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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.

Chapter Text

Unsure of how he found himself in this predicament, he discreetly tries to hide the curling of his mouth in distaste behind a clenched hand as he coughs away the burning in his nose.

He has never in his life graced an orphanage with his presence. Had, in fact, decided that matters of state like these were not for him to concern himself with.

And yet when his niece had risen that morning, yet again ignoring his existence, he had hastily dressed and announced that he would be accompanying her.

He now knows the reason for her delicate little snort as she had inclined her head with a twinkle in her eye, upon his insistence that he would follow her, whether she wanted him to or not.

Grubby, grabby hands paw at his knees, oil slicked hair swept back by dirt and sweat as children of various ages surround them and he pales as he sees his wife drop to her knees to embrace a few of these little urchins.

He watches bemused and confused at how she takes the time to speak to each of them, laughs at their silly antics as they twirl and perform for her - and how she snaps her fingers at the three Knights who had come along - carrying boxes of unknown contents in their arms.

She divvies out the food, the treats, the small scraps of cloths which he now realises are clothing to cover these urchins and protect them from the weather which blazed during the day and plummeted on a night.

“Why do you concern yourself with all of this? I struggle to see why a Princess should lower herself to such an extent.”

“Heartless.” She murmurs with a growl and he frowns at her, a twitch in his hand as he clenches it at his side.

“I am a dragon, Rhaenyra. These people are but sheep.” He remarks snidely in High Valyrian and she tuts at him.

“Sheep serve their purpose, uncle. We may be dragons, but even dragons need to eat. As do the sheep. There is no one without the other.”

He bites his tongue, not wishing to enter an argument the morning after they had been wed.

By all rights they should still be abed, doing their utmost to conceive a child and yet here he was – surrounded by piss and shit in the bowels of flea bottom.

After an hour of watching her, protecting her from the more opportunistic teenagers whose greedy eyes fall on her jewellery – he looks down when tugging on his breeches pulls his gaze away from his little wife.

“Ser, please... food, ser.”

A child, a girl of no more than three summers stares up at him with pale blue eyes, blonde hair filthy and sticking to her forehead with sweat.

Something inside him twists in guilt the longer he looks upon her. Tiny little collarbones sticking through her scrap of cloth she calls a dress and he drops carefully to one knee, sparing only one thought for what it was that he could potentially be kneeling in, before he takes the girls outstretched hand.

So frail and small, a strong enough grip would break each and every bone. A strong gust of wind or a mild cold - and this child would cease to be.

He snaps his fingers with his free hand and food is placed before him. He hums as he eyes the selection and he grins as he sees the orange, bright and glaring amongst the greens of the vegetables, and plucks it from the chest with two fingers.

He peels it slowly and chuckles when he sees the little waif lick her lips, eyes widening in eagerness. He grumbles only the once as the sticky juices cover his fingers before he places two slices into her grubby hand.

She squeals with joy and promptly stuffs the fruit into her mouth, barely taking a breath until he reminds her to do so, patting her awkwardly on the back when she inevitably chokes in her haste.

When she is done and staring up at him once more - with a look in her eyes which melts another fraction of his resolve to remain oblivious to the plight of the masses - he feeds her a piece at a time.

His knee is aching, Dark Sister jabbing uncomfortably into the ground but he does not rush her.

Even sheep need to eat, he snorts.

The orange is gone, devoured, and the little girl rewards him with a smile which is partially toothless and wide. He hesitates a moment before he pats her head.

When he stands, back protesting, he feels the back of his neck burning as he cocks his head over his shoulder - and he meets the purple eyes of his wife.

She is gazing upon him in confusion again, arms crossed beneath her breasts, a frown on that kissable mouth and he quirks a brow in question.

He hears her small snort from ten feet away and he battles harder than he has ever battled before to contain the blush which creeps up the back of his neck.

Mortified at his bodies betrayal – he whips his eyes back to the toddler at his knee but jerks when the child lifts her arms, begging to be lifted.

He takes a step back, swallowing hard – he does not wish to deny the child what could be the only fond memory she would have for many moons to come – and yet his reputation as the Rogue Prince - would severely be tarnished should he give in to the pressures of an orphans silent pleading.

Torn in every conceivable way, he decides that perhaps this small, insignificant action would endear him to his little wife - who would then look upon him with less venom for the remainder of the day. 

The girls weight is negligible. A puff of air as he seats her on his hip, taking care to keep her grubby hands away from his dagger and Dark Sister.

He hears muffled laughter and catches the Princess quickly smothering it behind a dainty hand and his hearts wriggles with warmth at her small smile.

He spends the remainder of his morning holding the little waif who has fallen asleep on his chest - her hand clasped around the tassel of his golden cloak upon his shoulder.

His face burns each and every time Rhaenyra looks upon him.

He hides his smile as best he can in the greasy locks of the child’s head as he ducks his chin down.

His little wife is kind. She is compassionate and giving. To her own detriment on occasion. 

But he has always known this about her.

****

Meanwhile back in the tower of the Hand

“Father, please... you must rest!” Alicent begs, standing before the Hands desk as he pours religiously and fanatically so over the texts in front of him.

Tomes whose spines were cracked and torn, words in Valyrian that they could just barely decipher scribbled over depictions of dragons and fire - that seem to burst from the pages depending on how the light hit the velum.

“Hold your tongue, daughter! I am doing this for you! Can you not see?!” he lifts the book from beneath his nose and points to the depiction of a woman with flaming hair, the wings of a dragon upon her back and yet her feet were aflame,  burning upon the pyre she was lashed to. 

The woman was clearly dying, and agonisingly so.

“I will make you a Queen, Alicent. Our line will grow and all the world shall remember my name! Aemma grows weaker with each passing day and Viserys has not the spine to be King! Daemon is who will succeed the King and that useless child you call friend is our greatest obstacle to achieving our goals!” he spits, a string of saliva escaping the corner of his mouth.

Alicent draws back in fear as she sees the malice in his eyes.

“I will have no part in murder!” she cries but the swift hand of her father as it cracks across her cheek numbs her to the core and any further words of protest are buried forever.

“I am doing this for you! The priestess from Myr has assured me that should I follow the incantations - say the words lost so long ago – the King will die and Rhaenyra will be removed forever from our thoughts.”

Alicent pokes the inside of her cut cheek, blood thick on her tongue and keeps her words behind her teeth. For years she has watched her father, the Hand of the King, fall deeper and deeper into madness.

Consumed with thoughts of making her Queen, of continuing his family line and placing it upon the throne.

He had consulted with all manner of untoward and suspicious characters within the realm and beyond to help him decode the ancient texts.

Ottos lust and fascination for the magic within robbing him of all reason.

“As you say, father.” She murmurs quietly, guilt twisting her heart as she thinks of her dear friend the princess.

“Do not fret, my pet.” Otto coos, hand upon her neck as his whiskered lips kiss her forehead. She wishes she could recoil but fear has her rooted to the spot.

“All will be well. Soon, you will be Queen.”

“H-how?” she dares to ask and Ottos smile is sickening, smarmy and wide.

“I have convinced the King to name Daemon as his heir this very morning. I have it – here! – in writing. When he dies none will be able to dispute it!”

“I – “ she hesitates and her fathers face darkens.

“You have always been such a coward, daughter. Speak!” he screams in her face and she whimpers despite herself in fright.

“Why D-Daemon? Why not Viserys? Surely he would be easier to m-manipulate?”

“Yes, yes...” Otto hums and rubs his hands lovingly over the page of the burning woman. “ but Daemon commands more respect from the people. He has more men who will die for him. I do not wish to plunge the realm into war should Daemon rise up against his brother, it would be of no benefit to me. Viserys would never go against his father’s wishes. Daemon is the right choice for now.”

She flinches when both of his hands frame her face and he jerks her head up to meet his steely, soulless gaze.

“I have plans for Daemon, and for you, daughter.”

“Daemon would rather throw himself upon Dark Sister than ever consent to wedding and bedding me, father.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain, my pet. I think you’ll look even lovelier with golden hair...” He grins and the sight fills her with dread as he pushes her auburn locks over her shoulder with a caress that lingers overly long.

He flicks to the page behind the burning she-dragon and upon it are two women, cut in half, mirror images of one another, hands bound and clasped in the middle of the page.

“All our dreams, all our hopes, now depend on the rising sun.”

Alicent looks to the window where the sun is at its peak.

On the morrow, everything would change.

If her father’s magic worked the way he promised it would.

*****

In the centre of King’s Landing

Whilst the morning had been spent with the needy children of the realm, it seems Daemon was to discover more about his pretty little wife’s personality.

Her ability to purchase anything and everything which caught her eye had him stifling a laugh each time her eyes gleamed and she let loose a gasp of wonder.

Miles of roads covered by pop up stalls selling their wares were graced with her presence as she perused the baubles and trinkets, and he ambles behind her with only mild irritation, as sweat begins to bead on his brow from the afternoons sun.

She knows each merchant by name, that of their wives and children and grandchildren. All would offer the Princess the cheapest price, all would bend over backwards to see to her every whim and desired fulfilled with even a hint of her smile in their direction.

Daemon observes with delighted amusement how her pointed fingers trail lightly over each item which draws her attention before she cocks her head side to side in deliberation.

A rare stone of topaz glitters gold with the sun’s rays and he crosses his arms as he watches her mouth contort, her eagerness to own the bracelet apparent when she lingers over it.

“May I?” he finds his voice and she withdraws her hand. He stands shoulder to head with her and gives her what he hopes is his best, pleading smile before she arches a brow and nods.

He deposits his gold into the merchants hand who grovels and bows in thanks and the bracelet is placed in the palm of his hand.

He turns to his little wife, palm up and open, waiting for her delicate wrist – but she snorts.

“I’m not sure I’m fond of the colour. Its beauty seems to be lacking somehow.” She quips with a devilish grin.

He growls in near apoplectic combustion as she turns her back on him and proceeds to leave him flabbergasted, and growing more irate, the longer he stands there.

He grips the bracelet in the palm of his hand until he fears he will make himself bleed. He places it in his pocket and rolls his eyes.

Folding his hands behind his back – he continues to follow her.

Determined to win the heart of his little wife even if it kills his pride in the process.

****

As the sun starts to set – his temper has grown foul. He is hungry, starved for food, and her attention, and it is only when he espies a familiar street does he come to a grinding stop.

“Little Wife.” He snarls quietly when his hand grips her elbow causing her to huff. “This is not the place for you, for someone of your standing. Your reputation –“

“Died a glorious death the moment I married you, uncle.” She snipes harshly and he clenches his jaw, muscle ticking away as he refrains from grinding his teeth.

The Street of Silk blooms into view as incense fills his nose, curtains of vibrant red and muted pink billow in the breeze and when he sees her come to a stop before an establishment he has frequented with far too much enthusiasm in his youth - he swallows dryly and turns his bewildered stare upon his niece.

“Feel free to return to the castle, uncle. Your presence here is not required.” She smirks and steps through the beaded curtain wholly ignoring his scandalised, slack-jawed expression.

He quickly bustles through the doorway, irate that his little wife seemed to know her way around the most popular and expensive whorehouse in Kings Landing.

“The usual, mistress?” the hostess asks and he pales comically as his little wife nods, handing her a small satchel of gold.

“Rhaenyra!” he growls harshly in a hissing whisper but she simply shrugs and evades his hand which is twitching to spank her pert backside beneath her pale blue dress.

“Go home, uncle. Clearly your delicate sensibilities are under quite some strain. I hear when one reaches your age that such things happen, sadly.”

He counts beneath his breath to power of ten.

She takes the stairs two at a time, giddy and vibrating with amusement, whilst he shakes in his leather boots with anger.

Was she...no longer a maiden?

Irrational anger pulses through him as steadily as the waves lapping at the shoreline and he stomps heavily up the same stairs and reaches the room she has been assigned - just before the door closes in his face.

He hisses at the hostess to fuck off and whirls on his niece who is seated comfortably in the middle of the sprawling, circular nest of pillows on the floor. She reaches for a glass of wine and sips idly, eyes narrowing over the rim as she takes in his heaving shoulders.

“Who? Who would dare?!” his voice drips with venom as he approaches her with a stalk in his gait, uncaring of the mud he tramples into the sheets and pillows beneath his feet

She giggles and it sets his blood aflame.

He discards Dark Sister carefully to his side as he drops to his knees, towering over her, and he grips her chin with more aggression than he means to, her body flinching before her eyes turn to steel. He lessens the pressure of his hold on her but he refuses to let go.

“Did you think me some fair maiden, unknowing and ignorant of sex and the pleasures to be found therein?” she tilts her head to the side with a sultry smile which curls his toes within his boots.

He lowers himself so that her tiny frame is forced to lean back; strong muscular arms caging her as his hands fist in the pillows beside her head.

He drops his face to inhale the sweet scent of her skin from the lobe of her ear down to the tantalising flash of her collarbone and she hums as his weight fully settles upon her.

He is enraged, aroused, bewildered and indubitably entranced with this girl beneath him as her eyes hold him captive.

“Speak his name, for I will carve out his heart with my bare hands and offer it unto the stranger to torment for an eternity. For daring to take what should have been mine.” He rasps waspishly, biting into the soft swell of her breast as it rises and falls.

She whimpers as he bruises her flesh and his cock twitches with want.

“Should I ask you to speak the names of all those you have bedded, uncle - Kings Landing would surely be as empty and heartless as I know you to be.” She licks her lips and his eyes track the movement, throat bobbing as he swallows at the sight of her pink tongue.

His hand closes gently around her throat and they breathe in tandem over one anothers mouths, open and wet. Inviting and warm.

The first touch of her lips against his draws a moan from his belly and he bucks against her core.

She giggles and the sound drives him mad.

How many sounds has she made, given freely to others like this? How many hands have groped, grasped, touched and tasted what was his...

He plunders her mouth, deeply, tongue winding hot and thick against her own and she grips the nape of his neck with savage strength as he rolls and twists his hips atop her.

He feels a tiny hand push at his shoulder, how her teeth bite into his lower lip and tug; how she suckles it after to soothe the sting.

She pushes once more and he finds himself on his back, panting, itching to divest himself of all her and his own clothing.

Daemons fingers ascend to her shoulders where he deftly starts to untie the laces which hold her corset in place with thin straps of lace but she bats his hand away with a stinging slap.

He snarls, sitting forward with such speed that she pitches backwards and its only his hands on her arse which stop her tumbling off of him.

“How many men, Rhaenyra?” he rasps and he feels her smile widen as she presses a kiss against his neck.

“How many stars light the night sky? How many blades of grass can be found within a meadow?” she teases and his hand lands sharply against the rump of her rear in a resounding slap which draws a squeal from his young, insolent little wife.

“You should know better than to tease me.” He warns, the sound of ripping thundering through the silence of the room as her dress now flutters uselessly to each side of her pale, creamy thighs.

She moans softly into his ear as his thumbs glide up the smooth expanse of her legs, before they stop a mere hairs breadth away from her cunt.

She wriggles atop him, jostling his hard and aching cock in his breeches and he hisses loudly as the pain intensifies his lust for her.

Startled by the way her palms flatten on his broad chest, she pushes him roughly down and he goes without complaint when he feels her fingers dabble with the laces confining his cock.

He is blissfully free for but a moment before he jolts, a grunt leaving his throat as her hand grips him at the base. She pumps him experimentally, once, twice and he grits his teeth as sparks appear behind his closed eyes.

No one, no man nor woman has ever touched him with such passionate determination, with such righteous intention, to see him come undone. He arches his back slightly as her rhythm increases.

He gasps for breath and belatedly realises that he has essentially surrendered to his little wife in all the ways in which he was known to master and conquer.

At least in matters of the bedchamber.

He was the more experienced of the two, the eldest – but her grip on his cock had transformed him into a mewling , bucking teen of five and ten.

He clasps his hand roughly around her wrist, bringing her pumping of him to an abrupt halt which tears a whine from his lips as he feels his orgasm withdraw back into his balls.

She, however, his little wife – snarls at him and his eyes widen in disbelief as one moment she was straddling the thickness of his thighs and within his next breath his cock was wetly nestled between her lips.

She sucks.

He sees stars.

She pumps him.

His head falls back as his grin reveals his teeth.

He draws closer to his release, fingers in her hair, neck straining as it lifts from the pillows to watch her swallow him whole –

And then she stops.

“No...fuck...Rhaenyra...why?!” he gasps, cursing, hand flung over his eyes as his cock pulses upon his belly, curved and red with want, desperate for completion.

“You once said, uncle, that you had bedded whores with more beauty than I – I trust that you will find no trouble in finding your release with one of them instead.” She purrs, bitterness overflowing with each syllable.

She removes herself before he can stop her, and she claps her hands twice. He has just enough time to angrily thrust his cock back into his breeches before the room fills with whores.

His nieces beautiful face is devoid of any expression as she removes herself from the room.

“Rhaenyra! For the love of the Gods – “ he curses as he barrels through the throng of whores who all stare at him with awe and eagerness and laments of disappointment as he leaves.

He sees nothing, knows nothing and wants for nothing except her.

He chases after her, footsteps loud and thudding on the cobbled streets.

“Stop!” He spits viciously but her pace only increases – and soon she is running.

He breaks into a sprint after her and tells the Knights who had uselessly let her pass unattended that he would have their heads if anything befell her.

His breath burns in his lungs, his stomach still quivers with insatiable lust and his heart pounds ridiculously within his chest as he gains on her.

He stumbles to a halt as he sees her cornered by a crone, a withered and wrinkled, blind old woman. She points to his little wife with a gnarled, stiff knuckled finger and smiles a broken toothed, black smile.

“Three moons you’ll have. Three moons and no more. For fire shall take you, winged and horned, to the Strangers front door.” Rhaenyra pales, even in the darkness of the shadows he can see how she clutches at her chest.

“Ancient magic, curses long thought dead. Tread carefully, child, or you may just lose your head.” The crone cackles and Daemon has heard enough.

He stalks forward , shoulders wide and head tall as he pushes the crone roughly to the side.

“Begone with you, wench. We will hear no more of your blithering.” He snaps and takes his niece into his arms, hushing her as she trembles in his hold.

“The fires of the fourteen are wise and burn bright. There is malice afoot, young Prince and it will come for you before the dawn. Heed my advice – nothing is as it seems. Nothing is as it appears.” She cackles once more, a coughing fit turning her cracked and wrinkled face blue before she falls to the floor.

A last, a gasping wheeze leaves her and Demons belly curdles with disgust and dread.

“Come. Back to the castle with you.” He commands and takes his nieces hand.

“Daemon...” she whispers and he turns her so that presses flush against his chest. Placing a palm on the side of her small face, he dips his head to kiss her forehead.

“Ignore the words of a lunatic, little wife. It is but the mad ramblings of an old woman who can trouble us no further.”

“You... you have been away from court for many years, uncle. I have heard whispers that Otto –“

“That cunt can do nothing but spew venom. He will never harm you. Nothing will. I will not allow it.”

Rhaenyra cups his face and shakes her head. “They say he has taken an interest in our faith, that he covets and lusts after the powers we have over our dragons. What if –“

“What could he possibly do, Rhaenyra, from reading old books and conversing with the mad? He is no Targaryen. He is not from the lands our ancestors fled. He is nothing.”

He swipes his thumb over her bottom lip absentmindedly. She shudders and he crowds her; taller frame blocking out all starlight and rays of the moon as he towers over her.

“I will never be able to atone for my words that I once spoke as brash, foolish, young man – but I have matured, little wife, and I hope, one day, you will place your trust in me as you once did before as a child.”

An eternity passes and he sees a myriad of emotions rush through her as she looks for the honesty in his words, in his eyes and he waits patiently for her decision.

Tentatively, she rises up on her toes, places her lips upon his and simply holds there as she presses against him.

He rumbles, a deep chesty sound and he presses a further three kisses upon her face before drawing back.

As he leads her back to the safety of the Keep and further away from the words of the crone and the feeling which still lingers from it – he sends the servants for food with a snap of his fingers.

Inside their shared chambers, he undresses with a scowl as he surveys the mess in his breeches from his early, anticipated and subsequently blocked release. Sticky and still wanting, he shoots his little wife a glare over his shoulder before he sighs.

“You have inherited a family trait, Rhaenyra. One that it seems I may have handed down to you personally somehow.” He grunts, washing himself with water from the basin before drying his face.

“Oh?”

She is still shaken from her encounter and her voice is soft and dejected.

“Pettiness. You have perfected the art. As I have.” He grins and points to his cock which begins to harden beneath her gaze.

It draws a smile to her face, a blush and she clears her throat.

“It is no less than you deserve, uncle.” She hums, disrobing before him, tattered dress fluttering to the floor and he grips the table to his side and swallows thickly as she reveals herself to him, inch by inch.

Rosy nipples, hard and pointing. Soft, milk white swells of her breasts perched upon a flat and toned stomach from years of dragon riding. He stutters through his next breath at the small thatch of curls upon her mound before his gaze becomes hazy and addled with lust the further he looks down.

She is glistening for him. Small, tight, wet and inviting.

He takes a step forward and she smiles.

A knock on the door.

He howls his displeasure at the disruption and Rhaenyra squeaks before disappearing behind the partition she usually uses to disrobe.

“I do not care if the King himself has summoned me – fuck off!” he curses through the door, grasping the handle tightly to stop whomever was outside from entering.

No one would ever again see her naked. No one save for her husband.

“It’s Viserys. Let me in.” He hears his brothers tired drawl and Daemon rolls his eyes.

“I say again. Fuck off.”

“Father is dead, Daemon.”

His heart stills. Cracks. Breaks completely and he opens the door slowly.

He stares into his brothers red rimmed eyes, shocked and aged beyond his years, and Daemon shakes his head with a small, awkward chuckle.

“I have no time for your jests, brother.” Daemon says hoarsely but Viserys crumples to his knees and huge sucking, swallowing sobs echo through the dark corridors of the Keep.

He runs.

He will not believe it until he has seen it with his own eyes.

His father was barely a man of five and forty.

His heart cracks. It breaks, and when he stands before his father’s bed, clasping his feet through the royal engraved sheets – only then does he see that the King is truly gone from this realm.

His face crumples, grief overtaking all of his fine and elegant features as his mouth pulls downwards on a sob, the grip on his fathers feet increasing as he drops to his knees.

****

He does not know how long he has stayed vigil at the Kings side - at the corpse of his fathers side - and when he feels a rough palm encase his neck, he blearily turns his head up to see his brothers face.

“You should return to your chambers. I left Rhaenyra some hours ago but she – you are her husband and she is your wife – your grief should be shared and consoled in the arms of one another.” Viserys whispers.

Daemon stands unsteadily, wobbling slightly as the blood rushes to his head. He takes no notice of the Knights who all bow in sympathy, of the maids who cry into the corners of their handkerchiefs, of how the few nobles awake at this hour walk as he does in a daze.

An almighty crash thunders through the corridor to his chamber as the very walls of the castle jostle and shake.

The sound of shattering glass and then – silence.

Daemons heart leaps into his throat as his legs spring into action and he sprints the last few feet to his little wife. Barging through the doors his heart stops.

Nothing but chaos greets him and his freezes in the threshold.

Tables and chairs upturned, blood upon the floor, candles snapped in halves and scorch marks on the carpets.

The window is smashed, the very wall of stone seeming to have split apart - a large crater in the stained glass where something had crashed through it and he runs half mad, half crazed out of his mind to peer through it.

“Rhaenyra!” he hollers, his blood thick in his ears as he surveys the land below for any sign of a body but he sees none.

She is gone.

Daemon steps back, hands shooting to his head as his fingers grip his hair by the root, disbelief raging inside of him as he continues to scream his little wife’s name.

Something crunches beneath his feet.

Shining magnificently beneath his leathered boots - lay shards of pearlescent, bloodied scales.

 A screech of dragon echoes over Kings Landing and Daemon whips his head up at the sound to the mornings first ray of sunlight which crests over the horizon.

He grips the hilt of Dark Sister and roars his vow to find her, his little wife, should she yet live.

“A beast! A beast!” screams a servant girl huddled in the corner as she rocks back and forth. “The beast took the Princess!”

Chapter Text

By and far, it was the worst day of Prince Daemon Targaryen’s’ existence.

The death of his father, and the abduction of his wife, has cut him deeper than any blade.

Having mustered the Gold Cloaks, the Knights, as well as his cut throats and network of thieves – Daemon had rallied all the men within Kings Landing who had sworn fealty to him and sent them out to scour the lands for his niece.

“Speak!” he commands harshly to the maid who has yet to stop mumbling to herself, fear in her eyes, hands shaking and half-crazed as she rocks upon her chair.

“The b-beast ... it came from nowhere! One minute the Princess was standing by the closed window and... and...” she collapses in on herself and bursts into tears.

Daemon grinds his teeth and snarls as he grips her chin and forces her to look at him.

“And then what?”

“I heard a scream. I was in her bed chamber readying her sheets for slumber when... when a blinding light filled the room. A crash... then...nothing but the growl of a monster.”

“You saw this monster?” his grip on her tightens and she whimpers.

“Large. Winged – I closed mine eyes and hid. I was afraid it would take me as well!”

“Where were the Knights which ought to have been protecting her?!” he seethes and the girl of five and ten pales.

“They... they were called away. When word reached you of your father, the King...”

Daemon releases her, his grip on Dark Sister so tight that the skin on his knuckles turn bright red from strain.

“You are dismissed. Do not let me catch sight of you again.” He hisses and the girl squeaks, fleeing the room he had dragged her to, and the door slams behind him.

God’s... he curses, the shaking of his hand as he lifts it to his face forcing him to clench it into a fist and shove it back down by his side.

His little wife... taken.

What if she was already dead?

No.

He refuses to believe it.

If he must spend the next fifty years of his life searching for her, he will.

She was his.

He barks orders to the guards he passes, demanding news of the hunt but there is no word save for reports of a beast, perhaps a dragon even, flying towards Blackwater Bay.

He wants to join the hunt himself - but with his father’s passing, the Kingdom was vulnerable, more so than it has ever been. He cannot not lose a Kingdom and his wife in once night.

‘’Daemon… we must find her.’’ Aemma appears from the shadows and he halts mid-step to turn to her. He takes her hand, squeezing lightly to reassure her even though he feels the lie clog his throat.

He could make no promise of her safe return – but he could vow to never cease searching.

‘’I will. I will find her Aemma. I’ll never stop looking.’’ He promises, stepping forward to embrace his cousin who weeps into a handkerchief, her beauty marred by grief.

‘’Daemon… we must discuss your father – ‘’

‘’I can’t… now is not the time. Rhaenyra is missing!’’ he hisses but she grips his forearm and he growls.

‘’You are the new King, Daemon!’’

Daemon pales, feet skidding to a halt on the stone and he turns to his cousin with wide eyes.

‘’Come again?’’ he breathes, disbelieving her words.

‘’Your father has left written word, signed, and witnessed by the High Septon and several Maesters, that you are to be King should he pass. He has passed, Daemon. The crown is yours.’’ Aemma wipes her tears which still fall silently, and unrelentingly, down her cheeks.

He can scarce believe it. He, a second son, King of all the realms –

Doubt and anger clouds his judgement and he seethes.

He could barely keep his wife safe and now he was expected to be Protector of the world entire? Had his father gone mad before his met his end?

‘’What… what of Viserys?’’ Daemon croaks as he tiredly wipes a palm across his face.

‘’Your brother has acquiesced to your fathers dying decree. He will not stand in your way.’’

Daemon scoffs.

 Of course. Forever the perfect, obedient son.

‘’I – ‘’ he huffs, leaning against the wall and a weary sigh escapes him. So much has happened these past few days and his mind could barely keep up with the swirling of his emotions, as they all waged war within him.

His grief for his father he pushed deep into the recesses of his mind. He would have time mourn appropriately once his wife was found.

But King?

Him?

Breathing deeply – he growled as the pressure of ruling the realms landed squarely upon his shoulders and the air in his lungs left in a gust. He was surrounded by vipers inside the castle, and there were none inside which he could trust.

Not even his brother, sadly.

He had hoped … that his wife would become someone he could rely on… but Rhaenyra’s attitude towards him – ‘’Fuck.’’ He spits and Aemma lowers her eyes to the ground, scandalised by such vulgar language.

He opens his mouth to apologise but clamps it shut when he hears the footfalls of Knights approaching. As they reach him, all drop to bended knee and Daemon jolts.

These very same Knights had never so much as dipped a head in acknowledgement of his existence before now - a small chuff of laughter leaves him.

‘’Rise.’’ He clips shortly and they do so in tandem. ‘’Report.’’

The Knight Commander steps forward and Daemon spares a moment to assess him. Lord Howle had been loyal to his father for twenty years and had at one point instructed Daemon in swordsmanship – until the prince had demanded someone with more tourney experience.

‘’Prince – Your Grace –‘’ Lord Howle blushes and Daemon is hard pressed not to laugh at his blustering. ‘’Your Grace, the nobility have gathered in the court and await you. They are most disturbed at the news of your fathers passing, and of the abduction of the Princess.’’

‘’See to them then.’’ Daemon scoffs, waving a hand and Aemma growls.

‘’Daemon… Your Grace… You must speak to them and assuage their fears. Frightened nobles are dangerous and you should not seek to fill your castle halls with rats which scurry about and pick at the structure of the walls which house you.’’ Aemma presses her hand over his bicep and he hisses quietly.

‘’I have no time for niceties, Aemma. Caraxes awaits. I will scour every corner of all seven kingdoms to find your daughter. I care not for the nobles who have had nothing but contempt for me since my birth.’’

Daemon pulls away from her, but not unkindly so. ‘’Please, Daemon. Settle their doubts, confirm that you have taken up the mantle as King. After which I will personally escort you to the Dragonpit.’’ She pleads and he relents with a heaving sigh.

‘’Very well.’’ He mutters, clicking his tongue.

He adjusts the lapels of his doublet, smooths down the front of his cloak which hangs heavy over his shoulder.

‘’You will do well, Daemon. You will make a fine King.’’

He ignores the grateful clenching of his heart at her words.

Even if he knows it to be a lie.

                                                            ****

Daemon slams a fist into the wall, the impact of his hand hitting the wall rattles his arm, and his crown threatens to topple from his head as his body shudders.

Three weeks have passed and Rhaenyra has vanished into thin air. None have seen her; none have heard even the merest whisper of her and he was rapidly losing hope.

His heart aches daily, a bleeding thing inside his chest at her continued absence. He has loved her all her life – but now that he was in love with her – his beautiful, kind-hearted little niece –

He withdraws his hand from the stone and grimaces as the skin on his knuckles flake and begin to bleed.

He is exhausted, spent.

He barely sleeps, he cannot eat more than a bowl of gruel which he swipes from the kitchen himself in the dead of night, scaring the young maids and porter boys half to death with his ghostly pale presence.

By day he is trapped upon the throne, listening to the lickspittles whine and moan about the state of their homesteads, their feuds with their neighbours, or their baseless accusations about infidelity or slander. He has overhauled the entire small council – selecting men whom he knew he could leave matters of state to when he spent his long, lonely evenings searching for his niece upon Caraxes.

Lord Strong was named his Hand, Measter Mellos as his person physician – and Otto …

Daemon snarls.

That absolute useless cunt had been banished to Highgarden within the first hour of his crowning as King. What had vexed him was the way Otto had left with naught but a smile and a nod in farewell.

Suspicion had swirled within him at the lack of reaction from the Hightower coward, and he had swiftly made his way to Lady Misery to consult her and seek her aid in keeping an eye on the mans movements.

Alicent, Rhaenyra’s closest friend, was as skittish as a newborn foal whenever he entered the room, and she would hastily make her escape by uttering a nonsense excuse each time he tried to engage her clipped conversation.

He could not care less for her, and swiftly banished her from his mind.

Sitting down upon Rhaenyras’ bed; he falls backwards in weariness – and his heart skitters in his chest as he sees the air fill with particles of dust.

He quickly sits up, hands beating the covers as panic flares through him and he coughs as he is covered in a fine sheen of white.

She has been gone so long.

He fists the sheets, hands shaking and his forehead touches the satin as he leans forward. He can barely make out her scent anymore.

Guilt assaults him relentlessly. He blames himself for leaving her – but his father- what else could he have done? He could not have foreseen this. As much as he claimed himself to be a dragon – how could he have stopped a living, breathing monster from abducting her? They would have both perished, he and his little wife.

He shores up the last ounce of his strength, his mind battering him with urgent commands to seek rest. To sleep. It is midday – he is due to hold court in a matter of a few minutes. He crawls slowly to the side where he knows she sleeps, curling his knees high and pulling her pillow close to his chest.

He will rest… just for a moment…

Just…

                                                            ****

He sleeps for two days.

Depression, exhaustion, and apathy reign supreme - until finally on a bright new day, he sits up carefully, blinking as the sun shines through the trellis of her balcony.

He is well-rested, yet still despondent.

He calls for the maids and they quickly enter his nieces chambers. He instructs them to draw a bath, to ready his clothes and whilst he waits – he tends to his sword.

He has been lax in his training of late… but no more.

Today he would put together a crew of men, the best fighters from all seven kingdoms. He would hold a tourney and the winners would form part of his elite contingent of men to hunt the beast which had taken his wife.

Archers, shield wielders, lancers – every type of man necessary to fight from any range. Daemon knows he is a proud man – but on this he is willing to concede that he requires aid to defeat a beast which could very well tear his head from his shoulders, with a single swipe of its claws.

Once he is bathed and dressed - a knock on the door lifts his head and he sighs tiredly.

‘’Come.’’

Viserys enters and Daemon restrains the groan which gurgles in his throat.

‘’Your Grace.’’ Viserys dips his head and Daemon feels a thrill run through him for the first time since his wife abduction. He, the second son, was King. Viserys, the perfect first-born son – brought to submission by a scrap of paper which had passed him over for the crown, is bowing to him.

‘’Viserys.’’ Daemon greets in return but returns his eyes to the note within his hand. Lady Misery had informed him that someone had heard a sound, a thundering roar of a beast far to the south where none had ever been heard before. He intends to fly there as soon as he has gathered the necessary supplies for the journey.

‘’Brother, it is time to discuss …. Rhaenyra.’’ Viserys begins and Daemons eyes harden. He feels a prickle of unease clench behind his navel and he turns slowly to face his older brother.

‘’Oh?’’ he questions, cautious - and yet the threatening undercurrent in his voice gives his brother pause.

‘’It is time to face the truth, Daemon.’’ Viserys seats himself at Rhaenyras dressing table, picking up her hairbrush and twirling it slowly between his forefinger and thumb. ‘’It is time to a-accept that she is g-gone.’’

Daemon snarls darkly and Viserys hangs his head.

‘’It has been close to a moon since her disappearance. She is dead, Daemon. You must see this.’’

‘’Shut your fucking mouth.’’ Daemon spits venomously and the first-born prince blinks in shock. ‘’I will cut the tongue from any man who dares to insinuate that she no longer walks among us.’’

‘’Daemon, see reason brother. You are the King. You need a wife, heirs! The line of succession – ‘’

‘’Can go fuck itself. You are heir, Viserys, should I pass before you. I will never marry another; I will have no children unless Rhaenyra has grown and birthed them from my seed.’’ Daemon whirls to the desk where Dark Sister lays across its dark, oak surface.

He attaches her to his hip, thumb stroking the pommel even as his hand shakes.

‘’The council, the nobles – they all clamour for news. Of your intentions for the realms. We must lay my daughter to rest – the High Sept – ‘’

‘’Can also do me the courtesy of fucking off.’’ Daemon growls. ‘’We are Targaryen’s and we do not adhere to the simpering laws of the Seven.’’

‘’You … you were never meant to be King.’’ Viserys mutters softly and Daemon freezes on his way out the door.

‘’And yet here I am. King, nonetheless.’’

‘’Father… father must have been coerced somehow. You, Daemon, are cruel and wicked. You always have been. You do not deserve the throne. Your selfishness knows no bounds, and you are the reason we shall all fall from grace.’’ Viserys shakes his head and Daemon spares not a thought on the matter before his arm swings back  -and he connects sharply with his brothers cheek, sending the man to the floor.

‘’Do not appear before me again. I will not succumb to your attempts to wheedle doubt and worry into my heart. Father knew I was worthy, and that is all that matters to me.’’

Daemon flaps his coat over his shoulder and leaves his brother bleeding upon the floor.

He will fly south, find the whereabouts of this beast – and reign hell down upon it when the time was right.

                                                            ****

Five hours into his flight, Daemon knows he has pushed Caraxes too far and too quickly.

The wind had bitten so hard into the skin of his face and hands, that they were liable to crack and bleed should he dare form any expression. He knows he must make camp for the evening. Eat. Sleep.

But he presses on.

He has seen nothing but pinpricks of towns, fields and farms for the last hour and has heard nothing.

No thundering roar, no crack of lightning - and he grows increasingly impatient. The need to find her thrums deeply within him. He cannot recall the feel of her lips against him, the three kisses she bestowed upon him that night which had curled his toes and dipped his stomach into a swoop – a faint memory.

He wants to see the sarcastic roll of her eyes, the tight pull of disapproval on her mouth, the sound of her derision when she snorts at him. What he wouldn’t give to feel the lick of her anger brushing against his ego.

Pulling his fur-lined cloak tighter around his body, lips raw and chapped – he urges Caraxes forward and his dragon whines at him but obeys.

The air around him starts to change – he notices how the wind whips more fiercely against him, how even Caraxes struggles to stay on course - and when he hears the first distant rumble – he holds his breath and braces himself.

Every fibre of his being vibrates as a calamitous roar pierces through the pitch-black darkness and he yells as a beast twice the size of his dragon soars at speed beneath him.

A dragon.

A pearlescent, white dragon.

It blends seamlessly with the clouds, dipping in and out and disappearing all together like magic. The wingspan of the creature was vast, the tips of its wings housing its claws which sparkled sharply - as sword length talons curled around nothing.

It was beautiful. Fearsome. Awe-inspiring.

And Daemon vowed to kill it as an all-consuming anger consumed his soul.

This was the beast that had taken his wife. The scales matched the ones he had collected from her bedroom floor.

He snarls angrily, and Caraxes chirrups and squeaks, high-pitched and loudly in response, feeding off of his emotions.

He searches the clouds, head craning from left to right as he draws his sword –

He is falling before he can stop himself- as the beast crashes into the side of his red mount - throwing them both into a free fall as his Caraxes frantically flaps its wings and screeches in outrage.

He is hanging upside down against the warm hide of his dragon, his ankle trapped in a rope connected to his saddle, and he closes his eyes and grips onto the closest thing within reach, as Caraxes swoops and swerves, avoiding the neon blue flames of his enemy which lights the nights sky.

Miraculously, he manages to swing himself upright, and bellows at Caraxes to flee. This battle could not be won in the air and he was a fool for even thinking he could best the beast on dragon-back.

His hair dries instantly, his face warms as if though he has been staring directly into the sun for days - when the next burst of flame rushes past him and narrowly misses the red wings of his dragon.

‘’Fly, Caraxes!’’ He commands, Valarian slipping from his tongue as naturally as breathing and he cocks his head over his shoulder.

The beast glides behind him languidly, razor sharp rows of teeth glinting in the moonlight as it opens its mouth and hisses. Its eyes burn bright red, steam steadily swirling from his nostrils and fear brings the bile to his throat and he wretches in shame at the feeling.

He could not die here. Not now when he was so close to finding her.

He refuses to even consider it as a possibility.

The beast disappears and Daemons breath hitches, his eyes go wide in fear as he hears a roar from below him.

The impact when the enemy surges upwards in a blink so shockingly fast - knocks him from Caraxes before he can form his next thought.

In free fall, tears stream down his face as his eyes water; his heart stutters in his chest and he closes his eyes.

Accepting that he will not live through this.

Losing consciousness rapidly, he blinks as the distorted vision of the white dragon claws reach for him, the rising sun behind the beast turning its back, bright orange, and gold.

The sight robs him of breath - the Dragon on Fire.  

He feels its grip around his waist - and he waits for his body to crumble into dust.

                                                                           ****

Far, far south of Kings Landing, a forest has been revered for its magic and mystery since long before the memory of man first began. The people who have lived close to its edges have always known not to enter into his dense, dark abyss. The trees stand taller than mountains, the leaves having grown to the size of towering castles - the creatures within strange and dangerous and to be avoided at all costs.

Whispers of witches and spells, wizardry and power had existed for eons in these lands and the common folk knew better than to venture within.

But she had not been brought here of her own free will.

Some source: some compulsion kept her chained here. She had tried desperately to escape the darkness of the forest, the crumbling ruins of a castle within now her home away from home – but alas – there was nothing she could do to escape.

By day, she was in one form – by night, a monster with no recollection of who she was or what she had done when she awoke in the mornings light.

Rhaenyra flaps her wings, the dull, murky brown of her scales so bland and insignificant in colour in the harsh light of day - and she chuffs as her little horns catch on her wing as she brings it closer to her head to inspect her wound.

She has a small cut which dribbles red blood onto the earth. Naught to be concerned about she thinks but it itches fiercely. Stomping forwards on her four limbs - gangly and unsteady despite her attempts to accustom herself to her new body – she carefully gathers more firewood in her mouth.

Daemon has yet to wake.

Concern and guilt scrunch her eyes and she looks away from him, dropping the firewood into the circle she had painstakingly dug with her tiny pin-prick claws. She takes a deep breath – she has been practicing, daily, since her abduction and transformation.

A breath. Another. Feel the heat. Gather it – and –

A puff of smoke is all she produces and the whisp of grey failure floats about her head in a halo.

She growls in frustration, and the twigs and pebbles beneath her feet rumble and snap as her four feet stamp in a circle.

Try again she thinks and her scaled eyes clamp closed.

Sucking inhales of air pull into her two pairs of lungs, and the back of her throat prickles with heat.

Fire, fire, fire she thinks desperately.

She opens her mouth, craning her head down to the wood she has gathered.

She coughs.

A fireball the size of a lime lands on the wood.

Success! She flaps her wings in happiness and her tail wags wickedly on the ground, thumping and destroying all it touches when it thwacks the earth.

Nervously, she looks over to her uncle, her husband - and as carefully and with as much silence and grace as a horde of Dothraki – approaches him.

She nudges his shoulder with her snout, inhales his scent and a wave of longing for his embrace nearly brings her to tears.

She had hurt him – in her other form.

She does not remember doing so. She only knows that when she blinked back into existence – into awareness – her talons were aggressively clamped around his stomach and she was plummeting towards the ground with the sunlight warming her back.

Knowing that she had but moments to spare before she transformed into this pathetic form a dragon no large than the Great Danes of Dorne, she had loosened her grip, wrapped her wings around her body and cradled him to her chest.

She does not recall hitting the ground, but when she awoke, Daemon lay three feet away from her, face pressed into the ground. Unmoving.

She had dragged her husband by the hem of his breeches, manoeuvred his bleeding body until she could sling him across her scaled back – and she had trekked the hour back to her prison.

She could not tend to his injury. The most she could do was place her leg across his wound and apply pressure to staunch the bleeding. It had mercifully stopped after a time - and she had wept large, silver-pearl tears of relief. Curling up at his side, she had slept for a mere hour before hunger had compelled her to seek out sustenance.

Instincts which had never existed before had flared to life in her dragon form, and all rabbits, foxes and owls fled in fear - before they were caught and savagely ripped apart. In the beginning, she had been thoroughly disgusted with herself for her savagery – but three days of refusing to eat had left her too weak.

Begrudgingly, she had accepted that her actions, whilst barbaric and nauseating, were natural for a dragon.

She wished to live, to return to her home and to her uncle.

Therefore, she had to eat, and to eat she had to kill.

A pained moan brings her back to the present, and she snaps her head to the sound. She retreats slowly, sitting down across from him behind the fire, attempting to make herself as small and non-threatening as possible.

She knew he would be disoriented, frightened even, and the fact that she had hidden Dark Sister beneath the dilapidated staircase which led to now where – gave her some measure of peace that she should, at the very least, not die a hideous death by his sword when he inevitably swung it at her.

Daemons lashes flutter, his shaky hand lifting to land on his head. She observes how he grimaces, a sharp breath leaving him as his other hand holds his side where is injury is.

Daemon turns his head, eyes finally opening wide.

He takes in the trees above him and his jaw drops as the leaves bunch and bushel and block out the sky in a sea of emerald and jade. He turns to his left where the castle lays - and he attempts to sit up but can only lean on his elbow with haggard breaths.

It is when he looks to his right - as the pop and crackle of the fire draws his attention – does he see her.

His eyes are so beautiful and the sight pulls a smile to her face.

Forgetting that in the place of his dear, sweet niece’s smile – is instead the menacing sneer of a dragon with jaggedly sharp teeth - now aimed in his direction and stained red with blood from the rabbit she had devoured whilst he slumbered.

He screams loudly enough for the flaps in her inner ears to close in protection - as the sound streaks like lightning through the forest.

Birds scatter in fright, eerie howls pick up and carry on the wind as the wolves deeper within acknowledge that prey is now within reach.

Rhaenyra winces.

Shit….