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Chapter Text

The first steps she took out of her chamber, once she was allowed to leave it at last, led her to her daughter’s nursery, accompanied only by her Kingsguard. She slipped through the door with a smile and held up a finger to her lips when Rhaenyra’s septa’s eyes widened, and she made to rise.

Her sweet daughter’s head was bowed over a book, and her bright voice filled the room as she dutifully read out loud. Aemma’s smile widened as she observed her. It was not often she had a chance to do so. Rhaenyra was a lively child, rarely able to sit still, certainly not when in the presence of her mother.

She made sure to step softly as she moved around the room, inspecting her daughter’s study room. The door to the bedchamber was open, the maids there fluttering about, and she paid them and their soft voices little mind as she passed it, focused as she was on her daughter. She paid them little mind until there were soft gasps, and she paused her steps by the door, her curiosity spiked.

“You lie!” The accusation was quiet, but no less outraged for it.

“I do not! I saw her, I tell you.”

“It can’t be. Surely, the Hand would never allow it.” The disbelief was plain in the third voice.

The first maid snorted. “The Hand? Pah! He has been pushing her into a royal bed after a royal bed ever since she came here.”

There was a stunned silence in the bedchamber for a moment, and Aemma drew closer to the door, her curiosity well and truly piqued.

“What does that even mean?”

The first maid chortled. “There were rumors about her care of the Old King. Then there was the king’s brother. And if what you tell is true, now she snared herself our good king himself.”

Aemma froze, her breathing stilled, her heart was seized in a vise and a cold invisible hand wrapped around her throat, seeking to choke her. The maids continued to chatter in their soft voices, but she could no longer discern the words, and she made herself move away as if in a dream. A terrible, terrible dream. The Hand’s daughter. Oh gods, the Hand’s daughter.

But Aemma was a queen and well-used to smiling through pain. She did not allow her smile to waver even then, not even when her heart felt leaden, not when she felt the Stranger reach for her. She finished her round of the chamber and returned to the entrance, opening the door once more and closing it behind her with some force. 

Rhaenyra’s head swiveled in her direction immediately, her widening eyes and her bright, bright smile as she jumped up to rush toward her mother, melting the ice around her heart, if only slightly. 

She was going to die. 

Aemma was going to die, sooner or later, and she was going to leave her sweet, sweet daughter all alone in a keep full of vipers. She held her daughter to herself rather desperately, her throat tight as she squeezed her eyes shut to prevent tears from falling.

Gods, Daemon had complained and complained about Otto Hightower growing too big for his breeches, and she had listened to his bellyaching with no small dose of exasperation, shared with her husband. But Otto Hightower was indeed an ambitious man. An ambitious man with a daughter now sharing the king’s bed.

Aemma was going to die. Sooner or later. Sooner, she rather suspected. The chit would not remain young and alluring for long.

“May we go to the garden, mama? There are new flowers I want to show you! They grew while you were unwell. Kepa showed me!”

Her hold on her daughter tightened, and she squeezed her eyes shut tighter for a moment, and then let go of her with a gentle smile, caressing her pale hair before rising.

“We may. I would love to see the flowers that would tear you away from your lessons.”

Rhaenyra colored slightly, well-aware there was little cause needed for her to avoid her lessons, placing her small hand in Aemma’s, adoration shining in her eyes as she looked up into her mother’s face. She had to blink rapidly, her daughter’s bright smile blinding her momentarily.

She was numb to the beauty and the sweet fragrance of the first of the spring flowers as she let herself be pulled all over the gardens by her enthusiastic daughter, chirping happily, skipping from bush to bush, stopping to smell this flower and that. 

It was a bright day and all Aemma wanted was to cry.

She had known Viserys had had mistresses before. She had known, and she had not cared, not truly, not when she found herself with child and unable to attend her wifely duties so often. Not when she found herself grateful.

Aemma felt numb still when her husband joined her and their daughter for a private supper, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. She almost cried when he pressed another kiss to her cheek once the meal ended and lingered, speaking softly. “I will visit you tonight, my love.”

Her smile remained steady as she whispered back, her gaze locked onto the table. “I will be waiting for you, husband.”

His eyes had been warm, but her insides were frozen solid.

The numbness stayed with her when he came to her, too, and she closed her eyes, for once praying not to fall with child. Gods, if she did, would this be the pregnancy that would see her dead?

She opened her eyes only when Viserys rolled off her, breathing harshly, and she caressed her soft belly deep in thought. She did not roll over to face him, she knew better than to move so soon after their coupling, and she did not turn her head either as she spoke up once his breathing calmed, hand moving slowly over her belly still.

“Have you thought about finding a new Hand?”

Viserys let out a startled laugh. “No. Why would I? Otto served my grandfather well, and he has served me loyally too. What cause do I have to replace him?”

She had not truly expected anything else, not when the man’s daughter warmed her husband’s bed, but she had to try. “Peace. Do you not wish for peace in your council and in your family?”

Her husband snorted. “Peace. Daemon would try the patience and restraint of any man I would appoint. There will be no peace either way.”

Aemma felt tension build in her temples and worried her lip before daring to venture further. “He would not, if you appointed him.”

Viserys laughed in earnest then, leaning over to press a kiss to her temple once he calmed sufficiently. “You have no head for politics, my love, and Daemon has no patience for them. Otto complained of him endlessly as the Master of Coin and the Master of Laws. Whatever makes you think he would make a better Hand?”

The amusement still present in her husband’s tone crushed her hopes, but she did not give up. “He is family. What better choice for Hand is there?”

Viserys turned serious. “I would name any man on my council before I would name Daemon. Family means little when there is the realm to consider.”

Aemma did not move her eyes away from the canopy, did not blink, as her hope died. “Indeed.”

The morning brought her some relief. She knew. She always knew when a seed took root inside her, always knew by the morn. For once, it was a relief to know it had not. For once, it was a relief that Viserys did not join her in breaking her fast to inquire.

Aemma had always known, though she had not understood at first, but as her womb filled easily, and she had been eager to share the news with her husband, it had become their custom to breakfast together after their coupling, her husband as impatient to know as her.

Her womb filled easily, but it had rarely born fruit, Rhaenyra her only surviving child. A girl, when her husband longed for a son above all else.

Aemma had been examined by maesters more times than she cared to remember over the eleven years of her marriage, her royal womb given far more attention than she would have wished. She had been declared well and fit for childbearing countless times. They had been both assured there was no cause for her not to bear a babe until birth countless times, only to be disappointed and their hopes to be crushed over and over again.

Her womb was eager to bear children, eager for a seed to take a root in it. It was the seed that was the problem. It had to be, after so many tries. It had to be.

Rhaenyra was their only surviving child after so many years, and she had come rather early in it, after a little precious boy that had lived for only a few days just the year before. Those two times had been the most success they had had so far. 

She had been examined countless times, but she had never thought to wonder whether anyone examined her husband before. His belly softened, and his form thickened over the years, and she had not paid it any mind, not truly, as her own had as well with so many pregnancies. But what if in Viserys it was a sign of a sickness? What if that was the cause she could not bear another living child?

If that was true, Aemma was well and truly dead already. There would be no son, and there was little less difficult than ensuring the death of an expectant mother. She would leave Rhaenyra alone and defenseless.

Her daughter’s septa was less than enthused when she took her daughter out of her lessons and out to the gardens for the second day in a row, but she could not care less with the sense of impending doom hanging over her. She could not care less as she sat on a blanket, watching her little ray of sunshine bound all over, chased by Aemma’s ladies and giggling madly.

“Kepa! Kepa!”

The chase was swiftly abandoned in favor of a flash of gold, and Rhaenyra was being swung around in her uncle’s arms in short order. Aemma’s throat tightened. Viserys had not done that in years, complaining of her weight before giving up on it. Rhaenyra had been crushed, until her uncle had come and tossed her into the air, catching her easily and tickling her until she had turned into a breathless giggling mess, as she was bound to be soon now as well.

Despite their unmistakable Valyrian features, the two brothers could hardly be more different. Sometimes, she found herself wondering how they could be brothers at all. 

She did not dare look at him now, not when she had made light of his concerns regarding Otto Hightower and his nature, and she believed them to be worse than what her goodbrother had complained of herself now.

“How are you, goodsister?”

Aemma startled badly to hear his voice above her, and her eyes darted to Rhaenyra, skipping from flower to flower once more. “However did you get her to give up her hold on you?”

A chuckle escaped him. “My dearest niece is selecting the best flowers for her to pick for you. To celebrate your recovery.”

“Oh. That is…” She could not continue as her throat closed.

Daemon dropped to his haunches in front of her, his eyes full of concern. “You have not answered my question. Are you well?”

She opened her mouth to speak, only to close it once more, and the concern in his eyes intensified.

“Should I call for a maester?”

She lowered her gaze to her hands folded in her lap and shook her head mutely.

“Aemma, is something wrong?”

She gasped for air, blinking rapidly, the hands in her lap tightening their hold on each other, and fought to keep her composure.

He pushed himself to his feet resolutely. “I will go fetch-”

Her hand darted up and wrapped around his wrist, stilling him, as her alarmed eyes pleaded with him. “No. No.”

Her goodbrother, her cousin, her husband’s heir, stood and stared at her, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. 

“No.” She repeated herself again and took a shuddering breath before switching into clumsy High Valyrian. “I need to speak with you. In private. Unheard. No one can know. No one can hear. No one. Come tonight. My chambers.”

He let out a slow breath, his puzzlement plain. “I see.”

She squeezed his wrist and let go, and then watched him walk away, his gait slow. All would be well, she tried to convince herself. All would be well.

All would not be well, she had come to understand in the dark hours of the night.

He had not come.

She had lain awake for hours after Viserys had left her bed, falling asleep only as the hour of the wolf had given way to the hour of the nightingale, and he had not come. 

All would not be well, but when Viserys sat across from her at the breakfast table and asked, she gave him a nod and a miniscule smile, her throat tight as his face was split by a wide smile.

There was no babe in her belly. The seed had not taken root, but she could not stand her husband’s touch, could hardly stand his presence, when her mind was in such a turmoil.

There was no hope left to her.

Chapter Text

The day passed her by in a haze, even Rhaenyra’s sunny presence doing little to lift the fog of misery. She had taken her from the nursery into the gardens even before her lessons could have begun, to the great delight of her sweet daughter, and all Aemma managed was a weak smile at her bouncing enthusiasm.

“I picked all the best flowers already for you yesterday, but I want to make a flower crown for you today. Do you think these will be good enough?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes were big and concerned, and Aemma smiled at her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I am sure they would be, but I have no need of a flower crown.”

Her daughter’s eyes grew yet larger. “You do! Of course, you do! You are the queen! My queen of love and beauty! You must have a crown!”

Aemma’s eyes misted, and her smile trembled, but she took a deep breath and reinforced the smile. It had been a long time since she had allowed herself to indulge in tears, and she would most certainly not do so in front of her daughter, seemingly without a cause.

She leaned forward with a thoughtful hum, pressing her cheek to the crown of her beloved daughter’s hair. “If you say so, sweetling. But then you must have a crown too, for you are mine. ”

Rhaenyra pushed herself away to stare up into her mother’s eyes hopefully, her hands clasped pleadingly. “Oh, would you? Would you make me a crown? Please?”

“Of course, sweetling. As long as you gather the flowers for me.”

“I will! You and you! Come with me!” 

A laugh broke through her haze momentarily as she watched her seven-year-old daughter conscript two of Aemma’s ladies imperiously and bounce off, confident of them following her orders. The ladies in question did not. They looked to her for direction and moved only once she gave them a nod of assent.

Rhaenyra was in seven heavens, dashing among the flowers once more, Aemma’s ladies hard-pressed to keep up and Aemma’s smile lost some of its shine as she recalled her babe’s big hopeful eyes, pleading silently, widening in both delight and shock as she indulged her. Was it truly such a great surprise she would?

Viserys and her both spoiled their only child quite shamelessly, giving her all that she wished, with her uncle not far behind, even surpassing them at points. Giving all that their daughter wished, mayhaps with the single exception of their time. She had not asked for anything but for Aemma to visit the gardens with her the days before, and she had not asked for anything today either, offering to make her mother a crown of flowers instead.

Aemma’s heart seized. Had she neglected her daughter for her to be so delighted by her mother spending time with her? Was she… Was she a bad mother? How would she even know if she was?

She had spent so much time restricted to her chambers, allowed only short visits of her darling daughter, too young to attend her mother in her sickbed. And she was a queen besides, with countless duties. Had she truly neglected the most important and the most delightful of them?

She would not allow herself tears in the presence of her daughter, she had to remind herself. She would not.

Blast her duties and blast Rhaenyra’s lessons. If Aemma was to die soon, she would spend all the time allowed to her with her daughter.

Whatever her resolutions, she still cried herself to sleep that night. It had been years, but it had been much too much to bear, and so she did, bitter tears soaking the hair on her temples and the pillow below.

She woke with a scream muffled by the hand covering her mouth and nose, her heart racing wildly in her chest, as her hands flew up to claw at the hand desperately, and stared up into the face hovering above her. Her goodbrother’s face. She fought for her heart to calm as he freed her nose, her panic lessening.

“Do you still wish to speak with me?” His voice was barely audible, but the question left her weak with relief, and she nodded, her eyes full of tears once more.

“Should I trust you will not scream should I let go?” There was suspicion in his eyes, but she could feel herself smiling despite it, and she nodded once more.

He did not let go immediately, his skepticism plain, and when he did, he did so only very slowly. 

She did not mind. He was there.

“Follow me.”

He turned around abruptly and was gone through an opening in a wall, and she was left to scramble for her slippers and rush after him, almost running into him in the darkness of the tunnel beyond.

“Where are we going?” Her voice was hushed, and she thought he might have not heard her as he remained silent for a long while.

The answer was short and entirely unhelpful once it arrived. “Somewhere safe.”

He did not bother looking back at her, and he did not bother to shorten his steps, so she was left to hasten after him, struggling not to lose sight of his back until, at last, he passed a door and stopped, and she stumbled into him. Color rose into her cheeks as she stepped back, doing her best to regain her dignity, while she passed time by looking around the sparsely-lit chamber they found themselves in.

Her throat tightened, suddenly dry, her heart stilling in terror as her eyes landed on a wooden contraption. A rack. 

She shivered and hugged herself, her wide eyes flying to her goodbrother, perfectly at ease.

Her voice was uncommonly high, but still hushed. “Why are we in a torture chamber?!”

Daemon shrugged nonchalantly, leaning against a wall, his arms folded. “I thought you wished for utmost privacy, what with you asking me to visit your chambers at night. These are Maegor’s secret torture chambers. There is nowhere more private within the Red Keep. We can speak freely here, without a fear of an inconvenient interruption.”

Aemma let out a long, slow breath and fought for calm. This was a threat, she was sure. His visit had started with a display of strength and this… this was merely more intimidation. Well, she was certainly well and truly intimidated, but she had to push through. For Rhaenyra.

Her arms tightened around her, and she spoke in a low voice. “Am I a good mother?”

His reply was instantaneous. “Rhaenyra adores you.”

A bitter laugh escaped her. “That is not what I asked, though, is it? Am I a good mother?” She turned her eyes to him, pleading for an answer that would settle her fears.

His hands flew to his hair, combing through it, agitated. “How would I know?”

Aemma’s heart fell. “Oh.” She had forgotten. She had no knowledge of a mother, much less of how to be a good one, but Daemon would have little more, if any.

“You wanted to speak with me at night about this ? Aemma, are you bloody insane?”

“No. No, this is not-” She cut herself off and shook her head vehemently. “What do you think of Alicent Hightower?”

His brows rose and he huffed out a laugh. “That she is one very ambitious chit with one overly ambitious father.”

“They say…” Her cheeks heated once more. “They say that you… that you… laid with her.”

His brows rose higher. “I assure you, it is not my custom to bed down with snakes.” A cheeky grin appeared on his face. “As I informed the lady in question.”

Her gaze dropped to the ground, blinking away tears, her voice hushed once more. “Viserys does. Did you know that?”

The reply was slow to come, the amusement wiped away from his voice. “I see. I did not.”

Aemma took a deep, shaky breath and steeled her resolve. “I am going to die. Unless I give Viserys a son, I am going to die. Soon.”

“I…see.” He did not. Not truly.

She closed her eyes and took another calming breath, praying for courage. “Viserys cannot give me a son.”

For once, Daemon remained quiet, and she took another shaking breath, her throat too tight to speak, eyes watering once more. She squeezed her arms, her fingers digging into her flesh and her breaths came in too-short, her head growing light. 

She forced herself to speak. “I can’t- I can’t die! I can’t leave Rhaenyra! Oh gods, I can’t leave her.”

Warm hands squeezed her shoulders. “You need to calm down. You are not going to die. I will not allow it.”

A shrill laugh escaped her. “Viserys will not give me a son, and yet he will not stop putting babes inside me until he has one. Or until he kills me.”

The hands on her shoulders tightened their hold and tears burst forth in earnest. “I don’t want to die. Please, I don’t want to die.”

Daemon wrapped her in a tight warm embrace, kissing the top of her head, and she cried like a little girl, like she had not allowed herself since she had been one.

He spoke up only once her tears stopped. “I do not see how I could be of any assistance here.” 

He did. He had to. It was cruelty to demand she say it, but she had gone too far already to shy away now, so she wiped her cheeks and looked up into his eyes.

“You are his heir. Viserys cannot give me sons, but you can. Without sons, you would be the one to inherit and your son after you. Do you see? This is the only way succession is safe.”

“Viserys could take another wife.”

“He could. He will, if I give him no sons. And it will be Alicent Hightower. Could you bear that? How long before they succeed in turning your brother against you entirely?”

The arms around her fell away, and he turned and stepped away. “This is treason.”

“No one will know. No one will ever know. You are brothers. You are his heir. This is not treason. This is the only way. The only way that will keep all of us safe, and the Hightowers away from the throne.”

She was presented with his tense back, and she did not dare approach him, imploring any gods that would listen for help.

“Fuck!”

She jumped at the angry exclamation, the long silence lulling her into a false sense of security.

He turned back to face her abruptly, his eyes blazing. “I will do it.”

She took a deep breath. “Oh, thank the gods.”

Daemon snorted. “I think there is little room for them in this arrangement, cousin.”

Aemma disagreed. It was only by the grace of gods that she had learned of any of it. It was only by the grace of gods that he agreed.  

Still, she gave him a tremulous smile. “Let us get to it, then.”

His expression was incredulous. “Now?”

“There is no better time, is there? And this is the most private place in the entire Red Keep, I am told.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, and he let out a string of High Valyrian, she had no hope of understanding and was fairly certain was in fact a string of curses, ending in a sigh chock-full of resignation. “Turn around. Put your hands on the rack.”

Aemma followed instructions dutifully, trying to ignore the churning of her stomach, trying to ignore the tightness in her belly and in her shoulders, trying to ignore the ache building in her temples.

Viserys was a soft, gentle man, not oft given over to temper. Daemon was his opposite, and Daemon was angry now. There was naught she could do about her fear. There was naught she could do about tensing further when he pressed to her back, his hands settling on her hips for a moment.

A distressed keen escaped her when his head fell forward to rest on her shoulder, and his voice was muffled for it. “We do not have to do this.”

His hands began to withdraw, and she grabbed after them desperately, holding them in place. “We do. We truly do.”

There was exasperation in his voice. “Aemma, I think we both know that this will never work unless you relax. ”

“It will. It will. I promise.”

“You…?” He cut himself off and shook off her hold on his hands, wrapping an arm around her in a strong grip while his other hand grabbed at her nightgown, pushing it up, and she tried to uselessly squirm away from a finger prodding at her core. 

“You can promise all you want. I have never fucked a woman this tight and this dry. I have no intention of doing so now.”

She understood none of his complaints. And what was there for him to complain about anyway? But she could make herself relax. Somewhat. “I will relax. I promise. Along the way.” She was always tense in the beginning before she managed to go away into her mind, though admittedly not this tense.

Aemma found herself spun around, her chin tilted back as Daemon examined her eyes attentively, and she looked up at him evenly, silently pleading for him to believe her. She needed him to believe her.

Another sigh exploded out of him, and she found herself lifted, her bottom placed onto the rack, and she lowered herself all the way back, tension bleeding out of her as she made herself more comfortable, folding her hands under her breasts. Oh, this was much better. Much more familiar. 

“Very well. Along the way, it is.” Daemon did not sound enthused or relieved at all. He sounded irritated.

She stared up toward the ceiling hidden by the darkness, the sparse light not reaching it, and more tension bled out of her as her nightgown was rucked up over her hips and she was made to spread her legs. This was going to work. Gods, this was going to work.

Aemma jerked up and squeaked in alarm as something soft and wet brushed against her core. “What are you doing?!” 

Daemon was knelt between her spread legs, his face buried in his hand, and he let out a slightly unhinged laugh. “Fucking hells, woman. What does it look like I am doing? You are drier than a bone and scared out of your wits. We will never manage to proceed unless I do this.”

She stared at him, trying to wrap her head around it all. He was wrong, though, she was not scared out of her wits anymore. She closed her eyes and shook her head with a smile, amused by her foolishness. Some men had strange tastes, she had heard tell. Was it truly any surprise that Daemon, known for his voracious appetite, was one of them?

She lowered herself back, making herself comfortable once more. “You may proceed.” 

Daemon responded by grumbling under his breath in High Valyrian.

When his tongue brushed against her core again, she made sure to remain still, even as her breath hitched. But remaining still proved impossible after only a few moments, and she squirmed desperately, horrible sounds escaping her despite her best efforts.

Oh gods, what was this torture?

The tension in her belly was back, but changed, and there was a strange warmth coursing through her veins and she could not hold her hands still at all, grabbing at the rough surface for purchase as the heat and the strange tension built and built. There was no more strength in her to hold back anything when it snapped suddenly, and she cried out as her body seized helplessly.

She barely even noticed when something slid inside her, though she did notice as it pressed deeper, and she pressed herself against it with a needy keen.

“Almost there, sweetling. Almost there.”

Daemon’s voice was exceedingly gentle and entirely unwelcome. She cared nothing for platitudes. She needed more, and her need was fulfilled shortly as another finger pressed into her and, gods, she would not mind laying with Daemon in the least if he made her feel like this beforehand.

That exciting tension built once more within her, and she was close, so, so close to another delicious explosion when she was robbed and spun around unceremoniously, her front meeting the rough surface instead.

Her unhappy moan of protest was cut short as Daemon pushed inside her and her breath was stolen away, her jaw hanging loose as he slid deeper and then slightly back before sliding in deeper yet. Sliding inside her, not dragging. Her head dropped to meet the wood and the ache in her heart built even as the sensations threatened to overwhelm her once more.

There was no pain or discomfort when Daemon withdrew from her, spent. Only feeling of loss. A feeling of utter emptiness, too.

She could not move, not with the tiny ripples of pleasure still coursing through her despite the cold air now meeting her bare backside instead of a hard warm body.

She could not move, not with her world torn asunder so viciously.

She closed her eyes and prayed not to weep in front of Daemon again.

Chapter Text

Daemon emerged from the darkness of the tunnels into the darkness of the night, striding across the beach to Caraxes, only to collapse to his knees halfway to him, laughter overtaking him.

He had thought it a trap. He had thought it a certain and final way to remove him now, that he had the threat of a loyal City Watch at his back, had thought that Otto Hightower had at last succeeded in turning his brother against him utterly and irrevocably. 

There were no two ways about it. Should Daemon be caught in Aemma’s chambers at night, alone and without any grounds to be there, his exile, if not worse, would be immediate and unavoidable. Permanent.

He had not gone, spending the night surrounded by his men, depressingly sober and alert, waiting for an attack that had not come, returning to the Red Keep only in the light of day, when the danger had passed.

Or so he had believed.

He had been a fool. He had passed the gardens, and he had seen Aemma with Rhaenyra, a melancholy air of the day before morphing into a cloud of pure anguish, despite her daughter’s sunny presence, and a doubt had bloomed in him. What if she had truly had a need of him?

The fool that he was, he had acted. But he had not forgotten his suspicions, his fears. No. He had ensured he would be seen with his men out in the city and then ventured to the Dragonpit to take Caraxes out for a nice long nighttime flight, or so he had informed the disgruntled dragonkeepers. Then he had landed him in the hidden cove unseen by anyone, ready for a swift escape.

Daemon had prepared to be entrapped by his brother, to be betrayed by him and prepared for it, and he had gone and let himself be convinced by his brother’s wife into betraying him in truth. He had gone and chosen himself and Aemma and Rhaenyra over Viserys and there was no going back now.

He had been on guard even as he had taken her to the hidden torture chamber, listening keenly to every sound and straining to hear even the softest disturbance. But there had been no one in her bedchamber other than her, and there had been no one following behind him other than her either.

Still, he had not shaken his suspicions, could not once she had spoken treason, could not when she had plainly not wanted that, which she had asked of him. Forcing himself on his goodsister would most certainly have been cause enough to warrant his summary execution. By his own hand, if not his brother’s. And it would have likely been cause enough for Viserys to rid himself of poor Aemma too, if what she had said of the Hightower chit was true.

Aemma was fragile, she had always been, the very air around her suffused with tragedy, her very presence making even the most churlish of men soften his speech. His own harsh treatment of her so soon after her most recent loss had him suffer sharp pangs of conscience once his mistrust had been assuaged.

But, despite everything, Aemma had relaxed, and her reactions to his ministrations painted a rather different picture altogether, and it was not one he was comfortable with at all.

His brother was a fool, he had long known that, but surely he could not be that much of one.

Surely.

Witnessing Aemma’s dejected behavior after, he had no idea what to think anymore.

She had wrapped her arms around herself, her head hung low, her shoulders hunched, and he had had to lay a hand on her back to guide her forward after he had had to stop and return for her one too many times, cursing in the privacy of his mind all the way back to her chambers.

They had been nearly there when she whispered her question. “Will you come tomorrow?”

He had frozen and turned to her, and she had looked up at him, her eyes big and pleading and oh-so-lost.

How was he to say no faced with those pleading eyes when he had doomed them both already?

She needed a babe, and they had made themselves into traitors to the crown and to Viserys already. The only path out left to them was through. 

His nod had been almost imperceptible, but it had been enough for her to expel the breath she had been holding and for her eyes to shine with relief.

The bedchamber had been still empty when he had returned her to it, and he had not truly expected anything else by then.

Viserys would have never allowed him to have his wife merely to rid himself of the headache that was his younger brother. Not even to rid himself of them both.

Here he was now, laughing.

He had never seen Aemma as an object of desire. She had always been his brother’s, had always been timid and delicate, to be treated with great care lest she shatter.

Whatever his tumultuous relationship with his brother, he had never wavered in his view and in his treatment of her.

Until he had fucked her.

He wondered how he was ever to face her in the light of day now. He wondered how he was to face his brother ever again.

Caraxes was still waiting for him, ever-forbearing of him and ready to take him to the Free Cities should the need arise.

Oh gods, what a fool he was.

He returned the disgruntled Blood Wyrm to the Dragonpit as the sky started to lighten. He had certainly no wish to return to his dark prison any more than Daemon had a wish to return to his chambers in the Red Keep, risking an encounter with anyone in his family. Anyone.

For all that he enjoyed winesinks of Flee Bottom and brothels all over the city, he had no wish to sleep at any of them, not now. 

He locked and blocked the door to his chambers before he felt secure enough, Dark Sister by his side, the path to the secret passages clear. Daemon had left strict instructions about not chaining Caraxes in his lair after escorting him there himself. He was as safe as he could make himself without arousing suspicion under the circumstances.

Aemma could not be counted on to keep herself together, that was plain enough.

Whether Daemon could keep himself together remained to be seen.

There was a certain peace to be found in the familiarity of his men laughing and drinking all around him, having landed in yet another brothel after their patrols had ended. Nothing had changed.

He was still the Prince of the City.

When his eyes alighted on Mysaria, he felt himself restored entirely.

He was the fucking Rogue Prince, not a fucking pansy to be so unsettled by fucking a woman, whatever her identity, whatever her station.

More importantly, he was the Prince of the City, and he had allies about him. 

A smirk settled on his face and he rose to follow her when she lifted a single brow and inclined her head invitingly.

He had allies about him Otto Hightower considered below notice, far below concern. Oh, how wrong he would prove him to be. Oh, how he would enjoy that.

He let himself fall onto Mysaria’s bed and let her straddle him, a playful glint in her eyes, but when she reached for his clothes, he wrapped an arm around her and rolled them, pressing a kiss below her ear.

“No time for that tonight, I fear, my dear.”

Both her brows jumped up, the amusement plain in her eyes as she arched her back, dressing her breasts more firmly against him. “Oh? No time?”

He let out a low chuckle and gave her ear a light bite. “No time. I have need of an altogether different mastery of yours.”

She froze under him and wariness appeared in her eyes. “What other use could my prince possibly have for me?”

Daemon smiled down at her. “Nothing too nefarious, I assure you.” She did not seem reassured in the least. “But it is impossible for a man acquainted with you not to notice your considerable… talents.”

There was not a drop of playfulness or amusement left in Mysaria as his fingers traced absentminded patterns up and down her side, her eyes alert, her body stiff. “We could be of use to each other, you and I. Of more use than we are to each other now.”  

She seemed determined to remain silent, so he rolled his eyes and continued. “I am told my brother has taken his Hand’s oh-so- pious daughter to bed. I wish to know if it is true. I need to know what their plans are.” He pressed his lips together, frowning deeply. “I need to know whether… how they plan to rid themselves of the queen. How they mean to rid themselves of me. ”

Because Otto Hightower was hardly a fool. He would never leave Daemon to have peace, believing him too much of a threat to the high-and-mighty Hand without a male heir safely between him and the Iron Throne.

Daemon was certainly not fool enough to give him even an ounce of it.

“My prince thinks too highly of me. I’ve not heard of any of this.”

He rolled his eyes once more and rolled off her, getting off the bed. “Few would have, but now you did. I want to know more. I want to know as much as there is to be known.”

“I can try, my prince, but I might not be able to learn-”

He snorted. “I rather doubt that. Otto Hightower is a sanctimonious prick that thinks himself above all others. I have little doubt there would be those in his household eager to share if properly motivated.”

Mysaria did not move from the bed, a frown marring her pretty face, her usually pouty lips pressed tightly together. She did not look convinced still.

“Serve me well, and I will reward you richly. You will have enough that you will never need to serve another man as long as you will live.”

Her face cleared, and she rose from the bed with a smile and ethereal grace to lay her hands on his chest. “And what if it was not coin I wished? What if I wanted a keep and lands to call my own?”

It was his turn to frown. “I can promise you riches, but I cannot promise you that. I am not the king.”

Her smile turned into a grin. “Not yet.”

Daemon agreed easily enough. “No, not yet.” 

He would likely never sit the Iron throne now, but his son could, and that was what mattered. 

They had wed him to Rhea Royce and denied him an annulment at every turn, robbing him of even the possibility of trueborn children to follow him, yet his son would be the one to sit the Iron Throne regardless. There was delicious irony in that, and it was only made more delicious by the fact that should there be a need for a regent, there was no one else Aemma could truly choose other than him.

He would give her the babe she desired of him, and he would ensure she lived. There could be no better ally for him than his co-conspirator, after all.

Mysaria’s calculating gaze was steady. “I will find out.”

He stroked under her chin and pecked her nose. “Good. Till tomorrow, then.”

Confusion passed over her face. “You are leaving already, my prince?”

His brows rose. “I did say I have no time tonight.”

“But… where are you going?”

His brows climbed higher. “The Dragonpit. I have a dragon to ride.”

He bit down on his grin as he left her. 

He was the Rogue Prince, and the Rogue Prince was not a man to second-guess his decisions once the plunge had been taken.

No, he was a man to enjoy the exhilaration of the fall and the narrow escape at the end of it.

Aemma was alone in her bedchamber, when he entered it, still and seemingly asleep until he moved closer to the bed and saw that there was no need of rousing her, her eyes open and clapped onto him. He stopped and raised his brows in amusement, inclining his head toward the opening behind him.

She rose to follow him, as pale and as silent as a ghost in her white nightgown. A slow predatory smile spread on his face as the light fabric did little to hide the fullness of her breasts in the weak moonlight.

He had never seen Aemma as an object of desire.

Not until he had fucked her.

Wisdom said that the best revenge was to live well.

Wisdom knew nothing of the pleasure it was to have his brother’s wife moan his name as she shuddered through her release around his cock.

It was not wisdom that guided Daemon.

No, it was revenge and the heady feeling of triumph at his very fingertips at last at the thought of planting a babe in her, of denying his brother his greatest desire when he had been denied himself for so long.

Still, it was Aemma, poor, sweet and delicate, and he could not bring himself to face the weight of her gaze with thoughts of such on his mind. He could not bring himself to face the woman that had been nothing but his goodsister for over a decade when he thought of palming her generous bosom, of how nice and heavy it would be in his hands. 

He would truly never be able to face her in court, in the sight of others, should he see her features twisted in rapture as those sweet sounds of pleasure escaped her, so when he took her, he did so from behind.

And he would, again and again, until his seed took root in her womb, and he had well and truly taken that thing most coveted by Viserys from him.

With Aemma’s help.

At Aemma’s request.

Certainly, with her eager participation. 

It was almost a pity his brother could never know.

Chapter Text

It had seemed a perfect plan. 

For a single day, her plan had been perfect.

Then Daemon had not come, and she had fallen into despair and when he had come a day later, she had been so relieved that he had and that he had agreed…

It had been a perfect plan, until he had agreed and taken her and shattered her world, until he had made her see she had been living a lie.

Viserys was meant to be the kind one, her gentle, loving husband.

Viserys was not meant to be the source of her pain. No. It was her burden to bear as a woman, as a wife, as a queen . It was she that failed to come to terms with it, as she had failed to give the kingdom the heirs it so desperately needed.

Even when she had come to know the sting of betrayal, when she had at last allowed herself to consider that the fault for the lack of heirs may lay with Viserys, there was still her failing as a wife. A good wife would not have gone to her husband’s brother the way Aemma had, no matter what.

But, as it turned out, Viserys had never been the good husband she had thought him to be and her guilt at being a less than adequate wife had melted away as quick as summer snows.

Oh gods, what a naive little fool she had been, playing the role of the dutiful wife, the genteel lady, the graceful queen, allowing the shame of her failings to consume her.

Now, when there was a cause, there was no space for either guilt or shame, not when every day was a battle waged, each morn a struggle to don the armor she had worn for over a decade. 

There had been fear, too. She had feared discovery after the first time, had been sick with it, truly. But when he had appeared the next night, she had gone with him gladly, hoping to experience that new-found pleasure, hopeful and afraid to learn that it had not been a singular event. The worries had melted away swiftly enough in the light of the knowledge that it need not be the way it had always been for her.

Things could change and the potent mixture of pleasure, freedom, and power left no space for less important things, as each coupling with Daemon had Aemma more eager for more, less mindful of dangers, more appreciative of benefits.

Aemma was free and powerful now. She was free of guilt and shame at last, and she held in her hands the power to crush Viserys.

Each day was a battle waged not to unleash that deadly power.

And each morn she woke and knew they had not made a babe yet, disappointment warred with relief, two desires, two needs fighting for dominance. 

Aemma needed a babe. A son.

Aemma needed Daemon.

She could not have both, that was not their arrangement, and the knowledge was bitter.

Each night and each release had her need for Daemon stronger and her heart turn just the slightest bit harder. 

Every morn that she woke with a sweet memory and sweeter yearning, her bitterness, and the resentment toward Viserys grew and her restraint wearied.

She had the power to destroy him. 

It would be a folly that would cost her everything, she knew, but the beast in her breast had awoken, and it bayed for blood.

It seemed to her, her perfect plan required all of her strength merely not to scratch out her dear husband’s eyes every time she found herself in his presence.

Was it folly to be grateful for his whore for the mercy of being spared his presence? Was it folly to be grateful despite the knowledge of looming danger?

Without her, she would have never dared question Viserys, she would have never dared approach Daemon.

Without her, Aemma’s insides would not be quivering, her knees shaking, her lungs desperate for breath, her lover having just withdrawn from her after yet another world-rattling release. 

The thought had her collapse back into Daemon, shaking with breathless giggles.

His movements stilled, his hands pausing on the very edge of letting go of her, his fingertips brushing her sides.

“Do share the jape, would you?”

Her breath caught when the puff of warm air brushed her ear, and a shiver ran through her body. “Jape? What jape?”

His fingers started moving aimlessly up and down her side, her desire flickering back to life, despite having just been sated. 

“The one that has you laughing so.”

Aemma was not laughing. Not anymore. She pressed herself more fully against Daemon’s hard body, her hips shifting against him.

A low chuckle escaped him and the sound vibrated against her shoulder, raising goosebumps and hardening her nipples once more, and her eyes fell closed with a disappointed whimper when his hands fell to her hips to still them. There was no dignity left to her to pretend to, so she turned her head to glare at the side of his face with a pout.

The fiend’s eyes widened as she did so, and a strange smile tugged at his lips. “Now, now, sweetling, I do believe we were talking about something.”

Aemma corrected him readily. “ You were talking.”

Daemon hummed thoughtfully, something hesitant flashing in his eyes before he turned them away from her. “I was asking. After the source of your high spirits.” 

It was Aemma’s turn to hum, wondering how to answer. Whether to answer. “I was thinking of Viserys.” Daemon went rigid. “How he made us do this.”

The tension drained out of her goodbrother and confusion replaced it, his brows furrowing. “ Viserys made us do this?”

She laid a hand on his cheek and turned his face back to herself to look into his eyes seriously. “Yes. We are two peas in a pod, you and I. We have only ever given our loyalty and love and care to him, only to be betrayed time and time again. Is it any wonder we turned to each other when the other option was to put our trust in him?”

How could Aemma trust him when he had her replacement at hand already? How could Daemon passed over and dismissed again and again?

Daemon’s eyes on her were too attentive, too understanding, too unsettling, so she patted his cheek. “Now, put a babe in me, so we can be spared Viserys falling further into the clutches of his Hand. Truly, it is a wonder it was the man’s daughter he fell into bed with, not the man himself.”

Daemon’s head fell to her shoulder as his body convulsed in laughter. “Two peas in a pod, are we?”

She turned to face the cold stone wall without a word more, satisfied to let his laughter pass secure in his hold. Aemma hardly even knew herself since this affair had begun, but she felt she had come to understand the mystery that was Daemon some more, despite their exchange tonight being the first words spoken between them after that first night.

But Aemma had come to learn she was not a patient woman, not when it came to this, so she took his hand and guided it where she wanted it and at last his laughter ended in a low chuckle. “My queen’s wish is my command.” A kiss pressed into her shoulder and she could feel the wickedness of his smile on her skin, leaving a burning brand. “Anything for my king and the realm.”

Oh, those words made her next peak even sweeter.

The morning came too soon, and the sunlight attempting to tease her eyes open had her burrowing deeper into her pillows instead. She wanted to luxuriate in the warmth of the bed, its security and its softness, recalling the glory of the night before and letting the memory suffuse her being with warmth of its own.

There was a warmth emanating from deep within Aemma too, a spark, a tiny flame flickering where there had been none.

She froze, all thoughts of luxuriating in bed, of letting the memory of Daemon’s ghostly touches slowly tease her awake, leaving her in a rush, leaving her cold.

There was a spark of life in her, Daemon’s seed taking root at last, taking root too soon. 

She drew her covers over her head and did her best to keep her tears at bay. Memories would be all that would be left to her now that the babe had been made.

It would not be enough, she knew that much even now.

Still, she laid a hand on her belly and caressed it reverently. A babe was a good thing. A blessing. Her only hope of salvation.

And she did wish for a salvation now.

Before, there was only Rhaenyra, for whom she had to endure, for whom she had to fight and cling to life. Now, it was Aemma herself for whom she wished to live, to experience joy and pleasure and…

Aemma squeezed her eyes shut and prayed with all her heart for this babe to live. A son or not, gods, let it live, let her have another babe to love, let her sweet Rhaenyra have a sibling after all those years alone.

Though her daughter might not want a sibling. She stared at her pouting face, utterly puzzled, when she had taken her from her nursery and the care of her displeased septa and taken her to the sept to light candles and pray with her for a healthy brother.

“I beg your pardon?”

Rhaenyra’s pout grew more pronounced, and she folded her arms, her look combative. “I don’t want a brother. I want you. ”

“You have me, sweetling. You will always have me. A brother will not change anything in that regard.”

“He will! They always do! They never come, but they always take you away from me! I don’t want them!”

There were tears in her eyes when she lowered herself to her knees and pressed a kiss to her sweet daughter’s forehead. 

“Your father needs an heir,” she whispered when she found her voice. “It is my duty to give him one.” It was her duty, or she would have to leave Rhaenyra in a much more permanent manner.

“He has Daemon. He has me! ”

Her heart squeezed at the anguish in her daughter’s voice and tried not to think of the very same thoughts likely running through Daemon’s mind, most certainly running through hers.

“A king has to have a son to follow after him,” she said instead, aiming for reasonable and consoling as she pressed a kiss to Rhaenyra’s pale hair, caressing it softly. “But this time it will be different. I promise. This time, I will not leave you. This time, he will come.”

Aemma had spent a decade of pregnancies shut up in her apartments, the life of court and her own daughter passing her by. She had thought herself the only one suffering from the crushing loneliness of it, so she had endured it in silence. Not now. Not when she knew Rhaenyra suffered from their parting as well, the too-short visits she was allowed not enough for the little girl.

The maesters liked to restrict her to her chambers the moment she was known to be with child, to better guard against contagions, they claimed, but she would not stand for it, not anymore. 

It was not a contagion that had brought an end to so many of her hopes, and it was most certainly not straining herself too much. 

Everything would be different this time. 

Viserys was weak, his seed weak as well, she reasoned. Daemon did not share his weakness. Daemon was a man of action, a man that despised stillness. She doubted a babe of his seed would benefit from her laying about in bed for endless moons.

Yes, everything would be different this time, starting with Aemma’s meaningless isolation.

She brought Rhaenyra into a tight embrace, and smiled into her hair. “I promise things will be different. Now, let us light those candles and pray so we may go to the gardens, hm?” 

Her daughter’s eyes told her she did not quite believe her, not yet, but she had not truly expected her to. She would see soon enough for herself.

In the morn, she had been almost regretful. By the time the night came, she found herself unable to sleep for even a wink as she waited for Daemon, to share her news, the giddiness almost overwhelming.

They had made a babe together.

It had been an eternity since carrying a new babe brought a feeling of hope. It felt an entire eternity since she had last truly felt hope at all, and it was a heady thing.

When he came for her, it was all she could do not to rush into his arms and share her news, but that was not who they were to each other, she reminded herself. Most certainly not while still in her bedchamber. So Aemma followed, as she always did, until they came wherever it was he meant to take her.

They never coupled twice in the same place, and she had long since given up on remembering the twists and turns they took. Places did not matter.

She could not hold herself back anymore when he stopped and put the lantern down, turning to her, with an inviting tilt of his head toward the wall, a single brow raised suggestively, and she could feel her cheeks heat. Words were not needed between them. Not usually, but tonight they were, so she stepped up to him boldly, his brow jumping higher at the movement. 

His eyes widened, and his breath stilled, when she placed her hands on his cheeks, pulling his face down to kiss him fully on his lips. Daemon stood frozen against her, seemingly not even daring to breathe until she dropped back to her feet. She gave him a beaming smile regardless. “We made a babe.”

“A babe,” he repeated dully after her, but she did not let his lack of enthusiasm douse hers.

“Yes, a babe. We, you and I, made a babe.”

He blinked a few times before a hesitant smile started to emerge. “A babe. Your courses did not-?”

Aemma colored and coughed, suddenly supremely uncomfortable. “My blood is not due yet.” Something shuttered in his eyes, and she rushed to explain. “That is not… I always know. I always know by morn. And this time I knew… this morn.”

“I was not aware one could know-”

“One could not. I can.”

Daemon stared at her, skepticism warring with hope in his eyes and when he opened his mouth to speak, she did not let him, pressing her fingers to his lips.

“I always know. I do not know why, but I always do. Regardless, you either trust my knowledge now or a maester’s once he confirms it a fortnight or more from now.” There was a note of distrust in his eyes still, and something else too, something darker, but Aemma bade herself to be brave, so she met his gaze head on and lifted her lips in a teasing smile. “Or you trust no one, and we must keep at it until you are certain.”

Distrust was wiped away in a flash, amusement replacing it. “Oh? Must we?”

She nodded solemnly. “We must.”

Daemon’s eyes danced with mirth as he reached out to grip her chin lightly and stroke under it thoughtfully, robbing Aemma of breath. “Peas in a pod, hm? I suppose I can see it now.”

Chapter Text

Something strange was happening in the Red Keep.

Daemon had withdrawn from court, skipping council sessions entirely, appearing in the Reed Keep only to sleep and then slink away before chancing a meeting with his brother or his wife, and yet there was silence.

It was hardly an uncommon behavior for Daemon. What was uncommon was the lack of reprimand. If there was one thing Otto Hightower delighted in, it was expounding on his shortcomings, and his spotty attendance of the sessions of the Small Council seemed a perfect opportunity for such. Daemon knew that. Daemon had expected that.

He did not expect silence.

Silent Otto Hightower was a happy Otto Hightower, and he could not have that, not when it was Daemon’s own actions or lack thereof that could be the cause of it.

His gaze when it aligned upon Mysaria was predatory, hers was unamused, and she rolled her eyes at him when the door of her bedchamber closed behind them.

“Tut-tut, my prince is impatient tonight. Whatever could be the matter?”

“The Hand of the King is happy with me. I want to know why.”

Mysaria let out a deep belly laugh. “I can see how that would be of concern to you, my prince. Though I assure you, it is nothing so nefarious. At least not toward you.”

“Whatever nefarious schemes Otto Hightower might have are against my interests!” Daemon’s reply might have been a tad sharper than required, as amusement fled Mysaria’s face and her eyes sharpened, watching him attentively.

“I suppose they are. The queen is your cousin as well, after all.”

“So they are plotting against the queen.”

“If only it were that straightforward, you might serve the pestilent Hand’s head to your brother on a silver platter, and he would thank you for it. Alas, 'tis not so.” 

She batted her lashes at him and shrugged her dainty shoulders, and he had to fight a sudden and violent urge to strangle her.

“How is it, then?” he growled out at her.

Mysaria gave him a bright, toothy smile. “Our good Ser Otto is of a firm belief that the next childbed will be the queen’s last. It is altogether well-known information at court that the maesters warned the queen of the same.”

“They did not,” he countered dully.

Gods, he hoped they did not. He would have known, would he not? They would have told him, would they not? She would have told him. Surely, she would? Aemma believed a son would be her salvation, not her doom.

Mysaria pouted and shrugged once more. “I suppose you would know, my prince. I am merely telling you what everyone at court believes.” Her smile became sharp. “The queen’s death in childbed seems a forgone conclusion, and with the queen withdrawing into the comforting presence of her only child, our good Lord Hand seems determined to replace her at the side of the king in the eyes of the court already.”

Daemon heard the words but could not quite understand their meaning. “What?”

He was treated to another eye roll and hands thrown up in disgust. “The queen does not attend courtly events. Neither do you. The king has a seat open on each side of him. The Hand sits closer. The king invites the Hand’s daughter to the half-empty high table as well. Now, guess where the girl sits.”

“She would not dare.”

“She did not. Not a first. She was invited to at first. Now, she seats herself in the queen’s seat without prompting, and there are no eyebrows raised when she does.”

Satisfaction was plain to see in Mysaria’s face at the angry set of his jaw as she folded her arms across her chest. “So you see, my prince. The Hand has little reason to complain of your absence.”

That much went without saying. The man would never dare bring his sanctimonious little bitch of a daughter within range of Daemon’s sharp tongue in public, certainly not when by all custom and decency she would be the one in the wrong.

Well, it was high time the upstart learned her place.

It was almost maddening to see how quickly after he fucked her, Aemma managed to put herself back together, not a hair out of place, back to the ever-composed queen she was to the rest of the world. It was maddening that he could not leave a mark of their coupling to mar that image, that he could not shatter it completely, her flushed cheeks the only sign her desperate pleas and gasps had not been a delusion.

However maddening, it was still impressive. It was still something for him to challenge.

When she turned back to face him, as distant as the stars in the sky, he rested his back against the wall opposite and smiled at her lazily.

A look of confusion passed over Aemma’s face. “Are we not going back?”

“I thought I’d share something I learned today with you, though if you prefer…” He turned with a careless shrug and had to suppress a smirk when a hand on his arm halted him immediately.

“Tell me.”

He faced her once more, examining her face carefully. “First things first. Can you carry a babe safely?”

Aemma’s cool facade cracked, her face awash in confusion, and a weight lifted off Daemon’s chest. “What do you… Of course, I… I told you it’s Viserys…” Her arms wrapped around her and her face crumpled, and he watched, fascinated, as her eyes squeezed shut, her arms tightened infinitesimally, and she took a deep breath in, releasing it slowly, all her distress seemingly draining out of her.

He stared into the cool, even eyes of his goodsister. “The maesters declared me healthy. There is nothing stopping me bearing children.”

“Safely?”

Her eyes flashed, and she ground the word out through gritted teeth. “Safely.”

Daemon nodded to himself grimly. “That is not what everyone at court apparently believes. This babe you believe your savior, everyone else believes will kill you.” 

“What? No! Why would they…?” Aemma cut herself off and looked at Daemon with wide eyes, her voice dropping to a whisper. “They mean to kill me?”

“It would appear so,” he agreed dryly.

“We have to-!”

Daemon interrupted her with an impatient wave of a hand. “Do what? We have no proof. We will have no proof for moons. Mayhaps not until it is too late. And you know how obstinate Viserys can be when it comes to his Hand.”

The fight drained out of Aemma and her arms dropped to wrap around her middle protectively as she turned her pleading eyes at him, her voice broken. “They mean to kill me. Are we to do nothing?”

“You can leave,” he told her. “You can go to Dragonstone or even your family in the fucking Vale. You could leave and be safe.”

“Safe.” The scorn in her voice made the word a curse. “Merely out of sight, out of mind. Easier to forget. Easier to rid of.”

He gave her a gentle smile, and reached out to trace her jaw with his finger lightly, his voice gliding smoothly like a venomous snake. “Out of sight, out of mind. Is that not what you are already? Is that not what you have made of yourself these past weeks? The court is slowly forgetting that there is a queen still drawing breath, and a usurper sits in your place by my brother’s side.”

Her eyes flashed and she slapped his hand away. “And where have you been?”

Daemon’s smile widened. “I’ve been wherever I needed to be to ensure our little outings remain our little secret. Accounting for all my night every night is hard work, let me assure you, and I still have my duties as Lord Commander of the City Watch to attend to. Forgive me if I have little wish to strain what little patience I have for the nattering of the fools in the Small Council. The results might be regrettable.”

“And yet I should strain my patience in the presence of some of the very same fools?”

Aemma seemed determined in her stubbornness, and pride warred with the need to shake her. “ You are the queen. I am merely the king’s troublesome brother, everyone is glad to be rid of. It is not I they seek to replace, it is you. Me, they merely wish to dis place. 'Tis a much safer position to be in.”

“What am I to do, then? I can’t… I can’t bring myself to…” She wrapped those damnable arms around herself once more, and Daemon ground his teeth.

“Go to a feast, sit at your place. You do not need to do anything, speak to anyone. Be there. You do not need to go to every single one, but go and be unpredictable about it. Leave them guessing. Leave them talking about you. Do not let anyone take your rightful place without a peep of protest.”

She threw her arms out and gestured around herself. “What do you think I have been doing here?”

Truly, he wished to shake her, but he gentled his voice before dealing out the harsh truth. “This is not a protest. This is playing right into their hands, and it might just cost you your life.”

Aemma raised her chin and glared at him. “Things will be different. This babe will live.”

“Will you?”

Her glare deepened for a moment, but then her shoulders slumped. “How? How am I to do that when all I want is to scratch Viserys’ eyes out?”

Daemon’s lips twitched. “Best not do that, though you might find some relief in scratching her eyes out.”

Aemma’s dejected sigh was entirely too endearing. “Not enough.”

Viserys did not have a lick of sense, and that was the Gods’ honest truth, Daemon came to understand mere days later when Aemma’s condition had been confirmed by maesters, and a feast to celebrate it had been ordered.

Daemon had not known. Daemon had gone out patrolling with his men and had spared little attention for the missive awaiting him at the barracks after his return until well after sundown. Had it been any other feast, any other cause, he might have not bestirred himself, but it was this one, and he certainly intended to celebrate.

Truly, for Viserys not to expect Aemma at the feast celebrating her own blessed condition was an act of utter and unaccountable stupidity, made all the more baffling by the Hand’s blindness to it. Mayhaps he had not known the cause yet.

Whatever the reason, he was treated to the result when he sneaked into the feast hall through a side door, raising a finger to his smiling lips to forestall the call to announce him when the wide-eyed herald sighted him.

And oh, what a treat it was, when Aemma’s clear, cold voice sounded over the silent hall. “Viserys, I do believe your whore is sitting in my seat.”

He slapped a hand over his mouth as his shoulders shook. It seemed Daemon was not the only one to arrive late and, if Viserys’ sputtering was anything to judge by, unexpected.

Lady Alicent’s face was bleached white, and she clutched the armrests of the queen’s ornate seat in a viselike grip, unmoving. It was a very pale Otto Hightower that pried his daughter out of the seat under Aemma’s haughty gaze as Viserys sputtered and flailed and failed as a man, a husband, and a king. And Daemon was there to see it all.

Oh, it was all he could do to contain his merriment when Aemma called for a clean chair to be brought to her, refusing to seat herself in one stained by such a creature.

Aemma, kindly Aemma, who never made a fuss, and was always gentle with servants.

He sidled up to the herald and slapped him on the back good-naturedly. “You may announce me now, my good man.”

The banging of the herald’s staff rang out over the still-silent hall, causing a satisfying start among the assembled nobles.

“Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, the Lord Commander of the City Watch.”

Daemon walked down to the hall to the high table, bowing to his floundering brother and his imperious goodsister as was only proper, and plopped himself into the seat on the king’s other side, recently vacated by his uppity Hand.

Oh, what a joy one’s family could sometimes be.

He gave his brother a hearty slap across his back. “I hear congratulations are in order, brother!” Viserys was still recovering when Daemon redirected his attention to his queen and gave her a nod of acknowledgement and placed a hand over his heart. “My most earnest felicitations, goodsister.”

She blushed prettily and gave him a nod in return, her eyes cast down courteously. “Thank you, goodbrother.”

Daemon reached out to slap his brother’s back once more. “You are most welcome, goodsister. Most welcome.” He grabbed a goblet and rose to his feet, drawing curious gazes as he raised it high. “May the Gods bless the queen with a healthy son, and may they grant the Seven Kingdoms a Prince of Dragonstone!”

Otto Hightower nor his cursed daughter were anywhere in sight when the hall erupted in jubilation, just as it should be.

Chapter Text

Cold fury remained with Aemma throughout the feast, bubbling just below the surface, even Daemon’s antics serving to alleviate it only lightly and only for too short a time. It was one thing to know there were plans to replace her, it was quite another to see the future without her right in front of her eyes.

She was furious, needless to say. Furious and hurt. The feast to celebrate her, her womb doing its business, and Viserys had chosen this feast to display his whore in the place of his queen!

There was nothing she wanted to do more than slap Viserys’ hand away when he rose from his seat after the food was cleared away and offered it to her with a slight smile, all artifice. “My queen, we must not impose too much on you in your blessed condition, let me escort you to your chambers so you may rest.”

The urge to slap the hand away only increased as he spoke. He was sending her to bed like an unruly little girl! Was she to be grateful he had allowed her a supper at all?

Her jaw clenched for but a moment before she gave him a smile of her own, equally false, and laid her hand in his. “Nothing would please me more, husband.”

She rose from her seat with grace, clinging to her dignity. Her eyes darted to Daemon, looking for salvation, hoping for his interference to spare her this humiliation. None came. Daemon was not even at the high table anymore, but locked in a jolly conversation with equally jolly courtiers.

The walk to her chambers was silent, neither of them bothering with the polite small talk, neither of them willing to broach other topics with the two white shadows following them.

Unfortunately, when they reached her door, Viserys did not release her, rather he escorted her through and closed the door behind them.

It was barely shut when he turned to her with a terribly disappointed look. “Aemma, dearest, that was not well done. Not well done at all. You should apologize to poor Lady Alicent. Her reputation-”

Aemma gaped at him for just a moment before she managed to gather her wits. “Apologize?! Apologize for what? Speaking the truth?”

The fool’s eyes turned more disappointed. “You must think of the poor lady’s reputation. What you said will have ruined her hopes of a good marriage. Surely, you do not wish to destroy a girl’s future over a fit of temper? I know you, Aemma, and you are not that heartless.”

It took her more than a moment to regain her wits at those words, and when she did, laughter overcame her. “ I must think of the whore’s reputation? She should have thought of it before she seduced a man wed to another! You should have thought of it before you bedded her!”

Displeasure and annoyance replaced disappointment. “It is my right as your husband and your king to bed whomever I wish. I cannot be expected to contain my urges with you in confinement, and it would be beyond churlish to press myself on you in your condition, would it not? Besides, you have never spoken up about my dalliances before, why start now?”

 Aemma’s lips curled in distaste. “Yes, it would be beyond churlish of you, and I thank you for your kind consideration. However… Whatever made you think Alicent Hightower to be a good idea? She is the only daughter of your Hand! Your overly ambitious Hand! Are you truly that blind?!”

Viserys frowned at her. “You plainly listen to my brother too much for your good. Otto is my friend and not part of this conversation!”

Aemma let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, truly? I wonder what manner of friend allows his unwed daughter to bed a married man when there is nothing to be gained and everything to lose.”

Her husband had the grace to appear shamefaced. “He does not know.”

She collapsed into the nearest chair, laughing helplessly. It appeared an eternity before she calmed enough to speak. “You think he does not know? Truly?”

“Lady Alicent assured me-”

Aemma had no patience for her husband’s foolishness. “Did you not see him when I called her your whore tonight? Did you not see his face? There was no surprise there. None at all. That man knew. He was the one that pushed her into your bed!”

She had strained Viserys’ goodwill too far, mayhaps hurt his pride a touch too much, it would seem, for he snapped at her. “Aemma, that is enough! You will apologize to Lady Alicent on the morrow, and we will speak no more of this!”

Still, she raised her chin and refused. “I will not.”

Viserys put his hands on the armrest of her chair and leaned over her, trapping her, making her uneasy, making her afraid of him for the first time since they had wed years and years ago. 

“I might be your husband, but first and foremost I am your king. You will do as I say. You will apologize.”

For a moment, Aemma did not recognize Viserys at all. For a moment, she looked at him and did not see the man that had held her as she had cried her eyes out at the news of her family’s deaths, the only person left to her in this world. For a moment, she saw a stranger and it scared her. It scared her more than anything she had heard and learned and done since she had emerged from her confinement.

Aemma was alone now. Viserys had been her person, her rock, her shield, her protector. Only Rhaenyra was left to her now, and it was Aemma that needed to be all that for her daughter, not the other way around. And Daemon… The truth was that Daemon would only protect her as long as it served his interests, as long as she carried his babe. There could be no relying on his presence, much less support, now that her condition had been confirmed.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and Viserys’ expression and tone softened. “Now, now. There is no need for that. You will apologize on the morrow, and we will put this unfortunate episode behind us.”

He raised a hand to pat her on her head, and she let out a pathetic wail. She had no one. For a moment, she wished she had never learned of Lady Alicent and the plot to replace her. She would have died confident in her husband’s love. She would have died a good and faithful wife.

Viserys coughed uncomfortably and patted her head some more. “Truly, no need for this. I will… I will leave you to rest. Yes, I will do that. You are plainly tired.”

Aemma sobbed long after he was gone, and her cheeks were still wet when her silent maids helped her get ready for sleep. Fresh tears rolled down the sides of her face in the privacy of her bed, and she curled herself around her pillow miserably, seeking comfort, wishing she were not so utterly alone.

When ghostly fingers caressed her back, she shivered and sobbed harder, her heartache only growing, and when she was lifted and her head met hard leather, her heart broke anew. For a mad moment, she had hoped Viserys had returned at last to comfort her, that she had wished him into being. But Viserys never smelled of dragon, never wore leather, never awoke sinful thoughts and desires in her by merely holding her.

Daemon’s hands ran up and down her back as he held her in his lap and pressed kisses to the top of her head. “Shh, come now, what is the matter? You were glorious tonight. What brought these tears on?”

Glorious. Aemma had been glorious tonight for Daemon, not a little callous girl in need of chastisement. She had felt glorious and impossible to overlook for an evening. Now she just felt small.

But now that Daemon was there, now that she was pressed into a warm body, secured by warm arms, breathing in warmth, her tears were slowing on their own as some of that warmth seeped into her. Better yet, that warmth turned into a fire burning low in her belly, and Aemma was already in Daemon’s lap. There was nothing easier than to turn up her face and press her lips to his. There was nothing easier than to shift and press her core to him, demanding more kindling for her fire.

And there was nothing more disappointing than Daemon separating from their hungry kiss with a low chuckle to press their foreheads together, his hand buried in her hair, holding her back, denying her more. “I might be a fool and I might like taking risks, but even I am not fool enough to take the risk of fucking you in your bed.”

Aemma could not help the pout. “When have you turned reasonable on us?”

She was rewarded with another low chuckle and a thumb gently tracing her lower lip, but then she was lifted off his lap and deposited on her bed, Daemon standing up. “You seem recovered enough. Come, I mean for us to celebrate.”

A bag landed next to her, and she scrunched her nose at it. “What is it?”

“Clothes.”

“Clothes? Why are you giving me clothes?”

Daemon rolled his eyes at her. “Not giving, lending.”

That did not truly clear things up, did it? “Why are you lending me clothes, then?”

“Because you need a different sort of clothes than what you have for the celebration I have in mind.”

She poked the bag with a resigned sigh. The celebration she would have preferred certainly did not involve more clothes. “Very well.”

The clothes did not fit. Not at all. The breeches were far too long, and she had no hope of lacing them up, and she did not even attempt to lace up the jerkin. Only the shirt fit her somewhat over her breasts, and even that was far too big everywhere else.

“I look absolutely ridiculous,” she told Daemon sullenly. She had never worn clothes so ill-fitting, so unflattering.

Daemon grinned at her. “No one will see you look absolutely ridiculous, I promise.” 

She bit on her lip and kept silent. You already see me.

Aemma let him take her hand and lead her into the hidden passages, following as she had so many times, though this time… this time her gaze was stuck on their joined hands. Had he taken her hand like this before? It seemed meaningful.

It seemed vital once they emerged from the tunnels into the moonlit night, the waves peacefully washing the shore crashing too loudly in her ears, and she froze and squeezed Daemon’s hand for dear life. He turned to her, his face awash with confusion.

“What are we doing here?!” Her voice was high and for once, she did not bother suppressing the volume. There was no need. There was no one there to hear.

He rolled his eyes at her and tugged at her hand, but her feet remained stubbornly planted to the ground, so he sighed and came around her back to nudge her forward gently. “Come, I want to introduce you. He is eager to meet you.” 

The dragon did not seem eager to meet her. Mayhaps to eat her. It seemed menacing and looming and threatening.

And coming closer.

Aemma was trapped, unable to move back with Daemon pressed to it, and unable to move forward or anywhere else due to her own fear. But the dragon was moving ever closer, set on her, its nostrils expanding as it inhaled and when its maw opened, she struggled in Daemon’s arms to escape.

“Shh, he is not going to hurt you. He is only getting to know you.”

Daemon’s voice was soothing and sounded right next to her ear and returned some semblance of reason to her. Daemon was pressed against her back and Daemon’s arms were wrapped around her. The dragon could not harm her without harming him, and the realization finally allowed her to sag against her captor in relief. She could feel his smile in the kiss he pressed to the side of the base of her neck.

The dragon’s massive head stopped just short of touching her, and she could barely breathe, but Daemon took hold of her hand and guided it to the hot scales between the nostrils. She stopped breathing completely, watching her hand pressed against the scales, a curious feeling rising in her chest.

Acceptance. It felt like acceptance.

Touching Syrax had never felt like this. Even as a hatchling, the little dragon had shown exclusive preference for her darling daughter, often snapping at Aemma, when daring to come too close, guarding her bonded jealously. Despite Rhaenyra’s tears on the day Syrax had been taken to the Dragonpit, she had been relieved.

She could never understand her daughter’s enthusiasm for the capricious little dragon. Not until now, and this curious feeling of acceptance, of belonging. One could not be lonely when faced with it.

Daemon hummed into her ear. “See? He likes you.”

Aemma turned to look at him, rather than the dragon, her voice hushed. “Does he?”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “He does, I promise.”

She could not resist the lure of that smile, turning in his arms and kissing it. “Thank you.”

He bit on her lower lip playfully. “Do not thank me yet. That was merely introduction. Now comes the flying.”

The fiend took advantage of her confusion, taking her hand once more and directing her to climb up the dragon’s side ahead of him before she could gather her wits to protest.

But there was no time or space allowed for her protests, certainly none for her fears, with Daemon’s heady presence all around her, urging her on with gentle touches holding so much promise. Aemma was seated in the saddle, her tortured body squirming desperately, trapped between his body and his cruel, cruel hand, holding her in place pressed to the front of her unlaced breeches, his traitorous fingers dipping inside. They were on a dragon, not yet aflight, far too far from the ground for her liking.

“Ah, Daemon, I do not think-,” her voice was too high and too breathy, and it was a good thing that he threw his head back and laughed because she did not think she could make herself continue.

“Do not worry. Dragonriding is too much a serious business to allow for this kind of distractions.”

He withdrew his naughty fingers, wrapping his arm around her middle instead, and Caraxes leapt into the air with mighty beats of his wings and Aemma, despite being trapped against Daemon, despite being far from in control of their course or her own fate, felt truly and utterly free.

They dismounted too soon for her taste, but she was giddy regardless, and she pressed exuberant kisses to whichever part of Daemon’s face she could reach. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! This was a marvelous celebration!”

His brows jumped up and a spark of mischief lit up his eyes. “Whoever said the celebration was over?”

Aemma stilled and looked at him as if entranced. She had wanted it. She wanted it still. But if he meant what she wanted him to mean… There would be no hiding behind making a babe anymore for him if they did it now. 

She looked at his lips and willed them to descend on her, she willed them to take her lips in a ravenous kiss, or any kiss at all. She willed him to move.

And move he did, with a grace of a predator stalking his prey, a slow and dangerous smile curling those sinful lips. It was pure instinct that had her heartbeat pick up and take a step back. A step was all it took for his smile to widen in satisfaction.

“Has no one taught you that when you play with fire, you are like to get burned?”

Aemma’s shoulders rose and fell in what would have been an elegant shrug were she dressed in anything but those terribly ill-fitting clothes, and she lowered her lashes, affecting shyness, hiding her own smile, decidedly wicked. “Oh, but what a pleasure it is.” She raised her eyes to meet his, issuing a challenge. “To burn.”

He was upon her in a flash and for once, it was Daemon kissing her. It was Daemon that was demanding and hungry, and it was Aemma that was triumphant, receiving all the kisses she had not dared ask for and more.

There was nothing better, she found. Nothing better than Daemon’s tongue tangling with her own as their bodies tangled in each other. Nothing they had done so far could hope to compare to being allowed to see and feel and touch so much.

Gods, what a celebration indeed.

She left the bothersome breeches and jerkin on the beach, walking back to her chambers only in the borrowed shirt, hand in hand with Daemon lost in companionable silence. Now that their time together was drawing to a close, her steps were slowing and slowing until she stopped mere paces away from her destination, unable to take a step more.

Daemon turned to her with a sigh and took both of her hands into his. “Are you ready to tell me what it was that had you weeping so now?”

Aemma found herself wishing he did not know her quite so well. 

“It was nothing, truly.” she sighed and shook her head with a grimace twisting her face. “Viserys. He wants me to apologize to her. On the morrow. He ordered me to.”

Understanding and amusement lit up Daemon’s face. “Ah, I see. I should have expected as much from him, I suppose.”

She nodded desolately. No matter how much a fool Viserys had proven himself to be in other matters, he was right in this one. He was the king and Aemma was a subject to his rule.

But, as childish as it might sound, she did not want to do it, and she told Daemon so. He let out a low laugh and lightly tapped her nose.

“You let yourself fall into the trap of royal decrees, I see. How unfortunate for you, goodsister. I would advise you to make yourself a moving target in the future. 'Tis much more difficult to disobey a royal order when one never hears it in the first place.”

Aemma rolled her eyes at him. “How utterly helpful for my current predicament.”

The fiend let out another low laugh and traced her lower lip with his thumb. “You possess an absolutely atrocious lack of imagination, dearest cousin. You are to apologize tomorrow, is that it?”

She hissed out the answer at him. “Yes.”

His thumb tapped her lip. “Well, then I would suggest making yourself nowhere to be found. Only return to the Red Keep in time for supper. If still required of you, apologize then as the most gracious queen anyone has ever seen.”

She slapped his hand away in annoyance. “That does not help me at all!”

“Oh? Does it not? By supper, there will not be ears in the Red Keep and the better part of the city that have not heard the sordid tale, painting a bleaker and bleaker image with each retelling. An apology at that point will do nothing but add to the tongue wagging. A gracious apology will earn goodwill only to you. Certainly not to Lady Alicent or Viserys, who is the only man standing above you, the only man able to make you apologize and everyone knows it.”

That certainly put a rather nicer spin on the matters, and she kissed Daemon’s cheek with a smile. “Thank you. You have been a true gift from the gods tonight.”

He rolled his eyes at her, his tone dry. “A gift from the gods, huh? I think they might be horrified to learn of it.”

Aemma shook her head and made for the passage to her bedchamber at last.

“You are still wearing my shirt,” Daemon reminded her in an innocent sing-song voice, but there was no trace of innocence in his eyes when she looked back at him. She shook her head again, her cheeks aching, before she removed it in one swift move and threw it at his face, disappearing into her bedchamber, the passage closing securely behind her, her cheeks aflame.

Her daughter’s eyes shone with excitement when she told her they would be visiting the Dragonpit together.

“Truly? Truly, you would go with me?”

She combed her fingers through Rhaenyra’s pale locks lovingly, her heart aching at the sheer disbelief in her darling’s words. “Truly. It has been too long since I have last seen Syrax. I must see how she has grown.”

“Oh, I will tell you all about her! Do you think we can go tomorrow too? Do you-”

“Shh, let us not get ahead of ourselves. Let us get through today first, shall we? We may speak of tomorrow on the morrow. And,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I may have a condition for us going.”

Rhaenyra’s face fell, and her eyes filled with apprehension. “What is it?”

“We will visit the Great sept after to pray for your brother’s health.”

Rhaenyra’s relief could not have been plainer. “Oh, good. As long as it’s not more lessons with the septa or eating sprouts. ” 

Aemma suppressed laughter that threatened to bubble out of her at the horrified shudder the mere word invoked in her daughter, and nodded solemnly. “No sprouts and not more lessons with the septa. I promise.”

Chapter Text

The Dragonpit was as intimidating as ever, it’s massiveness pressing down on her and making her insignificance in the grand scheme of things all the more apparent. Aemma had always been quite comfortable with being of little importance. Somehow, only pain followed whenever she was pushed into the center of attention. Aemma had never had any wish to be significant. She just wanted to live. She wanted her children to live, to be happy, to be safe. 

Rhaenyra had a firm hold on her hand, not allowing her to slow, to stop, to run away, no matter how the Dragonpit made her feel the queer bird in a family of dragons. No matter how much it reminded her that she had never truly belonged here. But she did not belong anywhere anymore, not after the tragic deaths of so many of her family in rapid succession years ago. 

She did not belong any where, but she did belong with some one, and that someone was tugging on her hand eagerly as she skipped on ahead of her, leading her to Syrax’s lair. Even the Dragonpit could not intimidate her into disappointing her daughter.

Rhaenyra was all smiles when her dragon was presented to them, bouncing on the balls of her feet, staring up at Aemma adoringly, clasping her hands as she regaled her of everything there was to know of her future mount. The young dragon did not appreciate the lack of attention from her favorite person in the least and though she preened at Rhaenyra’s praise in the beginning, she bared her fangs and hissed her displeasure.

Aemma’s smile toward the dragon was a touch smug as she freed a hand and combed her finger though her daughter's hair lovingly. There was no one in the whole wide world more important to her than Rhaenyra. It was nice to see the proof that the reverse was true as well with her own eyes. It was no hardship at all to her to lower herself to her knees in front of her darling, pressing a kiss to the fingers that still held her.

“I think Syrax would prefer some time alone with you and the keepers, and I would not wish to impose on her goodwill.” 

Syrax had been a jealous hatchling, and she had grown into a jealous dragon, but in this instance, Aemma did not care. She had a good reason to be jealous of Aemma after all. Aemma did not.

Rhaenyra pouted at her, her back still to Syrax. “Please, stay! I want you to see!”

She pressed a kiss to her hair to hide the smug quality of her smile. “I will return once you have put her at her ease, and you will show me everything. I am sure it will not take you long at all.”

While the pout disappeared, her face remained crestfallen, and she let out a heavy sigh. “Very well. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She is a good dragon, I promise!”

“I am sure she is. She certainly loves you very much. Almost as much as I do. Almost as much as you love me.” A low, dangerous growl escaped the good dragon in question, and Aemma battled the triumphant cackle that threatened to escape her most valiantly. Rhaenyra did not even appear to hear the sound.

She pressed a last kiss to her cheek and rose back to her feet. “Calm your good dragon, sweetling. She must have missed you terribly while I kept you away.”

Another growl left Syrax at Aemma’s little reminder of her power, and she turned away hastily to hide her grin. Baiting a dragon could be quite entertaining, she found. Certainly, Syrax was much less intimidating now that she had had a close encounter with Caraxes’ maw and had flown on him.

Her smallness started to press down on her again once she wandered away from Rhaenyra’s sunshine presence and walked by the cavernous, empty lairs. The Dragonpit housed only three dragons and, away from Syrax, it seemed too silent and utterly bare of life. She brought her arms around her to better shield against the feeling of unease and cast a look over her shoulder to ensure her Kingsguard escort was still behind her, quiet though he may be.

When she came upon a lair that was occupied, it was not by sight she came to know it, it was the welcome warmth emanating from within that soothed her strained state. Aemma took an unthinking, eager step toward it before the dragon deep within uncoiled and the silver crests on what had been a dark mass became apparent.

Aemma’s breath froze in her chest and her feet would not move. Not Caraxes. Not Caraxes at all.

There were three dragons housed in the Dragonpit, she reminded herself.

Dreamfyre’s heavy chains scraped against the ground, and Aemma could do nothing but watch in horrified fascination as she flexed her wings and her claws dug deep gashes into the earthen floor.

She was a slender dragon, much like Caraxes, and despite her much greater age, she seemed to be close to his size as well. Dragons did not do well in captivity, she knew, and there was little else offered to Dreamfyre for much of her life.

Dragons did not do well in captivity, yet Dreamfyre was here in chains still decades after her rider died, laying clutches of eggs only for them to be taken from her.

Aemma’s lips curled with bitterness at the similarity. “We are the same, you and I. Kept and made to breed until the end of our days.”

“What a cynic you are, goodsister. Hearing you speak like this, one would think your current state not quite welcome.”

It was all she could do to keep a shriek in as Daemon’s low voice sounded behind her, and she whirled around to face him. “Daemon! What are you doing here?”

His brow rose in amusement in his drawn face. “This is the Dragonpit lest you forget. Caraxes is housed here. I just returned with him.”

Aemma’s eyes grew wide. “You… just returned him? I…” He did seem tired and paler than usual, and was still dressed in the same clothes he had worn in the night, hours and hours ago, but she could hardly say it in front of the Kingsguard knight. “Do you not…? I heard you go riding in the nights lately.”

A mischievous spark lit in his eyes. “Aye, I found riding a dragon by night to be a singular experience.”

Aemma frowned in confusion and opened her mouth to ask when the true meaning behind his words hit her, and she snapped her mouth shut, a furious blush heating her face. She was grateful for the sparse light all of a sudden, though it seemed not enough to hide her reaction from Daemon, if the widening of his smile was anything to judge by.

“Nevertheless, you are right, goodsister. I just returned from Dragonstone.”

“Dragonstone? What were you doing on Dragonstone?”

His eyes flicked to Dreamfyre, and she turned her head to look at her too, watching them with interest.

“Is something the matter?” she asked him when he remained silent too long.

He let out a heavy sigh and took a heavy satchel off his back and reached inside it. When his hand came out, it held a dragon egg, and Aemma’s breath caught and tears threatened to spill. She slapped a hand to her mouth to prevent a sob from escaping. Rhaenyra was the only one of her babes ever to receive an egg.

Daemon looked down at it for a seeming eternity before he extended his arm to hand it to her without a word.

“It is too soon.” Her reply was slightly teary, she knew, but she could not help it, and she could certainly not take the egg. It was too early. She was hopeful, but she feared… Viserys was always so certain. What if her own daring would invite the wrath of gods?

“'Tis for luck. And strength. You will need all the luck and strength the Fourteen can provide, I think.”

Aemma’s eyes locked onto his, full of something queer and unknown and exciting, and she reached for the egg, bringing it to her breast. “Thank you.”

Daemon gave her a hesitant nod of acknowledgement and coughed uncomfortably. “What are you doing here, goodsister? I did not expect to find you here, of all places.”

She turned to face Dreamfyre, the egg cradled in her arms, stroking it softly, her hand freezing when the she-dragon let out a keening sound laden with grief.

“It is one of hers, I think.” Daemon’s voice was still low and still startling, and for a moment she was overcome with desire to return the egg to its mother.

But it was only a foolish moment, a passing madness gone as swiftly as it appeared. Aemma wanted this egg and its protection for her babe. Aemma needed it.

Her hold on her precious armful tightened, and she whispered an apology and stepped further away from her instead.

Her throat was tight at her own cruelty, but she could not allow herself to dwell on it, so she turned to Daemon once more. “Rhaenyra is with Syrax. She would be most excited if you would join us today.”

Something sad tugged at the corner of his lips. “They can be quite a handful, I fear, and I have not slept yet.”

Aemma could see that well enough for herself. “We will not stay long. We… plan to go to the Great Sept after, to pray for… We would both appreciate it if you joined us.”

A fire sparked to life in his eyes, wiping the strain in them away. “I suppose I can do that.”

Her smile was sure to be blinding as she wrapped her arm around his. “Good. We will need that satchel to carry this egg, I think, and it would clash horribly with my dress, I fear.”

Daemon’s low laugh next to her ear would have her forget herself were it not for the white cloak swinging right in front of them as they walked. 

“Of course, goodsister. It would be terribly uncouth of me to have you carry it for so long anyway. And, with any luck, my presence in the Great Sept might shock a few sanctimonious septons and septas to death.”

It was a dreadful wish, but Daemon delivered it with such a bright, hopeful voice that Aemma had no choice but to laugh and the steps of the knight in front of them faltered.

“I believe you think of yourself too lowly, goodbrother.”

Daemon threw his head back and laughed at that. “Too lowly? Have you not heard? There are those that refer to me as a bit of a rogue, and rogues do not frequent septs except to corrupt young septas.” His face twisted and he muttered under his breath. “Though I doubt there would be one worth the effort there.”

There was nothing Aemma could say to that, so she kept silent as they walked back to Syrax’s lair, her mirth gone.

Daemon did not join them in the carriage on the ride to the sept, but accompanied them atop a horse, a group of gold cloaks assembling around them, joining with her guards. He kept apace with them, though, conversing with Rhaenyra through the window and describing the surrounding sights. 

Aemma smiled at her daughter, delighted to be the center of his attention, and her gaze did not stray out toward her goodbrother even once, too unsettled. Mayhaps she should not have asked for his company at all.

She should stop craving his presence. She should stop expecting things from him. And yet, he was there, and he had given her more than she had expected. Until he had pulled a rug from under her with a few thoughtless words.

But when the carriage rolled to a stop at long last, the door opened with Rhaenyra jumping into his arms to be handed down, and then he turned toward Aemma herself, his eyes bright, she could not resist. She let his warm hands settle on her waist and her breasts brushed his chest as he handed her down as well, not thinking of waiting for the steps to be brought for even a moment.

“Thank you,” she told him, her gaze pointed determinedly down, not allowing blood to rise to her cheeks in sight of so many.

“You are quite welcome, goodsister.” There was a smile in his voice.

They walked up the steps of the sept arm in arm, Rhaenyra clinging to her hand, the sun shining down on them, filling her vision with light and her heart with warmth. It felt so achingly right, the three of them together.

In truth, it was all so very wrong. She walked into the sept on the arm of her lover, an unrepentant adulteress, her sweet innocent daughter blissfully unaware of her wretchedness, letting the man that had replaced Rhaenyra’s father in Aemma’s bed replace him in her heart too. Viserys had made it so terribly easy to be replaced in their lives that Daemon had not even needed to expend any true effort to achieve it.

The sept was a place of quiet reflection and prayer, and whatever Daemon’s japes, even their presence did not disturb it. They came to the front, standing below the statues of the Seven, lighting the candles at their foot like any other petitioner, and the carved faces appeared soft and full of understanding to her in the colorful light bathing them.

When she closed her eyes as she knelt to pray at the altar of the Mother, her throat was tight and her confusion great. She should be ashamed of herself. All that she had ever learned and believed told her that the gods would be greatly displeased with her, yet here she was, awash in their light and warmth despite her accomplice there with her.

Daemon’s knees and head had bent as obediently as her own at the statues of the Father and the Mother and though he rose before her, it was only to move to the statue of the Warrior. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter and prayed that tears would not escape her. This was not for her to desire. 

There was no world in which they could have this togetherness, this light and warmth, no matter how accepting the gods felt of her here.

Aemma spent a long time on her knees, not even praying anymore, merely unwilling to rise and let the spell break. She knew Rhaenyra had lost her patience long ago and was wandering the sept accompanied by her uncle, likely asking countless questions he had little idea how to answer. Daemon might have been brought up in the Faith, as all of them had been, but he had made it a point to never call upon the Seven for anything ever since his wedding. She would not be surprised to learn he had not visited a sept since.

She rose only when she could bear the pain no more, and she rose with a wince, gratefully accepting the hand lent to her in support.

“It gladdens my poor old heart to see such a true devotion in you, Your Grace.”

Aemma turned to the man with a well-practiced smile that froze on her face as she beheld his silver robes. “Thank you, though I must admit curiosity as to what brings one of the Most Devout all the way to King’s Landing.”

The septon smiled at her beatifically. “The gods sent me on a pilgrimage, and I listened. It was them that guided me here on this blessed day, Your Grace.”

Her mouth moved before she could stop herself. “Blessed day?”

The septons laugh was light and airy, and it grated on her ears. “I witnessed a miracle few back home will believe. You must realize your goodbrother is widely believed a godless creature in Oldtown, Your Grace.”

Her smile was decidedly fixed. “Oh, is he? I would certainly not call him that.” She could not as she watched him with her daughter. “What queer tales they must tell of him in Oldtown.”

The man appeared intrigued. “Does he visit the sept often then?”

“One could hardly call it often. He did sour on them after his forced marriage. He soured on them even more once his petitions for annulment of the farce kept being denied by the king. Every little girl is told that vows at sword point are not valid, an affront to the gods, that even the High Septon could not marry one so and yet my goodbrother has been forced to endure just such a marriage despite it never being consummated.” 

Her lips curled at the injustice. Neither of them had a choice in their marriage, but one of them had a choice to refuse to let it go any further than a forced vow. Oh, what a fool little girl she had been.

The septon coughed uncomfortably. “I am sure if that were true-”

“It is true. Even the king does not doubt it, and yet he will not set the marriage aside, no matter what.”

“No matter what, Your Grace?” The septon hung onto her words hungrily, and at last she saw the opportunity the gods had provided her.

It was not for the king to decide whether a marriage stood or not, not customarily, not even for the High Septon. It was the Most Devout that judged the cases. Her gaze found Daemon, even the soft, colorful light of the sept no longer hiding the tiredness in his face, and she made a choice.  

One of them could be free. And whatever her foolish heart desired, his freedom was a small price to pay for a life.

“'Tis the good of the realm that concerns me the most, septon. The king has no sons, and his only male heir is bound to have none either as long as this mockery of the gods stands. But the king will not dissolve the marriage, unwilling to insult the lady and my own kin in the Vale. That is the very reason the gods entrusted this power to the Faith and the Most Devout, who are not bound by such lowly concerns. Only the Seven and their laws and their will guides them.”

The septon frowned thoughtfully while she spoke, but his face cleared as he spoke. “In that case, it is indeed the most excellent news that I have heard regarding Your Grace’s blessed condition.”

Aemma did not grit her teeth, but it was a close thing. “Indeed. And yet… I fear. My goodbrother’s marriage makes a mockery of the gods, and I have not born a living child since it happened. What if…?”

She trailed off, letting her unspoken question hang in the air, looking toward the statue of the Father, praying for forgiveness for the lie. Rhaenyra was born in the year of Daemon’s wedding but after it, rather than before it. Hopefully, the Most Devout would not see a reason to dig too deeply into the matters.

“Hmm.” The septon was frowning once more, watching Daemon carefully. “I can see how it may look, Your Grace.” His frown deepened and his gaze darted toward the statue of the Father, then dropping to her belly. “I am sure, a true devout follower of the Seven such as yourself has nothing to fear from them.” He set his lips firmly and nodded to himself resolutely. “Nothing to fear.”

Chapter Text

He had not expected to meet Aemma in the Dragonpit, had most certainly not counted on giving her the egg there, and had anyone suggested that he would spend so much time in a sept voluntarily, he would have laughed. And yet he had gone and he had prayed.

And then, when they finally left the dreaded place, to cheer Rhaenyra and rid himself of the heavy smell of incense and propriety, he took them down the Gods’ Way rather than leading them up the King’s and back to the Red Keep. It was too far to suppertime, too much daylight left for rumors to spread before they could return to Aegon’s High Hill, so Daemon took his spoiled little niece and her overly sheltered mother to the Cobbler’s Square and beyond.

When the carriage stopped in the square, and he opened the door, offering his hand to the occupants, Rhaenyra was in his arms, hanging around his neck even before he could utter a single word.

“Where are we? Who are all these people? What is all this stuff ?”

“We are in the Cobbler’s Square and these good people are the craftsmen that reside here. And all this stuff is the display of their crafts to lure custom into their shops.”

Rhaenyra let go of his neck and silently demanded to be dropped as her eyes went wide. “There’s more ?”

“There is much more,” he confirmed and smiled at her fondly as she bounced excitedly before he turned back to the carriage to hand her mother down as well.

“Would you mind explaining what we are doing here?” Aemma’s soft question brushed against his ear as he did so, and she was not quick to step back, awaiting his answer, and he was not eager to let go, captivated by the barely restrained fury in her eyes.

“Well?” Her quiet voice carried a note of impatience, but she did step back, and her gaze dropped to her skirts studiously as she brushed them out and Daemon was released from the spell.

His lips curled in a smirk. “I thought you not too keen on apologies, but by all means, we should head back if I was wrong.”

Her lips curled as well and her gaze darted up, a spark of mischief in it. “It is not queenly to apologize for saying the truth.”

Daemon offered her his arm. “Well, then, shall we?”

She reached out to take it before she froze and whirled around in alarm, her eyes darting around frantically. “Where is Rhaenyra? Where is-?”

The little girl appeared by their side as suddenly as she had gone, tugging at her mother’s hand. “Mama! Mama! Come! You have to come!”

Aemma let out a startled laugh and let herself be led. Daemon followed.

“May I have one? Two! I want two!”

He almost laughed out loud upon seeing their destination. Rhaenyra had been led by her belly, it would seem, and his own mouth watered at the delicious smell of tarts, reminding him of the last time he had eaten, the day before.

Aemma dropped to her haunches, her face all seriousness. “That depends, my sweet. Do you have coin?”

Rhaenyra’s mouth opened and closed, and she folded her arms with a fierce frown. “Why?”

“To buy them. I did not take any.”

“But… but… You are the queen ! You don’t need any! Just tell him to give me some!”

Aemma’s face turned regretful, and Daemon’s lips were twitching. “Oh, I could not do that, my sweet. It would be too cruel to ask a man to give up his livelihood.”

The man in question was utterly pale and likely more than willing to give up two tarts off his cart, faced with a queen, a prince, and a score of gold cloaks.

Rhaenyra’s face clouded and then cleared in a flash as she spun to Daemon and turned up her face at him, her expression imperious. “Kepa, buy me some tarts!”

He schooled his features and nodded solemnly. “As my princess commands.” 

Rhaenyra bounced back to the cart, examining the wares carefully before making her choice, and Aemma gave him an exasperated look. He was utterly unapologetic. It was for parents to educate children, it was for uncles to spoil them.

“Shall I tempt you as well, my queen?”

Aemma’s look turned amused as she rose to her feet with a deep sigh. “I suppose you shall.”

His smile turned wolfish. “Good, because I, for one, am starving. ”

After Rhaenyra wolfed down her tarts, she bounced from shop to shop, her minders enjoying their treats and obediently following after her at a much more sedate pace.

“I should have thought to have a meal packed for us. Thank you for this.” Aemma’s eyes did not move away from her daughter for even a moment as she spoke.

“You have not eaten either?”

“Not since breaking our fast, no.”

“Ah, we should remedy that, should we not?” An intriguing idea was forming in his head.

She did grace him with a glance and a smile at that. “I thought we already did.”

Daemon snorted. “A tart hardly counts as a meal in your condition, I would think. And Rhaenyra seemed rather hungry too.”

“Well, what do you suggest then? More tarts? Return to the Red Keep?” She kept her tone light, but the irritation was plain in the tightening of her mouth.

“No, nothing like that. I happen to be the Lord Commander of the City Watch, lest you forget.” 

Aemma threw an amused look over her shoulder and raised a brow at him. “You do not say. I almost did forget.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “What I meant to say is that the Watch has barracks close by. There is always something to eat there and good company to eat it with.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Good company for a curious little princess? I rather doubt that.”

Daemon countered her easily, his voice soft. “Good company for someone in need of friends.”

Her laughter did not cut off, it died a natural death and turned into a resigned sigh. “I suppose that is true.” 

They caught up to Rhaenyra in the midst of her seriously explaining to a deferential shopkeeper that she had to buy whatever it was he was trying to gift her. Daemon covered a laugh with a cough. 

Aemma let out another sigh, exasperated once more. “You do not have to buy what you do not want, Rhaenyra.”

“But I do want it! I picked it!”

“Are you not… too old for toys like… this?”

Rhaenyra blushed and dropped her gaze to the ground. “It’s not for me!” She cast a cautious look around herself and dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s for my brother.”

“Ah.” The expression on Aemma’s face wavered, and she lowered herself to her haunches once more in front of her daughter. “ He is not going to be with us for many moons yet, dearest.”

Rhaenyra gave her a sunny smile. “I know that! I can keep him safe with me for him until he is here!” Another coughing fit took Daemon as a stuffed dragon was shoved into Aemma’s face. “See? He’s black! Black like the egg!”

“I can see that well enough, dearest, no need to shout.”

The little girl looked abashed for a moment. “I am sorry, mama.”

“No need to apologize either, but have you acquired coin while I was not looking?”

Rhaenyra, not missing a beat, turned to him, her eyes bright and her smile blinding. “Kepa, will you buy a dragon for me- my brother, I mean?”

“ Please, ” Aemma softly interjected before Daemon could even open his mouth.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes long-sufferingly. “Please, kepa, will you?”

“Nothing would please me more, princess.”

“Great!” She twirled back to the poor shopkeeper. “Do you have a gold one too?”

“ Thank you, ” muttered Aemma under her breath and pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the hand Daemon extended to her.

Their little treasure held two toy dragons to her chest as coin exchanged hands once more, happy with her loot. “Thank you! You are the best kepa, kepa, and l will make sure the babe knows too!”

Daemon was beyond hiding his laughter. “I am your only uncle, Rhaenyra.”

Her smile did not lessen. “Still the best. Now we just have to get something for mama!”

He cast a dubious look around at the shops and stalls that dotted the square, all hawking rather ordinary wares, all far too ordinary for a queen. “If you say so.”

It was well after sunset, and past Rhaenyra’s bedtime by the time they returned to the Red Keep, the little princess asleep, nestled in the saddle in front of him, having insisted on riding back with him, seeing the sights.

There was a Kingsguard waiting at the top of the steps to the Red Keep as they rode through the gate, his expression stony. Daemon ignored him and took great care to arrange Rhaenyra in a way that would not disturb her sleep as he dismounted. He ignored him still, when he moved to give Aemma a hand down the steps from the carriage, his niece draped over his shoulder.

The white knight remained where he was and spoke only when they were on the stairs. “His grace, the king, wishes to be informed the moment Her Grace returns.”

Daemon rolled his eyes. “Well, then I suggest you go and inform him, good ser.”

The knight paused for a moment, opening his mouth, but then thinking better of it and walking off with a stiff bow, and they were left to walk to the Maegor’s in peace, Aemma’s own white shadow unintrusive.

Rhaenyra was plainly not as asleep as he had believed her to be, because when he bent down to lay her down in her bed, she clung on to his neck, not letting go. “No, wanna be with mama. Wanna keep mama safe with Syrax and Balerion.”

He turned his head to look at Aemma, carrying the two toys and looking about ready to either laugh or cry. Cry, he thought as her smile trembled and she gave him a mute nod.

Daemon lifted Rhaenyra back up and followed her mother to the queen’s chambers, the queen’s bedchamber to lay his niece to sleep in the queen’s bed. Where he had almost fucked her mother the night before. Where he would have fucked her had he had no plans and just a little less restraint.

He was in dire need of restraint as he straightened and turned to Aemma, standing right there, her eyes tired, but her skin glowing oh-so-temptingly in the candlelight. He would be a fool to try anything in her own bedchamber with her daughter, his niece, right there. People knew him to be there.

Daemon moved toward Aemma and told himself it was the exhaustion. It was his growing headache and the need to be quiet. He did not know what to tell himself when she shifted closer, her attentive eyes on his.

Fuck, his head hurt.

He shook it to clear the cobwebs, and the movement reminded him of the bag still slung across his back. He took it off hastily, and pressed it into Aemma’s hands. “May Balerion keep you safe.”

She chuckled softly and hugged the egg to herself. “It will be quite some time before he can. Until then, I will keep him safe by my side, I think.”

“One blessed egg, that is.”

Aemma’s face lit up, her eyes sparkling enticingly, and Daemon needed to leave before he did something unforgivably foolish. He gave her a nod, and she blinked at him as he made for the door.

The door slammed open in front of him, his brother bursting in, and Daemon stumbled back and fell in his haste to back away.

“What do you think you are doing here?!”

A whimper sounded from the bed, Aemma moving toward it in a flash, and Daemon glared at his brother as he got up from the ground. 

“I was putting your daughter to bed.”

“Here ?”

Daemon’s head was pounding, and his patience was swiftly evaporating. “Yes, here.”

Viserys’ lips thinned in displeasure. “Rhaenyra cannot be here. I need to speak to Aemma. Alone.”

“I wanna be with mama. I promise to be quiet. I promise.”

His brother’s features and voice gentled, faced with his teary-eyed daughter. “I am sorry, sweetling, but you truly cannot stay.”

Rhaenyra clung closer to her mother. “Pleeease, let me stay! I don’t wanna gooo!”

“Shhhh, you are not going anywhere. You are staying right here with me, I promise.” Aemma did not bother turning to address Viserys. “Husband, as you can see, our daughter is distressed. I do believe it best to speak on the morrow.”

Viserys stood and stared, his jaw loose. “What do you…? You cannot…!”

“Good night, husband, goodbrother. Sleep well.”

Daemon bit down on a smile threatening to emerge and inclined his head toward her and then Viserys, quite happy to leave. “Have a good night, brother, goodsister, niece.”

There was nothing better than hearing the silence behind him, his brother stunned by the sheer nerve of his suddenly defiant wife.

There was nothing better than to fall into his bed, boots and all, finally able to close his eyes. 

It had been one very long day.

Banging on his door had him falling off the bed and onto the cold stone floor.

Fucking hells, his head still hurt, and now his eyes were scratchy too, drier than a fucking desert. He did not want to move from the fucking floor.

The banging continued.

He rolled to his knees and then pushed himself to his feet with no small deal of resignation. Whoever it was, they better have a good reason, or he was going to fucking kill them the moment he woke up sufficiently to remember where he had put his sword.

It truly should not have surprised him to see Viserys be the one responsible for all the commotion and for Daemon’s regrettable lack of sleep.

“Brother,” his voice could not have been more neutral.

“Brother,” Viserys responded with equal depth of feeling and then stayed silent.

“Whatever brings you to my door in the middle of the night?” His clothes loose and stinking of nighttime activities, no less. Daemon’s stomach turned. “How did your talk, ” he almost snarled the word, “with Aemma go?”

Viserys gave him an annoyed look and threw himself into a chair. “You saw how it went. Rhaenyra did not want to leave and Aemma would not make her. I do not understand what has gotten into her!”

Daemon did, but even to him, the effect the knowledge had had on Aemma had been utterly perplexing and frankly fascinating. She had never displayed a spine, but now she was showing it to be made of the very best steel.

“I do not see what this has to do with me, brother.”

“I need your advice.” At Daemon’s silence, Viserys huffed and continued. “Aemma… She spoke rather harshly yesterday about Lady Alicent. Too harshly. I ordered her to apologize, but she did not and now the lady’s reputation is ruined. Ruined! Alicent is inconsolable.”

Daemon listened, and a heavy stone fell from his heart. “Inconsolable. I see. And how much effort did you put into this… consoling ?”

Viserys glared at him. “Do not be crude! Lady Alicent is a good and pious lady!”

“Who you made into your whore. Who could have expected nothing else to come of this. Who should have expected nothing else to come of this affair.”

“No one would know anything if Aemma had kept her tongue!”

Daemon laughed. “You truly believe that? Do you think Aemma, locked away in her chambers for most of the time, was the first to learn of this? Ha! More like the last!”

Viserys’ face crumbled. “Then she is truly ruined.”

Daemon rolled his eyes. “That was her choice. Unless you-”

His brother jumped to his feet. “No! Never! I am not an animal!”

“Then there is nothing to do but send her away. Mayhaps, with time and distance and enough coin, she will even manage to find herself a husband willing to overlook her unfortunate past. Better yet, send her father with her, to keep her company and to keep tongues from wagging. The longer they stay, the more the gossip spreads, the worse for her future.”

Viserys waved away his words, his face twisted in disgust. “I should have known you would bring Otto into this. This has nothing to do with him!”

Daemon did not hold back a snort. “Nothing to do with him? Do you think he did not know the moment you bedded his daughter? Do you think he did not send her to you?”

His brother pushed himself to his feet angrily. “I will not hear this nonsense from you! Lady Alicent is a kind and considerate lady that cares deeply about me! Had she not, she would not allow-”

He cut himself off as Daemon burst out into an uncontrollable laughter, collapsing to the ground, and then left in a right fit, slamming the door closed behind him.

Daemon could not stop laughing for the longest time. Oh gods, his brother was a fucking fool.

Chapter Text

Viserys did not call on her the next day, though she had expected it of him considering the way he had left her the night before, in ominous silence with a last sullen glare promising consequences. She did not intend to be caught without a shield, and she was not above using Rhaenyra as one. It was her daughter’s life and future wellbeing she fought for now, after all.

But Viserys did not come, and her stomach churned with nerves.

Daemon did not leave the Red Keep in the late afternoon as was his custom, and that was somehow worse.

Something was not right, and she could not stop thinking of consequences. He did not know, she tried to reassure herself. He could not know.

Her hands were trembling by the time she returned to her chambers to change for the supper, and she jumped when loud banging on the outer door of her chambers destroyed even the illusion of peace the day had held.

“Come!,” she called with as even a voice as she could manage, given the circumstances.

She could not breathe at all when Lord Commander of the Kingsguard entered with a respectful bow of a head, his face grave.

“Ser Ryam, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

The old knight’s eyes seemed regretful when they met hers. “His Grace, the king commands me to bring you to the Small Council’s chamber, You Grace.”

It took all of Aemma’s restraint not to flinch at the words. She let out an airy laugh instead. “Small Council, ser? Whatever for? The king hardly requires his queen to attend to the matters of state.”

Something in the man’s expression wavered, and he seemed much older all of a sudden. “He does this time, Your Grace. The Small Council was in… spirited discussion since morn.”

Her feet remained planted where she was, her brows furrowing. “What prompted such a spirited discussion?”

His smile was a grimace. “His Grace will doubtless inform you once you join him, Your Grace. Now, please, let us go, my queen.” He bowed deeply with the address and her feet moved, despite the dark foreboding gnawing at her insides, telling her to run.

Aemma had nothing to fear, she told herself. She was the queen. She carried the king’s heir in her belly. Viserys could not know. There was nothing for him to know. They had been so very careful.

Still, she felt as if walking to her execution, each step drawing her closer and closer to the cold embrace of death.

She stared at the two Valyrian sphinxes guarding the door to the chamber where her husband and his Small Council awaited her as it groaned open with the sound of an old tomb opening.

Brave. Be brave, little girl, her father’s voice whispered into her ear just before he took her into this very chamber to be presented to her grandfather and his council. Stand tall and stand fast. Do not let them see your fear. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear is death.

You are dead, Aemma wanted to say to the ghostly voice. All those old men that she had faced there, that had been responsible for her fate, were dead now. Only Viserys remained. Only Viserys and his band of lickspittles.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment to gather her courage. When she opened them again, her eyes found Daemon, the knuckles of his hands white as they gripped the arms of his chair, his face pale and tight with rage. 

Rage. Not fear.

Aemma’s lips lifted in a smile as she stepped into the room. Rage was safe. “Husband, you called for me?”

Viserys’ face was tight too, though it was displeasure rather than anger that he felt. “Indeed, I did, Aemma. Please, come and join us.” 

Her husband pointed to one of the empty seats, and her brows twitched when she realized that the Small Council was short quite a few members. All of them, save the Hand, truly. Even Ser Ryam did not come inside after her. Viserys did not point to an open seat at his side, either.

Aemma seated herself opposite Daemon, a single brow raised in polite confusion, as she folded her hands modestly in her lap and waited for her husband to speak.

It was a long wait, only broken when Daemon broke, his annoyance overcoming his mute rage. “Should we send out a search party, brother?”

He earned himself a glare from his brother and a smirk from the Hand that put Aemma’s teeth on edge. “That will not be necessary, I assure you, my prince. Alicent will be here shortly.”

She did not allow herself too much of a reaction, but her jaw tightened. It was little wonder Daemon was outraged. This was an ambush! Viserys was not going to give her a choice!

Her jaw was clenched tightly enough to hurt, but if her fool of a husband thought he could truly force her to apologize, he had another thing coming. She would scratch the whore’s eyes out first and spit into the bloody holes left after before she ever did that.  

This time, when the door groaned open, it sounded like a death knell for her restraint.

Otto Hightower rose from his seat with a smile and kissed his daughter on both cheeks when she entered the room and the door closed behind her, leading her to the head of the table. To the king. To seat her at the king’s side, when Aemma, his wife, had not been invited to. Her blood boiled, and she was ready to spit fire.

“Viserys, what is the meaning of this?” The ice in her voice could freeze blood solid, she was sure. Should freeze his blood solid.

Viserys’ face was full of regret, his eyes looking at her as if she kicked him. “Aemma, I am sure you know your words harmed Lady Alicent greatly.” Her eyes tracked the way he patted the lady’s hand warily. “I cannot let that stand. I will not let it stand.”

He paused for a long moment, holding the whore’s hand, and she could not tear her burning eyes from it, could not speak through the something lodged in her throat.

“For gods’ sake, spit it out, Viserys!” The snapping of Daemon’s voice was jarring and had her reeling back into her seat in shock.

Daemon found himself speared by a dirty glare of his brother and the Hand both, but Aemma could not be more grateful. She could not bear looking at Viserys making cow eyes at the girl when his wife, bearing his heir, was right there. Had he no shame? No sense at all? 

Viserys’ steady gaze met hers at last. “It is my intention to take Lady Alicent as my second wife.”

Second… Second wife. She could barely breathe. “I am… I am alive still.” What man declared who he would marry next while his first wife still lived?

A bark of bitter laughter escaped Daemon, and a sharp stab of betrayal pierced her heart. “That you are, goodsister. That you are.”

Viserys coughed, seemingly uncomfortable. “You are right, of course, my dear.” Aemma’s nails pierced the soft skin of her palms at the address. “That is to say… I mean to take Lady Alicent to wife in a sennight.”

Aemma’s mind was blank. “I do not understand. What do you-”

“You will both be my wives! What is there not to understand?!”

“Why? I am with child… Why now?”

Viserys’ expression softened. “We both know your history, Aemma. We can both hope, but the realm cannot live on hope.”

A bitter chuckle escaped her and her lips twisted. “The realm.” Eerie cold settled over her and she continued evenly. “Anything for the king and the realm.”

Daemon choked.

Her eyes settled on the little seductress, the usurper in sheep’s clothing, her eyes cast down modestly. “Is the whore with child?”

“Aemma!”

She would not let herself be hushed, not in this. “Well, is she?”

Her cousin’s eyes were full of hurt. “We can but hope.”

“Hope.” Her lips twisted once more, and she pushed herself out of her seat. “If you would excuse me, Your Grace, I feel unfit for company, I must retire.”

“The wedding will be announced at a feast tonight. I would have you attend.”

Aemma laughed in disbelief. “I am unwell, Your Grace. I hardly believe you would wish your blushing bride to be covered in vomit on such a momentous occasion. I will retire, and I will have no disturbances tonight. None.”

“Aemma-”

She did not listen to him anymore, she could not. She left the chamber and their fool of a king behind, heading back to her chambers, locking the door behind her and rushing to the chamber pot to void herself.

They were about to replace her, and she was not even dead yet. Gods, what was this madness?

Aemma was still heaving her guts out when warm arms wrapped themselves around her, and she sobbed pathetically as Daemon rubbed soothing circles on her back.

“I am sorry,” he told her softly. “I tried to talk him out of it.”

She rubbed at her eyes tiredly. “I am sure you did. And the more you talked, the more set in his ways he became.” A hysterical giggle escaped her. “Some second coming of Maegor you are. It will be your brother that takes all the wives he wants to get himself an heir.” She looked into Daemon’s eyes. “You heard him. The realm cannot live on hope. He thinks this babe will die too.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and pressed a kiss to it. “He knows nothing of this babe. I have it on good authority that this babe will live.”

A slight smile came to her lips as she questioned him. “On good authority?”

She could feel his smile as he pressed another kiss to her hair. “Aye, the best one.”

I love you, she wanted to tell him, but it felt too much too soon. Too late. “I want you to take me in my bed,” she told him instead.

He chuckled in her ear, his warm breath raising goosebumps on her skin. “Nothing would please me better. After you have rinsed your mouth thoroughly.”

Despite his words, he did not take her that night, in her bed or anywhere. They merely laid together, Aemma sprawled across his chest, her ear pressed to it, listening to his heart beat.

“Will you not be missed at the feast?” she asked to fill the silence.

He let out a snort. “Hardly. Viserys must have been weak with relief when I did not appear.”

“Won’t people talk?”

Her pillow was shaking. “People will talk either way. Viserys intends to wed her in the light of the Seven, not in the Valyrian tradition. I will be horribly disappointed if the Faith does not show up in arms at the gates of the Red Keep come morrow.”

They would not. Lady Alicent was a Hightower. The Faith could make allowances for Hightowers, it was known.

She traced the dragons embroidered on his doublet with her finger. “With the haste… Everyone will think she is with child.”

“Viserys is not concerned with that. You heard him, he wishes for one.”

I am with child, she wanted to say, but they both knew that. 

They are replacing me already, she wanted to say too, but what would be the point?

“They will kill our child no matter what, won’t they?”

Daemon stilled beneath her. “I will not allow it, you know that.”

“What if… What if she is with child? Would you… Would you…” She raised herself to stare into his eyes imploringly. “I cannot stay and have my children in harm’s way. Would you…” Would you run away with me? Would you take our babe and Rhaenyra and build us a life far, far away? She could not make herself say it. They had reached their accord with her promise of the Iron Throne for his son.

Daemon’s hands framed her face, and he stared right back, all seriousness. “I will do anything to protect you and our babe, Aemma. Anything.”

She turned her head slightly to kiss a palm of his hand with a smile. “Good. We may yet need this anything.” She nestled back against his chest, her gaze settling on the black egg. Balerion, as Rhaenyra decided. “Promise me that whatever happens… You will never give Alicent Hightower a dragon egg.”

His chest shook once more. “That is hardly a promise I would need to make, I hope.”

“Promise me,” she insisted nevertheless.

She could hear the roll of his eyes in his voice clear enough. “Very well, I promise never to gift Alicent Hightower a dragon egg. Or Viserys for that matter.”

“Good.” There would be no more eggs to give, she decided.

Aemma had been bound long enough, Dreamfyre had been bound longer. It was time to end the time when they were ruthlessly used and abused as broodmares.

Her voice was a whisper when she spoke again. “Daemon, bring me to the Dragonpit.”

“Now?!”

“Yes. I would like not to be seen.”

“Do I dare ask why?”

“I think I would like to make a new friend. Dreamfyre seems so lonely, would you not agree?”

“Viserys will… He will…”

“Viserys need not know. Which is why I would like to go now.”

“You will need to change.”

“Did I not wear your clothes already once? I am sure they will serve again.”

“Would it surprise you greatly to learn I did not in fact bring a second set of clothes with me?”

“It would not, but that is hardly an issue, is it? We shall simply stop by your chambers on the way.”

Daemon huffed out a laugh. “Very well, we shall.”

She did not truly think of how one claimed a dragon before she voiced her request, but once she was dressed in Daemon’s clothes, and they were on their way, her questions did not stop, not until Daemon stopped abruptly, silencing them with a kiss.

“You worry too much, cousin. You have the blood of the dragon in you, and Dreamfyre is a tame dragon besides. There is nothing to worry about, not for you, not with me by your side. Trust me.”

“I am not a full Targaryen, though.”

He smirked against her lips. “You carry one of those inside you too.”

The Dragonpit was even more intimidating in the night, though there was no change to see to the darkness of the caverns. There was not a soul inside beside Daemon and Aemma, it seemed to her.

“Why is it so empty?” she whispered.

“Because I am the only madman riding a dragon in the night, and I tend to Caraxes well enough alone. There is little need of attendants at night, and dragons protect themselves well enough. Besides, none but the dragonkeepers and I know of the entrance we used.”

“How fortuitous.”

He pressed a teasing kiss to her ear. “Indeed.”

Daemon was distracting her, she knew, because they were nearing Dreamfyre’s lair and she was squeezing his hand hard enough to break a few bones, she would think. She did not protest it, not when he pressed himself to her back, wrapping his arms around her and walked her to the opening, singing softly in High Valyrian.

Dreamfyre did not move, and Aemma’s heart was hammering in her ears.

“Say something,” Daemon hissed into her ear as he paused in his song.

“Good morrow, Dreamfyre,” she said and blushed. “I am Aemma. I came… I came because we are the same. Trapped. Used. Abused. Alone.” She looked over her shoulder, at Daemon’s face. “We were the same. But we don’t need to be. I am not alone anymore. You don’t have to be alone anymore. Together… Together we can be free. Just… not right away.”

The she-dragon was listening to her, her eyes fastened on Aemma, not hungry, but curious, and Daemon nudged her forward.

“I carry a babe,” she told her as she caressed her belly. “They want to take it away. They took away many others already. I will not let them take this one. I… Will you help me? I think… I think I might need your help. And… Your egg… I think it was meant for my babe.” She threw another look at Daemon. “Our babe. Would you not like to meet your hatchling? Would that not be… grand?”

Dreamfyre let out a mournful sound. It did not sound like she believed it to be grand, more like torture.

Aemma threw another uncertain look over her shoulder to seek advice, and froze when something nudged the back of her head. Something very, very warm. Something very, very welcoming.

She turned back to face Dreamfyre and something within her melted, a part of her heart she had never known missing suddenly there. 

Her breath caught and tears pooled in her eyes as she pressed her face into Dreamfyre’s, enveloped by warmth.

Chapter Text

Aemma had no intention of making the situation comfortable for Viserys or his dear Lady Alicent. She was about to be replaced, she would not let them forget her entirely too.

So Aemma was there. She did not hide away with Rhaenyra in the gardens for days on end. No, she walked the halls of the Red Keep, her daughter by her side, speaking amiably with every noble that crossed her path. She attended the court, visited the Great Sept daily, and attended the evening meal in the Great Hall without fail, sitting at the high table, Daemon joining her there, together silently daring Viserys to invite his intended.

There was no outrage. There was disbelief. King’s Landing seemed to be reeling with the news, unable to believe it of their Young King, open-handed and cheerful and agreeable. Well-liked by all, fooling all.

There was confusion in the eyes of everyone she met, questioning gazes darting to her middle with no subtlety at all.

Viserys had shocked the realm, and the resulting silence was deafening.

“They all think the babe is gone,” she whispered to Daemon as they laid together in her bed once more.

He was silent for the longest time until he heaved out a sigh. “They think there never was a babe in the first place. They think…”

“That I cannot bear children anymore,” she finished for him bitterly.

“Aye.”

“Otto Hightower certainly knows how to spin a story.”

“Aye,” Daemon repeated wearily.

She wondered how many of the tales she had believed over the years had been spun out of air, too. How many of the tales she had never even learned of?

Her strength was gone and she was tired. So very tired. She had suffered being but a royal womb for so very long, and for what? To be dismissed and humiliated, and then sent home in disgrace when a slip of a girl caught her husband’s eye?

Red Keep had been her home longer than the Vale by now. There was nowhere else for her to go.

“A Most Devout approached me today,” she told her supremely disinterested lover as she traced the elaborate embroidery of his doublet. 

It had been a highlight of her dreary day, when the man had come to her while she prayed at the foot of the Mother, his voice gentle and sorrowful as he had given her his condolences for her loss.

Aemma had laughed. A bitter laugh, true enough, but one that rang loudly in the reverent stillness of the sept. Not a breath must have been drawn until her laughter had ended, and she had told the poor kind septon that the only loss she had suffered from lately had been the loss of her husband’s wits.

The answer had not rung as loudly as the laugh had. Still, the sept’s collective shocked intake of breath had been a balm for her soul. She understood Daemon more and more each day, she felt. She resembled Daemon more and more each day.

There was freedom in letting some of her bitterness shine through, she supposed, but none of it truly left her feeling better. She was violently sick every morn, terribly tired the whole day as she made the effort to be seen, to be remembered, and then uselessly weepy the moment she was out of the eyes of the court. Daemon had not dared to touch her beyond holding her through it, ever since Viserys had announced his intention to wed his whore.

She had done all that she could have, and it was all for naught. On the morrow, her fool husband, her cousin, who she had relied on for most of her life, whom she had believed to love for most of her life, would wed another.

Aemma was not certain she could face the next day alone. Rhaenyra would not be allowed to stay with her. She was as much her father’s daughter as her mother’s, she had been told, and good daughters attended their fathers’ weddings. Allowances could be made for Aemma due to her condition, but there were none to be had for Rhaenyra, no matter her age, no matter her confusion, no matter her ire.

Allowances could be made for Aemma, for no one truly expected her to go to the Great Sept to witness this affront to the gods. Yet, she was still expected to welcome her husband and his new wife to the Red Keep once the foul deed was done with good grace.

“Stay with me,” she pleaded with Daemon.

“Ah, I am fairly certain we would be caught were I to stay, sweetling.”

“Not here, not now. On the morrow. Stay in the Red Keep with me. Keep me company.” Spill your seed in me and make me yours, while your brother cloaks another in the colors of our House. Give me strength to face them with dignity. Aemma prayed to Daemon as much as she did to the gods lately.

“Hmm, keep you company or witness Otto Hightower achieve his heart’s desire… I wonder how I could possibly choose.”

Aemma raised herself on her elbows to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “Thank you. Thank you.” Her prayers to Daemon were the only ones being answered anyway.

“Hmm, we will see. I intend to be a rather bothersome company.”

She pressed another kiss to his lips with a smile. “'Tis a good thing I enjoy you bothering me, then.”

“A good thing indeed,” he agreed easily as his eyes travelled down her body tellingly, stopping, like many others did, at her middle.

She rolled her eyes at him and rested her head on his chest. They had time before he had to leave yet.

Aemma had not seen Viserys off. She had called for a bath and locked herself in her chambers once the tub was full and the air filling with sweet-smelling mist. The tension in her shoulders was already melting away, and she had not even dipped a toe in yet.

She opened the hidden entrance with a smile and shed her nightgown to await her visitor in the delicious warmth of the bath to soothe her rolling stomach. She had stomached only a few bites of her breakfast, her ladies not pushing for her to eat more for once, yet even that much seemed to have been too much. Her ladies had not insisted on keeping her company when she had requested privacy either, obligingly drawing her her bath and gently chastising her not to get her hair wet.

They cared for her. Her ladies pitied her. On the day of her husband’s wedding, there were no eyes that did not behold her with pity. Her ladies had not believed the wedding would go forward even yesterday. They believed it today. They all believed it today.

She had known better. She had believed it the moment she had first heard it, had first grasped his meaning. Viserys could hardly be considered strong-willed, but once he made a decision, he never wavered in it, no matter the opposition. This time, the opposition was his own family, and the realm held its breath.

The realm would suffocate before Viserys changed his mind, she knew. The realm came first. But only as long as Viserys did not have to be the one to accommodate it, much less by changing his mind on something. 

Even the bath could not soothe the sting of that. Realm came before anyone. Anyone, but Viserys himself.

Her jaw clenched, and a headache started to build in her temples as she fought off a scream. She had believed him for so very long. She had believed in him.

Aemma wondered how the realm would feel come tomorrow, let down by its king, just as she had been let down by her husband. Mayhaps it was petty of her, but she hoped it stung, she hoped it would feel half the disappointment and the betrayal she did. Their Young King was not how they pictured him.

“My, what an inviting sight this is,” a soft, smooth voice intruded on her thoughts, and she rolled her head to the side to find Daemon crouching down next to the tub.

“I would hope so. It is an invitation, after all.” Wariness entered his eyes, and they darted to the door. Aemma’s smile spread. “The door to my chambers is locked, as is the door to my bedchamber, and my ladies know to leave me alone to my brooding.”

Daemon hummed thoughtfully and dipped a hand into the water. “Brooding, is that what this is?”

“It will be, unless you join me soon,” she assured him.

He chuckled softly, and his fingers brushed against her skin. “This is dangerous. Far more dangerous than all the rest,” he told her seriously.

Aemma cared little for danger now. It laid in wait for her at every turn, and there was little she could do to dispel it now that Viserys wed Alicent Hightower. She could only run. They could only run. There was no other option for them now that the Hightowers both held the reins of the kingdoms and Viserys by his cock.

Daemon had to know his time was short too. She wondered how long they could afford to delay.

Aemma put a hand on his cheek and pressed a featherlight kiss to his lips. “It is not our actions the true danger lies in.”

He pressed a kiss to her palm with a smile, his eyes crinkling. “That hardly removes the danger from them.”

She leaned back in the tub with a wounded look, sensing the victory at her very fingertips, as his eyes followed the movement of her breasts hungrily. “Would you truly deny me comfort in my time of need?”

Daemon did not reply, his eyes burning as he stood up and took off his linen shirt and pants ever-so-slowly. He had not been dressed for court, nor for the city. He had been dressed to keep her company in her bed. Now, he would do so in her bath. 

He made himself comfortable, facing her from the other side of the suddenly too-large tub, laughter in his eyes.

“How do you intend to comfort me from all the way over there?” she demanded to know, pout growing on her lips.

“ Safely, ” he told her, laughter no longer confined to his eyes.

Aemma rolled her eyes and pushed off the wall to press herself against her recalcitrant companion, her arms wrapping around his neck. “You should know better, cousin. Safety is merely an illusion.”

His hands settled on her hips. “Is it? Then let me tell you, cousin, you are straining this illusion quite a bit at present.”

She gave him a mischievous grin and kissed his throat, her hand travelling down. “Am I? Whatever could you possibly mean?”

His head rolled back, and his head thudded against the tub as her hand wrapped around her prize.

“Aemma.” His voice held a note of warning she happily ignored, pressing her lips to his, swallowing his moan.

“Need I remind you we need to be quiet, cousin?” she whispered into his ear with no small deal of amusement when they separated.

“You are a wicked, wicked woman,” he told her before he brought her in for another kiss.

A wicked woman she might be, but when he guided her to mount him, and they languorously rocked through the sweetest lovemaking yet, their lips locked, swallowing each other’s moans, she got her way. For that one wondrous bath, they were the entirety of each other’s world. For that one wondrous bath, everything was perfect.

Little was good after they got out of it and toweled themselves dry. She watched Daemon dress mutely, unable to move, her throat growing tighter with each piece of clothing covering more and more skin.

It was too soon. She did not want to be alone, nor with her ladies, not yet.

“Wait,” she breathed and caught his hand as he went to lace up his breeches. “Wait, I want to…” She had no idea how to continue. She did not want him to leave.

“I want your flesh to be the last thing my lips touch before I have to welcome Viserys and his whore queen to the Red Keep.”

Daemon’s brow rose in bewilderment. “Your lips touched little else but my flesh.”

Aemma colored, questioning the wisdom of her own idea, questioning her own courage. She could hardly say it, could she?

She took a step closer, her chest brushing his, and gave him a shy smile before she sank to her knees.

There was a sharp intake of breath above her, Daemon’s eyes growing large, but he did not move a muscle when her hands reached inside his breeches. The heat from her cheeks spread, but she could not tear her eyes away from his face, from his wide, wide eyes.

She pressed a chaste kiss to the… flesh held gingerly in her hand.

Daemon’s reaction was fascinating to watch. He tensed and let out a pained moan followed by a curse, yet swelled in her hand. An impish thought had her press another kiss to it, and Daemon’s eyes fell shut.

“Gods, Aemma, you don’t have to-” he cut himself off, slapping a hand to his mouth when she giggled softly and licked.

She wondered what other sounds and expressions she could coax out of him. She giggled once more and set to the task of finding out. Aemma had never felt as powerful as she did right then, with Daemon utterly at her mercy.

Daemon still seemed robbed of his speech even after she rose to her feet smugly, dressing herself in her nightgown unhurriedly, watching her every movement resting against the bedpost he had seized for support shortly into her exploration. He looked… very much like Aemma felt after each of their encounters, and she could just stand there and behold the sight for an eternity.

She had done it. She had struck her cocky cousin, the famed Rogue Prince, dumb, unable to form words. Aemma would have crowed at her achievement were she not certain it would break the spell woven over him. 

But the spell was broken regardless by loud banging on her door.

They both whirled to it in alarm, before she realized the truth, whispering reassuringly. “It’s the outer door.”

She need not have bothered. Daemon was gone already, the passage closing behind him. She huffed out an irritated breath and threw on a dressing gown. The wedding party could not be anywhere near, the bells in the city still silent. There had been no need to rob her of her triumph early.

Aemma opened the door to her chambers with little grace and in ill temper. “What is it? What could not-” She stopped and stared at the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, breathing heavily, resting against the door frame. “Ser Ryam, what-”

“The king. The king is… He was attacked.”

Aemma stared some more. “What? Where-”

“The king was attacked. In the sept. Maesters are seeing to him now.”

A vicious feeling of satisfaction flooded her. The bells had not rung yet. Alicent Hightower was not a queen yet. With the attack, Viserys might think twice about making her one after all. He might not like changing his mind, but surely an attack on his person would have him reconsider.

Surely, she repeated to herself firmly as she followed the Lord Commander to the king’s chambers, her head held high, the very picture of a gracious queen. Viserys was a fool. He could not be that much of a fool, though.  

Servants were rushing in and out of the king’s chambers as she stepped into them, stoking the fire high, bringing armloads of sheets and linens. She restrained the urge to roll her eyes with difficulty.

“I would like to speak to the Grand Maester,” she announced to the room.

Ser Ryam coughed uncomfortably. “He would be on his way back still, I suspect.”

Aemma blinked and turned to the aged knight. “Who cares for the king, then?”

“His assistants, Your Grace.”

“The Grand Maester sent his assistants with the king instead of coming himself?”

“No, Your Grace, they were already in the Red Keep. I brought the king with all haste on my own horse.”

“On your horse?” Aemma repeated faintly.

“Yes, Your Grace. There was a… bit of a scuffle and I could not get to a carriage.”

“A scuffle,” she repeated dully and watched the door to the bedchamber as apprehension clawed at her throat. She had never been inside. Viserys had always come to her, and she had never sought him out there herself.

An urge to run away seized her when the door started to open ever-so-slowly, only for a young maester to emerge. She could have laughed in relief.

The man shuffled over to them, bowing to her respectfully. “Your Grace, Lord Commander, His Grace’s condition is… grave.”

Aemma’s brows drew together. “What do you mean grave?”

The man’s eyes flew to Ser Ryam and he coughed uncomfortably. “His Grace was stabbed. Repeatedly.”

She struggled to understand. “But… How? You said… in the sept. And… you were there.”

“Not close enough,” the knight informed her bitterly. “Those that stabbed him were much closer.”

How, was the only question on her mind. Ryam Redwyne was the finest knight there ever was. How had he allowed this to happen?

The door crashed open, and she jumped in fright as Daemon strode in, his face twisted with fury, his lips pale. “What the fuck happened? How the fuck it happened?”

Aemma would like to know that too. Not long ago, she had felt powerful like never before, Daemon succumbing to her touches, melting under them, and now he was a black cloud of rage. 

She shivered at the abrupt change and wrapped herself in her own arms. Daemon did not spare her even a glance, glaring at Ser Ryam.

The Lord Commander had never looked older. “The king was attacked in the Great Sept, just as the ceremony was about to start. There was one of the Most Devout, and he had seven septons and seven septas around him. He… he asked His Grace whether he was set on taking Lady Alicent as a second wife in the light of the Seven. When His Grace confirmed it, the man knelt at the foot of the Father and started to pray, while the rest approached the king. There was nothing I could do. There was nothing anyone could do. I did not see a blade until His Grace gasped. They had flowers. Flowers!”

Daemon was silent for only a moment. “How is my brother?”

“He lives,” the maester said. “For now. His condition is most grave. I am not skilled enough-”

“Then find someone who is! Now! Where the fuck is Runciter?!”

“Still at the sept or on the way, I suspect, my prince,” Ser Ryam answered grimly.

Daemon’s voice dropped into something far more dangerous. “Why the fuck is he not here?”

Ser Ryam drew a deep breath. “There was chaos at the sept. Unrest erupted after people heard… 'Twas luck that I managed to get His Grace out.”

“I need to see my brother.” Daemon walked to the bedchamber and was inside it before anyone could voice an objection.

Aemma could still not make herself move. He had ignored her completely, wholly focused on Viserys.

Viserys, who might be dying.

Viserys, whom she might be soon free of, should all go well.

Viserys, who had harmed Aemma and Daemon repeatedly, but who was Daemon’s brother despite it all.

Viserys, whose wife Daemon had spilled his seed inside while the man fought for his life.

There was nothing that could make Aemma regret her actions, not after the endless years of unrelenting pain. 

But Daemon was not Aemma.

Ser Ryam followed him into the bedchamber, leaving the door open, and she could hear the terrible wheezing sounds for the first time.

She closed her eyes and prayed. Gods, let him die. Let me be free of him, I beg you.

Daemon burst out of the bedchamber while she prayed, brushing past her and out of the chambers in a blind fury once more, and her neck ached from how fast she whipped her head around to gape after him.

“Your Grace, the king wishes to speak with you,” her eyes closed in horror at the sound of Ser Ryam’s voice. She did not want to go inside.

She gave him a weak smile, ignoring the bile rising up her throat. “Of course, ser.”

Stepping into the bedchamber felt like stepping into a dark memory, the smell of blood overpowering.

Viserys laid in the bed, far paler than the sheets he had given his blood to. He smiled at her tremulously, reaching out toward her with a weak hand. “Aemma. My love.” She wanted to weep, to scream, to rage. She did not want him to name her so. “Come, love, we must speak.”

She cast her gaze around the room and spoke a single word. “Alone.”

Viserys inclined his head and though the action seemed to take much of him, everyone obeyed at once.

“Come,” he breathed and gave the bed a pat. “Sit.”

Aemma sat while Viserys wheezed and gathered his strength.

“You must protect our son,” he told her laboriously.

Aemma’s brows jumped up. “Our son?”

“Aye. Protect him from Daemon. He is to be king after me, not my brother. You hear me?”

She did hear him, and she barely believed her ears. “You wish an unborn babe to be a king.”

“Yes. There is no other way. Otto will help you. He knows the dangers.”

She closed her eyes and prayed not to laugh out loud. Otto Hightower. The man that had plotted her death, would help her, Viserys believed.

“There is nothing to fear from Daemon,” she told him instead. “He loves you.”

Viserys chuckled, and it cost him dearly, sending him into a coughing fit. She waited for it to pass in stony silence.

“Daemon cannot be allowed to ascend the throne, do you hear me? He would kill our son and anyone in his path. Anyone. ” He pressed her fingers weakly, and her resentment for him soared.

“He has no reason to harm my son,” she told him coldly.

Viserys’ eyes shone with pity. “Aemma. My dear, sweet Aemma. Do not let him fool you.” 

Dear, foolish Aemma he might as well have said.

Something in her hardened, and she leaned forward to trace his pale cheek with a light finger and whisper into his ear. “Oh, my dear, sweet Viserys. Why would he harm his own babe?”

Viserys reeled away from her, as much as he could, weak as he was, and laid out on his pillows, his eyes widening in horror. “Wha-” 

A coughing fit overtook him, and Aemma watched him struggle with a great deal of satisfaction. He shrank from another caress, but he could do little about it or the whisper that followed.

“Do you wish to know what I did while you went off to wed your whore?” She paused for a reply, but none came, her husband watching her with pure horror written in his face. A smile graced her lips. “I rode your brother’s cock, and it was simply divine. I had not known there was a pleasure to be had before I first sought him out, but now… Now I cannot believe how naive I was.”

Her smile turned devious as she watched Viserys turn ever-paler, barely even breathing. “And do you know what I did after? Do you know the last thing my lips touched, mayhaps even while they brought you here to die?”

Viserys was beyond answering, seemingly struggling to even draw breath.

She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. 

“His cock,” she told him simply, causing him to take a shocked rattling breath, and break out into another raw coughing fit.

Aemma watched him at it with a cold smile. Dead men tell no tales, and Viserys would not be long for this world.

Chapter Text

Daemon returned to his chambers, wondering where he had left his wits to have stayed that long with Aemma in her chambers on the day of Viserys’ wedding, when they both were expected to be presentable and do things. He threw himself on his bed and rubbed his face vigorously, wondering what was wrong with him. 

He had gone into their affair with eyes wide open, conscious of all the dangers and careful. Now, he had spent who-knows-how-much-time in her chambers in daylight, on one of the most perilous days ever. 

His guard had progressively lowered, allowing for more risk, that was true, and even he had realized that, but what they had done today had not been risky, it had been downright suicidal.

A polite knocking on the door had him flying off the bed and cursing viciously. He could not be found smelling of Aemma’s bath. He could not be found smelling of anyone’s bath, since he had been known to be in his chambers and not having called for one. 

Fucking hells, he had been a fucking fool.

He threw on a doublet from the night before, which was hardly wise, but at least it did not carry the sweet flowery scent sure to be clinging to his skin. And he had gone to the Dragonpit after he had left her.

Daemon tore the door open with some violence, and the poor hapless servant that had knocked was treated to the full strength of his ill-tempered glare and a growl.

“What do you want?!”

The man’s hand shook as it extended. “A message for you, my prince. From Oldtown.”

A wave of apprehension rose within him. There was little anyone in Oldtown could write to him that he would wish to read. His distrust rose along with it. The man was a servant, not a maester. A maester was in charge of ravens, and a maester was the one to bring the messages brought by them to their intended recipients. Always. 

“Where is the maester?” he asked without thinking.

The servant blinked at him. “I don’t know, my prince. I was tending to the ravens, and when I came down, he was not there.”

“So you decided to bring it to me on your own?” His voice was heavy with skepticism.

“Yes, my prince.” Judging by the look of the man, he was seriously regretting that decision.

Daemon tore the scroll out of the servant’s hand, barely resisting slamming the door in his face, but he checked himself and took a deep calming breath, rubbing his face tiredly. Servants were valuable, he reminded himself, one could achieve surprisingly much with them on his side.

“Thank you, you may go.” 

The man’s relief was plain as a smile flickered across his face as he bowed hastily and left.

Daemon closed the door calmly and did not throw the message into the hearth, despite the strong urge to. There was little anyone in the Hightower could write to him that he would wish to read, but it would be a folly to remain ignorant of it entirely. 

And he had committed more than enough follies lately.

It was not the Hightower seal he found on the scroll, though, rather the blasted seven-pointed star of the Faith.

He stared at it, apprehension soaring once more. He had never received correspondence from the Faith before. The urge to cast it into fire became near overpowering, but Daemon was not one to shrink away from his enemies, and he broke the seal only after a moment of hesitation.

And then stared.

When he could do more than stare at last, he reached for the door and opened it without a second thought, heading to Aemma’s chambers in a haze. He could not believe his eyes. Surely Aemma would be able to confirm that his eyes were not playing cruel tricks on him.

He almost bowled over Rhaenyra in his blind rush as he rounded a corner, and he stood and stared once more, confused horror replacing the tentative hope. They had not spent that much time together, had they?

Rhaenyra was gazing up at him with a sunny smile, chattering brightly, but he could not hear a word. 

“Rhaenyra, what are you doing here?”

Her smile turned proud, and her chest puffed out. “Father sent me back!”

“What? Why?”

“Because she made a fuss and wept and refused to leave the carriage.”

Daemon had not even noticed his cousin accompanying his niece, holding her hand, but he gave her an incredulous stare at her words. “She wept ?” Rhaenyra rarely, if ever, wept unless injured. She was a happy child.

Rhaenyra precluded Rhaenys from speaking, bouncing and showing off her reddened arm proudly. “I pinched myself very hard. See?”

“I see,” he told her wryly. 

“Viserys did not wish for a scene in front of the Great Sept,” Rhaenys told him, her tone wry as well.

“Ah, is that how you came to be here as well, dear cousin?”

Her lips twitched. “ I did not throw a fit, cousin. I merely assisted the distraught princess. She could hardly be expected to make the journey without a family member present.”

Daemon did not hold back his amusement. “Ah, I see. How kind of you to offer yourself, cousin.”

Rhaenys’ brows lifted mockingly, reproach in her tone. “'Tis not as if there was anyone else available, cousin.”

“Ah… I fear my brother would not much appreciate my presence. I did argue against this venture quite vehemently.”

He greatly enjoyed the way his cousin’s lips thinned, the struggle to hold her sharp tongue visible. 

“Not vehemently enough,” she uttered through her gritted teeth at last, and his lips twisted bitterly. Too vehemently. Had he held his tongue, others on his brother’s council might have persuaded him to see reason.

“Lord Commander! Lord Commander!”

Daemon jerked at the sudden and loud call for his attention by an unknown and therefore certainly low-ranked gold cloak. He was displeased to say the least, not just by the gold cloak, but by the guardsman accompanying him. Maegor’s was meant to be a holdfast, not a fucking promenade.

“Yes, here I am, no need to shout now,” he said irritably.

The man was winded, and the few moments it took for him to regain his breath only served to stoke Daemon’s annoyance. 

“The king is dead!”

His niece let out a pained gasp that tore through his shock. “ What?! ” 

“He is not!” he snapped back at the man, who was still breathing only because Daemon had forgotten all his blades in his chambers. “He is not, Rhaenyra. Do not listen to this man! Rhaenys-”

Rhaenys did not let him finish. “I will take the little princess back to her nursery. I am sure you will let us know once this… misunderstanding is cleared up.”

He waited for Rhaenys to have Rhaenyra out of sight despite teary protestations before he approached the gold cloak and spoke to him in a low voice, barely restraining himself from strangling the man. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! My brother is not dead. Whatever possessed you to speak such nonsense in front of his daughter like this?!”

The man’s eyes, wild since the very beginning, did not hold even a smidgen of fear in the face of Daemon’s fury. The fool thought to defend himself. “But… Lord Commander, the king is dead, murdered at the Great Sept. We saw a white cloak riding with his lifeless body through the streets.”

His fists closed on the man’s cloak as he brought him very close. “Shut your mouth! Do you think I would not know were that true?!”

A note of fear appeared on the man’s face at last, murderous intent likely quite plain on Daemon’s face.

The guardsman coughed uncomfortably. “His Grace was injured, my prince. He was brought in some time ago.”

He let go of the gold cloak abruptly to turn his rage on the fucking fool that had remained silent for too long, his voice deathly quiet. “And why the fuck was I not informed of that ? Why the fuck am I hearing tales of my brother’s passing from the streets instead?”

The red-faced guard shrugged. Shrugged. “I don’t know, my prince. I only guard the entrance.”

His fists opened and closed uselessly at his sides. He was mute with rage.

They did not tell him.

His brother was hurt, badly, and they had not even bothered to tell him, his brother, his heir.

Fucking hells, he was going to murder someone.

His feet moved without a conscious thought, heading for his brother’s chambers. He was going to fucking murder someone, but it would not be the two fools that had informed him of his brother’s condition. The fucking fool that had brought his brother in seemed like a much better option.

And yet once he was in his brother’s chamber’s, and it was fucking Ryam Redwyne that awaited him there with no fucking explanation, nor an apology, or even an excuse, he knew. It was not Redwyne, the ever-dutiful Lord Commander of the fucking Kingsguard, that chose not to inform him. Oh no, it was his fucking brother. Who might be dying.

His throat was impossibly tight as he strode into his brother’s bedchamber, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. His stomach churned. He had visited butchers’ shops heavy with the smell. He had never thought to see his brother produce as much blood.

Viserys laid on his bed, his sweaty face pale, his breaths coming in short painful wheezes, and his bandages soaked through.

He approached him cautiously, afraid to speak, afraid to touch him. He stopped by his brother’s bed, kneeling by his side, and spoke softly, “Viserys.” 

His brother’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused and searching the room before they settled on him. “Daemon.”

“I am here, brother. I will-”

“No, Rhaenyra-”

“Rhaenyra is well,” he rushed to reassure him, wincing at the volume of his voice compared to his brother’s. “She is here. She is safe. Rhaenys is with her.”

“No! Rhaenyra. She…” His brother stopped speaking and squeezed his eyes shut in pain. When he opened his eyes, it was to glare at Daemon, reaching out a hand to grasp his shirt and drag him closer, his voice straining with the exertion, barely a whisper. “ Rhaenyra is my heir, not you. ”

Daemon let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You cannot be serious.”

Viserys’ glare intensified even as he struggled to speak. “I am. You are to leave for the Vale. Now.”

“ No, ” Daemon growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. “I will not go. Never again.”

Viserys’ pale face tightened with anger. “Return to your wife!”

His anger was no match for Daemon’s fury as he spoke, his lips barely moving. “I have no wife. Not anymore. I got my annulment. From the Faith, since you were so unwilling.”

His brother’s eyes widened and his hold on his shirt tightened yet more. “ You. It was you !”

Daemon could not believe his ears. He hoped they deceived him, but there was horror in Viserys’ eyes, and bile rose in his throat, his head suddenly light. His brother believed it.

Viserys opened his mouth to spew more poison, he was sure, but he could listen no more. He seized his brother’s wrist and pried it from his shirt, tearing out of there as if chased by the Doom itself.

His brother believed him responsible.

For a moment, he had wanted nothing more than to reach out and strangle him, watch the light go out of his eyes, himself.

Daemon did not know where his feet carried him, and he did not care. He needed to get out of there, as far as possible, as swiftly as possible. He needed to ride, to fly, to be gone, lest he turn his fury on his fool of a brother.

The stables were almost within his reach when Corlys Velaryon, little worse for wear, appeared, heading for him. “Prince Daemon!”

“My brother lives,” he informed Sea Snake shortly, intending to go around him.

“That is good to hear. Still, we need to speak, my prince.”

Daemon was ready to spit fire at the old man. “I see little to speak of.”

“And I see much. Come, let us speak in privacy of the chamber of the Small Council.”

Daemon almost laughed at that. Privacy. There was little true privacy to be had in the Red Keep. Still, when the man turned to go there, he followed.

They did not speak on the way, nor as they seated themselves in their usual places. Daemon would have been content to remain bitterly silent forevermore.

His brother believed him responsible.

Mayhaps he was. Mayhaps, had he argued less… Mayhaps, had he not encouraged Aemma…

Mayhaps this day had been a fucking terrible dream he only needed to wake from.

Corlys Velaryon coughed to bring his attention to himself. 

“The king lives, you said. Is he likely to continue so?” The man’s question was cautious, but Daemon did not grace with a reply and after too long a pause, the lord continued. “It seems rather unlikely to me, if you would pardon the skepticism. The king has to have more than a score of wounds in him. I have seen much in my life, but never have I seen a man recover from such injuries.”

Daemon expelled a loud breath and snapped. “Speak what you wish to speak! Do not dance about it! I find myself short of patience today!”

The eyes of the Lord of the Tides were pure steel as he leaned forward. “The queen is with child. There will be those that will wish to keep the throne empty until that child is born. Do not listen to them. Do not allow them even a chance to voice the thought. The king was attacked in the Great Sept by septons and septas. The realm cannot afford to remain leaderless in such perilous times while we wait on a birth of a babe that might or not might come.” 

Daemon’s jaw tightened in annoyance. “And how is it you propose I do that? I can ascend the throne, I can hardly stop tongues from wagging.”

Corlys Velaryon smiled. “Wed her and bed her. If the babe is born, proclaim it yours.”

He laughed. “The queen is with child. You said it yourself. It was announced to the whole fucking court, and you would have me wed her and declare the babe mine? I fear you underestimate how many courtiers know their sums, my lord.”

Sea Snake was not deterred, his eyes shining with humor. “Wed her quickly. It matters little what few know, when most believe otherwise. You must know there was talk the babe is lost already.”

He had known of it, from Mysaria and from others, quietly pleased on his behalf. He had been powerless against the rumors, when he should have had little reason to know otherwise.

“You would have me wed my brother’s widow before his ashes are even cold,” Daemon stated dryly, his voice low.

Lord Velaryon leaned closer, lowering his voice even more. “I would rather have you wed her before his body is cold.”

Daemon leaned back in his seat, curiously empty now that the fury left him completely. His brother’s fingers had been glacial when he had pried them from his shirt. He had never known a dragon to be so cold.

If he did this, he could claim his own child.

If he did this, he could be king, with Aemma by his side, in his bed.

If he did this.

His brother had to die for him to do this.

He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling that offered no answers. “My brother lives,” he repeated himself.

The king’s chambers were much fuller by the time he returned to them, Corlys Velaryon in tow, and he was grateful for the unfamiliar numbness, when his eyes alighted on Otto Hightower and his deplorable daughter. Much warmer, too, and he could barely breathe.

It was almost a relief when the door of the bedchamber opened and Aemma appeared. 

Almost.

Aemma emerged from Viserys’ chamber, her head held high, her cheeks wet, and Daemon’s heart stopped for a moment.

“The king is dead,” her eyes found his as the chamber stilled, and she continued, lowering herself to her knees in front of him, much like she had an eternity ago, “long live the king!”

The words echoed around the chamber and knees bent.

His brother was dead. 

His brother was dead, and he did not know how to feel about it.

Chapter Text

Daemon stood and watched Aemma’s bowed head, only somewhat aware of the rest, barely even noticing Otto Hightower and his daughter being the last to bend their knees. 

Gods, the girl seemed ready to faint and should he grant it any thought, likely so did he. Aemma was regal and beautiful and an island of calm in a sea of confusion. A true queen.

He rested his eyes for a moment and then moved, brushing past her, touching her arm lightly to bid her to rise, and strode into his brother’s bedchamber. Aemma could be mistaken, he told himself. She was not a maester, she did not have a healer’s training, she…

It did not require a maester’s training to know Viserys was dead.

He had been weak when Daemon had last seen him, but now he was still. His chest did not move, there was no sound of breathing, his limbs were limp.

Daemon approached the bed once more and his knees buckled under him, when he took his brother’s cold hand in his own.

His brother was gone. The boy that had told him stories of their mother, of the time when their parents had been happy, was gone. The boy, the man, he had always chased after, was gone.

Aemma’s warm hand on his shoulder was a startling contrast to Viserys’ and his head jerked around on instinct, coming up face to belly. Belly that contained his babe. The babe that his brother had believed his. The babe that his brother had believed to be his long-desired son.

It was a mercy, he supposed, that his brother had died believing so. It was a mercy that Daemon would be allowed to raise his own child. It was a mercy he owed his brother, so he rose and pressed his lips to his brother’s cold brow, grateful, and whispered a reassurance, “Aemma’s son will be a king when the time comes, I can promise you that, brother.”

When he straightened, he was resolute. The gods were kind. Kind to Viserys, to let him die in sweet ignorance, kind to Daemon, to spare him the pain of seeing his child be raised by another man, kind to Aemma to spare her the humiliation of her husband taking another wife. He would not waste such kindness on something as useless as regret.

Daemon did not regret the babe. He would never regret the babe. Whatever path had led him, them, here, was the one they would have to tread further. Together. Aemma and Daemon. A family.

He had lost his brother, but would gain that which had been denied to him for years.

The message from Oldtown was still in his pocket, and his hand reached inside it to reassure himself of its existence. Its rather useless existence now that he would be king, but still.

For a heady moment, for a single unbelievably beautiful and incredibly frightening moment, he was free. Completely. Utterly. Free to make whatever decision he wanted. Free of Rhea, not yet bound to Aemma, not yet a king in truth.

The only trouble was that he did want Aemma, and he did want their babe, now that he could have them openly he might even want more babes in time, and that was where his freedom ended. He would be king, he would wed her and bed her, and he would do it even before his brother’s body turned to ashes.

He took a deep breath and spoke, still staring at his brother’s waxen face, “Rhaenyra heard. I denied it, but… You should go to her, Aemma, she was… distressed.” She would be distressed yet more to have it confirmed by her mother, he was sure, but it could hardly be helped. He could certainly not face his little niece now.

“Of course.” There was pain in Aemma’s voice and when he turned his head to look at her, there was pain in her face too. She had been so composed, so strong until then.

“I will come speak to you later. There are matters-” He cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head. He might be resolute, but it would be utterly tasteless to speak of it over his brother’s cooling corpse. “I will come speak to you later,” he finished lamely.

Her nod was uncertain, and he could see the strain it was on her for her eyes not to dart to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard who was in the bedchamber with them. It almost drew a smile out of him. Almost. All his strength seemed to have been sapped, and only weariness remained.

“You may go, cousin,” he told her. “Lord Commander, please, remain.”

Something in Aemma’s eyes flickered as she curtsied and left, but he was too damn tired to try and decipher it.

Ser Ryam inclined his head and remained a silent statue.

“I would see my brother’s murderers dead,” he told him.

“They are. All that wielded a blade against His Grace were slain in the sept.”

That was strangely disappointing. He wanted to separate their heads from their bodies himself. He wanted to see their blood spilled as they had spilled his brother’s. He wanted to see their fear and their pain and the light leave their eyes, and rejoice in it.

The gods might have been kind, but Daemon was not, and he had no desire to be.

“So all that conspired to see my brother dead are dead themselves,” he mumbled to himself. There was no one to rage against, no one to feel his pain.

“Not… Not quite,” Ser Ryam spoke hesitantly, bringing Daemon up short.

“Not quite? What does that mean not quite?”

“All those that wielded the blades are dead, but there is the Most Devout. The man only prayed. He was put in chains and brought into the Black Cells, but there is no way of knowing…”

Daemon almost found it in himself to laugh. “No way of knowing? Is his guilt not plain for all the world to see?”

The man looked uncomfortable, but his voice was firm and his gaze stern when he spoke, “No.”

Daemon did not miss that the Lord Commander had yet to address him with a title. Any title. No my princes, my kings, or Your Graces to be heard.

The man had knelt with the rest, but so had Otto Hightower, and he did not believe for even a moment that he would let go of the power Viserys had handed to him without an attempt at some treachery.

“I will be the judge of that,” he snapped out and then growled as he received only a placid, shallow bow in reply, stomping out of the bedchamber and toward the Black Cells.

There was someone to blame left living still, and he would ensure the oversight would be corrected swiftly.

“Where is he?!” he barked out when he sighted the white cloak of Ser Harrold Westerling at the door leading to the dungeons.

The knight bowed respectfully. “My prince, Lord Strong is questioning the prisoner now.”

“Where is he?” he repeated himself, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

Ser Harrold’s eyes darted over Daemon’s shoulder at Ser Ryam, and he bowed once more. “If you would follow me, my prince.” And he fucking well did follow him. That was what he was there for.

Lyonel Strong cried out his protest when Daemon burst into the cell, lifting the prisoner off the stool he had been seated on, and slammed him into the stone wall.

“My prince, you cannot-”

He did not care to hear the rest, as his fists gripped the septon’s silvery robes and slammed him against the wall once more. “My brother is dead,” he told him through gritted teeth.

Gasps sounded behind him, but he did not care for those either. He only cared about the septon. The septon, that did not seem scared. The septon that did seem… regretful of the news.

“May the Father judge him justly,” the man sighed, his tone sorrowful, “and the Mother grant him mercy.”

Daemon’s fists loosed in surprise. The man’s expression and tone… They seemed genuine.

“My… There is nothing to indicate this man’s involvement,” Lord Strong’s voice intruded, entirely unwelcome.

“He was there,” Daemon said dully. “It was his retinue the men and women that murdered my brother were in.”

“Not so, my… Your… Not so,” Strong coughed uncomfortably.

“Not so,” repeated the septon. “They were volunteers. Many refused to take part, so I asked for good men and women to come forth. They did. May the Father judge them justly and the Mother grant them mercy too.” 

Murderous intent drained out of him, confusion replacing it.

He let go of the man’s robes completely, taking careful stock of him. His face and his voice were even, but his robes were soiled and crumpled and there was blood on his head, what seemed like a crystal fragment still embedded in one of the wounds. The crown, he realized. He would have been wearing a crystal crown.

Daemon took a step back and breathed in through his nose, folding his hands behind his back.

“I received a raven from the Starry Sept today. Do you have any idea why would anyone there be writing to me? On this day of all days?”

The man smiled. Smiled! “There is the matter you are known to have contested the Faith on for some years now.”

“Not the Faith,” Daemon corrected mildly. “The king. The matter was put to rest now, it would seem. I was granted my annulment.” 

Today, of all days. And yet the man seemed surprised by the news.

“Truly? I did not expect the council to move so swiftly.”

“You knew of this?”

“I suppose you could say that. I did send my recommendation for it some time ago, though I did not expect them to grant the annulment quite so readily.” And the damned man seemed sincere in that too.

Daemon’s fists clenched and opened and closed again uselessly behind his back.

“Everyone out!” he spoke at last, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes not moving from the cursed septon for even a moment.

He prowled the too-small cell, and the man’s countenance turned wary for the first time, some disquiet finally leaking through.

“The realm cannot afford to wait for a king, I am told,” he quietly admitted at last. “I am told, for the sake of the realm, I should take the throne and I should take the queen, my brother’s widow, to wife.”

The man’s wariness eased as Daemon spoke, and it unsettled him.  

“Should the babe she carries be a boy, he should be my heir, I am told,” he finished and stared at the septon. The septon stared back, silent.

Daemon’s patience had been stretched far too thin. “Well?! What say you? What does the Faith say? Will I find myself with a score of stab wounds as well, should I listen?”

“The advice you are given seems sound,” the man said cautiously at last.

“The Faith would condone such a marriage,” Daemon’s voice was pure skepticism.

“These are exceptional circumstances, Your Grace, and as such…” The man did not need to finish the sentence, the implication quite plain.

He chewed on that. Here was one of the Most Devout, supporting what Corlys Velaryon had told him. Mayhaps they both wanted him dead. That was what he had thought when the Sea Snake had first approached him and asked him to wed his brother’s widow, mere moments after his brother’s death.

“Would you write out a statement to this effect?” The septon was being suspiciously malleable.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“You do understand that should a proof be found that you are in fact culpable in my brother’s death, no consideration will be given to your… willingness?”

“I would not expect it, Your Grace.”

Daemon nodded to himself, the sudden continuous use of the honorific grating on his nerves. “I will have you moved to different accommodations, so you may write in peace. And wash yourself. Aye, wash yourself. I will… I will have a maester sent to care for your injuries as well. We need you clean and well. You may have a wedding to officiate after all.” If Aemma agreed.

He was treated to uneasy gazes from the men waiting for him a sufficient distance from the cell, and he rolled his eyes when he reached them. “He lives. Move him to an easily guarded chamber and guard it well. Give him water to wash and supplies to write.”

Strong took a breath to speak, but he had no mind to listen. “You may speak to him more on the morrow, my Lord Strong. For now, he needs a clean chamber, a maester and writing supplies.”

The lord closed his mouth and inclined his head and Daemon continued, “For now, I think we all must rest. Let us assemble the Small Council on the morrow to… discuss the situation. Lord Commander,” his gaze travelled to the grizzled knight, “I am sure I may leave the task of informing the council members in your hands.”

“You may.” The lack of honorific from the knight settled his frazzled nerves, and he gave him a slight upturn of lips in thanks.

Daemon was not the king, not yet. He did not feel it yet. He would not feel it until the throne was truly secured and his.

“The bells of the Great Sept should be-”

He did not let Strong finish the thought, barely restraining himself from violence. “No! No bells! No septs! I will not have my brother’s murderers announce their triumph! Have the criers sent out, if you must, but no bells!”

He tore through the Red Keep, back to his chambers, slamming the door behind him, and throwing himself into a chair to tug at his hair.

His brother was dead and there was seemingly no one for him to punish. 

His brother was dead and Daemon was to profit from it.

His brother was dead, and he was torn between guilt and terrible, terrible hope.

He stayed in that chair for a very long time, gripping his head, tugging on his hair uselessly, but when he stood up, he was at peace.

He was not overly surprised to find Ser Ryam standing by his door. “Should you not be standing vigil over my brother, good ser?”

“No. Two of my brothers were injured in the fighting. They are attending to the vigil.”

“Fighting,” Daemon repeated tiredly. “I would have expected the Kingsguard to slice through septons and septas easily. Like a scythe cutting through wheat.”

“We cut through them easily enough. However, some of the more pious knights took offense to that.”

Fucking hells, the mess appeared greater every time he heard or saw more evidence of it, and he was fucking tired of getting only parts of the story.

“I would have Ser Luthor Largent and captains of the city gates attend me as soon as possible. See to it.”

The knight inclined his head and did not move from his position at Daemon’s door, and his lips twitched as he closed it. He had not expected him to, not truly. There was a use for squires, after all, and the famed Lord Commander had a few of them. They were sure to be running all over the keep on a day like today.

He should speak to Aemma before the captains of the City Watch, he knew, but he could not. He was almost certain of her answer, for their babe’s sake if not for her own, there was no risk in asking. But she would be with Rhaenyra now, soothing her disconsolate daughter, and he could not bring himself to face Rhaenyra, not now that his words had proven themselves a lie. He had never lied to her before.

Chapter Text

Relief was what she had felt as she had watched light fade from Viserys’ eyes.

Relief was farthest from what she felt as she walked toward Rhaenyra’s nursery, her steps slow and heavy. Her daughter had lost her father, and now she had to tell her.

For Aemma, the death of her husband meant freedom, deliverance, justice. For her darling happy little girl, it meant an incredible loss, her world shattering. With the first flush of the heady feeling of freedom passed, she came to realize she would have rather spared her daughter the pain.

She felt as if walking to an execution. In a way, she supposed she was. The days of Rhaenyra’s happy childhood were at an end, and she was the executioner.

Aemma took a deep, fortifying breath before she entered the nursery to find her teary child in the company of the formidable Princess Rhaenys. Her eyes filled with tears at the sight, and she could not help the sob that tore out of her throat.

“Mama!” Rhaenyra ran toward her with a desolate cry, and Aemma fell to her knees, welcoming her daughter’s tight embrace and returning it desperately.

“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry, sweetling,” she wept into her hair, dropping kisses to it.

A shocked gasp sounded, reminding her of the presence of Princess Rhaenys. “It is true, then?”

She turned her face to look at her, the woman pushed out of Viserys’s way to the throne, the woman pushed out of any serious consideration for the throne with alarming ease, and could not marvel at the pallor of her face. This woman with any number of grievances against Viserys felt more at his passing than Aemma, the man’s wife, the man’s queen, did.

She could not look bear looking at her for long, so she closed her eyes to the pain and nodded, holding on to Rhaenyra, breathing in her warmth, hoping to share some of her own.

She had lost her father, an indomitable man in her mind, at a time she had already known the loss of a babe herself, at a time she had thought herself past grief, and yet, his death had almost broken her. Aemma’s father had been a distant, stern presence in her life. Viserys, for all his faults, had not been a bad or an overly distant father. He had loved and spoiled Rhaenyra.

Aemma could not imagine her daughter’s pain, so she held her and wept with her and kissed her and promised that all would be well. Whatever else happened, her daughter would be safe with her uncle a king, she was sure. Far safer than with a Hightower step-mother. Far safer than in a regency.

Aemma’s family was dead and a child under a regency herself ruled in the Vale. There were no allies left to her other than Daemon, and she had to trust him now. She could only hope her gesture would ward off any danger to Rhaenyra and herself. Only hope.

She had seen Otto Hightower kneel with all the rest, and she would never trust that snake ever again.

It was long, long hours later, as Rhaenyra slept peacefully in Aemma’s bed, that Daemon came to her, was announced to her, and she stilled in surprise. She had not expected him to come into her chambers at night with her guards aware.

Aemma extracted herself from her daughter’s hold carefully and thrown on a dressing gown, leaving the bedchamber to receive him in as imperious a manner as she could manage.

“Cousin,” he greeted her neutrally, flanked by gold cloaks on each side.

“My king,” she curtsied, her tone cautious.

He shifted his weight and asked, “How is my niece?”

“Devastated,” she told him, “and tired. She is sleeping in my bed, if you wish to see her. I had no heart to deny her.“

Daemon shook his head with a frown. “Let her rest. I came to speak with you anyway.”

Her gaze traveled to the gold cloaks, Ser Ryam stood behind them. “Whatever about, Your Grace?”

His eyes skittered away from her. “How are you faring?”

“As well as can be expected,” she told him with a shrug, barely restraining herself from gritting her teeth at the awkward conversation. “How about you?”

Daemon let out a heavy sigh and a spark of amusement lit up his eyes for a flash. “As well as can be expected.” He shifted his weight and sighed again. “It was brought to my attention that it would be best - for the stability of the realm, of course, for me to take you to wife. Now.”

All air left Aemma in a rush, and she felt suddenly light-headed. “What?” Her voice was weak. Too weak. “Have your wits left you completely? Have you forgotten already what such folly brought your brother?”

His lips twitched and she wanted to strangle him. “I have not forgotten, cousin, I assure you. There is one notable difference between my brother and I, though. You see, I am a free man. I have no wife.”

“No wife,” Aemma repeated dully. Could it truly be?

“No wife,” confirmed Daemon, his eyes soft. “Not for a few hours yet, should you accept.”

“Few hours?” she asked, wide-eyed. Hours ? Not days, weeks, or moons?

“Yes, hours,” he said, his voice impossibly gentle. “We must wed before the Red Keep wakes to the new day, before our enemies can weave new plans to entrap us in.”

She took a deep breath and allowed herself to think about it. She had hoped, for a mad, mad moment when Viserys had breathed his last, she had hoped they could one day wed. One day, moons, mayhaps even years in the future. She could have it now.

“You must understand,” he continued, his voice a soft, soft caress, and she closed her eyes, “any child you would bear after we wed I would claim as my own.”

Aemma’s breath hitched, and she brought her hand up to cover her mouth, to uselessly try to stifle a sob. It was a dream. A beautiful, beautiful dream.

“I must… I must change,” she told him after a while, still in a daze as she turned toward her bedchamber, “I must…” Rhaenyra, she remembered. Her daughter was sleeping in her bed. “I must wake Rhaenyra and-”

“Let her have her rest,” Daemon said, his voice still soft.

“No,” she shook her head at the door, clutching the handle, “I will not leave her alone. Not now. She comes with me.” She did not wait to hear any more protests.

Aemma dressed in the Targaryen black-and-red, sending a maid to fetch a matching gown for Rhaenyra as well. It was fitting, she decided. She was meant to be in mourning, and the colors of her husband’s House were more fitting than the colors of her own. And yet, the cloak she would wear would be the Arryn one. Not the one she had worn at her first wedding, too small by far by now, but an Arryn one either way.

She would not don the cloak until needed, she decided. Her kin, all the Arryns she had ever known were dead, and she felt a dragon more now than ever. Whatever the reason, the sky-blue-and-white of her father’s House felt foreign today, inappropriate.

Rhaenyra watched her bleary-eyed and silent even after she was dressed, blinking slowly, and she lowered herself to her knees to press a kiss to her forehead. “Are you well, dear?”

Her daughter nodded mutely and wrapped her arms around Aemma’s neck, hiding her face, and she sighed and held her to herself, rising to her feet with her daughter in her arms.

Daemon stepped out to relieve her of her burden the moment she stepped a foot out of her bedchamber, and for once, Rhaenyra went without a word of protest, burrowing into his embrace instead. Aemma allowed herself only a moment to take in the sight, a mere moment to allow herself a hope that he could replace Viserys in her daughter’s life as easily as he was about to replace him in the babe’s, as he was about to replace him in Aemma’s.

Then, she turned to take her cloak out of her maid’s hands, steeling herself for what was to come. She had been a child the last time she had done this, oblivious of the dangers and the pain. Now, she was a woman grown and only too familiar with it all. But now… Now she had had a choice. 

She had made her choice a long time ago, and now there was little left to do but follow where her choices took her.

“We are not going to the royal sept,” she spoke up at last, when they took a turn and her stomach twisted.

“No, we are not,” Daemon confirmed lightly.

“Where are we going?” she asked, unease growing.

“To the Great Sept,” he answered, and her throat tightened with horror. You cannot be serious! She wanted to yell at him, but she could not. They were moving swiftly and silently through the Red Keep, not drawing any attention, the gold cloaks ever-present, unintrusive and most certainly ensuring privacy. That would hardly be so should she yell.

There was little to see but gold when she climbed into a carriage with Rhaenyra back in her arms, but they did not start moving immediately, and her eyes grew wide when another climbed in.

“Cousin,” she gasped out.

“Cousin,” Princess Rhaenys inclined her head. “I hope you are doing better.”

Aemma stared at her blankly for an embarrassingly long time before she managed to speak at last, “As well as can be expected. I… I did not expect you to join us.”

Rhaenys’ lips twitched. “You did not? This scheme was Corlys’ idea. He’d be damned if he did not see it through. And witnesses are needed.”

“Lord Velaryon’s idea,” Aemma repeated, her voice curiously devoid of emotion.

“Apparently so. Though I admit both of us surprised at Daemon’s speed.”

Aemma’s gaze turned away from her to look outside, and she held drowsing Rhaenyra’s head to her, covering her ear. “We cannot give enemies of our House a chance to gather their scattered plans.”

“No, we cannot,” Princess Rhaenys agreed, her gaze burning into Aemma’s cheek. “Our House has many enemies. You would do well to know my husband and I are not one of them.”

A smile came to her face and she turned her eyes back to her cousin. “I know that.” Now. “I know that, and I am grateful to know that.” 

Corlys Velaryon was the richest man in the realm, with the greatest fleet in it, his wife and son a dragonrider. He would not win much support for his son to sit the Iron Throne, not after his loss in the Great Council, but he could have pushed for Daemon to wed his daughter instead of Aemma. The daughter of the age Aemma had been when she had wed Viserys. She did not wish to know what would have happened had he chosen to do that instead of this.

“I will carry her into the sept. You can hardly be expected to wed holding your child.”

It was not an offer, but Aemma accepted it with a nod nevertheless. It felt like a peace offering, and she was rather desperate for peace within her family.

There were yet more gold cloaks lining the dark square and the sept, separating the assembled septons and septas from the royal company. A half-dozen gold cloaks stood at the front, around the somewhat battered Most Devout, Ser Ryam at Daemon’s back as she approached him, standing between the statues of the Mother and the Father.

It was so strange… She wanted this marriage, but her steps were slow and hesitant. It had been so much easier when she had been a child, doing her duty, unaware of what being married truly entailed.

It was so strange to have her maiden’s cloak removed, when all knew she was no maiden at all, when all knew her father’s protecting hand had died long ago. It was stranger still to be cloaked in the Targaryen cloak instead, when she had felt a dragon already, had a dragon already, when that cloak had never protected her at all in the past.

The Most Devout’s eye were kind and fastened on her as he spoke, and she closed her eyes to hide from that gaze. “The love of the Seven is holy and eternal. The source of life and love. We stand here tonight in thanks and praise to join two souls as one. Father… Mother… Warrior… Smith… Maiden… Crone… Stranger. Hear now their vows.”

Daemon’s voice rang clearly through the sept, not a smidgen of doubt in his voice. “I am yours and you are mine. Whatever may come.”

She opened her eyes, looking to take some of that confidence for herself, her own voice too weak to her ears. “I am yours and you are mine. Whatever may come.”

Whatever may come, whatever enemies they may have, whatever enemies they may make yet. They were bound together, to face them together. Daemon’s kiss, a mere brushing of lips, sealed their oaths to each other, sealed the new deal.

The voice of the septon sounded from far. “Here, in the presence of Gods and men, I proclaim Daemon of House Targaryen and Aemma of House Arryn, to be man and wife. One flesh… one heart… one soul… now and forever.”

They returned to the Red Keep, much as they had left it, quiet and unobserved but for the eyes of the gold cloaks. Rhaenys had not handed Rhaenyra back to her, her daughter having slept through the ceremony. She did not hand her back now.

“I will take her back to the nursery,” the princess assured her quietly.

Aemma opened her mouth to protest, but Daemon spoke up behind her before she could, “Thank you, cousin.”

Rhaenys gave them a slight smile and walked away with Aemma’s daughter, leaving Aemma and Daemon to follow at a sedate pace.

She kept her tongue until they were gone from sight, speaking up softly, lightly, once they were alone. With only the Kingsguard and the gold cloaks for company, that was. “I hoped to keep Rhaenyra with me for the nonce. She was so very distressed.”

“You may call for her later.”

“Later,” she drew out the word.

“Yes, once we have done our duty and consummated the marriage.”

Aemma did not gasp, but it was a near thing. She had not given that any thought, certainly not when she was carrying his child already.

“Where are we going?” she asked when they did not turn toward her chambers once in Maegor’s.

“My chambers,” he told her, warmth of amusement coloring his voice slightly.

“Why?”

His lips twitched. “Because our enemies would not know to look for you there yet, would they?” 

Chapter Text

There was nothing better than being taken by her new husband in a bed, she had thought, all the sounds she made swallowed by hungry kisses. Surely, there could be nothing better than this, she had told herself. Oh, how sweet it was, to be free and unafraid.

But Aemma had been wrong, she found the moment she stepped into the chamber where the Small Council met, dressed in her second-best black gown, Ser Harrold following faithfully at her back, and found herself face to face with a very relieved Otto Hightower. 

“My queen, I thank you for joining us, I worried my message would not find you in time.”

Something vicious crowed deep inside her as she gave the man a small, well-practiced polite smile. Oh, how she would relish watching that relief turn to horror.

“You have me confused, ser. A message? What message?”

The man’s brows twitched, but his bearing remained open and welcoming. Confident, even. Ah, the blessed safety of one’s ignorance, she remembered it well.

“Prince Daemon called for the council to assemble. I merely wished to ensure your attendance, Your Grace.”

Aemma’s smile did not widen, did not become the sharp thing it should have. She lowered her gaze demurely, biting the inside of her cheek. “ Prince, ser? Were your knees not among those that bent for King Daemon the First of His Name yesterday, or did my eyes deceive me?”

“Your eyes did not deceive you, Your Grace, I saw as much myself.” Otto Hightower jerked as the amused voice of Lord Velaryon sounded behind him. “And may I say your beauty and presence are a welcome relief in a company of dour men such as this.”

“I could hardly stay away from my husband’s council on a day such as this, my Lord Velaryon” she told him chidingly, and the Sea Snake’s eyes gleamed before he bowed his head, rubbing his mouth.

“Aye,” Ser Otto let himself be heard again, “it gladdens our hearts to see you in good health, my queen. The gods prove kind to the realm in this troubled time.”

“Indeed, they do,” Aemma allowed as she walked through the room, accepting welcoming bows, to lower herself into the seat at the right hand of the king’s gracefully, for they truly proved kind to her at last, and she delighted in the tightening of the former Hand’s lips, his mouth opening and then snapping shut without uttering a sound, all the more for it.

He did not get the chance to seat himself before Daemon entered the room as well, followed by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and a towering figure in a gold cloak, and all those previously seated rose to their feet, bowing in his direction. 

Ser Otto was left to follow once more, his jaw clenched very, very tightly.

Daemon greeted them all gravely, frowning fiercely as he strode around the council table to seat himself into the seat at its head, by Aemma’s side. Ser Otto’s expression tightened yet more, but he held his tongue, the only face of dissent among the men present.

“I am told all of my brother’s murderers are dead, that there are no more men or women to hold accountable,” the new king said to his council. “I am rather hard-pressed to believe this, but I will accept it. For now. Should any more traitors be found, they will pay dearly.”

Aemma watched him glare at the assembled Small Council as if each and every member had offended him personally. All things considered, at one point or another, they likely had.

The Grand Maester coughed and shifted in his seat, and Daemon’s displeased gaze landed on him.

“Grand Maester,” his voice was like honey and traitorous heat pooled in Aemma’s belly, “we missed you yesterday at my brother’s sickbed. Why, I thought ourselves short a Grand Maester entirely.”

Runciter coughed a cough that Aemma had come to despise with passion over the years. “There was naught to be done for His Grace, naught to be done by any mortal man, and my body is frail and weak and slow.” There was naught to be done, Your Grace, sounded from the depths of her memory, thundering in her mind, that despicable cough, that apologetic tone, turning her stomach.

“I see,” Daemon’s voice was soft and full of false understanding, “how unfortunate. I will have to write to the Citadel to provide us an able- bodied Grand Maester, then. We can hardly put the lives of the royal family at risk due to the frailty and slowness of a decrepit body.”

Runciter was reduced to a coughing fit and Ser Otto stepped in, censure plain in his voice. “Let us not be hasty. There are matters to be addressed first before this council concerns itself with the health of our good Grand Maester.”

Daemon’s eyes were wide and innocent. “Matters, ser? What matters do you find so pressing?”

“The succession, for one. His Grace, King Viserys left no clear heir. It is for this council to-”

Daemon’s lips curled in a slow malevolent smile, ready to end Aemma’s fun with the man far too soon, so she raised a hand to her breast and spoke up. “I must admit you have me confused once more, ser. No clear heir? With no son, Viserys had an heir in his brother, did he not?”

Ser Otto’s expression was pained. “Not quite, Your Grace. There are his children to consider as well.”

Aemma widened her eyes innocently. “Children? There is only Rhaenyra, and precocious though she is, she is but a daughter. Did my grandfather’s Great Council not state the realm’s preference for a male over a female, for a brother over a daughter, clearly enough?”

“You might yet bear a son, Your Grace,” he told her, the strain to keep his voice kind plain.

She nodded agreeably. “May the gods allow me to give my husband a strong heir to follow after him.” 

A strained cough sounded from down the table, and Lord Velaryon’s hand flew up to clap firmly over his mouth, seemingly stifling it. Ser Ryam, ever a composed presence, had a hand covering his eyes. When her eyes strayed to the side to look at Daemon, his eyes were warm with amusement.

“Indeed,” he said, his voice soft, a sensuous caress.

“We should wait-”

Ser Otto was interrupted once more, this time by Lord Corlys. “Wait for what, I ask you? Princess Rhaenyra is a little girl with no brother. There is no other heir to consider but the one we all bowed to yesterday already! The realm cannot wait ! Not now!”

There were grim nods from all around the table, and Aemma delighted in the sight of Ser Otto deflating, giving a slow nod himself at long last.

“Now, Your Grace, we must move to secure-”

Otto Hightower interrupted Lord Corlys, “What about our new king’s heir, though?”

The Sea Snake’s lips thinned in apparent displeasure, but Aemma would wager that was not the true cause, as she bit her lip herself to keep from smiling.

“Rhaenyra is my heir until a son is born to me, that seems clear enough, does it not?” Daemon kept his voice soft, not even a trace of annoyance in it. There was little cause for it. Whatever dear Ser Otto came up with, he had lost already. All that was left now was to savor his humiliation.

Lord Strong shifted in his seat and Ser Otto pounced. “A legitimate son, Your Grace. There is the matter of your marriage.”

Aemma turned to Daemon expectantly, her brows raised in polite bemusement.

“The matter of my marriage, ser? Whatever is the matter with my marriage?”

“Your lady wife is no more like to bear you a son now than she ever was. The marriage needs to be set aside. For the good of the realm.”

She gasped and brought a hand to her mouth, her gaze shooting to the man in mute accusation.

Daemon’s voice was still soft, yet danger replaced the amusement in it. “How very crude of you, Ser Otto, to say the queen may bear a son with one breath and to deny the chance with the next. How very uncouth. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

The man blinked rapidly, his forehead furrowing, “I… I do not… What-”

Her husband straightened in his seat and spoke in a strong voice, “It is my great honor to announce that Queen Aemma and I wed in the light of the Seven this night.”

There were shocked intakes of breath around the table, and Lord Strong let out a pained sound. “Oh, gods, the Faith… ”

“We were wed by a member of the Most Devout. I would hope such a good enough indication on the stance of the Faith on the matter of my marriage.”

“Lady Rhea-,” the Master of Laws tried again, only for Daemon to roll his eyes and wave away the concern the way a man would swat away at an annoying fly buzzing about his ear.

“That matter was put to rest while my brother still breathed.” 

“ How ?” Runciter forced out between coughs.

“His Grace granted you an annulment?” The sheer horror and disbelief in Ser Otto’s voice was delicious.

“My brother? No. Why would he? It was brought to my attention that I had appealed the wrong authority on the matter for all those years. How silly of me. The Council of the Faith found nothing wrong with my petition and ruled in my favor without delay.” 

Otto Hightower’s face was pale, his mouth gaping open.

“Now, I must ask you to leave the chamber, ser. You have interrupted this council’s proceedings far beyond what is acceptable for a man not on it.”

The disgraced Hand jerked, “I am the Hand-”

Daemon did not let him finish. “You were the Hand. My brother’s Hand, to be exact. Should you fail to notice, my brother died yesterday.”

“I-”

“Worry not, you need not clear out the Tower of the Hand today. I am sure Lord Corlys can be persuaded to a little patience.”

The Sea Snake inclined his head magnanimously. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“In any case, I would advise you not to leave the tower for now. I will assign the City Watch to guard you. The people are angry, you see. We would not wish for another tragedy to happen.”

Otto Hightower looked as if he might faint. “I… That is most kind of you, Your Grace.”

There was a malicious gleam in Daemon’s eyes. “I know. Leave. Now.”

The man almost fell over in his haste to get out of his seat and out of the room, only to be stopped by the king’s airy voice just short of the door.

“Oh, Ser Otto?”

He froze, looking at Daemon with something akin to primal terror in his eyes. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Are you not forgetting something?”

A blank stare was all the reply her husband got, and he rolled his eyes and gave a dramatic sigh. “My good lord Hand, would you be so kind as to enlighten him?”

The Lord of the Tides rose to his feet slowly, deliberately, taking the time to straighten himself to his full height and straighten his clothes before he approached the frozen man, his terror more pronounced with each passing moment. The Sea Snake took great pleasure in it, she thought, though not as great as she did, she was sure, as he patted the man’s shoulders, straightening the folds of his cloak before he yanked the badge of his office off his chest.

“ Now, you may go, Ser Otto,” Daemon informed him kindly when he stood rooted to the spot even after Corlys Velaryon lowered himself back into his seat.

The sound of the door closing behind the former Hand echoed around the chamber for a long time.

“Your Grace-” Runciter cut himself off when Daemon’s cold eyes landed on him.

“Yes?”

He swallowed visibly before he continued, “I… I do think you are right, Your Grace. My… faculties are not what they used to be. I will… I will write to the Citadel myself to inquire about a replacement more to your taste. Mayhaps… Mayhaps Archmaester Vaegon?”

“I have little preference when it comes to maesters. I only ask that the man is able-bodied and a better healer than you. That should hardly be a difficult task.”

Runciter coughed again, an ugly flush creeping up his neck at the backhanded insult, and Aemma felt vindicated. “Of course, Your Grace. Of course. And ah… congratulations on your marriage. May it prove happy and fruitful.”

The congratulations were hastily echoed by others around the table, correcting the previous oversight, and a satisfied smile spread on her husband’s face at hearing them, accepting them with grace.

“Now, may we return to the business of this council at last?” He paused for only a moment, not giving another the chance to interrupt, “You were saying, Lord Corlys?” 

A smug smirk was on the Sea Snake’s face as his fingers played with the golden badge. “It is my firm belief, that we should move to secure the Narrow Sea against threats to our shipping, lest our enemies think to strike out against us at a time of perceived weakness.”

“Are we not secure now, my lord?” Daemon inquired, and Aemma’s curious gaze traveled around the table as the men around it shifted.

“No,” the Sea Snake’s reply was swift and delivered with a fierce frown, “we are far from secure now, Your Grace. Ships are being seized and held for ransom all across the Stepstones, my crews are being butchered and cargo stolen. Not just mine, either.”

She was hard-pressed to hold in a gasp. She had never heard even a whisper of pirates arising in the Stepstones again.

“The Stepstones are not the Seven Kingdoms,” the king softly reminded him.

“No, they are not,” reluctantly allowed the Lord of the Tides. “And yet it is our people that suffer the most, our people butchered or sold into slavery when the ransom is not paid. Wars were started for less, and yet the Iron Throne leaves its people’s blood and tears to water the Steps.”

“Not anymore,” the king declared, his voice firm. “Lord Corlys, I charge you with making the Narrow Sea safe for our people.”

“Your will be done, Your Grace.”

Lord Beesbury let himself be heard then. “Your Grace… His Grace, King Viserys… That is, Ser Otto believed, and your brother agreed, that such a venture would be costly. In both the gold and the men. Too costly for the Iron Throne to bear.”

Daemon leaned back in his seat, his expression politely interested, unsurprised. Aemma had not even known that there was trouble in the Stepstones before the Sea Snake had mentioned it, yet Viserys had known and decided to do… nothing?

“Too costly, my good lord? Is the treasury truly in such an abysmal state that we cannot afford to protect our shores, our own people ? I might not have been the Master of Coin for long, but I certainly do not recall our standing to be so poor.”

It was Beesbury’s turn to cough. “Not poor, not by far, but the concern-”

Daemon’s cold voice cut in sharply, “Should the Iron Throne keep the concern for gold above the concern of its people? If so, let us rest on our laurels while the people suffer. If not, then let us act. What say you?”

Beesbury coughed again. “The… taxes collected from the Houses of the Narrow Sea have been falling in recent years. Ever since the Triarchy took hold of the islands, to be precise. If… If we take into account the lives, ships, and cargo lost already along with the lost revenues… Mayhaps the cost is not too high for a campaign to cleanse them.”

“Not cleanse them,” Daemon corrected the man with a patient smile. “ Hold them. The Stepstones are the key to the Narrow Sea, and they have been left to rot too much ever since the Doom. It is high time the order was restored there.”

“Your Grace… The Stepstones are notoriously… challenging to hold,” Lord Strong let himself be heard.

“They were not so notorious in the times of Old Valyria,” Daemon countered evenly, “when dragons held them.” He reached for Aemma’s hand and kissed her fingers. “Gods willing, there will be enough dragonriders to hold them before long.”

Chapter Text

Mayhaps it was petty of him to enjoy the shock, the horror, on Otto’s face quite as much as he did, but he could not help it, and he did not care. The man had grown too big for his britches before Daemon had even been called back to court upon his brother’s ascension to the throne, and it had been a bitter draught to swallow, to find such a snake so comfortably situated in his brother’s trust, far above what he, the little brother, could have ever hoped for.

There were times when he had questioned his hotheadedness, his foolish faith in Viserys after their father’s death. Every time he had been demeaned and turned away, every time he had been denied his annulment, he had wondered whether Rhaenys would not have been the better choice, whether he had not made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Now, as the rats quivered in his presence, hoping to flee without injury, that question was put to rest. Daemon was the king now and whatever weeds his brother had allowed to sprout under his nose, he would find and remove, root and stem. Gods willing, he would get to burn some of them.

A grim smile settled on his face. Or he could send them off to die in the Stepstones. Otto had been knighted once upon a time, after all.

It would not be quite as satisfying as feeding him to Caraxes, far from it, that was for certain, but he would not have to wait for the man to give him an excuse, and he could ill afford to start his reign by executing his brother’s loyal courtiers seemingly without cause. Much less the one that so loved likening Daemon to Maegor.

The man had been trembling with fear, and he delighted in it. Spooked men rarely thought clearly, and dear Otto rightly believed himself cornered. Oh, how Daemon wished for the man to try something truly foolish. His men were ready for it, he was champing at the bit for it, and Mysaria had ensured him her people were ready too. All Otto had to do was make a move.

He was basking in the knowledge even after the Small Council dispersed, leaving him and his queen alone.

“Will you come with me to speak to Rhaenyra?” Aemma’s question was soft, her touch on his wrist hesitant.

He did not wince. “I thought you spoke to her already.”

“I did,” she told him as he determinedly not looked toward her, “but I could not tell her… this. I think… I think both of us should explain… this. So she would not be… upset. More upset, that is.”

“I would not wish to upset her,” he said, his voice hushed.

He was to get everything he could have ever asked for, he had known when Corlys had proposed this, when he had proposed it to Aemma in turn. He could raise Rhaenyra as his own, better than his brother would have. They could all be happy together. 

Daemon had given no thought at all to how Rhaenyra might take the news that he had wed her mother not even a day after her father’s death. He had given no thought to how to tell her.

He coughed. “I do not know what to tell her,” he admitted, sickening heat creeping up his neck.

“The truth.” Aemma’s voice was warm, and so were her eyes when he dared meet them at last.

“Surely not all of it,” he made a sorry attempt at a jape, a corner of his lips barely lifting.

“The truth, ” Aemma repeated herself firmly, her tone warming further, “that you did it to protect me. To protect her and any sibling she might have.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles without a thought. “Indeed, any sibling she might have too.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Indeed. I hear the realm might need quite a few of them before long.”

He brushed another kiss to her knuckles and her expression shifted, her eyes losing their warmth.

“What if I was wrong ? What if… What if it was not truly Viserys’ fault? What if…?”

He did not know. The truth was, he had stopped caring some time ago to whom the fault belonged, had stopped caring about the excuse, but…

“You bonded with Dreamfyre. The babe has an egg to strengthen it even before it is born. All will be well,” he assured her, his voice low.

Aemma’s gaze dropped to her lap, her tone miserable, “What if that is not enough?”

He took hold of her chin and gently guided her to face him again. “I will find you the best midwife this side of the Narrow Sea. I will find you the best healers there are.”

“What if none of that is enough?”

There were tears pooling in her eyes, and he cursed in the privacy of his mind. “Then you will heal and rest and grow stronger before we eventually try again.”

“You are the king now. You need an-”

“Are you suggesting I take another wife? Have you forgotten how poorly that went for my brother already?”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.” 

There was pure agony in her eyes, and he could not tear his gaze away, no matter how much he wanted to.

“I know,” he said at last, his voice scratchy as his eyes dropped to her belly. He did know, had known, but he had not allowed himself to think on it too much. He knew this babe would be well. The gods had given him Aemma, Rhaenyra and the throne. They would grant him the babe too, he was certain of it. “I know. The gods give and the gods take away.” His grip on her fingers tightened. “They have taken enough from both of us already. They will not take this too.”

“I wish I had your faith,” Aemma whispered, and Daemon turned the hand in his hold and pressed a long kiss to the inside of her wrist lest he burst out laughing. 

His habitually sunny niece was a little pale-headed pile of crumpled unhappiness when they entered the nursery, her shoulders slumped, her expression far too grave for her face, tears pearling on her lashes, her voice too silent when she spoke. “May I see father?”

Daemon was struck speechless, his throat somehow growing even tighter, but Aemma went to her knees in front of Rhaenyra, tenderly brushing her hair out of her reddened face. “Not now, sweetling, the Silent Sisters are attending to him. I will take you once… once it is time.”

Rhaenyra, the boisterous, demanding child that she was, did not wheedle, or insist or complain, she merely nodded her head desolately, fixing her gaze on the floor.

“We came to tell you something, your uncle and I,” Aemma softly told her, her fingers brushing her daughter’s cheek in a cautious loving caress.

Rhaenyra’s eyes lifted from the floor to regard him dully, giving him a perfect curtsy. “Uncle Daemon is the king now, I know. My felicitations, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” he forced out of his mouth, the words tearing strips of flesh from his throat.

“That is kind of you, Rhaenyra,” Aemma told her daughter, her eyes flashing over her shoulders to Daemon with a slight frown before they fastened on his niece once more. “That is… only a part of it.”

“Only a part of it?” Rhaenyra prompted, a spark of curiosity ignited when Aemma fell silent.

Aemma remained silent, though, so it fell to Daemon to say it. “Your mother and I… We wed. It was…”

“You are not going to send us away?” His niece jumped in, her big, big eyes widening, begging him.

He coughed to dislodge the something from his throat. “No, of course not. I would never send you away. I am your kepa. You know what it means. I was your kepa, your uncle. Now, I will be your kepa, your father, too. And your father could never send you away.”

“Good,” she told him with a serious frown. “Good. I don’t want to leave.”

“An army could not take the two of you away from me,” he assured her.

“We wed so you would be safe,” Aemma’s soft voice finally let itself be heard. “So all of us would be safe.”

“All of us?”

“All of us,” Aemma confirmed with a solemn nod, one hand on Rhaenyra’s cheek, another on her belly.

Rhaenyra hummed, her gaze fixed to her mother’s belly, her mother’s hand there. “You did promise this time it would be different.”

“It will be, sweetling. It will be. You will see.”

Daemon swallowed dryly. Even Rhaenyra had doubts. Sweet, innocent Rhaenyra, too young to truly understand.

“Dearest Otto, have you given any thought to when you are to depart the capital?” he asked as he made himself comfortable on one of the couches.

He had, given his unflinching stare. “Of course, Your Grace. I would mislike inconveniencing Lord Velaryon more than absolutely necessary. However, as one might imagine, my poor daughter is quite distraught by the recent events and I would mislike pressing her to travel in such a state even more.”

“Ah, fear not, she will not be going anywhere. Not for quite some time.”

The man stilled. “Pardon me, Your Grace? I must have-”

“You did not. All of the realm knows that Lady Alicent warmed my brother’s bed. I would not have her provide the same comfort to another, certainly not soon enough for her to claim the child to be my brother’s.”

“My daughter is no whore!” 

Daemon delighted in the redness of the man’s face as he jumped out of his seat.

“Of that, there is no doubt, I assure you”, he said with a smirk. “She will be granted a chamber in Maegor’s Holdfast, and she will be accompanied by septas at all times to ensure her comfort.” He shrugged. “Who knows, such a pious girl as she is, she might even decide to join them in the Faith. I imagine she might find great comfort inside the walls of a motherhouse.”

The longer Daemon spoke, the more color drained out of Otto’s face until it was as white as a sheet, and he suppressed a smile. He did not even know all of it yet.

“I will… I will be sure to inform her in the morn, Your Grace. I fear she has already retired for the evening.”

Daemon smiled at him, waving the words away as he stood up. “Oh, there is no need, my good ser. Her septas are sure to have everything well in hand by now.”

Otto Hightower swayed on his feet. “By… Whatever could Your Grace…?”

Daemon raised a brow, affecting innocent surprise. “The poor dears were most concerned for Lady Alicent and very eager for their service to begin. I could hardly hold them back, could I?”

“My… Alicent…”

His voice was cold as he delivered the parting shot. “Have a good night, Ser Otto. Be sure to inform the Lord Hand by when he will be able to move in.”

“My… guards… guards should have-” the man mumbled, and Daemon smirked as the door closed behind him. Guards. Pah! As if Daemon did not have thousands at his beck and call. Otto’s guards would have stood no chance against the king’s authority, the Faith’s disapproving gaze and determined City Watch, led by a seasoned knight of the Kingsguard. By the sounds of it, they had not tempted their luck.

Now, all that remained to be seen was whether the man would come snatching at the bait.

Ser Harrold stood guard at the door, as far from the Queen’s apartments as one could get without leaving the holdfast altogether.

“Did she drink it?” he asked as he reached him.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Very well, I would speak to the woman in charge.”

Ser Harrold bowed his head and perfunctorily knocked on the wood before cracking the door open to summon a grey-haired septa.

“Your Grace,” she bowed deeply when she saw him.

“Septa, thank you for your service. However, I must ask you to ensure she drinks the tea every day in your care.”

The woman inclined her head and disagreed. “Such hardly seems necessary, Your Grace. I assure you, she will not be given opportunity to sin further under our watch. There will be a sister sleeping from either side of her and another at the foot of the bed. I myself will sleep in front of the door.”

Daemon did not grit his teeth, but gave her an understanding look. “I have every faith in you and your sisters. However… I fear that such pure souls cannot fathom the paths wickedness may take to achieve its goals.”

The woman preened and blushed. “Your Grace is too kind. It is our solemn duty to root out sin in this girl, and we will do it by whatever means necessary, however… distasteful.”

He gave her a solemn nod. “The wicked are always surprised to find that the good can be clever.”

The crone beamed at him. “Quite so, Your Grace, quite so.”

“I will leave the matters in your capable hands, then. Inform me, if there are any… developments.”

“Of course, Your Grace. May the Seven light your path!”

He gave her a slight smile. “And yours, septa.”

He hated zealots, but he had to admit, they did have their uses.

He found Aemma pacing her bedchamber, already dressed for sleep, her ladies dismissed for the night.

“Servants brought your… things,” she informed him, not pausing her steps.

Daemon raised his brows and started to remove his doublet. “Good.” 

She did stop at that. “ Why did servants bring your things?”

He rolled his eyes. “Because I would prefer not to sleep in my court clothes, if it is all the same to you.”

Aemma blushed. “You intend to sleep here?”

His hands stopped moving, a button half-undone, and he blinked and shook his head. “I do.”

“But… but,” she sputtered, looking utterly bewildered, sounding more than a little breathless, “that is not done.”

“I don’t care,” he said slowly, drawing his words out carefully. “I would greatly dislike it were someone to decide to make me a widower. I do not intend to give anyone a chance, and should the two knights of the Kingsguard not suffice, there is still me to account for.”

“You.” Aemma’s tone was skeptical.

“Aye, me,” he growled out and strode over to the bed in a foul mood, hanging his swordbelt on the bedpost on his side of the bed, sliding a dagger out of its sheath and placing it under the pillow.

He removed his boots and threw himself onto the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes sliding shut.

“Are you… Are you going to… sleep?”

“It would seem so,” he responded through gritted teeth, his eyes stubbornly closed.

“ Just sleep?”

He let out a frustrated huff and opened his eyes to find her standing over him. “Just sleep,” he confirmed, not letting his doubts show in his eyes. “You have had a trying few days and nights. We have. Let us… Let us just sleep.”

“Together?” 

Her baffled tone had him huffing out a laugh and rising out of bed to press a kiss to the wrinkles of her frown.

“Aye, together.”

She looked into his eyes and nodded, climbing under the covers at last, and Daemon set about changing after all, turning away to hide his own frown.

He had not give much thought to the frailty of Aemma’s health before their talk earlier in the day. Mayhaps he had truly believed her suspicion regarding Viserys’ seed. Mayhaps the fire she suddenly possessed, the iron in her spine, had blinded him to the fact that Aemma that carried his babe was the same that had labored and suffered in the same struggle many times before.

Mayhaps he had merely been an oblivious fool, indulging in her charms without thought to the consequences. He had indulged her, them both, too much, and they had come close to discovery. But what if he had already caused a greater harm?

He could not allow himself to lay with her again before he spoke with someone knowledgeable in the matter. And it was most certainly not going to be the old useless Runciter.

Aemma was already half-way asleep when he joined her, her body warm and welcoming when it pressed against his side, setting his blood aflame, and he could only lay there, his arms wrapped around her and stare blankly at the canopy, praying for sleep.

Oh, gods, this marriage was already promising to be an endless torment.

Chapter Text

Aemma stood and stared at the pale, bloodless hands wrapped around Blackfyre’s hilt, unable to look at Viserys’ face. Even now, laid out on a bier, his insides stuffed full of fragrant herbs, she could not look at him for fear he would rise, and her torment would begin anew.

She had not attended him the first day after his death, and it had been easy to excuse the oversight to herself with the need to console her darling daughter. Others would understand it surely as well, with the body in the care of the silent sisters.

She could not hide from it anymore once the body had been laid on its bier below the Iron Throne.

A dowager queen or a queen, it mattered little. Either was expected to attend the prayers said over the body of the king as it laid in state, and the king had ordered that it would do so for six days before it was moved to the Dragonpit to be burned on the seventh in a grand procession.

The king had spoken, and the queen had to obey, whether she wished to or not, whether she complained or not. Aemma had not. Aemma had not spoken a word against Daemon’s decree, to him or otherwise, had not dared to, and so Rhaenyra’s hand clasped in her own freezing one became Aemma’s only source of warmth during the prayers.

Through it all, Daemon stood by her side, about as warm and welcoming as the Wall.

On that first day as his wife, as his queen, in that glorious meeting of the Small Council, he had displayed affection and confidence in her, but ever since then… Daemon had never been one to read easily, but now he had become a riddle, a confusing puzzle she could not for the life of her piece together.

She had thought they would be happy. Viserys was dead, they were free to be together, and their child would be theirs, openly and without even a hint of danger.

She had been wrong, and she had not an inkling as to what had happened, where things had gone awry.

Daemon was a block of ice when in public now, softening only in Rhaenyra’s presence or behind the closed door of her bedchamber. And he did soften when alone. He softened, giving her his attention and strained smiles and then, when they retired, he held her and slept.  

It was maddening. He was maddening. He had tempted her with a glimpse of a life that could be, only to then have it cruelly torn away.

So Aemma stared at Viserys’ pale hands and grieved the life she had been fool enough to believe in. A searing drop of water rolled down her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut to prevent more from escaping, scolding herself. Her conduct during the public prayers had been flawlessly composed as befit a queen and now, during the very last session, she could not break at last. 

“Mama?” Rhaenyra’s soft question startled Aemma and shame flooded her as she blinked her eyes open, staring down into the small upturned face framed by a halo of hair glowing in the light of the setting sun, and realized her hold on her daughter’s hand had tightened. She let go. 

“Mama, are you well?”

“Of course, sweetling,” she whispered, her voice quivering, her lips unable to form the reassuring smile she wanted to give her, tears wetting her cheeks.

Rhaenyra did not look convinced, a frown forming on her face.

Aemma closed her eyes once more and took a deep breath to try and calm herself, to reassure her daughter that her mother was well.

She failed utterly when she felt warm arms wrap around her, drawing her into an even warmer embrace, and her silent tears turned into sobs as she hid her face in her husband’s chest.

“Please, don’t cry, mama. I love you.”

Rhaenyra’s desolate tone and slight tugging on her skirts had her only weeping harder, though, and Daemon’s hold on her tightened, as he whispered sweet nothings in High Valyrian into her hair. His voice was soothing, his lies were not. It was anger that had her tears stop falling, her fingers buried in his doublet curling into fists.

Her tone was cool when she was able to speak in a low, steady voice at last. “Let go.”

A puzzled frown marred Daemon’s face. “Are you-?”

“Yes,” she answered, finally giving Rheanyra a reassuring smile as she caressed her pale cheek. “I am well. I apologize for my loss of composure.”

“There is nothing to-”

“There is,” she disagreed evenly, keeping her tone low and light, not looking away from Rhaenyra’s face for even a moment. “I am a queen. Such display of emotion is below me.”

Aemma’s attention remained on her darling daughter for the rest of the prayers, stroking her hair as she pressed into her side. Her former husband had no need of her attention, and her current one did not deserve it.

As ever, the evening prayers were followed by a private supper in Aemma’s chambers, and the minute wrinkle between Daemon’s brows remained firmly in place as she chattered with Rhaenyra, and he played with his food. The wrinkle remained as they brought Rhaenyra back to the nursery and kissed her goodnight. 

She did not see the wrinkle as she strode back to her chambers, but she was certain it was there nevertheless.

“Are you…? Would you like to go see Dreamfyre?”

For a moment, Aemma was stumped. Then, she wondered whether to laugh or weep. Instead, she threw her arms into the air and plopped herself onto the bed to glare at him.

“Of course, I would like to go see Dreamfyre!”

Daemon’s head was tilted to the side, and he seemed to be examining her closely. “Would you… like to go fly? I find it… helps relieve tension.”

She let out a low growl. The only tension Aemma felt, Daemon was responsible for. 

As her dear husband’s brows jumped up, she smoothed out her face, pushing herself off the bed, approaching him with a smile. “Do you know what would truly serve to relieve tension?” 

She watched his lips stretch, the corners curling up, a fire lighting in his eyes and for the first time over these long, long days, she felt warmth spark within her. But then, just as she was to reach for him, he spun around and strode toward the hidden entrance to the tunnels, her hand left grasping air.

“Aye, I do. We truly should have gone to the Dragonpit sooner, but I hoped…” Daemon cut himself off with a head shake, and Aemma was left to follow him into the darkness or be left behind.  

“What did you hope?” The curiosity was stronger than irritation.

“That dear Ser Otto was would prove a greater fool than he is,” he told her sourly, and she could picture the displeased twist to his lips well enough.

“What does… What does that mean?” she questioned, short on breath as she struggled to keep up with his long strides.

“That Caraxes will be robbed of a delicious meal.”

Aemma stopped, startled. “What?”

The sound of Daemon’s footsteps paused as well, and then he was back in front of her, frowning down into her face, warm hands on her cheeks, tilting her face this way and that.

“Is something wrong? Do you feel faint? Do need to-?”

She swatted his hands away. “No! Why would…? What is this nonsense about Otto Hightower?!”

“I presented him a bait, and he did not snatch at it. It would seem I will not get to see him burn.”

His face was tight with displeasure, his jaw clenched hard, and she would have laughed at him had her own insides not been twisted by fear. “You mean… You will let him get away with…?”

He turned away from her sharply and stalked away and then back. “Of course, not! What kind of fool do you take me for?! He will die. It will merely be far from my sight and likely far less painful than I, we, would have preferred.”

Aemma rubbed her arms. “As long as he dies.”

“He will,” he promised her, his eyes ablaze, and her heart fluttered as their gazes locked, her hand reaching for him to bring him in for a kiss that turned from hesitant to desperate in a blink of an eye.

She was lightheaded with giddiness of relief as she found herself pressed against the stone, greedy hands roving her form, questing lips blazing a trail along the column of her throat and across her bosom. She gasped for breath when teeth seized her clothed breast, her fingers tightening in Daemon’s hair. “Oh, gods.”

“Oh, gods, indeed,” he agreed once done with his torment of her poor, poor breasts, a chuckle teasing her lips before he devoured them in a searing kiss.

“Shall we return to the bed, then, husband?” she breathed into his ear when they separated for air and felt him turn rigid, his breathing still harsh and loud in her ears, growing louder as moments passed by.

“We should not delay visiting the dragons anymore, wife,” he chided her, his thumb brushing her swollen lip.

“The dragons,” she repeated blankly, still breathless.

She watched him nod resolutely. “Aye, the dragons.”

“What do you mea-”

But Daemon pushed away from her, leaving her cold, leaving her bereft. “There will be a crowd in the Dragonpit come morrow. A much larger crowd than anything they are used to, especially Dreamfyre. With the two of you only recently bonded, 'twould be for the best to prepare her.”

“Prepare her,” Aemma echoed him.

“Yes, prepare her,” Daemon said, his tone curious. “So she only lights the pyre, not the people.”

“Light the pyre?!” Aemma’s voice rose in disbelief. 

He stepped up close to her once more, his voice soft, gentle. “You are a dragonrider, and you are Viserys’ wife. It falls to you.”

“ Was Viserys’ wife,” she corrected him sullenly.

Daemon hummed agreeably, rising a hand to brush a thumb along her lower lip again. “You were.”

“Now I am not,” she told him, a hint of challenge in her voice.

“Now you are not,” he acquiesced.

“Now I am yours.”

“That you are,” he confirmed, his lips twitching.

“Then why,” Aemma hissed out, a finger jabbing into his chest viciously, “will you not take me?”

Daemon coughed and stumbled back. “Aemma-”

“Do not! Do not dare lie to me or placate me or do whatever it was you were about to do! I am done being placated and lied to and staying silent! I will not stand it! Do you hear me? I will not!”

It was mayhaps not the wisest course of action, yelling at one’s husband of all of a sennight when said husband was known far and wide for his volatile temper, but her hold on her temper was fraying and it was all his fault! It had been so much easier to manage before she had first approached him.

“We should not… We cannot be seen to be too affectionate this soon-”

“Seen?!” she waved her arms wildly around the dark, empty tunnel. “Seen by whom?! How?!”

“Aemma,” Daemon’s hands settled on her shoulders, ignoring her growl, “you should not… I did not mean to… cause upset to you. Please, calm down.”

She drew a deep breath into her lungs, wondering whether it was possible for her to breathe fire, too. Were it ever to happen, there surely would not be a more fitting moment than this.

“I do not. Need. To calm. Down!” she bit off.

“You do,” the fool retorted. “We need to think of the babe-”

An inhuman sound tore out of her throat and she was left staring at her suddenly aching knuckles. “My hand hurts,” she told him, puzzled.

“You hit me,” he grumbled at her.

She stared at her hand some more. Her wrist was hurting as well. “Are you wearing armor?” 

“No,” Daemon let out a snort of disgust, “you merely don’t know how to hit. Or where, for that matter.”

“Why would I…” Her words failed her, her throat closing up as she remembered why and burst into tears.

“Aemma, please, don’t-”

She shook him off as he tried to wrap her in his arms, to trap her. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare touch me! Don’t you dare… ! Oh, gods… Oh, dear, merciful gods… How can you… The babe is all I think about! I wish I could stop thinking about each and every babe I ever carried!”

“Aemma-” Daemon’s voice broke and this time, she let him envelop her in a hug, let him lay his cheek on top of her head, let him speak, because there was little strength left to her. “I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

“This babe will be different,” she told him, trying to convince herself. “This babe is different, because you are different, because I will be different. I will not do any of the things they made me do before. None. I will not drink foul smelling medicines. I will not eat stomach-turning meals. I will not shut myself away in my bedchamber. I will be a queen and a mother, and I will be a wife, with all that it entails.” 

 “That is…” Daemon coughed and Aemma was coming to resent the sound. “We should certainly speak to a… a… midwife about this… I think.”

“I shall not be forced into a bed again,” she insisted.

“I promise not to force you into a bed. You seem comfortable enough against the wall.” He wheezed out a laugh as her fist planted itself in his stomach. “That one was better.”

“This is not a jape,” she ground out through gritted teeth. “This is my life. My babe’s life.”

“ Our babe’s,” he corrected her gently, and as much as she wanted to keep being angry at him, she could not. She was just… tired.

“Let us… Let us just go to sleep,” she pleaded.

Daemon sighed and kissed her hair. “I was quite serious. We do need to see to the dragons. Unless you wish for Dreamfyre to remain in her cave and Syrax to burn-”

“No!” she retorted sharply. “Not Syrax!” Not Rhaenyra, rather. “I will do it.”

It would be good for her, besides, to excise this part of her life, to ensure there was truly no going back. It would be… cleansing, she assured herself. All of her disappointments, all of her failures, all of her pain, she would watch burn away to nothing but ashes of her own making.

Daemon waited at the entrance, not stepping into the dark enclosure whence Dreamfyre rested. Aemma did not want him to join her anyway, not this time, not as she pressed herself against her dragon’s side, running her fingers over the pearlescent scales, and whispered all of her woes to her in broken High Valyrian, in a broken voice.  

This was meant to be a new beginning for them both, for Aemma and Dreamfyre, and somehow, it felt hopeless once more. She squeezed her eyes shut against the thought and focused on the black egg instead, speaking of it to Dreamfyre, of her hopes, of them all flying together in a clear blue sky some time not too far in the future.

None of her babes had an egg this early. None of her babes had an egg before they had been even born, not even her beloved Rhaenyra. Surely, that meant something. A dragon for Aemma and the dragon’s egg for Aemma’s babe. Surely, the gods intended them for each other.

“All will be well,” she whispered to Dreamfyre as she rubbed her cold hands against the warm, warm scales. “We shall burn away the past and all shall be well. All manner of things shall be well, now that we have each other.”

“I wish to go flying after all,” she called to her husband eventually.

“Let us go to Caraxes, then, and let us be on our way.”

“No,” she declared, not looking away from Dreamfyre, not pausing in her stroking. “I am a dragonrider, you said. Let me be a dragonrider.”

“She is not saddled,” he informed her, as if she could not see well enough herself.

Aemma hummed in agreement. “I noticed.”

“She has not been saddled in decades,” Daemon clarified, and despite the gaping void in Aemma’s chest, her lips twitched.

“I know.”

“You cannot go flying without a saddle. You will get yourself killed.”

“I suppose that is true enough,” Aemma acknowledged. “We will have to find one, then, will we not?”

“We,” Daemon repeated sourly, and the petty part of her rejoiced. “I will, you mean.”

She hummed again, “I do.”

“Do you have to be like this?”

“I do,” she confirmed easily, caressing Dreamfyre’s silvery crest lovingly.

Daemon hesitated before speaking once more, and her lips curled maliciously. “Should I be concerned for my safety as I saddle her?”

Aemma’s smile stretched, and she shrugged her shoulders, seemingly without care. “We will see.”

He huffed out a laugh before she could hear him move away, the sound of his laughter echoing over his receding footsteps.

It would be glorious to fly, to leave the ground, and all that pressed down on her, behind. 

Oh, how sweet it would be. To be weightless, to be careless, to be free.

To lose oneself.

To forget.

To breathe.

Chapter Text

It was jarring, for her feet to meet the solid ground, when her head felt in the clouds still. She left drunk. She felt euphoric. 

Little laughs kept spilling from her mouth, and she had trouble catching her breath. Her legs were freezing, and she could not bring herself to care.

Aemma was a dragonrider in truth now. Her first flight on Dreamfyre had her drunk on the power she could wield, the all-consuming fire at her command. She was fire now that her soul was whole.

She was fearless, and her blood was boiling and Daemon did not let go of her after helping her down from the saddle, his eyes ablaze with fire of their own. There was nothing easier than to move her hands from his shoulders to his cheeks, nothing more natural than to rise to her tiptoes, nothing more important than to taste his fire in that very moment.

Aemma was fire, but Daemon was fire too, she was reminded as she found herself pressed between two furnaces, her blood beyond boiling. She was flying again.

She was flying and then, abruptly, the world shifted, and she was falling and Daemon was cursing foully, half-collapsed over her.

Aemma blinked up at him, her wits scattered. “What… What happened?”

Daemon pushed himself off the ground, kicking out at sand. “Your fucking dragon happened.”

“What do you…” Her voice petered out as she recalled just where they had been doing what they had been doing and let her head fall back into the sand, laughter overcoming her. Oh gods, she was shameless. 

A wide smile was remained on her face even when the laughter finally died down, and she turned her head to look at Dreamfyre’s sulking form. “I am so, so sorry,” she said in an utterly insincere voice, barely able to finish with Daemon’s disgusted scoff and her mirth returning.

“I am sorry,” she told her husband over her giggles and watched displeasure melt from his face, replaced by puzzlement, his brows twitching and his head tilting to the side as he looked down at her. Merriment gave way to concern.  “What is it?”

Daemon frowned and folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you… like this.”

Aemma ignored the sliver of unease at his words, smiling teasingly. “Laying in the sand? Need I remind you of our little… celebration? In this very place?”

She raised her arm invitingly, but, as he ignored it, she took hold of his hand and tugged on it. He did not move, and his frown deepened. “That is not what I meant.” He pulled her to her feet, and she let him, firmly back on the too-solid ground. “And I do not need to be reminded. We do need to prepare for the morn, though.”

“What is there to prepare for?” she muttered, rubbing her arms to ward off the cold.

Daemon raised a brow, a corner of his lips turning up. “The funeral, for one. If you are to command Dreamfyre to light the pyre, I would have you do so with style.”

Aemma’s hands paused. “Oh, do I not command her… fashionably enough for my king?”

A grin flashed across his face. “You do. You most certainly do. But there might be some confusion, some doubt, some concerns, if Dreamfyre is made to wait for the procession with Caraxes. No. No, I believe it best if we fly to the Dragonpit together.” The grin was back and wider. “Each atop a dragon of our own. The king and the queen.”

The cold was gone, corners of her lips turning up in answer. It was tempting. It was so very tempting. There was a warm glow in her chest. There was a dark, gaping pit in her stomach.

Aemma shook her head. “Rhaenyra,” she said, “I cannot leave Rhaenyra alone. Not for this.” She had caused her daughter more than enough pain and confusion already, she would not allow herself to be the cause for yet more. Not on this day. Hopefully, not on any day ever again. No matter the temptations put in front of her.

Daemon rolled his eyes at her. “Then take her with you. Dreamfyre will hardly even notice a load so heavy.”

And that was tempting too. She had… She had often feared that Rhaenyra saw her as lesser for her lack of a dragon, a sharp pain piercing her heart every single time her concerns were dismissed with an eye roll, for Aemma could never understand. Now… Now, that she had Dreamfyre, she could show her daughter she was a dragon too. That she understood. That there was no need to exclude her, no need to keep things from her.

Her jaw tightened as she fought to contain the scream clawing its way up her throat, recalling just how well those eye rolls mirrored Viserys’ casual dismissal of Aemma whenever it came to dragons. 

She was happy he was dead. She was, but she would have loved to see his reaction to her being a dragonrider. Now, she would have to contend herself with being the one to rid the world of his body and of his legacy.

And she would do so with their daughter by her side. The thought made her nauseous, and she had to close her eyes to steady herself.

“What a wonderful idea,” she breathed when she could speak once more, her fingers tightening their hold on her arms. “I am certain it will… it will be a relief not to be ogled in the procession.” It would be for Aemma, at least. 

A finger under her chin forced her to look up at him, into his face, into those damnable eyes shining with sympathy. “I am sorry.”

“Whatever for?” she asked without a thought, and his brows furrowed minutely.

“For… I know this is not…” Aemma watched the indomitable Daemon Targaryen stumble over his words in hushed fascination. “You did not…” He grimaced and turned away from her with a huff, his hands burrowing themselves in his hair. “I am not my brother.”

“You are not,” she agreed evenly. “You are far, far better than him.” A bitter chuckle escaped him and she pressed on. “Far better for me. To me. And you better remain so, for now that I have a dragon, I might just feed you to her should you displease me.”

Daemon laughed, a pure, delighted sound, and her stomach unknotted when he faced her again, his eyes filled with mischief, a brow playfully raised. “Is that so? Do you truly believe your command of Dreamfyre that good already?” 

He took a predatory step toward her, and her heartbeat sped up when the finger returned and his thumb caressed her bottom lip softly. “Have her fly away. Now.”

Aemma blinked slowly, her mind struggling to grasp the meaning of his words. It took an eternity for her to drag the High Valyrian word for flying from the deep, hazy recesses of her memory. 

She barely even noticed Dreamfyre to obey, so entrapped in Daemon’s gaze she was.

She did notice, with no small amount of disappointment, when he spun her around, laying his chin on her shoulder, content to watch the two dragons in the air.

Dreamfyre was breathtaking, she allowed once the dismay abated, the dragon’s exuberant antics a far cry from her flight with Aemma. She was twirling and diving, crashing through waves, sending pillars of fire into the night, darting to and fro. Caraxes, the much younger dragon, was far more sedate, even dignified, compared to her. He also kept his distance.

She was near tears again at her husband’s easy dismissal of her charms, but there was an utterly confusing, distant feeling of unabashed joy warming her insides.

Aemma jerked in his hold when Daemon spoke at last. “Call her back.”

A disbelieving laugh left her as she turned to look at him. “You cannot be serious! She is too far to hear me!”

Daemon hummed agreeably and pressed a light kiss to her shoulder. “True. Call her back.”

Aemma gaped at him and repeated herself, drawing out the words. “She is too far to hear me.”

The fiend’s lips twitched. “That is so. But you are bonded to her, are you not?”

Her lips thinned and she fought back a growl. “I am,” she snapped out instead.

“Well…” he drawled, his hand rising from where it had rested on her hip to tease her breast. “Does she truly need to hear you?”

“Of course,” she ground out. She might be only a recent dragonrider, but she was no fool.

“How unfortunate,” Daemon breathed hotly just below her ear. “I thought to reward you should you be able to.”

“Reward me?” she asked, her voice high and breathy.

She could feel his smile against her skin as his other hand traveled over her skirts and settled agonizingly close to where she wanted it, where she needed it. His teeth tugged on her earlobe lightly, and her eyes fell shut with a moan.

“Call her back,” he entreated with her again and gods, there was nothing she wished for more desperately than for Dreamfyre to be there and put an end to Daemon’s torment. He was heedless of her squirming, heedless of her pleading, merciless in his teasing.

He let out a chuckle and her eyes snapped open. “Good girl,” he told her, grinning widely, a moment before the ground shook with a thunderous crash and her breath was stolen away.

“How…?”

“You called her here. Here she is.” He gripped her chin, not letting her look away from him. “Now, send her away. Unless you wish for her to watch.”

Aemma could feel her eyes widening, and she made to turn to Dreamfyre, but Daemon did not let go. “Send her away. Silently.” His grin turned devious. “Or the reward will be rescinded.”

Aemma was robbed of speech, torn between desire, wonder, and outrage.

“Come now,” Daemon taunted as he stroked her under her chin, lowering his face to bite at her lower lip, tongue soothing it afterward. “Do you not want her to leave?”

Aemma wanted desperately.

Daemon’s eyes laughed at her when he pulled her down into the sand, but she did not care when his breath brushed the soft skin on the inside of her thighs.

“Do you… Do you think I could sleep with Rhaenyra tonight?” she asked when they returned to the bedchamber.

Daemon’s brows rose. “Why?”

Aemma chewed on her lip as she considered her answer. “I think she… might need it.” She needed it too.

He examined her face carefully, and she struggled not to flinch under his gaze. She knew Daemon did not trust the guards. She knew he wanted her next to him, Dark Sister close at hand. She knew it all and yet… 

“And I… I wish to tell her about Dreamfyre. I do not want her surprised in the morn.”

“You could have her brought here,” Daemon suggested oh-so-reasonably, and she knew herself caught. “I will not mind.”

“Thank you. I will,” she whispered, her cheeks warming, unable to meet his eyes. Her eyes were planted firmly on the floor as she brushed past him to order just that.

Something was very, very wrong.

Rhaenyra’s eyes were barely open when she was brought to them, having been put to bed hours ago, and guilt gnawed at Aemma.  

“I wanted to tell you a secret,” she whispered to her drowsing daughter when they laid in bed, face to face. Daemon did not join them. He was not even in the bedchamber anymore.

“What secret?” Rhaenyra breathed, her eyes wide, sleep gone from them.

Aemma allowed herself a long moment of silence and a slow smile to stretch on her face, enjoying the rapt attention on her sweet babe’s face. “A big, big secret no one knows yet. Everyone will know tomorrow, but I wanted you to be the first one to know.”

“Know what?” Rhaenyra asked, hugging her toy dragon tightly in an effort to try and restrain herself, she was sure. Aemma’s smile stretched further. “Mama!” her treasure whined after just a moment, the silence too much to bear.

“I rode a dragon today,” she whispered to her at last. 

“A dragon?” Rhaenyra’s face was slack with shock, before it crumpled up in betrayal. “Caraxes? Kepa took you flying on Caraxes without me?!”

A laugh escaped her. “No, sweetling. It was not Caraxes I rode today. It was Dreamfyre.”

“Dreamfyre,” the deep, thoughtful frown on her daughter’s face was adorable, “but Dreamfyre is not-” Rhaenyra cut herself off and shot up, bouncing on her knees. “Mama! You bonded with Dreamfyre?!”

“Yes, sweetling, I did,” she replied over her giggles.

“Oh, mama, that is so… Oh, I have no words! We will have so much fun together!”

Aemma watched her bounce excitedly, a beaming smile on her flushed face, and she reached out to stroke her hair. “That we will. We will have lots and lots of fun.” She sighed as her heart sank. “But first… I would… There is the funeral on the morrow. Dreamfyre will be the one to light the pyre, and I need to… I will fly her to the Dragonpit. I would have you come with me. If you wish.”

Rhaenyra stilled, and her face fell, her gaze dropping to her stuffed dragon. “Do I have to go?” she whispered, her lip wobbling the tiniest bit.

Her heart ached. “You do not have to,” she allowed. “But… Do you truly do not wish to see your father for the last time?”

It would be best for all of them for Rhaenyra to forget her father entirely. She would bar her from ever laying eyes on him, ever so much as thinking about him, if she could. A vicious, not-so-small part of Aemma fiercely wished for it. But Aemma had lost her father as a girl as well and she knew… 

“Farewells are important,” she shared with her heartbroken daughter in a hushed voice. Her father had left King’s Landing after her wedding without her having spoken so much as a word to him, the sting of betrayal, the pain of it too much. Aemma had never seen her father again.

“Farewells are important,” Rhaenyra repeated under her breath, stroking her toy dragon. “I did not say goodbye. I just… I yelled and cried and kicked, and he sent me back and then he… I am a bad daughter, I should have…”

Aemma’s heart bled for her daughter. “You are the best daughter anyone could ask for. You are the light of my life. You were the light of your father’s life. He was… I am certain he would not have wanted you there. I am certain it was a great relief for him to know that you were safe. There was not a single person in this world he loved as much as he did you.”

There were tears running down Rhaenyra’s face. “Do you promise? Even… even when I was not a boy?”

“I promise, sweetling,” she said as she drew her pale head to her breast, dropping kisses into her hair. “I promise.”

Daemon did not reappear in the bedchamber until the morn, until breakfast was brought, and he joined Aemma and Rhaenyra at the table. She was grateful. She was… hurt. She was utterly confused.

But mostly… mostly, she was grateful.

He was being very quiet. So was Rhaenyra for that matter, but Rhaenyra she understood. Rhaenyra did not watch her as if Aemma was some exotic specimen and she a predator, considering the wisdom of approaching.

Daemon was not meant to be this… deliberate.

It was driving her spare. Even when she was dressed in the rich black dress, decidedly less modest than what she truly should wear to a funeral, much less her former husband’s, the caution in his gaze overpowered the hunger. And there was hunger.

But Daemon was not the important one now.

No, it was Rhaenyra with her pale face and dressed all in black. It was Rhaenyra, only barely cheered by the sight of a new dragon. It was Rhaenyra, her small hand uncommonly cold in her own.

She was so very grateful they did not have to join the procession. Even this much, even mounting Dreamfyre long after members of the court departed and only guards and servants watched them climb onto the dragons, felt like too much.

Too much for Rhaenyra and too much for herself. She felt like she might scream, if she was made to mourn any longer. She needed to be rid of it at last.

The sight of the Dragonpit as they circled it and finally descended to it, was deliverance.

A roar rose when Caraxes swooped into it through the massive door, loud enough for her to hear over the rushing of the air.

A hush fell over the crowd once Dreamfyre followed.

There were many, many pale faces among the courtiers she could see as she climbed down, Rhaenyra a warm, reassuring presence buried into her side.

Aemma joined Daemon and held her head high, her back straight, her face expressionless as an unknown septon coughed and raised his voice to recite the words of the rite. She paid him no mind. Her gaze was fixed on Viserys’ crown, still laying on his chest.

The crown of the Young King.

The crown of the Old King.

The symbol of power of the two men that had caused her the most harm.

Daemon was a silent, stoic presence at her side, and she did not dare turn to see his face.

He was the king now, but he had not been crowned yet. Her stomach turned at the thought of seeing this crown sitting on his head.

She felt so very cold when the time came for her to step forward and take it.

She took a step and closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

“ Dracarys, ” she said, her voice loud and even and cold. 

Dracarys. Such a simple, beautiful word. 

Dragonflame roared and with one word, she was free of her past, free of its burden, free of even the faintest chance of it returning to snatch everything away from her once more.

Aemma watched Viserys’ body and his damned crown be consumed by the flames, she watched it be reduced to ashes and in her mind’s eye, she could see her old self burning too.

She stood and watched until there was nothing but cold ashes left of both of them.

Chapter Text

Daemon did not even blink when the ceremony veered wildly off the plan. He could not. He was frozen by shock, unable to so much as move a brow, only barely aware of Rhaenyra’s flinch, his arm still around her shoulders.

Aemma did not move either, facing the flames, and his stare burrowed into her back, watching her rather than the flames consuming his brother. The woman, his wife, kept surprising him, and it was a less than pleasant feeling after so many years of knowing her. At times, she felt almost like a stranger.

That was rather dramatic, he wanted to say, to gripe, to ease the tension that built between his shoulder blades, when she moved and faced him at last, but the words died in his throat at the sight of her burning eyes, and he swallowed dryly, dropping his gaze and patting Rhaenyra’s pale head instead.

A stranger, he thought. An endlessly fascinating, infinitely tempting stranger.

His wife.

They were to return to the Red Keep with the other courtiers, but… the crowd had thinned while he had waited on Aemma to wake from her stupor, and he did not fancy a lengthy trip across the city when her state was so uncertain. When he could be scarcely certain of his own.

“We will fly back,” he shot over his shoulder to the assembled Kingsguard and took a step toward Aemma, toward the dragons, before any objections could arise. Rhaenyra did not miss a step.

Bewilderment painted Aemma’s face, but delight shone in her eyes, and he hurried forward to turn her around, her back on the Kingsguard once more, his back on them the entire time, gods be praised.

“My king,” Aemma murmured in a voice that stirred his hunger, his need to devour, and his fingers tightened minutely on her arm.

“My queen,” he acknowledged her with a brisk nod, “will Rhaenyra fly with you?”

The delight spread from her eyes to her lips and his breath caught, his heart stilling, assaulted by a vicious feeling of guilt.

Aemma was not displaying even a smidgen of sadness. For as long as he had known her, there was always sadness about her, the very air around her seemingly suffused with pain and tragedy. Over the years, he had grown used to it, but it had made him desperate to escape her presence on more than one occasion. 

Now, it was gone. Gone, as if it had never existed in the first place.

A part of him was very, very relieved. A part of him was very, very confused. The largest part though… His insides were being devoured by unease and immense guilt.  

His brother was gone, yet… The all-consuming rage that had near blinded him when he had died was gone too now, and Daemon felt… Free. Unburdened. Grateful.

He had so many things to worry about still, but he had the control of his fate now, not those snakes whispering in to his brother’s ears.

When Viserys had died, he had felt shame unlike any other to desire Aemma, to be so quick to replace him in her and Rhaenyra’s life, but the needs of the realm came first, he told himself. Daemon needed to be a good king, and he would be a good husband and father to make up for the shame, to make it up to Aemma and his darling niece.

Beyond that first flush of anger, Daemon did not know how to grieve for his brother, his death offering him too much. He had assured himself that Aemma would grieve for the both of them. Daemon might have given her a babe, might have given her pleasure, but she had given her heart to Viserys long before desperation and bitterness drove her into Daemon’s arms.

But… There was not a trace of sorrow in Aemma’s bearing now, and the guilt was threatening to eat him alive. Daemon was glad.

Daemon was not a gentle man, nor a patient one. He had little doubt he would prove not the best of husbands, but perhaps… Perhaps he could prove to be better than Viserys still. Better loved.

The spark of hope deep, deep in his deadened heart burned most painfully.

The too-short flight on Caraxes back to the Red Keep did little to settle his mind, and when he faced the long line of courtiers, one after another bowing in front of the Iron Throne, expressing their lengthy condolences and expounding on Viserys’ virtues, he did so with a grave face and his jaw tightly locked. Aemma sat in a lavish chair by his side, her back straight, her face composed, the perfect picture of dignified widow to all. 

All but Daemon.

There was a touch less tension in her shoulders, a touch less tightness around her eyes, just a touch less of everything he had come to believe an inseparable piece of her over the eternity he had known her. A touch more pride, but that, at least, was understandable. 

Queen Aemma Arryn, the wife of King Viserys, the First of His Name, was not the woman he had wed, he came to realize.

Queen Aemma, the wife of King Daemon, the First of His Name, was a woman as foreign to his goodsister as could be.

The guilt eased somewhat, and his jaw unclenched as the last of the petty nobles filed past, allowing for merchants and then officers of the City Watch and then finally, finally, long after Daemon’s arse had gone numb, the bravest of the smallfolk, the last in the line and, thankfully, the least eloquent of all. 

He was itching to jump to his feet, but he rose slowly, carefully, mindful of the pins and needles in his legs. He felt a hundred years old.

“We thank you all for your most sincere condolences!” And sincere they were, at least on the part of the nobles, he was sure. He opened his arms invitingly. “Please, join the queen and I in a modest meal to honor my brother!”

And modest it would be. New times were coming and the court better get ready for them.

Aemma that was his wife was not the Aemma of his brother, and that made things easier, that was a thing worth celebrating, he believed. He had been very, very patient, allowing her ladies to change her into nightwear and put her to bed, not giving into the temptation to pace like a caged lion, no matter how seductive.

No, he was above sniffing around his wife’s skirts when he could not have her, he reminded himself. Above it, and with a mountain of chores to attend to besides.

There was still the blasted Most Devout, tucked away in a relatively comfortable chamber. He wondered what to do with him now. Everything pointed toward the man’s innocence. Even to Daemon’s ears, the man’s words sounded sincere. Everything pointed to his innocence, but Daemon’s instincts were screaming at him. 

“My brother’s funeral was today. Such a shame you were unable to attend,” he remarked to the man when the door closed, and they were left alone.

“My most sincere apologies, Your Grace. I will pray for His Grace’s soul. May the Father judge it justly.”

A muscle in Daemon’s jaw twitched, and he walked over to a window to look out into the night. “Aye, may he. Now, I am left to wonder… Whatever shall I do with you?”

“I am but Your Grace’s humble servant. Whatever your will, I will do, as long as the Seven allow.”

Daemon closed his eyes, his irritation rising, and inhaled through his nose, letting the air out slowly. “What would you have me do with you?”

“The gods sent me to this godless city in such a turbulent time for a reason, Your Grace. I shall remain here as long as they will me to, and not a moment longer.”

Daemon’s brows jumped up and his lips twitched. What a humble servant indeed. “Godless city? Is that how they see King’s Landing in Oldtown?”

The man was no fool, and his tone turned wary. “Is that not how they see King’s Landing everywhere? Power attracts corruption, and where else lies power such as the one here?”

Oldtown, Daemon would have responded had he been a fool himself. Oldtown held the power of the Faith and the Citadel, both, held control over the minds and the hearts of the people.

He fucking hated Oldtown.

“You will write to the High Septon, inviting him to King’s Landing to crown the new king.”

There was a long beat of silence, and he wondered whether he had rendered the man mute. “Will Your Grace not fly to Oldtown as is custom?”

Daemon almost laughed out loud. The Faith had just murdered his brother. There was little chance he would hand himself and his expectant wife over into their care. “I find this to be an opportune time for new customs, would you not agree?”

He threw a look back over his shoulder, his brow raised when his question met more silence.

“Of course, Your Grace. Of course.”

“Splendid. Be sure to inform him that we will be most delighted to host him and his entourage here in the Red Keep for the duration of his visit.”

The very visible swallow brought him immense pleasure. “I will, Your Grace.”

Daemon allowed a smile to grace his face. “Thank you. I am certain we will achieve great things together. Have a good night, my good man.”

He left the septon behind, a cold sort of fire burning in him. Aye, power attracted corruption. It was high time the Hightower corruption was addressed. 

Aemma was in the bed, otherworldly beautiful in the pale light of the moon, when he returned to her chambers, and he took his clothes off with little patience, eager to alleviate some of the discomfort the day had caused him. His delectable wife seemed no less eager for him, welcoming him with kisses that brought his blood to boiling.

It seemed an entire eternity before she allowed him to take a leave of her luscious lips and wicked tongue to drag his own over the twin treasures that were her breasts and lower, over her still-soft belly, toward his ultimate goal.  

She writhed below him, letting out delightful sounds, her fingers tangling in his hair, moaning his name, utterly at his mercy.

Aemma’s body seized when he brushed a kiss on the inside of her thigh, yanking at his hair. “Daemon! No!” 

A devious smirk curled his lips as he dragged them up her body, up the column of her throat to bite at her earlobe with a chuckle. “No?”

“No!”

He froze, lifting off her to blink down at her dumbly. “What do you mean, no?” For that matter… “Why?!”

She squirmed under him, her eyes darting around, a blush rising to her cheeks. “I do not… I did not…”

Daemon was aghast as he shifted back to sit on his heels. “Did you not enjoy yourself last night?”

If possible, Aemma reddened even more, scurrying away from him. “It… I mean… Of course, I did! Until you…!” Her hands were fluttering about her, and he watched them, lost, until she let out a small scream. “It was mortifying!”

“Mortifying,” he repeated dully, eyeing the suspicious shine in her gaze. “How was it morti-”

“You left me!” There were fucking tears in her voice. “I… And you! You just… You didn’t!”

Daemon rubbed his face, struggling not to burrow his fingers into his hair and pull. “I… I apologize.” It sounded like he needed to, though he had no true idea as to why. He was being careful, not reckless, as was too often his wont. He had been proud of himself, of his working within the confinements of the current situation, of his mastery of his baser urges.

Aemma glared at him, raising her chin. “I do not accept your apology. Not until you…” He watched her gesture vaguely between them, her face terribly inflamed.

“I… see.”

His wife was fucking insane, but there would be the best midwife in all of fucking King’s Landing by to examine her on the morrow, he swore to himself as he threw himself down to lay on his side, beating his pillow into submission. He would be put out of his misery, ending this horrible time of uncertainty, one way or another.

“Daemon? Are you…? Are you… angry?” Aemma’s voice sounded too much like a child’s behind him, so he squeezed his eyes closed and breathed in through his nose, letting his breath out slowly, deliberately.

“No,” he bit out.

“You look angry,” she retorted quietly. “I… I am… sorry. You can-”

He rolled to his back with a huff. “I am not angry. Not at you, in any case.”

“Truly?”

He watched her teeth pull on her full lip doubtfully before he shut his eyes once more, pressing the heels of his palms into them. “Truly.”

“Oh.”

Oh, sounded about right. “I am… tired,” he told her. “Very, very tired.” That was one way to put it, he supposed. He was trying his damnedest best, and it hardly seemed to be making any difference. Hells, it seemed to be making things worse.

Daemon was at the very end of his rope.

He kept his eyes stubbornly closed as Aemma shuffled around, struggling not to react when she laid her head on his chest and wished him goodnight, her warm breath ghosting across his bare chest.

Things could always get worse, he knew.

Ser Luthor Largent, to his honor, did not so much as twitch a brow when Daemon, in the foulest of moods, ordered him to find the best midwife in the entire blasted Crownlands and bring her to him discreetly. Ser Luthor was a good man. A sensible, loyal man. Daemon’s man.

There would be more men like him at court soon enough, he promised himself. Loyal, but sensible, not the useless lickspittles Viserys had surrounded himself with and Daemon had inherited with the crown.

Not the crown, he reminded himself. The crown had meted away into nothing but useless slag, and he would be left with the delightful decision of choosing a crown worn either by a fucking weakling or by his usurping brother.

The second coming of Maegor. Heh.

He could have a new crown made, but nothing would ever truly equal the power and the brutal simplicity of the Valyrian steel of the Conqueror’s crown. Were it only not then seized by fucking Maegor.

He was still battling the temptation, his visit to the royal treasury only serving to fuel rather than abate it, when the woman was brought to him, and he had more immediate issues to deal with.

Daemon was made supremely uncomfortable when he entered Rhaenyra’s nursery to find too many female gazes on him, the intruder. He resisted the urge to clear his throat. “My queen, there are matters I would have addressed, if you would accompany me.”

“Of course, my king.” Aemma’s voice was even and pleasant as she stood up gracefully, her ladies smoothly rising out of their curtsies, moving to follow her. 

He waved them away with no small deal of annoyance. “Presence of your ladies is not required.”

Triumph sparked in Aemma’s eyes, but she kept her expression neutral as she bade them to stay behind. It would not last long, he was sure, and he was proven correct when they entered her chambers, coming face to face with the midwife in a precarious curtsy.

“What is the meaning of this?” There was an edge to her voice and for the first time, he questioned the wisdom of having kept this even from her.

“This is a midwife. I asked that she come examine you, to determine that you are… well, that all is… well,” he finished lamely.

Aemma faltered, her eyes clouded over with confusion. “A midwife. What do I need a midwife for now?”

“She will…” Heat crept up Daemon’s neck. “She will look after you. She will help us understand…” He choked on nothing. “She will help you.”

Aemma’s expression was full of doubts, but she allowed herself to be examined, and he could breathe a touch easier. He strained his ears to hear, to understand, the low murmur of voices on the other side of the door and prayed to all the gods he knew that the woman had understood his oblique concerns.

There was something almost smug in the woman’s deference that had his hackles rising as she gave him her report. “The queen is well, Your Grace. As well as can be expected of a woman in her condition.”

Daemon ground his teeth in annoyance. “So she may attend to all her duties?” 

The woman gave him a shrug. A shrug. “In times like these, 'tis for the best to let oneself be guided by the appetites of the body. 'Tis the mind that betrays the expecting mothers, more oft than their bodies, Your Grace.”

“Appetites,” he repeated blankly. “Appetites. Does the queen have particular tastes that need to be satisfied?”

Amusement danced in the woman’s eyes, sparking hope. “Aye, Your Grace. As long as the taste does not turn sour.”

Daemon’s face twisted, trying to divine what other meaning the words could have. Surely, she would not be imparting the great wisdom not to eat what Aemma did not like in such a fashion. He hoped with all his heart that the words meant what he thought they did. Gods… It was almost enough to make a man believe that there were some out there, looking out for him.

“Thank you. You will be granted a chamber in Maegor’s and a place among the queen’s ladies for the duration,” he told her and dangled the reward once more, to be certain it stuck, before he dismissed her. “You will receive your weight in gold, should the queen be delivered of a babe safely.”

He found Aemma sitting on her bed, fully dressed, playing with the fabric of her dress. “She is certainly… different. Where did you find her?”

“Flea Bottom,” he informed her wryly, enjoying the way her gaze shot up. “There are quite a few babes being born in Flea Bottom, it would seem. Will that be a problem?” 

A thoughtful smile grew on Aemma’s face. “No, I do not believe so. Though, it is so… strange. I would never have guessed.”

Chapter Text

Aemma watched with no small amount of curiosity the woman, the midwife, painstakingly wash her hands after she had helped her disrobe. The woman’s hands had been as clean as Aemma’s own, as far as she could tell. Now, they would be as clean as hands could be. Likely cleaner than her own had ever been, Aemma thought, barely suppressing a nervous giggle.

“How do you do it?” she asked, no longer able to contain herself.

The woman paused in her diligent scrubbing, round eyes rising to meet Aemma’s. “Do what, m’la- Your Grace, I mean?”

“How do you bear so much suffering?” Aemma’s losses had been more than enough to carry, even with so many around to ensure her comfort. She could not even fathom how much worse it could be to endure for those without such a luxury. The woman hardly seemed to be serving affluent women.

Sheer confusion painted the woman’s plain features. “Suffering, m’la- Your Grace?”

Aemma sighed and picked at the fabric of her shift. “The losses. The deaths.”

She had Rhaenyra to show for all her pain. She could not imagine witnessing it all over and over without that spark of hope to guide her.

“Life wins out, m’lady.”

“Not always. Not even most of the time. My mother died in childbed,” she quietly argued.

“Some women do,” the midwife conceded, “but I see no reason for you to.”

Aemma could meet the woman’s kind eyes, too understanding for her liking, only for a blink. “I do not… I do not worry over that too much. The babe… I would not even mind, so long as the babe lives.”

“If there is a babe.”

Anger alit in Aemma. “There is a babe.”

The woman inclined her head placatingly, her gaze unflinching, her voice steady. “ If there is a babe. I need to examine you before we know for certain.”

“I have carried enough babes to know the signs!” Aemma seethed.

Though she seemed undeterred, the midwife’s face softened. “And I have seen enough to know there are other reasons for the signs too.”

Blood warmed Aemma’s cheeks. “I am too young,” she muttered, infinitely embarrassed.

“There can be other reasons too,” the woman sighed, appearing tired all of a sudden, and Aemma felt an uncomfortable twang of self-reproach.

“If you say so,” she allowed, and the woman’s lips twitched.

“I do say so. Now, if you would permit…?”

Aemma heaved a great sigh and climbed onto the bed. “Let us get to it then.” 

To have her belly and other parts poked and prodded by freezing hands was an inseparable nuisance of her condition, but the woman’s long, slender fingers were gentle and warm on her stomach, her voice low and soft and soothing as she spoke to her. She could almost forget what she was about.

Almost.

“What are you doing?!” Aemma raised herself to her elbows, her voice high with alarm as she looked at the woman’s hands. “What is that?!”

The look she was treated to was flat. “Oil, m’lady. I do not wish to cause you discomfort.”

Aemma eyed the viscous liquid with distrust, her body tense, ready to spring off the bed, greatly discomfited already, but she had born many a discomfort, many a humiliation. Surely she could endure this too. For the babe.

She exhaled slowly and bade herself to lie back down, to ease her muscles, to think of Daemon and his fingers, not this stranger and this strangeness.

She closed her eyes.

“Well, m’lady certainly is with child.”

“I told you,” Aemma said somewhat sullenly, setting about fixing her shift. “Will- Will I… Can you tell…?”

The woman’s eyes shone with sympathy. “There is no way to know. Not truly, but there seems to be no injury that would not allow for a healthy babe.”

“That is… That is good, I suppose.”

“It is.”

Aemma’s scrutinized the midwife as she cleaned herself with a frown. “I will not stay abed,” she informed her mulishly, and the woman paused and turned to her with a furrowed brow, a towel still in her hands.

“You said there was no pain. Nor blood.”

“And there has been none.”

“There is no reason for m’lady to stay abed, then,” the woman spoke slowly. “To bear a strong, healthy child, a mother needs to be strong and healthy first.” She hesitated for a moment, nibbling on her lip, before she took a deep breath and continued. “Laz- Laying about in bed for moons on end without cause hardly serves to strengthen anyone. Without cause,” she stressed.

Putting the towel aside, the woman shook her head and huffed out a breath. “If you wish to move, move. If you are tired, rest. If there is hunger, eat. If you crave strange foods, eat them. If there is pain, stop. The body knows best what it needs at this time, what helps and what does not. M’lady should listen to it. No one, no one, knows better.”

How was she to do that? Her body had betrayed her, craving that which it had shied away from for the longest time, making her weak.

“No one except the maesters, the king, my husband. No one except everyone,” Aemma argued, bitter and so very tired.

“No one,” the midwife insisted, grasping Aemma’s hands, squeezing softly. Aemma blinked down at their joined hands, feeling something deep inside her start to crumble. “The worst thing you can do is to give up, to suffer in silence. The mind empowers the body, but it can weaken it too. Keep your spirits up, keep boredom at bay, and your body will be stronger for it. You will see.”

“It is so difficult,” Aemma breathed. “I want to believe. I tell myself, over and over, that this time… this time it will be different, but it is so difficult to believe it.”

“It will be. It is. I will be here for you. Come,” she patted Aemma’s hand, and she could only stare dumbly, “focus on the differences.”

“I have a different husband,” Aemma whispered, blinking rapidly.

“What else?” the woman pushed, her voice still warm and kind.

“I will not stay abed,” Aemma’s voice grew stronger, her eyes rising to meet the midwife’s soft gaze. She nodded encouragingly, plainly waiting for more, and Aemma’s restraint broke, her voice quivering. “And I have all these urges now!”

“Urges?” There was amusement in that question, she could hear it!

“Urges,” she confirmed, her gaze fixed on their hands once more. She had been long used to all the discomforts her state brought, but the aches in her breasts had grown so much more uncomfortable recently, fueling the hunger to unbearable heights. It was all Daemon’s fault. She had been better off not knowing.

“Well, the body has to be heeded, urges have to be sated.”

Aemma freed her hands to hide her face and her shame. “But he will not lay with me! Not since we wed!” She winced at her words and fumbled to correct herself. “I mean… We did. Obviously. But not since…”

“Men are such strange, fearful creatures,” the woman said in an airy, mocking voice, and Aemma’s hands fell from her face, sheer amazement overcoming her. “They will rage and wage a war at the smallest insult but become entirely unmanned when it comes to childbearing.” She sighed at Aemma’s blank stare, elaborating, “I have seen fathers afraid to touch their babes. I have certainly seen fathers afraid to touch their wives. Long before their labors begin and long after.”

“Afraid…” Aemma contemplated that for the longest time. “Is there no reason to fear?”

“No. As long as it is what the body wants, as long as care is taken, as long as there is no discomfort or pain. Or blood.” And Aemma understood that. Little could be good when there was blood involved. Certainly nothing in her state.

“Very well.” Aemma took a deep breath and told the woman with feeling, “thank you.”

The midwife smiled and patted her hands, standing up and reaching for Aemma’s dress. “There is little to thank me for, m’lady.”

Aemma disagreed heartily. Still…

“You truly need to learn to address me properly, if you are to stay,” Aemma sighed, and the woman turned back to her, question plain on her face. “My queen or Your Grace, certainly not my lady,” she elaborated with a smile, “certainly not in company.”

Daemon did not strike Aemma as afraid. He seemed… determined. Focused. Insane.

“I must have misheard,” she said, even as Rhaenyra clapped her hands in delight. “Did you say-?”

“Dragonstone,” Daemon confirmed with a smirk. “We should go.”

“Can we go, mama? Can we?” Rhaenyra’s eyes were big and hopeful and pleading and for once, Aemma could resist them.

“Now?” she asked, her voice rising in disbelief. “What for?”

Daemon’s gaze skittered away from her, flitting about the chamber. “To get away. I thought… A day or two away, without all of the court… Would it not be grand? Just the three of us?”

“It would be,” she allowed cautiously, her heart in her throat, “but is that… wise?”

His shoulders rose and fell in a careless shrug. “I do not see why it would not be.”

There was Otto Hightower for one. For certain, there were a hundred more.

“What if… What if something happens while we are gone?” she questioned.

His eyes met hers for a moment, an amused spark in them, before they darted to Rhaenyra. “Would that not be preferable? For something to happen with us gone?”

Her brows furrowed, selecting words carefully, mindful of young eager ears. “But what if our absence invites the… something?”

“Then we will have to deal with it upon our return,” he replied easily, his smile wide and distracting.

Aemma was not given a chance to question further, her excited daughter tugging on her sleeve. “Mama, may we? Please, please, please. May we go?”

“We may,” she capitulated at last, and let her arms wrap around her little girl when she launched herself at her.

“Oh, I am so happy! I will be glorious! You will see!”

Aemma closed her eyes and held her tightly. She had little to look forward to on the dreary island, the short time she had spent there filled with cold and suffering. 

“You will,” Daemon’s agreement was smug but soft, and his smile only grew when she snapped her eyes open to glare at him over the table.

“Why Dragonstone? Why now?” she asked much, much later, laying in her bed, watching him set his dressing gown aside and climb in.

He paused in drawing the covers over himself. “Some matters are best attended to without curious eyes around.”

“What matters?”

“You will see,” he said, that irritating smile on his lips as he turned away to blow out a candle.

Aemma huffed in annoyance and laid her head to rest on his chest once he settled.

Daemon’s arms wrapped around her, fingers ghosting up and down her spine, and she sighed in contentment. “What do you think of the midwife?”

She hummed. “I told you. She is different.” And she was very different.

“What did the woman say?”

“She said to listen to my body,” Aemma responded, opening her eyes in resignation.

“Hmm? And what does your body say?” his low voice rumbled into her ear, warm and full of promise.

For once, she was not the least tempted to rise to his teasing. “That I should not strangle you. That it will have some use for you yet.”

His chest shook under her, and she slapped it lightly, much more lightly than she would have a pillow. “Shush, I am trying to sleep. I need to get my rest before we travel.” To Dragonstone. She did not want to go.

“I do not like Dragonstone,” she whispered into his chest when his breathing deepened, but his arms tightened around her, and she sighed in defeat.

“You will like it this time, I promise,” he mumbled and pressed a soft, soft kiss to her temple.

Dreamfyre had enjoyed the long flight. So had Rhaenyra. So would have Aemma had their destination not weighted so heavily upon her.

At least they had landed in the castle, she told herself. At least they did not have to take the long, long path up from the docks. At least she had Dreamfyre near to keep her warm. 

Her insides felt frozen despite the sun shining down upon them, despite Rhaenyra’s beaming face, despite Daemon’s arm pressing her into his side as they entered the black, black keep, servants welcoming them with deep bows. There was little good awaiting her on Dragonstone.

Her apprehension did not leave her throughout the day, despite Rhaenyra’s enthusiasm for the island only growing and growing, barely able to contain herself by the time of supper. She was beyond puzzled when her little bouncing ball of excitement utterly rejected Aemma’s offer to read to her before putting her to bed. She had never rejected Aemma before.

Daemon did not bother hiding his amusement at her confusion, not suppressing his chuckles in the least on their way to their chambers. Their , because here they unequivocally were theirs. She still slammed the door of their bedchamber in Daemon’s laughing face.

There was a steaming bath waiting for her and the tension drained out of her shoulders at the very sight of it, reaching for her laces without thought.

“Let me,” her husband mumbled, his fingers grasping hers, stopping them in their tracks. The amusement was gone from his voice, and she sighed, letting her head loll back against him, when he pressed a kiss to the side of her neck.

“I shall,” she breathed. Mayhaps something good could come of their visit. “Will you join me?”

“Not this time, I am afraid,” he said and kissed her bare shoulder.

Aemma huffed and pushed away from him, tugging her dress off with gritted teeth. “Then leave!”

His eyes glittered with mischief as he stepped up to her. “Come, now, Aemma, there is no need for upset. There will be more than enough time for it after the wedding.”

“Wedding? What wedding?” she asked blankly.

“Ours,” he informed her, his grin wide.

“We are wed already,” she told him, slowly, so he would understand. He did understand, did he not? “We were wed in a sept before plenty of witnesses.” By a Most Devout, even.

“We are,” he agreed, “but we were both wed in a sept before, to other people. This time, we should wed in the Valyrian tradition, too.”

“In the Valyrian tradition,” she repeated.

His brows rose. “Yes.”

“I follow the Seven.” In truth, Aemma had no knowledge of any Valyrian rites, much less a wedding one.

Daemon blinked at her. “So? We did wed in a sept.”

It felt like a betrayal. The gods had given her Daemon, had given her freedom, mayhaps even a chance at true happiness. But… “Rhaenyra knows, does she not?”

“She does. She was most upset to sleep through the wedding.”

Her daughter had been so excited, and he was not wrong. They had been wed to other people, and she did wish for things between them to be different than they had been between her and Viserys.

She let herself be guided to the bed, to the old, stiff robes she had not noticed before, her fingers brushing the fabric cautiously. A wife was to be obedient. Surely, the gods would not hold it against her, to obey her husband?

“Very well,” she conceded, her lips turning up slightly, and she faced him with a sigh. “You are a pest, husband,” she informed him.

He did not seem to mind, pressing a kiss to her lips. “I suggest bathing yourself quickly. I cannot vouch for Rhaenyra’s patience.”

Aemma pushed him away with a laugh. “Then stop distracting me!”

The robes were uncomfortable, stiff, and scratchy, and the headdress was beyond ridiculous, and Aemma had never felt as much a nervous bride walking into the unknown as then as she walked the black sand to the stone altar, torches lighting her way.

The Valyrian priest, a man she had not even known existed, and Daemon were waiting for her, Rhaenyra bouncing off to the side. There were no others.

As she stood facing Daemon, shadows dancing on his face in the flickering light of torches, she felt all the things she had numbed herself to in the sept. She felt everything so much stronger now, when everything was new and unknown and exciting.

She did not wince at the cut to her lip, and she took the dragonglass blade into her hand to make a cut of her own to her husband’s lip, as if entranced. Mayhaps she was. 

The flames did such strange things to his eyes.

The flames did such strange things to her blood, she realized when Daemon made a cut across her palm, setting her heart aflutter.

She closed her eyes when as he drew a sigil for fire on her forehead, a muscle in her cheeks twitching at the memory of her frantic practice of drawing a sigil for blood just a little while ago. It would not do to make a mistake.

Aemma watched as a ribbon was bound over their joined hands, letting their mixed blood pool into a chalice. It was so strange, she reflected, for some things to be so similar, for some to be so different.

The priest’s voice sounded rough, rarely used, when he recited the words in High Valyrian. “Blood of two, joined as one. Ghostly flame and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers forged in fourteen fires. A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness. The vow spoken through time of darkness and light.”

It was so strange that there were no vows exchanged, the only words spoken throughout the ceremony spoken by the priest. And yet… They drank of their joined blood, and shared a heated kiss that mixed their blood further, smearing their lips with it. What were mere vows in the face of blood joined as one?

Chapter Text

Daemon was a hopeless fool. Utterly hopeless, utterly idiotic.

He had devised a perfect plan for them to begin anew, a perfect seduction, a perfect union and then, the fool that he was, he had let himself agree to let Rhaenyra into their bed.

He could hardly believe the words were his, even as he heard them spoken in his own voice, as he had felt his mouth form around them. Rhaenyra had launched herself at him, squealing in delight, and he had cursed his weakness in the face of the tremble in her lip, the quiver of her voice.

Aemma had watched it all with a slight smile and a soft, warm gaze. It was not softness he had wished to see. It was not the kind of heat he had meant to put there.

So there Daemon laid, in his bed on Dragonstone, pressed against his wife’s back, helpless as could be, his niece on her other side, pressed to her breast. It was torture, one he had designed for himself, and all he could do was grit his teeth and bear it. The morning could not come swiftly enough.

“Can we go home now?” Rhaenyra asked while they broke their fast, and Daemon blinked at the question, at the interest sparking in Aemma’s eyes.

“Do you not like it here?” he asked instead. 

Rhaenyra shrugged. “There is not much to do.”

“We have not even visited the hatcheries yet. Or been to the beach. I thought you would like that before flying back.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, can we? Can we? Are there any hatchlings? Can I see them? Can I-”

“There are no hatchlings at present,” he interrupted her, “but that is hardly a reason not to go. You can see them and all the eggs there, how they are cared for.”

“Oh, are they grand, mama? They should be grand, I think.”

“I would not know, dearest, I have not seen them myself,” Aemma gently explained to her daughter when she paused to take a breath.

“Can mama come with us, kepa?”

Daemon scoffed. “Of course, we cannot leave her alone when we go on an adventure like that.”

Rhaenyra beamed at him, satisfied, but Aemma’s brows had a quizzical furrow to them as she played with her food and her strange mood did not lift even as he guided her through the hatcheries, arm wrapped around her.

“Are they all Dreamfyre’s?” she asked eventually, caressing a blue-scaled egg. 

“Some are,” he allowed, “but not all.”

“There are more of them than I expected,” she confessed in a low voice, glancing over at Rhaenyra.

Daemon’s brows jumped up. There were certainly fewer eggs than he would have liked. “More?”

“More,” she confirmed. “There are enough to spare.”

“To spare?” he questioned, utterly lost.

“On a daughter,” she elaborated, a note of bitterness curling her lip.

“That can be… dangerous. Daughters can wed outside the family.” His voice was gentle, but firm. Dragons were for Targaryens, none others. The ones outside the family could prove quite troublesome yet.

“Do they need to?” she turned to him, a challenge in her eyes.

“Need to what?”

“Do they need to wed? Could they not have a choice? A husband outside the family or a dragon.”

“Your daughter has a dragon already,” he reminded her, bewildered.

“I could have more. We could have more. And besides… What about her choice? There is no Targaryen for her to wed, and to give her to Laenor Velaryon would mean giving more dragons away!”

There were tears in Aemma’s eyes and he did not understand.

“That… Is that not quite…? She could have a brother in the making.”

Aemma threw her hands up. “Oh, because Visenya was so happy wed to Aegon. Rhaenyra’s brother would be much younger from her than that.”

“I…” Daemon was at a loss. “Do you… not want Rhaenyra to wed her brother?”

“No,” she told him, her eyes sharp and unyielding like Valyrian steel, “I do not want her to have to wed at all.”

She is my heir, he wanted to object, but, at the heart of it, she was not wrong. Daughters marrying away could be trouble. Daughters with a dragon in the dowry would be trouble.

“She will not have to wed,” Daemon promised, and some of the strangeness receded, some of it growing as she fell back into silent contemplation.

His skin prickled and itched, and he led them through the caves faster than he had intended, not explaining everything as his father had so patiently all those years ago. Not the first time. Daemon had been barely more than a babe the first time he had been brought to the hatcheries, but he remembered the confusion well. He felt that fear, that same urgency to get away, to run away, now.

The light at the end of the tunnel was a welcome sight, a great relief, and when Rhaenyra bounded out of the darkness and into the brightness ahead of them, kicking up sand as she went, Daemon shared a chuckle with Aemma.

“Wait,” she murmured as he moved to follow, laying a hand over his heart, another ghosting over his cheek as if afraid to touch it, that damned softness in her eyes again. 

“I love you,” Aemma whispered, and something twisted painfully in Daemon. He could feel tension building in his temples, and he had to suppress the urge to rub at them.

“Aemma-”

She hastily pressed her fingers to his lips. “Shush, you need not say anything. I merely wished you to hear it.” She giggled, and he wondered whether he truly heard the trepidation he felt rising within himself reflected in her laughter. “Mayhaps I merely wished to hear myself say it.”

“Aemma-”

She turned away from him, lifting her skirts, and ran after Rhaenyra, joining her in chasing the waves, squealing and laughing as much as her daughter and Daemon stood there and watched them, sun beating down on him, cold spreading in his chest.

They would get on well together, he had known. They had gotten on well together before they had wed and there was no reason for that to change, he had thought. He would have Aemma and Rhaenyra and the babe, and they would be a proper family, he had hoped. Now…

Love. He had not expected it. He had not wished for it. There was fun and pleasure and mutual understanding. Daemon could work with that. Daemon could be happy with that.

Love… Love was dangerous. Love could ruin things.

The sun lost its shine and the cold kept on spreading further.

“Your skirts are wet,” he informed his ladies with a wrinkled nose once they collapsed next to him into the sand, spent, but still smiling.

“Are they? You do not say,” his wife sighed theatrically, sunshine in her eyes. 

“I do say,” he confirmed loftily, “and full of sand too, now.”

“My, my, whatever shall we do about that?” Her voice was still light with teasing, but her eyes held an invitation that awoke his hunger at once.

“I could help you get rid of them,”

Aemma cocked her head to the side, a brow rising mockingly as her gaze shifted over his shoulder. “Oh?”

He turned his head to meet Rhaenyra’s attentive gaze, her pale brows scrunched, and he coughed. “To have them laundered. Overnight.”

Rhaenyra’s face cleared. “Oh, do not worry, kepa! I have more than one dress!”

He grimaced and grumbled. “I would prefer not to drag sand from Dragonstone all the way to the Red Keep, if you do not mind.”

She shrugged and turned her attention to the sand before she froze and turned her large eyes to him once more. “We are staying another night?”

His smile became strained. “Yes, sweetling, we are, so enjoy the beach.” Gods willing, she would be out like a light by bedtime, safely ensconced in her own bed.

She jumped to her feet, clapping her hands. “Will you teach me to swim? Will you? And mama? Will you teach her too?”

“No,” he breathed out in horror. Not now. “No. There are… We have no towels to dry ourselves or blankets to rest on. And the water… It will be warmer in King’s Landing.”

He watched Rhaenyra wilt like a flower denied sun. “Oh.”

“I will teach you when we are back home,” he assured her.

“Do you promise?”

He nodded solemnly. “I do.”

“Alright, then,” she chimed and skipped off.

“We are staying another night?” her mother echoed once she was out of earshot.

“Yes,” he declared and raised a questioning brow at her. “Have you not heard? The dresses need to be laundered.” Traitors may enjoy a little more time for treason, too, in his opinion.

“I never knew you to have such a concern for dresses.” Her tone was still teasing, but her gaze shifted away from him and there was the slightest hitch in her breath.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, wariness creeping in.

“I…” She let out a frustrated sigh and turned to face the sea, hugging her knees. “I am not overly fond of Dragonstone.”

“Dragonstone is the home of our House,” he reminded her blankly.

Aemma shook her head and scoffed. “Our House. It never truly felt like mine. Not before. Certainly not when we stayed here. I was alone. I was always alone, shut up in my chambers and excluded, but when we stayed here… Grandmother hated me. No one cared for me, but she hated me and my failures and when I…”

She rubbed at her eyes and took a tremulous breath. “She was not kind to me. Needless to say, I have no good memories of this place.”

“I hated her,” he admitted. “She wanted me gone, that’s why I was sold to the Vale, and no one cared enough to put a stop to it.”

“Hated,” she repeated. “How do you do that? How do you let go?”

He blinked at the sea and carefully considered his answer. “She is dead. She is gone and I am free. There is nothing she can do to harm me anymore. She has no more power over me.”

“I wish it was that easy for me,” Aemma confessed, her knuckles white. “Viserys. Grandfather. Grandmother. They are all dead, but it does not feel as if they are gone, as if their power to do me harm is gone.”

“We are the ones with the power now,” he reminded her. “We can make you new, better memories here. We can take all that they cared about for ourselves and delight in imagining how much they would have despised that.”

Aemma let out a bitter laugh. “However do you propose we go about that?”

“Well,” he drawled, “there is her old bedchamber here. We could make some fine memories there that would have made that old pious crone expire.” Aemma giggled, and he continued, encouraged, malicious glee warming his insides. “And there are Silverwing and Vermithor. Just imagine… A child of yours, of ours, claiming her… Oh, how she would have hated that.”

Aemma did not laugh at that. “I thought… There is the egg. Dreamfyre’s egg. I thought…”

Daemon rolled his eyes and raised his brow suggestively. “We can have more children. Just imagine how they all would have hated that.”

Her eyes on him were warm again. “I love you,” she told him again, and he drew her into his lap, kissing her slowly, deeply, meticulously.

“Aye, imagine how they would have hated that too,” he muttered against her delicate skin when he drew back to nibble on her earlobe.

“Daemon,” she sighed when he pressed her down against him more insistently. “Daemon, Rhaenyra-”

“There is nothing for her to see like this,” he argued, trailing his lips along her throat. “Come, have mercy.”

She let out a soft chuckle and licked into his mouth, catching his lower lip between her teeth. “This will be a good memory, I think,” she breathed and pushed off him, standing up decisively.

“Aemma-”

She shook her head at him, hands on her hips. “Mercy, Daemon? Do you even know what it means?”  

He caught hold of her skirts, pulling her back, cocking a brow suggestively. “You could show me right now.”

She threw her head back and laughed and laughed, until she gasped for air and a curious Rhaenyra reappeared by her side. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Daemon groused as he drew his knees up, resting his chin on them.

“Your kepa does not like the taste of his own medicine, I fear,” Aemma sighed and grinned down at her daughter, extending a hand toward her. “Come, let us leave him to sulk in peace.”

Daemon rolled his eyes and Rhaenyra giggled, skipping away with her mother in tow.

But he had his victory in the evening when she snuggled into her bed without a single complaint, asleep before her head even met the pillow.

“So…” he said slowly as he straightened, “grandmother’s bedchambers, then?” 

Aemma’s eyes, shining over the hand she clapped to her mouth to muffle her giggles, was all the answer he needed, and he stepped up to her to breathe into her ear enticingly. “You could show off your dragonriding skills. To start with.”

Some good memories had been made on Dragonstone, but little could match the satisfaction of returning home to this.

“Ser Otto,” he greeted the bloody mess of a man pleasantly, “I must admit my disappointment with you. Whatever madness possessed you to attempt an attack on the lives of the royal family? It is only by the grace of the gods that we were not there, and your treason proved unsuccessful.” 

The beaten knight let out a hollow laugh. “'Tis no treason. You were gone. 'Twas my daughter I wanted.”

Daemon gasped and widened his eyes. “Your daughter? You expect anyone to believe that? Whatever business would your daughter have in Maegor’s Holdfast? Only the royal family resides there. Need I remind you of your daughter’s state?”

“She is there!” Ser Otto seethed. “You keep her there!”

“Tut-tut, Otto. What an outlandish idea!” Daemon shook his head, allowing a malicious smile to grow on his face. “Did you not hear? Your daughter decided to retire to a motherhouse.”

“A motherhouse,” the disgraced knight spat. “Which motherhouse?!”

“She did not wish you to know. Dear Alicent wishes to repent for her sins in the service to the gods, you see, and she did not believe her father would be amenable to that.” He had been truly astounded at the efficiency of those women. The matters had been helped by the lack of a babe in the girl’s belly, he supposed, but still… The speed.

“Where. Is. My. Daughter!” Ser Otto’s chains rattled as he tried to launch himself at Daemon.

“That is none of your concern. Not much is of concern to you anymore, dearest Otto. The realm knows you for a traitor now, and you will die a traitor’s death. May the knowledge that your death will be an example to others that would try be a comfort to you.”

“I do not fear you,” the knight snarled at him, pure hatred in his eyes.

“Oh, dearest Otto,” he told him pityingly, shaking his head once more, “you are such a blind fool. 'Tis not me you ought to fear. 'Tis not me that put you here.” His smile stretched into a full grin. “And 'tis not my dragon that will get to devour you. I merely get to watch.”

And oh, how sweet it was, for all the traps he had set for Daemon, for the haughty man to be devoured by his own plots in the end.

Chapter Text

“I have a surprise for you,” Daemon murmured into the skin of her back as he dropped a kiss on the small of her back.

“How interesting,” she mumbled into her pillow. Her husband’s attentions were not enough to fully rouse her. Not yet. They merely gently warmed her insides, deepening the languid feeling of contentment, as the soft morning sun kissed her cheeks with the same loving care Daemon showed her bare back.

“It awaits you in the Dragonpit,” he elaborated and dragged his lips up her spine to capture her earlobe between his teeth.

“Hmm, what a shame,” she sighed, “I have no desire to leave this bed anytime soon.” 

“What a coincidence,” he breathed into her ear, sending a delightful spark through her body, “neither do I. The surprise will keep.”

Aemma turned her smiling face further into her pillow, a shiver of pleasure passing through her at the teasing touch of his fingers as they traveled down her spine and further still. “Daemon,” she breathed out a plea as they teased mercilessly.

Her husband’s lips brushed her ear, allowing a finger to slip inside, his tone as innocent as they come. “Whatever is the matter, sweetling?” 

Nothing, Aemma thought, and let her body loosen, the deep sense of contentment returning with some of her growing need attended to. She rather liked the gentle, gentle fire, the soft flames licking at her insides, and sighed her appreciation when the sweet touch of fingers was replaced by a sweeter touch yet. The flames turned hotter, but no less gentle, and sweet release came for her in lazy waves.

There was a glow in her chest and tears in her eyes when her lover pressed a last kiss to her shoulder and withdrew from her. Gods, she wished she could wake to this every morn.

“Are you not going to rise, wife?” Daemon asked her, voice warmed by amusement.

She shook her head into her pillow and forced out a “No.”

Aemma held her breath as she heard him still. “No?” he asked, puzzlement sneaking into his tone.

“No,” she repeated herself, aiming for firmness and missing the mark entirely.

“Are you… Are you crying?” He sounded aghast and so was she. It had been so beautiful, so wonderful, so utterly right. Why was she crying?

“No,” she said, hastily wiping at her cheeks and rolling over to face him. “I am not.”

“I see,” he drawled out. “Why are you crying?”

She could feel her face crumple, and she drew the covers over her head in horror. “I don’t know,” she wailed.

There was a hesitant tug on her cover, but her hold on them tightened on instinct and the pull disappeared, allowing her to close her eyes and breathe a soft breath of relief.

The bed shifted, and her eyes snapped open to find Daemon climbing under the covers with her. 

He looked utterly ridiculous, and the warm glow in her chest grew brighter.

“Aemma,” there was a confused furrow in his brow and his lips were tight as he faced her, “what in gods’ name is wrong?”

Nothing, she wanted to say, but her lips remained motionless, her hand reaching out of its own volition instead, as if bespelled, and she watched her fingertips brush over his brow, trying to smooth it out, in breathless fascination. 

“I love you,” she whispered when he captured her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm.

His brow and lips quirked, a spark of amusement back in his eyes. “Is that what is wrong?”

Her cheeks warmed, a smile made its way onto her face. “No, it is…” she nibbled on her lip, before settling on a word, “complicated.”

She saw the question in his eyes before it formed on his lips and hastily covered them with her fingers, her eyes darting away. “I… liked what we did… just now. I liked how we did.” Heat was longer contained to her cheeks, her ears burning, and the sickening feeling spread to her neck and chest, choking her. “I would… I would not mind if… If you woke me like this… just like this… every morn.”

Daemon kissed the fingers covering his lips and removed them. “Just like this?”

His voice was so warm, so soft, but her gaze remained stubbornly fixed on his collar bone. “Yes. Slow and gentle and… languid.” He had made her burn with passion, he had shown her previously unimaginable pleasure and now… now he had shown her something much, much worse. 

Aemma had recently learned she was a greedy creature. She coveted each and every thing she had never even known she had been robbed of. And now… shielded from the world under the covers as they were, it felt somehow easier, safer to speak her desires.

Her husband let out a heavy sigh, “I suppose I shall have to endure.”

Her throat grew tight, the sickening heat spread to her belly, making her nauseous, and her eyes flew to his, only to find amusement there. 

For a moment, Aemma considered violence.

Then, she suppressed the instinct, raising her chin haughtily and drawing her fingers down his chest. “I suppose you shall. After all…” she trailed off, watching his eyes darken more and more the lower her fingers traveled, “it is your solemn duty as a husband to attend to my needs.”

“Is it?” he breathed out, seemingly entirely captivated by her face. “I might need to be educated on the topic.”

“Oh, you shall be,” she informed him, her voice light and innocent even as his eyelids fluttered closed under her ministrations. Aemma could be bold. Here, hidden beneath the covers, she could be.

But Aemma did not wish to be bold only in her newfound haven. She did not wish to hide, not now that there was no more reason for it. 

Daemon moved with her, rolling onto his back easily, when she moved to mount him, his hands settling on her hips and when she straightened, the covers of their hideout fell away, exposing her, exposing them to the world. She did not care a whit.

The room was full of light, bathing everything in a golden sheen, their bodies seemingly glowing in it, yet Daemon’s eyes were darker than ever as they silently watched her take her pleasure.

She placed a firm hand to the center of his chest when he made to rise, denying him his desires, whatever they might be. Pleasure was hers to take. Just hers.   

The obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room, more shameless sounds rolling from her lips, her pliant lover completely at her mercy under her, all under the starkly revealing light of the day, all glorious.

A hand tangled in her hair and she let her head roll back, closing her eyes, a spike of pleasure and satisfaction almost overpowering as the hand spasmed, tightening its hold, as her poor, helpless lover stiffened, a string of soft curses escaping him.

It was so very glorious, and she felt drunk as her release crashed through her with a last desperate tug and she collapsed.

“You will be the death of me,” Daemon huffed out as she laid on his chest, spent and drowsy once more.

She turned her face slightly and pressed a kiss to his glowing skin, allowing herself a taste. “Oh, but what a death it would be…”

He hummed in agreement, his arms wrapped around her, and she settled, her ear pressed to his heart, listening to it slowly regain its steady drum, willing it to lull her back to sleep, only… “I am hungry,” she complained after a while as a pang of hunger rolled through her belly.

Daemon had no compassion for her as he shook with laughter under her.

Rhaenyra was not allowed to accompany them to the Dragonpit, no matter how much she had pleaded, no matter how devastating her eyes, and Aemma’s curiosity was well and truly piqued.

“What is there to surprise me in the Dragonpit?” she asked once they were in the carriage taking them to the Hill of Rhaenys.

Her husband’s brow rose, and his lips curled in a smirk. “Now, that would not be much of a surprise, would it, were I to tell you?” 

“I am not quite certain how I feel about surprises,” she told him, watching his face attentively.

“Neither am I,” he smiled at her, “and yet imagine my surprise when my grandfather’s crown burned with my brother.”

She rolled her eyes and looked outside. “That crown was not worthy of you.”

“Oh, is that how it is?”

“Yes,” she stood her ground, “you are pure Valyrian steel. Anything less would be an insult.”

“Maegor wore that crown,” he argued, something dark in his quiet voice.

“The Conqueror wore that crown too,” she told him with a glare. “You are not Maegor, just as you are not the Conqueror. You are you, your own person, and a crown changes nothing about that!” 

Daemon, so strong and confident, had no right to doubt himself. He had no right, for what hope was then there for Aemma?

Amusement sparked deep in his eyes. “I invited the High Septon to King’s Landing to crown me. I doubt he will appreciate crowning the brother of a previous king with the crown of the Cruel.”

She cocked her head to the side, examining his face. “I was not aware you cared at all about what the High Septon appreciated or not.”

“I would not,” he replied with an easy shrug, “had I not planned to make a suggestion while he was here.”

“What suggestion?” He had certainly not mentioned any ulterior motives for the delay in the coronation to her. He had not mentioned any ulterior motives for the invitation, either, for that matter, when they could have easily flown to Oldtown to be crowned in the Starry Sept as their grandparents and the Conqueror had been before them.

His gaze drifted away. “I thought I would have a new sept built, greater and grander than any other.”

“The Starry Sept is the greatest and grandest of all septs,” she reminded him dully.

He hummed in agreement. “How inconvenient that it is so far.” His lips quirked, and his eyes glittered with mischief. “How inconvenient that the head of the Faith resides too far to have true influence over happenings in King’s Landing.”

Aemma was robbed of her speech at such words leaving his mouth.

When the carriage rolled to a stop, and they stood in front of the Dragonpit, Daemon’s mood was decidedly merry even as he sighed theatrically. “What a magnificent sight, is it not, my queen? What a tragedy there are those not able to appreciate it every single day.”

Her lips twitched, understanding finally dawning on her, and her head turned toward the Hill of Visenya. “What a tragedy indeed.”

Aemma had dreaded the Dragonpit herself not long ago, had despised the very sight of it, but now… Now it appeared quite different to her. Now she was different, and the only thing about it that she despised still was the very notion of Dreamfyre being chained and alone in the dark again.

Aemma resented being left in the dark, heavy chains chaffing.

She had been a good gods-fearing, obedient wife once, and she found no joy in it. Now, she was a wife once more, and though no less gods-fearing, she had little intention of giving all of herself, receiving only scraps in return. She would take as much as she would give, this time.

Daemon hardly seemed opposed.

“What is there to surprise me here?” she tried once more as they left the daylight behind and stepped into the poorly lit structure.

Her husband shook his head, and spoke in a low voice. “You will see soon enough.”

The sand under their feet crunched in the thick silence as they approached a circle of torches, and the sole figure standing within it. She could sense Dreamfyre in the darkness just beyond, and she knew Caraxes was there as well. She knew there were many other figures hidden by the darkness as well, the smell of their fear making her head light.

They stopped just outside the circle of light, and her fingers tightened on her husband’s arm as she beheld the desolate beaten figure chained at its center, its clothes caked in blood and filth. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, her stomach on the very brink of rebelling. She regretted her hearty breakfast.

“Otto Hightower,” Aemma’s eyes snapped open as Daemon’s voice thundered next to her, her sickness forgotten, “you have been found guilty of an attempt on the life of the royal family. As you all well know, that is treason, and the only punishment for treason is death.”

The crowd remained mute, and Daemon placed a strong hand on her back, pushing her forward, and she went willingly. She understood her surprise well enough now.

Aemma took slow, deliberate steps to face the man that would have seen her dead, and looked into his bruised and bloody face evenly. The man’s face was twisted and swollen and his eyes burned with hate, but he remained silent.

“Ser Otto, may the gods judge you justly,” she told him, told the world, a moment before Dreamfyre uncoiled and surged forward, viciously tearing off an arm.

The man collapsed to the ground, his mouth open in a terrible gurgling scream, blood wetting the sand for a mere moment before the long-chained dragoness pounced upon him.

There would be no mercy of fire for him.

“That was some surprise,” Aemma breathed when she rested in the cushioned seat of the carriage. 

His eyes were smiling at her. “A good one, I would hope?”

“I… I think so.” She pondered her dress. It was black, yet parts of it shined with blood regardless. “I certainly would not have expected you to part with the pleasure.”

He grinned at her. “The pleasure was yours to have. And besides… I took a small piece for myself.”

Her brows furrowed. “A piece?”

His grin widened further, and he took a cloth out of his pocket, gingerly unwrapping something. “Just a piece. The one that caused the most damage.”

Aemma stared at the piece of meat, a tongue, in twisted fascination.

“I thought of keeping it,” he brightly admitted to her, “but it seems quite useless now, would you not agree?”

“I would,” she allowed somewhat breathlessly, and watched it sail out of the window. It disappeared from her sight before it hit the filthy ground. 

Any and all pieces of Otto Hightower were now exorcized from their lives, and they would be better for it. Much, much better.

Chapter Text

Time dragged on and time flew by, and sometimes it seemingly did both simultaneously.

One moment she was in fear of her life, the next her husband was dead, and just a moment after she was wed again and a dragonrider to boot. A mere blink later, the snake Viserys had kept at his breast was dead too, and she was knelt at the feet of the High Septon, by her husband’s side, crowned just as he was.

Aemma had gone from an afterthought, a mere ornament, if that, at the side of her first husband to the woman crowned by the High Septon himself, anointed by seven oils, blessed in the seven names of the gods, the golden coronet placed upon her brow but a prayer after the heavy circle of Valyrian steel was placed on the head of her second husband. Aemma was important.

Just like that, Aemma became the first queen crowned by the High Septon, not her king, and anointed by holy oils. Not even the Conqueror’s wives had been given that honor.

Just like that, she had gone from a caged songbird, rarely displayed, to someone that mattered, to someone at the very center of attention.

Her king disliked dealing with the Faithful, yet their good will was crucial to the success of his plans, and here Aemma was, known to be sweet and tractable and pious, a scion of a Great House in good standing with them. And now… Now Aemma was a weapon.

Now, she smiled sweetly and lamented meeting his High Holiness only under such circumstances, lamented conversations never had, wisdom never shared, lamented how distant the Faith was to the smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms. She lamented, and she praised the gods, for all her recent trials, they had rewarded her with this great honor.

A great sept would be built in King’s Landing, she shared with the High Septon in great conscience, greater than any other, her husband had promised her and oh, what an eternal shame the High Septon would not see it built, would not see its grandness, her tribute to the gods and their grace, every single day.

It came as no surprise to the new king and his queen that the High Septon lingered. The Iron Throne was most grateful for His High Holiness’ guidance on the design of the new sept, for his blessing of the site, for entreating all the faithful lords to contribute to such a worthy cause.

The designs and the site expanded, and by the time the work began, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this sept truly would be the greatest of them all, boasting great mosaics of the heroes of the Faith and of the Seven Kingdoms, such as the Conqueror and his wives, and the Old King with his Good Queen.

Weeks turned into moons, the coronation a mere distant memory, and Aemma and Daemon, none of his impatience showing, attended services held by the High Septon each sennight devotedly, inquiring after His High Holiness’ opinion on this inane matter and that. The High Septon delighted in it and little by little warmed to the new king.

The trap did not snap shut, it welcomed the man in the sweetest, most seductive of embraces.

The Citadel, they both suspected, would prove to be more of a challenge, but that was for the future.

Her life had been good, Aemma told herself sullenly as she freed herself from under Daemon’s arm, from the too-hot hold, drawing as far away from her sleeping husband as the bed would allow. Her life was good, she tried to convince herself as she beat her pillow near tears. She wanted to sleep. Was that too much to ask for?

This babe had been so much easier to carry, the interminable moons she would have spent abed otherwise, she had spent much more pleasurably. She had divided her attention between Rhaenyra’s lessons, the courtiers and the Dragonpit and for the first time in her life, the attention she had been given in return had not been a passing one. For the first time in her life, Aemma was seen and as a flower greedily drinking in the sunshine, she blossomed under it. 

Aemma was a mother, a wife, a queen, and at long last she did not feel a failure in any of it. It would be impossible to, with her daughter’s admiration joining adoration in her daughter’s gaze. It would be impossible to, with her husband’s heated looks. It was impossible, with so many duties to attend to now.

Aemma was a weapon to be wielded now, she reminded herself, desperately grasping for that feeling of satisfaction the knowledge always brought to her, biting back a scream of frustration. Aemma was useful now, not just her womb.

She gave up on sleep with a huff and climbed out of the bed to shuffle around, one arm supporting her heavy belly, rubbing at her aching back. The babe was late and though she supposed that was a good thing, she was quite done with sleepless nights. 

“You will be the death of me,” she complained to her belly quietly so as not to disturb her sleeping husband. She tried not to resent him for it. She truly did.

The chamber was stiflingly hot even after she had freed herself of Daemon’s sweltering hold and the constraining covers, so she waddled over to the window, hoping for a breath of fresh air, resting against a windowsill.

This was a good thing, she tried to convince herself. She had never carried a babe longer. Surely, that was a good sign?

She took a tremulous breath and let her head fall back, allowing hot tears to escape at last as she rubbed her swollen belly, a warmth of great relief spreading through her body. Her cheeks were wet, her nightgown was wet, and it felt wonderful.

“Oh. Oh, thank the gods,” she hiccuped when her tired mind finally came to understand what was happening.

“Daemon!” she called, softly at first, then more insistently as he remained deaf, mocking her safely ensconced in peaceful sleep. He had never wavered in his insistence on sharing her bed to protect her, even when they truly could no longer lay together. Some protection he proved himself to be, she grumbled to herself with a growl and snapped at him sharply. “Daemon!”

He woke with a start, sitting up, looking around the room wildly until his eyes found her and he relaxed. “What are you doing all the way there? Come back to bed.” He had the nerve to pat the covers by his side.

Aemma growled in earnest. “My waters broke,” she told him through clenched teeth. “The babe is coming,” she elaborated when he remained motionless. “I need your help getting back.”

And yet, he did not move still.

Her fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her palm and she let out a wordless shriek of frustration. Were he by her side, she would have gladly hit him. But he was not by her side, and that was the problem.  

He flew off the bed as if stung and was right there before she could take a deep breath to deliver a proper upbraiding to him.

“Are you in pain?” he asked her anxiously, his face tight.

“Yes,” she breathed as he wrapped an arm around her back to guide her back. It was a pain to be wed to an idiot, she thought uncharitably. Had he not felt a need to share her bed, a maid would have slept on a pallet in the room at this point. A maid would have been much more useful.

“Call for the midwife,” she reminded him with a sigh as he stood and stared at her dumbly after he had settled her into the bed. “Tell the guards the babe is coming. They know what to do.” They certainly would know better than he apparently did.

Once he was gone at last, she clapped her hands to her eyes and laughed. Gods, she must be losing her wits. Where was the silent resignation? Where was the fear? What was wrong with her?

The peculiar lack of apprehension was… odd, but it stayed with her even as she took the dragon egg she insisted on keeping in their bed and cradled it to her breast. “He will be with us soon,” she whispered to it as her belly tensed with another pang of pain.

He will be with us soon, she repeated to herself with a sense of wonder that had her bursting into tears once more. 

“There, there,” her kindly midwife patted her leg comfortingly, her raspy croon soothing. “It will be all over soon.”

It would be, Aemma knew. It would be all over soon, and she was not afraid. She had spent so much time convincing herself that this time it would be different. She wondered when it was that she had started to believe it.

Dawn was breaking over King’s Landing, its soft light seeping into the room, making little difference in the chamber lit by countless candles, but Aemma knew. As indignant cries filled the room, she knew. A new day was there.

She thought there were no more tears left to her, but when the babe was handed to her, a solid, red wailing weight, she wept along with it. She unlaced her soaked nightgown without a thought, when the babe blindly nosed at her breast, allowing it to latch on, and sobbed more as she watched it suck greedily.

A healthy babe, she thought with a deep sense of contentment, even as her eyelids grew heavier.

“A son, Your Grace,” the midwife said, and Aemma was stunned. She had not even thought to ask.

Aemma could barely keep her eyes open by the time Daemon was allowed into the bedchamber, their son fed and content, no longer quite as red, Aemma herself cleaned and dressed in a fresh nightgown.

“We have a son,” she shared with him in a hushed, awed voice when he joined her on the bed. 

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

“That we do.” His voice held that same awe hers did. “Whatever shall we name him?” 

“We could name him after the Conqueror,” she murmured as she snuggled into her husband, making herself comfortable. Having a living reminder of him on hand might make certain matters easier. 

“I suppose we could,” he allowed, his voice utterly devoid of enthusiasm.

She sighed. “You wish to name him Baelon, don’t you?” Viserys had wished for a son to name that, and he had believed himself to be in a race for it. Mayhaps he had been. Mayhaps that was the true reason she had been reluctant to discuss names earlier.

“I do,” Daemon breathed into her hair, his hold on her tightening.

“Baelon, he shall have to be, I suppose.” It was no surprise, but the name did not hold the disappointment she had expected. She could not muster it, not when she had a living, breathing, healthy babe. A son.  

She watched Daemon’s arms cradling hers as she held their son. “You can touch him, you know?” He was real. He was there.

Her husband huffed into her hair. “You don’t say.”

“I do,” she said and caressed her son’s soft, soft cheek. He was loud and healthy and greedy and very, very real.

Aemma’s arms and eyelids felt so very heavy. “Go on, take him,” she insisted around a yawn, and Daemon let go of her to cradle his son. She sank into the pillows, missing the embrace already, but there had been too many sleepless nights, and she could not be denied any longer.

“Thank you,” brushed over her ear, and she could be forgiven for her sleep-addled mind conjuring “I love you” before she succumbed entirely.

The area around the sept was much changed from what it had been, even in the few weeks she had been gone from it enough to change the site almost beyond recognition, she was sure, but little of it could be seen when they came to present their son to the gods, to have him named in the rainbow light and anointed by the seven oils, the space utterly crowded.

The High Septon blessed him, the seven-sided crystal held high above him, and he blessed them and their rule, prayed for more children to follow, for peace and the prosperity of the realm and Daemon and Aemma thanked him for it.

They thanked him for it and then, in the night, they flew to Dragonstone to present their son to the Fourteen, flames of a thousand candles burning in the shrine, casting forbidding shadows on the tall, hidden faces of the silent statues.

Aemma’s heart was all aflutter as she held her babe stood in front of the statue of Shrykos, the goddess of beginnings, endings, transitions, and doorways, and presented her palm to her husband, not flinching as the warm blade of dragonglass cut into her soft flesh, and her blood dripped into the goblet of Valyrian steel, mixing with her husband’s. She barely breathed as Daemon dipped his fingers in it and drew a bloody sigil for first fire and then blood on their son’s pale head.

She pressed a kiss to his downy hair, careful not to touch the sigils and whispered, “ The fires have spoken, and the price has been paid with blood magic, with words of flame, with clear eyes, to bind the three to you. The fires have spoken the name Baelon of House Targaryen, son of Daemon and Aemma, and as one we gather to welcome thee. ”

There was no need for loudness. There was only Daemon and her and the gods to hear and to know.

The covenant of fire and blood was renewed, as was only right.

Aemma had been brought up in the Faith, with prayer and censer and the smell of incense, the seven-sided crystal alive with light of a hundred rainbows, voices raised in song. She had been raised to listen to septons and septas and to hold the High Septon above all others. But High Septon was but a man, Aemma had come to understand, as prone to weaknesses as any other. 

Dragons were dragons, and they could not be denied their due.