her nose wrinkled at that. 

“Do you want your real gift?” He asked, as he rose from the bed and walked to his dresser. 

She sat up, still looking vaguely annoyed — as if he abandoned her when in reality he only wandered a few feet away. She re-tied her rumpled robe, before finally agreeing with a grumbled “Okay.” 

He pressed the round box into her hands, it was made from smooth wood — stained a deep color, marked with a crest she did not know, and lined with padded silk velvet. When she opened it, she was greeted by a sparkling tiara — gold filigree metal, with framed stones of jade and other gemstones. Even in the dim light of the early morning, it shone. 

She was a Princess, she had tiaras, she would wear her fathers crown one day. But none were as grand as this. “It’s said to have belonged to the Empress of Leng. Regarded as more of a god than a woman. It seemed fitting, to give to the woman I plan on worshiping.” He said. 

She set down the crown, as pretty as it was, she wanted to look at him. He was close to her again, but not quite close enough to kiss. 

She remedied that, rising from her place on the bed — the crown toppling to the sheets, as her lips met his once more. He had shrugged on a tunic, which hid his muscled flesh from her — but also provided her with something to grip onto, as she pulled him to her. 

She left his rooms shortly thereafter, when questioned simply explaining he wanted to give her a gift to wear tonight. 

He left marks for her to wear, too, light but visible on her fair skin. She would powder her neck, and wear her hair down tonight to hide them. 

She would show off her tiara. But the marks were just for her. 

She wasn’t sure which she appreciated more.

Chapter Text

113 AC : Autumn 

Rhaenyra was fuming. If she truly was a dragon, she thought steam would be coming from her nose. It had taken two weeks for her father to consider speaking of her betrothal, for he didn’t want to confront the realities of her being married. 

In that time the early Autumn breeze from her birthday had turned into harsh stormy winds, which would only worsen as temperatures cooled and winter began to chill the seas and sky. Her father insisted it wasn’t safe to organize a wedding with the expectation of people to travel through such rocky weather. 

No. He and the council decided she would wed in Summer, when she was almost seventeen! 

She didn’t understand why they refused to speak of her wedding before this day — she knew the betrothal contract required her to be sixteen, but they could have planned this months ago! Wedded in early Autumn! She could have been married already, on her way to Dragonstone where she would care for her own subjects, and take comfort in her husband. 

It was unfair that her fathers refusal to see her as more than a child was affecting how the entire kingdom would see her. She bit her tongue — knowing any complaints would make her seem overeager and immature, two things the council already thought of her. 

She took some solace in the fact that Daemon’s jaw was clenched, clearly holding his tongue as well. She wasn’t entirely sure what his thoughts on their matrimony was, she knew he loved her — he always had. And she knew that as of recently, he was attracted to her. They were a match, they were meant to be together. She tried her best not to doubt that. 

But…he was the Rogue Prince perhaps he looked at their marriage date as something unavoidable, as opposed to something desirable. Maybe he was upset because the wedding wasn’t further away? 

It was with these thoughts on her mind that she stormed out of the council chambers. They had been dismissed, and she eagerly took her leave. After a quick stop to her room to change, she found herself making quick work of the walk to the dragon pit. She would take Syrax for a flight, and hopefully in that her frustrations would fly away. 

…

She was not so lucky. Her laps around King’s Landing had turned into a several hour flight to Dragonstone. She thought seeing the place she would someday live at would make her feel less bitter about how long she had to wait. But if anything it made her more desperate for it, for this to be her life, for this to be her home. 

Syrax was roaming the rocky portion of the mountain they had landed on, and Rhaenyra found herself laying back in a patch of nearby grass. There wasn’t much to see, for the fog was so thick, but she found it oddly calming. She could hear the waves, roaring around the base of the mountain she rested on, and the cool breeze helped clear her head. 

She found though, she did not particularly want a clear head. That did not ease her frustrations. 

Daemon did, though. And as always — he seemed to know his presence would be welcomed. She heard Caraxes screeching long before she saw them, the fog was heavy enough to hide even his mighty form. But his noises brought a smile to her face, and brought life to Syrax who took off in search of her friend. 

A few moments later, the ground seemed to shake slightly beneath her, and the roar of water was diluted by the sound of wings. Daemon must have dismounted, and then the dragons took off again — enjoying their freedom, just as she was enjoying hers. 

Daemon lay next to her, silent for a time. But eventually she turned to him and spoke, “I had…hoped we would marry sooner.” She admitted. 

He sighed, “I had hoped for the same.” She let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding — the relief was immense, knowing his feelings matched her own. Of course they did, he is your match, she scolded herself. 

“I find fathers reluctance…frustrating,” she said, thinking that was a massive understatement. Dameon snorted, clearly thinking the same. 

“He has had sixteen years to prepare for this, as have I, if I’m ready shouldn’t he be?” She insisted. 

“You are ready to leave the nest, but he is not ready to be left.” Daemon responded, his fingers twining with hers between their resting forms.

“He has Alicent, and her three children! Soon to be four! And a kingdom to rule! I cannot be such a great presence in his thoughts.” 

Daemon laughed, “Haven’t I always told you, you are a far greater treasure than a Hightower and her half breeds? A dozen of them would not begin to replace you in his heart or palace.” 

Rhaenyra wasn’t sure if that was true. She may be heir, but Alicent had been her fathers own choice of bride. She knew there was love there, and she was tired of being forced to witness it. Tired of feeling as though she, the only child of Aemma, was the odd one out. It was wrong, that there were more Hightowers in the castle than Targaryens, she thought. 

She was desperate to be in Dragonstone, with two Targaryens and two dragons. 

“I’m not sure how to fade a frustration as great as this.” She admitted, looking over at Daemon. He had taught her to soothe her temper as a girl. Perhaps he would have advice on this matter, too. 

The look she gave him was one of hurt and heartbreak, that of a girl desperate to move forward but being held back. But more than that, a girl frustrated by being forced back. He had spoken to Viserys after the meeting, suggesting a traditional Valyrian ceremony to wed them privately, with a more public wedding the next year. 

He was adamant against it, insisting if Daemon truly loved her, he would be happy to wait the extra months. 

Daemon thought, if Viserys truly loved her, he would grant her this. 

But he had never gained much ground arguing with his brother, and he had gained even less when arguing with the King. 

“You know how I get out my frustrations.” Daemon responded, it was not a secret, though not something he often spoke of with her. 

She snorted. “A Princess is not provided with a whore for that service, my Prince.” 

He rolled closer to her — “No, that is what a Princess is provided with a Prince for.” 

To be true, his women had been dismissed after her last birthday. It hadn’t felt like a betrayal when she was younger, but as she grew older, so did his feelings for her. He had little desire for others, these days, and when he did partake it was either not pleasurable or ended up being regrettable.

He was not sure when he last went without a woman for so long. Yet he felt more stimulated by Rhaenyra’s kisses than the more carnal acts they had provided, so he did not regret his decision. He regretted Viserys decision — that he was denying them both of the life they were destined for, for nearly another year. 

It had…weakened his resolve somewhat. He felt less loyal to his past selfs promises than he had before, yet more loyal to Rhaenyra than ever. If they were wed, he would not have to show such restraint — and they were to be wed soon. 

But not soon enough.

Perhaps he could find a compromise that was pleasurable for them both. 

He thought his princess would be amicable to that, too. She hadn’t been as bold in the weeks since the morning of her birthday, but they hadn’t been completely innocent either. Often meals ended with them feasting on each other's lips, her in his lap and bodies close together. When they were not guarded — when they could be unguarded with each other, their lips often met and hands roamed. 

He was grateful she hadn’t pursued him in bed again. Now that he had a taste of her, it was all the harder to resist devouring.  

But they weren’t in bed now, and his poor niece was frustrated. It would be cruel to leave her in such a state. 

She grinned, when she understood the meaning of his words. She rolled easily into his side, and their lips met — fingers grasped buttons, buckles, undoing heavy riding leathers so they could feel more of each other. 

Daemon’s fingers, though larger, were more deft than hers — undoing her jacket closures with ease, and most of his own. They separated for a moment, to shrug their respective garments off, then met again. Hands sought for more skin, untucking tunics and gliding up bared skin. 

Neither had been nude in each other's presence before, not fully. But neither were shy about the idea, for they were not lacking confidence in their looks or bodies. No, they were alike in that regard — knowing they were beautiful, and that they would be beautiful together. 

One of Daemon’s hands wandered lower than it had on their previous adventures with each other. Feeling his fingers on the lacing of her trousers brought back memories of that night, of him watching her, how large his hands had felt in comparison to her own. How good it felt, to fall apart and have him there to put her back together again. 

She did not fight his fingers, as they freed the lacing and dove beneath, finding their way between her legs and parting her wet folds. She let out a gasp as his fingertips grazed her — She had done this on her own many times now. Losing herself in the slick feeling and sound of her own flesh until she was too sensitive or sleepy and forced to stop. 

But his fingers were different from her own. The texture of calluses felt abrasive but good against her most delicate parts, even the light brush of them seemed to send sparks through her abdomen making her crave more. 

She wasn’t sure if she vocalized this, or if Daemon just knew, but his fingers gathered the moisture from her folds before delving deeper into them. One finger entered her, and she swore it felt larger than two of her own. He moved it gently, thrusting and curving it in an attempt to explore a new part of her. 

She could feel the press of strong fingers and rounded nails, threading to slip inside, but she was sure she couldn’t fit more. 

But after a rough thumb pushed down on the nerves above her folds, causing her to clench and whimper and beg for more, she realized he may know better than her. So she thrust back against his hand, suddenly desperate for more — and she was rewarded, with another finger. She had never been this open before, suddenly clenching felt impossible, as if her muscles couldn’t tighten when they were so stretched. But it felt good, natural, like a promise for what he would do to her in the future.  

He continued to thrust, slowly — so she could feel every joint and knuckle. When his fingers were barely in her, folds just pried open by the tips he would thrust back in forcefully, causing her to keen and curl. A firm hand pressed her back down, and he carried on his torment. 

They weren’t kissing anymore, she was gasping too much to participate in that — or anything other than the pleasure she was currently experiencing. With his pace, and the pressure on her clit, it did not take long for her to come. 

And oh how she came. She felt like the waves below them, cresting, arching, then crashing on the shoreline completely uncontrolled. It felt good when she did this on her own, but it felt so much better with someone else’s fingers. With his fingers.

Eventually she was too sensitive, pawing at his hand until he removed it from her. She let out a sigh, feeling relaxed and loose in a way she was unaccustomed to. She turned towards Daemon, meeting his lips in an effort to thank him, to be closer to him. With that in mind, she pressed her body against his, feeling his firm form and length. 

She realized then, that she had never seen him find release before. 

That struck her as oddly unfair, that he had seen her come three times! He had touched her, and watched her writhe in pleasure. And she had never been gifted with watching him do the same. She was slightly nervous, but determined as her fingers fell from his chest to his waistband. 

He didn’t push her away, when she unlaced the breeches, nor when her fingers wandered to the start of  wiry hair, or when they went even further and brushed against his cock. He flinched, let out a gasp, and she worried she had hurt him but no — it must be like when he touched her, too sensitive to prevent a reaction. If it wasn’t good, he would tell her. He cared for her, but not to the expense of his own comfort. 

She gripped him then — she had heard women speak of…this, this act. Of taking a man in their palm. She had wondered why they would do such a thing — did men not have perfectly good hands of their own? But perhaps it was like how his fingers in her flesh were different from her own. Maybe the press of longer nails and the slide of smoother skin allowed him to experience something he couldn’t without her. 

She worried about gripping too hard, but also too lightly — she remembered learning the basics of fencing as a child. What had her teacher said? A soft but confident grip. Perhaps a man's member was not unlike a foil!

With that in mind, she adjusted her grip — though her fingers couldn’t fully meet, and moved her hand over him. Though it certainly felt different, thicker, and both softer and harder at the same time? But the most queer thing was how it felt alive, throbbing in her hand.

It didn’t take long for him to start jerking his hips into her palm, and with him setting the pace she felt there was little she could do wrong. She wasn’t sure if she was even moving her hand at that point, when his release came. She was too distracted by his face, he looked pained but she knew it was not. His brow was furrowed and forehead scrunched in pleasure, as if his entire body and not just his cock were clenching. When his eyes eventually opened, they were hooded and slightly glazed. He reached for her then, with both hands, pulling her face to his. 

She palmed the softening member in her hand, marveling at how different it felt now — how the body truly was made for this. It seemed wrong, how people spoke of sex being unnatural when men and women were blessed with parts intended to be slotted together. Eventually she slipped her hand from his trousers, wiping the mess onto the grass before grasping his tunic and pulling him closer. 

She wasn’t sure how long they lay there. Kissing and brushing fingertips across each other, as if trying to memorize the feel of the other's flesh. 

But eventually their dragons and their own stomachs longed for sustenance other than each other. And so laces were tightened, buckles were latched, and they turned back to Kings Landing. 

She couldn’t help the pang in her chest as they left, she wanted to call this place home. 

She wanted to take to the skies. 

She wanted the waves to hear her cries. 

She wanted to experience more pleasure on its shoreline. 

Gods, she just wanted. 

Chapter Text

113 AC : Winter

The air was cold, but Rhaenyra was not. Daemon said Targaryen’s were dragons — unable to be burned, because they always had a flame inside them. She supposed that was what kept her warm, even on frigid days like this. 

It was not pleasant flying when it was so cold, the wind whipped at her leaving red lashes on her cheeks and her lips chapped. Alicent would complain of her appearance, calling it unladylike. Syrax seemed to move slower in the cold, too, as if she needed to conserve energy and fat for the winter, despite her diet not changing. 

It irritated her that her main outlet was tainted during this season when she needed it most. 

For flight was one of the few things that could distract her from what she really wanted. 

She wanted Daemon.

Well — in many ways, she had him. But she wanted to be able to kiss him freely, and hold his hand in meetings. She wanted to sleep in his rooms, and wake by his side. She wanted him inside her and for him to finally be married to her. 

She had been patient for years now, a few months should not matter but they did. Because it seemed with every day her desire grew stronger. Now that feelings had surfaced — now that they had acted on them, her body seemed to crave him. It crumpled at the thought of being away from him, and bloomed when beside him. 

He was back at Kings Landing now, and spending more time with her than ever. She heard whispers of it being improper for two betrothed to spend so much time together. But soulmates were a different breed, people thought it cruel to separate them. And what was the harm, when they were to wed? 

She didn’t want her virtue to be questioned, so they were careful when in public — always appearing as the besotted Prince and Princess they had always been. 

But behind closed doors, they were more than that. 

Their fingers were familiar with each other now, and wandered freely when they were in each other's arms. She had grown more confident in her grip and gestures, and though she still hadn’t seen all of Daemon, she had felt all of him. He had felt all of her, too, fingers dipping between her folds and pulling orgasms from her with an ease that felt unfair. 

Her own fingers could no longer compare, leaving her needy and unsatisfied when she was left to her own devices. 

She felt wanton, seeking him out just for pleasures she couldn’t find. But he did not seem to mind, and always managed to find the time to satisfy her — sometimes more than once. She returned the favor, whenever requested. And one time, they had both found their peaks at once, still clothed but rutting together in a poor imitation of sex until they both spilled over. 

If something resembling sex felt that good with clothing on, she truly could not imagine what it would be like without barriers. But Daemon was insistent that some liberties should not be taken until they were married. 

She was reminded of that moment now — they were no longer able to escape to Dragonstone, due to poor weather and its frequent storms. But they visited islands closer to home that were much smaller — so small that they weren’t inhabited at all. They offered privacy they could not find in Kings Landing, and they took advantage of it. 

Their dragons were lazy in the cold, curled up like kittens on the rocky isle. But Rhaenyra and Daemon took advantage of the beast's warmth, laying beside them while wearing little despite the cold weather. They didn’t need the day to be warm, not when they had each other and their dragons. Sometimes it felt like that was all they needed in life at all. 

As winter took over Kings Landing, they stayed even closer to home. Often meeting in each other's rooms, staying later after meals to enjoy each other's company. Retiring to public halls when it was too late to be appropriate in each other's chambers. 

It was odd, how the more time they spent together, the more fiercely they felt time apart. The hours without each other in the evening felt longer than ever. Dragging on, and causing them to seek distractions. 

Daemon had been visiting Flea Bottom, spending most nights drinking or gambling to replace other desires. It had one benefit though, he was closer with the townspeople and city watch than he had been in years. He felt like a prince of the people, the perfect suitor for his princess of the palace. The more he thought about their eventual ruling, the more he thought about how good of a job they would do. 

They were just…good together. 

The man next to him made a jest about his smile, he simply said he was thinking ‘sweet thoughts’ — who was sweeter than his niece? 

God he missed her. How many hours had it been? Not that many but already he…fuck, it was like he was a teenager again. Worse than that, even. 

He had ended up at a whorehouse with some of his old men, and they were cheering on a couple putting on quite a show for them. But Daemon’s desire wasn’t for the couple, wasn’t for any of the people around him — it was for a woman back at home. 

His head lulled back and eyes closed, only opening when he felt someone sit next to him. 

“I am very hurt, my Prince.” Mysaria said, “I heart you rid yourself of the pretty girls I found for you.” She was clothed tonight, though barely, looking a bit like a sculpture decorated by careful drapes of silk. 

“I do not need pretty girls anymore, I have a princess.” He said.

Mysaria’s eyes lit up, “You’ve had your princess?” She said with delight, fondly remembering the girl from the previous year. When he didn’t respond she laughed, “You haven’t. But you don’t want anyone else either, a true prince — spoiled for anything but royalty!” 

He snorted, “A true Targaryen, more like, spoiled for anything but.” 

She smiled, shaking her head, people thought the Targaryen’s ways were odd. But who could judge when the gods continued to match them? And who could blame them, when there was so much beauty born nearby? Would you blame a cow for not leaving its plentiful pasture? 

“You are good to her, no?” Mysaria asked, the princess was the purest thing to enter her house in years, if not ever. It contrasted greatly against the reputation of the prince, but she thought, but they must have been matched for a reason. 

Daemon nodded, but she kept going— “Have you shown her the pleasures of your fingers?” He nodded again. “And your tongue?” She asked, almost a whisper next to his ear. His drink thudded on the table, causing her to jolt back as his expression clouded.  

“Why are you drinking here, when you could be sipping from your sweet Princess?” Mysaria asked, un-phased by his response. 

Daemon was asking himself the same question. 

The ride back to the keep was cold, snow was beginning to fall as it was late in the already harsh season. But he was glad for it, it cleared his head, sharpened his focus. 

Unfortunately all he could focus on was what Mysaria said, what was he doing, drinking in a whorehouse when something better tasting was at home? 

It was late. He shouldn’t go to her rooms. There was hardly a good excuse he could come up with for seeing her at this hour. But knowing this didn’t stop his feet from walking to her chambers, knocking on her door and ignoring the glare of her guards. 

Guards didn’t gossip, but they judged, and he could feel that in their glare. It frustrated them that their job was to protect the princess, but they couldn’t protect her from him, not unless she explicitly asked them too. And she wouldn’t, she would welcome him, of that he was confident. 

And she did — despite the late hour, her door creaked open — revealing a sleepy Rhaenyra in a thin chemise. She opened the door wider when she saw her visitor, but looked surprised to see him. They hadn’t been this blatant during their betrothal, ever. But he was dumb on drink and drunk on her,  so he didn’t explain himself — just stumbled into the room and kissed her. 

He had been in her chambers so many times throughout the years, he could have navigated them blindfolded. He nearly had to, now, for there were no candles lit. Still, he managed to guide his niece to a chair and press her down into it. Instead of pressing himself atop her, he kneeled between her pale thighs. Her motions were slowed by her sleepy state, but her legs parted easily for him and his kisses were returned. 

His hands ran up her thighs, then hiked up her chemise — exposing her cunt, and gods how had he not done this before? He didn’t want to overwhelm her, but his control was weakened with wine. If she had protested, he would have stopped, he knew that — he even looked to her for fear, but she just gazed down at him while breathing heavily, as if in anticipation. 

That was all the confirmation he needed, his lips met her folds, lapping at the little slit and bundle of nerves above it. A finger entered her, then another — probably too quickly, but he soothed any pinching with his tongue. Someday, he would work her open to three fingers — forcing her to have an orgasm on one and then two before she was slick enough to accommodate three. 

But tonight was not the night for that, no tonight he wanted to drink her juices — feel them on his face, have the taste and smell of her pulled to his chin like a blanket. His fingers left her, and both his hands dragged her hips close to him — she was barely perched on the chair now, causing her to brace a foot on his shoulder and a hand on his head. 

This worked in his favor, bringing her closer to him, allowing his tongue to enter her — then go further inside, seeking more of her flavor. She was so wet, from her own pleasure and from his spit, that when his hand pressed against her clit there was no resistance, no drag of skin against skin it was all just slick and messy and good. 

She tasted good, he hoped she felt good — she was moaning, arching against his mouth, her hands didn’t seem to know where to go, not brave enough to dig into his hair, even though he wanted to feel her nails in his scalp. 

Someday, it would happen. She’d learn confidence in this as she had everything else, master it with the precision of a princess and fierceness of a dragon. He’d be sweet to her, they’d be sweet to each other. But he knew what they were like, how hot they ran, they’d fuck too, with nails and teeth, leaving behind marks and bruises. He couldn’t wait, she was his match, his blood, there was nothing he wouldn’t freely give her. 

And now, he wanted to give her pleasure, his teeth scraped against her clit, before lapping at her slit again, insistently, until he felt her thighs clench around him as she arched up to meet his mouth. He still didn’t stop though, not after she went slack against the chair, body twitching with little aftershocks. 

He was still thirsty, his mouth dragging across her folds, a finger pressed firmly into her and another holding down her hips. He felt her arch against him again, trying to move away, but too precariously balanced to do so.  So she was forced to just sit there and take it, another peak, until she was sobbing that it was too much. With one more lick, he pulled back. 

Her room was warm from the fire burning, but the air felt cool against the moisture on his face. Her scent invaded his nose, her taste invaded his mouth. He felt overcome by her. Her eyes were glassy, her posture relaxed, if she had been sleepy when he entered her quarters now she looked truly exhausted. 

He wiped his mouth with the tails of his tunic, then pressed a firm kiss to her mouth. She was too tired to return it, but didn’t resist it either, just let him kiss her until he was spent. 

She clutched his arm, as he guided her back to bed, helping her under the covers and brushing her forehead with his lips. He wiped his mouth for good measure, before leaving her rooms, making a point to avoid the guards' gaze. 

…

Rhaenyra awoke to her maids knocking on her door. She felt groggy despite the hour, and…damp. 

The previous night's events came back to her in waves — Daemon had come to her door, woken her. She was concerned at first, that something was wrong. But before she could ask, lips met hers, then she was pushed into a chair and he…

Gods. 

She had felt like a wrung out sponge after, limp and light and no longer functional. He had tucked her into bed like a child, before leaving her rooms. She didn’t think they exchanged a single word. But she would give up her ability to speak if she could experience that every day. 

Her maids readied a bath for her, which she was grateful for — cleaning off her mess from the previous evening. She was dressed in a pale gown, and a heavy gold necklace. She didn’t have many duties today, but wanted to feel put together, for last night she had never felt less in control. 

The last curl of her hair was tucked into a metallic net, and she dismissed the maids when she heard another knock on the door. Her chest jolted slightly, wondering if it would be Daemon. But to her surprise it was a Maester, sent by the King, with…tea? 

…

Viserys did not like thinking about his daughter's match. He did not like thinking about the fact Daemon was her match. He knew they would wed, in a season's time. He knew they would share rooms, share a palace, and probably a great deal more than that. He knew his brother, and of his reputation — he was a man thirsty for more than just blood. His love of drink and women was infamous, and when Viserys heard he had dismissed his concubines he couldn’t help but worry where those attentions would be directed. 

It made him feel sick to think of. So he tried not to think of it at all.

But when a member of the Kingsguard — especially his daughter's sworn shield — makes claims of impropriety, it can not be ignored.

 It was in the past now. He could not go back in time and bar his brother from her rooms, even if he wanted to. 

All he could do was send Rhaenyra tea. Hope to sweep away any evidence, and of  the situation under the rug. This would prevent bringing attention to it, or a potentially unfortunate outcome. He knew word of his actions would make it to Daemon, and hopefully motivate them to show more care in their meetings — if not put a stop to them entirely until the wedding.  

It seems he neglected to think of something — Rhaenyra’s temper. 

He was in the throne room having an audience with some minor lords when the insistent click of fast paced walking could be heard in the corridor. This was followed by a slam, as the throne room doors opened. They revealed his daughter, looking like a true angel in pink and gold — pale hair flowing behind her, truly matching everyone's expectations of a princess. 

Except for her face, which though pretty, was pinched in her anger. Her steps were aggressive, and sounded loud on the cobblestones. She pushed past the men before him, and moved even closer – until she was standing no less than ten feet from him. 

And she was…holding a teacup. 

“Your trust in the people you are supposed to consider family is insulting, father!” She cried. 

The teacup was thrown at his feet, shattering and leaving behind nothing but shards and the distinctive smell of fennel. 

The throne room was quiet except for the stomping of feet as his daughter left.  

But he was too distracted by the broken pieces of porcelain to watch her go.

He wondered if he had broken something else on this day. 

Chapter Text

114 AC : Spring

Tensions were high in the palace as the summer approached. It was as if the warming weather was heating tempers, making them run hot and harsh. 

Rhaenyra had not forgiven her father for his assumptions about her relationship with Daemon. She had not forgotten that the fact they weren’t already married was his doing, also. She found herself sitting quietly in council meetings, but seething beneath the silence. 

She took Syrax for long rides. And as the weather improved, she insisted on overseeing improvements at Dragonstone. It was a number of years since it had been a primary residence, and though still grand, some repairs needed to be made. It got her out of Kings Landing, which in her eyes, was a blessing. 

There was also the matter of room and decoration preferences. This was to be her home with Daemon, and though she didn’t need much more than Daemon and their dragons to be satisfied, there were expectations of how royalty would live. There was staff to hire, rooms to clean, and rearranging to do. There was far too much to transport by dragon, and the voyage by sea would take weeks requiring the effort to be started early. 

Her fathers wish had been granted in one way, her and Daemon were more careful now that they had been chastised. It didn’t stop their exploits, just kept them away from the keep and the Kingsguard. 

Daemon had been apologetic for his actions in the situation, but she found it difficult to be angry with him. Truly, if anything, she was angry they hadn’t done that sooner. His fingers were a gift, but he had withheld his mouth from her, where greater pleasures appeared to hide. 

He had laughed when she huffed over it, saying to wait until she had his cock. 

That act, he would not do until  their wedding. But she had insisted if his mouth met her folds, then hers should meet his member. And she had, on a day a few weeks later — the skies were clear, so they flew to Dragonstone. He leaned against a rock, with his trousers freed — leaving everything visible to her in the spring breeze. She was fascinated. 

She had felt it in her hand, but never known exactly what it looked like. The brothel had been dark, and most men had been…sheathed in something, or someone, if they had their cocks out at all. She had seen crude illustrations and tapestries, but nothing detailed enough to compare to the reality. 

She did not dislike it, though she wasn’t sure how it would ultimately fit inside of her. Daemon insisted they would work up to it, but he had still been unable to press a third finger into her without pain. Regardless, she was too interested in what was in front of her to worry much for the future. 

She liked dragging her fingers down the veins, and watching it twitch and jump. She liked cradling the heavy balls beneath it, and scratching her fingers through the swath of hair it grew from. 

If his skin felt heavy and smooth in her hand, it felt all the more so in her mouth. She couldn’t take very much of him at first, just the tip — working what remained with her palms, as she had done so many times before. But practice improved everything, and this was no exception. It was not long before she could go deeper — feel him sitting on her tongue and pressed against the back of her throat. 

If he went further, she was prone to gagging — but when he admitted it could be overcome with practice, she became determined more than ever to prove herself. A princess should excel at everything, she thought. 

And so, they practiced often. 

She had heard her ladies speak of this act, and known It was a possibility for several years. But they said it was degrading, for whores and only whores. But Rhaenyra had enough confidence not to care. She was a princess regardless of what she did with her betrothed, and she was going to do this. 

And to be honest, she felt like less of a whore in this position than any else — she had a man desperate above her, trusting her not to use her teeth on his most sensitive appendage, and not just that, but crying out for her to provide him his release. In that moment he needed something from her that only she could provide, she felt like she ruled him and she loved it.

One thing she didn’t like, at least at first, was the flavor. But it seemed his form made her mouth water, and soon the taste she associated with it did too. They couldn’t get enough of each other, lips and fingers constantly reaching for each other whenever they wouldn’t be caught. 

Even in council meetings, she had taken to clutching his hand. To be in his presence and not touching was like…having an itch but not scratching it. It chafed at you, until the annoying sensation was all you could focus on. 

She was restless at night now, her body protesting the fact they weren’t together. She knew her mate was nearby, but not allowed to be with her and it hurt. 

Daemon suffered, too. Both of them were quick to snap. It was like they had used up all their patience on each other, and now they used up all their kindness on each other. What was left made them bitter and unpleasant to be around. 

Viserys wondered if they were doing it on purpose, so the palace would be happy to have them go. But he knew that was not true, they had both made good efforts at playing nice with the council for years. It truly seemed as though they could no longer help it. 

He felt some amount of guilt for his part in it — he had consulted maesters, and they admitted that they did not know of anyone who went more than 16 years without consummating a match. They were considered such a blessing, that marriage vows weren’t even necessary in some cultures. Why should you have to swear on something the fates had determined? The only thing more certain than a match is death, and we certainly do not question that. 

A part of Viserys winced when he heard that, for he knew he lived his life in denial of something completely unescapable. And perhaps he had made people he loved suffer because of it. He tried to take solace in his wife, and in her children — but paying them kindness almost made it worse. Reminded him of the neglect Rhaenyra had suffered. 

All his attempts over the years to push her and his brother away, had only pushed them closer together. 

And why? This was going to end as it always would. 

And as the wedding approached, so did his inability to continue to deny it. 

It was a Friday evening and they were supping together as they did every month. Viserys started the tradition with a genuine hope that good food and good conversation would act as balm to soothe any hurt feelings felt by his marriage with Alicent. 

In the last eight years, despite his efforts and over a hundred meals together, it had not proved successful. 

It was awkward, and unpleasant, and was now done more to alter courts perception of them than their own relationship with each other. Secretly, Rhaenyra was counting down the number she would be forced to sit through before being wed. 

Conversation was usually stilted, full of thinly veiled insults and little else. Today though, Helaena  spoke fondly of her visit to the dragon pit. She loved them all, for the girl loved almost everything, but Dreamfyre had a fondness for her that promised to turn into something more. 

Alicent was both pleased at the development, while frustrated Aegon had not been so lucky. They visited the pit frequently, yet he did not take to any of the dragons in need of riders, nor did they take to him. It seemed instead of concerning herself with her children’s relationships with dragons, she was worried about the behavior of Rhaenyra’s. 

“Syrax and Caraxes were being…monstrous creatures, snapping and breathing flames at the bars! Refusing to allow keepers In even to feed them.” 

Rhaenyra bristled at the insult, for insulting her dragon was an insult to her. “They don’t like being separated and the keepers insist upon it.” She said, as an explanation for their behavior. 

“The keeper said she is going into heat, like a dog,” Alicent hissed, with a glare directed to Rhaenyra. 

She straightened, “Wouldn’t that be wonderful if she was? It has been so long since a Targaryen grew alongside a dragon. I would not wish for my children to know anything else.” 

Alicent seethed. 

“I did not know you wished so deeply for children, Rhaenyra.” Alicent said.

“It is true I have not been fond of some of the children in my presence,” she might have glared at Aegon when she said that, but he definitely glared back. She continued, “But what is the goal of marriage if not children, is that not what your family believes, my grace?”

“And of course, as heir to the throne, continuing our line is of the utmost importance to us both.” She said, patting Daemon’s hand that rested on the tablecloth. 

Alicent looked mad, as did Aegon. Viserys looked appalled at the mere thought. Daemon was amused. Helaena was near tears, and Aemond didn’t have eyes for anything but his sister. 

So, a typical dinner. 

Only three left, Rhaenyra she told herself, with some relief. 

Only three left, Viserys told himself, with some sadness. 

Chapter Text

114 AC : Summer

Rhaenyra had never been happier to feel the heat of the sun on her skin, a sign that summer had well and truly arrived — and with it came lords, ladies, maesters, and septons from all seven kingdoms. Rhaenyra did not like the added presence of people in the palace, and in tents on the palace grounds. But they were a reminder of her impending nuptials, and for that she was grateful. 

It was strange, her wedding was something she knew of from a very young age, since when you are matched, you grow up knowing a marriage is inevitable. But she never fantasized about the wedding, for it was just a day, she fantasized about being married. Of having a life with someone who loved her.

She liked being the center of attention, it was true. But she thought perhaps, it was a sign of maturity that now, over all else, she sought attention from her match. She used to crave eyes on her, and now she only craved Daemon’s. 

As she admired herself in the mirror, she knew he would not be the only one looking at her — the long white gown had gold fibers woven through the silk to make it shine like her hair. It was fitted to the waist, and laced tightly at the back in a way that made her curves more defined. The neckline was beaded, and brought attention to the bit of cleavage it exposed. 

She had not designed the dress, Alicent, her Father, and even his council had concerns for the color and drape. Wanting her to set a good example to all who saw her. Given this, she was surprised with how pretty the final gown was. 

Oh the day of the wedding, her hair would be up. For it was a custom for her hair to be braided, then freed that night for only her husband to see. The maids were insistent the style be decorated with rubies, to match her ring. 

Her ring.

How many rings had Daemon given her throughout the years? Surely dozens, perhaps hundreds. As soon as she could be trusted not to swallow the things, she began decorating her fingers with them. A set of shining stones and polished bands was given to her every birthday as a child, so her growing fingers would not be without adornment. 

Now, her growth had slowed, allowing her collection to grow instead. Rings from when she was smaller would go on her pinkies, while pieces from the last few years remained perched on all her other fingers. 

Or that was usually the case at least. But today, she wore only one ring — a golden band set with diamonds the color of coal, that shone like obsidian. A large marquise cut ruby surrounded by honey colored topaz stood proudly in the center. 

The stones were of such quality and cut that light danced on their surface when the ring moved, bringing the rich warm colors to life and making them look like the fire that inspired them. She liked that the band was black, grounding the fiery stones like the volcanic rock of Dragonstone would soon ground them. 

They had gone riding shortly after he presented her with the ring, and she couldn’t help but notice how well the stones matched the scales of their dragons. 

It seemed a perfect metaphor, for their love of each other, their beasts, and the life they would have together. 

She found it unnecessary to wear other rings at this particular moment, as it would just distract her from the one she wanted to look at most.

One of the seamstresses asked her a question, breaking her free from her thoughts. It was time to try on the sleeping silks, she said. 

The wedding gown had been a logical commission, for every woman needed something to wear on her wedding day. At the same time she had ordered several simple gowns for Dragonstone, with longer sleeves and in darker colors more appropriate for a married lady. They said the patterns for them were based on other gowns, and fittings unnecessary, for which she was glad. 

But she had also requested a new trousseau of sleeping clothing. The linen shifts she wore from the age of five until fifteen had served her well, practical and comfortable. But they did little for her figure. As she grew, she craved garments trimmed with lace and made from lighter fabrics, so fine and sheer they would do little to hide what was beneath. These she had complete control over, she doubted her father knew — or wanted to know — that such an order was placed. 

She tried those on in the company of a single maid and seamstress, who had seen her in far less. She thought it was a shame that the wedding dress was what people would see when this was her most beautiful state.

Narrow ribbon straps were all that held up the slip, which was cut low and made to seem even lower by the neckline being constructed from a widely woven lace. It did little to hide her bust, or the press of nipples beneath it. Bias cut fabric fell below that, to her knees — but it was a fine linen, showing shadows of her curves through its milky color. 

“It is quite…indecent, no?” Her maid whispered, and Rhaenyra laughed. She had been very clear in her desires for these garments. And specifically commissioned silk robes to go over them, so her staff would not have to see her in such a state of undress. 

Her eyes sparkled as she responded, “That is the point. And, Daemon will see me in even less!” Before their wedding night was through, he would see her freed of all her garments. She hoped to be decorated with his ring, perhaps some marks from voracious lovemaking, and nothing else.

She wanted to see herself in the mirror in that state, too. Perhaps if a shift looked better on her than a gown, nudity would suit her best of all. She thought Daemon may agree with that, too, for he did not seem to find her body lacking in any regard. 

They had done all they could, without doing the act itself. Becoming familiar with each other's bodies, and hands, and mouths in the process. Rhaenyra’s worries that he would view her as a child had long since passed. Neither of them lacked desire for the other, that much was clear. 

She was both excited and nervous of the possibility of being wed, of suddenly such things being allowed. No longer having to fight the temptation to kiss him at dinners, stay in his rooms during evenings, and do…more than that, whenever they felt like it. Without judgment from guards or servants. 

Without the confines of protecting her virtue, would they be truly insatiable for each other all the time? Would they get anything done?

The seamstress passed her a robe, a liquid silk lined with linen. It had a wide overlap, long sleeves, and trailed the floor when she turned. The silk glistened in the candlelight, showing its good quality. The weight of the linen caused it to drape beautifully, and made it opaque enough to hide what the shift exposed. She knotted the ties firmly at her side, pleased with how it accentuated her waist and bust. 

She did not have a fashionable figure, as Alicent frequently reminded her. The favored style was lean, slender, tall, willowy, women. And fashion was made to reflect that, with skirts cut narrowly through the hips and sleeves starting high to make shoulders. It was a fitting style, for someone of Alicent’s mind and body. 

What she did not remind Alicent of, is that her late mother had a similar figure, and was one of the women who started such trends since they best favored her. People followed the queens commands, even the ones in regards to fashion, which were not spoken out loud. 

She knew why, it was important for most people to keep in the Queen's favor. But that mattered little to Rhaenyra, who would herself be queen one day. She thought, when that day came, perhaps people would have a greater appreciation for a generous bust and hips…if they didn’t already. 

She had been self conscious of them once, but Daemon had scoffed. He said men would be as likely to take a boy to bed as a skinny whore. He said wide hips were a blessing for having children, and a large bust a blessing for feeding them. Even if that was not the style, that would always be a man's preference — his preference. 

She found she cared little of Alicent’s thoughts on her body, when her intended was so fond of it. And so, she became fond of it too. She delighted in her potential for easier births than her mother suffered. And was excited to exaggerate that with her wardrobe choices. She no longer wore constrictive bindings to hide what the gods had given her. Instead fuller skirts and wider necklines displayed her body's differences, and made her stand out. 

She had been embarrassed at first, very briefly. Especially when people whispered — called her vicious things for the form she happened to be born with. She had almost been tempted to return to the stiff, straight gowns. 

But no, what she realized was that the court's intention was to make everyone conform to a standard set by the crown and Queen. It is what Alicent had done, falling into the role her mother had when she perished. But Rhaenyra was a Targaryen Princess, she wasn’t going to conform to anything or anyone. She was going to set a standard that other people were desperate to follow. 

Now, when she was called horrid things, she knew it came from a place of jealousy. Men wanted to be with her, women wanted to be her. And soon, Rhaenyra herself, would want for nothing at all. 

Why would you want, when you already have?

…

Though people began arriving a good month in advance, true preparations to the palace and town started in the fortnight prior. There was much to do — and much to decorate. It was to be the grandest affair the palace had seen in decades. The last marriage they celebrated on such a level was her Grandfathers, Baleon when he wed his sister wife and match Alyssa. Her fathers marriage to Aemma had also been an ordeal, but as he was not next in line for the crown, the townspeople were less devoted to its outcome. 

But now? She was the heir. She was a Targaryen Princess that would one day be Queen, to wed a Targaryen Prince that would one day be her King. Their children would sit on the throne — the entire future of the seven kingdoms lay in her womb. 

She thought it was a great deal of pressure. But she did not doubt her ability to rise to the occasion. She was a dragon, why would she fear anything, when all should fear her? 

…

She looked over her balcony at all the hustle and bustle — tents were set up nearby, housing some of the lords and ladies who were visiting. The town housed even more minor people of importance, who would be attending her nuptials. The palace only housed families of close lineage or rank, such as the Valeryon’s, who they would be dining with tonight. 

The number of people in the palace's employ had doubled this month, in an attempt to clean every room, decorate every hall, and prepare every course for the decadent meal that would follow their ceremony. A tourney was to follow their nuptials, as a celebration. But they would not be attending — it was a custom for the bride and groom to be confined to their bedchambers for a week.

She supposed for many matches and marriages, it would be the first chance for a bride and groom to meet each other. For rarely would they be allowed to speak privately while betrothed. It may be their first time hearing them speak plainly, without a chaperone lurking for impropriety. 

But for her and Daemon? She could not imagine knowing a person better. She had been lucky in that regard, that their relationship allowed them such privileges. She had been allowed to grow alongside him, and spend an infinite amount of time with him. They would not have much to speak on, in the week they were confined, but she was confident they would have lots to do. 

Rhaenyra’s temper had been somewhat soothed by the proximity to her nuptials. For once the date finally seemed in reach, and not miles or months away. But the crowding of the palace made escaping harder, even a brisk walk through the halls involved being stopped and questioned by visiting ladies. The dragon pit was full of spectators, excited to see the beasts in the flesh. 

Getting away for a flight, much less a flight with Daemon had proved impossible. She felt tense, in desperate need of release, and unable to find it with her own hands. She was undeniably frustrated, a mood felt by all who interacted with her. 

“Is a princess not supposed to be happy on the eve of her wedding?” Dameon had jested that day, when he came to her chambers to escort her to dinner. Rhaenyra chafed at the jab, she was happy about the fact they would be married the next day. She was less pleased about all that had led to it. She liked attention, but she also liked privacy — which had been lacking given the busyness of the palace. 

Her chambers were being packed, last alterations being made. It seemed maids and seamstresses were in every corner of her room and there was no escape. She felt more stifled than ever before, and it was all the more frustrating since she was so close to escaping it. 

She wanted to stomp her feet and huff like a child, but more eyes were on her than ever before so she had to behave. It was exhausting and irritating. 

She had somewhat been looking froward to dinner too, the Valeryon’s name was nearly as close to dragons as Targaryen’s, and their children had the blood of both. There was some bitterness between the princess who was passed over, and her father. Refusing their daughter, and choosing Alicent as his bride instead had not eased tensions.

But still, they were nearly family and she was interested in seeing them. And seeing Laena, who she once hoped — still hoped, to be friends with. It had been…seven years since they had spoken? Laena and her brother were the topic of lots of gossip in court— they usually kept to themselves, and to Driftmark.

She told Daemon as much, who paused his stride — stopping to turn to her, “I do not disagree with you, their relation to this family and dragons makes them important allies. I wish to treat them better than your father has, but—“ He paused, then sighed. “You should know that Laena propositioned me, once.” 

Rhaenyra looked at him surprised, she didn’t realize they knew each other at all. And it turned out, they didn’t. 

“We had only spoken a handful of times. She did not want to spend her wedding night with Laenor.” Rhaenyra huffed, that was rude. “I turned her down of course, but she made…unkind comments, about my loyalty to you.” That was extra rude. 

She bit her lip, not sure what to think. She remembered being envious of Laena on that day, she was such a beautiful bride — while Rhaenyra herself was still a child. Now though, she felt no such thing — why would she be jealous over a woman desperate to spend her wedding night with a different man than the one she married? 

It was an offense to her she would not soon forget, but could she blame a woman for trying to sway her uncle? He was so handsome, so strong, and certainly had a reputation when it came to taking women. If she was wedding someone else, she would probably long for him too!

“Thank you for telling me.” Was all she said, turning back to the hall to keep moving forward. 

Daemon was slightly puzzled by her response, expecting more anger — jealousy, something. If he had heard someone propositioning her, he would have been livid — not at Rhaenyra, just the disrespect and mere thought of it. She laughed a little when he told her as much, “Uncle if I was jealous every time someone propositioned you, I’d have no time to feel anything but!” 

He supposed that was true. He had not been chaste, and his affections had often been returned tenfold. 

Rhaenyra’s fingers found his, and she kissed his knuckles. “The gods made you for me. That does not change, even if other women have had you. They are the ones who should be jealous.” 

He couldn’t help but kiss her, then. Guards and propriety be damned. 

Dinner was not a comfortable affair, but the larger quantity of people provided more conversation opportunities, too. There was talk of Driftmark, the council, their ships, their dragons. The recovery of the Stepstones after the war, and lighter topics such as the story of Laena taking Vhagar as her own. 

Helaena was delighted by the story, saying happily she was going to have her own dragon soon. And Rhaenyra did not doubt it, for that girl was as determined as she was delightful. 

Rhaenyra thought Laena was quite delightful too, definitely as charming as she was pretty — and she was very pretty. Dragonstone was near Driftmark, and Daemon had an odd but close relationship with her father Coryls.  She hoped their relationship would recover from whatever offense they took to each other at her wedding, and perhaps turn into something companionable. 

You could never have too many allies in court, or friendships in life. 

Laena congratulated them several times at dinner on their impending nuptials, but had more words to say to Daemon when the evening wound down and conversation could be made without others overhearing. 

“I was foolish, when I asked you of things, years ago.” Laena said, a little bit sadly. 

He shrugged, “You were young.” 

She nodded, “I could not imagine loving someone in such a way. I underestimated the feelings involved in matches. Your feelings for her.” 

He nodded too, “You did.” 

“So I needn’t ask if the princess will go unnoticed?” 

He snorted, “She will be noticed and made thoroughly aware of it on a daily basis.” 

She smiled, “I am happy for you both.” 

She meant it. 

…

Rhaenyra woke early, when the sun was just starting to rise. She was sure half the staff was awake, especially those who worked in the kitchens, but it was too early for her maids to bother her. They found the more sleep their princess got, the easier she was to manage. 

Rhaenyra found her feelings were easy to manage when she was well rested, too. But she was too — something. Either excited or nervous, she wasn’t sure exactly what the mood bubbling in her stomach was, but it would surely prevent her from sleeping. 

She asked her guard to call for tea, and settled herself in front of the hearth in her room. She realized this would likely be the last time she was in her chambers alone. The last time they would truly be her chambers, because from this day onward, she would share them with Daemon. 

She knew not all married couples shared rooms — her father and Alicent certainly did not. But soulmates were different, life was said to be better with your match by your side, so why would you seek anything else? She certainly didn’t plan on sleeping alone, unless other commitments required it. 

She supposed she wouldn’t be sleeping much in these rooms at all, moving forwards. Their life was to be at Dragonstone, with occasional visits to update the council and stay informed on the kingdom. Would it be scary, being so far from where she lived the first sixteen years of her life? 

Kings Landing was home — but what made it home? Her things? Her dragon? Her father? Her match? Soon all but one of those things would be in Dragonstone, and so would she. How quickly would that become her home? Would it take years, or mere days? 

She supposed, she would find out. 

With her husband and dragon by her side, what a thought. 

A maid knocked, then entered with a plate of tea and biscuits. Alicent had lectured her at dinner the previous night, on how important it is not to overindulge — just in general, but especially on your wedding day. This advice was served with a glare at her plate, which had been full of fruits and meats. 

She generally did not take Alicent’s advice, and today was going to be no exception. She found the biscuits and warm drink calmed her stomach and her mind, making her feel more prepared for what the day brought. 

Soon, more maids filed in — they began preparing a bath, scenting the water heavily with spices said to provide good luck and fortune. Her hair was tied up — it had been washed and allowed time to dry the previous day, as she found herself seated in the heated water. It was near boiling she thought, and it was perfect for like her dragon, she loved the heat. 

The spices tingled her skin as she was scrubbed with a sweet scented vanilla soap. The smells swirled together, reminding her of pastries and other delicious things. She giggled, flushed from the heat and the thought, perhaps Daemon would find her delicious. 

When she was clean, and dry, several maids began working lotions and oils into her skin. Each one applied several times, until her flesh would accept no more. The end result was incredibly soft skin, that shone slightly in the morning light — looking almost luminescent. 

Her hair took hours to braid, the process and pins pinching making her all the more inpatient for it to be done. She liked how her hair looked down, wished she could wear it that way for her wedding. It wouldn’t be appropriate, she knew, but still. 

At least her dress was comfortable, no boning or sleeves, allowing her plenty of mobility for dancing. 

Her makeup was light, a bit of powder to even her completion and a smudge of rouge on her cheeks and lips. Softened coal was brushed through her eyelashes to deepen their usual blonde. She did not need much, if anything additional products would take away from her beauty rather than add to it. 

She thought she looked like a true princess, when her crown of braids was finished. A style fit for a queen, for a woman who one day would be. 

…

Time passed quickly after that. It was like the previous weeks had been in slow motion, and suddenly she was experiencing the normal pace and it felt so fast by comparison that she could hardly keep up. Someone spoke to her of the day's plans — they would have a small ceremony in Valyrian. The vows were traditionally quite short, and would be spoken in front of the few hundred that could fit in the throne room. 

Their nuptials would be announced by the King and Queen, on the balcony of the castle. Town criers would be responsible for spreading it beyond what people could make it to the palace walls to watch. 

There would be a feast of two dozen courses, and dancing throughout the evening. The following week, when she and Daemon were confined to their chambers, a grand tourney would be held in celebration. 

She was glad that they would wed at the beginning of the day. For the rest would be made easier if she was allowed to treat him as a husband.

But she loathed that she would have to wait all day to be alone with him and have him as her husband.

Patience was not one of her virtues, she had discovered. 

The ceremony itself passed in such a blur, she could hardly recall particulars. She remembered walking to Daemon — thinking of how handsome he was, in shining gold armor with glossy silver hair. How he looked like true royalty, and he was going to be hers. 

She was almost gleeful, as she repeated the High Septons words and pledged herself to her match for eternity. The words mattered little to her, they were merely a formality for what the fates had decreed years ago. But still, she said them, and preened as Daemon spoke them too. Their gaze never straying from each other. 

The Septon droned on, about their commitment to each other and to the gods, but she cared little. It wasn’t until she heard the words ‘may kiss’ pass his lips that she lit up, going on the tips of her toes while Daemon leaned down, pressing their bodies and mouths together to seal the promises they had made to each other. 

She reveled in their first kiss as a married couple, nipping gently as his bottom lip and allowing his tongue to twine with hers. She was not bothered about how decent it was for their audience, she was a Princess, and he a Prince. Only the King and Queen could outrank them, and they would not bring attention to the pair's overzealous affections. 

Still, she supposed something had to be saved for later — with a final press of their lips, her feet met the ground and she turned to their audience, who broke out in cheers. 

…

Somehow, they had made it from the throne room to the balcony. She felt almost like she was floating above the crowd of people outside the palace gates — being grounded only by Daemon holding her hand. And even that, a small public show of affection felt so good.

So good, that it nearly distracted her from her father’s words — announcing that they were married. The heir to the kingdom was wed, and it was to be a grand occasion and an even grander celebration. She was smiling, clutching onto Daemon’s arm and waving to the crowd before being shuffled back inside where guests were congregating. 

The feast would start soon, she thought — she wasn’t even paying attention to where they were walking, merely allowing herself to be shepherded like a sheep to the next location. Did it even matter when she was doing it with Daemon by her side? 

…

The hall was noisy, as they walked in — cheers must have been audible for miles, with how loudly they yelled. Wine was already out, even if the first course wasn’t, and the courtiers were greedily partaking in it. Rhaenyra didn’t think she needed to drink much, she already felt drunk on the day — on getting what she always wanted. 

But she did sip from her goblet, offering cheers to the people who walked by and wished her good fortune. She got tipsy, waiting for the food to come, and found herself leaning heavily against Daemon, who did not seem to mind. In fact he often cupped her cheek or pressed gentle kisses to her lips — taking her closeness as an invitation. Or if not that, maybe having her nearby made touching her irresistible. 

She wanted to crawl into his lap. She blushed, imagine doing that at your wedding feast? In front of her father! In front of everyone! 

She set down her cup, determined to abstain until she had eaten. 

And oh how she ate. A dozen courses must have passed, before they broke for dancing. She was grateful for the food, for she felt more herself — but also grateful for the break. The opportunity to stand, and to have Daemon in her arms. Sitting by his side just wasn’t enough, not anymore. 

Dancing felt like a glorious prelude to what would follow that evening, she luxuriated in it, even if she longed for more. 

“You’re glowing, my wife.” Daemon said, and she grinned. 

She felt like she was glowing. She remembered a few years back, when they danced and she felt hot and clammy, easily distracted by impure thoughts. It was as if bits of her were on fire, but it wasn’t allowed to escape and was instead melting her from the inside out. 

But now, she felt like heat freely radiated from her skin, like she was allowed to burn hotter than ever before. And she did. For she could finally kiss her match — her husband, whenever she felt like it, and in front of any witness. Her touch could linger on him, and her body could press close to him when they danced. 

They danced on and off for hours, the floor opening and closing between plates of food. There were toasts, and laughs, and glares, and tears. It felt like a day full of everything, a day devoted to their love for each other. She never wanted it to end, but she was also desperate to get back to her chambers. 

She remembered when looking at him used to satisfy her hunger for him, when being by his side was all she needed to be happy in life. But perhaps Alicent was right, perhaps she was a wild animal that could not be controlled, like a dragon, she thought, straining at its bindings and threatening to break free to get to its mate.

Because this wasn’t enough anymore, touching him wasn’t enough, kissing him wasn’t enough. She wanted him inside of her, to be part of her physically in the way he always had been emotionally. 

Daemon was not thinking entirely different thoughts. His wife had been smiling all day, her smile seeming even brighter than usual. Everything seemed brighter than usual. But Rhaenyra had a special radiance today, he couldn’t seem to look away — and he was sure no one else would be able to, either.

He meant it when he said she was glowing, she just…shined, like her fire couldn’t be contained and was giving off an ethereal glow. He wasn’t sure his eyes had left her at all today, nothing seeming remotely comparable to the vision that she was. 

She had said, part way through the day, that she felt like she was floating. And he did too, every word he heard spoken was just a mumble barely heard because he was so far off the ground. So overwhelmed with joy that he was finally married, he could finally have her, they could finally start their life together. 

He’d waited more than three decades for this, his entire life. He’d waited for her to be born, for her to grow, for her to marry him. He had just waited. 

She had been worth it. She would be worth anything. Because she was everything to him. 

His hand found hers, fingers gliding up her wrist and dancing around the mark that matched his own. He was grateful her dress was sleeveless, that he had been able to gaze at the mark — the evidence that they belonged together, all day long. He wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve this, what he had done to deserve her, but the reminder was welcome. 

His touch distracted her, causing her to look up at him — she was still smiling, and gazing at him with such adoration that he couldn’t help but lean down and kiss her. 

It was a soft kiss, all things considered. Not nearly as long, or as deep as either of them would have preferred, but they were trying to be good, for just a little bit longer. 

When he pulled back, he felt the heat of his brother's gaze on him, and he met it, for he had nothing to be ashamed of. Not anymore. He wasn’t going to feel shame for loving the woman the gods gifted to him, more than that – the woman the gods destined for him.

He had always loved her, and treasured her presence in his life. Now he would treasure her heart, her body, and every bit of her, because anything else was unthinkable. 

He hated, on such a happy day, how much this continued to hurt — Viserys disapproval. Daemon knew he wasn’t a good man, and Viserys was aware of that too. But he had always been good to Rhaenyra, and Viserys seemed blind to that. 

He wouldn’t let it hurt anymore, if Viserys didn’t want to see how well matched they were, that was his own failing — not Daemon’s. 

Alicent was glaring too, he realized. Unable to summon a smile on this day, even for the sake of appearances. She despised him. The feeling was very much mutual and neither of them hid it well.

She resented his existence, the fact he was marrying the heir and that he was going to father the next King. He had the position he wanted for her son — the match, the dragon, and some day, the throne. 

The gods had already determined Aegon would go without the first two. And Daemon was going to ensure he went without the last one, too. 

He would not let a Hightower take what belonged to a Targaryen. 

He would not let anyone take what belonged to him. 

…

The walk to her chambers was quiet after being in the crowded hall. All she could hear were their steps, and the beating of her heart, which felt like it was pounding erratically in her chest. She had never felt such anticipation in her entire life.

After a day of blissful constant touch, being separated from her match felt like torture. But they had followed the royal protocols thus far, they could make it for another hour, surely. 

She took a seat at the vanity while the maids worked to loosen her hair. She liked the traditional Valyrian braids, but favored her hair free. That would have been inappropriate for a wedding though, loose hair was a sign of a loose woman, they claimed. But that made it a fitting style, for her wedding night, she thought with a huff. 

Ruby pins formed a pile in front of her, then the braids were let down and unraveled one at a time, gods there had to be dozens of them. Several maids fussed over it at once, while another asked if she would like to change — Rhaenyra thought about this — before requesting one of her new silk robes. “The red one,” she decided. 

“And what for beneath it, Princess?” The maid inquired, earning her a glare. “That will be all I wear.” She insisted, not seeing the purpose of additional barriers. She had waited long enough already. 

She admired herself in the vanity, while the maids brushed out the remainder of the ornate style. She liked how she looked in red, the vibrant color contrasting brilliantly against her light skin. The shade of red was nearly a perfect match for her soul mark, she realized, as she admired that too — tracing her fingers over the skin. 

“I believe you are ready, Princess.” The head of her ladies maids said. Rhaenyra nodded, looking away from her mark and back at her reflection. 

She felt ready, too. 

…

She wasn’t nervous. 

She just didn’t like waiting, she had waited so long already. 

And her chambers felt…odd, with things packed away and shipped to Dragonstone. There had been so many maids swarming about, she had little time to realize how empty the space had become. Absent were her trinkets, and most of her clothing — all being sent to her new home. 

She had been ready to move on for a while now, but to see the realities of that was…bittersweet.

She didn’t want anything to bitter this day or experience, though. 

Luckily, she was soon distracted. 

Daemon didn’t knock. She supposed he didn’t have to anymore, these would be just as much his chambers as hers, wouldn’t they? 

Regardless, the doors of their chambers slammed open, and Daemon did not even wait for them to shut before taking her in his arms. He cleared the several steps between them with ease before firmly grasping her jaw and pulling her face to his. When was the last time they kissed privately? Days? Far too long.

She moaned into the kiss, reveling in the feeling of him against her in some manner. But it wasn’t enough, she found herself pulling on his belt loops and dragging him closer. He seemed to be impatient, too, having arrived to her rooms with his armor and leathers gone, with only a tunic and breeches for coverage. 

She did what she could, while lost in the kiss, to rid him of the remaining garments. She was not gentle in her pursuit, and was willing to sacrifice the structure of the clothing if it meant getting them off faster. 

He had a much easier task of undressing her, simply unknotting the tie of her robe before pushing it off her shoulders. She thought it was a bit of a shame he didn’t get to admire how she looked in it, but she was too eager to be naked with him to really care. 

He released her for a moment, to toss his tunic over his head — but in doing so he seemed to realize that for the first time she was completely exposed to him. She was surprised, that his reaction to this was stepping back but she soon realized it was because he wanted to look before he touched. She preened under his gaze, while moving backwards towards the bed. 

She wasn’t sure if he had his fill of looking at her, or if he was just too hungry for more. He followed her to the bed, kicking off his pants in the process and then finally — it was just them, their marks, and their wedding bands — as the gods intended. 

She moaned and writhed against the sheets as their lips met once again — their first time in a bed together since that fateful morning nearly a year ago. But this time he wanted more, and knew he could take more. His lips moved lower, mouthing at her neck and collarbones. Biting at her breasts, and teasing the nipples, palming what wouldn’t fit in his mouth. 

His lips continued their trajectory, after lingering on her nipples for a time they went lower, lapping at the crevasse of her stomach, and then lower still — until the heat of his tongue was against her clit, and she was arching to meet his mouth. 

A finger split her open, and after days of being unable to reach it on her own, she easily peaked on his hand. But he didn’t stop, instead he took her release as an opportunity to insert another finger. He wasn’t being particularly gentle, these weren’t soft touches that a young maiden dreamed of. 

But she didn’t feel like a young maiden anymore, she felt like she had been deprived. And finally, she was being given sustenance in the form of his fingers and mouth. She didn’t want gentle, she didn’t need it, she just needed him. 

He nipped at her sensitive skin, fingers pressing in harder — curling upward and causing her to curl with them. She wasn’t sure if her body was trying to escape them, or thrust against them. All she knew is that she had been so worked up for so long, she was so desperate to feel good that her body seemed almost beyond her own control. She was like a puppet, and he was the master pulling strings. 

His thumb pressed against her clit, his fingers curled upward inside of her, and his tongue lapped at the space in-between. Her second orgasm came almost as fast as the first, and she heard herself scream in relief. It felt good, so good, warm and tingly at her core and radiating outward through her limbs. But she didn’t feel loose and relaxed, like she usually did — she was still tightly wound, still wanting.

Her body knew it too, thrusting and grinding deeper against Daemon’s fingers, until a third one was worked in alongside the others. She made a noise somewhere between a wail and moan at the sensation, at the stretch. His hand wasn’t even moving anymore, just holding her open as his tongue lapped at her clit, which made her clench down on his fingers, which made her arch into his mouth. She couldn’t escape him, she didn’t want to, but her body tried — squirming and wriggling, but failing to get away. 

She was breathless, when the third orgasm hit. She was no stranger to his fingers or mouth — but this, it was different, with three fingers making her feel so full it was like she had truly burst — exploded, and was in the process of falling back down to earth. 

 He continued to lap at her, his fingers unmoving, as she came down from her peak. She must have looked a mess, she thought she might have been crying? She had certainly cried out, at a few points. But Daemon did not seem bothered, his lips meeting hers — and gods she could taste herself, a little salty and a little sweet on his tongue. She wasn’t sure she liked it, but she liked him, enough that she lapped at his mouth and nipped at his lips trying to chase the flavor. 

He groaned, and rutted against her — bringing his member so close to her folds that she could feel the length of it. And for once, he didn’t move away — though he didn’t press closer either. He seemed content to thrust himself against her folds, between her thighs where his saliva and her own fluids had collected leaving her slick. 

She moaned, unsure if it was in pleasure or frustration, because he was so close, but still not close enough. She wanted him inside her, she had waited so long. “Please” she heard herself gasp into his open mouth, “Pleasepleaseplease” she muttered, hoping he would take pity on her.

He did, eventually — after parting from her lips and breathing heavily into her neck for several long moments, he dragged them both further onto the bed. 

She was surprised to find herself on his lap — her hands naturally fell to his shoulders, bracing herself. And when she looked down his cock was visible between her thighs, its head was brushing against her opening, leaking as if it ached as much for her as she did for it.

His hands fell to her hips, digging into the flesh and guiding her into position, guiding her onto him. She realized now, she was poised over his cock, an inch away from having him inside her. But he didn’t stop, not when the tip brushed her folds, not when the head penetrated her. He was gentle now, moving her slowly over him, not rushing her body to accept him all at once, even though part of her craved it. 

It didn’t hurt at first, not with just the head inside — it felt like his fingers had, like she was unable to clench because she was being forced open. The lack of pain gave her false confidence, made her to move at a faster pace, desperate to take more of him. She hissed as she sheathed herself further on his cock, it pinched and she tried to pull back but Daemon’s hands held her steady. 

“Breathe” he insisted, speaking the words against her lips before distracting her with kisses. It worked, she felt herself relaxing, melting against him and enjoying the feeling of her breasts against his chest — soft mounds pressed against muscular flesh, slightly damp from sweat and pleasure. 

But even as good as that felt, it could not distract her from the feeling of being pulled down, until she was fully impaled. She gasped, before pulling away and looking down at where their hips touched, where he was fully buried inside her. 

It hurt, she hadn’t expected that. Not when everything else had felt so good. She felt betrayed, by her body, and that it chose to reject this act. Her fingers dug into Daemon’s shoulders — she was vaguely worried about drawing blood, but too focused on the ache in her abdomen to pay much attention. 

He hushed her, one hand on her lower back preventing her from moving much at all, another on her jaw to force their mouths back together. This she liked, this she loved, his lips were perfect. Full and soft, but persistent and confident. It didn’t take long for her to become lost in the kiss, her hands tangled in his hair as she nipped against his mouth.

With her focus on that, she wasn’t prepared for his thrust — the fact it would cause the pain to burst in her pelvis once again. It felt like her courses, cramping and an inescapable stabbing pain — she would have laughed at that, that his cock was stabbing her, but the pain was too shocking for her to be entertained. It made her bite down, hard, and she caught Daemon’s lip in the process. The metallic flavor of blood filled her mouth, and she wanted to apologize but Daemon just moaned and pressed his lips more insistently to hers. 

And then — another thrust, just a gentle cant of his hips against hers, and the pain was not as intense — hardly there at all, really. At her lack of reaction he thrust again, upward into her, while pushing her down so she met his hips and that felt good. She chased the sensation, forcing herself down onto him in time with his thrusts. Taking the time to grind against him, driving her clit into the thatch of hair and muscles above his cock. 

It didn’t take long for it to start feeling better than good, he was hitting something with each thrust, which made her clench down — but she could barely clench, with her cunt forced open on him. It was like her muscles were pried open and being made to take, and the rest of her body overcompensated, by curling and tensing against him. 

She was panting now, moving faster, chasing her release that seemed to build every time he entered her. She was trembling, she realized, her body shaking against his as it finally hit her — it was like every bit of her was tingling, little sparks hitting her skin everywhere and causing her to twitch.

With a normal orgasm, she peaked and then fell — leaving her relaxed and blissful, but this, she seemed to be going even higher with each thrust, somehow making her feel even better and even more. She was oversensitive now, even the scrape of her nipples on his chest felt like too much, but her body was determined to keep going, arching against him and taking him to the root. 

Daemon wasn’t stopping either, chasing his own release now, as he held her hips and thrust up into her somewhat brutally. But she had no complaints — letting out moans with every movement as she continued to climb. 

She didn’t start to fall back down until after he had come, his groans spurring on her own as they writhed and came together.

As he finished, he ground into her, as if determined to fully empty himself inside of her, and she welcomed it. She even keened, as the heat of his release filled her. She wanted to feel like this forever, full of him, full of his seed, connected in heart, mind, and body. Her eyes closed, and her forehead touched his as she collapsed against him. Her hands were balanced on his shoulders once again, but gently now — fingers and wrists limp, completely wrung out. 

She didn’t try to move, and he didn’t try to move her. They just relaxed into each other, skin sliding against each other and backs sliding down the pillows until they were horizontal. Still, his flesh didn’t part from hers, and she remained perched atop him. She felt so warm, so safe, so comfortable. So right. She wanted to thank him, to tell him she loved him. But she had no words, and no energy.

And he  knew, how could he not, after that? 

He was her match, in life, in everything, in this. 

A perfect fit. 

Chapter Text

114 AC

They were woken by the knocking at their chamber doors, Rhaenyra groaned before rolling over and making no move to get up. Daemon was in a slightly more coherent state, managing to sit up as he rubbed his eyes, attempting to find some wakefulness. What was it he said a few years ago? He was better at handling his indulgences? And last night they had well and truly indulged in each other. 

He had woken her, some time in the night — the candles had gone out, and the moon was far from full, leaving the room nearly pitch black. She felt his hands against her body, and his lips against her neck, but she didn’t see him. However she didn’t need to see him to want him, and she arched into his touch, and onto his cock soon after that. 

It was different that time, less painful — more the press of a bruise, than the puncture she swore she felt earlier. But the lack of pain wasn’t the only difference, this was much softer and more gentle than what they had done earlier in the evening.

She supposed they were less desperate now, finding release had restored their patience and now they were not in such a rush to experience each other…though nor could they wait until the morning to have each other again. 

His chest was against her back, one hand holding her hip and another palming her breast. He rocked into her, tiny movements that pushed him deeper, and deeper, truly barely moving but still managing to make her feel so much. 

She felt full and warm, and little shocks of pleasure burst through it every time he moved. She was too tired to do much but take what he was giving her, but she adored even that. They were made for this, she thought, made to be together — made to be inside each other. After years of being kept apart they could finally come together in this way and it was glorious. 

Her orgasm took her by surprise, it came on more slowly than her previous peaks that night — not so much a peak even, but a hill, little gentle tremors in time with his thrusts rang through her leaving her gasping against him — against his cock. And he liked this clearly, groaning and stalling his hips as he found his own release. 

She palmed her stomach, but it seemed there was not outside evidence of his seed, and the weight of him inside her. It was pleasant, though. So pleasant that she fell asleep like that, with every inch of Daemon pressed behind her.

She felt the evidence of this between her legs that morning, despite the hours that had passed since. Her core felt slick, for she had been overfilled by him, and it had leaked down her thighs. She found she didn’t want to bathe it away, she wanted him to return to her and add to the mess. 

Though she supposed a warm bath would soothe some of the aches last night inspired, so she relented and sat up on the plush mattress, wincing slightly in the process. She knew some activities overexerted unused muscles — the ache she had felt after sitting on horseback, and in the saddle of a dragon had been evidence of such things. It appeared sex — riding her husband, she shivered, was another item to be added to this list.

She had a feeling though, her body would soon adjust. She would get a great deal of practice. 

Daemon requested breakfast from the maid, and for a tub to be brought in — one tub, he specified, which made her smile. 

He returned to her then, her lazy nude form that was now atop the covers. He took advantage of the exposure, running his hands down her flank and hip. He lifted one of her legs, pressing a kiss to her toes — her ankle, her knee. She giggled, and he repeated the process with her other leg before gripping her firmly and pulling her closer. 

She still felt sleepy, lazy, almost drunk on their activities, but she was aware enough to find his lips with hers. They were still kissing, when the maid returned with their breakfast tray. Daemon had a sheet wrapped around his hips, but Rhaenyra made little effort to cover herself. It was nothing her maids hadn’t seen before. 

Daemon pulled away for a moment, requesting the tray be placed on the bed. Rhaenyra tipped her head back to watch the maid approach, her face was familiar but covered in a deep red blush. She scurried away as soon as she set down the tray, the heavy doors closing behind her. 

Rhaenyra picked at the tray, suddenly feeling quite hungry. There were rolls, and a variety of butters and jams. Along with fresh fruit, that she popped into her mouth, uncaring of the mess left on her fingers — the sheets already needed cleaning, after all. 

More maids filed in while they ate, carrying a tub and heated buckets for it. Some dared to look at the couple, who were unashamed in their near nudity and seemed relaxed as they broke their fast. They fed each other little bites of honied nuts — laughing and nipping at each other's fingers in the process. 

One of the maids recalled attending to the queen, Alicent, after her wedding night. The picture she made was very different from this one. The girl had been quiet — eyes wide, and clinging to her robe, afraid to expose even a sliver of skin to anyone. Breakfast between her and the king was a quiet affair, and her bath was taken behind a screen. 

She had dressed in a heavy gown afterward, as if its weight was a comfort to her. 

But the prince and princess, they seemed playful with each other. When one maid inquired about what clothing they would like prepared for after their bath, the couple waved her off saying it wasn’t necessary. 

She wasn’t sure if that meant they weren’t planning on getting dressed, or if they just did not require her help. 

As the tub filled, the princess finally stood from the bed — stretching her arms to the sky and arching her back. It was an enchanting sight, the maid could admit — and the prince seemed to think so too, hands finding her waist and turning her so their lips could meet in a kiss. 

Eventually they parted, and made their way to the full bath. The maids were dismissed, the pair insistent that they did not need attendants. But she was provided with a better look at the pair before she left — and gods, if she hadn’t seen them flirting and fondling each other for the last hour, she’d think they spent the previous night fighting not fucking. 

The prince had a split lip, leaking a bit of blood from their previous display. Angry scratches decorated his shoulders, dragged slightly down onto his chest and back. And the princess, she wasn’t bleeding but she was  bruised.  Heavy marks decorated the side of her neck, her breast, and her hips. Had she experienced a wedding night, or a war? 

All the maids looked vaguely concerned at their state, and Rhaenyra knew the rumors would swirl but she did not care. Her cries of pleasure the previous evening had been clear, she thought. And when they were freed from these rooms, so would her adoration of him.

She did apologize to Daemon, though — her fingers brushing over the oozing split of his lip, and the scratches she had inflicted on him. 

But he just laughed, saying she was not unmarred either, fingers tracing her bruises. And he swore he would happily bleed for her, by her teeth, nails, or anything else she deemed necessary. What was the spilling of blood, between blood? 

She couldn’t help but agree, they were one now — she would do anything for him, even bleeding was not an entirely unpleasant thought. 

Daemon slipped into the water first, hissing as the heat enveloped his flesh. Rhaenyra followed, relaxing with her back to his front and their hands twined on her stomach. She wasn’t sure which was warmer, the water or the heat of Daemon behind her. Wasn’t sure which one felt better against her skin. 

Luckily, she could have both. 

Before the last maid slipped away, she remembered to request a change of sheets. With a bobbed curtsey, the maid disappeared and their bath began in earnest. Neither of them were patient people, not one to sit for the sake of sitting — even in each other's arms. 

Daemon scrubbed her back, her shoulders, her breasts — vanilla soap chased by a rough cloth to remove sweat and evidence of the previous day's activities. His hands roamed lower, easily parting her thighs and making her gasp in the process. The cloth felt good against her sensitive flesh, and Daemon rubbed it purposely between her thighs. 

When she was deemed clean, it was her turn to bathe him. She found when she turned in his lap, his face was near enough that she couldn’t help but stop to kiss him. He was so handsome, she thought. And he was hers. She could wash him, and kiss him, and sleep with him, and spend every day of her life with him.

She washed him more slowly, appreciating the muscles she had rarely seen before. The width of his shoulders, and the broadness of his chest. Her body was so small and soft by comparison, so different. But clearly, his body craved hers all the same. She could feel evidence of that beneath her, as she sat perched atop him.

He had scars marring his flesh, which she paid special attention to with the soap and cloth. She thought, one day, she would have to brush each one with her lips and taste every bit of his flesh. Perhaps leave marks of her own behind, like she had on his shoulders. His soul mark was a sign that he had a match, but she wanted his body to bear more reminders of her. 

She palmed his member with the cloth, making sure he was thoroughly cleaned after what they had done the previous night. Their lips met lazily in the process, though not too intensely. They were just enjoying the heat of the water, and the heat between them. 

“Am I clean?” He asked her, when they broke apart. 

She just grinned, “No, I think you’re filthy.” 

He laughed, “Perhaps, but you love it.”

Her smile softened, as her fingers twisted in his damp hair. “Perhaps, but only because I love you.” 

He smiled too — “And I love you.” 

They may have been inpatient people, but neither was in a rush to move on from that moment.

…

Eventually, the water had cooled and their skin had pruned. Rhaenyra dried herself off with the linen towel, before wandering back to the bed chambers where fresh sheets had been laid. She lay on them, enjoying the feel of soft clean fabric against soft clean skin. 

Daemon joined her, a few moments later. Miming their posture from earlier in the morning, as he gently raised her leg to his mouth, pacing a kiss her foot before lips wandered further. Eventually, he pulled her hips to the edge of the bed, and without the bed to brace them, she wrapped her legs around his form. 

He hummed lightly, his fingers delving between her folds — one entering her easily, and followed by a second. She closed her eyes and moaned, she could feel herself getting wetter in anticipation, in desire for him. “Are you sore?” He asked, and she immediately shook her head. 

She ached, a little, but that had not stopped her from riding Syrax again the next day and it would not stop her from doing this now. She canted her hips toward his, trying to pull him closer with her legs. He laughed, and braced his hands above her shoulder before pressing himself inside her. 

She gasped as she was suddenly filled. There was no gentle thrusting, or rocking, as he took his time getting inside her. No, this was a confident thrust, with little concern for how she felt, and every concern for getting inside her. It wasn’t unpleasant though, quite the opposite, in fact. She felt speared on him, suck in that spot and at his mercy — but it was so good. He was talented in battle, and was just as good at wielding his weapon in this sport. But in this sport, there was no losing, only pleasure. 

Dameon winced, as he entered her all too suddenly. It was so easy to forget himself. To forget that her body lacked experience with a man. He had just wanted this for so long. Dreamed of it so often. He could hardly believe he was finally getting to experience her in the flesh, and so he found it hard to restrain himself. 

He wanted to be sweet to her. He’d been determined that their first time would be gentle. He’d lap at her for hours, and then gently press inside — not even all of him, if her body didn’t want it. He’d take his time and make it good, make her feel good. They’d kiss, and he’d thrust gently, working more of him inside until they both came. 

The reality had been different, but had been beyond good. They had been desperate, from the years of restraint. The months of self control, getting a taste of each other but going hungry. From the day — being able to call each other husband and wife at last, but not getting to know each other as a man and wife should. 

When he finally came to her room, he was so overwhelmed with desire that every thought and intention seemed to dissipate. He was too distracted by her, and her presence in his arms — the feeling of her skin, of her tongue. He wanted more of her, all of her, and he could finally have it. 

It was not the first time between them that he imagined, it was more passionate, more confident, just…more than he ever could have expected. She was more than he had expected, in every way, in the best way.

He thought after having her once, his body's desperation for her would fade. And it had been soothed, temporarily — but the desire woke him in the middle of the night, needing to be inside her again. And the desire was back now, bubbling in the pit of his stomach, hardening his member, making him want. 

He’d promised himself this morning, that he would be gentle — but with her splayed out on the bed, looking so desperate, feeling so wet, the urge to take was too strong to resist.

She seemed as desperate as him, her body meeting his thrusts, her moans louder than his. 

She was meant for this, he thought, watching her breasts bounce as he forced himself inside her. We were meant for this. They were meant to be together, meant to fit together in every aspect of life, this included. 

And they did. So well.

His father had told him as a boy that dragons mate with dragons, and he had understood — he thought he understood, when he was with a woman for the first time. The pleasure, the passion, the burning — it made him feel like more of a beast than a man.

But now with Rhaenyra he truly understood. It was different, it was all of that and more. He felt connected to her, like they could do anything together. Like they were a single powerful creature rather than two human beings. 

He’d heard people describe Targaryen’s as closer to gods than men, but the first time he felt closer to a god than a man. 

He wasn’t sure how long he lasted — how long it went on for. He was so lost in the glorious sensations that his body thrusted on impulse alone, trying to chase its pleasure. He opened his eyes every once and a while to admire the view, for Rhaenyra’s face was scrunched in pleasure, her hands fisted in the sheets, nearly threatening to tear them. 

They were both so close, and eventually, with a few careful touches — they both came. It was like a wave crested over both of them, causing them to cry out and then collapse into each other. They were panting in the aftermath, sweaty from the excursion, but bodies still wanting more. 

He didn’t think he would ever not want her, that was just the state of being he lived in now. 

He was grateful that she seemed to want him too.  

Chapter Text

114 AC 

Rhaenyra woke that morning feeling content — rested, and slightly sore. She had been right in her assumption that she and Daemon would not have much to discuss during this week of confinement, but that they would have lots to do. 

For they did each other, repeatedly. 

She still didn’t feel like she had enough of him, it was like she had only broken the surface of what they could do and feel together. She couldn’t wait for the rest of their life together, couldn’t wait to wade into the deep end. 

But she was going to enjoy this too, the shallows of discovering each other and what made them happy. She was going to enjoy it all the more, when they got to their new home — Dragonstone. 

They weren’t leaving until after a late luncheon and she was determined to visit the pit to see Syrax. She had never been away from her dragon for so many days before — sometimes weather required her to stay stabled, but she always visited. She did take some comfort in the fact she had Caraxes for company, and that they likely enjoyed their time together. 

Daemon was more accustomed to being away from Caraxes, but he was happy to visit the pit with her — and so they walked, arm in arm, for the first time after their wedding day. She was in a delightful mood, enjoying the heat of late summer and the warmth of Daemon beside her. She looked at the sights of Kings Landing and tried to memorize what was before her, for she didn’t know when she would return. Likely soon, she would visit — as heir, she needed to stay informed. And she knew regardless of the strain in their relationship, she would miss her father. 

She would miss her half siblings too, she thought — somewhat surprised. 

Rhaenyra expected her fondness for her half siblings to fade over time. For it to turn into the resentment she felt towards their mother. But it did not — at least not towards Helaena and Aemond. She saw too much of herself in them, and her vanity drew her to them for that reason. 

It helped that in spirit and looks they took after their father— her father — they were dragons, Targaryen’s through and through. 

She was a little sad, to be leaving them behind. She took comfort in the fact that they would have each other, and she hoped that would be enough. She swore to write to Helaena, to try and maintain  a relationship with the girl. That girl didn’t deserve the guidance Alicent would try to foster on her. And though Rhaenyra had little desire to mother the girl herself, she wanted to at least be a friend. 

It was odd that perhaps she looked at the girl as a sister for the first time, when she was leaving her behind.  

But she was determined not to mourn the loss of a place she could visit, especially not when she was going somewhere better. Somewhere Targaryen’s were meant to be, surrounded by storms and sea and volcanos. Somewhere turbulent enough to settle her mind, somewhere she would be free. 

Free to fly her dragon and love her husband, what could be better? 

114 AC Winter

Rhaenyra didn’t want to gloat, but she believed she had been right — there was little better than living in Dragonstone. She felt like magic flowed through the walls, flowing through her giving her an energy and enthusiasm she had never experienced before. Giving her a life she had ever experienced before. 

She woke in the arms of her husband, went for long rides on her dragon, visited town and heard petitioners — she was determined to be liked by the people, even if she wasn’t loved the way Daemon was. They dined together, danced together, and went to bed together. 

And oh the fun they had in bed. To think, one time she had been worried pleasure couldn’t exist for a woman! She had never been so glad to be wrong. They really did fit together, in every aspect of their relationship. And she was very grateful the gods had gifted her with such a match. 

She worked to form — maybe not friendships, but a friendliness with the local lords and ladies. She continued to write to her half sister, and her father — though she rarely got letters back from either. She made sure to visit monthly, sit in on at least one council meeting before returning home. And she truly did view Dragonstone as a home now.

Not even because her things were there, it just felt welcoming. Truly meant for a Targaryen. It was everything she wanted and more, from the rocky seas to the freedom it offered. But it certainly helped that there weren’t as many prying eyes or tense family meals. There was a certain comfort, in knowing you wouldn’t have to interact with people who disliked you so. She could be less guarded here, more herself, and it was glorious. 

She appreciated its proximity to Driftmark, too, for she had found a good friend in Laena and her brother Laenor. They were of a similar station to her, so she felt comfortable conversing with them — didn’t have to fear for her reputation or judgment in their presence. It allowed a genuine relationship to form, in a way she had never experienced outside of Daemon and perhaps her mother.

It felt good, having someone to confide in. She felt especially safe with Laena, since she shared a dislike of court and gossip. She had long since been the subject of their chatter, given her lack of mark and her brother's match. It had bred a distaste for it, and allowed them both to speak freely about the struggles of being in Kings Landing.

Laena was also the first person she had told about her pregnancy. She had yet to experience her courses in Dragonstone, the sheets remaining white, sometimes (often) dirtied with seed, but never blood. She wondered if Daemon had noticed — she assumed he had, he was perceptive and had lived with women before. 

But she wasn’t confident enough to speak her thoughts to her husband — what if she was wrong, and the stress of moving and marriage simply delayed them? It was as if speaking with Laena about it made it real, and gave her the confidence she needed to be excited. 

She had never been overly fond of children, or babies. Finding them loud and stinky — perhaps an impression of Aegon that had never faded. But Helaena and Aemond had a certain charm, she could tolerate children like them. 

But she had a hunch that her children would be more wonderful than them. How could a combination of her and Daemon be anything less? A match. A prince. A princess. The gods wanted them to be together, and surely they would want them to have children too. 

And she found she…couldn’t wait. 

…

She told Daemon that evening, and his eyes lit up like the fire in him flared. She had never seen him smile so wide, and then he laved her stomach with kisses — lapping at her belly button and making her laugh. 

“I haven’t seen the Maester, but it has been several months without blood, so I think it is likely.” She said.

Daemon hadn’t said a word, he’d been smiling too much to speak. He couldn’t remember ever feeling such…giddiness and happiness. He felt like he had everything he wanted when he married her, his wife, his match, his dragon, his title…but this. 

It turned out he still wanted for more than her body.

He wanted her child. Their child.

He didn’t want to put pressure on her, so he had resisted considering the possibility too much. Especially knowing how much her mother struggled, but now that her pregnancy was a reality…

He found he couldn’t wait for the outcome. 

115 AC

The cold winter led to a turbulent spring, which seemed to match the Princesses ever changing moods. Her body had taken to pregnancy well — she seemed to be expanding in all the right ways to accommodate her new stomach, despite her short stature. And Daemon reveled in it, the evidence of their child in her body. 

She was grateful for his attraction, for she seemed to always be warm and eager for his affections. Her body craved him more than ever before, as if the child had an appetite for its father that affected her own appetite for her husband. 

Her moods, though, were varied. She went from near tears, to raging mad in a moment — then returned to a calm minutes later. It was frustrating, feeling so out of control of her mind and body. Syrax seemed similarly frustrated, and Rhaenyra assumed her own moods were rubbing off on the beast. She had days where she did nothing but sleep, and others where she refused to fly. 

Rhaenyra tried not to take it personally — for she had days where she did nothing but sleep, and didn’t want to fly!

The true cause became clear a few months before Rhaenyra’s own labor. It seemed Syrax had her own cause for moods, as she laid a clutch of five eggs. 

The Dragon Keeper warned her that Syrax was likely to be territorial over them, that they should restrain her while they removed the eggs. But Rhaenyra was indignant — she was going to be a mother, and so was Syrax. If she carried her child in her womb, Syrax would carry her eggs beneath her. It would be cruel to part them. 

The keeper claimed this was unlikely to sway her aggression, but Rhaenyra waved him off. She had good intentions, as she approached her dragon, and the dragon knew it. She preened as Rhaenyra patted her, raising a leathery wing to show the eggs beneath it. Rhaenyra grinned, murmuring words of pride to the creature, she was going to be an excellent mother — they both were. 

One day — a couple moons later, Rhaenyra entered the dragon pit to find two eggs exposed. Three remained settled under Syrax, with Caraxes curled against her  — but two others had been pushed towards the center of the room. The dragon's eyed her as she approached, but did not show any signs of anger as she lifted the eggs into her arms. 

They looked nearly identical, hot to the touch and swirled with shades of bright red and grey. 

…

Rhaenyra demanded two cradles. Two wet nurses. Two of everything. She was insistent that the eggs were a sign. They would both hatch — she was sure of it, which meant she would birth two dragons as well. 

Daemon humored her, the Maester admitted that at her great size, the potential for twins was high. 

She should be nervous about that, she thought. Her mother had died giving birth to a single child, as had Daemon's own mother. 

They discussed it one evening, and found that neither of them were scared. She had been confident in most things, in life, and was confident about this. She believed in her ability to birth these children, and believed they would live. She was not going to waste a moment on concern when she could be focused on her future happiness.

 Or, she thought while kissing her husband, her current happiness. 

…

It was not an easy birth. She screamed for hours, until she was hoarse — her body tense with cramps, and waves of stabbing pains as she tried to push the babies out. It was like her body refused to give them up, but she was desperate for it to end. 

The Maester insisted it was normal, the body is unaccustomed to the process with first pregnancies. It could take days for the babies to come, but that did not mean they wouldn’t come. 

It felt like they wouldn’t, though, when she had strained for hours in agony. 

Daemon was there, through it all, holding her hand — patting her head. Taking her swears, and wiping her tears. He insisted on being there, saying if he couldn’t bear the pain himself, the least he could do was be by her side while she suffered so.

In the end though, it was worth it. 

Two beautiful boys — small, which she was told was common for twins. But strong, and healthy. With loud wails and hungry stomachs. 

She was still in pain, too weak to get up from bed. But the sight of her sons in cradles, the evidence of her union with Daemon, it was beautiful. They had pale hair and bright eyes, true Targaryen perfection. True dragons, she thought. And seeing them — with their eggs by their sides brought her a joy she had never experienced before. 

She thought she knew elation, she felt it in her husband's arms. But this was…more. 

She thought she had everything she wanted in life, with Daemon and her dragon.

But now, she definitely had everything she wanted. 

116 AC

It seemed fitting that her friend's luck would follow her own. She announced her pregnancy a mere few weeks after Jacaerys and Lucerys were born. Rhaenyra was delighted that her friend would follow in her footsteps, that their children could grow alongside each other. 

She wondered if perhaps, they would do more than that. 

Both her boys had marks — similar to her own, as if she passed that down to them in addition to their looks. Smudges of grey and black that were distinctive in their own way. She had a hunch, that when they met their matches, the marks would take on the blood red hue that their parents had. 

Their dragons had hatched, too. Small creatures that spent half their time in the cradle and half their time with their parents. Syrax and Caraxes seemed to take to parenthood as well as Rhaenyra and Daemon, luxuriating in caring for what they had created. The best parts of themselves, intertwined and in one body. How could they not love them more than anything? 

The other three eggs had not yet hatched — but had not gone cold either. Syrax was less protective over them now, willing to go on flights as long as they were kept properly heated. It was nice to fly again, even nicer still to fly alongside Daemon, with one of her boys in her arms. 

As soon as Rhaenyra felt comfortable riding again, they took the pair to Kings Landing to meet Viserys. And she saw her love and affection for the boys mirrored in her own fathers eyes. He had not always been the best father to her, but he loved her, and he loved his grandchildren, that much was clear. 

He doted on them, always wanting one of the boys in his arms and seeming to delight in their gurgles and wails. Rhaenyra had not seen him this attentive to even his own children, but perhaps the relationship with a grandchild was different. 

Helaena was delighted too, having not held a baby since her brother Daeron. She cooed over the infants, rocking them gently and showing patience and care towards them far beyond her years. 

If anyone was made to be a mother, it was Helaena. She hoped the gods were kind to her and Aemond in that regard, when it came time. 

It was nice seeing them again too, the pair growing taller and more independent from Alicent, while becoming more dependent on each other. And that made Rhaenyra happy, for dragons belonged with dragons, just as Daemon had always said. 

Alicent was not as delighted — it chafed at her, that Rhaenyra had successfully given birth. That she had successfully given birth to not just one, but two boys. Securing her line, and making her all the more perfect heir. 

More than that, her children had marks and dragons, things that two of Alicent’s own children lacked. The contrast between her babes and Alicent’s made the evidence of her children’s Hightower blood all the more vibrant. It would not be as easily ignored by the council, or court, now that Rhaenyra had her own children. 

Rhaenyra had never doubted her breeding, her place above Alicent. But this made it hard for Alicent to doubt that, which sent her into a rage. 

But Rhaenyra cared little for the Queen's feelings, she cared only for her family. And she did not consider Alicent to be part of that. 

…

The gods were truly on their side, Rhaenyra thought as she looked at the two babes — deep skin, and light hair, beautiful just like their mother. Unlike their mother, they bared marks on their flesh — familiar swirls that she swore mirrored what was branded on her own children. 

Wouldn’t that be a delightful thought? 

She didn’t know who was the father of Rhaena and Baela, she did not think it was Laenor. He much preferred the company of his match and knight, a handsome and good natured blonde man. Laena had spoken of their attempts at making children with nothing but frustration and disgust, and she doubted they had been successful enough to create the two infants in front of her. 

Laena’s lovers were usually in their families' employ as well, knights being easier to sneak off with than local lords or ladies. She would have had many options in Kings Landing, with her beauty, but she still disliked the capital. 

Clearly, it mattered little. Laena was strong in spirit, and seemed to have passed it onto the twin girls. She had no doubt they would take after their mother and then some, and do both their families proud. 

Funny, wasn’t it — how close Laena had been to everyone in her life, at one point or another. Almost wedding her father, and then propositioning her Uncle! Her children could have been even closer to Rhaenyra’s own, at least in blood. 

She was glad they weren’t, too jealous to like the thought of Daemon having children with anyone else. Unwilling to consider viewing Laena in Alicent’s position, though she would have done far better as Queen and step mother. 

She was glad things had gone this way, that they had the relationship they did…And that their children could be united as more. That their families could soon be united as more, for the Velaryon’s were good friends but would be even better as family. 

She was sad to leave them that night, but eager to return to her own children. With a kiss to Laena’s forehead, and congratulations given to everyone else, she was off with Syrax and back to her keep — her children, and her husband. Back where she belonged. 

…

Rhaenyra was nearly vibrating, she was so excited. Her smile was so broad that Daemon couldn’t help but smile at her too. After several weeks, Laena and Laenor were making the trip to them by dragon back, and bringing their twins with them. 

Rhaenyra was elated that her friend had recovered well, and that her daughters would soon meet her sons. She had high hopes, Daemon knew, that they would match with their own sons. And he couldn’t help but hope for it, too. 

Their boys were still young, old enough to take a few steps and say a few words, but little else. But he loved them, he wanted happiness for them — and a match was sure to provide that, at least in one sense. He did not regret his match, in some ways he felt privileged that he got to watch Rhaenyra grow and appreciate her at every stage of her life.

But in other ways, the wait was torturous. And he wouldn’t wish that for his own sons. Having them matched early, and being able to grow alongside their matches would be a blessing for them all. 

The strategist in him was pleased at the prospect of a further tie to the Velaryon’s — they were rich, both in wealth and history. A good Valerian family that would surely provide good Targaryen heirs. Strengthening their line, strengthening Rhaenyra’s place as heir – and the security of that offered him comfort. 

He was trying not to get too attached to the idea, but Rhaenyra seemed so certain, and she was rarely wrong about such things — sometimes to the point of it being irritating. 

When the Velaryon’s family of four arrived, their own family of four went out to greet them, watching their two dragons fly and circle while they waited. It was a damp day, and the dragons seemed happier to go to the pit than roam. Though Dragonstone had a pit, neither of them liked using it to confine the beasts. It seemed if they had freedom of Dragonstone, so should their dragons themselves. 

Still, the pit made for a good sleeping spot and nesting area away from the harsh weather, and they all seemed content to use it as such on that day. 

…

When the Velaryon’s went to saddle their dragons the next afternoon, in preparation for leaving, they were greeted by the surprise of two eggs tucked under Vhagar’s wing. 

It seemed Syrax and Caraxes were welcoming them to the family, just as their riders had.

Their children were matches after all. 

Perhaps their dragons would be, too. 

Chapter Text

117 AC

That year, Rhaenyra found the gods gifted her with another pregnancy. 

And horrible sickness to go along with it.

She knew nausea was a common side effect of pregnancy, but she had avoided it with the twins and was hoping to not ever suffer from it. But oh how she suffered.

It followed her through every part of the day. Where her other pregnancy had been easy, aside from her moods, this one left her exhausted to the point she barely left her rooms. She felt thinner than she had been since before birthing the twins, struggling to keep down salted bread and ginger tea. 

It prevented her from riding Syrax, and her husband, she thought bitterly, and doing much of anything at all. It made her long for her mother, someone who had experienced this many times over and could soothe her discomfort. 

She thought of Alicent — who had four children herself, and laughed at the thought of her providing any comfort. 

Daemon said if the babe was affecting her so strongly, it must be a strong child. And that she agreed with — hoped for, that this horrible pregnancy would at least end with a healthy infant. 

And eventually, it did. 

Blessedly, the birth was easy. Where she labored for several days with the twins, with Joffrey it was merely a few hours. And with him in the cradle, the final egg from Syrax’s clutch had a home by his side. 

118 AC

Later that year, for the first time in many months, Rhaenyra and her family returned to Kings Landing. She had tried to attend monthly meetings since making her home at Dragonstone, but the realities of pregnancy and motherhood complicated things. By the later months her sickness was too bad to make the trip, either by dragon or sea. 

She loved her sons — all of them, but she was grateful to feel like herself again, without the pressures of pregnancy. 

She almost felt herself happy to be back in Kings Landing, a true testament to how long she had been gone. It would always be her birthplace — and likely the place she died. But she did not think of it as her home, not anymore, not when the comforts of Dragonstone lay a few hours away. 

Still, visiting was nice. The distance had soothed some of her resentment towards Viserys, perhaps cushioned further by his failing health. As difficult as it was to see him ill, it made the anger all the harder to come by. And she was glad that they could enjoy each other's company on the few occasions they were granted it. 

And this was not just any occasion, it was her children being properly presented to court for the first time — along with Laena’s two daughters. It was a delight, seeing them toddle by each other's side. The bond and camaraderie the children already had, despite their young age. 

On this trip they had been granted the Kings blessing for their betrothal contracts. She knew he would not object, how could he when they were matched? But still, it was nice to see their future written in ink and not just flesh. 

…

Daemon looked out the window at Kings Landing, shaking his head slightly at the still unfamiliar room. He had been responsible for visiting council meetings in the months Rhaenyra was ill, but he was still unaccustomed to staying in her chambers. They were their chambers now, but the space still spoke — and smelled, of his wife. 

He was glad on this visit, that she was by his side. Things were better with her there. Not that he was lacking friends in Kings Landing, but there was no better company than his niece. Especially back to her full self, unburdened by pregnancy and merely radiant from motherhood. 

He thought she was an excellent mother. Not that he expected less of her, but he had…not been sure what to expect. She was so like himself, and he was unsure of what type of father he would be. Being inpatient, and quick to anger are not necessarily the best attributes for child rearing. 

But he found he…softened, around his children, as he did around Rhaenyra. And she seemed much the same — as if frustration was merely a facade, and it fell immediately in their presence. If anything, they seemed to understand the children and were concerned with their comforts rather than annoyed by their screams and shouts. 

To be fair, they had a great deal of help. But still, he was proud of how they had handled parenting. He was excited at what the future would bring, when his sons were old enough to hold a sword, to ride a dragon, to rule the world, for he had no doubt they would accomplish everything they desired. 

After all, they were dragons.

He joined his brother for a drink that night, inviting himself into his chambers after dinner. They had formed this habit when he visited monthly for meetings, and it was some of the only alone time they had with each other in…years. 

It was nice, getting to spend a bit of time with his brother. It seemed distance had soothed the tension between them somewhat. Still despite their childhood, and their relation, they were such different men. Such little in common. Perhaps only their shared desire for the throne, and for Rhaenyra’s happiness. 

Viserys had drunk more than usual tonight, a dopey smile on his gaunt face, thrilled at seeing his daughter again and his newest grandson. Daemon thought he made a better grandparent than he did father, but he kept that between his mind and his wife’s — who very much agreed. 

“You must be proud. Three boys. Three dragons. Three marks.” Viserys said with a sigh, 

Daemon merely nodded, swirling the liquor in his glass. He knew he was lucky. He was unsurprised, by the luck, for he felt confident in his match — in his wife, in their ability to create heirs together. But still, the gods were kind, to provide his children with such promising futures upon being born. 

“It is a sign of how they approve of you over me, my brother.” Viserys said, looking at him sadly. “Perhaps a punishment for my sins. As is this.” Viserys said, extending the remaining fingers on his injured hand. 

Daemon chafed, he was aware he did not necessarily deserve what he had been provided with in life, but he didn’t think he was given it merely as a slight to his brother. He could not disagree though, if you compared their lives — Viserys had a throne, a throne that was killing him. And Daemon had…all a man could want, a match, a dragon, an heir, good health, and good fortune. 

He thought, perhaps it was time to retire his tradition of being envious of his brother. 

And so — he didn’t let his temper guide him to lashing out, claiming that he earned what he had been given just as Viserys had. Instead, he said “I’m grateful to what they have provided.” And took a long sip of his drink. 

He was unaccustomed to drinking, after years at Dragonstone where he indulged in little. He was happy to share a bottle of wine or mead with a meal. Happy to drink in town, with some of the common folk. But he rarely fell deeply into his cups any longer. He liked being aware of his family — conscious for all the delights they offered him. 

For all the delights his wife offered him. 

He slipped into their rooms, still aware enough to locate them — and to undress himself. He stumbled a few times, the floor rougher than the one in their rooms at Dragonstone. But eventually he climbed into bed,  slipping between the covers and pulling his wife into his arms. 

Gods he loved her, the drink made him all the more aware of that. He never thought he would feel such love, as a boy he thought it an impractical emotion. He wanted to be a knight, and a warrior. He had to be cunning, fast, and a little unfeeling to accomplish the position he wanted. But he found feeling inevitable, after he laid eyes on his match all those years ago. 

He thought it, at the time, the worst day of his life. His soul mate as an infant. 

But now, with the woman she had grown into in his arms, he felt quite the opposite. 

Her existence was a blessing not a curse, and he wanted to worship her.  

He just had to wake her up first. 

119 AC 

Rhaenyra thought, when she looked back at her life, this would be one of the years she regarded most fondly. It wasn’t the most exciting, or the most dramatic year of her life, but she could not think of one more perfect. 

Spring found her walking on the beach with her children, bare toes in the cold sand, and sea breeze in her long hair. 

Summer found her going on long rides with Daemon, and sometimes Laena. As the fondness between their children grew, so did their friendship. Laena admitted Rhaenyra was like the sister she never had, and Rhaenyra said Laena was the sister she wished she had. They were well matched in wit, and on dragon back often spending hours taking advantage of both. 

And their children were well and truly matched — as the fates divined. With Laenor distracted at best and absent at worst, Laena spent a great deal of time at Dragonstone. Often visiting for days, and allowing that to turn into weeks. 

They spent their time surrounded by young children and even younger dragons. Everyday was quite wonderful and — Laena admitted, so were her nights! For she had found a fondness for one of their knights.

Rhaenyra shook her head at the thought, to think the girl who had propositioned a man twice her age was now doting on a man — almost still a boy, a few years her junior. That was one difference between the two, Rhaenyra had been quite eager to be taught by her lover, where it seemed Laena was more inclined to teach. 

Regardless, she was happy for her friend. She had only ever experienced satisfaction in her marital bed, and wished her friend the same — even if she had to go outside of matrimony to find it. 

It was clear, by that Autumn, that the nights with their lovers had consequences, though not the type they were displeased with. Even though her last pregnancy had been awful, Rhaenyra loved her children too much to be anything other than excited at the prospect of another. 

Laena was happy too, with how many years it took to fall pregnant the first time she had not expected another to ever follow. Rhaenyra laughed, saying she just needed more practice. 

Laena prodded back, saying this was evidence that Rhaenyra had too much practice, to be pregnant with her fourth in five years! 

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, cousin!” Rhaenyra said with another laugh, as they sipped on wine after a hearty supper. 

…

Laena returned to Driftmark, briefly, to share the news with her brother and family. Her parents were displeased, for it was clear the father was not their son. But people remembered names, not blood. Corlys had always said so, and needed to believe it so, given their circumstances. 

She did not stay long, preferring Dragonstone — the company of her friend, and her knight. 

She even traveled to Kings Landing occasionally, for the court had far better things to say about her now that her children were engaged to the heirs of the future Queen. And though she did not appreciate that her circumstances had to change in order to change their opinion of her, she would enjoy the time there she missed out on as a girl. 

…

It was cold, when they returned from Kings Landing. The harshness of winter causing the beginning of a storm — Laena retired to bed, saying she would stay until it passed. Rhaenyra thought it was unlikely to pass, for the skies and seas were always rough during this time of year, especially around their turbulent island. 

As she removed her gloves and riding leathers she was shaking a bit from the cold, it seemed even the fire inside her could not fight it. She thought this would likely be the last time she visited Kings Landing for a while — between the weather, and the looming birth, it was best to stay close to home. 

Unfortunately, Laena would likely feel the same and return to Driftmark. 

Cheekily, Rhaenyra hoped she had room for a knight to return with her — for she certainly had room in her bed. 

She would miss her though, perhaps not as much as she missed her husband. Three days away from him felt like months, now that they were so accustomed to being by each other's side. She always thought their bond would fade, as they got older, more independent, and had more freedom to indulge in each other.  But it hadn’t, they always seemed to crave each other — crave more of each other. 

It was why she didn’t bother to change into a chemise when she arrived at their chambers and stripped off her riding leathers. 

She found she craved her husband in that moment, in a way a chemise would only interfere with. 

She was still chilled — wrapping up in a robe warmed by the fire would be nice, but she thought Daemon would do a better job of heating her. 

Daemon had grown more accustomed to fatherhood than battlefields over the past few years, and now she could wake him with kisses without him startling. And that was exactly what she did. It didn’t take long to wake him, not with her nude form pressed against his front, and her lips trailing down his neck. 

A moan hinted at his state, followed by the lengthening of his member. Soon his hands were digging into her hips, and his lips meeting her own. 

They didn’t need to speak, not when what they wanted was so clear. Not when they knew each other, and each other's bodies so well.

He knew exactly where to stroke to make her wet. He knew how quickly she could take him, when she was this desperate. He knew how deeply to thrust, to make her arch against him, and how to rotate his hips and hit a spot that always made her come. 

And she knew exactly how hard to nip at his lip to get him to gasp. How the bite of nails against his shoulders would cause him to shiver and whine. How to clench down on his member, stalling his thrusts and making him chase his own release. 

But most of all, she knew how good and how right this felt, every time, having him inside her — having his seed become part of her. 

Sometimes they were passionate. Sometimes they were predictable. Sometimes they were nearly violent, tempers flaring and the heat of the moment turning on each other. Sometimes they were sweet, exchanging kisses as their hips met softly. 

But regardless of the circumstances, it always took her by surprise — how perfect she felt in his arms, with him inside her. It made her believe in the gods, in the fates, for they must have been made for each other, for him to feel this good every time. 

It was wonderful, being in his arms again. 

And it truly was a wonderful year.

But, the gods demand balance in all things.

A life for a life. 

An eye for an eye. 

And so, a wondrous year was followed by a tragic one. 

Chapter Text

120 AC

It was strange how quickly joy could be overtaken by grief. How one week she was holding her newborn son — named Aegon, the next she was mourning the loss of her dearest friend. 

Her baby had lived, and so had she. 

Laena and her babe had not been so lucky. 

It seemed almost like Aegon knew of the tragedy, he was a quiet baby — large, strong, and beautiful with his pale hair and dark eyes. He would be a fine prince, but he was as somber as an infant could be. Rhaenyra was grateful, for she wasn’t sure she could look at a happy joyful babe without feeling the heavy contrast of her own tears. 

She hoped he would grow into a happy toddler, and an ever happier man. He had a mark on his ankle, shades of swirled grey, just like all her sons. The egg beside him was warm, showing promise of providing a dragon he could ride. But there was a sadness to the boy that tugged on her heart almost as badly as the loss of her friend. 

…

The funeral was somber, the Velaryon’s were a close family, pushed closer together by gossiping courtiers. Laenor didn’t love Laena as a wife, but he still loved her. And her parents were distraught at losing their daughter who always served as such a bright light on the dreary island of Driftmark. 

It was unfair, Rhaenyra thought as she stood at the funeral with her own infant wrapped in her arms. She had never resented her luck in life but she wished…perhaps Laena had been given some too. 

She could not bring Laena back, but she would love her daughters like they were her own. She would ensure that they and their happiness would live on, even if Laena did not. 

She looked down at Aegon, and thought how strange it was — she had cried more this week than her own baby. 

…

The luncheon was a quiet affair, with many lords and ladies in attendance, as well as the King and Queen. Though their relationship with the Velaryon’s had been strained since their marriage, they were an important ally. It would have been a sign of disrespect that would not go unnoticed if they were to skip her funeral. 

Rhaenyra felt too numb to feel much happiness at seeing her father, but she did find a sliver of comfort in her half sister's arms. Helaena was growing into a lovely girl, if not quite as finely featured as most Targaryen’s. She would still be pretty, more than pretty really – with her striking blonde hair and gentle curves. 

Though Dragonstone was her primary residence, she had maintained a relationship with Helaena through letters and visits. Coincidentally — and surely not at all to do with Alicent’s protests, many of her letters went missing. But whenever she found herself in Kings Landing, she made sure to speak with the girl — and her fearsome shadow in the form of Aemond. 

Despite Alicent’s objections, Helaena and Aemond seemed to have a reverence for their older half sibling. Rhaenyra insisted they were dragons, and dragons were drawn to other dragons. They were lonely, by themselves in Kings Landing and they delighted in her visits, asking for stories of her stormy castle, and dragon Syrax. They were fascinated that her sons were growing alongside baby dragons, and begged to visit. 

She smiled, said she wished they could. But she knew Alicent would forbid it. Rhaenyra had been adamant that these two of her children were dragons. Gifted with Targaryen blood in a way her other children weren’t. She wanted to maintain a relationship with them for that reason, and had been charmed by them in the process. 

But Alicent seethed at the slight to her eldest son Aegon, as if first Rhaenyra had taken his place as heir, and now she continued to discredit his place in the family.

That did not stop her from caring little for the older boy. He was doted on enough by his mother and grandfather, he certainly did not need her love — and he was not going to get it. 

Still, she held fondness for the middle two — the matched set. And after they had eaten, she offered to take them to the dragon pit to see her mount and the mighty Vhagar. 

At Driftmark dragons were not held in chains, the smaller number allowed them to coexist without fighting. Even with Rhaenyra and Daemon’s visiting beasts, peace remained. They were accustomed to each other now, willing to share their quarters while they visited. 

“She’s sad.” Helaena said, patting the head of the large beast — one of the largest to ever exist in fact. Helaena remained sweet and gentle, even as she grew. Always conscious of other creatures' feelings, and wanting to make them feel better. She was good, in a way few members of royalty were. 

Aemond, her match, was quite the opposite. Fiery and hot tempered, he was quick to anger and slow to calm. Their mother insisted they were an ill paired match, that Helaena would have been better suited for her older brother Aegon. 

Rhaenyra had rolled her eyes when Alicent said that, the nerve of Alicent to question the validity of a match! And even without that, you would have to be blind not to see how the two children complimented each other. Aemond would fight for Helaena, when she would not fight for herself. And Helaena would forgive Aemond, when he would not forgive himself. 

Rhaenyra felt like she had matched with Daemon due to their similarities, but Aemond and Helaena suited because of their differences. 

“She is sad.” Rhaenyra agreed, admiring the girl's ability to sense the mood of such an intimidating creature. She lacked any fear as she approached, nuzzling the beast's side in an attempt to comfort her. Rhaenyra knew how the loss of Syrax would devastate her, it would be like losing a child and a part of herself. She imagined the reverse was not unlike losing a parent and friend. 

“She will be locked up here? Until a rider comes of age?” Aemond said. Rhaenyra nodded, petting the beast with her own hand. “She will not be alone, but it’s true, she is unlikely to be ridden often now.” The thought was sad, for she had enjoyed many rides on her own mount alongside Vhagar. Laena loved to fly, and her dragon truly matched her preferences, luxuriating in their long flights every morning. 

“Daemon says no other dragon matches her in ferocity or size.” Aemond said, approaching the dragon himself. “It seems sad she would stay cooped up here.” Aemond was not usually one to sound sympathetic, but he did now. Rhaenyra wondered if he felt like a fierce beast, cooped up in Kings Landing. 

She gestured for him to approach — he had a great interest in dragons, but was more hesitant around them, not yet claiming one for himself. He was accustomed to smaller dragons, like the ones her sons had. Vhagar was intimidating, even to experienced riders — much less a boy of ten! 

Viserys had suggested they visit Dragonstone soon, so that Aemond could pick from the unclaimed hatchlings her Syrax had. But she thought Aemond was too impatient for that. He wanted to ride now, he wanted to ride fast, and hard, and could not dote on a small dragon for years as it grew to a great enough size. 

 Despite being young himself, he would intimidate the small dragons too much for them to be comfortable in his hands. She looked between Vhagar and Aemond, wondering if, perhaps…

He came closer, placing his hand on the scales of the creature, next to Helaena. His expression seemed to soften in the presence of the beast. 

“You have watched Helaena’s lessons, yes?” Rhaenyra confirmed, wondering if he had the training to ride a dragon, even if he lacked his own beast. Aemond glanced at her, and nodded in confirmation. Vhagar was still saddled, too distraught to have the reminder of his human removed. No one wanted to remove it, to acknowledge that Laena was gone and never to ride again. 

Laena would have wanted her dragon to be ridden though, Rhaenyra was sure of that. And she could abide by her wish, even in death. 

“We should ride.” Rhaenyra said, as she began saddling Syrax. She rarely did her task on her own, since having her children — Daemon was usually by her side, both when preparing and riding the creature. But she was still capable, motherhood had strengthened her, not weakened her. 

Aemond looked confused, “I’m not a child, I won’t ride with you.” He spit the last word, as if it was such an offense. Rhaenyra closed her eyes and took a deep breath to avoid snapping back at him, Targaryen’s are too alike. She thought, not for the first time.

“I thought you could ride Vhagar.” She said, turning back to the boy. “You need a dragon, do you not?” 

Aemond’s mouth formed a small “o” — surprise causing him to lose the ability to snap back, much less speak. “Is that safe?” Helaena cried, clutching the hand of her brother and match. Rhaenyra shrugged, “It is a risk. But some risks are worth taking.” Aemond nodded, suddenly determined. 

It was not pretty, his first attempt at mounting Vhagar. Luckily the beast was familiar with Rhaenyra, and allowed her to help calm her own distrust in the new rider. The dragon seemed to shiver when Aemond was finally in the saddle. She couldn’t imagine what having a new rider felt like, but Vhagar had done this before, and she would likely do it again. 

She didn’t throw the boy, merely huffed and readjusted as if becoming accustomed to his weight. Rhaenyra saddled Syrax, then beckoned for Aemond to follow her in flight. 

He did. 

…

Alicent was not pleased, when they returned a few hours later. In fact, no one seemed pleased. Her sons were jealous that Aemond had ridden first. Helaena was proud, but still jittery from nerves. Viserys seemed shocked. Laena’s family was angry — disliking the sign of Vhagar moving on before they did. Daemon was amused, wishing he could have seen the early attempts at getting on the beast. 

But Rhaenyra was firm in her decision, she cared little of peoples thoughts but her own. She had done what was best for the dragon, both the one in the pit and the one in her family. And dragons had to take care of dragons. 

…

Daemon truly was regretful he missed seeing the boy try to mount the dragon. It was sure to be an amusing sight, for it was clumsy under normal circumstances — even with the practice he had, and the smaller beast. But for Aemond? He was astounded that he managed it at all. Perhaps that was a sign that he was destined to ride Vhagar. 

He supposed Vhagar would not have permitted it, unless the fates demanded it.

He felt a twinge of pride for the boy he was determined not to be fond of. He was a threat to the crown, to his own future, to the future of his sons. He was part Hightower, too, and for that alone he should hate the boy. 

But he…reminded him of himself. And he couldn't help but feel like the boy's successes were his own, making him wish for his happiness. 

The look Aemond was giving Rhaenyra reminded him of himself, too. One of wonderment and awe. She was as confident as she was cunning, and beautiful too, and it seemed Aemond had finally noticed. 

Well, he could look at her all he wanted. 

But Daemon? He would do a great deal more than that. 

…

She laughed, her husband — her match, jealous of a boy of 10! She couldn’t stop giggling despite her grief, perhaps he liked the boy more than she thought, if he could find jealousy for him. It was the first time she had smiled since Laena died, and she loved Daemon all the more for that fact. 

She pressed a kiss to Daemon’s mouth, “I’m happily married, even if he did fancy me — and he does not, for he has his own match, I would not be tempted by anyone but you.” She said, as a response to the ridiculous notion. 

She continued, “Jealous of a boy, Daemon, how unlike you. And you should know — I have always had a thing for older men.” 

He nearly growled at that, “Who are you calling old?” 

Her eyes were bright as she responded — “Perhaps you’ll have to prove your youth and vigor to me, how would we test such a thing?” 

He was happy to prove it to her. 

And she was happy to be proven wrong. 

But as she had come to learn, happiness rarely lasted. 

…

It came to a head that morning. 

They boys had been training in the lot, with Laenor and his soulmate turned knight, Joffrey. Despite the gossip their relationship had inspired in court, they were a trustworthy pair of men. Rhaenyra and her own soulmate had grown close to them through the years, and through their children's own matches. Enough so that Joffrey was the namesake of their third son — it seemed fitting since he would never have a son of his own. 

Daemon and Viserys had been supervising from a balcony, close enough to yell demands, but not close enough to enforce them. They didn’t expect any enforcement to be required between the young boys and their wooden training swords. 

And there wasn’t — until Aegon requested to duel for the rights to ride Vhagar. 

Until Aemond agreed, as was honorable. 

Until Aegon grew frustrated by the younger boy, and pulled out a blade. 

Her boys were fierce, but still young — barely five. They would be warriors one day, Rhaenyra was sure of it — but now? Their response to violence was to seek comfort, not bloodshed. They scattered when the screams started and the blood spattered. 

The screams didn’t stop for a long time.

Nor did the blood. 

Not until the Maester had stitched the wound shut. 

The eye was a loss, but the boy was not. 

…

Of course, Alicent blamed Rhaenyra. She claimed if Vhagar wasn’t offered to Aemond this never would have happened. The dragon should have been offered to Aegon, as if a boy who could not control his violence towards his own brother should sit atop a fire breathing dragon!

Rhaenyra argued as such, until Alicent looked so angry she feared she would bring a knife to their fight. But Rhaenyra was not afraid, she was among family — the Velaryon’s through what the gods had divined, and the Targaryen’s through blood itself. She was not going to fear a Hightower when she herself was a dragon.

Neither, it seemed, did Corlys. It was his Keep. His land. His laws. 

He demanded an eye for an eye. 

He was a fair lord, he insisted. He would not let anyone question that, even when the subject involved the King's own son. Especially when the subject involved the King's son. Any generosity towards the King and his Queen had soured when he refused Laena, years ago, and the bitterness was fresh on his tongue from his daughter's passing. 

Sometimes violence had to be fought with violence, he said. 

There were more screams — this time from Alicent, and her oldest son.

Aegon’s only redeeming factor was that he looked like a Targaryen, but now even that was marred. 

…

Daemon was amused. He didn’t mean to be — it was quite horrifying, truly. He hadn’t seen an eye gouged out in at least a decade, perhaps two? It had been just as long ago that he saw children wield blades for sport. Kings Landing was like any populated place, there was enough boredom, desperation, and money, to lead to cruelty for the sake of entertainment. He hadn't sought it out, but in his youth he hadn't been blind to it, either. 

Perhaps fatherhood had softened him, because he wasn’t entertained by the display. But he was accustomed to blood on a battlefield, training yard, and sometimes, the bedroom. It was not so shocking. 

But the drama of it all, it made him want to laugh. It was like the plot to a play! A brother battling his brother for a dragon, when it was known by all that dragons picked their riders, not the other way around. 

Wounding his kin, and getting himself wounded in the process. 

Her sons are down half their eyes, he thought with a snort. 

He was not fond of Alicent, and her desire for her half breeds to take the throne. So he felt little pity for horrors being inflicted on them, especially by their own jealousy. 

Rhaenyra chastened him after she had calmed their boys and sent them to bed, “You’re being cruel, taking this so lightly. That could have been our sons.” 

Daemon just shook his head, grabbing her hips and pulling her into his lap. “Our sons would never be so foolish.” 

Her hands trailed up the buttons of his smock. “You were never so foolish, as a boy?” 

Daemon let out a huff that resembled a laugh, “Not foolish enough to get caught.” 

Her hands paused and eyes narrowed, “You’ll excuse cruelty if it is done cunningly?” 

He just shrugged, pulling her hips closer to his own, “Context is very important.”

“What a beast, I have married.” She said, leaning close enough to press a kiss to his lips. 

“A dragon even, some might say.” He replied, with a grin. 

She grinned back — “I’m a very accomplished dragon rider, you know.” 

He hummed, “I’d love to see that.” 

She found she loved showing him, too. 

In fact — she just loved him. 

Chapter Text

121 AC

It was strange, how the absence of a single person could feel so grand. So vast. So inescapable. 

It shouldn’t have felt quiet, not with six children and six equally immature dragons running around. Not with Daemon by her side. Not with the guards, the daily petitioners, the trips into town. Even with the sounds of storms and the sea. 

But it felt quieter without Laena there. Perhaps she was only a single person, but she was more than that to Rhaenyra — she was a friend, a cousin, and a sister even. 

She was grateful that Daemon was there to comfort her. Grateful that he was such a good father, showering the children with love when she herself felt empty of it. It was as if she was wading through a fog of grief, unsure how to escape it. And it seemed the more time passed, the worse it got — it became more obvious that she was really gone. Impossible to pretend she had merely skipped visiting. 

Her solace was Aegon. Her somber child who seemed just as plagued by the loss as her, even though they had never met. His pain soothed her own, as sorry as she felt for it. But it wasn’t a solution — and her mood wasn’t getting better. 

Dragonstone was full of memories of their laughter and time together, their children meeting and taking their first steps together, and so much more. It was her home, but it had started to feel like a tomb. And so it was Daemon’s idea for them to return to Kings Landing.

She felt better here, even if she was less accustomed to its heat and smell after years at Dragonstone. Even if she chafed at feeling confined, as did Syrax. Even if she missed the twins, who were with Laenor at Driftmark. 

She felt guilty, for how much better she felt in a different environment. How easily her grief faded when it was no longer highlighted by her surroundings. 

But she felt emboldened by it too, feeling better for the first time in so long made her long to feel good again. She spoke out in council meetings, she tended to her children — she tended to her husband. Frequently. 

She found herself distracted by Helaena, and her dragon. Because Helaena had acquired a dragon, fully charmed Dreamfyre into taking her as a rider. It was delightful seeing her ride alongside her match and his great she-dragon, Vhagar. 

Neither of them had enough training in her opinion. Even years younger than them, she was a more accomplished rider under Daemon’s guidance and training of Syrax. Viserys took little interest in her training, and appeared to have shirked the duty with her half siblings as well. 

Alicent thought it should be left to the dragon keepers, but her children’s lack of knowledge on riding made it clear she was wrong. No one could understand the bond between a dragon and a Targaryen, quite like a Targaryen. Keepers were a poor replacement. 

She thought even Helaena and Aemond could see that, for they came to her and Daemon for advice. They wanted to be better, they wanted to thrive at what their descendants had done for centuries. And she wanted to help them do it. 

Daemon may not be as fond of them, but Rhaenyra had adored the pair since they were young. It was undeniable at a glance and they were truly Targaryen in spirit. She pitied their place at the palace, surrounded by Hightowers and little else. At least they had each other, and now — for a while, they would have her too. 

And it seemed as Helaena bonded with her dragon, she bonded with Rhaenyra too. And soon even Daemon seemed to have developed a fondness for the girl. 

Aemond was a harder battle — he did not take as well to Daemon, for they were too similar and clashed. But he was swayed by Helaena’s preferences, and her growing love for her uncle. For Helaena liked anyone who liked her. 

Aemond had some semblance of love for his aunt now, too, he thought. He had not forgotten that Rhaenyra had helped him acquire his dragon. He owed his place as a rider to her, and some semblance of loyalty to her as well. 

She was also just so…pretty. And she did not look down on him, the way his mother did. She did not cringe or threaten to cry when she looked at his face. She respected his match with Helaena, did not question it the way his mother had — who still wondered why Helaena wasn’t Aegon’s intended. 

He felt inferior in Aegon’s presence, and he knew his mother viewed him as such. Even after being attacked by him, her stance had not changed. If anything, she seemed to blame Aemond for the loss of his own eye, and Aegon’s loss that soon followed. But he attacked him, it wasn’t fair!

This only increased his temper and frustration. The rage only seemed to calm in Helaena’s presence, or Vhagar’s — flying soothed his fiery soul like a cool balm. But he thought if he would ever feel relaxed in a third creature's presence, it would be in Rhaenyra’s. 

Dragons have to stick with dragons, she said. 

She believed he was a dragon. 

And that made him believe he was one, too. 

…

“They are so cute.” Rhaenyra said, falling onto the bed beside her husband, still wearing her riding leathers after coming straight from the pit. He knew she was referring to the matched set of Hightower half breeds. 

She rolled over, propping her head on her hand as she looked at him, “Were we that cute?” 

He snorted, her nose was wrinkled in that way it had since she was a baby. “We’re still that cute.” He insisted, and she just huffed. 

“Do you ever wonder what it would have been like, if we grew up alongside each other?” She asked him, her hand reaching out to meet his. 

“Only everyday since you were born.” 

It was true, the topic often crossed his mind. For a time — a long time — he had resented their age difference. It made things awkward. It left him feeling stilted, unable to move onto the things other men his age were. But at the same time…it meant she was unaffected by his mistakes. He had been careless as a boy, and carless with women as a young man. 

She had been shielded from many of his sins, and he made sure to save the best parts of himself for her, when she was of age. Now, with her approaching her twenty third year, and him nearly forty, he didn’t feel behind or resentful. He felt lucky to be blessed with the life they had together. And the time he had before her, to waste freely and foolishly before being bonded. 

He wasn’t sure how to explain that to her, without it coming off as hurtful. Not when he would have been happy to grow up alongside her, too. Not when he would be happy to have her in any way he could. “I think your presence in my life matters more than when you became present in my life.” Was finally what he settled on saying. 

She hummed, “It took you an extra sixteen years to mature for me.” She said, and he laughed, “Like fine wine.” 

She kissed the smile off his face. 

“Surely my favorite vintage, so sweet.” She jested when they pulled apart. 

She found that desired another sip. 

But like a good glass of wine, she found once she had a taste, she craved more than just that.

So the riding leathers slipped away, revealing nude skin beneath them. Lips followed the garment's path off her body, as fingers carelessly tossed them aside. But his fingers were anything but careless as they entered her — no, they knew exactly how to thrust and where to press to make her arch. 

This always felt good. Daemon wasn’t a musical man but she thought he played her almost like an instrument — every movement making her moan and cry out, fingers so expertly positioned she couldn’t help but thrust against them and beg for more. 

Sometimes, he refused her — he was cruel in a way, making her come on nothing but his fingers until she was weeping for his cock. Only when she was exhausted from the orgasms she had at his hands would he enter her properly, his cock feeling all the larger for the state of her swollen oversensitive folds. 

They were equals though, and she often got her revenge — taking him in her throat, and sucking until he seemed to swell, on the precipice of release. Then switching to merely laving the less sensitive sack before lapping at the head. She strived to provide as many sensations as she could, while not providing enough for him to come. 

It was like a game, how long she could make him last. 

By the end of it, when he had come, he was so riled up that his cock never stayed soft for long. Being denied for so long by her, always made him so much more desperate for her. 

Now though — they were both inpatient, both feeling generous. Wanting to have each other more than they wanted the experience to last. So his fingers were soon replaced with his member, and hands soon fell to her hips. 

He liked her best like this, she knew that. Him standing and thrusting into her while she lay back, her legs wrapped around his own hips. He liked seeing her laid out for him, seeing every bit of her expression as she received pleasure from him. Seeing her breasts bounce in time with thrusts, and having his hands free to wander over them. 

She could not complain about the position either, enjoying her ability to arch and thrust back against him. To participate fully in the act, and then relax against the sheets when she had found her own release. 

But honestly, she was yet to find something in their lovemaking to complain about.

For they were so well matched, even in this. 

Especially in this. She thought, as she found herself clenching and coming around Daemon’s cock. 

Her eyes were closed, so she missed his own expression as he found his release. But she felt the pulsing — felt the warth inside her, and the softened member slipping out of her. She squirmed a little, as he played with her messy folds after freeing himself from them. 

He liked the evidence of his seed inside her, teased her by pushing it back in and keeping her legs upright so it could really seep in. She always giggled at that, too giddy and relaxed from pleasure to fight with him. Not that she really wanted too — she was fond of this feeling, being full of him, even after he had pulled out of her. 

She always felt full of him — his love, his devotion, his adoration. A physical reminder of that was welcome, even if it left her damp and full of desire. 

After all, he was always willing to tend to her desires. 

For they desired each other most of all.

122 AC

They stayed in Kings Landing for nearly a year. It was the longest they’d stayed since they wed, and it felt long. But the break was needed, and did wonders for her mood. It was nice seeing the place where she would one day rule and the familiar — albeit aging faces of servants that tended her as a child. It was nice walking the streets she had not seen for years. 

She had not missed the constant feeling of being judged. Of being watched. It seemed to follow her through the halls and through meals, only dissipating when she was confined to her own quarters. But there were advantages to being here, too. Like seeing Helaena, and Aemond. 

And she had spent more time with her father in the past year than she had in the decade before it. She treasured the time spent since she wasn’t sure how much would be left. 

He was sick. 

She wasn’t sure how sick — he wouldn’t tell her, and she wasn’t sure if he even knew. The ailments were strange, not indicative of anything specific. It was as if parts of his body were being poisoned, and his wounds refused to heal — they always festered. 

He was the King, he had access to the best Maesters in the seven kingdoms. But they could only do so much, and she knew eventually, it would no longer be enough. 

He seemed pleased to have her there. Their relationship had been made less tenuous by time apart  and the grandchildren she had provided. It was as if her boys were the evidence Viserys needed to trust her union with his brother. Like the gods would not have given them so many children if they were not happy together. Which she supposed was likely true, in a way. They had definitely been happy when making the children, she thought with a blush. 

She wished their marks alone had been enough for him to trust their relationship. Wished they could have avoided years of distrust and disappointment. 

But she would not focus on that, she would focus on the present and what happiness could be found in that.

…

Helaena was delighted for today. They were going to Dragonstone! She had not visited in nearly two years, and that last visit had been soured by her brother's pain. That had been a rough spring, as he adjusted to only having one eye. There was the physical loss and pain to deal with, as well as the emotional turmoil of being wounded so greatly by his own brother. 

Aegon was not kind to either of them, she wasn’t sure if it was because of his age or his circumstances, or both. He regarded himself as better than them, and made sure they were aware of it. But he was also fiercely jealous of them, of their marks, of their dragons, perhaps even of their relationship with Rhaenyra. 

He seemed to take their success and happiness as a betrayal, as if it slashed at his flesh. And as the metaphorical wounds festered, so did their relationship. 

Still, that was all the more reason to visit Dragonstone! To escape her brother's judgment for a day or two. To escape her mothers judgment, for she was not much better. She likely would not have permitted this trip, either, but Helaena had followed Rhaenyra’s advice and sought out Viserys to ask. 

Viserys had not been the most present, or the best father, but he loved her. If not for herself, then for her similarities to Rhaenyra physically. And for that he would grant her almost anything, including permission to fly freely to Dragonstone. 

It was not a flight she would have been confident enough to take a few months ago, when she was still so new to riding. When she was still so uninformed about riding! It made her angry to think how little the people they employed to train and care for dragons actually knew about dragons. It was like they did not care at all to treat them kindly, to understand them. And how could someone not want to understand such wondrous creatures?

It seemed so simple to her. Loving dragons was such a part of her. But Rhaenyra insisted that was because she too was a dragon, and that people couldn’t understand the creatures the way their family could. 

Helaena knew, when Rhaenyra said their family, she did not include her older brother or mother in that. 

Helaena found she was not bothered by that. 

She enjoyed her time with her eldest sister, and all she had taught her about dragons and riding. She felt more comfortable in the saddle — more capable. Like she had become a better rider, and with it a better person. 

The freedom flight offered was such a relief. Helaena was not prone to poor moods, not like her brother. But nothing could drag you down when you were in the sky. It was a glorious feeling, she could not imagine something better. 

And she was glad that she had her brother Aemond, and her sister Rhaenyra, to share such a thing with. Perhaps when they were older, she could share it with her children as well. 

That was another reason she was excited to visit Dragonstone! She would get to see her nephews, and their young dragons. They were not so much younger than her. But they were young enough that she felt like she looked after them when they were in her presence, and she liked that. She liked taking care of things. 

She took care of herself, Aemond, and her dragon, and someday she would look after her own children. 

She couldn’t wait. 

…

The trip was fun, riding through the skies with her half siblings by her side. It calmed her, to see Vhagar still flying, even if Laena could not. It was what she would have wanted. 

But even with the familiar creature, It was odd, feeling dwarfed by the size of dragons with much younger riders. It made her feel less powerful than she was accustomed to, a nerve wracking position to be in around Alicent’s children. But after their time in Kings Landing, they felt more like her siblings than Alicent’s children. 

It really was a pity that they would be without other dragons for company when they returned. 

But she had her reasons for returning to Dragonstone. And now, they were good enough riders to visit. Perhaps not good enough riders to navigate, but Vhagar was familiar with the path between the Keep and Kings Landing.

She was grateful for that, since she was not sure how long she herself would be in a state to ride to see them. And with how close they had grown, she would miss them, if she went six months without seeing them. 

She thought Laena might be happy about this, too. With the death of her closest friend she had more time to grow close with family. She would not have traded Laena’s life for that, but if she had to trade, she would at least take advantage of it. 

It felt nice — the long flight. One of the longest she had taken in recent weeks. And it felt even better, to be reunited with her sons, who had returned several months back to be with their dragons and resume their lessons. She had missed them. She had missed home. 

…

“It is good to see the boys.” Daemon said, as they readied themselves for bed that night. Rhaenyra nodded in agreement, “It is good to be back. I needed the break but now…I need to be here.” She said, finding she meant it sincerely. 

“I must admit, the children weren’t the only reason I wanted to return.” She said, tucking herself into her husband's arms and perching her hands on his shoulders. 

Well, perhaps a child had to do with the reason she wanted to return. Just not any of the ones currently housed in the nursery. 

But as always, it seemed Daemon knew her body as well as she did, and his hand fell to her midsection. “Does it have to do with the lack of blood, that has not marred our bed for three moons?” She nodded, smiling. 

She found herself less enthused about this pregnancy, after seeing what had happened to her dear friend. All too close of a reminder to what happened to her mother, and her grandmother. But still — a baby was a blessing, and she had not failed to birth them before. 

A part of her, the spiteful part, was a bit gleeful at the idea of birthing one more heir than Alicent. Rhaenyra already had twice as many sons, but still…what was one more to help strengthen their claim?

She was thorough in all she did. 

That was how she kept falling pregnant after, all. 

She remained thorough in her duties after she was pregnant, too. 

For they were so enjoyable, it was hardly a duty at all. 

In fact — it was even a pleasure. 

Chapter Text

123 AC

Her pregnancy had been easy this time, at least from his outside perspective. She didn’t seem as affected by moods, and her body adjusted easily to the intrusion to her womb. He had commented when she was younger and self conscious, that her curves would make her all the better at bearing children, and he had not been wrong. 

But it seemed the easier the pregnancy, the harder the labor, and this was no exception. He had sat by her side as always, and held her hand — hoping if by watching her suffering he could absorb some of it. He did not envy her position, in the birthing bed, but wished he could shoulder some of the burden. 

This time, he wished he could do a great deal more than that. 

There had been a lot of blood, the Maester said. Perhaps too much blood. The child was healthy, but the woman was weak — his wife was weak. 

Did it make him a bad father, for not wanting the child if it was at the expense of Rhaenyra? Did it make him a bad father that he would give up all his children, if it meant keeping her in his life? He could live without children. He could not live without her. He didn’t understand how his father and Viserys tolerated it. He was determined to always be by her side, even if that required following her through the gates of hell.

He was relieved when she recovered. It was a slow process, the days she spent in bed with previous births dragging to weeks. But slowly she regained her energy, appetite, and sense of self. She was able to hold her son, visit her other children, and visit her dragon. 

She tired easily, but she was alive, and that was what truly mattered. 

For she was the only thing that truly mattered to him.

…

It was perhaps two months later that she broached the topic. She loved Viserys, he was a beautiful baby as all of her boys had been. Something about his eye color reminded her of her father,  which made naming him after her own father feel all the more right. 

And…with her fathers ailing health, she did not know how long there would be a Viserys Targaryen in the world. She would make sure his name was carried on through her child, even when her father lived no longer. 

How did the topic always come back to death? She supposed it was fitting, for that was what concerned her. Her own mortality. 

Despite the horrors she had seen happen to women in childbirth, she had never feared much for herself. Not until this pregnancy. Not until Laena. For she did not know another woman stronger than her, a woman more fearsome or more of a dragon. And even she had perished trying to give birth to a son. 

Rhaenyra had almost perished, giving birth to this one.

She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to leave behind her children, her husband, her throne. 

“I think…he should be our last.” She said slowly, focusing on the baby in her arms and refusing to look at her husband. “The gods have blessed us with five boys, what more could we ask for?” She said, glancing up and hoping to see acceptance in his eyes.

She was relieved, when he stepped closer and tipped her chin up, “You know I would rather have you in my life than any children, right?” He said, and she leaned into his palm. “Five boys is more than enough. I will happily have your body to myself, from now on.” He said.

She snorted, as if he disliked her when pregnant. His appetites were all the more voracious when her waist thickened, the evidence of his seed — his son, inside her. He certainly did not seem to mind sharing her body in that regard, she thought he might miss it, in fact. 

But he would not lie to her. They had always been a match — with matching opinions on their love for each other. He didn’t want to lose her anymore than she wanted to be lost. 

She sighed, “I suppose we will have to acquire some tea.” 

He huffed, “I think I know a source.” 

There was a time when her husband had probably been the reason for a large portion of Kings Landing’s tea imports, she thought, as she rolled her eyes.

124 AC

Viserys was delighted by his namesake. Rhaenyra had not seen him happier, or prouder, even with his own sons in his arms. 

The court and council offered great praise too — even those who didn’t want a woman on the throne could admit a girl with five sons all with soul marks and the promise of dragons, made for an impressive line of succession. The gods clearly favored her, and it would be nearly unthinkable to slight them. 

Alicent was not pleased by the development, but was distracted by Helaena’s looming nuptials. And it seemed Helaena was distracted — or perhaps nervous about the same such thing. 

Rhaenyra had found herself in the girls' chambers that evening seated next to her on the large bed. 

“I am…worried for it.” Helaena admitted, looking at her hands in a nervous habit she shared with both her mother and sister, perhaps the only thing they had in common. 

“Has Alicent spoken to you?” Rhaenyra remembered the lecture she had gotten from Alicent, nearly a decade ago now but truly unforgettable. 

Helaena nodded, and Rhaenyra winced. She knew Alicent held more love for her daughter, and her daughter's match, and was unlikely to be as cruel when describing the process to her. But still…Alicent knew little of pleasure, knew little of happiness, and likely gave Helaena little hope for either. 

Rhaenyra thought for a moment, “You love Aemond, yes?” Helaena nodded again. 

“You think he is handsome?” — another nod, this one paired with a blush. 

“I have been…fortunate in my match, as most people with matches are. We fit together as well physically as we do in every other way. Our happiness with each other extends into all aspects of our marriage, and I believe it will for you and Aemond too.” 

Her bright eyes looked up at her, beseeching, “We will be able to…please each other?” 

Rhaenyra laughed at the innocence of the question, one she had once asked her own match. “I have learned that we please our matches by merely existing. For men are easy, in that regard. As for Aemond pleasing you…” She trailed off, that had not been an issue in her wedding bed. Daemon had not been lacking experience, but he had been nearly twice the age Aemond would be when he took Helaena to bed. 

“I shall have Daemon speak with him,” She said, finally. 

Her husband was many things, including a rogue that took a certain amount of pleasure from spoiling innocence. He was unlikely to enjoy a visit to a whorehouse with Aemond as much as he did with her, but she was sure it could be beneficial for them both. 

…

“You can pretend not to like him, but I know you better than that! And even if you don’t like him you love Helaena and surely you don’t want her to be disappointed.” 

Daemon closed his eyes, hating in that moment how much sway she had over him. But she was right. They had discussed this many times, even in the last year — a fond memory. 

She had used his own words against him — “Wasn’t it you, husband, who told me that dragons need to stick together?” 

He huffed, “They are Hightowers.” 

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, “I will not hold their parentage against them when their blood shares what runs through our veins. They are dragons, husband.” 

That had been a good evening, even with such a topic of conversation brought before him. The children were dragons, he could see that now — when riding alongside them, and in watching how they cared for each other. Aemond reminded him of his younger self somewhat, turbulent and easily frustrated but besotted with the girl he would one day marry. 

He also knew, from experience, how that frustration could be easily redirected against a woman, in a way that inspired fear, not pleasure. Even if he hated the girl — and he had to admit he did not, despite her parentage, he wouldn’t wish that on a young woman. 

He would take the boy to Silk Street. See him turned into a man. 

…

“How did it go?” She asked eagerly, bouncing off the bed to greet her husband, despite the late hour. 

He snorted, “Well the boy knows the difference between a cock and a cunt now.” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, she assumed his education had already consisted of that much, but Daemon continued, “He is definitely a Targaryen. Found the palest haired woman there and couldn’t take his eyes off of her the entire night.” 

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes again, like Daemon of all people could judge. She had seen the women he employed when she was younger — perhaps a poor replacement for her, but an attempt to replace her all the same. 

Daemon sat on the bed and began removing his boots, talking all the while — “I don’t know if he enjoyed his lessons there quite as much as you did.” Daemon said, giving her a knowing look that nearly made her blush. 

It was strange, now a woman grown with experience in the bedroom — plenty of experience, thanks to her husband, thinking back on a time when she had so little. When she didn’t even know her body was capable of pleasure. 

Daemon continued, “But the boy was attentive. Eager to learn with the promise of pleasing his match. I would take him again, if he requested it.” Rhaenyra frowned, she didn’t want the boy to grow attached to any of the whores, she just wanted him to…learn. 

Daemon clearly saw her concern and laughed, “Trust me his interest there does not compare to his interest in Helaena.” She supposed Daemon would know best, he had lived his life in a similar position for over a decade. 

“Oh, and Mysaria sends her love.” He said, as he continued to undress. “Hopefully not too much love.” Rhaenyra said petulantly. She had met the women a few times over the years, as they took occasional visits to Silk Street after they wed. It was hard for her to view Mysaria as anything less than the beautiful woman who had been with Daemon first, and lay by his side for a number of years. 

But she also knew there was no love between them, only fondness for each other's bodies. And even that had faded through the years.  Her husband was a Rogue in his youth, been a bit of a whore in his boyhood, and a spoiled prince in his adulthood. He had many women — sometimes many in a single night. But he was hers now, and they were committed to each other. 

So she did not feel much jealousy, but she could not find it in her to speak kindly about the woman.

He snorted, “I think she feels more love for you than me, these days — but who can blame her?” He said, turning to her with a charming grin and eyeing her skimpily dressed form. 

She would not judge a woman for craving another woman carnally, but as she admired her husband's nude form she found it hard to imagine wanting anything else. 

But, she supposed, he had been quite literally made for her. 

Wanting anything else would be an insult to the gods. 

And they had been so kind recently…

She should thank them.

And thank her husband. 

He was surprisingly docile, when her lips met his and her hands cupped his face. Even from the long night spent in a house of sin, he did not find himself sensitive or swayed. It was strange, how his habits of chasing pleasure wherever he could find it had faded. Faded to the point where pleasure could not be found with anyone but her. 

It was like when she bloomed, and every other flower wilted in his eyes. And she never stopped blooming. 

Even now, five children later she was beautiful. Perhaps not as slim as she was in her youth, but small enough for him to notch his hands at her waist and grind their bodies together. There was more to grip in her hips and breasts, as if each pregnancy left behind evidence of there. But he did not mind it, she was still petite, and her curves showed how capable she was of giving birth.  

How she had survived, when so many women had not. 

He would not hold those curves against her body, when he could worship them. And so he did, licking a path down her neck to her breast. Her breasts were heavy now, more than the handful they had been on their wedding night, but they had gotten more sensitive too. She cried out as his tongue circled a nipple, before pulling it into his mouth and nipping just so. 

She arched against his mouth when he did this, and sometimes came as easily as she did when his mouth was on her cunt. That was where his mouth wanted to be, so he did not stall on her breasts long, as lovely as they were. 

Her body may have changed, but her flavor had not. Sharp, but sweet, in a way that was so addictive he sometimes lapped at her for hours. He was too impatient for that now, and so was she — pulling at his hair and trying to pull him away eager for more than fingers and a tongue to fill her. 

He was eager too, for nothing compared to the feeling of thrusting into her — no matter how many times they had done this, what must have been hundreds, perhaps thousands? He always gasped as he penetrated her, the feeling of bliss causing him to shiver in pleasure.

They were made for each other, and he knew that just from looking at her. But it was never more clear than when they came together this way, for they fit together so perfectly, nothing else could compare. 

No one else could compare. 

He knew his niece — his wife, felt the same. He had wondered if she ever felt curious about the touch of another man, and she had laughed! Saying she could not imagine anything feeling better than him. And he wholeheartedly agreed, there was no where he would rather be. No one he would rather be inside of. 

She was perfect, and he told her as such — whispering praise into her hair and neck as his hips thrust against hers. This wasn’t hard, this wasn’t soft, this was just them. Following what their bodies desired, and enjoying what feelings followed. 

His release came too soon, and with a few laps at her breast, Rhaenyra followed. They were breathing deeply, but not overly strained. Their bodies were used to this dance now, well practiced and exercised in having each other. 

They strained themselves sometimes, when they felt like being adventurous or torturous. For they were fiery people, and when tempers flared sometimes so did arousal. They had both left marks on each other throughout their marriage, throughout the activities in their bedroom. 

But this? This was effortless. His body needed her the way he needed to water, and he always felt refreshed after having her. 

They shared a few kisses, but no more words — they didn’t need them. 

They knew exactly how much they loved each other, and loved being in each other's arms. 

…

The next morning, her husband mentioned Mysaria had business in an establishment in Dragonstone. That perhaps, if Helaena was visiting in a month or two's time, she could be given a hand in regards to her own pleasure.

Alicent would not allow Rhaenyra to take Helaena to the Silk Streets in her own city. But she was the Princess of Dragonstone, she did not have to be so obedient in her own domain. And being a good sister was so important to her, how could Alicent blame her for looking after her dear siblings happiness? 

Her lessons from Mysaria had brought Rhaenyra herself a great deal of pleasure. 

Surely her sister should be allowed to experience the same?

And so, she did.

Chapter Text

125 AC

That year Rhaenyra found herself visiting Kings Landing two additional times, for two weddings. 

One had been planned for years, and would be celebrated with a feast and tourney much like her own. Helaena and Aemond were children of the King, soulmates, and dragon riders. Their union was much to celebrate. 

Aegon marrying Aelice, however…

Aelice was her cousin, she was born from Rhaenyra’s Aunt — her mothers sister. She had been blessed with a match, but the family did not see it as such. Her match worked in the family's stables, and was not a man of means or title. 

They were still married, with her family's financial support. She had continued to live in their home, and her husband Lucus, continued to work. They were, by all accounts, happy. Until Lucus passed from a riding accident a mere two years after they had wed. 

Rhaenyra wondered if it was truly an accident. 

The girl was sixteen now, having followed the Vale tradition of being married two years after her first blood. The tradition that had led to her own mothers demise. 

Rhaenyra pitted the girl, for her unfavorable match — and for losing them. She could not imagine living without Daemon by her side. She didn’t want to imagine it, she would rather die herself. They were two parts of a whole and if they could not live together, they would die together. 

Even worse, the bereft girl was now forced to marry the cruel child of the King and his second Queen, Alicent. Aegon had been a temperamental boy, and unlike his siblings, time had not soothed his spirits. He was still prone to outbursts. Incredibly jealous of his siblings good fortune. Bitter, at the actions (even though they were his own actions) that lead to the loss of his eye and good looks. He was supposed to be King someday, his mother had said so ever since he was a boy. 

Yet he did not have the title of heir. He did not have a match. He did not have a dragon. He seemed to have little at all, and he raged because of it. Often finding distraction in gambling, drink, and women. These were not the minor rebellions of a typical Prince, like Daemon had partaken in — no he went to the bowels of Kings Landing, finding entertainment in the worst places it could be offered. Finding pleasure in women who didn’t want him. 

Rhaenyra could not imagine the boy ever being part of a happy marriage, and so neither would Aelice. 

It seemed no one was happy about the match, the girl still mourning. Aegon mourning his lack of title. And Alicent was raging, that her son — who she thought should be next King being forced to marry a woman who had already been sullied by a common stable hand!

She thought her son deserved someone of similar standing, a Princess! A lady of high ranking! 

But they did not want him. 

And more than that, for a chance to sit on the throne, he needed children that looked Targaryen. Needed children with soul marks. And Aelice, sullied as she may be in Alicent’s eyes, was their best chance at that. For she had been marked, as had her mother, and her mothers sister. She was only a quarter Targaryen, bloodline diluted but visible in her pale coloring and good looks. 

The wedding was a favor from the King to his late wife's family in Vale. 

Rhaenyra did not think it was a favor to them at all. Certainly not a favor to the girl. 

Rhaenyra pitted her, but could do little for her. 

Their wedding would take place that Spring, organized hurriedly in an attempt to wed Alicent’s eldest child before his younger siblings. The end result was a small affair, with a feast scraped together out of what had already been ordered for the season. It was grander than any common person could hope for, but far from fitting a Prince. 

But Rhaenyra was not going to feel sympathy for Aegon. Not ever. So she watched them wed, sipped her wine, danced with her match, and smiled at her children. 

…

They were convinced to stay through the Spring, until the next wedding. It brought back memories, seeing the palace so busy in preparations for a royal wedding. It would not be quite as grand as hers, as they were not next in line for the throne. But still, it was going to be a large celebration — and she thought their love deserved it. 

She remembered her own wedding…well, perhaps not fondly. She had been so impatient and desperate to wed, by the time it actually happened she was frustrated and eager for it to be over. But it had still been a good day, the first day she truly became one with Daemon. 

Perhaps the day they had conceived their first son. 

It had been a wonderful day, followed by a wonderful week in her rooms, and even more wonderful months thereafter. She thought as an independent child that marriage may not suit her, but she thrived by Daemon’s side. Having his comfort and encouragement was a blessing she would not take for granted. He was a wonderful match, husband, and father. 

And someday, he would be a wonderful King. 

Maybe even someday soon. 

It was a shame to think such a thought on what would be a happy day for her half siblings. But her father was not getting healthier. Every time she saw him, he seemed more stooped — more pale. His mind was there, but his body was failing. 

Still he was alive today, alive enough to stand at the ceremony. To sit at the head table, and feast on a good meal. Many good meals in fact, for the courses were plentiful in celebration for the occasion. He even chanced a dance with his wife, followed by one with each of his daughters. 

Helaena looked pretty, Rhaenyra thought. She had never had the finest features, but Targaryen blood was too strong to make ugly children. Her nose was perhaps wider than what was favored, and her mouth a little smaller. But no one could deny she was beautiful, not with her light skin and glossy long hair. Not with her smile, so bright it nearly brought a grin to her own face. 

Aemond looked handsome too, she thought. He reminded her a great deal of Daemon, though they both adamantly disagreed. His hair was longer, as was his face, and of course the face in question was marred — missing an eye. She thought, somehow, the injury suited him. It made him look more imposing — scary, like his temper was. But if you looked past it, he was an attractive man, who treated those he loved well. 

Yes, quite like Daemon. 

She danced with the boy, and her husband with the girl. 

“Are you excited for this evening?” Rhaenyra whispered, over the loud music. 

She swore he blushed! Daemon insisted the boy had a small crush on her, which Rhaenyra always brushed away. But he did seem to lose a bit of his confidence in her presence, as if she made him feel like more of a boy than a man. 

He nodded in response, and she sighed. “I remember how eager I was for my wedding night. And I was not disappointed. Daemon has made sure you will not disappoint Helaena, yes?” She said, gazing up at him as there was quite the height difference between them. 

He swallowed, but nodded again. Rhaenyra huffed, patting his cheek, “Do not be nervous. She loves you, and she will love whatever you do.” Rhaenyra believed that, too. Her wedding night had not been what a maiden pictured — it was not soft and sweet and gentle. But she adored every minute of it, and wouldn’t change a second of it. 

Rhaenyra leaned in a little closer, “She will especially love it if you use your tongue.”

She reveled in the boy's blush. 

Perhaps Daemon wasn’t wrong about his crush. 

But she thought, after tonight, he would have little desire for anyone but Helaena. 

…

Her next dance was with her husband. How things had changed in the last decade. How she had gone from blushing in his arms, craving the feeling of his hands on her bare skin instead of her gown. How her stomach seemed to bubble with anticipation when they danced at their wedding, as it was a promise of a more intimate dance they would partake in that night. 

She huffed, she supposed he had been her first dance partner in more ways than one!

“Is Helaena very nervous?” Rhaenyra asked Daemon, leaning a little closer to him in a way the dance did not require, but her body did. Daemon just shook his head, “No — I think she is quite eager.” That made her smile. She remembered feeling eager, too. 

“Were you nervous? On our wedding night?” She asked, thinking of Aemond’s blush. She couldn’t imagine her husband worrying about pleasing her, not when they had found so much pleasure together before the wedding night. But she had learned not to underestimate him, or his emotions, either. 

He shook his head, “No — I have never lacked confidence when it comes to such acts. And I knew it would be even better, when it was between us.” 

She nodded, “The best.” And leaned her head on his chest. They were ignoring the steps now, just leaning into each other and moving in time with the music. 

Eventually it ended, and she didn’t part from his side. If anything she pressed herself further into him as they made it back to the head table, and their children. She wondered if the next wedding she attended would be for one of her sons? It was hard to imagine that they were ten now. That they only had a few years left, before they would be wed and out of her nest. 

She was determined to be better than her father, to let them find their freedom regardless of her own feelings. They were smart boys, and she trusted them. But she would miss them, too, especially Lucerys who would live at Driftmark and learn about the keep from Laenor and Corlys. 

Likely almost entirely Corlys, she thought. Laenor was more of a drunk and disappointment than a proper heir, and his father would probably have better luck teaching Lucerys of the responsibilities than his own son. 

It was hard to imagine him running his own Keep. But also…he was nearly as tall as her now. And doted on his match. And had ridden a dragon. He was not the babe he once was, he was a boy, well on his way to being a man. 

She kissed his forehead, smiling down at him when he wrinkled his nose at her. She thought her sons resembled Daemon more than herself, but that trait she had passed on. 

Watching her sons, and Helaena dancing in the background made her wonder if she had kept trying, if she would have had a daughter by now. She knew her body's limits, and she felt confident in her decision. But still…it would be nice seeing her likeness, preparing someone for womanhood. Teaching another Princess all she knew. 

She supposed she would do that with Baela and Rhaena, when it came time. They were almost like her own daughters, she certainly loved them enough. But it was different, when they were your own blood. 

Daemon was glad they didn’t have girls, she knew. She had asked him once and he had said, ‘I am grateful we only have boys, for I could never love a girl as  much as I love you.’ Which made her smile and kiss him. 

She knew  he worried sometimes, that he was a bad father, for he loved her more than his children. But she thought there were worse things than being a good father and even better husband. He doted on the children, but was still firm with them — making sure they knew how to behave properly, to fight well. To take things seriously. He taught them to manage their tempers, and how to be fierce and love fiercely. 

Much like how he had taught her. 

Was it strange, that in a way her husband had been a better father to her than her own father? She glanced at Viserys, whose eyes were glassy as he watched the dancing couple. He never lacked love for her, but he had still neglected her. 

There was a reason Daemon had always been her favorite. A reason why he was still her favorite, and she did not think it was entirely to do with their marks. 

She leaned into him, pressing a kiss to his lips when he turned to look at her. Gods, she loved him. 

When she pulled away — her hand still placed on his cheek, she didn’t go far. She liked being close to him, being able to admire his handsome face. The years had been kind to him in the same way they were cruel to Viserys. He still had soft lips, piercing eyes, and a sharp jawline.

There were a few signs of aging, but any lines merely served to outline his good features. Her finger brushed across his bottom lip, which had a very slight indentation from when she split it when he first split her open. It hadn’t healed well, and was constantly reopening during their week in confinement, leaving their kisses tinged with a taste of copper. 

A Maester had offered to stitch it when they made it to Dragonstone — but when Daemon heard he would have to abstain from kissing for a week or two after to let it heal, he decided to live with the wound and let it scar. He wore all his scars proudly, and this was no exception. 

With a sigh she pulled away, twining her hand in his so their wrists were linked — she swore she could feel their marks nearly pulsating due to the proximity. Or perhaps that was just her body craving his. She leaned her head on his shoulder, wishing much like she did at her own wedding, that she could just crawl into his lap and stay there. 

She would do so when they got back to their rooms.

Do more than that, even, to make sure he knew how much she loved him. 

…

It seemed Daemon had a similar idea. When they entered their chambers that night it was clear seeing a wedding and witnessing young love reminded them all too much of their wedding and young love. 

If anything, their love for each other had only grown over the years. But there was something about remembering those early days that made them both feel soft, and sweet. Left them wanting to be sweet to each other. There was so much anticipation back then, so much desperation, that even their first few times together lacked the innocence of inexperience that they should have. 

Now they were far from inexperienced, with both this act and each other's bodies. But they were free to take each other when they pleased now, and though it didn’t lessen the passion, it certainly left them feeling less desperate. 

So they kissed differently now, than they did on their wedding night — gentle presses of their lips together, pulling apart only to unlace and discard garments. There was no ripping of ties or tearing at clothing. Perhaps to Rhaenyra’s disappointment, there was no biting either. Just gentle kisses as she cupped her husband's cheeks. 

She felt him steer her to the bed, until her back was against the covers. She rolled herself, escaping his embrace before he could set his weight atop her, and crawled towards the head of the bed before laying herself out with her head on the pillows. 

This is the position she expected to lose her maidenhood in, she thought. She had heard the term in jest from her maids — a pillow princess, when you just laid there and took it. And she supposed that was what her younger self thought of sex, until he had taken her to Silk Street and she had seen the act. 

Even still, she hadn’t expected to be so brazen her first time — sitting atop her new husband and rolling their hips until they both came. This felt much more innocent, with her head gently pillowed and her back against the bed. She liked this position, too, how she could feel the heat of Daemon on top of her. How easily he could brace his arms by her head, allowing him to lean down and press kisses to her lips — her neck — her chest.

 There was more of her chest, than there had been when they wed. Pregnancy had changed her body, though Daemon did not appear to think it was a change for the worse. He delighted in her curves — her tits, as he called them. Often lapping at her nipples long after they had both come, almost like a child taking comfort from the action. 

She moaned as he did just that, laving her nipples with his tongue. Still, so gentle, none of the little nips he sometimes playfully added to make her arch. Just the soft press of his lips and warmth of his tongue across the bud. 

He tried to go lower, but she dragged his face back to hers. She didn’t want that. Well, she always wanted that. But right now she wanted his length inside her. From this position she could feel his member against her folds, the tip barely pressing against her. 

The first time he had felt so large, and it had hurt so much. If she hadn’t known in the depths of her soul that they were made for each other, she would have wondered if he would fit. But it did, and after a time it was glorious. It was glorious now, as their lips met and he gently nudged his way inside her. 

He was still large, she still couldn’t take him without it pinching unless she took his fingers first. But now she was worked up enough she didn’t mind, she would take a pinch of pain if it led to pleasure. And it always did. After he had worked his entire length inside her he would still for a moment, letting her accept the intrusion — and then on his first thrust they would both moan. 

They wouldn’t stop moaning, either, not until they were damp with each other's sweat and wet from each other's release. Time seemed to stop when they were entwined, so lost in each other they didn’t know if hours or minutes were passing. They didn’t care, they just cared about each other's pleasure. 

Eventually they came though, and Daemon collapsed onto her, pressing his softening cock further into her. His lips found her neck, pressing light kisses to the sweaty skin. It was a testament to their mood that night, how soft they were feeling, that he wasn’t sucking bruises into her flesh. 

He always liked seeing evidence of what they had done. She had to admit she enjoyed it too, looking in the mirror and seeing reminders of the previous night or week. They always came together hard, before separating — even if it was just for a few days. So their body would show marks of their love for each other, to remind them while they were away. 

But this was nice too, just enjoying the feeling of him against her as they slipped into a post coital sleep. 

…

Down the hall, a half dozen chambers away, another couple — another match — though this one a pair of newlyweds, found themselves doing the same thing. Perhaps a little more clumsily, since they were not as familiar with the act. But it ended pleasurably all the same, and they were very willing to practice. 

And they did. 

Several times that same night, in fact. 

Chapter Text

126 AC

Rhaenyra had been giddy when she read the letter from her half sister. Marriage seemed to be treating her well. Aemond seemed to be treating her well, since she had gone four moons without bleeding, and her dragon Dreamfyre had laid two eggs! 

Twins, again, Rhaenyra thought. She wondered if they would be a match for each other. If they would be a match for her sons. At nine years old, Joffrey had yet to find his match, and neither had six year old Aegon or three year old Viserys. She wasn’t overly concerned, for with her fathers ailing health and her pregnancies she had been hesitant to travel great distances with her sons. 

But she knew her mothers sisters had children with marks. It was even a possibility that her older son's children would match with their younger brother — her match itself was evidence of a niece and uncle pairing. 

So she did not worry for their lack of match, and ensured they did not worry of it either. After all, their shining example for soulmates was herself and her husband, and he had been sixteen at the time they met!

“Helaena is pregnant.” She told her husband that night. The letter also included that Aegon’s wife, Aelice was expecting as well. It seemed she had formed a friendship with Helaena, despite finding little joy in her marriage or in Kings Landing. 

She was glad the girls had each other for support, opposed to being entirely dependent on Alicent who was…not a warm figure, even if she did have experience herself with pregnancy. 

“I shall look forward to visiting her, I hope she is well.” Rhaenyra said, thinking of the difficulties she had with various pregnancies over the years. She hoped Helaena had the same easy births as her mother — if she had to pass down one trait to the girl, that would be a positive one. 

“Alicent will not want me there for the birth, but perhaps we could visit with the boys soon after?” She asked, looking up at her husband and thinking of the potential for matches. 

Daemon nodded, “Helaena will be a good mother.” He paused, then continued, “But a child will strengthen Aegon’s claim.” 

Rhaenyra sighed. She knew her husband worried so, but she was heir — the kingdom had pledged as such to her when she was younger. She had a match, a dragon, and five sons to inherit after her. She was not overly worried about a boy who lacked all but her families looks and name. 

“The people will not want a man on the throne when they could have a Targaryen.” She said, insistently, reaching for her husband's hand. 

“The people are often content to do whatever the crown appears to present.” He said, tracing her palm with his fingers. 

“You are worried he would claim the throne before I could?” She asked, wondering if Alicent and Aegon would be so bold. 

“They do not have a history of respecting your place.” 

She hummed, he wasn’t wrong about that. “Even so, the council will not want it — nor will the people. I have your support and many others, if I must challenge him I will — for I shall win.” She said with a smile, settling herself in Daemon’s lap. 

He looked unconvinced. “Do you not worry for Aemond and Helaena making a claim?” 

She thought about that for a moment. She didn’t think Helaena had much desire to be queen, she merely wanted to be a mother. As for Aemond…she hoped he would respect her, and her place as heir enough to refuse the throne if Alicent proposed he take it. 

“I don’t think Alicent would push for that, nor would Aemond accept it.” Is what she finally settled on saying.

“You think Aemond and Helaena would side with you?” 

She nodded and grinned, leaning closer to her husband as she spoke, “I do have certain charms that Aegon lacks.” 

“You plan to lure them to you with such charms?” 

“We are Targaryen’s after all…If I were not matched and married…perhaps” She trailed off. 

Daemon growled, gripping her tighter against him “Over my dead body.” 

She giggled as she fell back against the bed, his lips ravaging her neck. Her husband was the only man she had ever even kissed! Yet he still had such a jealous streak. She supposed it was flattering, that he desired her so much that he expected everyone else did, also. But it was amusing to her, seeing him get worked up over jests about her half siblings of all people. 

If a man dared look at her too long, or if fingers strayed too low in a dance, Daemon was always quick to react. She was glad his temper had three decades to be soothed, by the time she wed, otherwise she feared several men would no longer have their hands!

She knew she shouldn’t revel in it, but she loved Daemon’s passion. If he was going to do something, he would do it with enthusiasm and a ferocity that led to success. He was like that as a father, and as a knight, and as a lover. 

And when his passions turned to her, she couldn’t help but respond in kind. Tonight was no exception, her legs wrapping around his hips as she arched into his lips. 

…

The next month found Rhaenyra in Kings Landing. The council meeting went well, and she was provided with a few free hours to visit her half sister. Helaena was joyous in pregnancy, it truly suited her — she seemed to glow as if her inner flame was brightened by her state. 

She ate her afternoon meal with her, and Aelice. She did not know the girl well, but she was soft spoken and seemed sweet enough. She spoke of her nausea, which left her bedridden some days. And Rhaenyra promised to send her some of the ginger tea and biscuits that had helped soothe her stomach when she was in such a state. 

“Pregnancy is as brutal as it is a blessing.” Rhaenyra said sadly to the pair, thinking of her own pregnancies. She had been lucky in many ways, that all of them had led to healthy infants. That she had not passed in the process. But it was hard to feel lucky, when your body is so sickly. 

“You may grow weak from it, but you will grow strong in motherhood.” She continued, not wanting to be too negative about the experience. Her children were one of her greatest happinesses in life.  

Luckily neither of the girls seemed upset by her words, they were both excited for the prospect of having a child to dote on. Or in Helaena’s case, twins, for she seemed as convinced of it as Rhaenyra had been. “Do not let them doubt you!” She told the girl, remembering how silly all the servants thought she was being when she insisted she was having two. 

A mother always knows best. 

Well, unless that mother is Alicent. 

Rhaenya thought Alicent knew nothing at all.

…

Helaena sent her apologies in her next letter, thanking her for the tea — but admitting Alicent refused to allow either of the girls to drink it.

Rhaenyra huffed, and complained of such to Daemon. “As if she can’t tell the difference between moon tea and ginger, it’s absurd!”

Dameon laughed at her mood, unsurprised by Alicent’s actions. “Moon tea likely goes against Alicent’s beliefs, I doubt she has ever tried it.” 

Rhaenyra glared at him, “Perhaps not but she has definitely smelled it when giving it to Aegon’s girls.” 

Aegon had almost the reputation that Daemon did at his age, though where Daemon was loved, Aegon was hated. He was not kind to the townspeople, or the women he took into his chambers. He cared little for their willingness, nor the potential consequences. 

Rhaenyra collapsed on the bed, frustrated by the ever present tension with the Queen. Why did her father feel such love for such an awful woman? Did that make him an awful man? 

It was an awful situation, when she found herself in Alicent’s presence. That much she knew. 

…

She visited several more times that year, bringing tea and sweets for the girls — which she sampled herself in front of them. Alicent still seemed bitter, when the girls opted to follow her example and eat as Rhaenyra did, but she cared too much for appearances to chastise the girls so publicly. And Rhaenyra made sure they were always in public when they ate. 

She feared what Alicent would think she did, if she was behind closed doors with her daughters. So they sat in the gardens, and ate at a table nearby. Enjoying the heat of the day, and the good company. With the passing of Laena, Rhaenyra didn’t often find herself in the company of ladies. 

She had ladies at the palace that were friends. But when she was wed, so were they, and they followed their husbands to other lands, not her to Dragonstone. She couldn’t speak freely in front of the girls, for they were a lower station. And she couldn’t speak freely in front of Helaena or Aelice either, knowing they had some amount of loyalty to Alicent. 

But still. It was pleasant to be in the company of women, when she so often found herself surrounded by men. 

And so, she found herself looking forward to these visits — especially the one that Autumn, which would likely be after the babes were born. 

…

The babes were healthy, as were their mothers. Perhaps Rhaenyra was biased, but she thought her match had lead to far prettier children. These were certainly not the most dashing babes, and one of Helaena’s twins was twice the size of the other! Her son was strong, and named Jaeharerys. His hair was blonde, and his features long. Queerly, he had an extra finger on one hand and two additional toes! 

The girl was small, quiet, but determined. She reminded her a bit of her own son, Aegon. The girl was named Jaehaera and had finer features than her mother, but an oddly round face for an infant. She would likely be beautiful, but not as beautiful as most Targaryen’s. 

Rhaenyra supposed she hadn’t lost her competitive spirit with age, she still wanted her children to be the most handsome and most loved. And she enjoyed her place in the family, as the most beautiful woman to bear their name. 

But still, they were fine children. And they had dragons in their cradles, and marks on their flanks — already alight, from touching in the womb. A perfect match for each other.

She visited with them for several hours, until both the babes and their mother were in need of a nap. 

Then she made her way to Aegon’s wife’s quarters — which she had not visited before. That mattered little though, she knew the way from exploring the keep as a child. She doubted there was a room in the palace that she could not locate in a matter of minutes. She did not consider this keep home, not anymore, but the familiarity she shared with it could not be replicated elsewhere. 

Aelice’s rooms were simple, but she supposed with Aegon not being heir, she didn’t hold an especially high station. Still, they were warm, and clean, and perfectly suitable for a young mother and baby. 

A young mother who looked quite frail. 

Very different from Helaena, who had grown plump in pregnancy and joyous in motherhood — face flushed and smiling. This girl seemed too small and meek by comparison. Though Rhaenyra would likely not fare much better, if forced to bear a horrid man's child after her own match passing. 

Despite her lack of love for the child’s father, Rhaenyra had to admit Gaemma was a beautiful baby. She had silver fuzz atop her head, striking eyes, and seemed to have been born smiling. Her rosy lips turned up at the sides, as if she could do nothing but grin.

It made Rhaenyra smile, and want to hold the sweet girl. Gave her a slight pang, making her wish she had been blessed with a daughter. She loved her sons, she did, but the relationship between a mother and daughter was sacred and she felt a slight bit of envy that she would not experience it. 

“She has a mark, M’lady.” Aelice said, still in bed recovering from the rough delivery. It seemed the Maesters worried she would not make it, and insisted she spend a month bed bound to regain her strength. She supposed that contributed to her meek appearance. And though she seemed tired, Aelice also seemed pleased with her daughter — thinking the pain was worth it for such a pretty child. 

Rhaenyra understood, for she had felt the same with her children. 

She hoped Aegon and Alicent would be soothed by the child’s mark, enough so that they did not question its gender. She knew Hightowers cruelty well, and would not wish it on a new mother who had little control of what came from her womb. 

Rhaenyra unwrapped the babe slightly, curious about its mark. She caught the arms that broke free from the loosened confines, gods she was a squirmy baby. Rhaenyra thought she would be a mischievous one, if she had all this energy when only a few days old.  

She smiled at the thought, but her smile froze when she saw the mark on the babes upper arm. For she had seen one like it before.

Her son had that mark, too. 

Chapter Text

126 AC

Rhaenyra stayed for a few moments longer, her smile tight but present as she looked at the babe. She felt conflicted — happy for another son to have a match, but concerned at its relation to Aegon and Alicent. She was not eager to tie her family closer to the Hightower name, but she had to prioritize the happiness of her son.

Her stoic son, who never seemed to recover from the sadness that came about after his birth. He was her quietest child by far, she had never heard him shout or scream — even as an infant. He had fits, as all Targaryen’s did, their tempers too strong to be contained at all times. But where her other boys had yelled and hit, Aegon seemed to slink away to rage quietly. 

She had tried to give him extra love, to make up for the devastation that followed his birth, but now a boy of six he acted more like a man of sixty. It softened her feelings for him though, her special stoic boy. As handsome and smart as his father, but hardened at such a young age. 

She thought of the happy infant that had been in her arms a few moments ago — perhaps her joy would bleed into her son. She was not born to great circumstances, either — her mother a girl whose match died tragically, her father a man not fit for lordship much less king. If this baby could be so happy in spite of that, she hoped she could inspire such an emotion in her own son.

She said her goodbyes to Aelice, who also seemed to need a nap — even after such a short visit. But Rhaenyra was glad for it, she had to speak to her father most urgently. 

Her opportunity came an hour later — early enough in the day that she hoped she could return to Dragonstone that evening and ready her son for Kings Landing the next morning. She felt confident that the mark matched his own, but she wanted to be sure. 

Still, she needed to explain her sudden departure — she had only arrived that morning. Too early for even a message requiring her presence at home to be delivered. She would have to be honest with her father, and hope he was not so honest with his wife. 

He was still in his chambers, where he spent most of his time these days. Being on the throne pained him, and he suffered enough pain from his wounds already. He did not look to be in good health, every time she saw him it was as if more hair and skin had fallen away. She wondered if soon, he would be a mere skeleton. 

She bit her lip, emotions running high but determined not to cry. It was made more difficult by her fathers joy at seeing her, by his embrace that made his sickly form all the more apparent. Why did his love for her seem to grow, as he grew closer to death? 

“Have you seen the children?” Viserys asked, his eyes looking alive even if his frame did not. 

She nodded, “The gods were kind, three healthy babes, three marks, two mothers.” 

Viserys nodded in agreement as well. 

She closed her eyes and cleared her throat, “I believe that Gaemma may be Aegon’s match.” She said, quickly in an effort to get the words out smoothly. 

It seemed her father did not share her concerns, for his face lit up — apparently delighted at the thought of their families entwining further. “This is most excellent news!” He said, clasping her hands in his. She cringed lightly, at the feeling of amputated nubs against her own flesh. 

“I would like to…confirm this, before the news is spread? I shall retrieve Aegon today, and return tomorrow.” Viserys nodded, “Yes — I wouldn’t want the court, or Alicent to get too excited!” Rhaenyra let out a little huff, nearly a laugh, at the thought of Alicent having any sort of positive reaction to this news. 

She wondered if her father was as blind to his wife's hatred as he was to Daemon’s love.

With a few more quick words, and another embrace, she left. Being at Dragonstone — being in Daemon’s arms, just for a night would improve things. It always did. 

She found it funny that she always felt happiest in her arms — but they were also one of the few places she allowed herself to feel true sadness. For she knew he wouldn’t judge her, merely cuddle and comfort her through her cries. 

They were not the type of cries he preferred to receive from her when she was in his arms, but he was a good husband and good to her and tolerated her moods well. She supposed he had lots of practice, from when she was a babe. And some things never changed — for he was still the only one who could soothe her. 

…

Daemon did not take the news well. He too disliked the idea of being tied any closer to the Hightowers. He offered to escort her back, Caraxes taking to the extra weight better then Syrax. When Rhaenyra thought of how heavy her emotions had been the previous day, she eagerly agreed. She was not so good as to refuse his comfort when it was offered to her. 

And so, the trio of them — mother, father, and son made their way back to Kings Landing. Aegon was amicable to this, as he was to most things. 

He had not been told the true reason for their visit, though he was smart enough to know something had happened. He did not lack his parents' love, but as the fourth son he was rarely singled out for trips to the capital with his parents. He could not recall a single occasion of it happening, to be truthful. 

But his parents insisted that nothing was wrong, and soon he would see. 

He had not been expecting to see a baby though. 

He had little experience with babies — Viserys was only a year or two younger than him, Aegon had not held much awareness of his own when his brother was a babe. And it wasn’t as if people often thrusted children into the arms of a prince who was still a child himself. 

That made this all the more puzzling, standing in a strange woman’s room that held a bed, cradle, and little else but its occupants. He knew the woman was Aelice — his Uncle’s wife. But his mother did not care for his uncle, who had the same name as him, Aegon. And he had been too young to attend his wedding. When they had met, it had been brief, and neither of the boys had much interest in each other. 

He supposed it would be polite, for him to eventually meet his son — they were family after all. But he did not understand why it was so dire that it be done soon. His mother chatted with the bed bound woman, and his father stood silently behind him, with a hand on his shoulder for comfort. Perhaps two minutes later, two more people crowded into the room — one of whom was the Queen, and she looked as confused as him. 

His own mother turned to him, kneeled, and took his hands in hers. “You know how you have a mark, yes?” He nodded. It was black and grey like a bruise, standing out prominently from his pale flesh. It spanned the majority of his bicep, bigger than his brother's marks had been. Mother had told him when he met his match, his soul mate, it would light up like a flame — like her own mark, which was far more red than grey. 

“This baby — Aelice’s and Aegon’s daughter, has a similar mark. Why don’t you sit and hold her, and we’ll see if it is simply a coincidence?” His mother was smiling, but it looked nervous — her eyes slightly dull, not as bright as they were when she was truly happy. He nodded nonetheless, taking a chair by the cradle and waiting for the babe to be put in his arms. 

He was nervous, too. What if he did it wrong? What if he hurt her? She was so little. 

But when she was placed in his arms, the nerves seemed to disappear. He knew he could never hurt her. 

And when he reached out to touch her face, he was too distracted by her smile to even feel the burning pain. 

…

Rhaenyra felt a tear slip down her cheek. 

She thought Viserys and Alicent were crying too, though for different reasons. 

No — Rhaenyra was not crying because the match saddened her, nor because it delighted her. 

She was crying because her son was smiling. 

He had never smiled before, not until he saw her. 

127 AC

The year that followed was…tense. Aegon had begun coming to Kings Landing with Rhaenyra. She would attend meetings, and he would attend to his match. As she had expected, Alicent was livid at the connection to Rhaenyra’s son, the offspring of someone she hated so. 

But the blessing was that she seemed to care little for her son's wife, and even less for her daughter. A daughter was of little use to Alicent, but the fact she had a match was promising for future children. Future heirs. And so, a mere two months after Gaemma’s birth, she began pressuring her mother to try again. Aegon  needed an heir if he wanted to be heir. And she so badly wanted him to be heir. 

Though her pressures were frequently put on Aelice at night, she had freedom over her days, room, and child. She insisted on feeding the child from her own breast, as improper as it was — for she swore it forged a bond between them. And the babe was all the better for it, the noisiest little thing Rhaenyra had ever seen. 

It was a stark contrast to her son who had always been quiet. But she thought they would be a good match, for the gods never got it wrong. And even if they did — she could not have a shred of doubt when she saw her son look at the girl. It was like he was seeing the sun for the first time, and he lit up in its rays. 

Rhaenyra would do anything for her son, even if it meant clashing with a Hightower. Still, Alicent’s disinterest in the girl had served them well. Allowing their visits to last for uninterrupted hours, and allowing her babe and the boy to bond. 

It seemed to do the child good, for she was always calmest in her son's arms. And it seemed to do Aelice good, knowing that even if her father and the queen did not, someone would love this child as much as her. Someone would live for her and die for her, and she wanted nothing less for her daughter. 

…

On one visit in early Spring, Helaena admitted she was pregnant again — and so was Aelice. Rhaenyra was pleased, congratulating the pair. But secretly she worried — Aelice never seemed to recover fully from her pregnancy. She was such a small girl, she seemed so…weak, she wasn’t sure she would survive labor and it seemed the girl knew this too. 

When Helaena was distracted with her twins, Aelice took Rhaenyra’s hand — a bold move from the quiet girl and said, “If I cannot be a mother to her, I want you to be.” 

Her eyes were sad — had the same sadness Rhaenyra had seen in her own mothers eyes. The look of someone unsure if they would survive. And knowing even if they did, it was unlikely to be the last attempt on their life. “Promise to love her, please.” The girl begged — eyes pleading. 

Rhaenyra embraced the woman, “I have always wanted a daughter, and I wouldn’t dare treat her as any less.” She patted the girls back, and soothed her cries, as if this was a test of her ability to mother.

…

Rhaenyra was usually pleased when she was correct about something. Happy to have proven her knowledge, and often — happy to have proved someone else wrong.

But she did not feel happy on this day. Not when she opened Helaena’s letter. 

Two more children now populated the palace. 

But Aelice did not. 

…

She took Daemon and Aegon with her to the funeral, and she was glad for it — when she got there maids rushed to her, claiming the babe had not slept for more than an hour since the mother passed. She was too distraught, too alone to get any rest. 

But in Aegon’s arms? She slept. And he was content to hold her for as long as she needed. 

She left her son in the nursery, and went in search of her father. 

She had promised Aelice that she would care for the girl. And she could not in good conscience leave her here to cry alone while her father and grandmother neglected her. 

They interrupted a council meeting, barging into the champers with little care for the disruption. Her and Daemon both took their seats — empty and waiting for them, even though their attendance was rare. The room had quieted as they entered, but conversation soon resumed. Alicent and Aegon regarded the pair warily, knowing their presence never meant good things for them. 

But Viserys was pleased to see her. Saddened by his son's loss, but thrilled for what he had gained — a healthy son! 

Rhaenyra found she was almost happy for this. It made his line more stable, which improved his chances for inheritance. But right now her concerns were with the girl, not with secession. And with a boy in the cradle, they hardly had a need for a girl beside her. 

When the council had finished, it was Daemon who broached the topic — “I think we should take Gaemma with us to Dragonstone. You remember the benefits of growing alongside your match well, I think, brother. And the sadness when separated. Without her mother here to comfort her, the best place is by her matches side.” 

His words were even, calm, no one could fault them or claim them illogical. Alicent did not look pleased though, not eager to give up the girl. But it seemed it would not be her choice, for Viserys nodded, and Aegon laughed — laughed! “Take the girl off my hands and out of my life, please, she is as annoying as her mother.” 

That earned him a scowl, even from Alicent. Though it likely had more to do with the public nature of the slight to his late wife, more than the insult itself. 

Rhaenyra nodded, “Very well. We shall foster her in Dragonstone and happily bring her for visits, as we are in Kings Landing often.” She swore she heard the huff of ‘too often’ under the queen's breath, so she held her own to prevent making a nasty retort. 

When the council was dismissed, she went to find Helaena — she pitied her position. She remembered all too well the joy of going through pregnancy with a friend, which made the loss of them all the more intense. It was hard, being so pleased to have a child but sad at the same time. She would wish it on her worst enemy, perhaps, but not sweet Helaena. 

Aemond was in her rooms, when they arrived. He exchanged the customary glare with Daemon, which made her roll her eyes. They were too similar to like each other, and apparently not yet mature enough to respect each other. 

She supposed she didn’t help, by greeting her half brother with a kiss to his cheek and a smile. 

She would likely pay for that tonight. 

But she would likely enjoy it, too. 

Aemond had grown taller, and his hair longer, but remained much unchanged from his wedding. Helaena however, had grown thicker in pregnancy and developed a round face. Rhaenyra thought her features were now as soft as her heart, in a somewhat poetic way. 

Alicent thought she was fat. And she had no qualms in telling her so. When Rhaenyra heard that, she had comforted the girl herself — though she appeared quite unbothered. It turned out much like her own husband, Aemond very much enjoyed his wife's body and made sure she was aware of it. 

That pleased her. Such a fierce, angry boy, but unable to be anything but adoring to his match. 

Similar to Daemon, indeed. 

Their new child was named Maelina, prettier than their previous twins — with the right amount of fingers, and a good weight to her. Rhaenyra was glad for the babe’s apparent health, when she saw the mark on her shoulder. 

This was not the first time she saw one of her sons marks on an infant, and it would not be the last. 

She traced the marking. She knew the gods never made mistakes, so she would treat this as the blessing it was.  And hope dearly that her husband and son felt the same. 

Chapter Text

127 AC

He was not overly pleased with the match. But he could admit feeling some fondness for the pair, and their child as well. They were more Tygaryen than Hightower, and he supposed their children would be too. There were worse matches and even then —  if he could welcome Aegon’s offspring into his family, he could do the same for Aemond’s. 

Even if he still did not like the way he looked at Rhaenyra. Now a man, married with three children and still blushing when her lips pressed to his cheek. 

His own lips thinned at that, and then his wife threw him a smirk. 

Later, when he chastised her for kissing other men in front of her husband, she was all too pleased to request a reminder of who she was married too. 

So he reminded her, thoroughly. 

He was tempted to remind her again, as he still felt warm and was enjoying a leisurely morning with his wife. He would never tire of waking up with her in his arms. Of starting the day with gentle kisses, and feeding each other bites of breakfast. 

They had done it the morning after they married, and when schedules allowed they did it every morning thereafter. 

The maids in Kings Landing were not the ones that attended them on their wedding night, and they were unaccustomed to such vulgar…displays, for neither of them had much shame in their nudity or love of each other. Some of the maids found it sweet, others could barely look at them without turning bright red. 

But still, the pair remained as they were. Refusing to cover themselves in their own quarters, when they were so fond of each other's unclothed forms. Rhaenyra bid a thanks to the maids, as they left a tray for them — and a note. “For you, my Prince.” The girl had said with a blush as she delivered it. 

The note from Mysaria took Daemon by surprise — he had been in Kings Landing often recently, but not visited her establishment in many months. And he had not been contacted by her in…several years? Though he shared a level of respect for her, his life no longer required seeking her out. She understood that well enough, and their casual correspondence was a thing of the past. 

Which made this…noteworthy. 

“What do you think she wants?” Rhaenyra asked. The note did not give any details, just requested a meeting and gave a time. 

“I suppose I will find out.” Rhaenyra pouted, she did not fear for infidelity during this meeting with his long ago mistress, she just disliked being left behind — even for a trip into the city. 

She would eat her breakfast, have her bath, and then make sure he would not forget his wife during this meeting with another woman. 

…

As soon as he entered Mysaria’s establishment — the architecture, sounds, sights, and smells painted a familiar picture. But he did not loiter in the doorway, he took the steps to the second level where he knew her office — and hopefully the woman herself — could be found. 

His efforts were rewarded, when he knocked on the narrow door and it opened to reveal Mysaria. Stunning as always, and freshly tanned despite the cool weather. She wore something resembling a dress for once, a sign she did not plan on leaving her office this evening. Daemon was beckoned into the room, and sat in one of the tufted chairs across from the hearth. 

“Why have you summoned me here?” He asked, as Mysaria passed him some sort of dark liquid — he was more concerned now, if this was a conversation that had to be had over drink. The woman sat across from him, crossing her legs and swirling the liquid in her cup. 

Despite all her time in Kings Landing, her voice was still accented when she spoke, “You have a son that has not yet matched, no?” Mysaria asked, catching his gaze. 

Daemon nodded, thinking of Viserys. The mark on his ankle, and trailing up to his knee. Still black and grey, not het having matched — not yet having lit. 

“There is a girl…I took in, her mother was a Targaryen bastard. Beautiful women, blonde hair. Her previous employers…encouraged her womb. They hoped her child would be a great beauty too. But she was brunette, and they both ended up in my establishment.” 

Daemon nodded, not unfamiliar with the concept. It was sick — how Targaryen’s bred bastards with whores, then came back for more with their children. It filled the brothels with the traits that called to Targaryen’s, and filled their pockets with coin. If they birthed boys, they were sold, or tossed out. It seemed the same happened when their offspring had the right parts, but the wrong hair color. 

He was not a good man, but the lack of care and respect was appalling. It was part of the reason he took such care not to spill inside a woman, and why he had always waited to ensure they drank their tea. He knew his fathers insistence on this had partially come from his own experiences, and the mother very well could have been his own bastard. 

Daemon liked fucking. He loved fucking. But he had no desire to make children that shared his looks but not his name. 

Mysaria continued, “It seems her looks merely skipped a generation. A patron of another establishment caught her in town, she was too ashamed to tell anyone what happened.” Daemon understood then, if the girl had not told anyone — had not sought help — she would potentially be forced to bear – birth the consequences. 

“She was thirteen. She died during birth.” Mysaria said simply, accustomed to such a reality but that did not make her dislike it any less. She had her women drink tea, take precautions. She didn’t start their work until years after they had bled, until they truly resembled women and were ready to act as one. 

 “But her babe…blonde as can be, with a mark up the inside of her leg.” Mysaria finished, taking a sip of her drink. 

Daemon closed his eyes. It could be a coincidence. Marks were not so uncommon, it was finding matches that were rare outside of his family. But with the girl's age, looks, and potential parentage…it was worth considering. 

“May I see her?” He asked, familiar enough with his son's mark to recognize it on the flesh of another. Mysaria nodded, rising from her chair and cracking the door wide enough that she could call for the babe through it.

It was not a minute later that a woman approached, she looked perhaps twelve? Daemon imagined Mysaria had the girls who were too young to work caring for her, so no woman went without wages. The girl looked nervous, had dark hair and dark eyes but a bright bundle wrapped in white in her arms. 

She was hesitant, handing the baby off to him — he knew he was an imposing presence, but he nearly wanted to laugh. As if he hadn’t held raised five of his own children! 

The baby was small, but warm in his arms — curious bright eyes looked up at him and around the room, though she was not yet old enough to lift her head. 

He sat back in his chair unwrapping the tightly tucked blankets to see skin beneath. His finger traced the tiny foot, the even tinier ankle — and the mark that trailed up it. It was unmistakable. 

He re-wrapped her, nodding. “I will send someone for her in two days — can you keep her until then?” Mysaria nodded, pleased at the outcome. She wished he could take the babe today, and free up her girls hours for other work — but she knew if he returned to the palace with a blonde baby, the assumption would be that the bastard was his. 

He did not wish to hurt his wife’s reputation, or his own, in that manner. He may be a Rogue, but he was loyal. And would not do anything to question that. 

“She does not have a name.” Mysaria said, before he left. He took one more look at the child — “Call her Visenya.” He paused, “Visenya Velaryon. She’ll gain the Targaryen name in time.” 

…

Gods help him, he thought as he rode back to the keep — two of his sons to be matched in the same year, to eventually be married in the same year. As if the twins weren’t bad enough!

Rhaenyra did not share his concerns for the year of 133 AC, she was too delighted that all her sons would have matches to grow alongside. She herself had been blessed with such a thing, and now they would be too! 

She did acknowledge the issue of babes parentage. She did not care that her father was a common man and nor that her mother a whore. That would be forgotten when she married her son and gained the Targaryen name. No, what she feared was people assuming the girl was her husband's daughter. 

She had seen how rumors swirled in court, she had been the subject of enough of them already. Even without any evidence, people claimed Daemon was unfaithful — preferring whores to his wife. Calling her fat, and ugly, because her bust had grown. It was ridiculous, and she did not want them to have any ammunition when they were already so capable of conjuring gossip from nothing at all. 

“I shall ride to Driftmark in the morning, she can be fostered with the Veleryon’s, raised by Rhaenys for a few years alongside Baela and Rhaena.” Daemon said, and Rhaenyra agreed, it would not be seen as odd if they began fostering her son's match when she was a few years old. But a baby would always be assumed to be a bastard, unless its parentage was well documented. And the Velaryon’s were more capable of shouldering such a rumor. 

If anything, it would perhaps improve perceptions of their son Laenor, who people claimed had been previously unable to father a child at all. 

Yes. This would work, and her son would be happy, and all would be well, she was sure of it.

…

 Mysaria was surprised at her visitor. This was the second Targaryen princess she had welcomed to the establishment! But she should have known Daemon would not come to pick up the girl himself. No, instead he sent the princess that was passed over — Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon. 

The woman walked with a confidence and purpose that even Mysaria found enviable. But when the babe was set in her arms, she softened — the sweet face of a child able to win over any warrior. 

“She does not look much like my son, I suppose the mothers looks were stronger than his own.” The princess said, before giving Mysaria a hard look. 

Mysaria nodded, “Bastard or no, she is a beautiful child, your family has been blessed by your sons waywardness.” Rhaenys gave her a small smile, pleased at how easily she was swayed. Daemon had sworn his trust in this woman, but Rhaenys did not trust a man's opinion of a whore. Even one who ran the most highly regarded brothel in Kings Landing. 

But she would not underestimate a woman that proved herself to be capable, either. After all, that is what stopped her from wearing a crown and sitting atop a throne. She would not make such a mistake with Mysaria. Allies were important, after all. 

She looked down at the bundle she was holding, “I look forward to raising another girl, Visenya Laena Velaryon. A fine name for a fine girl.” Rhaenys wondered if she would enjoy their flight to Driftmark as much as her daughter Laena had. 

…

Rhaenyra was absolutely delighted by the child. She set Gaemma beside her and watched with glee as they babbled to each other. 

She was pleased with her sons, and Laena’s girls — but she had always wanted a girl of her own. And now she had one. She may not be of her own womb, but she was of her own blood and would clearly suit her son. And in a few years she would have two! Visenya would come to Dragonstone, and live the life of a Targaryen. 

For the second time that year — for the second time that month, she watched one of her sons reach out to touch a babe — and be rewarded with a flash of pain, as their mark came alight and turned to a match. She did not remember the pain for herself, having been so small at the time. But Daemon said it was the most overwhelming heat, boiling the blood and burning the flesh until its flame was left behind. 

She did not pity her son for the pleasure of his match would far outweigh the pain. It was only a matter of time. 

She leaned back against Daemon, as she continued to watch the children play. His hands wrapped around her middle, and she draped her own fingers atop his. She had been so lonely as a girl — she had her mother for a time, and Daemon. She had maids to clean her, and maesters to teach her. But she didn’t have equals. She didn’t have a family. 

But she had created this beautiful family, with her beautiful husband. Her children would never know loneliness, not when they had each other, and not when they had their matches. 

She was happy. 

She hoped it would last. 

Chapter Text

128 AC

It was another good year. She shivered, when she found herself thinking those words — the last time she had, the year that followed was tragic. She still missed Laena, still grieved for the girls who lost their mother, and grieved for herself — for she lost a dear friend. 

But she could not change the thoughts in her own head. And she would not stop herself from enjoying this year, simply due to the mystery of what might follow it. And it had, truly, been an excellent year. Her third son, Joffrey, had taken to the skies for the first time on his dragon Tyraxes. He was a great beast, but his hatching was delayed by his rider's birth. And so he was smaller than his siblings, Vermax and Arrax.

Joffrey had been wildly jealous of his older brothers, as they learned to ride three years earlier. But luckily he did not bother with such violence, like her half brother Aegon had. He respected his siblings, and their mounts, and knew his time would come. 

And then it did. 

Rhaenyra remembered her mother recounting how she felt, watching her fly through the skies for the first time. She had been terrified, seeing a young girl on such a huge beast. She had been scared she would fall, that she would get hurt. But her mother didn’t understand dragons, not the way Rhaenyra did. She had never felt safer or more powerful than on the back of Syrax, never felt more free. She could feel nothing but joy at watching her son's experience the same thing. 

The trio of boys were taking laps around the island when Daemon joined her. He had helped ready the dragons in the pit while she watched over Gaemma. The girl was currently in her arms, but her presence there was rare — she was not her daughter's favorite, no, the girl wanted to be nowhere but with her match, Aegon. 

She was grateful that Aegon seemed to have the same wish. Her somber son had been soothed by the warmth of his match, not nearly as stiff as he was a few years prior. She thought one day, he might smile at something other than Gaemma. And what a joyous day that would be, for them all. 

That reminded her of her father, his dislike of how she favored his brother. Perhaps it was because she viewed Gaemma and Aegon as her children, instead of her peers like her father viewed his brother, but she felt no jealousy for their preference of each other's company. 

They were made for each other, after all. 

She stole Gaemma away from him on occasion, like this one. For she wanted to experience a bit of what it was to mother a daughter. She was eager for the day when Visenya would be old enough that it would no longer be suspect for her to join them on Dragonstone. 

She would always be outnumbered by boys, her womb and husband made sure of that, but three girls was better than two. And two was better than one, she thought, pressing a kiss to the top of Gaemma’s pale head. 

Daemon repeated the gesture, coming behind her and kissing the cottony locks of the babe, before pressing a kiss to the top of her own head. She smiled, looking up at him, then turning in his embrace. 

“They grow up quickly, don’t they?” She mused, while watching their sons circle the island. 

“They do.” He said, but his eyes were focused on her — not the boys. She slapped his chest playfully, he was a good father but still better at flirting than fatherhood. To be fair, he had more practice flirting! She wouldn’t have him any other way, though. 

“How long until Aegon joins them, do you think?” She asked her husband. So far, none of her sons' dragons had been as desperate to fly as Syrax, none of them growing large enough for riders until their tenth year.

She thought, perhaps, dragons matured as quickly as their riders required. 

Except oddly for her youngest boy — Viserys had an egg, but it was yet to hatch. Every egg Syrax had laid previously had hatched, and none had taken this long. But it was still warm to the touch — she still had hope. Some said the longer an egg takes to hatch, the more mighty the dragon will be. She hoped the legend was true, for her son's sake. 

There were other dragons — a few unclaimed mounts in Kings Landing, and several in their own pit from Syrax’s apparent insatiability. Her dragon needs moon tea, she thought with a snort! But she did not mean it, the more dragons in the world, the better. She had done her part birthing five sons and now Syrax was doing the same with her offspring. 

She snuggled deeper into Daemon’s embrace as he responded, “I think Stormcloud will take a year or two, still.” She hummed in agreement, her son's dragon was much like his own spirit — fierce but somewhat subdued, not nearly as eager or excitable as most young dragons. But his temperament suited her sons, so she would not complain. 

Speaking of her son — he showed little interest in his brothers flying, his eyes focused on the bundle in his mothers arms. With a sigh she passed him the squirming two year old. Perhaps if none of her children cared for her embrace, she would have to seek her husbands. As she turned back to the man, and pressed her lips to his, she commended herself. A wonderful idea indeed. 

She would always love her children. But would never love another as much as she loved Daemon. 

Moments like this, where they exchanged gentle kisses reminded her of such. Even after all this time, it was as if little sparks passed through their lips, lighting each other's inner flames. They could not resist each other for long, not once they got their hands or mouths on each other. 

They found themselves feeling like children, as they hurried through the halls and sneaking off to their chambers. 

Their desire for each other had not changed since they wed, nor since they had their children. But  now they tried to keep their desires to their own chambers, and not intrude on anyone else’s. All to avoid anyone intruding on them. 

When the only potential vouyer was a Kingsguard or lady’s maid, it was easy to forget to shut a door…or make it to a room with a door at all. 

But children were different. Curious and determined and disrespectful in a way their staff would never dare to be. So now, when temptation struck and kissing turned into more, they made sure the door was not only closed but locked. 

She found herself pressed up against that locked door, at that very moment. Her husband was older now, but still strong – strong enough that his arms easily supported her, as did the rest of his body when her legs wrapped around his hips.

This allowed her husband's hands to wander – to hike up her skirts and slip fingers under her chemise. She favored wider skirts because they were more flattering, but this had become a welcome benefit. The dress did not have to come off for him to come inside. 

And that he did – perhaps not ten minutes later, they were left panting and giggling into each other’s still crisp collars. 

…

Without any labor looming or bodily restrictions, Rhaenyra took to visiting Kings Landing at least monthly. She liked seeing Helaena, and offering the friendship she was lacking since Aelice had passed. Luckily, Helaena was so devoted to motherhood that it seemed she had little time for grief. 

It was as if she was the mother Alicent never even attempted to be. So warm, kind, and good. But she knew her children would not be overly spoiled, not with a father like Aemond. Their children were lucky. And now, with time to reflect on it, she felt lucky that her son would some day be bonded to one of them.

Helaena lit up in her children’s presence, and they seemed to glow in turn, happy to have her attentions and eyes on them. 

But, it did not compare to the happiness that burst from Maelina when seeing her match. She was a wonderful baby, and Joffrey was quite smitten with her — in a sweet way, that she knew mirrored how his father had treated her in her years of childhood. He often came with her to Kings Landing, sometimes even making the trip on his own and visiting without her. 

Her children were growing so fast. She swore her eldest spent more time at Driftmark these days than Dragonstone. Nearly joined at the hip with their other halves. It was still innocent she thought, but it wouldn’t be for long. She remembered her feelings as a girl of thirteen, and how drastically different they were at fourteen. 

She would talk to the girls when she returned. And she would make her talk much kinder than the one bestowed on her by Alicent. 

…

She thought it was odd how a mother, wife, and lover could still nearly be brought to blush at the prospect of sharing such things with her sons matches. Alicent’s ramblings on this topic were offensive and wrong, and she knew she could do a superior job to that. But she had, perhaps, expected it to be easier than this. 

Perhaps it was partially awkward because the girls were excited by the prospect. Their cheeks flushed as she spoke but not in embarrassment, in anticipation. 

Baela and Rhaena were their mothers daughters, they were fierce, and brave. They loved riding, and flying with a great passion. And Rhaenyra had seen first hand how that passion in their mother transferred over to a man when one appealed to them.  

And who would have more appeal, then their matches? 

She thought with how eager they were, they would not need any lessons to find their pleasure. They would be eager enough to explore their bodies without assistance. 

She sighed, mourning the children they had once been. But excited too, at the women they were becoming.

Daemon had been tasked with having the same chat with their sons, that day. But he was unsurprised by their eagerness, as they begged to see Silk Street when they were next in Kings Landing. Rhaenyra knew her husband would indulge them, which was fine, as long as he didn’t indulge himself while we was there. 

…

While her husband and her boys found Silk Street,  she found herself avoiding Alicent. Or at least she attempted to when she was in the palace. As Viserys faded, her vibrance and presence only seemed to grow. She attended every meeting, and seemed to be pulling the strings of her King. 

It was infuriating to watch.

Her father had always been somewhat weak willed, but now he was just weak. 

She would not let herself get that way. Either mentally or physically. If her body failed her to the point where flesh peeled away — she wanted to be put down like a stray dog. It was shameful to see a Targaryen in such a state. 

Her mother, Aemma would be ashamed. 

This is what happens when a Targaryen’s fire goes out. She thought. It was like the beauty the gods gifted their family was being stripped away from his skin, leaving nothing rot behind. She wondered what sins he was being punished for, was it because he dared to move on past his match? Because he had bred Aemma to her death with his desire for a heir?

She thought back to speaking with her own husband, how adamant he was that her life mattered more than any, than all of their sons. 

Perhaps her father never loved the match the way he was supposed to. And so, he could not love the way he was supposed to at all. 

She was grateful his brother, her husband, had not been cursed with the same ailment. 

He loved her fiercely, to the detriment of all else. It was selfish, greedy, and passionate, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

A part of her longed for her husband's arms then, but she was determined to make it through the meeting. Make it to lunch with her father. 

Because she did love him, and she wasn’t sure how many lunches he would have left. 

…

More months passed, as did more visits to Kings Landing. And as Helaena’s children grew taller, her father seemed to grow smaller. He was like his sons now — missing an eye, and needing to wear a partial mask to hide what lurked beneath. 

Viserys thought it ironic, that fact. He had lived so much of his life with perfect vision, and been blind to people's true feelings — and now down an eye, everything seemed more clear than ever before. 

He looked forward to these lunches, with his daughter and sometimes his grandsons. Three of them were old enough to fly now, making the trip on the backs of their own beasts. Joffery often accompanied her to visit with his own match, Maelina. And on this occasion, Daemon had come too. 

His relationship with his brother had long since been mended. But like a fine silk, it was too delicate for the patch to be seamless. It was slightly too stiff, more opaque, and the wrong sheen. It would never be as natural as it was before it had been broken. Before he broke it. 

His relationship with his daughter had never been quite so bad…but if it wasn’t broken and in need of mending, it was the very least strained. Stretched and warped and not quite the shape it should be. That was his fault too, for not loving her enough.

If he loved her more, he would have held onto her less. He would have been happy that she was happy. 

But he supposed, even if he no longer had half the traits that make a Targaryen strong, he did have one: He was selfish. He put his own desires above her own, in an attempt to stifle her flame. 

And gods he had been jealous, how his only child only had eyes for his brother. Viserys had never been his mothers favorite. He had never been the peoples favorite. He had never been the most handsome, or the most skilled. 

He was King but he lacked all else. And seeing his brother made him painfully aware of that. Seeing Daemon become his daughter's favorite too. It stung. Too sharply for him to ignore it, the pain so great he began to resent what caused it. 

He should have been proud of his brother — appreciated his talents and charm. Felt lucky that his daughter would be bestowed with such things. But jealousy had poisoned him and their relationship in turn. 

Now he was free of that, of the jealousy that had plagued him for…decades. And he knew soon, he would be free of this life. His body had been poisoned by his feelings for too long, and it would not last much longer. 

He thought perhaps his death would be the greatest gift he ever gave her. 

It would be the best thing he ever did for the seven kingdoms, also. 

He had been a passable king. 

But Rhaenyra? She would be an excellent queen. 

And his brother? He would be a good king.

Chapter Text

129 AC

Rhaenyra felt tense, more tightly wound then perhaps she ever had at Dragonstone. It felt like something was coming, and she wasn’t sure what — but it left her on edge. She didn’t consider herself to have the gift of sight, but she thought Helaena might. And she had warned her, last time they spoke, 

“When the time comes, be fierce and fearless, my sister.” 

But when would such a time come? It was as if the warning forced her body to be prepared at all times, the fierceness seeping into every action. The temper she had been able to control since a girl now flared — towards her children, and husband. She had taken to hardly speaking at all, for fear of what she might say. 

She went on long flights, but she felt anxious leaving the keep. She wanted to be close to her husband and children, in case something happened. 

Because something was going to happen.

She was grateful that her husband was used to turning frustrations into fucking. She felt it was the only time her pent up energy could be released, her temper could be freed and returned in kind by her husband's own. 

It was brutal, those weeks, in their bedroom. She thought the guards and maids feared for her safety, but they should have known by now that she gave as much as she took. Daemon and herself both wore wounds from their lovemaking — bruises and scratches and bites that leaked bits of blood. 

She wondered if fear motivated her actions — if she was so afraid to lose him, that she was beyond desperate to have him. And have him quickly, and hard, so impressions of him were left on her body. 

Every night they came together — or crashed together, more like. Lips meeting and teeth quickly turning to nipping, as tongues battled for dominance. There was no sweet licking and laving of skin, but there was sucking ensuring bruises would be left behind. 

When they used their mouths to pleasure each other, dull nails dug into each other's hips — leaving crescents that would take an entire moon cycle to fade. Their orgasms were stronger, with the pinch of pain that came with them. 

And so, thrusts were hard and relentless. Too harsh for the padded mattress, which shook and softened their blows to each other's bodies. No, they took to taking each other on the rug or settee. Falling into each other's arms as soon as their chamber doors shut, and falling to the floor soon after. 

That was where she was now, she had started on her hands and knees but slumped onto her arms soon after her first release. Now her forehead was cushioned by her hands, and her elbows and breasts were being dragged against the bristles of the carpet with each of her husband's thrusts. 

Hands gripped her hips harshly, holding them to Daemon’s own. And she was grateful for his grip, for without it she would have collapsed to the floor. She had come once on his fingers, and again on his cock, and he still didn’t seem satisfied. 

She didn’t think this should feel so good —  her clit wasn’t being stimulated at all, and the carpet was rough against her soft flesh, it would surely leave red marks tomorrow. But somehow it was also just right, just enough to make her arch against her husband and come again. 

She didn’t know what the next day would bring, but this was predictable. This was all consuming. She could forget her worries and become singularly focused on the feeling of his skin against hers. His cock inside of her, his hips thrusting and brushing against her bottom. The slapping noise that echoed in the room, and the sweat that beaded on her skin. 

She could close her eyes and every concern and fear faded away. It just came down to the relentless pace her husband set as he penetrated her. 

She knew he was getting close — his pelvis stopping when he entered her fully in an attempt to grind himself deeper into her. She wished he could, wished he could be inside her always. She mourned the days when he could be, before they had children and petitioners and responsibilities. When their only focus in life was each other. 

That was still their most important focus in life, and moments like this reminded them of that. 

Eventually he slowed, his grip tightening and teeth biting the back of Rhaenyra’s shoulder as he pressed his front to her back. She arched against him, into his teeth, the pleasure all the more intensified by the pinch of pain. She wasn’t sure if she came again, wasn’t sure if she ever stopped coming. 

She winced as he pulled out from her, muscles sore from overuse. But it was the good type of sore, the type that lingered and reminded her of what they had done. He rolled her over onto her back, so she could look up at him, and her fingers traced his face. 

She didn’t know what was to come. But she was stubborn, and selfish, and she refused to lose him. 

She would fight for his life. For her own. For their life together. 

Those thoughts circled her head, as she readied for bed. As she slipped between the sheets, and between her husband's arms. They were inescapable now. But Helaena’s words stood out among her fears – if she was fierce, and fearless, all would be okay. 

And she was a Targaryen, how could she be anything else? 

…

It was Aemond that told her the news. Daybreak was just beginning when he landed on Dragonstone, out of breath from the hard flight and tired from the late hour. But he was determined, he needed to get there quickly and he needed to return quickly, too. 

Rhaenyra knew something was wrong even before they landed — she felt restless, and Vhagnar’s cries were audible long before they made it to the Keep. She was awake, and waiting for their visitor even without a letter warning of his approach. 

Aemond was too practiced in hiding his temper to show much emotion on his face, it was part of what made people fear him. But she was familiar with reading the expression of her husband, and their faces were not so dissimilar. Her instinct was right, something was wrong. 

And there was only one thing that would motivate such a visit. 

Viserys was dead. 

…

She had feared for this moment nearly her entire life. As a child, she feared for both her parents passing — how lost and scared she would be without them. Then her worst nightmare came true, and she lost her mother. It seemed that day, she lost part of her father too. Even if he overcompensated in time spent with her, it was marred by what had been taken from them. 

As she grew older, it became an inevitable reality. Every time she saw Viserys, he looked closer to death. It was only a matter of time until it finally took him. But still, she thought she would have more time. Thought she would have time to say goodbye. 

But now, she did not even have time to mourn. 

“Aegon plans on publicly crowning himself tomorrow morning, in front of the townsfolk.” Aemond said, somberly. 

Rhaenyra’s eyes jerked up, glaring at him though she was peeved by the news, not person who brought it. “We must fly to Kings Landing.” Aemond said seriously, and she nodded. 

The conversation was one they had had before — not Aegon’s attempt to take the throne for himself, but what succession might look like. Viserys’ ailing health was no secret, and not even a King could avoid death forever. 

She knew her husband worried that the kingdom would not accept her. Though in Daemon’s eyes she was everything, the people of Kings Landing were fools who would only see her as a woman. 

But she didn’t think the Kingdom would welcome Aegon, either. He did not have a wife, he did not have a match, or a dragon. Part of the reason Targaryen’s had held the throne for so long is because they were said to be chosen by the fates themselves, and closer to god than man.

But Aegon was painfully human.

And she was a dragon. 

Daemon objected to the subject of travel, he was still in his sleep clothing but alert from the news of his brother's death, “You won’t get there in time, if he does it first thing.” 

She nodded at that, too. “I don’t have too. I shall challenge him.” She said. 

Daemon looked at her curiously, “At what?” 

She grinned, “At something he cannot help but fail at.” 

Daemon desperately wanted to go with her — but she begged for him to stay. To protect the children. They could not battle in the same place, they could not risk both their lives and the legacy of the Targaryen’s. 

Plus, Daemon knew even if Kings Landing didn’t accept her claim, she remained the Realm’s Delight. The Kingsguard were unlikely to do anything, and it wasn’t as if they had dragons at their command. He could say – warn the Velaryon’s, protect the children. 

“Trust me.” She pleaded, and eventually, he closed his eyes and agreed. She pressed a kiss to his mouth — then another, a deeper one. She was determined to make the taste of his lips last on her own. He was amicable to this, holding her waist and becoming the aggressor, lips and tongue insistent, desperate, against her own. 

“I will send for you, when I win.” She said, her eyes blazing. 

And Daemon found that he did not doubt her. 

…

There were screams and cries and loud crashes as they landed — with her experience and Syrax’s smaller size, she was able to land without much destruction. But Vhagnar was a different beast, a mighty beast, and crushed what was in her way as her feet came to the ground. 

There was a crowd of several hundred that had scattered somewhat with the dragon's approach. But they had been cheering — chanting at the stage, where her eldest half sibling stood, wearing her fathers crown. 

The nerve of him, to try and take her fathers place before his body was even cold. Before she was informed. To disrespect her place as heir, to disrespect her family. 

Daemon had prepared her for this possibility, warning her of it for years. She had underestimated the boy and his mother, thinking them too weak for such public hostility. But she was not stupid, she had considered what would happen if they were so bold. And she knew exactly how she would respond to such an offense. 

“Brother, I hear you claim the title of King?” 

She shouted to him, the crowd quieting and parting as she passed by. 

Aegon had an ugly sneer on his face, that was this boy's problem — he never lacked confidence, but unlike Rhaenyra, he should have.

 “The crown demands a King not a CUNT.” He shouted back, refusing to let her question his potential for the Iron Thorne. He had dealt with her judgment for years, he would not deal with it now when he had gained his rightful power as King.

“The crown demands a TARGARYEN, do you truly believe you are one, brother?” 

He scoffed, and she continued to approach. He glared at her directly as he spoke, “I am the greatest living Targaryen and shall make the greatest king.” 

If the situation had been different, Rhaenyra would have laughed. He still sounded like the petulant boy he always had been, selfish and jealous and incapable of maturity. He could not lead a dance, much less the seven kingdoms! 

“Prove it to me, to the city, and we shall all accept you as our King.” She said, with her head held high and glare matching his own. 

“You’d support me?” He said, incredulous. He had planned to murder the bitch, and her husband and children too. But that would look spiteful, as his first act of King — if it could be avoided, even temporarily, he should do so.

He may have had the sense to hate the girl, as did his mother, but she was still touted as the Realm’s Delight in court. People adored the girl, and though he was not the smartest, he knew something of strategy. He should take her loyalty if she would be willing to pledge it. It may prove easier than taking her life. 

“I will if you prove yourself. Fire cannot harm the flesh of a dragon, nor can it burn a Targaryen. Prove that you are a Targaryen, in more than name only.” 

Aegon’s eyes widened — she was suggesting a trial by fire! That was absurd — surely her dragon, her loyal beast would spit venom or do something to sway the odds in her favor. He said as much, shouting it above the noise of the crowd, which were growing hungry for the proposed violence. 

“If you do not trust my beast, then surely you trust your brothers?” She waved to Vhagar, who began approaching her — people threw themselves out of the way to avoid being trampled by the massive beast as it lumbered closer. 

“I will even go first, brother. If we both live, you remain King. If I die, you remain King. If we both die, it can go to Aemond.” She was smiling, she felt like a flame — bright and dangerous. She was not afraid, not of fire, not when she knew herself to be a true Targaryen. If Aegon denied the challenge, he would be viewed as cowardly. But if he agreed — he would die. 

She just wasn’t sure if he knew that, or if his confidence was so misplaced that he truly believed himself a dragon. 

His jaw was tense, she could see that from her place on the ground. She could feel the approach of Vhagar behind her, the thunderous steps. She reached out her hand, “Come brother, let us see who the gods deem suitable for the throne.” 

He looked over his shoulder — as if looking for an escape, or perhaps his own mother for guidance. But if he feared fire, he feared looking weak even more. He leapt down from the humble stage and took her smaller hand, shaking it in his to bind the agreement. 

The crowd continued to scatter, interested in what would happen but scared to be near the fire breathing beast. 

The beast that would be commanded to breathe fire. 

Aegon backed away, as Rhaenyra turned to the creature. Vhagar looked curious, unfamiliar with attacking something he did not plan on eating. But she would not feel his flames, and she would not feel fear. 

“Command him, Aemond.” She said boldly, never removing her eyes from the beast face. 

She had never heard her half brother sound so unsure, as he gave the command. He had always been a confident boy, but this frayed at his nerves. He did not want the weight of killing Rhaenyra on his conscience, did not want to deal with the retribution that would follow from her husband. 

But even still, he said it — clearly, if not nervously — "Dracarys!"

Flames burst free from the beast's mouth, enveloping the princess and lighting the stage behind her aflame. People had to look away, the fire searing their eyes like the sun — too bright a blaze to stare into, certainly too great a blaze to stand in and survive. 

But the princess did survive. 

Her clothes did not, burnt away by the intensity of the flame. But her skin was unmarred, not a single scotch mark or sign of injury to be seen. Her eyes were closed, her fingers twined together. She looked like a woman enjoying the heat of a day, not the fire of a dragon. 

She was unashamed in her nudity, and proud of being able to show what her body was capable of withstanding to all these common folk. To Aegon. She walked around the dragon, searching for her half brother and escaping the still simmering flames that had taken the stage. 

He looked horrified, he had not expected her to live. But he was a fool — her survival gave him confidence that he too could live through the flames. Alicent was behind him, a hand clasped on his shoulder. Rhaenyra tilted her head — trying to read the former Queen’s expression, but it was blank. As if fear and hope had collided, the emotions so different the neutralized each other leaving nothingness. 

Aegon took his place before the beast. She thought, from the distance she was at — he might have been trembling. 

She felt someone — perhaps a Kingsguard? Only they would be so bold, drop a blanket around her shoulders. She covered herself the best she could, she was not ashamed but she had little desire for these common folk to see her exposed flesh. 

Even as she arranged the blanket, she did not take her eyes off Aegon.

She recalled a conversation with her husband, from years back – shortly after they had wed. 

“You know, if we had not been matched I likely would have ended up with Aegon.” 

He grimaced, “That would be disgusting.” 

She squirmed in his embrace, “Why, because we are half siblings?” 

He snorted, “As if that is an obstacle for a Targaryen, not it is disgusting because it is…Aegon” 

She laughed, but did not disagree. 

“Plus you are too much for him, you’d burn him alive.” 

She laughed again, “That I would love to witness.” 

No. She was not gifted with the sight, but she would be gifted with this sight, that she knew.  

 “Command him, brother.” Aegon said, speaking the same words she had a few minutes prior. Aemond did not speak with any hesitance this time, and Vhagar did not hesitate. 

There were screams. 

Then the smell. 

The signs of something — someone burning. 

Alicent was screaming too, running to her second son and begging for him to stop — he looked alarmed, but they had agreed. He would not invalidate the potential result to please his mother, his mother who so rarely cared to please him. 

By the time Vhagar stopped, Alicent had moved to her eldest sons side. At least, what was left of him. His clothing had turned to ash — his skin had burned and crumbled away. All that was left were scorched bones, and a melted ring of metal around his skull. 

Alicent sobbed over the remains, huge heaving cries before her sadness seemed to turn into rage — she stood and glared at the dragon, the create responsible for killing her son. She was barely a threat to the beast, but Vhagar could sense the threat nonetheless. And as a dragon she knew only one way to respond to such things. 

With fire.

There were more screams, then. This time of a woman who had lost her son and was now losing her own life. 

Rhaenyra found she felt little sympathy. 

She was, perhaps, disappointed about the destruction of her fathers crown. 

But — she could have it remelted. Smithed into two crowns, one for her husband, and one for herself. 

For it seemed, she was to be Queen now. 

Chapter Text

129 AC

It was not a sight he wished to see. 

Even if it was one his wife had predicted. 

The prediction alone could not have prepared him for the reality of watching his mother and eldest brother burn in his dragon's own breath. 

Aegon had commanded him to say the word that would lead to his death. 

His mother had followed her eldest son to the grave. 

Would their afterlife be fiery too, in the pits of hell? 

Would his? 

He wasn’t sure how to feel.

What had his wife said? 

“You value your family’s happiness more than the lives of some.” 

He had not argued, knowing it was true. He just did not expect the lives lost to be family, too.

Did it make him a bad person, for not being sad? He had lost both his parents that day. His oldest brother. But he didn’t feel like he had lost his family — not when his children lived, not with his match by his side. 

Not with his half sister on the throne. 

He wasn’t happy that he had played a part in this. 

But he was happy with how it had played out. 

…

Helaena was sent to bring the news to Daemon.

Rhaenyra wanted to go herself, but things were too tenuous — without Aegon she did not fear for her place on the throne. And they could hardly punish her for a challenge Aegon himself accepted. His death was not on her hands. 

It was on his own. His hubris, his confidence had led to his demise. Just as hers had led to this. 

She was shaking, as she left the council chambers. The men had pledged their loyalty to her — aside from Otto who was not present. She could deal with him later, but without his daughter and grandson alongside a throne he had few pieces left to play. 

She did not fear him, after today she thought she would not fear much at all. 

…

Helaena came on Dreamfyre, a few hours after their matches departed — and he feared the worst. Had they both died? Was Helaena fleeing to Dragonstone for refuge? 

The girl has always been so open in her expressions, but on that day, she was hard to read. For her emotions were hard to untangle — a mix of relief, and sorrow, and happiness, and hope. If she could not recognize them all, how could anyone else? 

But she had given a small smile to Daemon and he knew then — it would be alright. And the relief that gave him was so overwhelming he couldn’t breathe. Or perhaps he could finally breathe again, his lungs and throat clearing as if he’d been holding air in for hours. Maybe he had. 

“She is safe.” Helaena said, wanting to reassure him of that above all else. She paused for a moment, collecting herself as best she could. “She challenged him to a trial by fire for the crown.” Daemon’s eyes had widened — he never questioned whether or not she was a dragon, for she was a Targaryen through and through. But to do that…

It spoke to the confidence she had in herself, and despite the stress of the day that made him want to grin. “She won.” He said, and it was not a question, but Helaena nodded all the same. 

“And Aegon?” Daemon asked. The girl looked away, not wanting to meet his gaze — she was upset, and upset with herself for feeling such a thing over the brother who had always been cruel to her. 

“He and Alicent perished in the challenge.” Daemon breathed a sigh of relief, he had not a single care for the two who had died. They were not his family, not like they were to Helaena. If anything he was happy to hear of their death, fewer people to try and claim the throne. 

Aemond and Helaena had proven their loyalty to them on that day. Daeron, the youngest son of Viserys could attempt a claim — but he was still young, and by all accounts a gentle and quiet boy. He wasn’t sure he had the spirit to attempt to take the throne, even if he did have a dragon. 

Regardless, he served as a squire in Oldtown and would not attempt anything until he was of age, if he made an attempt at all. 

Even thoughts so important as that one paled in comparison to his overwhelming relief that Rhaenyra was okay. That she was Queen. 

When he had arrived at Kings Landing, she was in her — their old chambers, her nose wrinkled in displeasure as it always did when he questioned her choice. She claimed she could not rest easily in Alicent’s chambers, nor the bed of her fathers that was likely shared with her!

He had laughed, before taking her in his arms. She had walked through fire that day, and come out the other side with her humor and beauty intact. “Are you truly okay?” He asked, though it was hardly a question — more an attempt to reassure himself. 

She nodded, before pressing her lips to his. 

“Never leave me behind again.” He said, firmly. 

She nodded again. 

Their next kiss was frenzied, more a smashing of lips and teeth than anything elegant. 

His words that followed it were frenzied too, tinged with the edge of fear and mania he had been plagued with all day. 

“Never leave me.” 

He was determined to make sure she wouldn’t want to. 

…

It was odd, how the moments of people pledging their loyalty to her were always going to be plagued by the sadness of the death that instigated it. She was not named heir until after her mother and Baelon burned. And now people would not bow to her until her fathers body had been turned to ash. 

Strange, how the greatest honor of one's life could only be achieved through another person's death. 

She supposed that is what the gods demand, balance in all things. 

She felt guilty, for taking some amount of pleasure in the day given that. She felt guilty for not being lost with grief, like she had been when her mother and Laena passed. It wasn’t that she loved her father less than them she just — perhaps had already grieved him. She had been losing bits of him for years — when he became king, when her mother died, when he got married, when she got married. 

Perhaps that is what caused his demise, caused him to physically lose pieces of flesh and limbs. 

Her father had loved her, but he had created a family without her. Rhaenyra may have forgiven that, for she was so happy with the family she herself had created. But she never forgot it, and the thought of it lingered in their every interaction. 

…

She had always known she didn’t want to rule alone. 

And It seemed wrong, for Daemon to be her prince consort. He was a far more worthy King than his brother, who had sat on the throne for nearly two decades. But she was heir, she was Queen. If he was king, he would outrank her. 

Unless she made a decree that said otherwise, that if a Queen inherited the throne she had the power to crown her prince as her equal — as King. 

They could rule alongside each other, together, even in this. 

For there was nothing in life she wanted to do without him.

They would take turns sitting on the throne. Daemon would see to the people, and Rhaenyra to the politics. It was funny, how they were so similar in some ways and so different in others. But — no one could deny it, they were well matched. 

The gods willed it, after all. 

…

If she was the Realm’s Delight, her husband was the Realm’s Desire. His work with the city watch was that of legends, as was his reputation in the Silk Streets. It was funny, how spoiled of a man he was, how few words he chose to speak, but how easily he charmed the common folk.

They didn’t realize how superior he felt to them. How confident he was in that superiority, so much so that he could lower himself to drinking with them without feeling it tainted. 

He had learned quickly as a boy, as a second son, that he may not be King by courtiers in the palace, but he could be treated like a King in the city with the common folk. He thrived off their attentions, before his attentions turned on his own match. 

The council may have had their objections to his place as King — her decision to crown him as such. But the people certainly did not. They could not attend the grand ceremony in the hall, but their cheers could be heard throughout. 

They grew louder, as they stood hand in hand on the balcony — announcing the beginning of their shared reign. 

Viserys was not disliked by the people. 

But them? They would be loved. 

…

She felt almost impatient, throughout the feast. Slightly reminiscent of their wedding. Usually she thrived on the attention of others, enjoyed being admired — but all the eyes on her made her itch, made her want to escape. She had enough of this day, as joyous as it was, and wanted to spend the rest with her husband. 

She remembered several feasts, where she had to fight the temptation to sit on her husband's lap like a child. To burrow into his neck and sleep surrounded by his arms and smell. She supposed now she could, if she was willing to deal with the court's judgment. Who would stop her, when she was Queen?

She smiled a bit at that, as if her biggest fault as a ruler would be being too infatuated with her husband. 

Perhaps it would be. If something happened to him, she would not hesitate to follow him. They should always be together, both in life, death, and whatever came after. 

But hopefully they would have lots of life left to live. 

…

It was rare that they requested help undressing, having grown very fond of undressing each other. But the ceremonial robes were heavy, and consisted of many layers. They would have been likely to damage them in their attempt to remove them, if they could get them off at all!

She understood the significance of their appearance and formality, but she disliked the physical weight of them…and the mental weight of what they stood for. 

She had always expected to be Queen. She had not thought much about the reality of it. Even with her fathers ailing health, it always seemed so far away. 

After the attendants left, she approached her sitting husband from behind, draping her arms around his neck and nuzzling her nose into his pale hair. She was wearing one of her silky robes, the design becoming a favorite of hers in the years since she had first commissioned them. And she knew with it serving as her only covering, that he could feel the press of her breasts against his back. 

“How does being king feel?” She asked him, knowing he had long since dreamed of the title. 

But he just sighed, leaning back into her embrace as he said, “I think I overestimated its importance to me.” 

She was surprised. Not just by the words but how resigned and confident he sounded in them, this wasn’t a passing thought, this was a realization he’d had and held onto. 

She made her way around him, wanting to see his expression, and seated herself in his lap. For what was a better throne for the queen, than her king? Her hands remained draped over his shoulders, fingers stroking his neck and playing with the shorter hairs that lay there. 

He had let it grow, in the years since they were wed. He had shorn it short after the battle in the Stepstones, and kept it that way until after they wed. She had liked his short hair, it made him look young, striking, and different — especially alongside her father. But she liked running her fingers through the longer locks, too. 

He had cut it a few times, in their life together — when he tired of the children tugging on the strands and slobbering on them. But that was less of a concern now, with their oldest nearly grown and youngest out of the cradle. 

She remembered when she was a child, and his hair was even longer — he would sometimes let her braid it. He indulged her a great deal, as his wife, but she thought that was a liberty he wouldn’t allow her adult self to take. 

His gaze caught hers then, clearly realizing she expected some sort of explanation but wasn’t going to rush it. 

“Or perhaps, I just underestimated how important everything else was to me.” He said, finally. She cocked her head at him, still curious about what he meant. 

Daemon paused again, trying to think of a way to accurately phrase all he felt. Ever since he was a boy, he wanted to be King. To him it was as normal a desire as wanting to be tall, or strong. His grandfather was king, his father was supposed to become king. His brother would become king. It seemed unfair, that he would not, or that he should desire less than that. 

After all, as a boy, what else is there to desire? 

But when it had come down to it, and Viserys made Rhaenyra his heir, he did not feel jealousy or resentment. He was only concerned for how she felt — how the girl who recently lost her mother would feel, by losing him for a time too. 

When they wed, he knew there was a possibility of him ruling alongside her. But he was more excited to be married to her, than the prospect of maybe becoming King. He might be selfish but he had grown sated in his position in life, in being a husband and knight and father. He was happy to be King, but hadn’t felt greedy for it like he did in his youth. 

His hands perched on her waist as he finally spoke, “When Aegon tried to crown himself, and you met him in Kings Landing — I didn’t think of you being queen. I didn’t fear for the crown, I feared for you, my wife.”

It was true, when succession was truly tested, he had concern for her life not her title.

He was still selfish, and greedy, as a Targaryen would always be. But now his greed wasn’t for his own life, it was for his life with her. 

…

Her smile was soft on her pretty face, which was brightened by his pretty words. She knew he loved her, as she loved him. But they did not always share such feelings in words, and did not always let them be heard on their lips. 

It was unnecessary, when the love was so obvious between them. When the love for each other's bodies was so obvious. But it was nice to hear. 

It wasn’t lost on her what he meant, he wasn’t saying being King meant less to him than he had expected. 

He was saying she meant more to him than even that.

And It made her want to kneel for her husband. For her King. 

And so she did — hands sliding from their perch on his shoulders, before bracing on his knees as she fell to hers. 

…

He had many people kneel to him that day, as part of the celebrations and crowning. But there was no one he wanted there, craved there, quite like his wife. This posture held the promise of pleasure, made him feel eager like a boy at the mere prospect of what was coming. 

He did not want her positioned there always. For as good as this act felt, he would grow bored with a wife whose only concern was pleasing him. He would miss the times when she was focused on pleasing herself. 

Was it wrong to love someone for the traits you yourself had? For he thrived off her greed, her selfishness, her desires. They seemed to feed his own, in a way. 

But how could anything about this love be wrong?

No, nothing about this is wrong, he thought as her lips dragged up his thigh and sucked lazily across the bone of his pelvis. She stopped to lap at any freckles, or scars, at anything that dared to mar his skin. It was a habit she had started shortly after they married, a fascination with his body — so different from her own. 

Where her skin was soft and smooth, his was marred with battle scars. She had mapped every one, on the week where they were confined to her quarters. Asked him where each one came from, then pressed her lips to them as if a kiss could heal them. 

He asked her if she minded the marks, and she had shrugged before saying, “I prefer the ones I’ve left on you.” Stroking the scratches that curved over his shoulders. 

He preferred those ones, too. 

She had licked a path down them, towards his cock, before taking it in her mouth. 

Her actions now were similar, but more practiced after years of experience. She no longer struggled to take him down her throat, no longer gagged or cried when he thrust too deeply. She had been determined, in her attempts to adjust to the feeling of him in her mouth. Determined to take him all. 

She was stubborn in everything, even this, or perhaps — especially this. He had enjoyed her frequent attempts as she learned, and now enjoyed her mastery at the act. 

Her bright eyes looked up at him, as she lapped at the head before taking him to the root. Her nose nuzzled the wiry hair at the base, as if she was greeting a kitten and not his cock. She was playful, even after the long day, having fun as she ran her lips back up to the tip before looking like a kitten as she gently licked the tip. 

She followed a vein with her tongue, before bestowing attention on his sack, her eyes never leaving his face. She didn’t need to look at his member to pleasure it, she knew it well — knew him well, and every part of his body.

His fingers twisted her soft silver locks, as his head threw back when she took him deep once more. 

He couldn’t do much from his seat in the plush chair, didn’t have the leverage to thrust against her mouth, so all he could do was grip her and pull her closer. He didn’t move from his pose, enjoying the warmth and slick feeling of heat enveloping his length. 

When he regained the ability to open his eyes, she was still looking up at him. Eyes bright, no sign of the tears that used to pool when she was still unused to this act. 

Her innocence had been charming, because she was charming. But he would not trade the confident women she had turned into for anything. 

He would not trade her for anything. 

Perhaps this is why the title of King meant less to him than he expected, because when she was before him he already felt like he ruled the world. 

He leaned forward then, so he could drag a finger across her full cheeks, she leaned into his palm, humming gently and making him shake at the feeling. It was wonderful. But he wanted her. He tugged at her hair, her nose wrinkling as she pulled off. The same expression of displeasure that she had worn since she was a mere toddler, petulant and annoyed at being interrupted. 

“Sit on my lap.” He said, and when she stood to do so he made sure to tug the tie of the silky robe that was wrapped around her. Hiding her skin, but not the shape of her form. The tie loosened easily, a bow falling and separating into two ends, allowing the garment to be easily shrugged off. 

Her hands were posed on his shoulders, making his eyes level with her breasts. He couldn’t help but lave at the soft globe, then give it a gentle nip that made Rhaenyra twitch. 

…

The nip surprised her, when he had been acting so sweet. But she did not dislike it, for she had never disliked an action he bestowed on her body. She had never disliked anything to do with Daemon at all. 

His sweet words, his love for her, had left her nearly breathless. Desperate to return the pleasure his words had given her, with what her own mouth could offer. She was annoyed when he stopped her, as she was determined in every pursuit including this one. 

But she had to admit, she did want to sit atop his lap. 

Her desire was burning bright in every sense, from the praise of the day and their love for each other. So much so that she was surprised when her robe slipped away, her skin wasn’t glowing beneath it — for she felt like warm embers, the remnants of a flame that had been doused by heavy layers all day. 

It was nice to be free of them. Free of people's eyes on her. 

She only wanted Daemon’s eyes on her. 

And they were, he looked enchanted as her knees bordered each side of his thighs. His hands fell to her hips, in an attempt to guide her cunt to his cock. But he had interrupted her act, so she would interrupt his. She straightened her back, pulled herself farther away from him — then pulled him to her, lips smashing together in something that could barely be called a kiss. 

There was no clothing to claw at, to use to pull him closer. So her fingers twined around his neck — pressing just enough to make him gasp against her mouth, leaving little crescent impressions of her thumbnails below his jaw. 

She pulled back, admiring his face — framed by her grip, and tilted up to look at her. He was still so handsome. Skin fair, lightly creased from smiles and frowns and the life they had lived together. He never wore a beard, making him look younger than his forty-something years. His eyes were still striking, heavy and hot in their gaze, and outlined by pretty lashes and a gently sloped brow. 

Her thumb wandered to his lip, his mouth opening to nip at the digit, making her laugh and lose her focus. She gave in to him then, gave into her own desires. Found herself truly seated on his lap, folds slowly sinking down his cock.

They both sighed in relief, and in pleasure, when he was fully buried inside her. With her on his lap, their eyes were level, their lips even, and it was so easy to get lost in each other's gaze, in each other's mouths. Today was no exception, their lips met, as their hips began to rotate — curling towards each other in slow strokes that made them both moan. 

The pace increased, as their passion did — kisses turned to nips, lips dragged down her neck — bit at her breasts. His goal was to make her gasp, make her clench, cause her to cry out and lose her pace. He loved her like this, poised above him, but he was a man that would always crave control. If he couldn’t control her, which he couldn’t, he could control her pleasure. 

It was something she was glad to leave to him, for he was generous with his attentions. Even now, when he couldn’t thrust much, he was gripping her and pulling her down. Doing at least half the work, as they chased their release.

His fingers wandered to her folds, but she pulled his hand back, twining his fingers with hers and pressing another kiss to his lips. She writhed atop him, desperate to find the right angle — she wanted to come like this, just from him. Not from his fingers. Just from the feeling of him inside her, as he was meant to be. 

It took longer than usual without added stimulation, but the release was all the better for it. The slow build took her higher and higher until she could do nothing but scream. She was delirious for a time, floating on the clouds for she had reached the sky. But when she came back, she was still seated atop her husband, his member softened and seed pooling inside her. 

Their eyes met, and she pressed another kiss to his lips. 

They had taken each other as man and woman. 

As husband and wife. 

As mother and father. 

As prince and princess. 

But she thought nothing would compare to this — having each other as king and queen. 

…

She found Kings Landing far more tolerable without the presence of Hightowers. Even courtiers seemed less vicious, without having a spiteful queen to take notes from. Council meetings were far more tolerable too, when she was given the chance to appoint her own. 

Rhaenyra had been attending to petitioners in Dragonstone for over a decade, she was not unfamiliar with sitting atop a throne and dealing with disputes. Most were petty issues, easy to find a solution for as an unbiased and higher ranking third party.

And her council — they were competent now. Trustworthy, and loyal. Younger than ever before but all the stronger for it. 

She did not miss the loss of Otto Hightower from the Hand’s chair. Though now there were two chairs for the position — one for Daemon’s, one for Rhaenyra’s. Daemon had easily chosen Ser Harwin Strong. He had been an excellent leader of the City Watch when Daemon had been away fighting battles, and the men still spoke fondly of him.

Daemon respected anyone who could succeed in such a position — for it was the only political role he himself had truly thrived in. And he would not take advisement from someone he did not respect. 

Rhaenyra could not find someone in court she wished to rise to such a rank. But she did have someone in mind. 

Mysaria knew more about Kings Landing and the seven realms than anyone else, who was better to guide her in her rule? 

And she knew from experience that Mysaria had good hands. 

…

She didn’t find the duties as Queen as strenuous as she was expecting — she easily accomplished what she needed to each day, while still having time for her children and husband. 

She was a bit embarrassed that the rearranging of the King’s chambers was so high on her list of priorities. It wasn’t that she was eager to remove all traces of her father from the palace, or from her life. But she didn’t want reminders of him in the rooms she shared with her husband. 

When she saw this room, she saw the space her father declined in. She saw the bed and thought of the women who had taken her mothers place in it. It wasn’t a place of happy memories, not for her. Likely not for her father, either, she mused. 

So she had ordered for different tapestries to be hung, a new mattress to be stuffed, and fresh cushions in lighter colors. The only order that had saddened her slightly, was requesting the removal of his dioramas. 

She wondered if her father was so fond of them because they were something he could solely control. In a way he had never controlled Kings Landing, or his council, or his brother, or her. She knew it had brought him happiness in some way, and disposing of it — even in his death, seemed cruel. 

It would be put in a room near the nursery for the children. Perhaps his namesake would have a similar fondness for it, and it was well sized for a child if not intended to be a toy. 

The changes were made quickly — all the servants eager to please their new queen and king. Rhaenyra had left her attendants at Dragonstone, where many had developed lives and friendships of their own. As queen she was of a new caliber, and any servants she was previously in acquaintance with would now serve her children.

For her children were here, also. 

The keep in Kings Landing was massive, but for the first time she thought it felt full. Full of the happiness and laughter it hadn’t seen in years. It seemed to lighten up the dreary rooms, and all the courtiers and guards' spirits. 

She realized that maybe she didn’t love Dragonstone because it was the birthplace of Targaryen’s. Maybe she loved it because it was the birthplace of her family. And now with her family in a new place, alongside her, she felt just as at home. 

She did miss her half siblings. Aemond hadn’t regretted his actions on that day, he swore it to her. But the actions still plagued him. It was a difficult thing he had done, when he was put in a difficult position. 

Still, from Helaena’s letters it seemed they were doing well at Dragonstone. Rhaenyra loved the Keep too much to leave it empty, and she hoped it could offer the young match some of the freedom it had provided her throughout the years. 

Helaena and Aemond had lived their entire life under Alicent’s rule, under the eyes of Kings Landing. If anyone deserved a chance to experience freedom, it was them. 

She knew one day her son would inherit  Dragonstone, and perhaps want to raise his family there. But until then, it should stay occupied by dragons — by Targaryen’s, and Helaena and Aemond had truly proved themselves as such. Even Daemon had to admit that. 

She would think nothing but fond thoughts of her life in Dragonstone, but she was content here, too. How could she not be, when she had her five sons, and four of their matches in residence?

 There were over a dozen dragons in the dragon pit — which had been turned into a shelter, with the grounds they had to roam massively expanded. They were allowed to ride freely now, without riders, something the people of Kings Landing had been terrified by — but grown oddly accustomed to in the few short months that had passed. 

They kept on keepers to feed the beasts and maintain their mounts, but little else. Training was up to the Targaryen’s now, and Rhaenyra hoped one of her sons — as they all had an affinity for the beasts — would take up their care as their role in court, instead of just a pastime. But they were young yet, still finding their place in this life, and she would not rush them. 

She had to savor the years she had remaining with her eldest boys, before they made their own nests with their dragons and matches at Dragonstone and Driftmark. 

But a part of her was also eager to see them build their own families. Have their own heirs. And she knew they were eager for it too, eager to grow up, eager to wed. Her eldest sons were inseparable from Baela and Rhaena, their matches. They were always riding and flirting and blushing around each other, hopelessly fond of one another but not sure how to express it. 

It was only a matter of time though, soon they would figure it out. 

She just hoped they kept it contained to their rooms. Or uninhabited locations. Or out of the court's sight, at least until they were wed! As long as they were as subtle as she and Daemon had been, she would not complain of it. 

Perhaps she wished they would be slightly more subtle. She could still fondly recall the night a slightly drunk Daemon visited her chambers. The next morning neither of her guards could look her in the eye! It wasn’t lost on her that they were both soon replaced, with her sworn shield moving to a higher rank. 

The replacements had been less familiar with her, and thus less embarrassed. They had traveled with them to Dragonstone and had quickly grown used to their exploits. All their staff had, truly. They were somewhat insatiable after they first wed and not always the best about locking — or closing — doors. 

It was different here, though. She was pretty sure when they were in residence at Kings Landing, the guards drew straws to see who would have to stand outside their chambers. There were different guards every time, and they always looked vaguely flushed when they set their eyes on her and her husband the morning after. 

She thought it had been years, perhaps decades, since cries of pleasure had been a common sound in the palace. 

But now that she was Queen, and Daemon was King, they would inherit the men who guarded the Queen and King before them. 

She hoped they were not easy to blush. 

Because once the changes to the chambers were complete, she planned on thoroughly testing them. 

For she took her duties seriously, and she had many. She was a wife. A mother. A dragon rider. And now, a queen. But she thought…perhaps all of it paled in comparison to her role as Daemon’s match.

130AC 

It was a lovely autumn day, winds swirling with falling leaves and the air beginning to cool. This was Daemon’s favorite season, and had been ever since Rhaenyra’s birth. It was the season she came into existence, the season she became old enough to kiss, the season she became old enough to wed. 

He wasn’t sure you could feel gratitude for a time of year, but he was certainly grateful for Rhaenyra’s existence. 

It had been more than three decades now, since she was born. And for the entire time she had remained the most important thing to him, as he was certain she always would. He had felt something missing before she was born. Felt restless, and as if his life lacked something despite being a spoiled prince by all accounts. 

He didn’t know what he needed, or wanted, but he found it all in her. 

He had always loved his family — but the love for his brother and father was different. Even the love he had for his children was different. It had to be, for one day he would leave them behind, and they would have to continue living.  But Rhaenyra…their love was a fire. It was a flame that would never flicker out, not until death. Even so many years later, it seemed to burn brighter every time they touched. 

And they touched often. 

They were perhaps not quite as ravenous for each other as they had been in youth, their roles as Queen and King demanding a certain amount of time they previously devoted to each other. They were devoted parents, too, though soon two of their children would be moving to other Keeps, with their own matches, and starting their own families. 

Funny, how he once thought he was merely a second son. How he would be forced to live an insignificant life, and live as a knight and not a king. But now, he was both. Now he was more than that — he was a father and husband, and he strived to be good at that.

He strived to be good at everything, a leftover trait from his birth — his default position as being second best required him to fight his brother for first. It created a need for competition that was still ingrained in him today. 

He used to hate it, the feeling that he constantly had to prove himself to others. 

But he realized now, he had only been trying to prove something to himself. 

He would not regret the years spent under that feelings shadow, for it pushed him to be a better man. A better husband. A better dragonrider. A better father. A better king. 

But he knew that none of those roles were as significant as being Rhaenyra’s match. 

He no longer felt restless in Kings Landing, but his duties for the day were done. Which meant his wife’s duties would have been finished long ago. It was a nice day, perhaps they could go for a flight — ride their dragons, and then each other. 

He may have had decades of memories of her, but he would never tire of her. 

Death was inescapable, he had seen enough of it to know that. But he also knew they would be together again. 

In this life, they were dragons in spirit but not in form. 

And in another, they would be both. 

They would fly together, and love each other, as only matches can.

As only dragons can.

For it was the Targaryen way. 

…

END