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Chapter Text

Dusk had fallen by the time Daemon lit his cigarette in the shadow of the trees he had once scaled as a young teenager into the bedroom on the second floor, where he felt certain that his birthright, his betrothed, now resides. 

The room set the closest to the master bedroom in the family section of the compound is where Daemon himself had been strategically placed as he grew, so that Alyssa and Baelon could attempt to thwart their young son’s attempts to abscond into the dark. 

They were rarely successful, even with the advantage of proximity. 

Viserys, now the owner of the coveted master suite, the Head of the Family and King of the most powerful biker gang in Westeros, would certainly utilise the layout to keep his only child close. 

Daemon quietly contemplated the path toward the house that he’d left some eight years previously, cast out by his good-sisters steady erosion of their familial bonds and his brothers weakness; unsure when he would return, but certain that he would, be it by invitation or not.

Still, it has been longer than he expected since he last sped into the deceptively quiet cul-de-sac on his rumbling, blood-red beast. 

Daemon took a long drag, before balancing his Camel Black between his lips to shrug off his heavy leather riding jacket. 

With it, he shedded the Velaryon-blue Seahorse patch that he begrudgingly accepted, along with their mercy, all those years ago. 

He would re-enter the house where he was raised, and then taught the ways of the club, without a shining beacon of his exile adorning his shoulders. 

Despite this, the lack of the Targaryen-red counterpart would speak to the fracture between brothers well-enough on its own. 

He folded the jacket inside out and deposited it on Caraxes’ leather seat, before starting towards the front door, steps confident but holding some uncharacteristic wariness in his gait resulting from time and distance from his home, making him feel somewhat of an intruder as he approached the Red Keep. 

Smoke from the burning embers of his cigarette trailed across the glow from the kitchen light, curtains drawn to the prying eyes of the street. 

Inside, he knows the newest of-age Targaryen, would be sitting on the kitchen table as he had done many years before, surrounded by the highest ranking members of the club as she received her Perzys Ānogār, a right of passage, a patch that could never be removed. 

Only true-born Targaryen’s entering the club as a member received the honour, the members who did not share blood with the founders wore patches on leather that could be stripped from them, or left behind in extenuating circumstances. 

Generally, to wear the Targaryen patch, on leather or skin, was akin to a blood oath. 

True-born Targaryen women didn’t necessarily receive them either, especially those with no desire to operate as a functional member of the club. 

However as Viserys’ only child, who, as he has come to learn, has been riding lately with the Kingsguard, it is unsurprising that Rhaenyra would receive her Perzys. 

When Laenor had tentatively shown him the design that would cover an entire shoulder blade of his little nieces skin, the photo sent to him as notification as the next in line to inherit the Driftmark territory, he almost cracked the Velaryon heir’s device in a vice-like grip. 

Cut off from almost all contact with his family, he would learn at a club table carved with the exhaustingly relentless Seahorse pattern, that Rhaenyra had been deemed of age by his elder brother. 

The news was delivered with nervous glance from his cousin’s son and a tight-lipped glare from his cousin herself. 

“Don’t do anything stupid, Daemon. You have a place here now. There is no reason to return to Viserys. He will find an excuse not let you have her, even if he wanted to, Aemma won’t allow it.” 

Daemon had been half way to Caraxes anyway, when his phone had begun to ring, lighting up with a name that hadn’t graced his screen in nigh-on a decade. 

With it, a photo of his brother, beaming at a small silver-haired girl who grinned as she bounced on his lap, her eyes firmly fixed on the photographer, the toothy smile not for her adoring father. 

His fingers hovered over the buttons, unsure if the call would be a strict instruction to stay away, a decision that would end the tense eight-year almost-silence and call for war between brothers. 

He heard Viserys’ breath catch slightly when the call connected and he lifted the phone warily to his ear. 

“Hello, brother.”

“Daemon. It’s.. it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. I have missed you, regardless of your thoughts otherwise.”

“You haven’t attempted to contact me aside from a text or two in the last eight years. Cut the shit. You’re calling about Rhaenyra.” 

“I am. I know that you will have heard that she is coming of age, and more likely than not, already be on your way.”

“Do you expect me not to be?”

His brother laughed, though the sound was devoid of true mirth. 

“No, I don’t. I never planned not to uphold your betrothal, Daemon. There will be complications to the process, but I wish you to marry my daughter now as I did then. Although, not immediately. She may be coming of age in the club, much earlier than I would prefer, but she is still only sixteen and not ready to be wed and all that…comes with it.” 

Daemon stilled. 

He was unsure what he expected of Viserys’ call, but it wasn’t this. 

His heart, which had thundered to a stop, quickened, in his chest. 

“What complications?”

“Well…Aemma is still… reluctant. Her concerns from the past are unchanged. And… Rhaenyra herself. She isn’t the eight year old that worshiped at your feet. She isn’t entirely receptive to the idea, though I am hoping that will change once you return and given some time. She knows the family comes first.” 

Daemon couldn’t help his shock at the second part of Viserys’ rambling. 

He had not considered, in all the scenarios that had plagued him through the nights apart from his family, the years, that Rhaenyra would not wish to marry him, as she once did. 

Since she was a toddling babe, Daemon had told her that one day, when she was grown up, she would be his bride. 

The child-version of his niece had been thrilled, telling anyone and everyone who would listen, with bright eyes and an enthusiastic lisp, that she would marry her Kepus once she was a big girl. 

Daemon recalled Viserys's uneasy but genuine smile and how Aemma’s eyes would darken and her lips would press tightly together, signalling that she would make her own feelings an issue when the time eventually came. 

A thought that filled him with fury prompted his next question.

“Is there someone… else that she has in mind?”

“A boyfriend? Not that I’m aware of, no. But she has grown up with knowledge of your many, many transgressions Daemon.” 

“And I’m sure your wife has been thorough in attempting to poison her with them, Viserys. Rhaenyra and I were betrothed when I was sixteen. Surely she can’t expect that I would have remained chaste for fifteen years, already a man, while I waited.”

Internally noting his own hypocrisy of course, as he would kill any man that lay a finger on her. 

“What of the Lyseni woman? Rumour has it, you have a bastard running around.”

“Mysaria? I took care of her. There’s no bastard! Is that what Rhaenyra fucking thinks?”

“I don’t know what she thinks! She doesn’t talk to me! This is what I mean, there will be complications when you come back. Many of your own making.”

His brother sighed deeply before continuing.

“That’s not all. I need to tell you why Rhaenyra’s coming of age has been rushed. And you need to listen now, Daemon. As this is more pressing than your discontent with not being welcomed back with open arms by my teenage daughter.”

His brother's next sentence would see Daemon atop Caraxes at full speed, riding through the night, until the familiarity of Kings Landing came into view. 

Chapter Text

Trepidation growing, Daemon followed Viserys’ through the foyer where the large double sliding doors to his right are open just enough to afford him a glimpse of the circular oak council table. 

The council room was where he had spent much of his childhood sat on his own father’s knee, before moving onto his own chair just a year younger than his niece is now. 

The table was made of dark wood carved all the way to to the edges with a large three-headed dragon emitting flames, the Targaryen Sigil.

All the patched-in members wore the sigil, blood-red printed on a black leather cut, to announce their allegiance to the most formidable gang across the territories. 

The organisation, the family, was not some rabble of bikies dabbling in trouble and small town crime. 

The Targaryen’s controlled the roads across Westeros, from the police to the politicians. 

It was all Daemon had ever known. 

His Grandfather Jaehaerys had passed the King patch to his own father before it was claimed by Viserys as Baelon’s eldest son. 

Marriage between Targaryens was more usual than it was not, ensuring their bloodlines remained pure and to prevent the risk of bringing outsiders into the inner rung. 

When Daemon was a child he had lamented a lack of a sister or suitable cousin at the very least, which Viserys received when betrothed to Aemma, their aunt Daella’s only daughter. 

There had been discussions, pushed largely by the Velaryon side, for a betrothal between his cousin Rhaenys and Corlys Velaryon’s daughter Laena who had been born when Daemon was twelve. 

Daemon’s father had been against the match. 

Corlys was not liked by Baelon or Alyssa, his ambitions too high and transparent, plans to bind the Targaryen cohort with his own too obvious. 

More importantly, Baelon had been concerned that it could drive a rift between his sons, should Daemon fall too far from his Targaryen loyalty and if forced to choose between his brother and a wife who was the daughter of the leader of another powerful gang, a leader whom Baelon did not trust.

With Rhaenyra’s birth after Viserys and Aemma’s marriage, it had been Baelon that made the match between his second son and granddaughter. 

Viserys had raged at his father’s words at first, tiny precious daughter in the palm of his hand not even an hour old, not to be gifted to his rogue of a younger brother. 

But once he had been inundated with betrothal requests from allied and rival gangs on the day of her birth, and upon hearing the words of Gerardys, the club doctor behind a closed door having completed his examination of Aemma, he had backtracked. 

He wished to keep Rhaenyra close.

A betrothal to his own brother would see her never leave the Targaryen homestead, and equally would protect his own lineage from having no further issue.

Rhaenyra’s birth had followed a series of miscarriages suffered by Aemma, and Gerardys had declared her a miracle, with a quiet warning to Viserys that it would be unlikely that subsequent successful births would follow. 

Daemon, bottle of celebratory whiskey for his elder brother in hand, had been the only person Viserys had confessed the docs words to. 

A club King without a male heir, or the future prospect of one, was in a vulnerable position. 

The information could have even seen Baelon pass Viserys over in the line of succession, concerned that should the knowledge of Viserys and Aemma’s infertility spread, the vultures could circle.  

Any perceived weakness could open the Targaryens to challenges for territories, especially if several of the more influential rival gangs, along with ambitious allied ones, made a play for power together. 

Daemon had promised Viserys on that night that should Gerardys words be true, Rhaenyra would be protected, as his Queen. 

He had never spoken a word of that conversation again, to anyone. 

And so, it came to be, the next morning the betrothal between Daemon and Rhaenyra was confirmed before the members of the council. 

Aemma had stood behind Viserys, face pale and pinched, not twelve hours from the birthing bed, instructed harshly by Alyssa to keep a stiff upper lip as the news was delivered. 

Daemon, along with the other men at the table, hadn’t cared for her inner turmoil. 

This was the best thing for the family. 

And certainly, the best thing for him. His betrothed may have been a little pink bundle with a tuft of silver hair in his brother’s arms at that moment, but one day, she would be the Targaryen bride he had longed for. 

Not a complicated tie to the Velaryon’s, or a pretty but entirely lacking daughter from another gang, but perfect. 

“Let him hold her Viserys.”

“No! I mean… go and wash your hands. She might be hungry though, maybe I should take her back upstairs.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Aemma. Viserys, give Rhaenyra to Daemon so he can see her properly.” 

“Have you ever held a baby before Daemon? Don’t drop my daughter. Support her head. Like this. Aemma’s right, your hands are filthy. Is that engine oil? Don’t touch her face for fucks sake. Or her hands!”

Rife with instruction, Viserys had finally handed Daemon his niece, Aemma hovering, radiating anxiety, while he ignored them all in favour of unwrapping the pastel pink swaddle to look at his future wife.

She was tiny, like a little doll, weighing less than his bike helmet. 

She looked like any other newborn, probably, he hadn’t seen many, but the Targaryen features were unmistakable even at only a few hours old. 

A shock of silver-gold hair, rounded cupid-bow lips and wide lilac eyes.  

They stared at each other for a moment. She didn’t cry, that’s a positive. 

“That’s enough, give her back.” 

“Give her to ME, I want to hold my granddaughter.” 

“Absolutely not, Dad, your hands are worse than Daemon’s!” 

“The girl will grow up covered in engine oil, stop fussing like an old maid Viserys.” 

“She looks just like Daella and Viserra. A bit like Saera too.” 

“Mum! Aunt Saera was a slut. Don’t compare her to Vis's baby.”

“She wasn’t a slut when she was born, Daemon. Anyway, I don’t have engine oil on my hands so hand me that baby. Go upstairs and rest Aemma, you look like you could use it.”

Blinking away the memories held in the room to his right, Daemon looked to the left where a low whirr of the machinery being used on his niece could be heard through the crack in door. 

In dimmed lights of the kitchen, a new first look at his niece would take place. 

Chapter Text

“How long?”

“Weeks, months, maybe. Hopefully one last Christmas.” 

“Without treatment.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I won’t die in a hospital, connected to a thousand tubes like he did. I want to spend my last days with my family, riding Balerion.” 

“Who knows?”

“Gerardys. Aemma. Lyonel. And you, now.”

“You haven’t told Rhaenyra?” 

“She knows I’m sick. I’ve had to step back at times. She’s had to step up, be the face of the family. She’ll find out with the rest of the council, after you arrive and there is the security of a successor.” 

“That’s not fair Viserys. She’s your daughter, she deserves a conversation, just you and her.”

“You don’t get to talk to me about what Rhaenyra deserves. And life isn’t fair.” 

  * * *

Daemon froze as Viserys widened the gap of the almost-closed kitchen door with a gentle push against the wood. 

In the low light of the kitchen, after eight years, he is finally afforded his first glimpse of his niece. 

The back of her anyway. 

Rhaenyra was sat on the kitchen table, facing away from the door, with her spine straight as the tattoo gun worked against her milk-white skin.

Daemon could tell that while his niece was still tiny, petite, she no longer had the form of the child he had last seen. Rounded hips flared from her slim waist, her back toned, and even in her sitting position he could see the feminine fullness of her behind. 

Her silver-gold hair had been pushed forward over her shoulders, but Daemon could see that it reached her waist, tendrils swaying hypnotically with each breath. 

With a clench of his jaw, he noted the small leather jacket discarded over the back of one of the empty kitchen chairs along with a black singlet and a light-pink lace bra which his niece had clearly forgone to allow Luthor, the club tattooist, access to the canvas where he looked to be putting the finishing touches on her Perzys. 

Her back shone with perspiration, the design of her Perzys was a large piece for one sitting, and especially if it was her first tattoo. 

There was complete silence from everyone, demanded by tradition. There was to be no distractions, no idle chit chat while a Perzys was in process. 

The recipient was supposed to feel the sting, the burn, and focus on it.

It was a promise to themselves and the club never to fear pain. 

Daemon flicked his eyes around around the room to see the weight of Viserys council, sat or stood in various positions around the kitchen.

Otto Hightower, one of his brother’s longest companions and the club legal counsel, was leaning against the fridge, usual practiced expression of haughty concentration on his face. 

Daemon couldn’t stand the man. He seemed fearful of the bikes ridden by the rest of the club, had never so much as taken a joy-ride, and wore a suit while the rest wore leathers. 

Daemon did have to admit however, Otto could make pretty much any legal troubles go away, though always with the fanfare of a man who loves to boast his over-inflated importance. 

Dr. Gerardys was stood by the drawn curtains of the window. The ever-observant Doctor was the only person who had noticed Daemon’s presence so far, giving him a quick but genuine smile. 

Lyman Beesbury, an old hand and treasurer of the club had his chair leaned against the wall, arms folded and chin to chest, fast asleep. 

Harold Westerling, an equally old hand and director of enforcement across the Targaryen territories was sat in a chair in front of his niece, leaning forward watching her face intently. 

Harold had always been like a second father to Rhaenyra, at times even more of one than the man who sired her. Once Viserys took his position at the head of the table after their father’s death, his time with his daughter was limited. As Queen, Aemma had equally been time-poor during Rhaenyra’s childhood.

So, it had been a common sight to see his niece, thumb in her mouth, sat atop the older man’s lap while he read to her about princesses, knights and dragons. 

It was no surprise to see one of Harold’s hands holding a glass of water with a straw and the other resting on her knee in a gesture of fatherly reassurance as she bore the discomfort of receiving her Perzys. 

Sat at the kitchen table was Lyonel Strong, Viserys’s right-hand. 

The Strong family had been one of the most loyal to the Targaryen’s over the years, the closest confidants of the current and previous King. 

Also sat at the table was Lyonel’s son, Harwin. The man was just a few years younger than Daemon, and had been one of his close friends in the club before his exile. 

They had exchanged texts over the years, so Daemon knew to expect him in the room, Harwin having been promoted to a council member to follow in his father's footsteps. 

The texts had been surface level, friendly but never about the club, the family, or the girl on the table that Harwin was gazing at with his forehead crinkled in concern. 

They are close, Daemon realised with a lurch of his stomach, appraising his proximity and expression. 

“All done, darling.” Luthor’s gruff voice cut through the silence. 

“Don’t stand up too quickly. Have some more water, I’ll go get your ‘ma to sort out some food.” 

“I’m fine, Hal. I want to get a mirror so I can see it.” 

Rhaenyra’s voice had changed, huskier, lost it’s squeakiness of childhood. 

“You did well, sweetheart.”

Rhaenyra turned toward her father’s voice from the doorway, startling slightly at the second silver head stood next to him. 

She looked the way Daemon remembered, but with an unfamiliar maturity to her features. Her cupid-bow lips had filled, her jawline sharpened. 

His niece still looked painfully young, too young to be in the room. 

She slowly turned to face the brothers on slightly shaking legs, the length of her hair covering the bareness of her chest. 

Rhaenyra narrowed her lilac eyes, mirroring the expression of his own violet gaze. 

“Uncle.”

“Byka dārilaros” Daemon replied, his old nickname for her slipping from his tongue without thought. 

Rhaenyra scowled. 

“Daor sīr byka dombo.” She snapped, flicking her hair backwards over her shoulders in an unabashed movement. Not so little anymore. 

Every other pair of eyes in the room, which had been fixed on the pair uneasily, flew toward the ceiling. 

Good thing too, Daemon didn’t want to have to gouge out the eyes of the entire council on the first day of his return.

Viserys, next to him, gave an almost imperceptible tut. 

Rhaenyra held Daemon’s gaze, her face expressionless, eyes daring. 

He broke first, eyes traveling of their own accord down her body, greedily drinking in the sight her pert breasts, tipped with dusky peaks. 

In the divot of her navel there was a silver dragon with flashing diamond eyes. 

Fuck. 

Chapter Text

“How could you let this happen Viserys?”

“I’m tired Aemma, let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

“You’re tired? I just gave birth! Two days Viserys, two days I suffered to bring our daughter into the world, and now you’ve let your fucking parents give her to that piece of shit!” 

“Aemma. Be quiet.”

“NO! I don’t want her to marry him!”

“It’s the best outcome. If we cannot have a son, we need protection, we need protection for her.”

“Protection for her does not look like your violent, morally corrupt brother who fucks any whore that breathes in his direction!” 

“Do you think I like this either? Daemon will change when it’s time. I will make him if I have to.” 

“I won’t allow this Viserys, I won’t! She’s my baby. Look at her. Please Vis, tell them all no.”

“What is the better alternative? Look at the betrothal requests, here, there’s about 50 texts in my phone, read through and tell me what you prefer. Let the Velaryon’s have her for Laenor? Soft little boy, Corlys will run him until he rots off his bike. Let the Lannister’s have her for Jason? He’ll be a smarmy bastard with a lion-sized chip on his shoulder just like his father before him.”

Viserys paused, scrolling through the missed calls and endless messages vibrating through the device in his hand like hornets.

“The Dornish even want her! Would you have her live in Sunspear, with those fuckers? The way they war with the rest of the gangs, we’ll never see her again, even if she survives the constant shoot-outs.” 

“Shut up Viserys! I don’t want any of them to have her! Maybe a nice boy from the Vale territory. One day!”

“Aemma. Rhaenyra will be the only child, most likely my love, of the next Targaryen King. She can’t just marry some nice boy.” 

“Harwin Strong then. I know that’s what Lyonel was asking in the kitchen.” 

“No. No matter how embedded in the club the Strongs are, that can always change, they are not blood.”

“Not him, Viserys. Not Daemon.”

“I am not asking. It is not your decision.”

xx

“I’m proud of you.” Aemma murmured, watching her daughter’s face intently over her shoulder in the vanity mirror. 

Often, she felt uneasy at the hardness, the sharp edge in Rhaenyra’s features.

Nothing like her own, wide-eyed, trusting visage at the same age. 

People often proclaimed that Rhaenyra had her mothers looks. Perhaps, but her heart was true Targaryen, not an iota of Arryn softness, naivety, within. 

Aemma closed her own eyes, and leaned forward to breathe in the scent of the crown of her daughter’s head. 

It grounded her, as it always did. 

Rhaenyra hummed, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion.

“Come, baby girl.”

She guided Rhaenyra toward her bed, where Viserys would be unwelcome this evening, for more reasons than one, and tucked her between the sheets. 

Rhaenyra yawned deeply, giving in quickly to the heaviness of her eyelids, sleep finding her safely in her parents bed, after a day performing duties far above what Viserys should expect from her at such a tender age. 

Her mother noticed the way she favoured one side, the bandaged Perzys clearly causing her pain as she tried to make herself comfortable.

Aemma’s heart clenched. 

She had retrieved her daughter from the kitchen, twenty minutes earlier, without acknowledgment of the man she had last seen eight years prior.

Her headstrong daughter had been standing, half-naked, glaring at her uncle when voices had drawn Aemma to the room. 

She would have been pleased to see the daggers in Rhaenyra’s eyes, had she not been enraged at the expression in Daemon’s. 

Possession, hunger as he stared at her daughter. 

It was the way he had looked at her, even as a child, that had terrified Aemma and cemented her determination to ensure their marriage never came to pass. 

Well, the hunger in his gaze was new, Aemma knew he was not attracted to Rhaenyra in the same way as a young girl. 

But the possession, entitlement, undoubted knowledge that she was his had been ever present. 

And unfortunately, the two had been drawn like magnets to each other, from the day she had fought to bring Rhaenyra into the world. 

Then, he had almost had her taken from them all. 

  xx

“Here comes the aeroplane, neeeeow. Very good.” 

“Well done Daemon, Aemma’s been trying to feed that to her for half an hour.”

“She doesn’t usually like anything with peas, Alyssa. Thanks… what’s on your t-shirt? Is that… blood? Don’t touch her!” 

“For pity’s sake Aemma, Daemon’s come straight here after dealing with club business, to see Rhaenyra.” 

“She’s my daughter and I don’t want her covered in blood.”

“She’s going to be his wife one day. I suggest you get used to it.”

xx

“She’s walking! Aemma, get the camcorder.”

“Well done angel, come to Mommy!” 

But Rhaenyra had toddled straight past, into the outstretched leather arms of her uncle, squealing with delight as he picked her up and swung her around, showering chubby cheeks with kisses. 

Aemma straightened, glaring. 

“Don’t kiss my daughter, I know you’ve just been with a whore, I can smell her on you.” 

“Aem… I’ve just showered!” 

“Liar! Give her to me.”

“What’s going on?” 

“Your brother is kissing our daughter with the same mouth that’s just been on a whore’s cunt!” 

“That’s bullshit!”

“Daemon… give Rhaenyra to Aemma, now.”

xx

“Hi babe. Christ, what a day. Where’s Rhaenyra?” 

Aemma didn’t turn toward the door that Viserys had just walked through, loudly depositing his heavy riding leathers on the kitchen table with a weary sigh. 

Instead, she pointed toward the window that she was looking through, stood by the kitchen sink. 

In the yard, Rhaenyra sat on Caraxes, between her uncles thighs as he pointed to different parts of the legendary motorbike. 

Just then, a gaggle of pornographic actresses walked into the space, leaving one of the meeting rooms in the clubhouse. 

Porn was one of the clubs oldest enterprises, the women afforded safety by the club, the club collecting a percentage of the profits in return. A lucrative, if seedy, partnership. 

One of the women, with long dark hair and even longer tanned legs, broke off from the group.

Hips swaying, she approached the duo astride Caraxes. 

Aemma could not see Daemon’s face, but she could see the woman’s, seductive smile in place as they spoke. 

Daemon seemed to gesture slightly toward Rhaenyra, who was watching the exchange with the interest of a nosy six year old. 

As the woman began to walk away, Daemon crooked his finger at her and passed her his phone, presumably to exchange details for later.

Aemma turned to her husband, lips curled with disgust. 

“He embarrasses her. He embarrasses us.”

“It’s a complicated situation, Aem. He’s an adult, a man, Rhaenyra is six. He doesn’t have girlfriends, doesn’t bring anyone home. Slaking his needs with whores until Rhaenyra comes of ages is probably the cleanest way this can go.”

“There’s such a thing as discretion, Viserys. He just exchanged numbers with a porno-girl in front of our daughter, his betrothed! This isn’t the first time, and won’t be the last that he does this type of thing, right in front of her face. It’s humiliating, debasing. She’s old enough to remember this.” 

“What would you have me do?”

“You’re King now! Do I really have to tell you what to do? Like your damn mother.” 

“Don’t start. I’ll talk to him.” 

“You better do more than that.”

xx

“Viserys?! What the hell was that?!” 

Aemma sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding as her husband flicked on the light in their bedroom, already cocking Blackfyre in his hand. 

“Gunfire. Stay here.” 

A scream rang out from the room next door, flooding ice through both of their veins. 

Rhaenyra.

Chapter Text

Daemon sat at the council table the following morning, greeted by the curious but wary eyes of rest of the members. 

Most of them had no idea why he had suddenly reappeared, reclaiming his seat, as though the last eight years had never happened. 

The council didn’t usually meet on a Thursday, so it was a safe assumption that Viserys had pulled them all together last minute, serving to pique everyones interest further. 

Rhaenyra was one of the last to filter into the room, studiously ignoring the space Daemon occupied. 

Harwin walked in after her and sat in the empty seat to her right, eating a piece of buttered toast, pilfered from the kitchen where Daemon could hear the faint clatter of Aemma tidying away breakfast dishes. 

He ripped the slice in half and passed one of the halves to Rhaenyra, who took it without comment and began to nibble the edge. 

It was a very familiar, intimate exchange. 

Daemon’s fists clenched under the table. 

He hadn’t attended the family breakfast this morning, he hadn’t been invited. 

Viserys had instructed him the night before to occupy one of the clubhouse bedrooms, rather than a guest room in the main house, for now at least. 

Let the dust settle, he had insisted. 

Daemon had scaled the brickwork up to his old bedroom after dark anyway, a long-practiced skill that he had intended to utilise to speak with his elusive niece. 

The room had been empty. Aemma’s foresight, he had no doubt. 

“How’s the Perzys feeling today, sweetheart?” 

Westerling leaned across the table to touch his niece’s free hand.

“Fine, thanks. Mom put the cream on this morning, before you ask.” 

“Cheeky.” 

Viserys entered the room, closing the sliding doors behind him, before anyone else could speak. 

He looked pale, and gave a slight wince as he moved to take his seat. 

“I have something I need to say.”

* * *

“You’ll pay a visit to the heads of the territories, all of you, inform them of the changes. You leave tomorrow. Harold, take those Cargyll twins along incase any extra muscle is needed. Start with the Rock, end in Driftmark. I won’t be with you. I can’t manage a seven-day ride. Anyway, this is the opportunity to show that there will be no weakness when I’m gone, stamp out any thoughts to the contrary. Whenever there’s a change of King, people like to take chances. Sniff out anyone who seems like they might forget their place, give reminders where they are due.”

“Rhaenyra, Daemon. You’ll reaffirm your betrothal, the next King and Queen. Show no signs of discord, in the family, or the club. Rhaenyra, I’m not finished. Get back here!” 

* * *

“Rhaenyra!” 

“Leave me alone!” 

Daemon did the opposite, quickening his steps in an attempt to reach his niece before she could escape on her sleek gold and black motorcycle. 

Syrax. 

Daemon had brought the bike for Rhaenyra’s eighth birthday, the last they had spent together. 

A ridiculous gift for a child, truthfully.

Syrax was a Ducati Pangale V4 S, top of the line. 

Unlike the grunting Harley Davidsons favoured by the rest of the club, Syrax was built for precision and speed. 

The bike had originally come with red panels, but Daemon had them removed and replaced with gold-plating. 

Not gold wrap, mind you. 

The body of Rhaenyra’s bike was made of 24-karat gold, plated by hand. 

Over 100 diamonds were set into the finer details of the motorcycle, more than 10 carats in total. 

“A piece of jewellery on two wheels." The engineering mechanic had mused at the finished product. 

“Insanity.” Aemma had declared. 

His niece had been thrilled. 

Realising Daemon was fast approaching, Rhaenyra forewent retrieving her helmet and flipped the ignition, the bike roaring to life. 

“Rhaenyra, wait!” 

But she was already halfway out the gate, silver-gold hair flashing in the sun, leaving Daemon to internally curse his decision to park Caraxes on the other side of the compound. 

“Let her calm down, Daemon.” 

Westerling had also followed Rhaenyra from the council room, where she had just learned that her father’s melanoma, years of biking in the sun the likely culprit, had aggressively spread to every available organ. 

“I told Viserys to talk to her separately, privately.”

Harold sighed. 

“It’s easier for him to tell her as a council member, than as a daughter.” 

“He’s always been a fucking coward.” 

That elicited a somewhat surprisingly loud chuckle, for the somber conversation. 

“Well. He’s right to fear that girl. As you’ll soon come to find out for yourself.”

Daemon gave him a sidelong glance, lighting a cigarette. 

“What’s the story with her and Harwin?” 

“Hmm. They are fond of each other.”

“Don’t beat around the bush old man, what the fuck does fond mean? Are they fucking?” 

Fury ignited in Daemon’s belly. 

He could go back inside and kill Harwin before Rhaenyra had a chance to loop around the block. 

“I have no idea. But if they were, you wouldn’t really have a leg to stand on with your righteousness, Daemon.”

“Like hell I don’t. She’s going to be my wife.” 

“I wouldn’t lead with this line of questioning if I was you, you little shit. You’ve got some serious ground to make up for with Rhaenyra. At this rate, she might marry you out of duty, then cut your cock off in your sleep.” 

Daemon was about to become regent to his brother, as the council had just been informed. 

King in all but name, until Viserys kicked the bucket, then King in truth. 

For some reason, Westerling’s lack of care for the fact, disinterest in sucking up, calling him a little shit just as he had since the days the early teenage version of himself had been caught stealing club members bikes to joy-ride, threw a welcome bucket of cold water over the boiling anger threatening to consume him. 

It was Daemon’s turn to sigh, running his free hand through his silver hair, chopped short. 

“Where do I even start?” 

“At the beginning, son.” 

* * *

The sun was setting, and Rhaenyra hadn’t returned. 

Daemon paced the compound, the bars of the iron gates darkening with the setting sun, glaring at anyone who seemed like they might try to engage him in conversation. 

A few hours ago, he had heard shouting from the main house, the octave unmistakably belonging to Aemma. He couldn’t make out any of the content of the row between Viserys and his wife, but he could guess the source. 

Viserys had impressed him, admittedly, in the council room earlier. 

There had been no hesitance in his instructions, he had brokered no room for argument, from any of them. 

However, he knew that Aemma wasn’t so easily dealt with. She had paid the price of acquiescing before. 

Viserys had always ultimately bent to her will, her ruling the head from the neck. 

“Happy wife, happy life, Daemon.” 

Daemon considered, that if Viserys took the same hard line with Aemma as he had with the council earlier, this would serve to be a relatively new dynamic between the two. 

Viserys seemed ready for the fight, however. 

He had brought Daemon back, upheld his betrothal to Rhaenyra, rather than cowing and waiting for his own death, leaving everyone else to sort out the problems in his wake. 

Daemon lit the last cigarette from the box that had been fresh that morning, and finally, heard the soft rumble signalling Syrax’s return. 

He wondered if Rhaenyra would turn-tail when she saw him standing in wait. 

This time, he would be ready to give chase, having moved Caraxes to a more accessible position, patience already worn thin. 

They would have to speak, at least before they left tomorrow. 

He needed to know, not just for himself, but for the club, if she would play her part on their tour of the territories. 

Viserys was right, if the heads of the other gangs noticed discordance between them, stability could crumble and put the entire Targaryen empire on the line.

Rhaenyra didn’t attempt to run, however, disembarking from Syrax in a fluid movement, waterfall of shining hair tumbling down her back as she removed her helmet. 

Daemon’s breath caught as he watched. 

He had imagined her like this, a thousand times over. 

It was a distant thought when she was a child, he had forced himself to lean into the enjoyment of being an uncle, trying not to fantasise about the adult-version of his niece while he still had his little girl in his arms. 

It felt perverse, unfair, wishing away the years instead of appreciating her childhood. 

However, for the last few years, in exile, he had done exactly that. 

Daemon had imagined Rhaenyra riding side by side with him, him atop Caraxes, her astride Syrax. Her hair whipping in the wind, the sound of her laughter as they escaped into the abyss of the open road. 

He had imagined her cries of pleasure, astride him, bathed in moonlight as he finally laid claim to his promised bride. 

Rhaenyra turned toward him, no surprise, only resignation present in her red-rimmed lilac eyes. 

His niece had been crying, he recognised with a painful swoop of his stomach. 

Daemon had never been able to stand her tears. Even when she was an infant, he had struggled to bear seeing even the slightest spill down her rosy cheeks. 

He remembered, darkly, when Rhaenyra was five and an eight-year-old Laenor had accidentally pushed her over, skinning her knees while they played tag in the concreted compound during one of the Velaryon visits to Kings Landing. 

Daemon had wanted to kill the apologetic Driftmark heir, along with his father, and burn the motorcycles they rode into ash, then and there.

He had held her as she sobbed, retrieving the box of Disney Princess band-aids from the top pocket of his patch that he carried just for her, to alleviate her tears. 

Now, her tears were for a hurt that he couldn’t fix so easily. 

Her father was dying. 

She would have to marry someone she could no longer stand to look at. 

Him. 

“We should talk.”

The words came from her. 

* * * 

The games room in the clubhouse was empty, serving their requirement for privacy. 

There were several low couches lining the walls, which were adorned with posters of various motorcycles and a few dart boards. At the centre of the room, a pool table, where Beesbury had taken Daemon’s money far too many times. 

Daemon shut the door behind him, Rhaenyra pausing before making for the bar set at the far end of the room and taking a seat at one of the stools. 

Daemon followed, stopping at the fridge, his uncle-brain surfacing with concern, wondering if she had eaten or had any water since she took off on Syrax that morning. 

“Do you want a drink?”

“I’ll have a wine.” 

He cocked an eyebrow, but decided not to comment, pouring two glasses from the only unopened bottle. Fuck knows how long the others had been sitting there, or who had swigged directly from them. 

Daemon came to stand on the other side of the bar bench, close, but allowing her space.

Rhaenyra took a delicate, but not entirely unpracticed sip.

He mirrored her movements, eyes locked on hers, violet meeting lilac for the second time since his return. 

“Rhaenyra, I know this is all really sudden, I want you to know - .” 

She cut across him.

“Did you know he was dying?” 

“He only told me yesterday.”

“And you came straight here. To take his seat.”

“That is not the only reason.” 

His niece’s eyes blazed.

“Because I’ve come of age, and you’ve come to… what? Marry me?” 

She snorted, an indelicate sound for such a pretty girl. 

Daemon narrowed his own eyes, the patience he had regained since she had suggested they finally talk now back to only hanging on by a thread. 

“When I saw you last, that wasn’t an idea that filled you with such distaste, byka dārilaros.” 

She rolled her eyes.

“I’ve grown up in the last eight years, uncle.” 

“Yes, as you very much proved last night.” 

Daemon’s already-frayed patience snapped and he stalked his way around the bench separating them, crowding her, forcing her to look up at him. 

“Next time you wish to make a point, do it with all your clothes on in the company of other men. I still haven’t decided whether or not to relieve everyone that was present in that room of the gift of sight.” 

“Oh, fuck off. I’m not allowed to be topless in front of a few council members, most older than my own father, but you can do whatever you want? Whoever you want?” 

“There will be no one else. Now that you are of age, I have no need of anyone else.” 

“So that’s what it was? You needed to fuck every woman from here to Old Town, because I wasn’t old enough to satisfy your needs? Even my nannies, while I was in the room next door?” 

Daemon froze. 

“What about Mysaria?” Rhaenyra pressed on, tone mocking. “You know she sent us a Christmas card with a sonogram in it. Addressed to me. How is your child, Daemon? Boy or girl? Will I get to meet my cousin slash step-child soon?” 

“I don’t have a child with that fucking psychopath. Or anyone else. The only children I have will be yours and mine.”

It was the truth, he didn’t have a child with Mysaria. 

Only because she now lay in an unmarked grave, but the end result was the same. 

“Whatever. Everything I know about you, from you, has been a lie.”

“You’re wrong, Rhaenyra, I- .”

“Tomorrow, on the tour, we present a united front. It’s the only way to protect the family and the club. I know that, better than anyone. I’ll play my role.”

Somehow, her words spoken with cold detachment spiked far more fear into Daemon than the ones she had unleashed in anger a few moments ago. 

He opened his mouth, desperate to find some way to break through the walls his niece had built around herself, mend the hurt that he had caused with his selfishness, find a way to reach her. 

“Rhaenyra?” 

Aemma’s voice cut through the room. 

Daemon could do nothing but watch as his niece slipped from her bar stool and left, without another glance in his direction. 

Chapter Text

Daemon awoke in one of the narrow beds of the clubhouse, roused by the ping of a new message lighting up his phone. 

6:08am: V Targ

Breakfast. 

It was customary that when the council set off on a journey together, they would share a meal in the family house before mounting their bikes. 

Daemon quickly stepped through into the shower in the adjoining bathroom, spending less than a minute under the spray that he had set to ice cold to shock his system into action. 

He had slept poorly, tossing and turning as the events of the day replayed in his mind on a loop.

Everything came back to Rhaenyra, the niece whose heart felt completely closed off to him. 

A few times, during the night, he had sat bolt upright and half made to leave the bed, as though on instinct.

He wanted to be near his niece, to hold her in his arms.

Given Viserys’s abruptness of delivering his news and recalling Daemon home, he hadn’t had a lot of time to consider what would await him on his arrival back to Kings Landing. 

On their phone call, Viserys had alluded to Rhaenyra’s misgivings about their betrothal, but he had assumed that they would serve to be superficial, nothing a few words between them couldn’t fix. 

In truth, Daemon had relied on the same force that had always drawn the two together to be reignited once they were back in each other’s orbit. 

Looking into his nieces eyes the evening before however, he felt as though there was an abyss between them. As though she was lost, and did not want to be found. 

Not by him, anyway. 

Rhaenyra was clearly well versed in his lack of discretion when it came to his exploits during her childhood. 

He had been a teenager himself for some of the time, lead by his cock and flattered by the constant attention of the many beautiful women that lingered around the club. 

At the time, and especially when his niece was a pre-schooler and younger, the years before he thought she would be bothered by his flings with any other women seemed endless. 

Daemon had always planned to cease his flings, one night stands, even minor flirtations, before she reached an age to feel even slightly offended by them.

He had waited too long, had foolishly picked a woman too bold, for his last one. 

He thought back to Rhaenyra's cutting words in the games room, wondering if the Christmas card sent by Mysaria to his thirteen year old niece had been the incident to ring the death knell for her affection toward him.

Mysaria had not informed Daemon of her misguided, and ultimately grave, decision to contact Rhaenyra. 

It had been Aemma, not Viserys, who had sent him a text on that disastrous Christmas morning. 

9:16am: Aemma Targaryen 

Congratulations on your bastard, Daemon. Tell your whore that if she ever contacts my daughter again, I’ll kill her myself.

Daemon had not been with Mysaria when the text had arrived. Their relationship, if you could call it that, was not the type to see them unwrap presents together under a festive tree. 

He had attempted to press the green call-button next to Aemma’s name, the lack of connection informing him that she had blocked his number as soon as she pressed send. 

Viserys’s phone had rang several times, then did the same. 

Daemon, with anger growing within the pit in his stomach, had decided to confront the most likely source.

“Ah, Daemon. Merry Christmas. I’m so glad you decided to come here so we could spend the day together. Did you bring me a gift?”

“You’ve got to be joking. Do I look like Father Christmas to you?” 

“Well, actually, the “father” part, yes.”

“What are you talking about? Are you... pregnant? Did you contact my niece? This is not a game, Mysaria.” 

Daemon’s anger had begun to morph into rage and he reached behind him to let his fingers rest where Dark Sister was holstered on his belt behind his leather jacket. 

She had about five more seconds to explain herself, before he would aim his gun directly between her eyes. 

Mysaria crossed the room before pulling a small black and white photo from the top drawer of her coffee table. 

“Yes. I am. Twelve weeks on Tuesday. Here’s the evidence. I asked for two copies, so that we could share one with your family.”

Daemon did not take the image she was offering in her outstretched hand.

“You’re a porno actress, Mysaria. You probably fuck ten men on a slow week. There’s a zero percent chance it’s mine.”

“On the contrary. It’s definitely yours. I have been vigilant in ensuring that fact.”

“What the fuck? We always use condoms. You told me you couldn’t even get pregnant!” 

Daemon had been careful, even in his youth, to ensure no complications arose from his dalliances. 

His father had been the one to stress the importance of this, to him and Viserys both, before they even knew that men and women had different parts under their clothes. 

Mysaria had often tried to convince him that they could forgo condoms, claiming that she was infertile from an injury. But Daemon had always used them anyway, her career didn’t exactly promise a disease-free cunt. 

He also had no desire to come inside of her.

There was no primal urge to do so when they fucked. And somehow the act of unprotected sex, coming inside of another woman seemed far too intimate. 

He hadn’t saved a lot of his firsts, but he would save that for his wife. 

“A miracle, then.” Mysaria smirked at him. 

Daemon had enough. Pulling Dark Sister from its holster, he aimed it directly at her. 

“Did I, or did I not, just tell you that this is not a game.”

She blanched, clearly expecting that the child inside her would afford her more security than this. She had miscalculated. 

“Daemon, wait. I am pregnant with your child!”

“Tell me how that came to be, when I have never fucked you raw, and you told me you couldn't conceive anyway. Why should I believe you? From where I’m standing, it looks like you're fucking with me, which I can’t tell you how much I do not appreciate.” 

“I… I poked holes in the condoms. With a pin. The infertility is… not exactly true. I am pregnant Daemon, and this is a good thing, if you will just listen to the reasons why.” 

“You lied to me. You… tricked me. Why the hell would this ever be a good thing?” 

“You need an excuse to break free from your betrothal! Your niece is a child and you’ve spent your entire adult life so far just waiting for her to grow up, at which point, if rumours are true, you’ll likely be denied her anyway. We have been seeing each other on and off for years Daemon. You can never fully be in anything because of her, you’re denying yourself a chance to have a real life. I know we could be happy together. This can be a new chapter for us.” 

“Are you… fucking insane?”

Daemon couldn’t believe his ears. 

Mysaria knew the situation between them, he had never pretended that it would lead to anything more than a mutually beneficial arrangement between the two, entirely on his terms.

“And, where exactly does contacting Rhaenyra come into this?”

“It is better this way. The band-aid has been ripped off. You don’t have to worry about explaining yourself, apologising. It’s an out for both parties.” 

Fury surged within Daemon, iron hot. 

“I want to marry Rhaenyra, I want to wait for her. If anyone tries to deny her to me, I will kill them with my bare hands. The only person who is going to be “out”, is you.”

He aimed Dark Sister, and this time, did not hesitate. 

Once burned, twice shy, Daemon had kept his cock in his pants ever since. 

* * *

Daemon let himself in, the door of the main house unlocked. 

He could smell the scent of bacon and coffee drifting through the house signalling that breakfast was clearly well under way.

There was a hum of voices coming from the kitchen, along the low drone of Otto Hightower speaking on the phone in the sitting room immediately to his left. 

Otto glanced up and met his eyes, bowing his head slightly in respectful acknowledgement. 

It was more than he would usually bestow upon Daemon which spoke to the shift in dynamics since Viserys’s announcement in the council room yesterday. 

Walking slowly down the corridor, Daemon paused in front of the framed photographs lining the hall. 

On the night of his arrival and when on his way to the council meeting the day before, he had been hurried, unfocused, and not noticed the decor in the slightest. 

The images, no doubt carefully selected by his sister-in-law, were an illustration of the years that Daemon had missed with his family. 

Birthdays, depicting Rhaenyra at various ages, with elaborate cakes made by Aemma’s careful hands.

A photo of her on Syrax, next to Viserys on Balerion, looking at each other with wide smiles. 

Aemma, with her arms wrapped tightly around Rhaenyra on the previous Christmas morning. Two matching silver heads and heart shaped faces, surrounded by large boxes wrapped with red and gold. 

Speaking of Christmas, despite only being December third, Aemma had already begun the over-the-top decorating that she had always loved. 

Tinsel adorned the frame of every doorway, and Daemon had noticed the seven-foot tree in the room occupied by Otto a few minutes before. 

He stopped short at the photo closest to the doorway to the kitchen. 

The frame looked brand new, the glass shining, no evidence of even the slightest fade. 

The image within was of Rhaenyra dressed in an almost sinfully tight red cocktail dress, smiling, a champagne glass in hand. A man stood with an arm wrapped around her waist, looking not at the camera but at her. 

Harwin.

Daemon stilled for a moment, scowling as he stared at the scene. 

Given the way they were dressed, and that Aemma had taken the photo, it must have been at one of the more upscale club events. 

Daemon had attended few, before his exile. 

In his youth, he had never been great at that particular game, playing nicely with the leaders of the other gangs, the chiefs of police, the business owners. 

Daemon knew he would need to learn the skills of diplomacy needed to manage that side of the club quickly, he would now not only attend the events, but organise and lead them. 

Slipping a finger behind the frame, he crooked the digit and popped the photo off the wall, where it smashed at his feet. 

“Very mature.” Viserys remarked drily, walking up the corridor behind Daemon. 

Daemon ignored him, pleased to see a shard of glass had sliced cleanly through Harwin's smiling face. 

“We should talk, before you leave.” 

Viserys ushered him into an office room through one of the doorways.

“You need to make your place very clear, Daemon.” He began, pouring a whisky for himself, not offering one to his younger brother who he knew would be on the road within the hour. “When I said to give reminders where they are due, I did not just mean the heads of the other gangs.” 

“The council is yours now. You need to rule them, but you need to respect them. I don’t want to hear reports of silly rows while you’re on the road. That includes with the Strong boy.” 

Daemon did not speak. The sound of Jingle Bells floated faintly into the room, along with a soft trill of laughter, unmistakably coming from his niece. 

“I spoke with Rhaenyra last night and I hear you did too. She will play her part in all this, she has been trained well.”

“I don’t want her to play a part.” Daemon snapped, irritated by his brother speaking about Rhaenyra as though she was a prized horse and not his own daughter.

“Be that as it may. For now, it might be. Hopefully, in time, it won’t be. Believe me when I say, I don’t want to see my daughter unhappy, forced into a marriage where she has to pretend. Among other reasons, that is why I am sending you on the tour immediately. Once the two of you start working together, you will have a common goal toward the future, rather than stewing on the unpleasantness of the past. You'll be away from some of the negative... influences here.” 

Once again, Daemon was surprised by Viserys’s words. His brother had thought this through and was trying to set them, and the club, on the right path forward.

While Daemon had been gone, Viserys had become a good King, that much was clear. 

“Can I count on you, brother? With the club, and with my daughter?” 

“You could always count on me with Rhaenyra.” 

“I could always count on you to love her, Daemon, to uphold your word to marry a Targaryen bride. I couldn’t always count on you to do what’s right, not to cause her harm. I need to know, now.”

“Yes. You can. I swear it.” 

* * *

The council fell into formation as they exited the gates of the compound.

Daemon at the head, while the others fanned behind him, two abreast.

Otto followed closely at the tail in a large black Range Rover. 

It was a formidable sight, even before the Targaryen patches could be seen from the rear view. 

Generally, it would be a cause for alarm to have the weight of the Targaryen council knocking at your door without warning.

Daemon knew that the Lannister’s had been selected to be their first stop for a reason. 

The Rock was not the closest to the Targaryen Headquarters, but they were a prideful club, exhaustingly so. 

Daemon knew that they had seen Viserys turning down the betrothal request between their oldest son, Jason, and Rhaenyra as a slight. One that had taken Baelon some time to repair. It was only the fact that she had been betrothed to Daemon, and not a son of another club, that had appeased their wounded egos.

Daemon resented them for the entitlement they felt toward his niece, even then.

In any case, he could not argue that as the richest club in the territories, the Lannisters were an influential ally. Being that were the type of people who appreciated the status of being kept informed ahead of the rest, would be the first to receive the Targaryen council.

He knew it would be his own first test as King, in many ways, ensuring he kept a handle on himself and an even firmer grip on them.

Four hours into their journey, Daemon heard a double rev from one of the bikes behind him, signalling that someone needed to stop. 

They pulled into a bay boasting road-side amenities a few hundred meters down the road, kicking up dust as they came to a stop. 

Rhaenyra parked next to him and quickly disembarked from Syrax, Daemon’s eyes drawn to her slim leather-clad legs as she did so. 

His cock twitched within his own leathers, embarrassingly affected by his niece’s most innocuous movements. 

“Restroom.”

“Sure.” 

Harwin made to follow as she walked toward the small building with his and hers signs. 

“I think she can manage a bathroom break alone.” Daemon shot at him, daggers burning in his eyes. 

“Viserys has always had a guard stationed whenever Rhaenyra is out on club business. He doesn’t like her going off on her own. Just incase.” Westerling murmured, so that only Daemon could hear his words. 

“Right, fair enough. You then, not him.” 

Westerling gave a short nod and obeyed his words, Harwin returning to his bike swiftly once he saw Harold disembarking. 

The rest remained sat atop their motorcycles for the short break, aside from Otto who rushed from the Range Rover, sleek steel thermos in hand, clearly gaspingly desperate to refuel his caffeine.  

Rhaenyra and Harold returned after a few more moments, Daemon watching his niece unashamedly as her silver hair shone in the midday sun. 

She was absolutely breathtaking, her movements far too elegant for a girl raised around the bitter smell of fuel and the roughness of men who love motorcycles. She looked like a princess from the storybooks that Daemon had read to her when she was small. 

“Thanks. Sorry.” Rhaenyra said to him quietly, pulling her helmet from where she had hung it over the handle bars. 

“Nothing to be sorry for. Do you want anything else while we are here? Otto’s got enough coffee to fuel an entire battalion, didn’t ask if we wanted any though I note. Does Viserys do performance reviews? That’ll be a talking point on Otto’s.” 

Rhaenyra laughed softly, Daemon delighting in the sound, the first time he had heard it coaxed from her by his own words since his return. 

“No, thanks. I’ll be stopping at every other rest-stop along the way if I do. I don’t know how Otto does it.” 

“Probably just pisses into a bottle. That’s why he needs such an obnoxiously large car. To store his coffee and his piss.” 

Rhaenyra’s nose wrinkled but she giggled again, biting her bottom lip to try to suppress the noise. 

“That’s disgusting, Uncle.” 

Daemon grinned. 

“Let’s go.” 

* * * 

Unsurprisingly, the Lannisters were exactly as Daemon remembered them, despite a generational change since his last interaction with them. 

As Head, after his father’s death a few years prior, Jason Lannister had greeted the Targaryen envoy at the gates of their compound, along side his wife Joanna. 

Jason held a practiced smile on his face as they dismounted from their bikes, but his widened eyes betrayed panic at the unannounced visit. 

The Lannisters were in the money printing business, an enterprise that drew a lot of attention from rival gangs and even branches of the Mafia. 

Their allegiance to the Targaryens afforded them the protection that they needed for such a high-profile pursuit. 

The Targaryens collected a share of their profits as negotiated many years before in exchange for enforcement, and would call in favours when they were financially needed. 

Although, Otto had informed Daemon as they left this morning, that no such favours had been needed for a long time as the other revenue streams into the club had been very lucrative in recent years. 

The mutually beneficial relationship, which had spanned generations, meant that the conversation between the council and the Lannisters went relatively smoothly as they learned that the Targaryens had new leadership. 

Daemon watched, with narrowed eyes, the way that Jason’s covetous gaze seemed to settle on Rhaenyra every few moments, despite who was talking in the room. 

He considered how easy it would be to reach across the table and break Jason’s nose for the disrespect, however Viserys’s words from the morning were still ringing in his ears. Another occasion, then. 

“I have made up the guest quarters for you all, you must stay tonight. Or longer! If we had notice, I would have put together a proper club event. Dinner tonight in the clubhouse, and drinks of course, will have to do this time.” 

Joanna had entered the room, handing out beer to the men and pouring a glass of wine for Rhaenyra, giving her a warm smile.

As incoming Queen of the Targaryens, befriending Rhaenyra would serve as an excellent connection for the wives of the other gang leaders. 

“We have a hotel booked down the road. We don’t want to intrude, especially as you said, without notice.” Otto replied smoothly. 

“Nonsense. You’ll stay here. We insist.” 

Daemon gave a short nod, as much as he would prefer to stay in the hotel to get away from the endless politics and temptation to strangle Jason, turning down their hospitality would clearly be interpreted as an insult.

“Wonderful. Daemon, your council will be in the main house, separate bedrooms of course as we have several guest suits. You and Rhaenyra can take the guest cottage, have your privacy. I’ve just had it beautifully decorated, inspired by the honeymoon Jason took me on to Provence! It’ll be like a romantic little holiday of your own for the night.” 

Rhaenyra, next to him, tensed. 

Daemon opened his mouth hesitantly, weighing up how to formulate an excuse that would allow Rhaenyra her own room, for now at least. 

It would be reasonable they not share a room before they were wed, but sharing any details of their relationship with the Lannisters felt risky. Rumours had started about Kings and Queens before for less. 

She spoke before he could.

“That sounds lovely, thank you Joanna.” 

* * * 

Daemon deposited his and Rhaenyra's travelling bags that he had retrieved from Otto’s Range Rover on the shell-pink sheets of the bed in the guest cottage. 

He looked around the room quickly. 

It wasn’t so much a cottage as an intimate room with a large bed as the centrepiece. 

The only furniture other than a large wardrobe were two ornate chairs, upholstered in matching shell-pink, looking out a bay window onto a garden filled with winter roses in full bloom. 

No couch. 

Rhaenyra walked in behind him, pausing, likely with the same thought. 

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

She gave a slight nod, not meeting his eyes, before unzipping the bag containing her belongings. 

“I’m going to shower.” 

“Do you want to take a nap first? We had a long ride. We have an hour or so before we are expected at the Lannister clubhouse.” 

“No.” 

Rhaenyra shut the door to the bathroom behind her with a resoundingly final click. 

Daemon sank onto the bed with a long sigh. 

On the road, and in the meeting with the Lannisters, Rhaenyra had been warmer toward him. 

Now, they were alone, she was back to her pre-departure iciness.

He had almost forgotten that the last few hours were not the reality of the situation between them. 

In the meeting, she had taken her seat next to him, leaned toward him when he was speaking, smiled genuinely and intertwined their fingers when he had taken her hand as he reaffirmed their betrothal to Jason. 

Daemon could practically hear Viserys’s words ringing through the air as though he was stood in the room with him.

“She’s been well trained.” 

He heard the hiss of the shower turning on and, squeezing his eyes shut, tried to force himself not to picture his little niece completely naked just a few feet from him. 

To distract himself, he made a coffee for them both with the two-person cafetière set on one of the bedside tables, sitting in one of the window-facing chairs to drink his cup. 

Shortly after, Rhaenyra exited the ensuite clad in a fluffy white towel with an almost ridiculous plume of hot steam following her out the door, betraying the scorching temperature of her shower.

She had always loved her baths extremely hot when she was a young child. Daemon would call her his “little prawn”, her milky complexion flushed bright red from the water. 

He didn’t think she would appreciate the joke now, so kept silent as she joined him in the seat next to his, still in her towel, her own coffee cup in hand. 

Daemon decided this had to be deliberate torture. 

The towel, while large and luxurious, revealed swathes of her skin that his fingers itched to reach out and touch. 

The length of her toned legs, her delicate feet with toes painted blood-red.

The swell of the tops of her breasts, the bare-glory memory of which he had imprinted in his mind, revisiting the moment in the kitchen obscenely often. 

Her sharp collar bones, which he was desperate to suck marks along, leading to ever-so-slightly tanned shoulders undoubtedly from hours riding Syrax during the summer months.

Everything about her was perfect, like hand-painted porcelain. 

“Are you going to shower?” She suddenly blurted out, cutting through the silence. 

“I was planning on it… are you trying to tell me something?” 

“No… but I need to put my dress on. I can do it in the bathroom if you’re not, that’s all.” 

“Oh. Right. Of course, I’ll go now.” 

Daemon stood under the spray for longer than he usually would, allowing Rhaenyra plenty of time alone in the bedroom to ready herself for the evening. 

When he tentatively made his way back out, Rhaenyra was standing in the middle of the room, dressed but holding her black cocktail dress to her chest slightly awkwardly. 

Daemon was only wearing a towel himself, she had set the standard. He did not miss the way his nieces eyes darkened as they travelled a path down the defined muscles of his chest and stomach. 

Rhaenyra pulled her bottom lip between her lips enticingly as she surveyed him. 

However, once she reached the point where the fabric was slung dangerously low on his hips she quickly snapped her eyes back to his face. 

“I can’t zip the back. Would you mind?” 

“Of course.” 

Daemon circled around her, standing unnecessarily close, allowing his bare chest to brush slightly against the exposed skin of her back before slowly pulling the zip into place. 

He made no move to pull away once his task was complete until she turned to face him, a blush crawling across her cheekbones.

"We should probably go. Once you're... dressed."

“Wait a moment. I have something for you.”

“Oh?” 

Daemon reached into the side pocket of his travelling bag and produced a small velvet box. 

He opened it to reveal a white-gold ring with a large four-carat emerald-cut ruby at its centre. There were two diamond shoulder stones, a carat each, held back for the purpose when he had Syrax adorned with the rest of the collection.

Daemon had hoped to present it to her in a very different setting, but he wanted it on her finger tonight.

“I brought the centre stone for you in the Stepstones when Laenor and I took a trip there, Velaryon business, a few years ago. The diamonds I kept from when I had Syrax remodeled.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened and she raised an eyebrow slightly. 

She didn’t speak, even when he lifted her left hand and slid the band down her ring finger. 

“I… I suppose it’s a good thing to wear on the tour.” She finally murmured, stepping away from him. 

Daemon smirked slightly, watching her busy herself slipping her feet into red-backed black Louboutins, noticing the surreptitious glances his niece was giving to her finger as her ring caught the light in the room.

He would take that as a win.