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Chapter Text

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“....the North, well past the Vale and Riverlands, believe that their innumerable Gods decreed that no one should walk the world alone.
Mankind should be given a partner and, through the seal branded to their skin, they would know peace from their constant rumblings for war and battle. Of course, those who follow the Seven believe the Maiden wished to bring humans “eternal love” and conspired to bring about soul brands. Others still believe the brand to be nothing but a mark, a sign of adulthood and maturity.
Regardless of its origin the “soulbrand” will eventually appear on every person at some point, fully formed and bearing signs…”

Myths & Legends of Soulmates
Written & Illustrated By Grand Maester Gawen
During The Reign of Aenys I Targaryen
{Completed Later By Archmaester Toran
During The Reign Of Jaehaerys I Targaryen}  

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Rhaenyra was an easy baby by comparison to most of those who grew up at Court. As a princess though she minded little discomfort, especially the cold, and slept fretfully. Her first few months often saw more than a few handmaids, minders and wet nurses burst into tears at her constant crying and nightly terrors. 

When Daemon returned to court, a year after the birth of the Princess, her room fell silent for the first time in months. Servants had watched with fear as the Prince drew the babe into his arms only to gape with shock as she quickly fell to sleep - lured there by his songs and stories, and whispering soft things, that eased her terrible crying and scared away the demons that seemed to plague her. 

Rhaenyra only dimly remembers Daemon singing to her at night. 

Her father would grow jealous and her mother would churn with distaste at the songs he would sing and the stories he would tell, but there wasn’t a lot anyone could do when the little princess would spend whole days crying until someone finally sent for the Prince. 

To his credit he came every night, knowing laughter in his eyes and a soothing word on his lips. At one point it just became routine for him to arrive right before bed - so much so that guests and lords alike knew not to even try to seek him out around the princess’ bedtime. 

Her nightgowns even at just five were always too long, she preferred it, demanded it even, as much as a royal child can demand anything.

They were always hung with white pearls and green and blue gems, lined with threads of gold, black, and red, made from the finest, softest pieces of silk, lace, and satin. 

“She should have more pinks and purples, yellow even,” Rhaenyra remembers her mother saying, “She’s still just a baby.” 

At that point, even her father had grudgingly agreed with his daughter’s desires, “But a dragon nonetheless.” 

Daemon would walk the child around her room, under the watchful eye of the girl’s Septa, the end of Rhaenyra’s gown or robe slung over his shoulder. He would tell her about Old Valyria - brave and beautiful Queens and ladies and handsome, powerful knights and Kings. He told her about his father and his mother, the bravery and fearlessness of House Targaryen. He’d tell her about her favorite - Princess Rhaenys, about her beauty and power, the wisdom of her sister, and the strength of her husband-brother. 

And then he’d kiss her cheek and send her to sleep, her hand wrapped tightly in his. 

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Rhaenyra has had no need for anyone beyond her mother, her father, and her uncle, for years.

Her father teaches her to rule, her mother teaches her strength and her uncle is her world. 

Seven years pass slowly, gently by. 

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"Oh, sweet summer child. What do you know of fear?"

Excerpt taken from
"The Life & Reign Of Bran I the Wise"
By Grand Maester Samwell 
est. 360 A.C.

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Then one day when the flowers are open and the sun is high in the sky there’s a strange warming sensation in her chest, right above her heart. When the burn grows too hot for even her to stand she runs from her Septa and to her mother, crying and sobbing from the ache. 

“Burns,” she thinks, speechless at the thought, fainting in the Queen’s arms, “I’m burning. ” 

There is an obvious feeling of uneasiness among the men and women at court.

Rhaenyra is young - too young, some might say. 

The average age is sixteen, and the youngest, that they know of, is fourteen. 

Rhaenyra is only twelve. 

But the brand is what stirs discontent among the nobles.

A single red dragon with a golden crown and a dark sword in its talons. 

The mark of a Targaryen, which would be fine, if it wasn’t the exact brand of her Uncle Daemon, who had collapsed seconds after the Princess, the blaze on his chest carved into his skin.

As a child though, Rhaenyra doesn’t pay things like “the will of the Gods” or soulmarks much attention; her uncle is with her, and that's all that matters.

Her days are spent exploring The Red Keep, reading about Valyria and playing with her uncle, laughing when her momma calls him a rogue - she is content, if too intelligent and overly curious for her father’s lords. 

The burning eventually subsides and life returns to normal. 

Besides one thing, Daemon is not allowed to be alone with her anymore afterwards.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The day Rhaenyra receives her own mark, Daemon’s chest burns.

His mark had been empty for much of his life, just the outline of a sword, a crown, and a dragon - no color or burning. 

The flair of it though causes him to fall to his knees, clutching his chest, shocked at the pain, the blistering heat. 

He’s never felt so hot before - he feels blind from the pain. 

Some of the men pick him up from the sparing yard, yelling for the maester, for help. 

It’s only after that he finds out.

Daemon isn’t shocked and doesn’t try to be. 

Rhaenyra has been his other half since her birth.

She knew him better than anyone, cried when he cried. 

Laughed when he laughed. 

She was the light of his world, his favorite companion. 

His brother and his council are furious, irritable, and disagreeable. 

Not that that’s his problem. 

»»————-　⚜　————-««

“...most soulmarks arrive around the age of adulthood when it is believed that the souls are ready to be joined as one.
Intimacy is not always necessary, especially in cases where the parties might be young, or younger.
The youngest ever recorded age of a soul mark brand was during the time of Lord Toran Stark, Warden Of the North.
 The lord, Prince Mellaro Martell to the House of Dorne, was just fourteen and his soulmate was Lady Ryana Karstark - the youngest daughter of the Karstark family and a northern lady of almost twenty years.”

Myths & Legends of Soulmates
Written & Illustrated By Grand Maester Gawen
During The Reign of Aenys I Targaryen
{Completed Later By Archmaester Toran
During The Reign Of Jaehaerys I Targaryen} 

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In the weeks leading up to his departure, she remembers bouts of pain, where her bones felt cold.

The icy pain was always soothed when Daemon found her, or when she, him. 

Daemon kept the cold away.

He gave her a ring for her thirteenth birthday, a gold ring, inlaid with pearls and a wide red stone.

It was inscribed with, "Anogar se Perzys"

Blood & Fire.

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The day that he did leave though she remembers crying. 

She was young then, her face steadily growing hot with salt and frustration and pain, but old enough that she should have known better than to cry.

“Don’t cry, Rhaenyra,” her father tried to soothe, “Daemon will return soon.” 

She remembers crying even harder, her fists pressed against her eyes. 

“Calm the girl Daemon,” her father pressed. 

“What?” Uncle scoffed, “Se pirtir!?”  - "And lie?" 

But he bent down anyway, brushing back her hair, pulling at her hands, softly cooing and murmuring until her cries died down to hiccups and sniffles. 

“Shush, ñuha dārilaros, ” Daemon said, eyes storm violet, trying to hide his own displeasure, “Nyke'll māzigon arlī.”  - "Shush, my princess, I'll be back soon."

“But I don’t want you to leave!” She can’t help but sob, “Ñuha prūmia, it hurts.” - "My heart, it hurts." 

Daemon closed his eyes and pulled her to his chest, kissing the top of her head. 

“Aye, nyke gīmigon, dōna mēre,” he sighed, "Nyke'll return aderī, nyke kivio, and while I’m gone, you’ll ride Syrax, and have so much fun with your Septa and maids, and read all the books in the library.” 

"Yes, I know, sweet one, but I'll return soon, I promise." 

“It won’t be fun without you,” Rhaenyra said, face buried in his neck, “I don’t want to read or have fun, jaelan ao naejot umbagon!” - "I want you to stay!" 

She started to cry again and she remembers Daemon shaking, even as he held onto her. 

“Ñuha prūmia,” Rhaenyra cried. - "My heart." 

“My heart, you’re my heart and it’s hurting," slipping into the Common Tongue.  

There’s an intake of air behind her, she remembers, but she also remembers not bothering to care. 

They think Rhaenyra doesn't know but she's always known.

Since the day it blazed across her chest, since she first flew on a dragon, every night she falls asleep and sees his eyes. 

She knows.

She knows.

“Daemon,” her mother murmured, her voice filled with sadness but grim acceptance. 

He presses his lips firmly against her forehead this time, dry and chapped against her smooth skin. 

“I’ll see you soon, Little One.” 

Daemon turned and left her there - her still crying, him, shaking. 

»»————-　⚜　————-««

“Distance can affect the soul - it eats at the mark where soulmates meet and the effects have been known to cause actual pain.
The strength of the bond combined with long periods of distance can even be fatal, although it is unlikely that death will happen at once.
The most well-known case of this is the story of Ser Aleister of the Stormlands and Princess Meera Gardener...."

Myths & Legends of Soulmates
Written & Illustrated By Grand Maester Gawen
During The Reign of Aenys I Targaryen
{Completed Later By Archmaester Toran
During The Reign Of Jaehaerys I Targaryen}  

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Rhaenyra remembers nothing of the months afterward but nightmares and pain. 

The days, weeks, an entire year, slip like water through her hands.

The poppy they spoon feed her only makes it impossible for her to wake from her terrors, the death chill that overtook her the second she stepped out of the sun, or away from Syrax, began just a year and a half after Daemon leaves. 

She knows something is wrong, they give her powders that make her chest numb and her mouth sour.

Rhaenyra knows that her mother and the Maesters aren’t sure what to do. 

They suggest blankets, rest, and warmth and it all does nothing but make her head ache, and her body sweat.

But the cold never goes away. 

When Maester Mellos asks her what hurts, where is the pain, the cold, she only dimly remembers pointing to her brand. 

“My heart,” she murmured, cupping her hands over the dragon, pulsing with fear, “Ñuha prūmia.” - "My heart."

»»————-　⚜　————-««

How do they expect a body to beat with no heart?
My body burns cold, my soul is afraid.
Where has the fire gone? 

The Diary of Rhaenyra Targaryen

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Her mother and father fight bitterly, enough so that there seems to be an undeniable crack between the both. 

Just before the cold comes for her completely. 

“I told you to send him away to Dragonstone so that Rhaenyra could mature and so that she could grow up, just until she was of age,” her mother hisses, in front of council members, lords and ladies both, “Not deny him completely!”

“I did it to protect our daughter!” the King shouts, indignant and filled with rage.

Aemma laughs, a hard, cold sound, and leaves. 

"You think I don't know what Hightower hisses into your ear and you force our daughter to pay for it every day!" 

Rhaenyra has never seen her mother so angry or her father so afraid, so unsure. 

And, for weeks, her mother and father do not speak.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

It’s been two years since Daemon left and Rhaenyra is dying.

She knows it.

Her body cannot sustain the loss of fire and there are days when she doesn’t bother to leave her room.

She takes to sleeping on the chaise on her balcony where the Sun can chase away the cold.

But even that starts to lose its effect. 

Her body is covered in blankets, Syrax’s tale, and yet she grows colder by the day. 

A few more months pass while Rhaenyra’s heart just continues to grow cold and, in the end, not even her beloved dragon can keep it away. 

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"You did this to yourself, Daemon.
You agreed to this by going.
The Maester tells me she will live and Otto assures me this is just a tantrum. 
You gave her the ring, practically proposing a betrothal, what did you expect?!
Stay with your wife.
Stop trying to escape and stop trying to write to Rhaenyra!
Stay away from King's Landing!"

Letter Between King Viserys I and His Brother, Daemon Targaryen
Taken From "A King's Brother" by Archmaester Gyldayn

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Daemon had not known he was being poisoned until he stopped eating. 

He’d grown sicker and sicker, his soul brand growing numb and bitter.

The cord that connected him to his niece hadn’t snapped, so she wasn’t dead and it hadn’t flared with pain or desire, it was simply gone. 

After years of being alone, his mark bare and unblistered, he knew the feeling of being alone.

And Rhaenyra is painfully alone. 

Woman's Bane, the Lordly Man’s poison, that woman finally tells him.  

Sprinkled over every food and, probably, in every drink - meant to numb him to his soul. 

But Woman's Bane in strong amounts could poison the entire soul, and in this case, the Princess as well. 

Daemon wondered if Otto had ever thought to mention that to his brother when he'd suggested it to Daemon's Bronze Bitch and the King.

So when Aemma wrote pleading with him to return, that Rhaenyra cried and begged after him, he had done all he could to escape.

In her sixteenth year though he was surprised when a missive arrives from the King himself.

His brother asking him to return.

Come at once.

Daemon had raced across Westeros, not even bothering to stop, trading horse after horse to maintain his pace. 

Until he’d finally arrived, covered in mud, sweat, and exhausted, in King’s Landing. 

If they could see me now, Daemon can’t help but think, the Rogue Prince, brought to his knees by a little girl.

It was made worse when he realized he had no desire to stand upright again. 

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“There’s a story among the smallfolk. Most Maesters believe it to be naught but myth.
The closer a mark is to your heart, the stronger the love - the stronger the bond.
There has been some evidence that suggests this but it is unknown what the exact cause is.
Maester Taum writes that it might be a side effect of emotion and expectation but…”

Myths & Legends of Soulmates
Written & Illustrated By Grand Maester Gawen
During The Reign of Aenys I Targaryen
{Completed Later By Archmaester Toran
During The Reign Of Jaehaerys I Targaryen}  

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Daemon appears a week after the Sun stops warming her, not even bothering to meet with the King or stay long with the Queen.

He doesn’t even bother to undress, still covered in dirt and wind from the ride.

He’s across the castle and to her rooms easily, not even out of breath. 

“Rhaenyra?” Daemon yells, not even bothering to knock.

A septa he doesn’t recognize is standing on the balcony, a maid by her side. 

He hurries through the room, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.

She’s there, covered in a mound of blankets, surrounded by Syrax. 

Rhaenyra is pale - too pale - eyes surrounded by red and her mouth, white and dry. 

“Daemon,” she sighs, softly, trying to push away the blankets. 

He ignores her fretful struggling and just pulls them tighter around her. Slipping down beside her he pulls her into his arms, keeping the blankets tucked around her chilled form. 

She sighs again, as if she’s just had a drink of water after days of thirst, “Daemon.” 

Rhaenyra says nothing for a moment, eyes still closed.

He knows Viserys is there, knows Aemma is there too, and the Maester and a few lords, even that bastard Otto, but he doesn’t turn away, still watching her, still holding her. 

“I’m dying,” she says. 

There’s an outbreak of gasps from behind him, someone has begun to cry. 

Daemon swears and grabs her face, holding it in his palm, “Says who?” 

“Nyke gīmigon ,” Rhaenyra says sternly. - "I know." 

Her Valyrian is thick and twisted between it and the Common Tongue. 

“My fire has gone and my heart has left me,” she mournfully whispers to him, and in Valyrian she says, “Nyke ōdrikagon” - "I hurt." 

“She’s been delirious for most of the morning, Your Grace,” the maid whispers to Viserys, voice quivering with tears, “She keeps saying she saw a red dragon flying in her dreams but…but that it wouldn’t get here fast enough.” 

Daemon feels the surge of anger, intermingled with fear and frustration. 

Rhaenyra is not going to die. 

He grabs her face, kisses her face, and strokes her hair.

“Open your eyes, Rhaenyra,” he murmured into her cheek, “Kostilus, open aōha laesi.” - "Please, open your eyes."

Her chest is bare save the soulmark on her skin and he presses his palm against the fading dragon. 

For a moment nothing happens and Daemon wonders if he should be prepared to follow after her when Rhaenyra screams, eyes flying open, fighting and pulling at him in equal measure. More than the black of a dragon, a mix of his Caraxes, her Syrax, more than the yellow of a jewel-encrusted crown, more than the silver of his Dark Sister, are carved into her skin and he hisses at his own pain, still holding onto her. 

There’s a flurry of movement behind him, someone striding towards them-

“Stay back!” he orders, voice harsh and terrible.

When the heat subsides and Rhaenyra has curled into him, he can barely breathe from the pain, but he forces himself to look.

He has to look. 

Their marks are perfectly mirrored.

The sigil of their house, but the dragon is black. It holds Dark Sister and a jasmine flower.

The middle dragon head bears a golden crown covered in jewels, the head on the top wears a crown of fire, and the one on the bottom, a crown of ice.

He collapses then too from the pain, his hand still against her soul. 

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"The Gods gave us a soulmate for love, to bless us and give us strength.
And one day, when you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone who's worthy of you.
With someone who's brave and gentle and strong, with a man made just for you."

Excerpt From "A Compilation of Folktales & Stories Of Westeros"
The Queen Of Winter
By: Queen Viera Doran 
est. 320 A.C.

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When Rhaenyra awakens she is clothed in a simple, white nightgown, covered in roaring silver dragons.

She’s in her bed for the first time in ages and she can’t help but curl even more under the covers, thankful the cold is gone. 

Someone murmurs something and she finds herself trying to fall asleep again.

She’d had the most amazing dream.

The cold was gone, the fire was back and Daemon was here.

Daemon!

She sat up so fast her head spun, pushing away the covers and the heavy arm around her waist. 

“Careful Princess,” Alys says, voice gentle and pleading, “You’ll get sick.” 

Rhaenyra already feels sick, but she can't find the strength to care!? 

“Where’s my Dae-,” she coughs, throat burning and dry, face growing red, “Where’s my Uncle?”

Alys blushes, pointing behind her. 

Rhaenyra’s breath catches in her throat, her lips quivering as she turns.

He’s laying serenely across her bed, a hand wrapped in her gown. She wants to wake him, hug him and talk with him but she also just wants to stare at him too. To stare at the wide expanse of his chest, the arch of his throat, his high cheekbones.

She runs a hand up his arm, paying special attention to the scars and cuts, and up to his face, cupping her hand around his chin.

Rhaenyra strokes his cheek with her thumb, smiling through her teary eyes when he murmurs, purrs almost, in contentment, lazily grabbing her hand. 

“My lady-”

“That will be all Alys, thank you,” Rhaenyra says, dismissing her maid. 

Her maid hesitates, just for a moment, before leaving, the door shutting with a soft thud. 

She shouldn’t while he’s sleeping but she leans down anyway, pressing her lips to his. 

They’re not kissing, it’s more like a brush of skin against skin, but Rhaenyra’s eyes flutter closed. 

When she does open her eyes she can’t help but pull back in shock, her face red and hot. 

Daemon’s eyes stare at her, filled with love, relief. 

“Dōna mēre,” he says, “Ao glaesagon.” - "Sweet one, you live." 

“Ao māstan arlī syt nyke," she whispered, tears falling “Ñuha prūmia.” - "You came back for me, my heart."

"Va moriot," Daemon whispers back, "nyke kivio." - "Always, I promise." 

His hands are buried in her hair, his face in her shoulder, she’s crying against him, her body shaking with grief and relief. 

And she just repeats it, over and over, “Ñuha prūmia.” 

My heart.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Chapter Text

Ñuha Perzys

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

Nyke tepagon ao ñuha egros
nyke tepagon ao ñuha pāletilla
nyke tepagon ao nykēla isse mirre ra
nyke tepagon ao nykēla isse mirre ra
iksan zȳhon, se issa ñuhon
iksan zȳhon, se issa ñuhon
Nyke seal these lanta souls, naejot mēre.  

“Rites and Acts of The Valyrians" 
by Queen Alysanne Targaryen

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

99 A.C.

There is a small patch of grass in the center of a maze that is behind the Red Keep. To leave the Godswood is to reenter the castle - to the safety of stone walls, lush carpets, and drapery, to servants and food and the intrigue of Court, and all of the men and women who live there - to enter the twisting walls of the Dragon Maze, it is said, is to be lost. In the almost hundred years since the Targaryens first stepped foot here, the maze has grown wild and largely unkept, except for the entrance, which is guarded by the head of a dragon. 

Before her untimely death at the hands of her captors and before Rhaenys birthed Aenys and the future of Westeros began to take shape, the Young Queen placed a sword in front of a tree and declared this, theirs and that the man who would be known as Aegon the Conqueror, and the woman, the dragon rider, Queen Visenya, as hers and hers alone.

Old family stories, kept secret from most of the Seven Kingdoms, tell of Rhaeny’s death, and how the loss of their soulmate caused tension and growing hostility between Visenya and Aegon. How, without her the two were broken - kept alive only for their mutual dislike for one another. The center of the Dragon Maze has been where every Targaryen, who took a Targaryen, has been wed - in the mostly forgotten traditions, rites, and the last, of Old Valyria. 

It is where Daemon sleeps to escape the screaming of the girl-princess who seems content to torture them all with her wailing and fits. 

At one point he had thought to go, if anything, to add his own yelling to the mix, to release some of his constant frustration, but he has stayed well away since he’d found Aemma sick in her daughter’s chambers. It was believed by the Maester that she was, once again, pregnant. Daemon had thought to press Viserys, to convince him to let the poor woman alone for the Seven’s sake - it’d only been a month since the loss of the last - but the Queen was determined, stubborn, and would hear none of Daemon’s protests or even give him leave to voice his concerns. 

“Viserys’ dreams will kill us all,” he’d thought wearily, watching her turn a nasty shade of green, and sick into a grotesque and flamboyantly painted bowel, “But Aemma’s honor will get her to the grave even faster.”

Daemon is so deep in the Dragon Maze he should be able to hear nothing but the chirping of birds, who have found the center, even if others haven’t, but there is an explicable need to return to the castle, to calm the crying Princess.

“She thinks to take my throne,” he thought, glaring at the sky, “And now she wishes for my sleep beside.” 

He turns to his side, away from the castle, but there’s a bellow he can hear, a loud screech of agitation, even from the maze, and he’s up and heading for the exit before he has much say in the matter. 

“The path is hard for those not used to the slope of the walls, Daemon,” his father murmured, lessons from childhood, “Let your blood be your guide.” 

The crying grows, somehow, as he reaches the high walls of the Red Keep. There is a flurry of servants who bow low and a flurry of lords and ladies who are unsure if they should but do so anyway. There’s been an almost tenuous peace here since the birth of Princess Rhaenyra. Besides that wailing and screaming, everyone seems to have entered an uneasy agreement

“The Queen can give birth,” everyone murmurs in their cups, behind greedy lips and claw-like hands, “It’s just a matter of if it will live.”  

Until the Gods have decided to gift his brother with the precious heir he dreams of so vividly, most of these bastards will still be cozying up to Daemon, trying to peck at his waning power until a fresh carcass comes along. 

A girl with raw eyes and a face covered in tears runs from the source of the crying, not even bothering to bow. Daemon dodges her, seeing her pallid face, covered in sweat, tears, and something suspicious - vomit, he thinks - on the front of her dress and around her neck and mouth. The four girls who remain in the princess’ room are close to tears, the youngest, who must be only seven, is the one holding her, rocking her up and down. 

“In the name of the Stranger,” he yelled, “are you torturing the thing!?” 

Daemon grabs the child, more out of impatience, and kind of pulls back when she abruptly stops crying - her tiny face eerily sweet and red. His eyes flicker to the movement out of the corner of his eye - both amazed and terrified, the women drift, almost unconsciously towards one another, staring at him with awe. 

He holds the child, watching her gurgle at him with curiosity. 

She begins to tear up so he does the first thing he can think of - what do babies really like anyway? 

There’s many men get store of treasure

yet they live like very slaves:

In this world they have no pleasure

the more they have, they crave.

Hang such greedy-minded misers,

that will ne’r contented be.

Daemon would never tell anyone that he had the voice of a maid but the babe didn’t seem to mind the gravel-like quality of it, smiling widely at him, purple eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“Ah,” he said, a teasing tilt in his voice, "Ao rattan bony, naughty dārilaros?"  

Rhaenyra squealed as if she could understand him, her tiny fists, tapping him lightly on the chin. The child seemed fascinated with the small bit of stubble he’d grown, laughing at the feeling against her soft skin.  She pulled on his face, rubbing her cheek against his, cooing at him, in a weird kind of babble - mimicking him, he realized. 

“Ao,” she gurgled at him, soft cheek warm against his jaw. 

“Iksā iā strange, byka run,” he murmured softly, staring at her with undisguised curiosity.

There was a clatter from the hall, his brother bursting in, his poor, ugly crown askew. 

“Is the child-?”

His brother and his retinue seem more shocked - which, to be fair, is better considering the nursemaids are still staring at him in abject horror. 

“Daemon?” 

“Emagon ao taken torturing dārilaros, uēpkta lēkia?"  he says, a crooked smile on his face, “She just needed someone to sing to her.”

Viserys takes the Princess and, even though it irks him, Daemon hands her off readily enough. 

It’s almost like the sun has gone.

And the child's sounds of anguish have returned. 

They’re, somehow, louder now, echoing through the pattered halls and Daemon almost wants to laugh at the way his brother holds his daughter. 

Almost like he is having to figure out sword fighting all over again.

Daemon rolls his eyes as Rhaenyra continues to cry, pushing herself away from a nervous Viserys and making grabbing motions at her Uncle.

“Go back to your books, brother,” he says, slipping into an ugly brown chair, covered in even uglier paintings and swirls, and holds his arms out for the babe.

“The little princess and I will wait until the Queen is available.” 

He looks at Daemon with a sense of relief, trying to mask it with concern, and slips the child into his brother’s arms, watching as he rocks Rhaenyra and whispers Valyrian to her. 

The King need not worry.

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

Not yet anyway. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

“King Aegon Targaryen, Known as the Dragon and the Conqueror, is the only known man to bear two soul brands, on either side of his chest.
The smallfolk believe that King Aegon was so powerful the Gods made him three - his sister-wives, the Queens, Visenya, and Rhaenys.
It is unknown exactly why but we do have drawings of what the brands looked like, particularly during the later half of his reign.
Both were the heads of a dragon, one with a rose and crown, the other with lavender and a sword.
The Queen’s soulbrands were never recorded by the Maesters of Aegon’s time
and it is unknown which represents Queen Visenya or Queen Rhaenys.”

Myths & Legends of Soulmates
Written & Illustrated By Grand Maester Gawen
During The Reign of Aenys I Targaryen
{Completed Later By Archmaester Toran
During The Reign Of Jaehaerys I Targaryen}  

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

116 A.C.

The dream falls away like a heavy cloak and the Sun is falling warmly against the stone floor when Daemon finally awakens. His head is against Rhaenyra’s chest, her fingers buried in his hair. Her breathing is uneven and stilted. Rhaenyra is better than she was yesterday, when she was so cold he’d wondered, but not even a dragon can easily cope with the remnants of poison and soul sickness. 

Daemon pulls her down, shuffling her, unable to keep himself from smiling when she groans in displeasure, her soft mouth curved into a frown of irritation. He brushes a finger over the softness of her cheek, apple-like, that looks gorgeous dusted pink but, with her sickness, only appears to have made her feverish and uncomfortable.

Rhaenyra had cried for what felt like hours against Daemon’s chest, her hands clutching him with fearful dread, before she finally collapsed into sleep, releasing a shuddering breath that made his heart twist painfully in his chest. 

Daemon would not leave her, would never her side again, but as long as Otto remains, she is threatened, as long as that Council, vipers for a feast remain, she will never be safe - his hands, even now, couldn’t stop touching her, holding her to his chest. And when Daemon finally does slip from beneath the heavy blankets, his mark, still fresh and red, stings, at his actions.

Calling for a maid, he grabs the cloak he’d worn on his journey and lays it over Rhaenyra's tired form, muddy and torn as it is. 

The maid from yesterday hadn’t gone too far. 

She sends another servant for his armor, still in his room, and helps him undress, her mouth firm. 

“Do you worry for your mistress while I’m here?’ he asks, tone biting and hot with irritation. 

Her eyes had been moving quickly from her task to the still sleeping Rhaenyra, biting her lip whenever the Princess so much as twitched or moved. 

The maid, obviously surprised he’d spoken to her, slowly shakes her head.

“No, Your Grace,” she said, “I believe this is the first time in years that I have not worried for the princess.” 

Daemon’s eyes narrowed at her, watching her. 

He bathes quickly in the washroom that is connected to the Princess's chambers, combing out his hair, and washing away the dirt that clung to his skin. 

When he finishes the maid returns, bringing with her his armor and Dark Sister. 

“That is my battle armor,” Daemon said, brow furrowed.

“Aye, Your Grace,” she replied. 

It was out of the norm for a servant to help him dress in it but he eventually acquiesced, watching her word quickly and efficiently. 

His armor was, by rule and command, black and there was always a red dragon, the sigil of his house and name. But this armor was what he’d used in combat, to cut down his enemies and enemies to the throne. 

Maybe he’d finally be allowed to cut Otto’s cunty head off. 

Dark Sister is at his hip when he starts for the door, he’d never leave if he told Rhaenyra goodbye, when he sees the small dressing table, carved with dragons in flight and a small, thin burst of fire.

“My Prince?” 

He wanders towards the table, opening the top drawer, and searching. 

“My Prince?” 

“Really?” Daemon says, cross, “Is that all you know how to say?” 

“It’s here,” the maid replies, her voice stern. 

Daemon turns, eyes narrowed, ready to ask how she even knows what he’s looking for when he sees the chain in her hands. The girl is holding the ring on a thin, silver chain, longer than most, but not so impractical he can’t wear it and fight. 

“The Princess wished for me to give it to you if…” she trailed off.

Daemon snatches it from her, clasping it around his neck - his gaze follows the maids, towards the sleeping Rhaenyra.

His own eyes flicker over her, the arch of her neck, the soft, bright silver of her hair. 

“How long have you been serving the Princess?” he asks. 

“Since she was but a babe, My Prince,” she replied, hands clasped in front of her. 

Daemon, still watching Rhaenyra, asked, “And you are loyal to her?” 

“She is the Princess,” she said, simply. 

But there was a threat in the girl’s stern brown eyes, a look of fierce protection and devotion. 

Daemon nodded, more to himself than her, “Then you will stay with her, keep her here until I return.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“What is your name?” 

“Alys,” she answered, “Lady Alys Egan, Your Grace” 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

By Day or Night

Official Motto Of House Egen

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

Daemon sits at the small council table in Otto’s seat, tearing the tip of his dagger into the soft, pretty wood. 

Otto’s face isn’t so soft or pretty, he’ll have to use more force. 

When the doors to the Small Council room fall open Daemon stands for his brother and eyes Hightower with all the venom he can muster, wondering if that soft little thing knows how quickly Daemon could pluck his head off his shoulder. 

Leave the conniving brain that hurt Rhaenyra to the crows.

“Daemon,” Viserys said, a soft word of relief, “How are you? How’s-“

“Fine,” he said, cold, short, “No thanks to you.”

That draws them all short for a moment before Otto begins to roar about “manners” and “respect.” 

His mother, although it might surprise the leech, taught Daemon respect, he just has none for this weasley, conniving, Small Council, and, by extension, his idiot older brother - King or not.

The Hand makes a move to come closer and gulps at the point of Dark Sister suddenly against his throat, the edge of the blade catching the bright sunlight.

“It would be my pleasure to empty your brains on this stone, Hightower,” Daemon says softly, with the practiced ease of ordering a glass of wine, “I need no other reason.”  

“Daemon!” Viserys barked. 

Daemon’s eyes flashed to his brother, glaring at him. 

But he did lower his sword.

“Get out,” the King finally said. 

“Your Grace-” Otto implored.

“Go!”

The rats scramble out of the room and through the door, back to their dark, dank hiding places - waiting to feast on Viersey’s weak body again. Viserys sits, watching for a moment, not even bothering to comment on him carving up the Small Council table. Rolling his eyes at the words he’s carved.

“Daemon…” Viserys trailed off, rubbing his forehead. 

“So, do anything else while I was banished to the Vale?” Daemon asked, leaning back, unable to help the cruel smile that split his lips, “Besides poisoning me, besides almost killing Rhaenyra-?“

“We talked about this Daemon-“

“No, I believe your exact words were, “I command you!”  

“Is that not my right? As King?” Viserys yelled, standing “To command you!?” 

“Not when it hurts Rhaenyra!” Daemon yelled back, standing too.

They stare at each other, before finally sitting - they’ll both lie later about who sat first. 

“He’s within his rights to challenge you Daemon,” the King says, watching him with a familiar disapproving eye.

Daemon shrugs, waving away Visery's concerns, “Tell him to send a raven.”

There’s another beat of silence when they both wonder what to say - how to say what they need to, how to avoid what they don’t. 

“Otto-“

“Yes, I know everything that pig did-“

“It went beyond Otto, Daemon,” Viserys sighed, “I knew your obsession was growing-“

“Obsession-?”

Viserys held up his hand and Daemon slowly sat back, watching his brother critically.

“That was the wrong word,” the King finally whispered, soft, “I knew- I saw, how strong your bond was becoming. I saw it in my dreams. That in every life, dragon or no, Rhaenyra would choose you, but in every life you-”

“I did not choose Rhaenyra?” Daemon says with a sneer on his lips.

The thought was inconceivable, almost laughable.

He knew about Viserys’ dreams - his prophecies were strange and perplexing things to Daemon, he never did fully understand them. Only that Viserys saw things, and so did Rhaenyra, and sometimes the things they saw scared them more than anything Daemon had seen in his entire life. 

“Not in every one,” Viserys replied, trying to be gentle.

“You must have drunk too much ale,” Daemon said, trying to laugh.

But the sound got caught in his mouth and he ran his tongue against his teeth, nervous, disgusting, and heavy. 

“No, no the Gods showed me those dreams quite clearly,” Viserys said, weary, “In one, you fell in love with the wrong woman, she murdered our entire house, in another you fell off of Crixas and swam to safety, leaving your children and Rhaenyra to-”

“Stop!” Daemon hissed, hands cupping his ears. 

The insane idea had turned loathsome in his mouth and he felt as though he’d fallen asleep with wine rotting on his teeth - it wasn’t funny anymore.

Viserys did stop, watching his brother's obvious agony. 

“I’m sorry I kept you from her, I’m sorry that…that I almost kil– that I hurt Rhaenyra, Daemon,” the King said, “I decided out of fear and she paid the price for it. You both did.” 

Daemon was crying, unable to keep the hot tears buried in his eyes, but Viserys kept his gaze turned away, even as he continued to speak. 

“You will marry, in a year and a half, by then the Princess will be of age and you will remain my heir if…”

“If?” Daemon pressed, eyes red.

“Aemma cannot have any more children - this will be the last, I-” Viserys shook his head, as if shooing away a terrible thought, “I will not allow it, I cannot allow it.”

Daemon stared at him, his older old brother, wondering what he had dreamed to convince him to not have any more children, to not continue to try for the boy he so desperately wanted. 

“Was it-?” he finally asked, hesitant, remembering dreams and a maze, and Aemma’s sicked gaze.

“She died,” Viserys said, “I could feel it here, even away that accursed dream, I saw it, and I could feel it.” 

The King moved aside his loose shirt and Daemon felt his face grow pale at the sight of his brother’s brand - the edges leeched of color and design. 

The Gods were crueler than most, even the kindest. 

To give you a brand, a match, to carve the very essence of your soul into your skin. 

It was common knowledge that, if either of the pair died, they stole the color away again. 

Leeching though, that was an affront, a curse. 

He wondered what Viserys had done to offend the Gods so - what had he done in the years since he’d sent Daemon away? 

Daemon makes a sign over his chest, over his mark, putting his thumb between his middle and ringer finger, a gesture meant to ward off evil. 

His brother seemed unsurprised and quickly hid it away again, holding the loose fabric against his chest. 

“Go to Rhaenyra,” Viserys said, standing, “She should not awaken knowing you are not there.” 

The younger brother tries to find something, anything to say, so his brother will not look so tired, so worn but he leaves, trying to ignore that the King, himself, is now the one crying.

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

He’d been headed back towards Rhaenyra when he’d switched direction and gone towards Lady Aemma’s solar. It had originally been the meeting place of his grandmother and the audiences she would hold when King Jaehaerys was indisposed. 

The Queen laid tired and pale against a long settee, apparently unsurprised that he’d showed up. 

“Leave us,” Aemma said, watching him, her head tilted to the side. 

She often did that when she was staring at a problem she considered difficult - not because his intelligent cousin couldn’t easily solve it but because she was unsure how the solution would be received. 

Her maid stood, bowed, and left, along with the other lady’s maids. 

Daemon fell into a chair across from her, smiling when she rolled her eyes at his manners.

He tipped a jug and poured them both a drink, watching as her face turned even greener from the smell.

When he went to take the glass Aemma glared at him and took a small sip, albeit slowly.

“So you did not leave her completely unprotected?” Daemon asked, watching her. 

The Queen sighed, shaking her head, and reluctantly handed back her cup, “House Egan has been loyal to my father’s house for years.” 

“Bringing the girl here to look after Rhaenyra was supposed to allow for a good match to be made between her and another lord, but Alys is devoted to her. It also helps that she’s trained very well in blade combat and also knows Valyrian,” she said and then eyed him critically, “But swords and a well-versed tongue do nothing against a poison.”

“That was your husband's doing,” he replied, downing her wine, “He sent me away.” 

The Queen rolled her eyes, “Yes, and you allowed him to do so.”

Daemon stared at her, breaking away first. 

It was true though, wasn’t it?

When Rhaenyra was thirteen, he’d known he’d have to leave. 

The bond was too strong, it was… overpowering. 

Not to fuck her but to protect her from imaginary shadows, from anything, everything.

It got to the point that he was draining under the burden he’d placed on himself - chafing under it.

It had been that way with all Targaryens, his own mother and father, his uncle and aunt, even the wise king had felt that pain, that overwhelming fear.

So when Viserys had first told Daemon he was considering sending him away he hadn’t put up too much of a fight. 

Because Daemon knew the one thing that everyone else did, that every single lord and lady would swear by.

He, the Rogue Prince, the Lord Of Silk, the jealous little brother, would never be good enough for her, not even if the Gods themselves said so, and, if the soulbrand was anything to go by, they did.

Aemma sat forward suddenly, grabbing his hand in hers, filled with a strength he had never seen before. 

“No more running, Daemon,” she said, firmly, “No more of this “woe-is-me” nonsense either. Do you love my daughter?”

He felt his mouth go dry, trying to think between those piercing eyes and that sharp gaze.

“Of course, I-”

“Then do your duty by her, by the family that you love so well, ” Aemma said, gaze turning soft, and then stone-like again, “No more silks, or whores, or shirking your duties to the Crown and the Realm, or stand aside and allow her to grieve and forget you as best she can.”  

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

Nyke dream zaldrīzoti isse se jēdar. 
Nyke ūndegon zirȳla konīr lēda nyke. 
Se iksan forever biare gōvilagon se vēzos.
Se pār nyke ūndegon ziry, ziry iksos māzis syt īlva
Nyke ūndegon Se Vējes.
Māzigon arlī.
Daemon,
Māzigon arlī!

The Diary of Rhaenyra Targaryen

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

Rhaenyras awakens to her mouth dry and her head heavy. 

He lays beside her, staring with those soft, tired eyes. 

"Avy jorrāelan," Daemon murmured, brushing back her hair, "Sīr olvie."

"Avy jorrāelan."

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

Iā Targārien mērī isse se vys iksis iā quba run

Common Saying Among the People Of Westeros

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

117 A.C. 

It’s highly improper that Daemon is curled around her but it seems an accepted, open secret, one that her father willingly ignores. They’ve done nothing, she wants to, even as her seventeenth name day had passed - he’d kissed her willingly enough - it was when she began to pull at his tunic that he’d pulled away, watching her with a weary reluctance. 

“Tolī, dōna mēre,” He’d murmured in her neck, breathing deeply, even as his member pulsed and warm against her stomach, “Tolī.”

Rhaenyra was happy, giddy even, on nights when the dreams would come and Daemon would already be awake, soothing cries she hadn’t even known she was making. 

Tonight, this one, had been particularly bad and she scurries to the foot of the bed, looking at hands she’d have sworn were covered in blood.

They were pale, soft, and clean. 

He reaches for her, kisses her hand, watching her stare at nothing. 

“There’s nothing to stop us from doing terrible things to our souls,” Rhaenyra finally whispered, “We can kill them, kill it, abuse them, rape, lie, destroy. The Northmen believe the Old Gods gave them soulmates to keep them from causing so much chaos but that’s not true is it?” 

“Gōntan ao ūndegon arlī?” Daemon murmured, softly, watching her, the arch of her neck, how she seemed so very lost, so very small among her bedding. 

“There was a boy, he was carving at another in a cell,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word, “He was carving at the soulbond, laughing when it healed. And I saw Rhaena Targaryen, she fled from Maegor when she saw darkness in her dreams-” 

“Rhaenyra,” he said, taking her face in his palms, holding her so she would meet his eyes, “We are not them.” 

"Issi īlon daor Targaryens?" she hissed, softly, “Is it not their blood in our veins?” 

Daemon smoothed her hair back, soothing her with soft noises. 

“It is, he admitted, it is - but they are not us, iksi daor zirȳ!”

Rhaenyra wanted to believe him, and he saw it on her face.

She reached for it, his soothing words, his fierce belief.

She moved aside his sleep clothes and laid her palm flat on his brand.

“Iksā ñuhon,” she whispered, “Se iksan aōhon.”

“Iksā ñuhon,” Daemon sighed, he laid his hand over hers and kissed her forehead, “Se iksan aōhon.”

Chapter Text

Ñuha Ānogar

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

for who can know the heart of a dragon?

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

117 A.C.

Rhaenyra leans over the side of the balcony, watching the quick-paced movements of the soldiers below. Daemon is moving along the rows of men with a stern eye and a form that makes her face redden. He’s one of the reasons why she doesn’t mind her new accommodations, watching her betrothed is soothing to her, and knowing he’s close is everything. 

Alys stands, prim and lady-like behind her, watching nothing, probably thinking about everything, and at her side is Erryk Cargyll who is trying to draw the serious young woman into a conversation. 

“Good luck,” Rhaenyra can’t help but think, smiling to herself. 

Alys took her duty way too seriously, and the protection of Rhaenyra even more so. She was constantly chastising her sworn shield for his calm manner and friendly behavior. 

The Princess though wouldn’t mind if her lady took to Erryk, they had become her close friends since Alicent had returned to the Hightower.

The betrothal between Princess Rhaenyra and Crown Prince Daemon Targaryen had sparked a tentative, but strange, sort of peace in Westeros and had seemed to soothe even the most discontented feathers. 

Except for Otto Hightower who had returned home after his dismissal by the King and the quick breakdown of her friendship with Alicent, who followed after. 

They have just seven months until Rhaenyra’s nameday. The tourneys and feast in celebration of her birth will begin the day of, filled with joustings, tourneys, feasts, and dances, until the seventh day when she will finally marry Daemon. 

She runs an uneasy finger over the smooth stone of the barrister, eyes unconsciously drifting away from her betrothed who still moves with ease, talking with soldiers, pages, and knights alike. 

The dreams have not abated - if anything they’d grown in their own sort of cold ferocity. 

A slim purple bottle of sweetsleep had taken a revered place on her night table after Daemon had been forced from her side at night - the tonic haunted her almost as much as the dreams because the sleep was heavy and did not ease her. 

“You’re betrothed, promised,” her father says to her one evening, a night after a rather tiring tourney for an occasion she hadn’t remembered, “But no more of this sleeping in each other’s beds, or kissing, or anything beyond a very, very quick hug.” 

Sometime between almost dying from Daemon’s absence to the rebranding of her soul mark, her father has grown used to the idea that he’ll eventually have to give Rhaenyra to his brother, but he’s determined to ignore it as much as he can until then.

And Rhaenyra does forgive the King eventually.

She’s in the middle of speaking about history with Viserys when she realizes and around the middle of her seventeenth year she stops avoiding him outright. 

Something draws Rhaenyra’s eyes up from her musings, widening. 

Daemon stares up at her, hand on Dark Sister, eyes filled with warmth and concern. He doesn’t wave or call out but Rhaenyra feels her shoulders fall from around her and her mouth curves into a smile all the same. She presses her palm against her lips, eyes still on him as she does, and then blows the kiss towards him, rubbing her fingers together. 

She giggles when she sees him shiver, eyes warming with lust and want, and then laughed fully when he scowled at her.

The princess leans away, waving, and turns towards Alys and Ser Erryk who are passionately arguing now. There’s a smirk on Erryk’s face even as Alys hisses at him, a bright blush on her cheeks, and Rhaenyra can’t help but feel a growing sense of warmth around her, chasing away all thoughts of dreams and sleep with it. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

too much, too close, and never, ever enough

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

Rhaenyra was peacefully alone, heading towards the library in search of a book. Alys is in her room still sewing, probably working on Rhaenyra’s veil, and Erryk is busy in the yard.

She’s just turned down a hallway, taking the journey with practiced ease when a hand covers her mouth and an arm pulls her into a secluded room.

Her fist instinct is to scream but she kicks against her attacker, aiming behind her towards his privates.

“Careful, love,” a familiar voice murmured in her ear, “I might have need of that.”

Rhaenyra catches the meat of his rough palm and bites harshly, pushing at her Uncle’s wandering hands.

“Daemon!” she accused, shoving him away.

He laughed, the sound dark and warm, “Rhaenyra.” 

“Is it the practice of princes to pull their nieces into empty rooms?”

He leaned towards her, grabbing her arms and holding them to her sides so she can’t hit him.

“When they tease them with dresses like yours, My Princess.” 

Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smirk squeezing her ample chest with the sides of her arms so the soft, white flesh appeared even larger beneath the soft, ruby-colored fabric.

“Oh you poor thing,” she said, a teasing smile on her face. 

“You find my current predicament funny,” he accused, still holding her arms, eyes glued to her chest.

Rhaenyra laughed, a loud, charming sound, that echoed in the empty hall, and Daemon couldn’t help but groan at the sight of that perfect, sweet smile, that soft, unblemished skin.

She’s going to kill him and, to be fair, Daemon probably deserves it. 

These past few months have been too long, incredibly long. 

They drag like nothing and most nights he can’t even stand to be near her in case he does something rash and ruts her against a wall. 

Rhaenyra, his teasing heart, does nothing to quell him or keep him contained. 

Her dresses have taken on an almost completely Targaryen look. Long and blood red with streaks of silver and black. Her hair is kept long and flowing down her back, interlaced with intricate braids and ribbon - his necklaces and jewels always on her throat, on her hands. 

At dinner the night before he had wondered if his hand would look just as pretty as the Valyrian steel she wore around her neck and then he’d fled, worried Viserys could read his desires on his face.

They are a romantic breed, his family. 

Targaryen’s put more faith in soul marks than most Noble Houses - their brandings only seem to cement their power and rule, especially with the imagery. The crowns, the swords, the gold, and their brand is no different. 

His soul is the soul of a Targaryen, blessed by the Gods of Old Valyria.

It would be wrong to say that they haven’t had peace for the last few months and most Houses have repledged their support to the King of Westeros. Rumors and murmurs abound that someone’s finally tamed the Rogue Prince and it wasn’t his Kingly brother, or the wife he’d finally set aside, but his seventeen-year-old niece who seems to draw his eyes and still his rash hand. They were smart not to forget the danger of him though, especially after the suspicious death of a young knight who had referred to him as a “kept snake fed by a dragon whore’s teet.” They never did find his head or upper torso.

(Daemon supposed it was still sitting in poor Caraxes belly, his dragon never liked his meat still squirming.)

“Maybe,” she replied, “It does not help that you scare away so many of my company when I do not tease you every once in a while.” 

He glowered at her words, remembering those cunts who had thought to steal her away with lesser names and houses. As if Rhaenyra was not deserving of a true Targaryen prince. 

“They want you,” Daemon hissed, disgruntled. 

Remembering Lord Lannister and his grubby hands trying to reach for something that had only ever belonged to Daemon. 

“You think every man wants me,” she scoffed, eyes darkening when he moved his thigh between her legs.

“Of course they do,” Daemon replied, “You’re the most gorgeous woman in all the Seven Kingdoms. Of course, they do. And they should.” 

Rhaenyra scoffed at Daemon’s words, leaning into him even as she did. 

“Maybe they might be better behaved than you if I were to marry them.”  

Daemon laughed a heady, irritable sound.

“Let them want all they want, sweet girl, let them stare at you with lust and greed.”

He pulled her arm around his waist, holding it there, while, with his other hand he held her chin, laying his thumb against her plump lower lip.

“Let them want you ābrazȳrys,” Daemon whispered, “And let them remember who will fuck you at night, who will bury his cock in your sweet, little quim, and kiss your sweet, little mouth. Let them remember who will bring you pleasure and children in equal measure. Let them remember that when they look at you with those disgusting smiles. Let them remember that when I make you mine forever. ” 

His hand has traveled from her lips and her chin to the hot skin of her neck. He wraps his hand around the Valyrian steel, the metal sharp against his skin. He doesn’t choke her with it, but the weight is heavy and she has the distinct impression of ownership.

Rhaenyra, never one to be outdone, fists her hands in the hair that has just begun to grow again, pulling at the silken strands.

“Mine, forever, Daemon Targaryen,” she says, Valyrian sharp on her tongue. 

He shivers above her, leaning closer, lips but an inch from hers.

“My blood,” she sighed, smelling of honey and salt and roses.

“My fire,” he breathes, finally, finally, catching her lips. 

Daemon kisses her so deeply she feels herself falling into him, his arms tight around her, catching her even as she goes.

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

no winter lasts forever

no spring never flowers

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

Most days Rhaenyra goes to see her mother. 

The Queen is weary from years of lost children and, while she had never been one for courtly gossip or intrigue she has become more withdrawn in the year since Daemon’s return and the loss of her last son, Baelon.

For all her grief though, Aemma has developed a newer purpose, a strength her only child doesn’t understand, a drive to see her daughter as Queen. 

And so Rhaenyra’s education begins again in earnest, days filled with lectures on diplomacy and etiquette, power and conquest. Even now Aemma is preparing for Rhaenyra to visit the Vale, to smooth matters over with Lady Jeyne after Daemon's marriage to Rhea Royce was annulled. They'll move onto Driftmark for a visit with Princess Rhaenys, to ensure the Princess’ claim under the guise of checking on her and her children with Lord Corlys away at the Stepstones. 

The first mistake most people make is assuming that Queen Aemma is without teeth or intelligence.

To be fair it is not an uncommon one - though it is usually their last. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

they are restless & chaotic

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

She wants him, she burns with the need to have him with her. In her bed, bound to her with blood and fire. Daemon would think her incredibly wanton because these thoughts are impure for a woman, much less a princess. 

They are no less true though.

Most nights her blood burns beneath her skin and she can barely keep herself from finding him and staking her claim. 

Most nights she cums crying out his name. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

The bond is returning in full force. 

It’s already climbed into his chest and is squeezing his heart, even while his hands burn with the urge to touch her, hold her, possess her. 

Sweet Rhaenyra, of course, doesn’t understand the full measure of his desires. 

Daemon’s already dreaming of breaking his promise to his good sister and taking a room again in the Street of Silk. Fucking whores that seem too tarnished, too coarse by half, when compared to the woman he truly wants, but at least they’re used to a rough hand or two and an even rougher cock. 

So when Corlys suggests the Seastones, Daemon begins preparations.

The old Seasnake had believed he would need to manipulate him and the Prince hadn’t bothered to correct him - let the fool think what he wants, as long as there’s blood and something to conquer.  

(besides her .)

No one is happy with his decision, least of all Rhaenyra 

But Rhaenys knows - damned cousin and her all too knowing nature and she speaks to Viserys who grudgingly agrees to let him go. Rhaenys is just as possessive of Corlys, the marks of her ownership cover her husband’s back, long scratches and bite marks that might be closer to those of a wild dragon rather than the prim and proper Queen-Who-Never-Was.

The timing is perfect with her heading to the Vale, and all over Westeros apparently. This will not be like before and they will be together again, he knows. Rhaenyra worries though. 

“But why must you go?” the Princess says to him, desperate, pleading. 

There are already tears welling in her eyes, they sting and make her sight blurry. 

“Do you cry for me, jorrāelagon?’ Daemon asks instead, brushing away the few that have already fallen. 

He is smiling at her with that crooked grin that, even now, makes her heart skip. 

Rhaenyra feels the tears burn as she finally allows herself to cry, her mouth quivering behind her hand. 

“Who would cry for you?” she replies, angry and hurt, turning away to go back into the Keep.

Daemon catches her easily, pulling her warmly against his chest, and curving his arms around her waist and over her breasts.

“You,” he said, teasing, voice soft and warm in her ear, “You, my kind and noble Queen.” 

She can’t help but shiver, trying unsuccessfully to choke back her cry of anguish. 

He soothes her, murmuring in her ear and holding her fast. 

“Don’t go then, please,” she says, openly sobbing, her fingers clawed over his arms, “If I am your Queen, I command it!” 

Daemon laughs, always laughing. 

“I will go,” he said, kissing the top of her head, “I will go and I will win and I will see you again my sweetest girl.” 

Rhaenyra can’t help but feel angry, can’t help but feel hurt, and pulls away so she can face him again. 

She pushes against his chest, slapping at his arms. 

Daemon allows her to, of course, her blows cause him no damage and they even make his eyes soften. This only feeds the flames of her anger and she begins to yell at him, so loud it echoes. 

“Craven arse!” she hisses in Valyrian, “Liar!”  

He won’t allow for that though and she knows it. 

Daemon catches her palms, pulling, holding her hands around his waist, his face buried in her neck. Breathing in her scent of honey and roses, dragon smoke and fire. 

“I promise,” he finally said, kissing the side of her throat where her blood pulsed uncomfortably in her veins, heart beating for his touch, “I promise you, I’ll come back.” 

Her forehead is against his shoulder and she squeezes her eyes shut. 

“I hate you.” 

He pulled away from her neck, one hand releasing her wrist just to hold her cheek. 

His smile is tinged with sadness as he kissed the corner of her mouth. 

“No, ñuha ābrazȳrys, you don’t.” 

And that just makes it worse when he does finally leave, Caraxes fading into a single spot of red before disappearing completely. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

as long as there are stars

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

In the days when she is forced to meet a million and one ladies and lords Rhaenyra holds his last letter tightly in her hand, squeezing it when her chest pricks with uncertainty. 

Daemon’s letters have slowly become inconsistent, starting and stopping with the stunted ease of a man in the middle of a war. But they come, they always do.

And at night when she longs for his arms, his kisses, his voice, she whispers to her mark when nothing but the wind can hear her. 

There’s a link between them both that not even the Gods, or her father for that matter, could sever.

They made it after all.

A decree before she was even born.

That she was his and he was hers. 

The dreams come in a restless hum, always warnings of a future she thinks has been averted. Cautions of a future she’s avoided and the uncharted steps she takes now.

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

The Doom comes for us all. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

Lady Rhaenys is kind enough but distant and Rhaenyra immediately senses tension from her father’s cousin. Probably to do with her own misplacement at the Great Council. 

So, she makes a decision. 

Under the guidance of her mother, she drafts a proposal between her firstborn and the firstborn of Laena Velaryon. Rhaenys is hesitant to accept it until Rhaenyra swears her own intentions in front of those gathered at Driftmark. 

Her father is pleased by the decision, hoping this will bridge the divide between the King and the Queen Who Never Was. She writes of this newest development to Daemon but he never responds. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-«« 

Lady Jeyne likes her and the thought is nice. She does not suffer fools and Rhaenyra feels a kinship with this fiery woman who has ruled the Vale in her own right - even with the constant humming for a man to lead.

Rhaenyra, of course, assures her that she will continue to support her claimant and Jeyne can only smile, a pleasant, unexpected gesture - as if she is surprised at the news. 

“You will be a good queen,” she says, “I never did see the famous Targaryen fire until you, but I also see the steadiness of your mother.”

“And, my Uncle?” Rhaenyra asks because she has to. 

Because they’re a set. Just as much as the other side of a gold coin.

Jeyne shakes her head, “A handsome, proud man, vain and stubborn. But even I know how much he loves his family - he will have my support as well…as reluctant as I am to give it. It will be nice as well to know Rhea Royce and Prince Daemon will be settled and we can put an end to that hogwash.” 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

but the greatest of these 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

She doubts anyone would believe her if she told them that she felt an indescribable pull to Daemon. She had known he would be returning to King’s Landing well before the maids had given her the news and she was on Syrax before the thought has even formed to go home. Sweet Laena only laughs at her excitement and spurs her on, telling her she will let the Princess and the Queen know where she has gone. 

Rhaenyra finds him easily enough - her heart, her mark, her feet, leading the way. 

She watches him from the crowd that has gathered to welcome him home, curious eyes moving over his broad frame, the curve of his jaw, a newly broken nose, and bright, violet eyes that catch in the limited sunlight.

The murmurings grow again, they’ve taken notice of her, and she slips to the front, breath hitching when his eyes meet hers.

In all the world only this man has looked at her with such love, such need and devotion.

They’re waiting for her, watching her. Her father looks on from the Iron Throne, gnawing on his cheek.

But she doesn’t give a damn.

She laughs and races towards him, throwing her arms tightly around his neck and kisses him squarely on the mouth.

Daemon growls into the kiss before swinging her around, his ugly crown falling to the smooth black stone.

“Hello,” she said, holding him tightly.

“Hello, my Princess.” 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

let the gods speak softly to us

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

They near the wedding with a renewed speed that borders on insanity.

Goods are brought in from all over Westeros, soft furs and meat from the North, gold, and jewels from the Westerlands, hoping to gain favor with the Princess who delights in her many rings and jewelry. There are also vibrant fruits and intricate tapestries from Lord Tyrell and, of all things, a war hammer from Lord Baratheon. Princes from across the Narrow Sea send their own gifts and well wishes - crystals laced with dragon glass and various lotions, perfumes, and fabrics. A princess from Myr sends wine that makes Rhaenyra’s tongue numb and Daemon laughs at seeing her well and truly drunk. 

Rhaenyra should be more involved in the proceedings and, to the credit of everyone, it looks beautiful. There is a long blue dress, a diamond-laced tiara. Every Great House is in attendance and she is often called to greet her guests or speak with her mother about cakes and fabrics but she is often unreachable. She and Daemon spend hours away, flying Syrax and Caraxes, kissing beneath the sun, and hiding from frazzled maids and irritated guards.

Her mother is obviously displeased with her behavior but makes no comments - Aemma is just as happy to see them reunited as they are. 

They marry first in the gardens behind the Keep with only her mother, father, and the Velaryons in attendance. 

Her father’s face is filled with pride at the sight of Rhaenyra in traditional Valyrian garb. It’s a simple ceremony compared to the slow drudgery that will begin tomorrow in the Sept. 

The blood, hands bound together, drips slowly against the sizzling stone before the embers pop, and a burst of fire springs from the coals. Daemon pulls her hand back just before the flames can lick her skin and soothes her worry by stroking the back of her hand. 

“A good omen, Ñuha Dārys,” the priest says with reverence to Viserys, who stares at them with wide, wondering eyes, “A blessing from the Gods to the Seven Kingdoms, their reign will usher in a new age of peace and prosperity. A great conflict is before your family, Your Grace, a thing of ice and fire, but your heirs are strong and their line is long. A true gift from the Gods of Old Valyria.” 

The words had made her father stiffen and even Rhaenyra can see the worry in his eyes but there was also an incredible amount of love for them both and he kisses Rhaenyra’s cheeks.

“You have made me proud, darling girl.” 

They hugged, just as the sun rose, cutting through the overcast sky. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

Their wedding in the Sept is just as long and tedious as Daemon had warned her it would be. Her mother has dressed her in the colors of her house, most likely in order to soothe the ruffled feathers of the leaders of the Faith of the Seven. The color is jarring on her and Daemon dimly remembers moaning over her traditional reds and black dresses. 

Maybe Rhaenyra has Arryn blood but she is a dragon, and dragons do not wear blue. 

Daemon is on his best behavior, as warned by his brother and his wife, but he can’t help but yawn and roll his eyes.

“Kepas,” Rhaenyra whispers at his side, squeezing his hand.

He sighs a heavy put-upon thing that makes his bride roll her own eyes, but eventually stills, soothed by her hand soft in his.

It’s with great relief that he can finally take the blue cloak from her shoulders, ignoring the tittering of Aemma who rolls her eyes when he tosses it behind him and firmly clasps the colors of their house around her. 

She shivers when they kiss and he smiles against her lips.

“Rytsas, ābrazȳrys,” Daemon said, even as the Septon looked on with disapproval. 

“Rytsas, valzȳrys,” Rhaenyra whispered back, catching his lips again. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

There is no way for them to escape the feast early. They sit through numerous dances and are twirled about by lords and ladies who must seem confused as to what ceremony they just attended because Daemon and Rhaenyra both are flirted with constantly. 

She can’t help but feel jealous seeing her husband flee the attentions of Lady Saara Koran, a lusty woman who must have been born without any shame at all. Rhaenyra giggles with her behind glasses of Arbor wine and blushes when Saara teases her about her upcoming night. Rhaenyra watches as Alys and Criston sit together, speaking only to each other.

She supposes her first act of business will be to release him from his vows. They deserve happiness and each other. 

They’ve sat through at least another eight or nine dances when she yelps hands scrambling to catch her falling wine glass as she is picked up.

Daemon stares down at her with a roguish grin, holding her in his arms. 

“Forgive me, everyone,” he announces in that vain, proud voice that makes some of the lords and ladies titter with disapproval, “I must leave you all to bed the prettiest woman in all of Westeros.” 

“Just Westeros?” Rhaenyra teased.

He nodded sagely, “I couldn’t tell them the truth, that the entire world desires you, darling, enough of them want you here. ” 

Rhaenyra can’t help but laugh through her growing blush, arms around his neck. 

Viseys is rolling his eyes and rubbing his cheeks, leaning into his wife’s soothing hand. He’s glad they’re happy, that they’re together and in love, but there are just some things he has no desire to ever know, ever.

Daemon wouldn’t even talk of a bedding ceremony and Viserys had felt no need to fight him on it. Lord Strong had pressed the issues, especially after the recent whispers of Rhaenyra’s loss of virtue but his brother had put a quick end to the idea after placing a warning hand on Dark Sister.

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

She does not go to her wedding bed in Arryn blue or Targaryen red. Daemon had left but a moment ago and Rhaenyra had simply allowed her maids to pull off her dress and underthings before they had left. Poppy, her most loyal maid, had brushed her hair, dotted rose perfume on the tips of her breasts and between her legs, and laid down a silver cloth lined with red to show proof of her purity.

“Congratulations, Princess,” she said, a happy grin on her face.  

Rhaenyra smiled back and kissed Poppy’s cheek before sending her away. 

She sat on their bed before the night began to chill her and she pulled on a robe she assumed was Daemon’s, curling it around her as she waited. 

The door fell open, signaling the return of Daemon whose eyes widened at seeing her, the hint of her nakedness behind his cloak.

He stalked towards her like a predator after his prey, dressed only in his black wedding clothes, hair gleaming in the moonlight.

“Nyra,” he murmured, looking over her with awe and warmth in his eyes.

Daemon’s hand fell between the black velvet of the robe she wore, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of her skin beneath his hand.

That first touch made Rhaenyra’s stomach clench and she sighed as her mark, her blood, pulsed. 

Those lilac eyes opened slowly and she swallowed when he began to push the robe off her shoulders. It pooled around her feet and Daemon groaned at the sight of her cream-colored skin, small breasts tipped with nipples the color of strawberries, and the small thatch of white curls that did nothing to hide the growing wetness between her legs.

“Kepas.”

Rhaenyra laid her hands against his cheeks, smiling when he shuddered and pressed his face against her palms.

“Kepas, kiss me,” she murmured, the Valyrian rolling off her tongue.

Daemon pulled her in for a fiery kiss just as she finished speaking, laving at her small mouth, nipping at her plump pink lips.

“Love,” he said into her mouth before trailing his lips down her jaw and neck, pushing her slowly against the bed.

She fell with a small squeak and Daemon laughed, pulling her to the edge.

“Daemon, what-?” 

His hand lays against the curls between her legs and she quickly snaps them closed, trapping his hand between them.

“You can’t!” Rhaenyra said, mortified.

He slowly begins to move the heel of his hand against her swelling clit, luring out more of the slick that’s only grown since he’d touched her.

“I must, my love,” Daemon cooed, his other hand running across her thigh, thick and sinewy from years of dragon riding, “I must love.” 

Rhaenyra can’t help but whimper at the feel of exposure, covering her face with her hands even as her legs fall open. 

“This is indecent, kapus,” she gasped, body shivering beneath his gaze. Her mother and Septa had told her enough about bedding - this, whatever this needling want was, had never been mentioned. 

“Oh yes,” he said, voice a warm mumble against her skin, heady with the scent of the thick, sweet honey that pooled between her legs, “It’s very indecent, and so very, very good.”

Rhaenyra’s back arched at the feeling of his rough tongue laving at her, her hands reaching and finding purchase in his hair. Her mouth fell open in unintelligible babbles that would make an experienced whore blush. She begged and pleaded, trying to push against his mouth and forced to remain still by the hands still tight around her waist. 

He’d always imagined that their coupling would be rough - fire meeting fire - but it’s more of a slow-burning flame. It grows and sways in his chest, errant and searching for more. A hungry, little thing.

She’s a hungry, little creature as she rides his tongue.

“Poor lusty thing,” he says before holding his tongue against her clit. 

She is soft and warm under his hands, her bottom lip tight between her teeth. She cries out when his fingers, rough from years of sword training, press into her, warm and wet from her slick. Her nipples pebbled in the cool air, he cannot resist pinching one, rolling it just as his fingers begin to move.

She grabs the wrist of the hand touching her breasts and begins to thrust against his fingers, angling her hips so they brush against the part of her that makes stars erupt behind her eyes, her mouth gaping at the feeling. 

“That it, darling,” Daemon whispered, breath hot against her, “That it, my love.” 

"Daemon?" 

Another thrust, hard against him, and she falls, limp and heavy onto the bed. 

He murmurs to her, bringing her back, smiling when her eyes clear.

“More,” she whispered, petulantly, spreading her legs wide, “More.”

Daemon laughed.

"Spoiled,” he thought affectionately, before holding the head of his cock against her opening.

“It will hurt,” Daemon said.

Her eyes flashed and she pushed against him, “I don’t care.” 

He shook his head in exasperation and began to push, watching as she stilled beneath him as he slowly began to fill her. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

She was full, too full, her mouth was useless even as he continued to kiss and nip at her tongue and lips and neck. One of her hands fell from his hair to his tunic, her nail scrapping his skin as she clenched around him.

Daemon begins to slowly push in and out and she hisses at him in irritation, his gentle movements doing nothing to ease the burning lust in her stomach, only stroking the flames of a fire that was already blazing. 

He curses and begins to move in earnest. Every hard thrust sent him against the spot inside of her that made her body convulse with pleasure, and need. She was too sensitive, it was too much and she wanted more. Wanted all of it. Even as her hands ached and her lungs burned for air, she couldn’t help but beg. 

“ More,” Rhaenyra gasped, squirming with want in his arms, “Please, please, Daemon, more. ”

He groaned against her skin, his palms flat against her back as he continued to lift her, pushing his aching cock into her still-warm cunt. 

She cried out against his chest, her arms tight around his waist, hands clawing at his back.

Daemon lurches forward, his seed burning hot inside her and she can’t help but peak again, nails drawing blood on Daemon’s back as she cums, falling faint and limp against the bed.

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

He takes her four more times that night, she wakes to him laving at her breasts, luring her awake with his mouth. And Daemon couldn’t help but groan as he reentered her, biting at her throat, kneading his face against her shoulder.

“More,” she whined, sensitive muscles fluttering around his length.

“More,” he agreed, slowly beginning to thrust. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

they were truly intoxicated by each other

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

She awakens, gasping for air, her hand buried in his hair, the other tangled in her blankets. He nips at her small, swollen pearl and she nearly screams then. The sound is lost between her chest and her mouth, turning into a quiet moan. Daemon is smiling against her, his hands hot on her thighs as he continues to lick and suck and pull-

She comes, arching against her bed, body shaking with need and want. 

More. 

More of him.

It should not be this way. 

It’s not this way for anyone else. 

Other women in Court roll their eyes at the inconvenience of their own nightly intimacy.

Their heads shake at the irritation and pain it causes.

Daemon has never made her feel pain. 

Not in the way they describe it.

His pain makes her throat hoarse, her mind numb, and her body tingle. 

He seems obsessed with her pleasure, her need. 

And she can’t help but want the same. 

On the rare nights that they don’t fall into bed together, she often finds herself waking up with his mouth at her breast. Daemon has blinked the sleep away only to find her rutting against him, pulsing with desire and need. Rhaenyra has awoken to him between her thighs, hard and wanting against her. They’ve been married just three months but his desires have not waned and it was not surprising to anyone when she was found to be pregnant. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

heaven is a place on earth with you

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

Daemon traces her uneasily as she moves throughout the Godswood, with charming and bright, sweet smiles. She seems so small to him, tiny wrists covered in jewels and gold, making her snow-white skin shimmer in the late sun. Even with a personal Maester, the ever-loyal Lady Alys close to her side, and two of his own men whose sole duty is to protect her, he can’t help but follow her steps. He imagines shadows and enemies around every corner, poisoners and cutthroats alike who threaten her. The fear only seems to blossom as her stomach continues to curve and grow. 

The realm was practically aghast at the idea of their delight marrying the scorn of the Royal House but it had settled quickly when she’d begun to smile and laugh again, and sent most of them into peals of not-unkind laughter when Rhaenyra had fallen pregnant. The Keep buzzes with the news and King’s Landing, in particular, has been filled with well-wishers and merrymakers. But it does nothing to settle him, if anything it makes it worse - someone might come to her with a sweet smile and cut their babe from her arms. 

The thought makes him ill, and a coldness slides down his back, causing him to lean against the pillar he stood beside, hand clasped over his mouth. 

“Peace, Daemon,” Aemma soothes from his side, patting his arm, “She is alright.” 

He doesn’t believe it and he feels that familiar undertow, that push of something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong. 

»»————- ⚜ ————-««

The birth of his son, and his wife, safe, healthy and alive in his arms, does nothing to dissuade his fears.