Chapter Text
“No.” He growls aggressively, incredulously even.
“It is not for you to decide who will be your bride, Daemon. Long have these traditions been decreed by the King and I am the King.” Baelon leans forward from high upon his throne, eyes narrowed and unamused stare directed at him.
“She is a child.” Daemon laughs, a hint of hysteria raising his voice which raises an amused brow from the King.
“She will grow. You are twenty-one years of age and you have yet to reach maturity yourself.” The King harrumphs, leaning back and tutting in admonishment.
“She will not be old enough to bed for another four years at the very least and you expect me to... what, precisely? Wait? Loiter and fester until such a time as you decree her ready to be bred like a mare for the good of the family?”
“Precisely.”
Daemons jaw lowers, eyes glaring jagged daggers at his father whose stern gaze never wavers or relents.
It is not that it is uncommon to marry inside the family. To wed one who shared the same blood to keep the line secure and pure for future generations; however, his niece would not have been his first choice.
Or his second.
Perhaps not even his third.
She was a lively and lovely child. None could dispute it. She laughed bright and airily, sang from the depths of her belly and confidently so. She traipsed through the halls with a skip in her step and never failed to bring a smile to any who encountered her... and yet.
She was not comely.
Not ... to his tastes. Despite her Targaryen features and blood.
She was a short, rather pudgy child of two and ten; her face was marked in angry pustules of puberty, her hair wan and lanky. The only redeeming factor of her visage would be her smile when she bestowed it as a reward for kindness and courtesy shown to her.
Maesters had assured his brother, and his wife Aemma, that the child would grow and blossom into her beauty and yet every year Daemon had yet to see even an inkling of that of which they spoke.
There was no doubt she was Targaryen through and through. Pale golden hair, deep, purple eyes – the pointed nose which had passed from his mother Alyssa to him and skipped his brother entirely - before reflecting once more in the face of his niece.
No, she was not what he would choose for a wife. This...wingless little dragon... who waddled the corridors with a smile, lemon cake in hand and frosting on her double chin.
“I will not marry her. She is not my choice for a wife. I desire beauty! I desire desire when I look upon my wife...not indifference and fond familiarity. You will find no heirs arising from this union for I have come across whores who have more appeal than that girl whom I call my niece.” Daemon snaps at his father as his temper is unleashed, along with his frustration, as they best him. The King stands abruptly and curses harshly towards the heavens.
“You will do as you are told or you will be appointed a wife from the Vale! One whom I swear to you will fall even further below your shallow standards than you could ever possibly comprehend. Heed me now, you heartless son of mine. You will take Rhaenyra to wife upon her sixteenth nameday or suffer my wrath.”
Daemon stills as he hears a choked sob - from a soft and broken voice behind him.
He closes his eyes, deep creases of remorse appearing in each corner as he leans his head back and sighs deeply.
“Rhaenyra, my beloved grandchild, you were not given leave to enter. Your uncle and I-“ the King stutters but another whimper of sheer sorrow echoes around the room and robs the King of his words.
Daemon turns slowly, eyes cast to the ground as he clasps his hands together in front of him in contrition, heart beating sluggishly as he builds upon his courage to meet her gaze.
He espies the embroidered hem of her yellow dress, the soft suede of pearl encrusted slippers and as he raises his eyes to meet his nieces - he sees nothing but pure heartbreak etched upon her face.
The cheeks he had once prodded, laughing as they wobbled before her dainty hand had swatted him away in laughter- were now wet and streaked with tears which pooled and dripped beneath her chin.
The bright and electrifying purple eyes which had always looked upon him with awe and wonder whenever he brought her a rare jewel - or regaled her with stories of his adventures- were now dimmed and drowning in sorrow.
He opens his mouth, reaching a hand towards her to explain his words and to seek forgiveness for hurting her so but she recoils from him and he withdraws his hand back to his side.
“I hate you.”
She does not scream at him, or wail.
Rhaenyra’s voice does not hitch or quiver as it leaves her lips but the blow is all the same - the most devastating one he has ever received.
“Rhaenyra...” he mumbles, softly. Regretfully.
He had never meant for her to hear his words of anger. He has never even entertained the thought of hurting her, the very idea utterly abhorrent to him.
His niece turns on her heels - gracefully despite her disproportionate body - and her feet glide as if skating over ice as she leaves him without a backwards glance.
“You are a fool.” Daemon hears his father mutter angrily but his words cannot damage him, for nothing anyone has said before this or could ever possibly say from this moment on after - could ever pierce his heart the way those three words from his niece have – with ecstatic, heart breaking precision.
****
He attempts at first to grant her a period of time whereby her fires would cool into smouldering embers before he attempts to reconcile with her.
She takes no steps to avoid his presence however and yet the lack of acknowledgement , of his existence even, rankles at his core like chains against the stone walls of the dungeons beneath his feet.
Not once has she allowed him to catch her gaze, graced him with one of her smiles at one of his more superfluous jibes which would once have her cackling into her sweet juice with a snort.
No, she does not spit venom or hiss as an alley cat does when confronted with a dog.
She simply turns her back on him, or displays the side of her face as she animatedly talks to her childhood friend Alicent.
She ignores him entirely.
His heart clenches with each rebuff, each word of his which falls on deaf ears and soon his sorrow at causing her pain blooms into sparking ire at her blatant disregard and dismissive attitude towards him.
He stalks and prowls the street of silk, finding his hollow release in any woman who rewards him with a smile and yet upon his return to the castle he would catch himself lingering at the end of the hall which led to her chambers.
A week passes swiftly and his temper is forever foul as his brother is fond of proclaiming. Aemma simply shakes her head at him with deep disappointment curling the corners of her mouth and he finds that his guts shrivel further every time he espies it.
On a cold, windy day - his hands still feeling the sting of the air after his flight upon Caraxes – he unceremoniously barges into his nieces quarters.
She shrieks at first, shooting to her slippered feet with mouth agape until she observes him breathing heavily with one hand pressed against the gold gilded door.
“I have tried to weather your disdain, dear niece, with all the grace and regret within me that I can muster – however, I have reached the edge of my patience. You will hear my words and you will consider your own carefully before you speak them.”
“Leave, uncle. I do not wish to speak to you. You have made your opinion of me quite clear and I have no need to waste my time nor my energy in changing your mind on the matter.”
“Impudent child!” he snarls and the door slams against the wall and his sweet niece flinches.
He breathes deeply and regains his tenuous control by swiftly marching towards the balcony and clasping his hands behind his back.
“You heard but a fraction of my opinion, Rhaenyra. You heard my opinion as a grown man discussing his future wife, the mother of my children. Had you asked me of my opinion of you as your uncle – my words would have warmed your heart for a thousand winters to come .” He says quietly and hears her snort of derision.
“As I am not to your taste, uncle –“ she sneers and he narrows his eyes over his shoulder as his head cocks to the side.
She falls silent but her shoulders shake with anger as she rifles through her closet for what he can identify as her riding leathers.
He has never heard her curse before and the twitch of amusement which lifts the corner of his mouth is quickly smothered with a clearing of his throat- as he reminds himself that he is here to scold her for her petulant ways not grow more fond of the child.
“You cannot mean to tell me that you wish to wed me, Rhaenyra?” He scoffs as he lifts the pitcher to his left when he sees its merely filled with water and not wine.
“I had, in fact, considered it at length, uncle.” She snaps and his body jerks, the sloshing of the water within the pitcher overly loud.
“Come again?”
“Grandfather had approached me to ascertain my thoughts on the matter not one week ago. I saw no sense, nor did I have any reason then, to refuse. You are a Prince, a renowned warrior – honourable and kind,” Daemons heart thuds within his chest as his mouth drops in surprise “ – or so I had thought.”
His heart plummets to the depths of his bowels.
“I see now that rumour is to believed. You are a rogue, a heartless cad. I dared not believed them- for how could I when whenever the mere sight of you - or an hour in your presence brought me nothing but joy when you showered me in kindness and affection.”
Daemon bites his tongue. Hard. The bitter iron of blood coats the back of his throat as he swallows her words down.
“I know I am no beauty, not to the standards you prefer when selecting a wife – but I had thought that when I came of age – perhaps we could at least share a marriage filled with understanding or friendship.”
His brow cocks as her face floods with heat, cheeks reddening as the hue spreads across the bridge of her nose. “ – and when I gave you the heir you so desire – “ she claps her mouth shut and turns her back on him and he growls.
He lays a hand on her shoulder, not certain when his feet had moved him across the floor, but she shirks away from him.
“I no longer wish to marry you, uncle. This at least must now bring you some small measure of comfort. That you and I are of one mind in this. However, as it has been decreed by the King, I will do my duty in so far as you will allow me.“
She turns to face him and he is taken aback by the finality in her eyes. “Go now, and I will face you upon the day of our wedding where we will be forced to do as we must. Go now, uncle, and grant me these few years without your presence as a constant reminder that I an beneath you in every way which you deem important.”
A girl of two and ten has left him speechless; the very air, his every word, now choking him as he mindlessly opens his mouth and closes it as she leaves her own chambers with only the slightest sniffle of sound lingering in the room.
There is nothing more to be said then.
He has lost the only love he had been shown freely, and without the need of anything in return, and he was entirely to blame.
He detests that he has hurt her but he will not sacrifice his principles, his desires or his needs for a woman, much less one who was yet grown and did not know her own mind.
He flees to Dragonstone within the same hour and plans to live his life however he wishes for the amount of time he has been granted – before his freedom is taken from him and duty prevails.
He attributes the redness and stinging sensation of his eyes to the harsh, winter wind.
****
It is the day before he is due to wed his niece and much has changed in his life.
In the past few years since he last spoke to his betrothed – he had taken a mistress, watched her belly swell with child. Until fate, the fickle and cruel bitch, had cruelly taken them both and ushered them into the clutches of the Stranger in a summer storm upon the sea.
He has fought and conquered in a long, bloody battle for the Stepstones and returned triumphant and proud when all had doubted him and called him a fool.
He has not spoken to his betrothed – and the hurt of that - while dulled by time – begins to fester and renew itself with visceral savagery which clenches around his heart with a vice-like grip, the closer he flies to Kings Landing.
Caraxes snarls beneath him, attuned to his riders temperament and Daemon wills himself to find peace - his anxiety which deftly spirals out of control as the hour of his wedding to his niece draws near – rages in his ears.
He guides his dragon deep within the pit, singing softly in his ancient tongue as he passes Syrax and the other dragons housed within.
He presses his forehead to Caraxes snout, the huff of air blowing his long, braided locks over his shoulders and he chuckles quietly as he feels the rumble rattle through his bones.
“I will be forced to marry the child, my old friend... but I do not believe she will inspire me to do my duty. I have heard rumours of her apparent beauty and grace yet I find that I do not trust the word of a paid bard, nor that of a paid whore.” He sighs, patting his dragon affectionately before he straightens his tunic and adjusts his golden cloak over his left shoulder.
He takes the garden path towards the Keep and stops in front of the pond where water lilies bloom in vibrant white and pink.
He smirks.
As a child of nine Rhaenyra had fallen in, quite spectacularly so if truth be told, head first as she had strained to reach a flower.
He had laughed uproariously to the point where the bones in his knees had liquefied and he had subsequently been pulled in as well when she had tugged with surprising strength on his belt.
Drenched as a rat in a bucket of water, he had spluttered and cursed and removed a lily pad from atop his head in disgust – whilst Rhaenyra’s squeal of laughter reignited his amusement as they helped one another back to dry land.
It was one of his fondest, and most cherished, memory of his niece.
He frowns as a familiar hollowness within his heart, which he has purposefully ignored for years, resurfaces with a vengeance and he looks to the still waters in front of him with a sneer as his vulnerability where his niece is concerned reminds him of his weakness.
He bends to one knee, retrieving a pebble with forefinger and thumb from beside his boot and throws the stone into the centre of the pond.
Ripples reach and expand outward before disappearing entirely, and the peace of the water is as turbulent as his emotions.
He turns and sets his sights on the Keep where his father awaits him.
And his future wife.
****
“She has no desire to see you before the ceremony.” Baleon announces and Daemon scowls, throwing his hand up in the air in frustration.
“We have not conversed in some years, father. There are matters she and I must discuss –“
“All of which you can do once the bedding ceremony has been completed.”
Daemon pales at the thought but thins his lips to keep his opinion behind his teeth.
A vein in his temple throbs as he looks to his father who is absentmindedly fiddling with his texts which he adores to read. He crosses his arms and leans against the pillar of his father’s solar and watches the King hum as his fingers flick idly through the pages.
“Will you truly not release me from this? I have won wars for you father, kept your borders safe and secure – I do not see why my wife should be of your choosing after all I have done for the realm and for you as your son.”
The former Spring Prince continues to hum with a small, sly smile and Daemon is near apoplectic with irritation as he throws his hands in the air and all but collapses into the wooden chair to his side. It creaks hideously in protest and the sigh the rogue Prince releases only adds to the weight atop it somehow.
“Once, long ago – Dreamers were as common as wild flowers.”
Daemon rolls his eyes and snorts.
He has heard this before. For years, in fact, and now was not the time to reminisce.
“I see your patience is as limited as ever, my son. “ the King grunts in amusement and sits beside him in front of the hearth which blazes with fire.
“It is not a matter of patience – it is a matter of time. Time which is growing shorter and bringing me ever closer to my doom.”
“Gods above, Daemon. Your dramatics never cease to amaze me.” He chuckles and Daemon growls as his face reddens.
“Once, long ago – “
“Father.” Daemon pleads, a tinge of a whine to his voice.
“Once, long ago –“ the Spring Prince raises his voice “ – Dreamers were as common as wildflowers upon a field... but what I have not told you my son, is that I have dreamt of you and your bride for as long as I can recall being alive.”
Daemon gapes, eyes wide and disbelieving.
As the King reveals the prophecy of the son who will be born and save the Realms from certain annihilation - he also reveals that it is Daemons and Rhaenyra’s line which would bring forth the completion of this prophecy.
“I can see your scepticism, my son. It matters not if you believe me. For I am King. And I have spoken. You will wed Rhaenyra on the morrow – and the realm shall tremble with your union and never be the same.”
He is ushered out of his fathers solar with a tired, exasperated wave and Daemon hisses harshly beneath his breath as his coat flicks sharply behind him in the veritable gust his body creates with his enraged stride.
He returns to the Street of Silk – and drinks himself to near oblivion.
For what else could he do but admit defeat and succumb to his fate.
****
It’s the morning of his wedding day and he blinks blearily through one eye as the curtains around his bed are drawn. He groans, curses at the servants who merely ignore his wretched grumbling as they ready the room.
A bath is drawn and the sound of tinkling water urges him from his bed as the wine he had drowned himself in last night ushers him with haste to the privy.
He disrobes clumsily, wine stained tunic falling to the floor without care, breeches entangling themselves around his ankles and he curses as he loses his balance and slaps a hand to the wall to break his fall.
He bathes with the aid of his servants who all discreetly turn their gaze away from his cock which despite his inebriated state - greets them all with a bob above the water line.
He hisses as one of the maids nails snag in his hair and he dismisses them with an irritated wave of his finger.
They do not go far and he hears how they hurry to and fro to prepare his ceremonial garb for the days event.
He wishes briefly that the dragons of the wilds would swoop above the castle and burn the kingdom to ash.
The lack of choice, of free will, grates at every fibre of his being and he angrily splashes water against the wall as his fist slams into the side of the copper tub.
He leans back, neck braced uncomfortably against the rim of the bath and sighs.
“Prince Daemon. Your presence is required in precisely one hour. If it pleases you, we need to dress and prepare you. As the King has bid.”
The Fucking King he snarls as he stands, water dripping from his body as he leaves veritable puddles in his wake.
The servant girls once again avert their eyes, the epitome of professionalism as they dry him and press the remaining water from his hair with gentle yet firm hands.
He reaches for the black breeches, shrugging them on with a grunt as he rearranges himself to a more comfortable position. He swats at the hand which intends to aid him don his boots and he viciously laces them with a sneer.
The silk shirt of vibrant red which drapes sensually over his broad chest and shoulders is quickly buttoned with golden dragons equally spaced apart - before a doublet of midnight black is fastened over him and tied upon each shoulder similar to his armours latches.
He catches his reflection and swiftly turns his head. He was no maiden who has long dreamt of his wedding day but on the rare occasion when he did – he had hoped to be brimming with enthusiasm and pride and eager to bed his bride.
No muscle within his face would move and form into any such expression and as such - he thought it best to refrain from glancing at the mirror lest he espy the dread on his face and turn coward at the sight.
His hair is twisted and turned, braided and straightened, and the locks hang beautifully down to the edges of his shoulder blades. A simple golden hoop is placed on his head akin to a crown and he huffs as he adjusts it to stop pinching his ears.
A knock on the door signals that his brother awaits him – and he breathes deeply, holding the very air in his lungs until his eyes water and burn before he exhales with a wheeze.
“Daemon.” Grunts his brother whose expression is equally as maudlin as his own.
“Viserys.” He grunts in return.
“You are not worthy of her.” Viserys states and Daemon bristles.
“I am a Targaryen Prince.” Fuck you.
“You are a whore-mongering rogue and I will remove your balls with mine own hands and feed them to you should you disgrace my daughter with your theatrics.”
“Spare me your threats.” Daemon scoffs, shoulder butting hard into the heir of the Iron Throne as he passes.
“You are not worthy of her.” Viserys repeats and Daemon looks to his laces upon his boots.
“I know.”
They march side by side to the Great Sept.
Each feeling as if though the second doom was upon them.
****
The Sept is crowded, heaving even – the musty aroma of unwashed bodies as hundreds clamour together to witness the joining of uncle and niece, and he curls his lip at the smell as it turns his stomach.
He clears his throat for the seventh time and his fingers twitch around Dark Sisters pommel which glints magnificently in the rays which streak through the glass top of the domed building.
Aemma stands beside his father, the pair conversing quietly and he clucks his tongue as the King gives him an encouraging nod.
Music begins to play softly and the din of the crowd lulls and lessens as only the soft melody of flutes can be heard in the vast chamber.
He may void the contents of his stomach so quickly does it dip when he hears the creaking of the great oak doors open. The Knights all raise their swords in salute as the High Septon begins a chant, incense billowing from a lantern which he swings back and forth as he enters first.
Daemon has killed hundreds of men, escaped with his life on numerous occasions, been burnt and stabbed, speared and shot with flaming arrows and yet never has he felt dread such as this.
He lifts his chin high in the air as his brother appears; his hand outstretched to a woman behind him who he cannot clearly see as she continues to linger in the shadows of the doorway.
A breath, two and three and he sees the slender arm clad in white take his brothers proffered hand, gripping it tightly.
Daemon experiences the peculiar sensation of his throat seizing as it runs dry, how the blood rushes and quickens and naught but a roar could be heard by him as his heart thunders in his chest.
Rhaenyra is tall. Tall enough now that should he stand beside her, she could tuck her head beneath his chin and he could rest his own atop hers easily in peace and comfort.
Breasts, pert and proud are teasingly glimpsed in the tight cut of fabric which cinches in around a trim and tiny waist. Beading covers every inch of the spined corset and the rays bounce playfully off her dress casting the room aglow in a myriad of colours of which some he could not name.
Curvaceous hips flare briefly as the dress continues its tight stretch until it suddenly expands and flutters around her ankles with the breeze which creeps in from the door behind her.
The cape which trails behind her is a blending of blue, black and red of their families colours and the velvet is thick and heavy enough to drag along the carpet - were it not for the two small children valiantly holding it aloft at the edges with great difficulty.
He swallows thickly, painfully so, as his eyes bore into her as she approaches on the arm of his brother.
He cannot see her face and he laments the fact with a small groan of frustration which draws a snigger from the King behind him.
The veil which covers her is heavily embroidered with patterns of dragons and flames and he catches himself on the brink of tapping his foot.
The melody of flutes reaches its crescendo as they stop before him and Daemon is appalled to discover that his hands are shaking.
Viserys sighs heavily, as if the weight of the world had settled upon his shoulders, as he kisses his daughters cheek over the veil.
Daemon starts when he feels the firm hand of his brother clasp his own, the pressure intensifying to the point of pain before it is released.
He feels the soft, satiny skin of his nieces hand within his palm and he trembles. Whether it is in excitement or dread he has yet to determine but as he feels her hand shake – he threads their fingers together.
He cannot take his gaze off of her body which has changed from that of a child’s to a woman grown. He lingers on the curve of her collarbones which rise and fall with each one of her controlled breaths, the dip in her cleavage, the lines and curves of her astonishing transformation.
The High Sept is speaking yet he can decipher none of the words. She stiffens when their hands are bound together with a red scrap of cloth, as the words are spoken which will bind them together as man and wife.
He hears nothing. Sees nothing, but her.
The King chuckles merrily and Daemon snaps to attention when his nieces nails dig into his palms.
“Do you take this woman as your wife, in the eyes of the Seven, to cherish and protect from this day to your last day?” the High Sept repeats with a scowl and Daemon sheepishly nods, clearing his throat and croaking ‘yes’ despite his father’s laughter echoing in his ears.
The question is asked of his niece – and the hesitation near kills him when she does not answer.
He squeezes her hand and her head snaps to him. He yearns to see her eyes, to bask in whatever glower or sneer or frown they have creased into.
He offers her a small grin and hears an annoyed tut in response.
“Yes.”
An illogical urge to cry out in elation makes him rock back and forth on the heels of his feet and its only his brothers growl which alerts him to the fact that his grin is broad and beaming and entirely inappropriate for such a serious moment.
Viserys steps forward and removes the cape from his daughters shoulders and Daemon removes his own to drape across her slim shoulders.
The colours of his house. Of their house.
With shaking hands, he thumbs the hem of her veil which hangs just below her chin and slowly starts to reveal her face.
A dainty chin; pink, pouting luscious lips – his mother’s nose and skin clear and as bright as a summers day with a dusting of rosy red high upon the apples of her cheeks–
He falls in love the instant their eyes meet.
Deep, mesmerising purple ensnares him body and soul and he shudders visibly as the pad of his thumb trails down her soft skin.
“Rhaenyra...” he whispers in awe and feels a cool hand grip the nape of his neck, nails digging into the tender flesh there and he holds back the moan of lust which ignites in his belly at her touch.
The kiss when he is allowed to take it, when he is told to seal their fates – is shockingly quick and so impersonal he blinks owlishly at her in confusion.
Ah. She hated him still.
She sneers at him, rolling her eyes discreetly when he has the audacity to wink at her and he titters with giddy laughter at her muffled curse.
She was the most beautiful creature he has ever seen – and now she was all his.
****
The feast which followed their wedding was the most pompous and overly grand spectacle he had ever attended. Throngs of well wishers, loud and exuberant music – and people by the hundreds from far and wide who all vied for the newly weds attention.
He hasn’t shared more than two words with his niece so dumbfounded was he by her beauty, her radiant soul which peeked through every smile she gave to everyone apart from him.
He had tried to reach for her hand but she had cursed him softly and removed it to her lap. He had attempted to engage her in conversation but she had hastily accepted a dance from Harwin Strong to escape.
Daemon had ground his teeth to the point of dust as she laughed and twirled in the man’s arms and the King beside him had winked and dipped his head knowingly.
“Tell me, my fool of a son – have your tastes changed of late? I have never seen a man more smitten since I once caught my own reflection after gazing upon your mother.”
Daemon glowers, sucking back his wine and snapping his fingers to have the glass refilled.
“I will admit that I am somewhat –“ he struggles between honesty and fallacy. Shocked seems too tame a word. “ – She has changed much since I last saw her.” He mutters into his wine and the King smirks.
“Perhaps if you had attended the numerous events I have held these past years you would have had the chance to reconcile with her – but now my son I fear you will face the greatest challenge of your life.”
“I have waged war, father. I hardly think wooing a woman of six and ten to be a difficult feat.” He snorts, his gaze still on his wife who dances now with her cousin Leanor.
“You know nothing of your niece and her temperament. If I were to compare her to Caraxes, well, you would certainly stand more chance defeating your dragon than winning the heart of that girl.”
“She is mine in all the ways that it matters. I will put a babe in her belly and she will be the mother of my children. That will be enough.”
The King scoffs loudly, Aemma leaning forward to enquire about his health but he waves her concern away.
“And what of love, Prince Daemon?”
“Rhaenyra has always loved me, father. The depth is all that has to change and that will come in time.”
“Fool.” The King shakes his head.
He can no longer tolerate his father’s sly probing into his state of mind, standing abruptly and making his excuses, he heads towards his wife and taps Leanor on the shoulder.
“I wish to dance with my wife.” It is not a request. His voice is as rain over gravel as Leanor all but squeaks and offers an apology for monopolising her time.
Rhaenyra glares, standing in front of him practically vibrating with aggression and its sparks something deep inside of him.
He gives her no chance to protest as his hand glides across her stomach and settles on the small of her back, her startled squeak lost under his chuckles as he pulls her flush against his chest.
“How like you to take liberties without asking.” She growls and he tightens his hold on her. His hand dwarfs her own as he leads her on a dance that requires no more than four steps in a circle.
He is lost in her eyes. The fire there, the all encompassing rage directed at him. Such passion for someone so young.
“I take only what is mine, and you dear niece, now belong to me.” He purrs into the shell of her ear, his lips brushing lightly across her cheek as she turns her head away from him.
“How you continue to delude yourself is quite amusing, uncle. You seek to claim what I would have once willingly given, but that time has come and gone.” She breathes against the skin of his neck and he battles the urge to capture her lips in a searing, spine tingling kiss.
“I see you still harbour some resentment –“ he starts but she stomps on his foot with her pointed shoe and he hisses, growling at her with narrowed eyes.
“I have no interest in discussing the past, Daemon. You made your opinion of me quite clear and I in turn will not alter the one I have formed about you.”
He frowns. “You still think me heartless?” He places their clasped hands over his heart which thuds sporadically at their closeness, wishing he could open his chest so that she may see the effect she has upon him with her own two eyes. “Do you not feel the beating of my heart? Can you truly not believe that it is the mere sight of you that has given my heart such rapidly beating wings?”
She scoffs. “Lust and love are oft confused, uncle. Besides, I have known you all my life. You are not capable of love, nor admiring beauty without lusting after it. Or destroying it.”
He smirks, the fire in her eyes breathing life into the embers which smoulder and smoke lazily inside of him.
“You are beautiful, and you, Rhaenyra, are mine. I have no need to lust after that which I already possess.” He chuckles darkly as he places a chaste kiss upon her forehead and she freezes beneath his touch.
“I hope you will take comfort in the fact that we shall both burn together no matter what may come to pass. ” He rasps possessively, releasing her hand only to lightly clasp her chin with two fingers, tilting her head from side to side as she jerks away from his touch.
“Delusional. Beauty is all that matters to you is it not. For what else could possibly matter.” She grits out with a roll of her eyes as he lowers his head a fraction until their noses brush feather-light against one another.
He twirls her, beautiful golden hair flicking softly against his face and when she returns to his embrace, fingers tight upon her own, he seizes his opportunity and claims her mouth.
Cheers and applause crescendo from the crowd and his little niece struggles for just a moment in his arms, her lips stiff and unyielding beneath his own.
Until that very moment when he feels his world shift and her tongue invades his mouth, battling with his own as the grip she has on the back of his neck begins to throb in time with his heart.
She allows him no chance to breathe, no chance to gather his wits and he completely submits to the very essence of her. Her smell, her taste, the faint whine he swallows when she suckles on his lower lip – all rocking through his core as lights dance behind his closed eyes.
It is only the firm hand of his brother which lands upon his shoulder with all the force of a hammer intent on driving down the nails of a coffin which startles him back into awareness.
“That’s enough of that!” Viserys angrily whispers before turning a congenial smile to the crowd and faking a laugh ‘Newly Weds!’ he claps his hands and the court titters in amusement.
“BED THEM! BED THEM!” the crowd chants around them but he has yet to take his eyes off his beautiful nieces face.
He ignores the flash of disgust with herself which passes through her eyes. In time she would relent, she would learn to savour each and every one of his touches upon her and he would ensure that she would beg for more.
Rhaenyra shrieks as a throng of men, fingers outstretched and lascivious grins, surround her, and start the ritual of savagely tearing at her dress.
Dark Sister is removed within the space of a breath and the steel glitters in the candlelight as it holds steady against the jugular of a man who is currently palming his wife’s breast.
“Daemon!” Viserys hollers but he simply snarls.
“Remove your hand from my wife or you shall lose it, as well as your head, before your next pitiful breath.”
The hall falls silent and Rhaenyra, who is whimpering, holding up the tattered remains of her dress over one shoulder – looks at him as if seeing him for the very first time.
Confusion and mistrust on her face.
The ladies who had approached him all silently fall back, bitter disappointment on their faces as they are robbed of the chance to undress the Rogue Prince. He pays them no mind as he continues to snarl low and dark at the men surrounding his wife until they all step back one by one.
He reaches for her. His wife, his little niece and his eyes soften, albeit briefly - and only for her.
The hesitation as she reaches, withdraws, sighs and then places her dainty hand within his open palm draws out a purr of satisfaction from his chest.
“Let me make myself abundantly clear. For as long as I draw breath – my wife, is under my protection. I care not for your station, your ties or the alliances once forged here – I will sunder apart the realm thread by thread upon her command.”
He purposefully catches their eyes, forcing most to lower their gaze to the floor or to visibly pale and quell beneath his icy stare.
The King clears his throat and Daemon pulls Rhaenyra under his shoulder, muscular arm draping protectively around her slender frame where he feels a slight shudder as she leans into his warmth.
“If you’ll excuse us..” Daemon dips his head in a mock bow towards the King who shakes his head in exasperation. Viserys pales before turning a shade of green as he catches his brothers gaze.
Aemma scowls, mumbling beneath her breath and the King pats her on the shoulder , consoling her and easing her concerns.
Rhaenyra hisses at him as he takes her hand, her nimble fingers trapped between his own , but she does not shake him off, instead he hides his smile quickly as he feels her latch tighter, palm against palm.
He leads her from the room and to their chambers.
****
Daemon seats himself upon the edge of the bed and begins the laborious task of untying his laces.
He dares not look up from where his niece is pacing and has been since the moment the doors shut behind them.
She is furiously muttering in their native tongue and he hears enough to discern ‘bastard’ and ‘outrageous’ and ‘how dare they think’ before she halts before him so suddenly his boot falls to the ground as he loses his grip on it.
“I will not thank you.”
He grins.
“I did not expect you would.”
She glowers.
“We have a duty to perform.”
Daemons eyes darken, tendrils of lust licking up his spine but he huffs.
“I will not fuck you until you ask it of me. Until you beg me, sweet niece.” He leans back on his forearms, legs parted and cocking his head to the side.
Rhaenyra snaps.
A bolt of laughter cracks through the room as she stares incredulously at him and he waits patiently, bracing himself for an onslaught of painful words which he will bury and hide from the light of day, never to be seen or reflected upon again.
His jaw drops instead and his eyes widen in shock as he observes the way his niece all but tears at her own clothing; wedding dress pooling to her feet in a halo of white before she steps from the glittering puddle of fabric and approaches him in nothing but her sheer camisole and white thigh-high stockings.
He blinks, stupidly so, as her palms land beside his tensed and coiled thighs. The way she pushes the palms of her hands across the silken sheets, how they glide up the sides of his body – he shivers and inhales quickly, a gasp so quick he feels embarrassingly dizzy.
As she straddles him, the faintest of brushes from her groin across his rock hard length – his hands fly the divot of her hips and his thumbs press harshly below the bones to keep her in place.
He can see how her breasts strain against the fabric, dark nipples peeking through and he unconsciously licks his lips as his gaze flickers between her face and her body.
She threads her fingers into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp and he groans softly as she pushes down against his cock in a torturously slow grind which makes him buck.
“Daemon...” she breathes against the shell of his ear, the soft skin of her cheek scraping against the stubble upon his own and he hums in maddening arousal as she hovers above him.
“Yes, my Queen?” he asks softly, mind addled and distracted by the slip of creamy skin revealed as her camisole bunches around her ass and as he sees the outline of her sweet, damp cunt – she smirks.
She leans back down, lips hovering over his, warm breath to warm breath and she giggles.
“Get out.”
She clambers off him and rolls to her side, feet landing nimbly on the floor before a pillow is launched with blinding speed against the side of his face and he yelps in shock.
He observes her with a slack jaw and a hysterical urge to rage indignantly at her cock-teasing before he snaps his mouth shut.
Rhaenyra looks down the bridge of her nose at him, chin raised high and her eyes promising suffering and revenge of the sweetest kind..
“You will be the one to beg, Rogue Prince. Not I. “ she smirks, lifting the sheet and climbing beneath the multitude of layers.
She yawns dramatically, a challenge clear in her eyes before she turns to her side, readying herself for a fitful nights sleep and he scoffs loudly.
“Be sure to take a candle with you on your way out.” She murmurs from beneath the sheets which are pulled above her chin.
Molten heat consumes him at her challenge, lust battering away at his skull but he steadies his breathing as he slowly stands and turns- crawling upon all fours up the bed - he hovers over her turned back, nose skimming her bare skin as he withdraws the sheets to reveal a rounded, creamy shoulder before he presses a kiss into the crook of her neck.
She stiffens and he sees her bite at her lower lip.
“You play a dangerous game, my beautiful niece, but know this... I have never lost and i don’t intend to start now.” He whispers seductively into her skin as his lips trail up her neck and she arches beneath him before she growls – swiftly turning to shove at his chest and he falls to his back beside her with a chuckle, folding his arms behind his head.
“Sweetest dreams to you, my little wife.”
If he hears the words ‘rot in the Seven hells’ he pretends he doesn’t and sighs happily as he relives the greatest day of his life.
Taking his beautiful Targaryen niece to wife.