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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 9 months

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Perzys se Rūkla (Fire and Flowers) - Chapter Six

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x original female character (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Mentions of infidelity, angst, strong language, mentions of pregnancy, childbirth, smut. Word count: ~3k

Chapter summary: Daemon makes two life changing discoveries. Series summary here.

Endless thanks and all the love to my absolute ride or die @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for cheerleading, beta'ing and just generally being the bestest fandom boo a gal could have.

Author's note: No tag list - please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

Header by the insanely talented @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

Maester Orwyle drops heavily to his feet once Daemon’s grip on the front of his robes loosens. He scurries away fearfully, scarcely even sparing a glance behind him.

Daemon’s temper still burns hot within his veins. How dare she hide this from me?

The force with which he throws open the doors would be enough to wake Melessa up ordinarily; but under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn’t be under the influence of milk of the poppy. Thus, she remains asleep.

He softens upon taking in her appearance, his anger leaving him as he watches her laying there. She’d look peaceful were it not for the tear tracks upon her cheeks—tears he has caused her. His wife.

The mother of his child.

She does not deserve his anger any more than he deserves her forgiveness, as much as he yearns for it. He sits carefully on the bed next to her, longing to reach out and brush his fingers against the peachy softness of her face. He refrains. She has expressed a wish for him not to touch her. He owes it to her to respect that, even in sleep.

Whether she is prepared to allow him to make amends now or not, he knows he cannot permit her to return to Highgarden. Not now that she carries his child. She has given him a reason to do better, to be better.

He wants to watch her grow round and full with his offspring, to see the effects that he has had on her body as it adapts to the life nestled within. He feels his cock stir at the thought and swallows thickly, attempting to push the urge away. Perhaps her shape had begun to change already and he hadn’t noticed. He finds himself thinking back to the last few times they’d been intimate. He had been so rough, so hurried, so desperate for fulfillment that he had barely registered her beneath him. If he had the opportunity to go back he would take his time with her, run his hands over her curves and appreciate them, notice the subtle swell to her breasts and the added plushness to her hips.

There is an ache in his chest as he continues to look upon her. He has to make this right. A child of his own is something Daemon has never thought about; never wanted, until now. And now, he does not think he has ever desired anything more desperately.

He has no idea how long he continues to sit there for. Soon, the sky is breaking into vibrant hues of yellow, orange and red upon the horizon, indicating dawn’s approach. He hadn’t seen Melessa eat since Rhaenyra’s coronation feast the previous afternoon. She will awaken soon and surely feel ravenous with hunger. Daemon cannot abide that, not when their child relies upon her nourishment.

Reluctantly, he rises from the bed and makes his way to the kitchens. There is plentiful food left over from the day before; he orders the few staff that are awake and working already to put together a platter. Salted meats, pies, bread, hard cheese and tarts are piled high upon the tray, enough to feed both him and Melessa for today and the day after that. He knows it is too much, but this is as much to prove a point as it is to give his wife breakfast. Even in the wrong, Daemon cannot resist the urge to maintain the element of surprise.

Melessa is stirring, sleepily rubbing her eyes as he re-enters her bedchamber, setting the heaped tray upon the foot of the bed. She sits up, her brow furrowing as she looks upon the food that’s been placed before her.

“What’s all this?” she asks, voice thick with sleep.

“Breakfast,” Daemon tells her with a smirk, leaning against the bedpost and folding his arms as he watches her.

“There is so much of it…” Her blue eyes glance up towards him before dropping back to the spread of food.

“Yes—I suppose there is,” he says. “It was tricky for me to know how much to have brought up to you… considering you are eating for two now.”

Her hand that had been reaching towards the food pulls suddenly back into her lap. She stares at him, brows raised in shock. “You know.”

It isn’t so much a question as it is a statement. Daemon simply nods, attempting to mask the satisfied smile that spreads across his face. He may have caught her out, but ultimately he is still in the wrong.

“How?” she asks, pressing her lips into a tight line.

“I caught Maester Orwyle sneaking out of your chambers in the middle of the night,” he tells her matter-of-factly.

“Oh gods. Daemon—what did you do to him?”

His wife knows him too well. He is unable to help the upward tug at the corners of his mouth. “Nothing he won’t recover from. Eat.”

Melessa sighs and reaches for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with her hands as Daemon resumes his earlier position beside her.

“How long have you known?” he asks after a few moments pass between them in silence.

“Since we arrived back in King’s Landing,” she replies between bites.

“And how long since you last bled?”

He can see her considering his question as she chews, trying to recall. “About three moons.”

Daemon can feel his mood darkening and draws in a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. His voice is tight when he asks his next question. “And not once did it occur to you to tell me?”

“I was going to,” she begins softly. “There was so much going on already, with your brother passing away. I had planned to tell you after Rhaenyra’s coronation, but then…”

She trails off, her bottom lip trembling slightly and Daemon feels his heart squeeze at the sight.

“Then I fucked it all up,” he says sadly.

“Hm.” Melessa places her half eaten bread back on the tray, leaning back against the headboard. “You’re not going to let me leave, are you? Not now that you know.”

Daemon feels like he’d be serving another blow to her, to admit this aloud, true as it is. He wants nothing more than to comfort her, to pull her against his chest and breathe in the sweet scent of her golden hair.

“I need you to know that nothing happened…with that girl,” he tells her. “I won’t deny that I tried, and I cannot begin to explain why I did, but I couldn’t…because she wasn’t you, petal.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful?” she asks bitterly.

“No, but it is proof of the fact that I care for you.”

“And yet you have never told me you love me.”

“I’ve never told anyone that before, not even my own brother. Perhaps that is my mistake.”

“But do you love me?”

He is determined not to leave the pause that he did yesterday, to not make her doubt his feelings for her any further than he already has. He takes a breath, steeling himself against his impending vulnerability. “Our time on Dragonstone together was the happiest I ever remember being. I hated having to give that up to return here. Everything in this wretched place serves as a reminder that I am not good enough for you, not good enough to be Hand of the King.”

“And yet, you are my husband and Hand of the Queen,” Melessa reminds him.

“I stole you from my nephew. My niece made me Hand because my brother would not.”

“Perhaps you ought to spend more time appreciating what you have, rather than resenting the reason you have it.”

He huffs through his nose. She is right and he despises it, but it is one of the things he has grown to love about her. Yes. Love.

“I think about you all the time,” he tells her. “I find myself wishing for your presence when you are not by my side. Your scent is imprinted upon me in such a way that nothing else satisfies; I yearn for you more than I ever have for anyone. If that is love, then—yes. I love you… as much as I am able to love another person.”

She stares straight ahead as he speaks, her expression unreadable. The quiet hangs heavy between them when he finishes. Daemon’s heart races, worried she’ll reject him despite him having opened up to her.

Melessa shifts slightly in the bed. “Can you take the food away?” she asks. “The smell is making me feel unwell. I will not return to Highgarden, but I would appreciate some time to myself. I need to rest.”

Daemon nods, standing and removing the food from the end of the bed. He hovers by the door as Melessa settles back down to sleep, debating whether to try to kiss her or not. Deciding against it—he sees her eyes flutter closed—he pushes the tray into the hands of a chambermaid and makes his way out of the Red Keep.

He expects that Rhaenyra will summon him at some point today. It is her first official day as Queen; she will no doubt want a meeting of the Small Council. It is still early, however, and with yesterday’s festivities, he doesn’t anticipate her being ready to call everyone forth until the afternoon. He decides a ride on dragonback will help clear his mind. He has much to think about, though he is glad at having convinced Melessa to remain in King’s Landing without the need for force.

As Daemon approaches the Dragonpit, he notices excited commotion amongst the Keepers. The head of them gives him a beaming smile when he spots him and hurries over, staff in hand, to clap Daemon on the shoulder. He scowls at the overfamiliarity. Before he can enquire as to what the meaning of all of this is, he hears what the Keeper has to say.

“Syrax has laid a clutch! Her first in two decades!”

Daemon raises his eyebrows, the perceived slight immediately forgotten. “Dragon eggs?”

“Yes, Your Grace. We hadn’t known she was gravid. It appears the return of Caraxes has been fruitful for her.”

“Show me,” Daemon commands, excitement fluttering within him.

The head Dragon Keeper guides him through the gloom and humidity of the Pit until they reach a mucus-coated membrane upon the earthen floor.

Daemon crouches, breaking apart the protective layer that coats the top of them. Beneath lay four dragon eggs. His eye is immediately drawn to one that is iridescent shades of orange and red, fading into a vibrant green towards the bottom.

Carefully, he lifts it, turning it over in his hands, feeling the warmth of its hardened scales against his fingertips. “Perzys se rūkla,” he whispers.

Two Keepers approach, a steaming pot meant to incubate the eggs carried between them.

Daemon rights himself, keeping a hold of the egg he’s taken. “You may take those three.” He nods towards the ground. “And inform the Queen of Syrax’s clutch. I am taking this one.”

Melessa is still dozing when he returns. This time, he has no hesitation in waking her. He grins down at her as she grouses to herself, blinking her eyes slowly open.

“For the babe,” he tells her, holding the egg out.

She gasps, reaching out to place her hands over it, her fingers overlapping with his.

Daemon releases a steady exhale at the contact, the first physical touch they’ve shared in what feels like an age. He leans forward, resting his forehead against hers as they hold the egg together, the aroma of almond oil and rosewater flooding his senses. Finally, it feels as though everything may work out exactly as he wants.

This time, he does not fear it.

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

Daemon paces the room. Each of Melessa’s pained screams cause him to wince as they echo off of the vaulted ceilings. A gaggle of attendants rally around her, mopping away sweat and blood as she produces each fluid anew.

Should there be so much blood? Is she going to be alright?

His throat constricts at the possibility he might lose her. He has ignored the pleas for him to leave the room, does not trust that she will not meet the fate of his brother’s first wife, Aemma, should she fall into difficulties.

He will not have her carved open like some roasted hog, just for the sake of some squawking brat. He will end this child’s life long before he ever considers taking hers.

He longs to brush her dampened hair from her temples, to hold her hand and encourage her through her labours, but he has not been allowed beside the bed. The birthing bed is no place for a husband, he is told. Daemon thinks that is utter shit.

He stills when he hears the first wails, too high-pitched to possibly be his wife’s. He turns to see Melessa exhausted but still very much alive, panting against the pillows as a bloodied, squirming mass is lifted from between her legs.

“A boy,” announces a voice from somewhere. He barely registers it, everything seeming far away as the child is separated from his mother, swaddled, and placed into Daemon’s arms.

He has never held anything so fragile before in his life. His arms wrap instinctively around the tiny bundle, a lump forming in his throat as he gazes down at the scrunched up, reddened face that looks up at him with apparent displeasure.

“Ñuhus trēsȳs,” he whispers. “You have a face I’m sure your mother will love.” My son.

He walks around to the side of the bed, and places the child in Melessa’s waiting arms. “Well done, petal,” he murmurs, kissing her temple. “You have given me a son.”

Daemon’s heart swells at the adoration with which she looks down at the babe with, her fingers tracing over his tiny cheek.

“What shall we name him?” she asks, voice hoarse from her labour pains.

“I was thinking Viserys, after my brother,” Daemon says, perching on the edge of the bed and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

“A fine name, indeed.” She smiles. “Little Viserys.”

“Avy jorrāelagon,” he whispers, pressing his nose to her hair. It is a sentiment he ensures his wife and child will never go without hearing from him ever again. I love you.

**SIX WEEKS LATER**

Daemon’s hands wander over Melessa’s nightgown, pawing and squeezing at her flesh as she lays beside him. Under instruction from the Maesters, he and Melessa have not laid together for six weeks in order to allow her body to heal from having given birth. The wait has felt agonising to him; the last time he had been inside of her had been during the last few weeks of her pregnancy. Towards the end, Viserys had sat too low in her womb for them to be intimate without it causing her discomfort.

The wait has been maddening for Daemon. His fist will never satisfy him the way that the warmth of her cunt can.

She squirms uneasily against his touch. “Daemon— please,” she whimpers. “My body has changed since I became a mother.”

“And what is your point, petal?” he murmurs, his hand cupping her breast through the flimsy cotton that covers it.

“I do not look as I was before. I worry that you will not want me anymore, that you will seek out the comfort of another again…”

Daemon takes a gentle grip of her chin, tilting her face towards him. “There is no one that I desire more than you, sweet wife.”

He grasps her hand, guiding it towards his hardened length. “See what you do to me? Even in that oversized sack you insist upon wearing to bed.”

She giggles, and he captures her lips in a searing kiss, pulling at the lacings that keep her shift fastened as he does.

When she is bared beneath him, his eyes travel over the fullness of her breasts, the tautness of their hardened peaks slightly ruddier than they used to be. Her stomach bears the markings of having carried life, her hips more rounded, plusher than they used to be.

A low growl of approval rumbles in his throat. She is irrevocably marked as his and has never looked more beautiful to him.

He inhales a sharp breath upon finding her wet and wanting when he snakes a hand between her thighs. He wants to spend more time preparing her, but the way his cock aches painfully does not allow for such endeavours this evening. He needs her too badly.

When the tight heat of her walls envelope him, he groans in relief. It is like returning home after a lengthy absence. She sobs with pleasure at his every thrust, his hands vice-like against her waist as she eventually shudders and comes apart around him. He follows her over the edge soon after, white hot pleasure licking at his lower spine as he spills himself deep inside of her.

She is almost asleep against his chest when the piercing wails of Viserys startle them both into wakefulness. Melessa sighs, moving to leave the bed when Daemon places a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Allow me, petal,” he says, brushing his lips against her temple and rising from the bed.

Viserys cries in his cradle, little handles clenched into fists. The moonlight that streams through the gap in the curtains shines upon what has disturbed his slumber.

The dragon egg that lays beside him—vibrant hues of red and orange that fade into a brilliant shade of green towards the bottom—has begun to crack apart.

Daemon’s lips part as he watches it. A little dragon for his very own little dragon.

Perzys se rūkla.

FIN.

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lady-phasma · 1 month

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Hen embār masti (From the Sea We Came)

Part 1 of ? 2.7k words

Daemon Targaryen x Elaenya Targaryen (ofc) additional characters and family tree here

Warnings: none yet, slow burn, will be 18+ in future chapters

Prologue: In his 25th year, Prince Deamon Targaryen, with Corlys Velaryon, arranged to take the Stepstones from the Triarchy. Their forces succeeded and by 109 AC Daemon, age 28, styles himself Daemon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. He is to be crowned by Corlys, the Sea Snake, and then return to the Stepstones to take possession of the island Bloodstone. The coronation is to be held at Driftmark, celebrating both Daemon’s and the Sea Snake’s victory.

The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffside calmed Elaenya when her thoughts wouldn’t settle. She could listen to the raging water for hours, watching the fishing boats in the distance, the gulls swooping and swarming around them. She would slip away at the first opportunity, before her morning studies or while the rest of the castle lunched. She and her older brother had duties and obligations, but were allowed free rein of Driftmark and its shores. Her mother, Maela, was the youngest of Corwyn Velaryon’s four children, and Elaenya and Laerys, his youngest grandchildren. They had fewer expectations thrust upon them. There were times when their station demanded they behave as a prince and princess ought, but that didn’t hinder them from exploiting unsupervised moments.

She thought back to times she and her brother had explored the cliffs and caves along the beach, how they would return to the castle with sand covering them from head to toe, pockets filled with pebbles and shells. She had a fortunate childhood in some ways, though not perfect, and had been spared the boring days at court in King’s Landing and the machinations of the royal family.

She stood up from her seat on the rock and dusted the sand from her breeches. The wind caught her silver hair and lashed it around her. She closed her eyes and relished the salt spray on her face. The sun was low on the horizon and the air had become chilled.

Elaenya turned back to the castle, walking slowly up the beach. She still wore the leather pants and thick tunic from her training that afternoon. Being far from King’s Landing had many benefits, not the least of which was the small glimmer of freedom she was allowed. With a plethora of male cousins and her brother she had fought, quite stubbornly, to learn everything they learned. When her mother had finally acquiesced to Elaenya’s demands to learn swordsmanship, she had been inwardly overjoyed and outwardly unbearable for weeks. She wasn’t allowed to train as frequently as the boys, nor as fervently, but she had a natural talent and practiced on her own. She had held a sword in her hand nearly every day since she was three and ten years of age. She fingered the grip of Elēdrar as she started up the stairs. They were rough-hewn on this cliff face and weather worn and there were many of them. She took her time climbing, enjoying the changing hues of the sky presaging sunset. Well before she reached the top, a screech jerked her attention skyward. Crimson, almost black, against the orange sky, Caraxes dove and announced his arrival. Elaenya bounded up the remaining steps, paying no attention to the exertion.

The stair landing opened onto a flagstone courtyard. She was dizzy from her strained breathing but had room for only one thought. Daemon turned at the sound of her footfalls

“Cousin!” she nearly squealed, sounding much younger than her eight and ten years. He smiled at her as he removed his helmet. He ran a hand through it, mussing it after having his helmet on for hours. Elaenya stopped short.

“Yes, cousin?” Daemon grinned at her.

“Well, you,” she stuttered, then smiled back at him. “You seem to have lost some hair, my prince.” She winked at him. He closed the distance between them and scooped her up in an embrace that lifted her feet from the ground. She hugged him back. Still trying to catch her breath, she looked toward Caraxes. He was eyeing them both passively. The dragon was exhausted.

“Shall we get you both settled?” She took his helmet from him, freeing his hands to unpack his saddlebags. She looked at the soot and blood on it and smoothed the plume down. It too was filthy. She would summon a squire to take care of his armor for him.

Daemon patted Caraxes’s snout as they walked off. Their hair and clothes whipped in the air as the dragon ascended and left the courtyard. He would find plenty of sheep or goats to eat before he rested. Elaenya walked ahead of Daemon as they entered the castle.

She doled out instructions to a waiting maid and requested a squire to assist the Prince with his armor. Daemon watched her with a prideful smile, but his eyes were tired. The journey was two days by dragon.

“I’ve had a bath and supper sent to your room. I trust you remember where it is?” she asked. She beamed upon noticing the way he looked at her.

“You’ve become quite a Lady since I saw you last. It wasn’t so long as a year ago though it seems much longer,” he was genuinely impressed, but teasing Elaenya was something of which he would never tire.

“Lady!” she scoffed. “Hardly.” She grinned and gestured to her filthy clothing. “I suppose I need a bath as well. I forget how to be a Lady unless we entertain guests. And if the rumors are to be believed, we will be having quite a few guests tomorrow.”

“Perhaps.” Daemon’s mouth twitched up at the corner. “I shall see you when we break our fast tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she replied. She kissed his cheek before departing for her chambers.

The fire helped to dispel the chill in the room but not entirely. It must have not been lit long. Steam rose from the bath water. Elaenya undressed impatiently. The evening sea air had seeped into her bones. She loved the way the water felt as if it burned when she first stepped into it. As she sank down into the tub, letting the day slide off her, she mulled over Daemon’s comment. She supposed she had become more confident with the servants and had learned more from her mother about her duties this year. This was inevitably the result of her mother’s intention to make Elaenya a desirable prospect as a wife. She groaned. She glanced to the corner near the hearth where Elēdrar was propped. Her Valyrian steel sword. It had been her father’s. There weren’t many in the family so when her brother had given it to her for her eighteenth name day she had been speechless. By all rights it should be Laerys’s.

It was a bit small for him. It had more sentimental value to him as he could remember more time with their father. However, Laerys had been bequeathed his own. His had come from the Velaryon lineage; Elaenya’s from the Targaryen’s. It fit her perfectly. She could wield hers one-handed if needed and could do great damage with two hands.

She let her eyes close as she rested her head against the back of the tub. She would wash when the water was cooler. For the moment she wanted to feel the heat. She gathered her silver hair behind her head, keeping it from the water and using it as a makeshift pillow. An unbidden memory floated behind her closed eyes...

Elaenya remembered how her sword had stopped midair, striking an unyielding object. She had turned around immediately and almost dropped it.

"Well, what do we have here?" The Dragon smiled down at her. All black armor and silver hair. He let the blade slide down his forearm, then gripped it, keeping it from falling to the ground. It had struck his vambrace when she had swung inexpertly.

She swallowed and was too embarrassed to respond. She could only blink up at him, then down at her sword in his hand and his helmet in his other.

She had been ten years of age the first time she had seen Daemon Targaryen up close. He tossed the sword in the air, flipping it to catch the grip. He turned it, making a show of inspecting the blade.

“They let you train with this, little one?” He flipped it again and handed it back to Elaenya, grip-first.

“Yes, only a bit, my Prince,” her mouth was dry. He seemed overlarge and certainly his reputation contributed to that.

“You’d do well to pay attention to your surroundings, cousin,” he grinned. “Watch where you swing such a deadly blade.” She laughed at this. They both knew it was a training sword with the dullest blade imaginable. “I shall leave you to it.”

He left unceremoniously. Young Elaenya watched him walk away until he entered the castle.

Elaenya made her way to break her fast the next morning. Her excitement propelled her down the corridors. The skirts of her pale blue dress flowed out behind her as she walked.

When she arrived at the hall, Daemon and her uncle weren’t present. She hid her displeasure with a genteel smile and walked toward the table.

“Good morrow.” She greeted her good sister, Rhanora, and brother, Laerys. She took her seat next to Rhanora as a servant brought her meal.

“You welcomed Prince Daemon last night, sister?” Laerys asked as he reached for the bread. He broke a piece off and handed it to his wife before taking some for himself, then handed the loaf to Elaenya. His eyes sparkled with a bit of mischief as they met hers.

“Thank you. Yes, I was on the beach when he arrived.” She gave him an exaggerated reproachful look. “How is the babe this morning?” Elaenya nodded toward Rhanora’s rounded middle.

“He was quite restless last night, but seems to have calmed today. I am ready for the little prince to make his appearance.” Rhanora stroked her belly as she spoke. It would not be much longer. Perhaps only a month’s time according to the Maester.

“Hopefully you may both have some rest before the festivities this afternoon.” Without meaning to, Elaenya rolled her eyes. She immediately flushed, praying neither of them had seen.

“Do you not approve of our cousin’s new title, El?” Her brother graciously winked at her, relieving her of the guilt that had begun to creep in. Laerys chuckled but it was clipped off when he looked up.

Their mother, Maela, had entered the hall. She smiled at them as she approached the table.

“Good morrow, Mother.” Elaenya and Laerys spoke almost in unison. Elaenya giggled. They had acted like they were still children, caught up to no good. Her mother kissed her fondly on the forehead before she sat.

“Good morrow children, Rhanora. Was something amusing, my son?” Maela didn’t look up from her task of buttering her bread.

“Well… yes, Mother, in fact, El thought Daemon’s coronation a bit of a farce.”

“I-“ Elaenya began in a huff, but her mother and brother laughed.

“Perhaps you should keep your opinions of your cousin confined to this dining table, El, lest someone mistake you for an usurper.” Her mother smiled at her.

Maela was a delicate woman but strong and fierce and kind. Her outward appearance and demeanor were every bit as regal as was required to marry a Targaryen prince. Before their father had died, Maela had smiled more often. Since then these intimate moments were the only times she seemed to slip off the twelve years of mourning which she wore like a cloak.

Maela had loved Gaemon Targaryen, their father, regardless of the marriage having been arranged. She was devoted to her two children, often seeing their father in their humor and playfulness.

“You look lovely today, El,” she said as she appraised Elaenya’s hair and dress. “More excited for the festivities than Laerys would lead me to believe?” She smiled mischievously.

Elaenya shot a sour look at her brother. She would find a way to repay him for exposing her to their mother.

“They will be historic, Mother,” she replied, not attempting to hide her smile.

Daemon and Corlys didn’t join them. Elaenya excused herself after she had finished her meal. She decided to go to the terrace to watch the arriving ships and the dragons. They, too, needed to break their fast and could be seen diving in the sea for fish that they rarely had access to at their homes.

She walked the corridors in no hurry. As she passed the library she heard voices. The doors were closed and she didn’t enjoy eavesdropping but she couldn’t help but hear Daemon’s agitated voice interrupt Corlys.

“-to Bloodstone. Tomorrow.”

Elaenya heard boot heels approaching the door. She moved away quickly, on through the corridors.

The ocean breeze was warmer than she had expected. She took a seat on a stone bench near the parapet. The dragons keened above and below her. Caraxes dwarfed her Saelys by half. Saelys’s teal coloring shifted between blue and green as she flew in the morning light. She watched Caraxes dive and reappear. A couple of newcomers circled and dove with them.

Bloodstone. Elaenya thought. She supposed it had not occurred to her that Daemon would go away so soon. Of course he would. Driftmark was not his home and only the war with the Triarchy had caused him to visit during the last few years. He and the Sea Snake would convene here when they needed to regroup or plan a new offensive. Those times were rare. None of the visits were long but she had spent every possible moment she could listening to them discuss strategy and tactics. More than once she had been their cup bearer in these meetings. The years had seemed to pass slowly with nothing remarkable happening between Daemon’s appearances at Driftmark.

He had spent most of his time there focused on his duties but after the councils he would walk on the beach with Elaenya. He would ask her questions about her training or Saelys or walk in comfortable silence. She didn’t prattle like young women were wont to do. Yet in all that time she had never thought about where he would be after the war ended. He had been a constant part of her life for three years and three years could feel like an eternity when your days were monotonous.

Elaenya gazed out at the ocean and let her mind wander. Soon she would be required to attend her mother and brother. Alongside them she would represent the Targaryens at Driftmark. What an odd predicament, she thought, to be loyal to her uncle and cousin and yet claim to be loyal to the Crown. Surely Daemon’s and Corlys’s actions were treason but she would heed her mother’s words and keep these thoughts to herself.

That afternoon, Elaenya took her place next to her brother in the hall. They stood to the side of the dais. Their uncle Corlys Velaryon sat on the driftwood throne. Every Velaryon who resided at Driftmark was present. The hall was buzzing with conversation. A few younger men laughed, the sound echoing through the rafters. The celebratory mood overshadowed the fact that Daemon and Corlys we committing a minor act of treason. Looking at the faces around the hall, she didn’t see any that showed displeasure. Everyone in attendance reveled in the victory.

A voice was heard above the others, asking for silence, and a wave of shushing flowed through the crowd. Heads turned to watch the young prince enter. His short, silver hair was raked to the side. His violet eyes focused directly ahead, not looking at the spectators. He looked smug even without a grin, but surely that grin lay close to the surface, Elaenya thought. She allowed herself a tight-lipped smile.

Her cousin stopped at the dais, not mounting the stairs. Silence fell completely as the Sea Snake stood. He walked to the edge and a servant met him, holding out the crown. The polished bones curved like those of a man’s ribs. Elaenya swallowed dryly at the unsavory thought. Daemon didn’t kneel, only bowed his head slightly.

“Let all present bear witness,” Corlys spoke loudly to the onlookers. “Daemon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea.” The Sea Snake placed the crown upon Daemon’s head. Cheers and applause sprang up from the crowd. Elaenya wondered if it wasn’t a bit forced, overly enthusiastic. Surely not everyone was excited to see her cousin become a king.

Daemon raised his head and began to turn to face the crowded hall. As he did he caught Elaenya’s eye and proffered her a smirk that fell away as quickly as it had arrived. Heat rushed to her face but Daemon had already looked away. That single look had confirmed her suspicions: he knew exactly how much of a farce this had become.

To be continued...

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silens-oro · 2 months

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Vicious

Daemon Targaryen x Targ!OFC Vaenya (Platonic)

All of my fics are 18+

Synopsis: Daemon has met his match in his niece Vaenya the Vicious -firstborn of the Targaryen/Hightower children. Vaenya has carved out a path of her own with a sword and her might, making a name for herself throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Fierce and not to be trifled with, Vaenya does not extend an olive branch when she could burn the entire tree down. Daemon comes to learn this very quickly.

**No incest**

Word Count: ~900

Warning: Talks of sexual situations, murder, gore. There also aren't any physical descriptors, but I made Vaenya an OC because she is a Targaryen.

AN: I haven't actually written anything in so long. This has been sitting in my drafts since January of LAST YEAR and I decided to go back and see what could be salvaged and reworked. This was fun to bring back to life. House of the Dragon requests are OPEN

Red Keep Day of the Final Supper

“Vaenya the Vicious,” Daemon stated as she entered the study, the door shutting softly behind her. “My how you’ve grown since we last met,” His eyes trailed up and down as she advanced towards him. There wasn’t much he could look at due to her trousers and jerkin over a long sleeved blouse. Vaenya knew he did this merely to rile her up.

“Keep your flattery for someone who gives a shit,” Vaenya stated gruffly with an eye roll. “I have no need for it.”

“You wound me,”

“I’d do worse if you weren’t a guest within this keep,” She warned with a glare. Daemon held his hands up in a mock showing of surrender. “Say what it is you wish to say, Uncle. If I were to waste my time, it surely would not be with you.”

“I’ve been graced with your sharp tongue and searing glare, Vaenya. What you see as a waste, I see as an opportunity.”

“Of course you do,” Vaenya rolled her eyes as she poured herself a chalice of wine.

“I merely wish to reconnect,” Vaenya shot the whole glass back in one gulp before she locked him with a look that stated ‘state your business’.

“Do not think that I know not of your true face, Uncle. I am -luckily- none of your wives, of which you’ve had many, through a poor match made or blinded by familial love; I see you for who you are,” Vaenya’s tone held boredom. Her uncle was ever the Cat and Mouse expert, always scheming and plotting just to sew the seeds of chaos. Vaenya was unshakable.

“If you believe Rhea held love for me, then you are mistaken,” He chuckled sardonically.

“Rhea did not know what you are capable of, and she met her end because of it,” Vaenya quipped. “It seems they all meet their end when they are tied to you, do they not?”

“A tragedy,” His expression said otherwise. “My true face, dearest niece -what is it?” Daemon approached her with calculated steps. He held the eyes of a predator; precise, unrelenting, deadly. It held little effect on her. “Please enlighten me,” It was a threat, yet Vaenya paid his tone no mind and gave him a very direct answer.

“That of a parasite, latching from host to host,” Vaenya spoke plainly. A malicious grin grew upon Daemon’s thin lips. “My father cannot shake you, regardless of how far he tucks you away within the realm, or elsewhere. Never too far out of sight, nor out of mind when it comes to you. Yet you always appeared back at his feet, attaching yourself like a leech to his flesh. He sees exactly what I do, Daemon. The only difference between he and I is that I carry no love for you.”

“Tis a shame,” Daemon gave you a mocking pout. “It does boggle one’s brain. You speak of my wives -former and current- yet you yourself have not taken a husband. If your rigidness is anything to go off of, I’d wager you’ve never felt the pleasure of a man’s cock.” The way he spoke would rattle the other Ladies of the Keep -her Queen Mother in particular. They’d all flush and stammer at such vulgarities. These were words Vaenya was not shy to, nor was she shy with the acts associated with them. Daemon would not get a rise out of her.

“I’ve seen how you’ve looked at me, Uncle; How you looked at me as a girl." The implication was laid out bare. "-how you still look at me with carnal hunger that you will never be able to satiate. Always so close, yet just far enough out of reach. Does it anger you that I never once looked your way?” Vaenya's boots clicked on the stone floor with each step she took towards Daemon. “That my father never gave you the opportunity you so desperately craved?” Vaenya could see irritation begin to creep into his features. “I know you tried.” She taunted. Vaenya always found his eyes on her in the training yard as she sparred with Sir Criston whenever Daemon visited the Red Keep the few times he did throughout her life with or without Rhaenyra by his side. She continued:

“I am curious though; when will you strike on Rhaenyra? Once her usefulness nears its end? Once you find another who will dote on you who has more to offer? Will she, too, be tragically ‘felled’ by her horse? Eaten by a dragon? Or, mayhaps, bludgeoned with a stone?”

“Curiosity killed the cat, sweet niece,” Daemon all but purred.

“And satisfaction brought it back.” Vaenya responded with a smirk. She turned to leave Daemon with a heavy sense of foreboding as she calmly walked to the heavy door. Turning back as she reached for the handle, Vaenya left Daemon with parting words:

“I dearly look forward to the day that I cleave your arrogant head from your shoulders with the might of Lazarus’ blade, dear Uncle.” Vaenya’s hand tapped the tip of Lazarus’ hilt at her hip. “Though you are not worthy of its bite. My true purpose in this life shall be concluded once your body exhales its final breath and the crows are pecking at your withered flesh left out to rot,"

Daemon’s serpent grin had fallen from his lips, the corners downturning ever so slightly.

“The nourishment you provide to the scavengers will be the only good you’ve brought to the realm in your treacherous life. I shall personally see to it that the maesters’ history books will be where you are forever more known as Daemon the Leech, first and last of his name.” With that Vaenya smiled and turned her back to Daemon -a sign of clear disrespect. "Be sure to get rest, Uncle. Dinner is to be stimulating, I'm quite sure." With that Vaenya left, letting the door slam closed behind her with purpose.

#hotd imagine #daemon targaryen imagine #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen #ofc #daemon targaryen x ofc #angst #drabble #one shot #house of the dragon fic #hotd fic

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ahotmesswithprivilege · 2 years

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Broken Hearts

Word Count: 2382

Characters inclueded: Kendra Caelus (OFC), Daemon Targaryen, Caraxes, Yngve Caelus (OMC; Kendra's father), Otto Hightower, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Viserys I Targaryen

Ship: Daemon Targaryan x OFC

Summary Daemon returns from traveling to Essos on his brother’s behalf when he he is greeted with news he does not know how to handle

Warnings: OFC (including her own house I will elaborate more on. For now know that they are called Caelus, their house motto is ‘forged in blood we find glory’ and they have an impeccable track record of only sons, her being the first daughter that was born in generations), non canon (not even sure if it’s canon compliant. I am just here to take characters I obsess over for a fun ride), non beta read and written by a non native speaker (proceed with caution), major angst, discussion of death and loss If I missed something please tell me and I am going to add it to the list

Never before had Daemon been more thrilled to return to King‘s Landing and the Red Keep. When the city became visible on the horizon his heart was yearning to land there, to feel solid ground under his feet, to finally do what he had wanted to for weeks now. It was almost surreal that when Caraxes put his feet on the ground, he wasn’t overcome by the claustrophobic feeling of a wild beast locked in a cage that had been his familiar companion for years now. And all because of her. The mere thought of her made his heart beat faster in his chest, the steps up the stairs seeming so very easy. He probably should go to his chambers first, make himself presentable after the day on his dragon’s back, but right now he couldn’t care less about the opinions of others. He was a man on a mission and come the seven hells or high water, he would do what he set out to. He knew that at this time of day she would most likely be in the gardens, keeping his niece company so his feet carried him there, a little treasure hiding in his fist, a small smile on his lips as he imagined the look on her face when he would hand it to her. That was until a guard dared to step in his way, Daemon‘s free hand almost automatically reaching for his sword. He knew that the man belonged to Hightower and he had not the time nor patience to be bothered by this intriguer. „Ser Daemon…“, the boy started, immediately silenced by the fury in the rouge prince’s eyes. “The king…”, the boy attempted once more after finding his courage again,” He needs you in the small council” Daemon didn’t want to follow the man. He had more important things to do, but he also knew that Hightower was not to be trusted. “It is really urgent”, the boy added in a last desperate attempt to conceive the rouge dragon to come with him, he himself not sure what was actually going on. “Fine. But it better be quick”, he growled back, letting the present he had held in his hand slide into his pocket, promising himself no matter how long it would take, he’d make sure to find her today, and if he had to barge into her quarters in the middle of the night, so be it.

The air in the small council was thick when he entered, telling Daemon that something was terribly wrong. His eyes wandered around as he walked over to the table to sit down on a chair, spotting his brother at the head of the table, seated to his right was Hightower and to his left, Lord Yngve Caelus, the master of arms. The sea snake was standing in a corner and Mellos had chosen a place by the window, all of them looking like they hadn't left the council room in a while. His eyes fell on the Hand, hostility clearly visible in his eyes. What cabal had he planned this time? “We are here because of troubling news that reaches us today”, Hightower started, his icy gaze moving from Daemon to Caelus, sympathy sneaking in there that made Daemon more uneasy than before. “My son wrote me that he received a message from Kendra, that she would follow his request and do her best to come back home soon", Lord Yngve started, Daemon's head snapping over to look at the master of arms the second he mentioned her name. "Only that he never wrote to her", it was clearly visible how hard the man with the ruby hair was fighting back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. It took a short moment for the words to truly sink in before Daemon shot up from his chair, showing more of his true colours than he would want to in front of a man like Ser Otto Hightower, but the fear that was eating away at his heart was overbearing. "It was a fortnight ago when Lady Kendra came to me and she seemed deeply unsettled. Whatever was written in the letter she received, she was convinced that she had to leave right away", Hightower took over and Daemon couldn't help but feel like the other man was revelling in the pain he saw him in. "She asked for my permission to use the messenger posts to get new horses on her way to travel faster", he added, looking over at Daemon, almost taunting him with the fact that she had come to him for help, only fuelling the wrath that was cursing through his veins before he paused. "Does that mean she left on her own?", he asked the Hand, voice dangerously quiet for the state he was in, hands now on the table as he leaned forward. "I offered her an escort but she refused, insisting that they'd only slow her down" Daemon's eyes burned into Hightowers. "Even with the most generous of estimations, she should have arrived three days ago", Velaryon threw in from the side, reminding Daemon that it was not just him and Hightower in the room. The implications of the sentence sent a pang straight to his heart. It meant that she was missing... and that maybe for a whole fortnight without him even knowing. "We need to look for her...", he said quietly, his head desperately trying to ban the images that forced their way into his mind. "What a great idea Ser Daemon. We thought about just sitting here and waiting for something to happen", the biting voice of Hightower taunted him making Daemon clench his fist, knuckles turning white. "Enough" It was the first time the king spoke since his brother entered the room. Even with all of their differences, he saw how much pain Daemon was in. A pain his brother was not deserving of, no matter what he had done. "Knights are trying to track down her path, and we have dragons in the sky that are searching for her. I know that you have just returned from Essos, but...", his brother stopped when the door was thrown open and Rhaenyra barged in, still struggling to catch a breath. She must have run up the stairs from the dragon pit, eyes red and puffy from the tears she had shed on her way home when a red shimmer caught Daemon's eye. It came from the thing that his niece held in her hand, fingers clutching it as if her life depended on it. "Kendra...", her voice was wavering as she stepped forward, every muscle in her body burning from the day she had spent in Syrax's saddle, her eyes wearily wandering to her uncle as she placed the red thing on the table. Daemon's eyes widened when he realized that it was one of Caraxes' scales. “I found it near an abandoned camp on her route”, Rhaenyra’s voice was wavering as tears started streaming down her cheeks once more and she wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to hold herself together. Daemon reached out his hand to the scale, needing to make sure that this was not a gruesome trick his mind played him. But it was the oh-so-familiar feeling of the smooth surface, the colour as red as blood... "What?", Lord Yngve asked, confused by the thing on the table and she looked over to her uncle, begging him to explain, but before he could, his brother cut him off. "You gave her a dragon scale?", Viserys asked in disbelief at his brother's insolence. "No", Daemon's finger's closed around the edges until it broke the skin of his palm and drew blood. "Then how did she...?" "Caraxes...", Daemon's purple eyes met his brother's, "He gave it to her" A heavy silence filled the room until the master of arms raised his voice once. “Where did you find it?" Rhaenyra felt her heart clenching at the image that once again rose in her inner mind. The abandoned camp with the slain horse, the trail deeper into the woods, the ashes on the ground... "A stake...", her voice was shaking and barely audible in the room. "A what?" "A stake. I found it in the ashes of a stake next to...", the girl once again started sobbing, the tears breaking her voice and making it impossible to continue. The silence in the room was heavy, and everyone began to realize what the princess' words truly meant. The tears started streaming down the face of Lord Yngve. All he had ever done was try to protect his daughter, to keep her away from the snake pit that was king’s landing, fighting off proposal after proposal to make sure that she would get a chance to marry for love and not for power and now in her darkest hour, he had failed her. “My little storm flower… is gone?”

The he was able to Daemon hurried out of the room, the scale of his dragon still in his hand, the cutting pain somewhat grounding while his wrath threatened to take over his body and soul. He needed to head to his chambers, the prying eyes of the court being unbearable to him right now. When she had bid him goodbye that day a fortnight ago, he had told her he'd be back before she'd know it and she was her kind and sweet self wishing him good travels. She even gave him her dagger. 'It shall serve you as it served me, my prince' The dagger of Valyrian steel, once given to her family for their loyalty, was now hanging heavily on his belt and the moment he made it into his chambers, the tears started streaming down his face. It was a knock on his door that forced him to put his facade back into place, no matter how much his heart was aching. "What?", he asked brashly, not in the mood for anyone's company, not even for his niece's when she entered the room cautiously, a large dog right by her side. "Uncle I wanted to...", she began, stopping herself as she laid eyes on his face, the tears still visible on his cheeks. In all those years Rhaenyra had never seen her uncle cry, not even when he was badly injured and it broke her heart to see him like this, knowing how much pain he must be in. "What are you doing with Argos?", he cut her off, his voice sounding harsh in a way she had never heard before. "Kendra... she asked me to look after him until she returned. The letter she received. She said it was her brother to her that his wife was sick and he needed help to run the keep in their father's absence. First, she thought about a chance to fly there but she was not sure when you'd return and it seemed so urgent, so she decided to ride and she thought Argos wouldn't be able to keep up with her", she started rambling, attempting to compensate her nerves with words aplenty. A heavy silence filled the air and all Rhaenyra wanted to do was walk over to him and wrap her arms around him in the hopes that they would find comfort while sharing their pain and mourning when Daemon's ice-cold voice cut through the silence. "Then why didn't you take her?" "What?" "Why didn't you take her on Syrax?” Rhaenyra’s eyes grew wide when she understood the meaning behind his words. “You know that she is not ready…”, she started only cut off by his cold stare. “All you’d need to do was a few more breaks and she wouldn’t have been out there all alone left at the mercy of…”, Daemon stopped himself as the image started to appear once again in front of his inner eye. The way they ambushed her at night, how they beat and bruised her before they tied her to the stake and not a single soul near her to come to her aid. A pain he had never felt before rushed through his body, taking a hold of his heart and making him feel like it stopped beating altogether. If he were not as consumed by his aching heart he would have seen how unfair he was and would see how he was not the only one to mourn someone he loved. Had she at first thought she would find someone to share her suffering with and a shoulder to lean onto, she felt how tears started to stream down her cheeks once more even though she had thought it impossible to cry anymore. "And what about you? If you had been here you could have kept your promise and kept her safe", she was fighting so hard to not let her voice break, her fingers tangling in the long fur of Argos, who had moved from his spot beside her to the front as if to shield her, just the way his mistress had told him to. "Get out of my sight!", Daemon's voice was wavering as he clenched his fist, trying everything to hold himself back and not unleash his wrath onto his niece. "What?" "I said get out of my bloody sight!", his voice was barely human now, more resembling his own dragon's roar, scaring his niece enough to turn around on her heels and flee his chambers, pulling the large hound with her. In his heart, he knew she was right and once she slammed the door shut behind her, his hand reached into his pocket where his fingers found the cause of his delay. For days he had been searching for something particular, something special that was worthy of a queen. If he hadn't wasted so much time he would have been back sooner, he would have followed her, maybe could have saved her... His fist tightened around the Valyrian steel before he threw it across the room.

That night a roar, more beastly than human was heard throughout the corridors of the Red Keep, its pain only matched by the roar that came from the pit. Daemon and Caraxes. Two dragons mourning the loss of their heart.

#daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x ofc #daemon targaryen x oc #hotdfic #my own writing

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vampire-exgirlfriend · 1 year

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So it's been a long time since I've updated Salt in the Wound and I promise my intention was never to abandon it. I just hit a wall and really worked myself up over not being able to continue it (or answer any more asks about when it would be back). After a lot of thought, and talking to my incredible friend @magpie-to-the-morning about it, I've decided to rework this story as an x ofc story.

To be honest, Salt was never really supposed to be anything other than a horny one shot, but once I started really sinking my teeth into it, I realized I viewed Star as her own person. And to continue on with the story in the way that makes sense (and makes me happy), this is how I need to do it. I really just can't write reader insert anymore, there's no joy in it for me. So I'll be reworking it instead of pulling the whole thing and reposting. If you've stuck around this long, thank you, you mean to world to me. If you feel the need to unsubscribe or not continue, I get it.

I really hope the rework is worth the wait. Because I think it's going to make this story really special.

#salt in the wound #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x ofc #house of the dragon fic #hotd fic #daemon targaryen

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titlemewickedwonderland · 1 year

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His Starlight Her Firefly (Chapter 6)

AUTHORS NOTE: Please consider reblogging, liking, commenting, and following if you enjoy my content, and don't forget to give love to your other favorite writers out there! Thank you!

Also if you would like to be added to a tag list for further chapters please let me know in the comments below!

Workshop

He breathed her in. The scent of her skin and the way her soft curves felt wrapped around him and pressed against him. For the briefest of moments, his mind did not wish to believe that this was the same little girl he had left two years prior. She had only been a girl who looked as if she was of two and ten years and now she looked and felt like a woman grown already. But Daemon knew to his very core this was his Astraea. His starlight. Even as he went to pull away and her arms tightened around his neck to keep him close he knew she was all the same spitfire and energy he had loved as a little girl growing up. She had grown up. And if he was any other man he would not have allowed a striking beauty like herself to cling to him as such while being a married man - But Daemon wasn't any normal man and he with his lady wife had not consummated nor touched each other since their ceremony.

A soft laugh vibrated through his chest as one of his arms rested along the slight curve of her waist and the other slipped into the silky strands of her tangled black locks at the back of her head to hold her closer for the briefest of moments; simply enjoying the fact that he was home and able to see her once more after two long years of silence - a fact he was seriously regretting as he held her, how much had he missed of her growing up because he chose to distance himself for the sake of sanity and focus? Despite Westeros not always feeling at home as the years grew he knew wherever this incredible woman stepped foot home would follow suit. This fact was made steadfastly true as he felt her nose nuzzle at the skin of his throat where it peaked from the color of his leather riding gear and a smirk tugged at his lips.

"Ao emagon grown, dōna mēre. Skoriot iksos bona riñītsos nyke geptot inkot? " (Trans: "You have grown, sweet one. Where is that little girl I left behind?") he asked in the tongue of High Valaryion; deep and content as he allowed his cheek to rest against the top of Astraea's head.

"Hae ao vestragon drēje, ziry mazverdatan bē" (Trans: "As you say true, she grew up.") her reply came swift and easy as ever before she was suddenly pulling her face from his neck and glaring up at him with such fierceness he thought perhaps she would burn him alive with just her gaze alone like Caraxes's fire.

"Two years and not a single word from you! I wrote you letters upon letters for days and you didn't even reply to a single one! I thought you dead until I came across letters from you on Uncle's desk talking about the bloody war! You could write him but not me?!" she jabbed a finger into the leather of his chest plate still with that fierce glare upon her pretty face.

"I was so worried! I had to take the company of the dragons when Uncle was too busy for me. Do you understand how hard that was for me? When all my nights were filled with cold loneliness because you were not there to keep me company in the late hour by the fireplace. Or when you'd read to me before bed the histories of the dragons. Or how you'd sneak me into the kitchen at night for some sweet cakes that cook left over from supper. Do you know how hard it was for me when I had to go riding horseback with Uncle in the mornings when he wanted fresh air? Horseback Daemon! Not dragon riding...horseback!" her words ending in a pant of breath as she spewed it all to him between animated waves of her hands.

Daemon stared down at her unblinking through it all as if she damn near grew a second head but then his lips were pressing tightly together to hide the grin he knew would only make the princess more irritated if she saw it and most likely fly her into another tirade. Any normal man would have scolded her and told her it was his duty; that she should concern herself with things more to her station. But he was not and she was different than other ladies and women of the court. So instead of brushing her off the rogue prince reached up to take hold of her face in his palms and leaned down to press his forehead against hers; gazing into the vibrancy of her eyes as if trying to sink into her very soul.

"Shijetra issa, dōna mēre. I did not mean to upset you." (Trans: Forgive me, Sweet one") Daemon murmured while his thumbs brushed along her cheekbones with such tenderness as he gave her a small smile which Astraea weakened to the effect and returned the smile with an indulgent one of her own.

"You could have at least sent me one note. That's all I ever really wanted to make sure you were alright." she finally surrendered allowing the righteous flame of her frustration to die out completely in a puff of smoke as she played with the ends of his long white hair that rested along his shoulders. "I missed you."

His eyes slid shut briefly hearing those three words slip from her lips. Because he honestly missed her too. More than he would say aloud. But instead of saying them back to her, he reopened his eyes to look at her again.

"I got you something." Daemon pulled away from her; allowing her gentle curves to slip from his fingers.

Astraea watched with childlike interest as the man stepped back to Caraxes's side to reach for the pack tied to the saddle and brought out a small velvet bag before he was stepping back in front of her with it in his palm.

"What is it?" her brows furrowed as she looked at the black velvet perched in his palm.

"Something I got for you for your eight and tenth birthday but it seems you have outgrown it throughout the years faster than anticipated so I suppose I shall give it to you now." the prince chuckled as he began to untie the strings of the baggie and reach inside to pull out something that glittered in the fading light of the evening.

"Oh...it's beautiful, Daemon." Astraea's gaze glittered in the light like twin gems just as much as the necklace the man held up between them did in the fading light.

It was truly a work of art; crafted specifically in mind for the princess herself. It was 3 delicate chains the color as black as coal but glistening with a metallic shine intertwined in a braid; thick enough that it was designed to be worn like a choker necklace and in the middle sat a ruby as a centerpiece. Below attached by a thin delicate black chain no more than an inch long was the carving of a metal dragon with one crimson eye made from a ruby glaring in the sun.

The princess reached up to caress the carved dragon and smile before the necklace was pulled from her grasp and the man twirled a finger around in the air in a silent command to turn around. Huffing with a playful roll of her eyes Astraea did as she was told and turned around. She smiled when she came face to face with Caraxes who had refused to follow the keeper into the cavern and was waiting with impatience to be greeted in return which the young woman did so with a flurry of High Valaryion endearments as she hugged the snout that was shoved unceremoniously against her chest making her stumble back into the rogue prince who grumbled something no lady should hear. But the princess did not mind and instead placed a kiss on the warm scales of the beast with another coo of delighted endearment.

"He's just grumpy, old boy." she teased resting her cheek on Caraxes head for a heartbeat before she pushed lightly at his cheek with a firm command and an even firmer look on her face as if a mother chiding her child. "Jikagon iemnȳ." (Trans:"Go inside")

As the large red beast gave a grumble but followed her orders Astraea could hear the prince grumbling even more under his breath behind her something about his dragon listening to only her and she turned to chide him but he merely grabbed her shoulders and spun her back around.

"Damnit Astraea turn around woman!" he ordered impatiently as he grabbed a fistful of her thick long curls and flung them over her shoulder.

"Temper temper Daemon. It's unbecoming of the king's brother." Astraea glanced over her shoulder at the man with a teasing mirth in her eyes

"When did you become so impish." Daemon's voice was low but teasing as he leaned closer and draped the cool metal over her head to rest against her throat and fasten the gift to its owner.

"I blame you. I spent far too much time with you when I was younger, Daemon. I swear."

"Don't swear, it's unladylike."

"And then you abandoned me." the beautiful girl spun around when she felt the clasp to the necklace latch. "How do I look?" she posed as if posing for a portrait painting with her shoulders thrown back and chin lifted up proudly.

Daemon's mirth turned into something more like tenderness with something else gleaming in the depths of his violet irises she could not place as he reached out to brush aside her hair from her shoulder; his fingers stroking down to the dragon that rested just below her collarbones. "You look beautiful, Dōna mēre." he murmured

Astraea looked up at him and smiled slightly as she reached up to grasp his wrist that rested at her throat. "I've missed you, truly."

He stared deeply at her for a moment as if he was mulling over something that was deep; his gaze flickering across her features making her wonder what he was thinking. But then he pulled his hand away from the warmth of her skin and instead linked her arm with his to guide her back down the side of the mountainside away from the Dragonpit. "You can tell me all about it during dinner. I feel like we have much to catch up on, princess."

She was amused. Seeing the tension and the surprise that no one else would have seen in his eyes if they knew Daemon as well as she when the man walked into the dining hall that night to find that there were new faces amongst the people last seen in his absence. Astraea sat on Viserys's left side at the head of the table while Aemma sat on his right across from her and him in the middle. There were others on council both from the court and those of Aemma's household that sat in the chairs scattered on both sides and everyone looked at the prince returned from battle in barely contained surprises. Viserys was one of those who stared in silence but Astraea knew he was secretly happy to see his brother home alive and without harm; that much was clear as he beckoned for a chair to be placed between his niece and the man she had been sitting beside.

"I'm glad you made it, brother," Viserys spoke up quietly as the servants placed the dishes down and the cluttering of silverware covered the conversation of the royal family at the head of the table.

"I was worried he was going to have vanished in his bath if he was even a little bit late in arriving," Astraea commented with a joking smile as she reached for her cup of wine in front of her receiving an odd look from Daemon who followed the journey of the golden goblet to her lips before he was meeting his brother's gaze.

"I am pleased to be home. I've truly missed Westeros after two years of nothing but the battlefield and unruly men." Daemon's lips curved into a slight smirk as he began to pick at his food.

"And here I thought you'd be going home to your lady wife instead of visiting the Red Keep." Lady Aemma gave a pointed look to the prince who stared her down without blinking.

"We can talk more of war later. Let's enjoy dinner." Viserys stated with a knowing nod before he was reaching for the pretty blonde's hand on his right side. "You remember our cousin the Lady Aemma of House Arryn, don't you brother?"

Daemon glanced at the woman before giving her a polite but courteous smile and nod. "I do. It brings me joy to see you are in good health, my lady. I hope my brother has not yet bored you of his company."

The brotherly jab did not go unnoticed as Astraea coughed into her cup of wine while she choked on the red liquid in the midst of a laugh and she covered her mouth feeling the tips of her ears growing red with embarrassment as amused gazes looked at her across the table.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to laugh." she wiped at her lips with a cloth and cleared her throat facing her plate again.

"It's always good to hear your laughter, niece" Aemma replied raising her own cup as a silent toast to her before sipping at the wine with smiling lips.

"Yes, well. I have asked Lady Aemma to marry me. The wedding will come in fourteen days time; I would hope you could come to the wedding unless you have more pressing matters to attend to." Daemon looked across between the two with wariness.

"Oh? That is great news. Congratulations are in order then for the both of you." the rogue prince stated. "I shall hope to make it. I would never miss my brother's wedding."

'Just the princess's birthdays' - the jab was right at the tip of Lady Aemma's tongue but she refrained and instead turned to her niece who piped up with an easy:

"Truly." Astraea agreed with a proud smile and Viserys was relieved to see how his niece had warmed to the idea of an addition to their family although thinking back; she'd already accepted Aemma before it had ever been official - the darling girl that she was.

"I would assume then you'll be consummating for an heir soon then?" Daemon grunted when Astraea's foot collided with his chin and her ruby eyes widened in horror that he had seriously said that aloud and at the dinner table no less.

"That's none of your business. You can't just ask that so bluntly!" she hissed at him before her hand swung out to smack him in the arm but his hand quickly caught her wrist and he brought her hand to his lips to a fleeting chaste kiss to her wrist to nullify her spark of anger.

"It was in jest, Astraea. We all know that is what is expected. There is no need for secrecy."

the princess pulled her hand back with a huff and resumed eating. Not caring as Daemon's violet eyes fixated on the side of her face. She looked pretty tonight having bathed with oils that reminded him of a spring meadow while she donned a beautiful dress made of red silk that hugged her upper body and allowed modest cleavage to spill forth; holding up with a beaded gold belt below her breasts. He took note with pride that she wore the necklace he had gifted to her hours before and that it was showcased more prominently due to the fact that her usually waist-length black curls were pinned up in intricate braiding and pinned in place with gold ornate clips allowed her elven ears to be on full display. When he finally drew his eyes away he caught Aemma's knowing look and he flashed her an appeasing smile before dropping his gaze back down to his plate as he ate with an occasional break in conversation with those at the table.

When the dinner affair was finally over Astraea was happy to retire to her room while Daemon and her uncle excused themselves with their councilmen to the council room to discuss news. Aemma tagged along with the young woman down the hall until the pair was finally closing the princess's chamber doors closed behind them.

"By the gods! I thought that would never be over!" Astraea breathed as she sank herself onto the lounge couch by her window and kicked off her slippers from her feet to prop them on the soft cushion.

Aemma laughed softly as she took a seat by her feet and rested a hand on her ankle. "You'd think you'd be used to them by now." she mused playfully before tipping her chin at her. "Are you happy to have Daemon home again?"

"I am. I've missed him very much." Astraea agreed with the slightest of smiles on her face as she sat up and drew her legs to the floor. "I've grown used to not having him around though; I've forgotten how potent his presence really is now that he's home. I'm just scared that in the morning he'll leave again without a word and I won't see him for another two years or longer," she confessed gazing down at her hands in her lap.

"I don't think there is anything to worry about. He doesn't seem too keen to leave anytime soon now that he's seen how much you've grown." Aemma amended softly as she scooted over and reached out to begin to pull the pins from the younger girl's hair allowing the dark curls to gradually fall to her shoulders.

"What are you talking about?" the princess blinked up at her

"I'm merely stating that if you do not wish for rumors to start princess you and your father should be a little more discreet in your mannerisms while in each other's company," Aemma replied carefully as she piled the pins in her lap.

"Daemon is not my father, Aemmna. I have never looked at that man as such!" the very idea made the girl's face scrunch up.

"Oh? I only assumed so since the king said you were taken in by Prince Daemon and you call the king uncle- If not a father figure then, princess how do you view the rogue prince?" Aemma asked carefully as she sifted her fingers through the girl's hair to untangle any curls.

Astraea sat thinking a moment with pursed lips. She spoke truly when she said that she did not think Daemon as a father figure. He had never once come off to her as such. Not unlike King Viserys who was the brother of the man supposedly raising her. Nor did she think of him as a lover. Daemon was simply...Daemon in her eyes. The one who had always guided her and protected her against the court while young. The very man who had fought for her honor time and time again, someone she had always found to be her comfort and her best friend but never once thought him as anything more than her Daemon. Her answer was not a simple one because to anyone else it didn't make sense.

"He is..." her teeth sank into the plump flesh of her bottom lip "He is simply Daemon. I do not know how to explain it, auntie. But I can assure you there is nothing but kinship between the rogue prince and myself. He has simply always been there for me growing up even while he distanced himself time and time again with training and war."

Aemma's face softened and she grasped the girl's arms to draw her against her shoulder in a familial squeeze of support and comfort. "Well, just be careful. I do not think he seems to be on the same page as you in that regard. Others have the same thoughts about his display of affection for you so openly in public. He is not known for affection beyond twisted manipulation and his...well, never mind." the blonde gave a plaintive smile as she let the girl go.

"It's not my place to say anything, anyhow. Here, let me help you undress from your gown." she offered

Astraea allowed the king's wife-to-be to grab her sleeping gown and help her into it before reaching for the necklace around her throat. But before Aemma could touch the piece of jewelry Astraea's hand clasped over it and her ruby eyes looked at her startled.

"I'm sorry, I'll get it." she stammered as she tenderly unclipped the fine artistry from around her throat and placed it back in the little velvet bag that rested on her vanity.

"It's beautiful."

"Thank you." Astraea did not venture further to tell her where she had gotten it but the words hung heavy on her tongue. The woman seemed to understand regardless and gave the girl an indulgent smile of secrecy before she grabbed a wooden comb and began to brush her long hair out.

"I love your curls. I've never seen anyone's hair this long; not even my own has grown to such lengths. You must take such pride in it." Aemma commented as she moved the comb through the inky locks.

"Thank you." again, those words slipped like a parrot from Astraea's lips as she played with the fabric of her nightgown as her mind grew foggy with memories and daydreams

"I have always been told that I have lovely hair. I suppose that was the approval of some sort from my peers that I didn't have the heart to change so that no one looked at me differently, but truly it's such a pain to care for." she sighed out at last

"You care too much about how people view you, princess." Aemma's words would have brought any woman to a haughty defense but Astraea simply nodded to her not blind to her own faults.

"I know. I cannot help it. When you look as different as I any praise one gets for their looks can change a mindset." she turned her head to look up at the woman standing behind her with sad eyes. "People are not so open to change despite the world we live in. When we are born into a certain role that is a role that we are forced to play. You know this as well as I do."

Lady Aemma's heart constricted in her chest and she stopped to set the comb down so that she could kneel by the girl's side. "Astraea." she reached up to lift her chin with a kind smile. "You are a beautiful young lady that anyone would be lucky to have in their lives. Just because you are different does not take away how special you are. You are the princess of Westeros with the king and his brother at your back with a dragon covering a protective shadow. You are powerful my dear and you need to see that. A princess never allows the jealousy of her peers to get under her skin as if their opinion matters. You are of house Targaryen. You have every right to this family as I do."

Astraea studied the woman's face trying to allow her words to sink in. Once upon a time she had believed them true. But as she grew and as her body changed so did the views of her peers. It was easy to hide her elven ears with a hat or decorated headwrap and if she kept her head and eyes downcast no one would see her eyes and speculate. But Aemma was right. She could not hide forever and as the princess was taken under the wings of dragons she would soon have to play a part in her family. The problem was. No one wanted the freak of Westeros to wed in fear whatever she was would pass to any future children she may have; if one dared to wed and stomach to bed her. No, she was not ugly nor did she give reason to make people hate her asides from her unruly tongue, not unlike the man whose wing she took shelter beneath but because people feared things they could not understand and Astraea Targaryen was a thing of fearsome beauty no one ever chose to take the chance to understand. And that was her lifelong curse until she died.

Chapter 7

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raiisakitsune · 2 years

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Haelena: so jace whos your father?

Jace: biologically, emotionally, or legally ?

#its all harwin #ofc #haelena targaryen #jace targaryen #jacaerys x helaena #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #hotd #hotd spoilers #hotd incorrect quotes #house of the dragon #got #got incorrect quotes #ser harwin strong #laenor valeryon #daemon prince #daemon targaryen

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deadmenandthedivine · 9 months

Text

dead men § the divine

table of contents

Lady Rhea Royce gave birth to a single daughter prior to her untimely death.

Princess Maetilda Targaryen was the sole heir to Runestone.

Her father, the Rogue Prince, kept her by his side, ensuring he always had a Keep to his name. Even after his marriage to the heir of the Seven Kingdoms, he refused to accept an engagement for her. Runestone was his castle. Princess Maetilda was his daughter. The Seven Kingdoms was his playground. There only seemed to be one small problem: the Greens.

The Greens occupied the Red Keep for over half a decade while the Rogue Prince and his future Queen raised their children on Dragonstone as tradition. It would seem having the King's castle and the Conqueror's crown plays an advantage when the dragons dance. It became apparent as the virescent cause does not suffer by delivering the first blows.

Despite only holding claims to one of the foundational keeps in the Vale, Princess Maetilda finds herself wrapped up in the center of the conflict. At the mercy of the men around her. Prince Aemond seeks to take what belongs to him, most especially the Rogue Prince's bronze babe.

trigger warning!!! this fic contains many graphic topics and depictions. such as but not limited to: dead parents, abusive parents, toxic family systems, incest, medieval misogyny, forced marriage, threats of assault (sexual § physical), actual assault, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, blood/gore, uxoricide, familicide, PTSD and other neurodivergence. i will do my best to update as i go along, but please let me know if i have missed anything!

✧.*.·:¨ ✘♚✘ ¨:·.*.✧

✫ prologue — rumors from runestone

✫ chapter one — cold landings and green castles

✫ chapter two — a father’s praise

✫ chapter three — mysteries that muddy the keep

✫ chapter four — what the trees see

✫ chapter five — the maids that bloom in spring

✫ chapter six — bound in old magic

✫ chapter seven — the fate of wagging tongues

✫ chapter eight — dead flowers and garden bugs

✫ chapter nine — new leather boots

✫ chapter ten — an old man’s guilt

✫ chapter eleven — the tower tapestry

✫ chapter twelve — drowned in insignificant details

✫ chapter thirteen — the ghost of years coming and years past

✫ chapter fourteen — what the lady beetle does

✫ chapter fifteen — dragons have horns

✫ chapter sixteen — relearning from the same mistakes

✫ chapter seventeen — last suppers and sealed deals

✧.*.·:¨ ✘♚✘ ¨:·.*.✧

A/N: i do bend the plot of hotd/tweak the lore of the vale just a lil bit for my own convenience. also i'm not well versed in historical outfits and stuff so my descriptions may not be accurate to the time. but it's gotta be like that sometimes, you know?

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assortedseaglass · 9 months

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Borne & Bound - III

[Masterlist]

Aemond Targaryen X OFC, Jacaerys Velaryon x OFC (if you squint)

Summary: When Prince Aemond insults the commander of the Braedel cavalry, Viserys sends him to their kingdom so that he may learn the art of diplomacy and do battle with the commander herself, the spirited Lady Geowyth.

Content Warnings: Strong Language, Violence, Smut, Canon-typical Sexism, Mentions of Incest¸ Mentions of Sexual Assault

Word Count: 5.3K

“-as warm as Dorne and strong as steel!” Geowyth grimaced at Ser Herumbrand as Ser Harrold crashed his cup into the other’s, ale spilling unnoticed onto their gauntlets. His taste for women was near as strong as it was for the fight, though her surprise as was nothing compared to the woman beside her, who stared at the chaste Ser Harrold in horror. King Viserys’ feast had reached its zenith. That moment recognised by all when the ideal share of amusement was reached. When cups were high and stomachs were full, granting upon everyone the glow of goodness with which to look upon their peers.

As the two goliaths laughed, Geowyth took her chance to observe the Princess of Dragonstone. There was no doubting she was Targaryen, for even if she had not the white hair of her forebears, she seemed to glow with the cold warmth that shrouded the rest of her kin. Beneath that alabaster skin, dragonblood flowed like wildfire. Geowyth was certain she could see it, and it was just that which bestowed the Princess with her aureate brilliance. The Princess laughed at something Ser Harrold said and Geowyth smiled along. Ser Herumbrand looked at his young charge, raising a knowing brow to her. The look she returned was demure, almost mischievous, and continued to watch the Princess from the corner of her eye. She was gazing up at the Lord Commander, her straight nose raised, hands crossed before her. She looked every image the queen. Geowyth glanced at the royal table. The real Queen was speaking amiably with her guests, brown eyes bright, holding the hand of a girl no more than seventeen. Geowyth supposed it was her first time at court. How kind of the Queen to calm her nerves.

The same could not be said of the King. He sat at the head of the table, head inclined towards Otto Hightower as the Hand muttered something in his ear. His gaunt face seemed to sag before her eyes, as though the grey skin was too heavy for the frame of his face. The effect was haunting. From out of the sunken mask of his face, the King’s eyes stared with little life and the golden gleam that radiated from the rest of his family was nowhere to be found. The dragon’s blood was beginning to run cold. Geowyth shivered and thought fleetingly of her uncle. She would send him a raven tomorrow, no doubt Geodred had forgotten.

Where was Geodred? Geowyth’s eyes scanned the myriad of people awaiting the chance to speak to the Royal Family. Like dying stars, each seemed to have a great many people orbiting them. The young Velaryon Princes were surrounded by other young noblemen. Each brother laughed freely, pointing and jesting at each other, their company of boys or else somebody in the crowd. Their betrotheds, Rhaena and Baela, were similarly speaking to a gaggle of young women. Geowyth saw the youngest Baratheon girls, some beautiful Tyrell noblewomen and even Princess Helaena, though she stood at the periphery of the group. A few of the young men were watching the young Princess and noblewomen with predatory interest. They blanched however, under the watch of the spry man looming behind them. Prince Daemon, the girls’ father.

Geowyth was struck by how handsome he was. Like his wife, he stood tall and proud, with his white hair and broad shoulders. He seemed, however, to possess that most unattractive air of vanity. His eyes shone with amusement, a half-formed smile playing on his small lips as he watched his daughters. The emotion could have been mistaken for gaiety. It wasn’t until the man beside him spoke however, that Geowyth noticed it was quite the reverse. The Prince’s eyes crinkled as he chuckled at the joke, yet his focus remained entirely on the men surrounding his children. His joy derived not from the festivity, or the happiness of his daughters, but in making the men around them squirm. He surveyed them as if knowing something to which they were not party, and watched one by one as they filtered away. Pleased with his dominant display, the King’s brother turned his attentions to the man at his side. There he was! All smiles and joviality. He seemed not to care about the Prince’s distraction and, such was Geodred’s effect on people, the Prince seemed not to mind his company. Geowyth smiled. If only she had her brother’s ease. Having located his whereabouts, she turned back to her own party of four. That is, she tried to, but an increasingly familiar sense of unease bristled the hackles of her neck. Drawn to the sensation like a wolf to the feast, her amber eyes halted in their path.

Geowyth’s breath caught beneath her ribs. A hot flush that had nothing to do with the King’s wine prickled her cheeks. When she found the courage to inhale, it juddered from her chest with fearful anticipation. From his sentinel at the royal table, Prince Aemond’s icy eye stared with pinpoint focus upon her. What terror was held within that gaze? Perhaps it was a miracle he only had one. His body seemed strained with tension, from the leather doublet stretched over his shoulders to the waxen skin across his cheekbones. All because of her. Geowyth blushed all the stronger. She was used to holding people’s attention, but for her quick wit and proficiency on the field. Not for…whatever she had done that aggrieved the Prince so. She cast her eyes down. When she returned her gaze to the Prince, he was engaged in conversation with his grandsire.

“- and dare I say it, the young Princess is much gentler than her older sister,”

“Ser Harrold,”

“And a good deal less trouble!” Laughter peeled behind Geowyth and, at last, she rejoined the conversation of the knights and woman of Dragonstone. The Princess’ eyes were warm despite her warning. For the first time in the hours that Geowyth had known her, Rhaenyra Targaryen looked happy.

“Tell me, Ser Harrold,” Herumbrand spoke to his counterpart of the Keep. “What advice do you have for an old man in charge of a wilful young woman?”

Geowyth leaned towards the Princess as if to whisper, only to loudly state, “He just thinks he’s in charge.” Rhaenyra and Ser Harrold laughed. Ser Herumbrand winked.

“There you have it!” Harrold said, gesturing to Geowyth. “Let them believe they are in charge. There is no way to tame these tempests-” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at Geowyth and smiled at the Lord Commander. “We just weather whatever comes with them. That, and we must listen. Though, I don’t believe you need my advice, Ser Herumbrand. The Seven know I could not get the Princess to bestow upon me half the respect you command from Lady Geowyth and Lord Geodred.”

Ser Herumbrand’s laugh boomed about the chamber. “You have been fooled, Ser. Perhaps we could swap places during our stay? Princess Helaena for this nuisance.”

“I’ll tell uncle,” Geowyth said.

“I have served him well. I am certain he’d allow me the break.” Lady Geowyth smiled sweetly at him. For all her teasing and testing of him, it was true. Herumbrand was too good to her. She looked to Rhaenyra.

“Speaking of your sister, Princess, I wondered if you might help me?” The older woman inclined her head. “She is charming and pleasant company but, and I hope I don’t speak out of turn, she seems-” Geowyth searched for the word. “Nervous. Is there anything I could do that may help her?”

“Oh. Well,” The Princess looked to Ser Harrold. “I, erm,” Ser Herumbrand and Geowyth stilled, graciously averting their eyes as Rhaenyra struggled for words. She sighed and unclasped her hands. “The truth is, Lady Geowyth, I do not know.” There was embarrassed agitation in her tone, and Geowyth felt deeply that she had picked the scab of a family secret. “Excuse me.” Rhaenyra bowed her head to the party, and Geowyth descended into a deep curtsy as the Princess departed. She watched her weave through the crowd towards her husband and sons. As if called to her by magic, Prince Daemon looked to his wife as she approached. A word was exchanged between them, and all three Princes cast their eyes towards Geowyth. Whereas the Velaryon princes were intrigued, the mask of Prince Daemon’s face didn’t change and, placing his hand on the small of his wife’s back, he escorted her to a seat.

“I’ll never get the hang of this family,” Geowyth said, to no-one in particular.

“Animals.”

Geowyth startled. “Pardon?”

“Princess Helaena adores animals,” Ser Harrold said. “The smaller the better. And I think your gesture of companionship will mean more to her than you know.”

“Thank you, Ser.” Harrold nodded with finality and turned to Herumbrand.

“Another cup for you, Ser?”

Herumbrand clapped him on the back. “Lead the way.” The knights bowed to Geowyth and, as they turned, Herumbrand accosted a small serving boy carrying a tray of goblets. Left to her own devices and quite alone, Geowyth clapped her hands behind her back and made to watch the dancers. Her progress was hindered however, when she span straight into the chest of a dark haired young man. She jumped back into yet another deep curtsy.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.”

“Please, there is no need.” The hand of Jacaerys Velaryon was held out before her. “‘Twas my fault entirely.” Geowyth shook his outstretched hand and he laughed, bowing to place a chaste kiss on its back. “Baela told me you are a fan of dancing.”

“Yes, although I am struggling to find a partner,”

“That is precisely why I am here.” Jacaerys smiled with an offer of his arm. Geowyth took it gladly and the young Prince led her towards the centre of the hall, nestling them amongst the other dancers.

“How did Lady Baela know I like to dance?” Geowyth asked, place her hand against Jacaerys’ as they began circling each other.

“My aunt told her. Though it was hardly necessary, you have spent a good deal of the evening nowhere else.”

Geowyth blushed. “Forgive me, your aunt-?”

“Princess Helaena.”

“Of course! I will get the hang of it one day, Your Grace, but your family tree is more of a family circle”. She stopped in her tracks, mortified. Jacaerys only smiled and took her waist in encouragement that she continue dancing.

“It’s true. My only reassurance is that sometimes even I forget.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Well now,” Jacaerys steered her so that they both faced the top table. “My parents and grandparents are a fairly straightforward matter. But the Rogue Prince?” He whispered lowly in Geowyth’s ear. “My step-father and great-uncle.” Geowyth laughed as he spun her round further to where his fiancée stood with her sister. “Lady Baela is my betrothed, my cousin and my step-sister. Her mother, my aunt, were she alive, would be my mother-in-law.”

“I can’t keep up,” Geowyth was giggling now.

“I told you it’s a tangled web,” he span her faster. He caught Larys Strong’s eye and faltered. “My aunt and uncles, through my grandmother Princess Rhaenys, are my cousins too.”

“Distantly,” Geowyth added.

“Yes, distantly.”

“How lucky for you.”

At this quiet yet cutting remark, Jacaerys turned his face from Baela to the Braedel stranger. “What do you mean?”

“Only that I have spent one day in the company of your uncles and already desire to be as far away from them as possible. Lucky your mother retreated to Dragonstone.”

“I see.” The young Prince smirked. “You are not charmed by their silver hair and silver tongues?”

“Hardly,” Geowyth scoffed. “I admit that Prince Aegon, despite his obvious flaws, has a taste for humour and merriment. Prince Aemond however,” She stopped once again, embarrassment clear on her face. “I’m sorry. My uncle sent me here to learn and all I seem to do is say the wrong thing-”

“Don’t trouble yourself, my Lady.” He cast a wary eye towards his uncle. “Despite our family’s proclivity for closeness, my brother and I never saw eye to eye with our uncles.”

Geowyth laughed. “Very good!” It was Jacaerys’ turn to be confused, and Geowyth nodded her head in the direction of the haughty prince. “’Eye to eye’!” They laughed heartily, and any thought or feeling of Aemond’s angry gaze upon her faded, just as the wine and revelers did the same. That it still lingered on her, secret and scathing, mattered not.

Beyond the great hall’s walls, guardsmen silently changed posts with nods of acknowledgement. The lingering echo of a brawl from the city beyond the Keep bounced off the stone walls, and somewhere in the night a dog was barking. But for the street of silk, King’s Landing slept.

For the gentry within the confines of the castle, the night too was waning. The King had long since retired to his chambers, Otto Hightower skulking closely in his wake. Princess Rhaenyra had encouraged her husband away to their chambers with much muttering and pointed looks towards his goblet and the young noblewomen he entertained. At his absence, many a second son had swept onto the scene to stake their claim. The beautiful Tyrells had retired, as had the Lannisters (though Lord Jason took much convincing), and only those remaining were the Baratheon nobles, the young royals and the contingent of Braedel horse lords and ladies.

Lady Geowyth sat by Ser Herumbrand, still deep in conversation with Ser Harrold, her body leant slightly against the cavalry captain. The deep rumble of his voice encouraged her to sleep, and she would have succumbed were it not for the hearty laughter of her brother and Lord Borros. She opened her eyes. It seemed everything in the hall was ready to slumber. Candles, once proud at the start of the night, dripped in puddles along the tables. The plumes of flowers were starting to droop and, in the darkening light, Geowyth made out a few shadowy figures linked arm in arm, slinking towards seclusion and away from gossip.

“Astandan (come).” Through her sleep-burdened eyes, Geowyth look up. Rosy as ever, as though the night hadn’t touched him, her brother beamed down. Herumbrand nudged her from his shoulder, and she took Geodred’s outstretched hand. “I will walk you to your chambers.” Geowyth nodded sleepily, but before she could begin her way towards the great chamber doors, Geodred swung her by the arm until she faced the opposite direction. “Geowyth, weordfulnes eower (your manners).” Together, they walked towards the raised royal table. Queen Alicent was speaking quickly in her eldest son’s ear, though what she said neither could make out. Princess Helaena was slumped uncomfortably in her chair beside her husband and, like her mother, her mouth moved quickly. Geowyth guessed however, that no words left her lips. She was speaking to no one at all, her face directed towards the table, eyes wide and glazed over, as though watching something frightful in the far distance. If Geowyth were concerned by this display, she soon realised she needn’t be. It was clear this mood was common for the queen-in-waiting, for where Helaena’s hand rested on the table, Prince Aemond’s sat atop it, his thumb stroking the pale skin there. Unlike his family, whose chairs were turned towards the hall at large, Prince Aemond’s fully faced his sister. The angle of his seat near disguised him entirely, for from this direction the Beridan siblings could see nought but the black of his clothes, the shine of his hair and the rough leather of his eyepatch. Indeed, the only part of him they could see was the hand stroking his sisters, and the crescent profile of his angular face.

“Queen Alicent,” Geodred bowed before her. “I come to bid you goodnight and thank you, again and as always, for your hospitality-”

Geowyth did not hear what her brother said next, nor the young Queen’s reply. Her sole focus remained instead on the Targaryen prince before her. From the slow way his thumb soothed his sister to his concentrated gaze over her, Geowyth would have said he almost looked…tender. His mouth, curved and quick, was set not in that line Geowyth was already accustomed to, but smiled. Perhaps if he could show Helaena he was happy, she would be too.

“Geowyth, sweostor (sister),”

At Lord Geodred’s voice, Aemond’s head snapped up. Quite unexpectedly, Lady Geowyth was looming over he and his sister, eyes curious and concerned. It wasn’t uncommon for visiting dignitaries to stare at the dreamer and the decrepit like Qartheen silk. He had become quite used to it in fact, and dare he say it, Helaena endured it too, from the heads of noble houses to foreign traders. Whether their business was politics or trade, alliance or reassurance, it was Aemond’s duty to let them stare. After all, it would not do for the second son of the King to scare away the guests. That does not a happy allegiance make. But a horse maid of little standing, from a kingdom of no consequence? Who was she to stare at them with such piteous interest? Her eye flickered from Helaena’s to his. A moment of fear flashed across her fiery irises and Aemond smirked. He’d caught her. Good. Let her learn his sister was not to be studied. But instead of blanching, of curtseying reverently and asking forgiveness for her impudence, the Braedel girl stepped forward and addressed the Queen.

“I know it is unbecoming for young women of court to express such rapturous pleasure, for fear it is mistaken as salacious and vulgar, but I so enjoyed the dancing, Your Grace.”

Aemond watched his mother smile kindly at the young woman. “Well, I am pleased we could provide many a partner for your amusement, Lady Geowyth.” At this, Geowyth curtsied.

“If I may say, Your Grace,” she turned towards Helaena. Aemond’s stomach twisted as she avoided his eye. Look at me, look at me. He willed her to do it, if only to see the scorn she’d find in his gaze. “Princess Helaena outshone any partner in skill, spirit and company.” At these words, Helaena looked up. She stared at Geowyth, and though her eyes were dark, a spark of recognition lit in their blue. Geowyth smiled. “If you would allow it, Your Grace, may I call upon you tomorrow?”

The party was silent. Alicent watched Helaena nervously from the corner of her eye, her hand reaching out to steady Aegon as he swayed a little in his seat. Behind Geowyth, Geodred smiled. His bright eyes darted between the young women, his worry the trip would not be a success decreasing with every glance at his sister. When his eye landed on Aemond, and found the stony-faced Prince staring back, Geodred winked. The Prince jolted.

“Helaena, darling?” Alicent’s voice was gentle.

“I would like that,” The Princess’ voice was but a whisper. “Very much.” The entire room seemed to exhale in relief. All, but for Aemond.

“Astandan,” Geodred whispered to his sister. “Goodnight, my Queen. Your Graces.” He bowed to the family and Geowyth followed suit. She cast her eyes over Prince Aegon (he did not notice her in his state), smiled at the Queen and grinned at Princess Helaena. When she turned to leave the chamber and saw Prince Aemond watching her, expressionless and intent, she bowed her head. They had started on the wrong foot, but surely her adoration of his sister would please him. She smiled coyly. He did not return it.

Geodred took his sister by the hand and, with one last bow, they left the chamber.

“Fulgod, ealdras (well done, princess.)”

Swete Eam, min Cyng, (Beloved uncle, my King),

I write to you in the assumption that Geodred has not. Do not fear, he has thrown himself into life at the Red Keep well, despite our being here only a few days. You should have seen them Eam, when we arrived. Targaryens struck dumb because of him, so much so that I saw upon Herumbrand’s face a glimmer of pride! The Queen was most taken by him, I believe. Do you know, with her dark hair and those beautiful eyes, she could almost be a Braedel. Is there any relation between the Beridans and the Hightowers? I have been reading Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms from the Red Keep’s library, and I can see nothing in there.

Take comfort that I have been busying myself with learning and not in the yard. I know that you are relying on me to strengthen my politic and knowledge to the level of my riding and combat. I am trying, for you. The council helped a great deal, though there was much shouting and behaviour unbecoming to men of the court. By all above and below, how must they behave when women are not present? In the chamber, it was just myself, the Queen and the Princess of Dragonstone. There is no mistaking the grief that lingers there. They’re like the dark and light side of the moon, always turning to face the other, only to never know it.

Ser Herumbrand told me that Ser Harrold told him (he’s the Lord Commander and an equal to Herumbrand in honour) that they were once great friends. You will be pleased with my progress there too, Eam. I have found myself in the confidence of Princess Helaena. Well, almost. I am going to call on her after writing this to you. She is as enchanting as she is intriguing. Last night, at the King’s nameday feast, she was introduced to me by the youngest Velaryon Prince, Lucerys. She is his aunt (I have been taking great leaps with my understanding of the Targaryen lineage. You were right, it is a nightmare). The Princess is a wonderful dancer, so full of life that she seems to shine. But when she is with her husband, her brother Prince Aegon, all life seems to shrink from her, as though someone has placed her in a cage. Ser Harrold told me she likes animals, so I thought perhaps I would introduce her to Mearl.

Her brother-husband is a miscreant and a drunk. When not buried in wine he is a pleasant enough young man, but Alma, the maid that is looking after me during my stay, said the other young maids take great pains to avoid him. I think perhaps I will leave my assessment of him there. Whatever it is he does, he hides those faults much better than his younger brother. The less said there the better. Were it not for his condescension, poor manners, scowl and general dislike of all, I’m sure Prince Aemond is perfectly amiable. If an alliance does not come from our stay here, perhaps you should burn this letter.

Speaking of Mearl, how is Mawe? I hope you are looking after him – he expects chicken straight from the table. I’ll be sure to check when we return. And how are you? They best be letting you take the air and see Galepan. I am not for this “bedrest” nonsense. You are well yet and I will see you right. I have been dreaming of Braedel since we left. Of riding Mearl across the brimlad (seaway) and mor (moor). Walking with you along Braesbur. It is my sincerest hope that we can forge this alliance and leave the city as soon as possible, just to be at home by your side.

Gerestan wist, eower wraest nefene, (Rest well, your devoted niece),

Geowyth.

She folded the parchment and sealed it with wax. Pressing the stamp into the molten red, Geowyth saw it formed the three headed dragon of the Targaryen house. Alma had equipped her with all she needed to write to Braedel, having not the foresight to predict her own home-sickness.

It was early. Intentionally so. Geowyth asked a passing steward to have her woken just before the dawn, when the kitchen maids began lighting fires and preparing the day rooms of the Keep. Alma appeared before sunrise to draw the curtains in Geowyth’s small guest chambers, complete with a pitcher of fresh water and fruit from the kitchens. After retrieving writing things, Alma was dismissed for the day; Geowyth had no need of help with her hair or clothes, for her plans for the day were simple. Send the letter to her uncle, return her books to the library and perhaps collect new ones, ride Mearl through country on the outskirts of the city, and visit the Princess.

Not one item on her list had been achieved thus far, but Geowyth was content to bask in the summer warmth streaming through her chamber windows. In the courtyard below, the Keep’s staff were awaking to tend to the royals and their guests. Food was being ferried to and fro. Fruits, ornately decorated pastries and steaming carafes of exotic tea leaf. Two young maids were beating tapestries, making the most of the sunny days to rid them of dust, and below her window, Geowyth spotted Alma washing bed linens. A lanky groom leant against the wall beside her in an attempt at ease, though even from her chambers Geowyth could see the rapt attention he gave Alma as she chatted away.

Geowyth smiled. She was unashamed to admit that her excitement at visiting King’s Landing was not just for the libraries, arts and council. No. As second in line to Braedel, and the King’s young niece, she did not want for attention from the opposite sex. The problem, rather, lay in the pool of candidates. Braedel was a small kingdom, and a secluded one at that. The eligible men of the kingdom were those that Geowyth grew up with, Geodred’s friends or else faces that had come to populate every day by becoming part of the landscape; predictable, unsurprising and ordinary. It is true, the kingdom of Braedel kept to its own affairs and tales of the mainland and its elite were few and far between. But the prospect of Lords, rogues and Princes was exciting even to Geowyth. She was a woman, after all. How disappointed she was then, to find the Princess married, betrothed or disdainful in the extreme. The Lords tired and ale-wasted. The second sons too timid, or else too bawdy. Geowyth sighed. She had overheard one of the Baratheon girls, Floris, or was it Ellyn, talk of books that granted young girls the escapism and reprieve she craved. That is, if you knew where to look. Time to begin the day.

Wrapping her patterned shawl of Braedel gold and burgundy over her shoulders, Geowyth seized the letter to her uncle, Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms and Island to Inland: The Lost Kingdoms of Westeros and flung open the great doors of her chamber. The route to the library, one of many in the Keep, where she had retrieved the books was a short one, along stone corridors decorated with the Targaryen history in tapestry. Servants smiled to Geowyth as she bid them good morning and a visiting Maester, Gerardys if she remembered rightly, stopped to enquire about the enjoyment of her stay. By the time she reached the library’s doors, carved with scrolls and scripture, Geowyth felt that maybe she had misjudged the Keep and those living within its walls. A certain Prince aside, it was a pleasant enough place. Bright, friendly and decidedly warmer than Braedel. She laughed, thinking of Mawe’s hair blowing in the coastal wind as he stood atop Eobarrow. How he would enjoy bathing on the warm stone of King’s Landing.

When opened, the doors groaned and expelled a gust of dusty air. Someone had left the window open. Even so early in the morning, with the sun’s youthful warmth, the room was dark and it took a moment for Geowyth eyes to adjust to the gloom. All about the place, books were piled by chairs and on tables. Loose papers fluttered in the breeze, held down by candlesticks whose wicks were puffing smoke. Books and letter under arm, Geowyth walked toward the small window and reached out for its handle- the floor creaked behind her and she span around.

Prince Aemond. Stood a metre or so way away, tall and foreboding, mouth parted as though he were about to speak. They appeared to have taken each other by surprise.

Geowyth hurriedly dipped into a low curtsy. “Your Grace,”

Aemond’s head bowed almost imperceptibly. “Lady Geowyth.” Neither spoke. Geowyth’s heart was hammering in her chest. She hadn’t anticipated anyone being in the library at this early hour, let alone someone with whom it appeared she couldn’t converse without offending. He was watching her, curiosity or anger missing from his face. Indeed, that hard visage was entirely unreadable. Geowyth indicated the window behind her.

“I was just going to-”

“Leave it open.”

Silence. Again. She couldn’t look away from him, unsure as she was of the Prince’s remote manner. “Ok…” When he didn’t speak, only continued to watch her, Geowyth took the books from under her arm and moved towards the bookshelf she had taken them from, at last tearing her eyes away from his.

“What have you there?” The Prince didn’t move, not even to gesture at the volumes in her hands.

“Books.”

“Yes, I know that.” Prince Aemond sighed. “Which ones?”

Geowyth laughed at herself. The Prince did not. “Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms and Island to Inland: The Lost Kingdoms of Westeros. I wanted to brush up on my Westerosi history while I was here. And see what the kingdom knew of us. It seems, very little.” Geowyth indicated the smaller volume. “We are not a “lost kingdom” after all.”

The Prince hummed. “Not quite.” Before Geowyth could rebuke him, he held out a hand. “I’ve been looking for these. Your brother expressed an interest in learning more about the histories.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Geowyth bowed her head and placed the two books in his outstretched arms. As she did so, the letter addressed to her uncle fell to the ground. In a swift motion of silver, Prince Aemond bent to recover it from the floor. Between two slender fingers, he turned the parchment to read its cover.

“King Gallan-”

“My uncle, Your Grace.” The Prince did not deign to answer this, only giving her a pointed look as if to say, I know. “After returning the books, your books, I was going to send it to him, although I do not know the way to the rookery-”

“I will take it.”

Geowyth faltered. Would it find its way? Would it be checked before delivery, for fear that palace secrets or slights were within? “There is no need, Your Gra-”

“I will take it.” The door opened, and a Maester Geowyth did not know entered the library. The Prince turned his head slightly, his covered eye towards the door. It gave him the air of omniscience; though no eye was there, he didn’t need it to know who had disturbed the quiet.

“Lady Geowyth.” The Prince bowed and, without waiting for a reply, was out of the door and away, Geowyth’s letter clasped in between his fingers.

Notes: Had to get in Mr Mitchell’s delightful reference to the Targaryen “family circle”. I’m sorry this is taking a long time to write my pals – as always this is a slow build so bear with me! I can’t freaking wait to take you all to Braedel and uncover more about its society and the Beridan’s past!

Mearl = same pronunciation as Merle

Mawe = more–weh

Addition: Look at this amazing art by @cyeco13!!!!

Tags: @arcielee @mefools @bladeofdreadfort @glitterandgoldfinds @heimtathurs @ewanmitchellcrumbs @babyblue711 @wingeddeliciouscanonrebel @greenowlfactif @fantasias-creativebubble @httyd-marauders @sirenangelroyal @theoneeyedprince @fyeahhotdocs @persephonerinyes @humanpurposes @elizarbell @el-is-green @booghostii @myfandomprompts @castellomargot @trashcanrat @boundlessfantasy @aemonds-fire

#ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond x ofc #aemond x reader #aemond kinslayer #house of the dragon #hotd #jacaerys velaryon #daemon targaryen #borne and bound #ewan mitchell x reader #aemond x oc

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 10 months

Text

Perzys se Rūkla (Fire and Flowers) - Chapter Five

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x original female character (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Mentions of infidelity, angst, strong language, mentions of pregnancy. Word count: ~2k

Chapter summary: Daemon deals with the fallout of Melessa's discovery. Series summary here.

Endless thanks and all the love to my absolute ride or die @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for cheerleading, beta'ing and just generally being the bestest fandom boo a gal could have.

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

Header by the insanely talented @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

I love you. I love you. I love you.

The thought tempts Daemon to go after Melessa, pull her to him and demand that she forgive him. However, it is Rhaenyra’s coronation and it has been shrouded in enough uncertainty and controversy, without her uncle chasing his weeping wife through the Red Keep. The very last thing the beginning of his niece’s reign needed was more gossip.

He sighs, only realising when he looks over his shoulder that the serving girl he’d pulled from the feast is still in the alcove, pressed against the wall, wide eyed and disheveled. Pathetic. He is unsure whether it is a thought he directs towards himself or her.

“Fuck off,” he hisses, not bothering to watch as she smooths her skirts and scurries away.

Leaning against the cool stone of the corridor, Daemon sighs. He does not know how to put this right, apologies have never been his strong suit. He can put together battle strategies for entire armies, cleave his enemies in twain, and rain dragonfire down upon those who oppose him, but his problem solving does extend as far as opening his heart and admitting to his own wrongdoing.

The very thought of going to Melessa and placing himself at her mercy by pleading for her forgiveness terrifies him more than any battle ever could. He owes it to her, though; she has given up so much in his pursuit of her, even more so since they were wed, and in a single misjudged act of foolishness he has made it all seem worthless.

His footsteps feel heavy as he trudges his way up towards their shared quarters, turning over and over in his mind what he might say to her.

I’m sorry.

It was a mistake.

It won’t happen again.

None of it feels good enough. Daemon swallows thickly, his heart pounding, as he pushes open the door, preparing himself to be greeted by the sight of his wife’s mournful hysterics.

He is taken aback when he finds her seated by the window, staring out of it. She’d appear almost serene were it not for the fact that her eyes are rimmed red from crying. She doesn’t even acknowledge his presence.

Daemon shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, clasping his hands firmly behind his back. He bows his head, taking a breath, before looking up at Melessa and uttering the first thought that springs to mind.

“Forgive me,” he says softly, looking at her with genuine remorse.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she says flatly, her voice listless. “It was silly of me to assume our marriage was anything more than a political tool for you to ensure Rhaenyra’s place as Queen.”

A pit forms in Daemon’s stomach upon hearing this. He had expected her to scream at him, to be met with heartbroken tears and burning anger, he would have welcomed that. This beaten-down resignation is more than he can handle; surely she does not believe the things she says? He stands there silently, brow furrowed in disbelief.

“You’ve gotten what you needed from our union, and it is childish folly for me to expect you to not want to bed other women,” she continues. “But now you have gotten what you want, I wish to return to Highgarden.”

Bile rises in Daemon’s throat at her admission. He fights the urge to grab her, to shake her and demand that she be angry with him. He doesn’t recognise the broken husk of a woman seated before him. She is lacking in the spirited brightness he has come to adore from his wife. Had his carelessness really snuffed that out?

He opens his mouth to speak, but finds the words won’t come. She beats him to it, dull and monotonous sounding.

“Don’t let me keep you. We can make the necessary arrangements tomorrow. Go back to the celebrations. Give the Queen my apologies for my absence; I am not feeling especially jovial this evening.”

Not knowing what else to do, wordlessly Daemon turns and leaves. His mind races, fear swirling in his gut at how withdrawn Melessa is, unsure of how to coax her back out of the shell she’d retreated into.

Irritation prickles at him as he strides through Maegor’s Holdfast, back towards the festivities. The very notion of playing at being Hand of the Queen for a feasting hall full of slack jawed halfwits, while his wife slips away from him, seems ridiculous. His jaw clenches as with every step the sounds of merriment get louder.

“There you are,” Rhaenyra calls out to him from across the courtyard.

“Shouldn’t you be entertaining your loyal subjects?” Daemon asks, walking to meet her.

“I needed some fresh air,” she says matter-of-factly. “Finished with that poor girl you dragged away earlier?”

Daemon pinches the bridge of his nose, huffing in agitation. “You saw that?”

“You’d sat at the table like a petulant child for the entire feast. It was the first time I’d seen you move all evening.” She narrows her eyes at him. “Of course I saw.”

Daemon rolls his eyes. “Well, so did my wife.”

“Oh?” Rhaenyra raises her eyebrows at this.

“She wants to go back to Highgarden.”

“And you’re going to let her?”

“What choice do I have?” Daemon asks irritably. “I can’t very well chain her up and force her to stay here.”

“You fought so hard to get her. Is she not worth fighting to keep?”

“Of course she is!” he spits, temper flaring at the absurdity of such a question.

“Then show her that,” Rhaenyra responds softly. “Fight for her.”

“Your coronation feast—” he begins.

“—Is almost over,” she interrupts. “I need my Hand’s mind to not be preoccupied while fulfilling his duties. Fix this, so I may have your full attention tomorrow.”

Daemon nods gratefully, walking away with a renewed determination to win back the affections of Melessa.

She has moved from her seat by the window when Daemon returns. He spots her standing at the foot of the bed, folding dresses into a trunk and he cannot help the white hot fury that boils under his skin at the sight of it. She really means to leave him. He cannot bear the thought.

Storming through the apartment, he snatches a gown from her grasp, the fabric tearing audibly as he does so.

It is the first time all day—since she caught him with the serving girl, that is—that her face has shown any visible emotion. Her eyes widen in shock, quickly morphing to anger as she scowls.

“What are you doing?” she cries in an accusatory manner.

“I could ask the same of you,” Daemon says darkly. “You aren’t going anywhere. Stop behaving like a child!”

“It is not me who is cavorting in hallways with servants. You cannot keep me here as your prisoner!” she shoots back.

He can tell from the way her voice wobbles that she is about to cry again and his heart aches at the sound, immediately regretting how he has handled the situation.

“Petal,” he pleads, his voice softening, still holding her now ruined dress in his hands. “You are not my prisoner—you are my wife.”

She shakes her head sadly, eyes closing as tears fall from her waterline and roll heavily down her cheeks. “I was an infatuation for you, one that you have grown tired of. Just let me go. Please.”

“You aren’t; I haven’t; I can’t,” he implores desperately, letting the garment he holds drop to the floor to reach for her.

She backs away, sniffling. “You know,” she begins, voice thick and watery. “It is not the utter humiliation of what you did to me that hurts most. It is that I have spent the past half a year trying to be the perfect wife for you and still I am not enough.”

Daemon hates this. Why will she not allow him to touch her? He cannot comfort her, cannot mend the broken pieces if he can’t hold her. He aches to pull her to him, fingers flexing uselessly at his sides as stares at her filled with shame and regret.

“You are enough,” he whispers. “More than I deserve.”

“You never say it back,” Melessa croaks. “Do you love me?”

Daemon balks at this, opening his mouth before clamping it shut again. He’d never uttered those words to anyone, wasn’t even sure he knew what such an emotion was. All he knows is that over the last six months something has grown within him, something dark and urgent that drives him to be with her, as though an invisible string tied his heart to hers. To be by her side was a need, not a mere passing fancy. If that was what love was, then he did indeed feel that.

But he has no idea of how to articulate that to her, how to make her understand that in his own unique way all of his heart belongs to her. So he says nothing, watching as she hiccups a sob before walking to the opposite bedchamber, the one that has remained unoccupied since they arrived back in King’s Landing, and closes the door behind her.

The anger builds quickly in Daemon, his patience threadbare at his inability to speak his feelings coupled with frustration at having made no progress in earning his wife’s forgiveness. With a snarl of fury, he picks up a small wooden stool that has been left discarded by the bed and launches it towards the nearest wall. It breaks apart on impact, clattering noisily to the flagstone floor.

“Fuck!” he shouts, before dropping heavily onto the bed, placing his hands over his face in frustration.

The smell of her clings to the sheets, almond oil and rosewater, maddeningly sweet. For a moment he considers barging into the bedchamber she now occupies and simply taking her by force. She’d have no doubt of his want or love for her if he felt how passionately he needed her. He thinks better of it. If she didn’t wish for him to even take her by the hand, it is doubtful she’d appreciate him rutting into her like an untamed beast.

He sighs. He has everything he has ever wanted, and yet has managed to ruin it. He could never allow himself to just be happy. It reminds him of when he and Viserys were children. They had had family visiting from across the continent who’d brought each of the boys a gift. Daemon had received a wheeled wooden horse, which he’d taken great delight in dragging around the gardens. Viserys had been given a model of a castle. To Daemon, it had appeared that Viserys was having more fun playing with his castle than he was playing with his horse. He’d taken it upon himself to destroy both toys. If he couldn’t achieve that level of happiness, then no one else deserved to have it either. Is that what he’d done to his marriage? Shame wells fiery and acrid within him at the idea.

He doesn’t realise he has fallen asleep, exhausted by the events of the day, until he is awoken by the creaking of Melessa’s chamber door. He sits bolt upright, anticipating the sight of her exiting through the door, but is disappointed and surprised to see it is Maester Orwyle instead.

Daemon stands, blinking back sleep, and stalks towards him. “Why the fuck are you creeping out of my wife’s bedchamber in the middle of the night?” he growls irritably.

Orwyle bows his head apologetically, a hint of fear in his eyes as he regards Daemon, glowering and tightly wound. “Forgive me, your Highness—your lady wife was having trouble sleeping. She requested milk of the poppy to help soothe her. You need not worry; I kept the dosage small, considering her condition.”

“Her condition?” Daemon questions suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

Shrinking backwards with a gulp, visibly uncomfortable, Orwyle nods his head. “Y-yes, your Highness. She is with child.”

Daemon feels as though his heart skips a beat, a combination of shock and anger flashing through him in an instant that has him yanking the maester up by his robes. “She’s what?”

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lauraneedstochill · 10 months

Text

Love always wakes the dragon / Chapter 2

summary: Aemond thinks she’s a worthy opponent — a relentless fighter, a fearless dragon rider, her temper and stubbornness only matching his. But there’s a catch: she is Daemon’s daughter who wants nothing from her father and has her own reasons for coming to King’s Landing. One of them is meant to save the other. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OFC words: ~ 8000 (I swear other chapters are shorter I just got carried away with the ass-kicking) warnings: enemies to lovers, slowburn, sword fighting and a bruised male’s ego author’s note: I’ve read a few fighting scenes and, as much as I enjoyed them, I always thought people go easy on Aemond. so I decided to make him sweat a little... also, I added an instrumental track that fits the fight scene perfectly, and I highly recommend you put it on! ⏪ part 1

2. The Wild Dragon

The dragonkeepers form a small crowd — as Daemon approaches, he sees the men standing still and gazing at the sky, the lack of movement making them look like statues. He hears a low buzzing of gasps and when he looks up, he finds himself in the same position, stunned and open-mouthed. The dragon is circling above the alcove, its wings stretched like a snow-white sail, and the rare, blinding beauty of it makes it hard to look away. The patch of bronze starts from beneath its neck, running down to the tail — the color mix brings back a certain memory of his, and Daemon finds himself lost in his thoughts for a moment.

Only when the dragon goes to the fourth round, the prince comes to his senses:

“Why isn’t it landing?”

One of the dragonkeepers turns to him and hesitantly points to the other corner of the gates, and Daemon only now notices a group of guards lined up with swords in their arms, looking far from being delighted. The prince groans in annoyance, his flash of anger diluted with a drop of guilt.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he yells. “Lower your weapons, you imbeciles!”

The guards retreat and the dragonkeepers back away, too, still keeping their eyes on the beast — in worry, in wonder. He circles once more and then finally flies down, and Daemon catches a glimpse of the rider — her clothes are dark, cloak withering on the wind. He feels his chest tightening with each gust, the long-forgotten feeling rousing in; he can’t remember the last time he’s been so profusely nervous.

The white dragon lands with a grace of a cat — moving paws in synch, it lowers the neck and folds the wings, its limber body huddling closer to the ground. There’s a sharpness to its features, half of his snout crisscrossed with scars, his scales coarse up close, pale and solid like ivory. The beast’s eyes focus on Daemon for a moment, its color strikingly bright, with a few specks of gold that sink in green when the dragon glares at the guards, with the damning force being the crux of his every move. A rumbling vibrates in the back of his throat but it doesn’t grow into a roar — it’s a warning on itself that the beast gives them before slowing its movement, condescending and merciful, much to everyone’s relief.

The rider jumps down, landing on both feet, and then puts the hood back so Daemon can take a closer look at her. Merely a second is enough to see — she’s an image of her mother, in every feature of her face and even in the way she moves, a rare fusion of gracious and fast-paced. Her hair is put into a braid, the color of it so rare he’s only seen it once before — it’s peaches mushed with snow, a vibrant bronze with a coating of milk. In the sunlight, it looks as bright as fire, but right through it cuts a thick strand that frames one side of her face with white, the shade of it matching Daemon’s head of hair. And when he meets her gaze, he notices that she has his eyes: the shape is a bit different, more round, but they are the same color and there’s a familiar, threatening heaviness in them. It’s only two pieces of the puzzle that she’s assembled of, but now that Daemon sees her, he has no doubts that she is, in fact, his daughter, and that feeling is almost flattering.

She doesn’t look flattered in the slightest.

When she eyes him briefly, she shows no emotion at all — uncaring, casually unimpressed. It becomes awkwardly silent, and Daemon realizes that he’s never been that good at making the first step. But maybe it’s time for him to try.

“There was no mention of the dragon in the letters,” his voice comes off a tad softer than usual, and he keeps his distance but his enthusiasm fuels him to shorten it.

“Well, surprise,” she deadpans and pats the dragon, her gloved hand gliding against the scales, a small bag clenched in the other one. “Seemed like you took more interest in discussing other matters. What is the proper way of greeting you? Should I curtsy?” she asks, looking at Daemon again, and he isn’t sure if she’s jesting, her tone matching the unreadable expression on her face. “I must apologize for my manners in advance, I’m afraid.”

Her straightforwardness brings a smile to his face.

“We can get the formalities out of the way,” the prince steps closer, standing only a couple of feet away from her. “I would like to welcome you to King’s Landing, lady — ”

“There is no need for that,” she speaks with a tone that leaves no room for discussion. “You know I am no lady, nor am I seeking any titles. You can call me Lia.”

“But that is not your name,” he says almost hesitantly, a line of confusion settling in between his brows. Daemon is suddenly questioning every piece of information he knows — or rather the lack thereof.

“That is a part of it,” her answer sounds well-rehearsed as she dispassionately tears syllables. “That’s how my mother called me, so I am quite used to it.”

Even with her name cut in half, she has more authority than the most decorated lords, Daemon thinks. It’s both inexplicable and intriguing, and he holds on to that thought — until it collides with another one, tardy and grim: when she talked about her mother, she used the past tense.

Memories get their claws into his heart as he’s reminded of Baela and Rhaena clinging to him, their muffled weeping and grief-stricken eyes. He knows that the pain of losing a mother leaves a mark that will never be erased — but kind words and a shoulder to cry on can at least help ease the suffering.

Daemon moves with the intention of opening his arms, his chest is a harbor of acceptance when he asks:

“How’s your mother been doing?” and he already suspects the answer will bring more death into his life.

Lia blinks once, twice, then says — plain and simple:

“She died.”

It sounds as mundane as discussing the weather, and Daemon is startled by the lack of sentiment. It was, indeed, uncharacteristically naive of him to expect her to rush into his arms. But her guard is up so high he feels like he’s facing an actual wall, and it makes him anxious — and that’s not what he is used to deal with when it comes to his own children.

But before Daemon can express his concern, he hears a disgruntled snarl — they both turn to see the white dragon coiled into a defensive stance, his eyes are the color of burning green leaves. A couple of dragonkeepers are approaching him falteringly, and Lia raises her voice at the beast:

“Olwen!”

His dilated pupils dart to her, and the snarling abates, but his wrath bolsters, and now he’s nothing less of a pure danger. Both his and her eyes are trained on the men, and as one of them comes closer, Lia catches a dull glint of metal in his hands.

“No chains are needed,” she instantly speaks up.

“It is a matter of precaution, we mean no harm —”

“I said,” Lia steps in front of the man, “my dragon will not be chained.”

Her tone immediately loses the light coating of friendliness — if there ever was any to begin with, — it gets remorseless and strident, and she allows no objections. The dragonkeeper looks at her helplessly then turns his gaze to Daemon, waiting for the instructions.

“They want to make sure he stays in the cave,” he clarifies peacefully.

“He doesn’t do well with chains,” Lia discloses, not moving from her spot. Daemon notes that all her responses are ill-defined which makes him wonder if she does it consciously or not. Whatever her reasoning is, it only leaves more questions than answers.

“Will he do well with other dragons?”

“Olwen will be on his best behavior,” her reply comes out too harsh, scathing, so she tones it down a bit. “Put him in any closed space, and he will sleep for days, he won’t care about anything else,” she gives an explanation almost charitably. But he accepts it.

Daemon casts an evaluating glance at the beast and then gestures for the dragonkeepers to stand back.

“I’ll lead the way,” he doesn’t need to turn around to know that she’s following him — her eyes land on his back like a punch.

They pass the gate, going through rows of columns carved into the stone surface and illuminated by the torches on the walls. Daemon strains to pick up any sound the dragon makes that can be alarming but he only hears the crunch of the beast’s footsteps and occasional sniffing. Looking over his shoulder, he is surprised to see that Olwen tags along, as obedient as a dog, not reacting to the unknown environment nor the distant roars of other dragons. Once they reach his cave, the beast merely gives it a look-over before settling down cozily in the darkest corner. Lia leaves the bag tucked under his wing and glances at Olwen with the faintest of a smile, but it disappears once she turns to her father.

They walk back in silence but unlike her dragon, Lia takes more interest in her surroundings — she examines weaves of caves and tunnels, looking around after every sharp turn. Daemon watches her out of the corner of his eye, vigilant and hopeful, as he keeps fighting the desire to please her, to be liked by her, this stranger that has his blood but acts like she wants none of it. He opens the carriage door for her, smothering his ego, but Lia hesitantly looks inside, and he guesses that she’d rather go on horseback. Yet she concedes, sensing his determination to bond. He thinks it’s a small step in the right direction.

Lia sits closer to the window, her interest seemingly flaring up even more. That or she doesn’t want to be near Daemon, and he brushes off the latter. He wants to offer his condolences but is afraid her wall of defense will turn into a mountain he won’t be able to climb so he chooses a safer option:

“How was your journey? Finding the Dragonpit didn’t pose a problem for you, it seems.”

“The maps you sent were very detailed, thank you,” Lia doesn’t turn to him, her eyes glued to the road as she keeps her focus on the landscape that soon gives way to the streets busy with fairs and taverns.

“Is King’s Landing always this crowded?”

“We are taking the main streets, with all the trading points and venues clustered here so these are usually filled with people,” Daemon eagerly explains but forgets to mention that he chose that road so she could get a better view of the city.

“Keeping an eye on things must be quite hard,” Lia debates.

“Hence why we have the City Watch,” Daemon grins, the feel of the golden cloak wrapped around his shoulders still fresh in his memory. “The Watch is enforcing the crown’s laws so our city is safe for all its people. I can show you around later on, should you wish for it.”

“If the city is safe, why would I need a guardian to take a walk?” when she looks at him, there’s a gleam of laughter in her eyes, and Daemon thinks that Rhaenyra would’ve liked her. He really hopes that she will.

“I am only offering my company,” he rebuts gaily.

“One would think the Prince Consort has better things to do,” the corner of her mouth curls slightly but the other one doesn’t follow, and the hint of a smile never grows into an actual one. Instead, her face is set on agitation when she suddenly says:

“I may help you pass the time,” with these words, her hand disappears under the cloak — and then Lia gives him a folded piece of parchment. “My mother wrote this for you.”

Daemon can feel that she doesn’t want to give it to him. It’s in the way her hand is gripping the letter, in the way she looks at it, her lips tight and jaw clenched. And yet she lets him take it.

“You know what it’s about?”

“I think I do,” her eyes linger on the letter. “And I would prefer if you kept it a secret,” Lia’s voice is quiet and sorrowful — and for a second she almost sounds hurt. But she averts her gaze and straightens her posture, and he can’t figure her out, once again.

“You didn’t read it?”

“The letter is sealed,” Lia looks at him with a weary judgment that’s normally expressed by men of his age towards someone like her and not vice versa. “If it wasn’t meant for me then I will not open it.”

“You could’ve burned it, you know. Keep whatever there is a secret,” he suggests, watching her reaction closely.

Lia keeps silent for a moment, and Daemon thinks he will rip the letter to shreds if only she asks, if it makes things better for her. She lightly shakes her head.

“It was my mother’s wish to give it to you, and I respect it,” Lia says firmly. “I can only hope that you will respect mine.”

“Sooner or later, everyone will find out,” he warns her, with a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“I am in no rush,” her reply is short and dry, and she turns to the window, signaling that the conversation is over.

Lia peers out, her eyes on the road again. Only now, in the broad daylight when he takes a closer look, Daemon realizes that it’s not the inquiring mind of a traveler that drives her — it looks more like she’s mentally mapping every location they pass. And he doesn’t know the destination she has in mind. The audience with the Queen goes better than Daemon hoped for — which means it’s not half as bad as it could’ve been.

Rhaenyra’s frustration due to the unannounced visit is quickly replaced by burning curiosity as she watches Lia come in. She sees the girl who doesn’t try to hide behind Daemon’s back, most of her body covered by a long cloak that still permits a straight and free stride while she boldly keeps eye contact with Rhaenyra. Lia only stops a few feet away from the throne — and she doesn’t curtsy. Instead, she politely takes a bow, not looking away for a second.

Someone else might’ve considered her behavior borderline insolent but the Queen impatiently stands up to walk closer to the girl, not offended but rather intrigued. Daemon wonders if Rhaenyra sees a younger version of herself in Lia — and his wife thinks of it, too. She is also more surprised by the lack of a title than by the name his daughter chose.

“Not a single person in my village had a title or a last name,” Lia points out, and she bears no shame. The look on her face also suggests she doesn’t expect the Queen to understand.

Rhaenyra proves her right when her gaze passes over the girl with the air of someone who knows better.

“It is fair to call you a lady, I believe, since you have dragon’s blood in your veins,” she announces as if the issue is settled already.

“As you wish, your grace,” Lia simply agrees — and it’s leniency as it is. But the Queen allows it.

She asks more questions than Daemon did, and the girl seems more affable with her replies yet somehow she gives all the same information, and not a word more. Still, he observes them with unconcealed satisfaction, pleased with the flow of their voices, with the calmness that sets in the hall, and he’s just a moment away from finding relief —

“How did your mother die?” Rhaenyra asks all of a sudden, and it makes Daemon flinch at his spot.

“Of an unfortunate injury she left untreated,” Lia begrudgingly answers, and he notices that the violet of her eyes goes a shade darker.

“Wasn’t your mother a healer?”

It’s not intended as a taunt, Rhaenyra just can’t resist wanting to know more, her eager attempts almost child-like, and Daemon instantly tenses up. They are both perplexed by the dry chuckle Lia lets out before saying:

“She cared too much about everyone else but too little about herself.”

There’s no hiding of vitriol seeping through her words but Lia doesn’t go into that topic further, her face showing nothing but a cold indifference again. Rhaenyra studies her reaction — luckily for Daemon, she does so not as the Queen but as someone who experienced the same loss once.

“I believe that hardships of life only shape your character,” she steps toward the girl, her voice pervaded with maternal-like care. “I presume that coming all that way to King’s Landing wasn’t easy but we are very glad that you did. It may take you some time to consider this place home — I assure you, the servants are ordered to satisfy your every whim”.

Rhaenyra means well, Daemons knows it, and yet for some reason, he wishes she phrased it better. Whatever Lia actually thinks of the Queen’s speech is left unsaid — his daughter only gives a polite half-smile in return:

“That is very generous of you, your grace. Frankly, I feel like I want to rest for a week, nothing else.”

“Do you really intend to?” Rhaenyra’s friendliness slightly falters. “We were planning on having a family gathering at dinner to formally introduce you to everyone.”

“Dare I ask you to postpone it just for a day? Surely it would be rude for me to fall asleep at the table,” Lia’s smile doesn’t reach the eyes, and a lull in their conversation makes Daemon uncomfortable.

“Well, I suppose just a day won’t make a difference. After such a long journey you do deserve to rest,” the Queen says after a pause. “I need my husband to return to his duties for now, meanwhile the maid will show you to your chambers,” she calls for a girl who’s been standing at the door, and the maid approaches them as quietly as a mouse.

Lia’s eyes flicker to Daemon, and he almost expects her to argue, but she says nothing aside from a hushed “thank you”, and then follows the maid out of the room. Rhaenyra watches them, tacit and pensive.

“I truly do not know what to think,” the Queen drawls when they leave. “But she is really quite something,” and her appraisal is followed by a chuckle.

Daemon nods, agreeing. Only he doesn’t find it amusing at all. Lia thinks the maid is just a couple of years younger than her but she doesn’t dare to clarify — even walking alongside the girl feels awkward and even more so wrong. Just yesterday Lia was picking up branches to make a fire in the woods, some dirt undoubtedly still left under her fingernails, and now, merely a day after, she is being led to her chambers by a maid. It feels as ridiculous as it is nauseating, and it only gets worse when she sees the room — the size of the house she’s grown in and with way more furniture than she’s ever seen put in one place.

Lia stands at the doorway, still and confounded, when the maid humbly says:

“If you are in need of anything, you can — ”

“No,” Lia cuts her off so sharply, it startles the girl.

Lia turns to her with an apologetic look:

“What is your name?”

“Annora,” she answers meekly, hiding her eyes to the floor.

“Annora, I can guarantee you I need nothing else. You are free to leave for the rest of the day,” Lia tries to sound both persuasive and kind — and not disgusted with her own pretense.

The girl gives her a confused look but seems too scared to object so she takes leave with no questions asked. Lia stays at the door and listens to her retreating footsteps, disregarding the pompously furnished room. After the sounds in the hall die down, she waits for another couple of minutes — and then slips out without looking back. Lia roams around and learns every exit and searches through every room she can open. She follows no rules except one — shall things go south, she must know how to get out, fast and without being seen. So she memorizes the turns, the pattern of corridors and stairs while trying to avoid encounters with people endlessly pacing through the castle. A few times she has to take a step back, hide in the shadows and in between columns while maids and guards and noble women with too many underskirts run by. Lia isn’t used to that — the amount of people, the fuss and the noise, but does her best to ignore it all, taking time to explore the huge building, with doors and corners and the awaiting unknown.

When she finally gets to the backyard, it feels like only a couple of hours have passed but Lia is surprised to see that the sun is beginning to set. The sky gradually darkens, dabbed with yellow and maroon, showing the approach of the evening. Only once she steps outside, she realizes how much she needed a breath of fresh air, how there’s a lack of it in the musty, sweltering castle. She is relieved to see that the yard is way less crowded, with only a few servants and a couple of knights at the gates. Her eyes skim over the open space when she hears the metal screeching — distinct and all too familiar to her: turning around, Lia predictably sees two men sparring, their swords being the source of the sound. Her attention is quickly drawn to one of them — lean, tall, and fending off his opponent with ease, his long silver hair flowing with each move. His hits seem as clear-cut as the features of his face — although she didn’t see him that well the first time, she recognizes him immediately. Aemond is the very embodiment of imperturbability, each stroke of his sword deliberate and sharp, and Ser Criston can’t let his guard down for one second. It’s a sequence he’s learned well enough over the years: there’s no rush in the prince’s attacks, there’s exhausting suspense. Aemond watches him, throws in a few teasing strikes, circling leisurely but maniacally tiring his opponent out. Only when you least expect it, he will deliver a series of blows, strong enough to knock an adult down, just enough to satisfy his ego.

And yet, Ser Criston senses that something is off. The prince is missing his usual fervor, his competitive energy, not pressing the fight but rather tolerating it, which Criston considers odd.

“Your focus seems to be elsewhere, my prince. I wonder what’s on your mind,” the knight inquires.

Aemond shoots him a cold glance and easily blocks his hit, then spins and abruptly strikes forward, his sword stopping at Criston’s neck.

“Wondering does you no good, Ser Criston,” Aemond remarks with a small grin, retreating.

“Fair enough,” he smiles in return. “I suggest we take a break.”

They had to start later than usual, and by now all the spectators dispersed and the yard has long been empty, quiet, softly illuminated by sunset. One of the guards goes to light the torches on the walls, and Aemond absentmindedly watches as the flames grow, taking a few gulps of water. Despite Ser Criston being right in his observations, training still had a calming effect on the prince, and the slight soreness of the muscles was somewhat enjoyable. It’s a way to escape reality for him, his mind concentrated on the momentum of movements, on the way his body adapts to the tempo and responds to the threat. He concludes he can go for another round, still invigorated, somewhat restive, always at the ready.

But when Aemond turns around, his eye is drawn to a cloaked figure, and all the clarity and concentration dissolve upon realizing who he’s looking at. He recognizes her immediately.

Christon follows Aemond’s gaze, spotting the girl, too, and then squints a little:

“Is that — ”

“I believe so,” the prince replies tersely.

They were on the way to the training yard when they saw Alicent leaving Helaena’s chambers, looking surprisingly grim. Caught in the moment, she had to reveal the cause of her sour mood — or maybe Alicent was actually looking for a reason to finally tell someone of it. She wore a grimace of annoyance that turned into resentment as she recounted what happened at the small council’s meeting. Her explanation left much to be desired but Criston listened attentively, seemingly intrigued. Both he and Alicent missed the stunned expression that was evident on Aemond’s face for barely a moment — somehow he instantly guessed who was the rider of the white dragon. And then regret mixed with agitation chained his heart.

It has long been known that his mother and Daemon have a bone to pick with each other, but Aemond is never hasty with his judgment. His uncle’s daughter is a girl he knows nothing about, so the prince tries to give her the benefit of the doubt instead of rushing to conclusions, or labeling, or worse. And yet Aemond keeps going back to that image of her — a splash of darkness roaming in the skies, audacious in her freedom, coming into their lives at the speed of a dragon she managed to claim even though she wasn’t supposed to have one in the first place. He even let himself wonder how their first meeting would go, thinking of an uncomfortable family gathering with forced smiles and awkward conversations.

But suddenly she’s here — her black cloak fluttering like an unknown flag, no sign of a smile on her face, no lack of confidence. And it’s also somewhat fitting that she’s defying the expectations already, his included.

She keeps her distance and pays them no mind as her eyes are set on the table with practice swords, their blades reflecting glimmers of orange and red that the sky is painted with. Criston notices Aemond’s wistful stare and clears his throat, then carefully approaches the girl.

“It’s not often I find ladies to take interest in swords,” he remarks politely.

“I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure of admiring the craftsmanship,” she answers, earning a pleased hum from the knight.

“Well, these two swords were cast only a week ago,” Criston enthusiastically comes closer.

Sensing it, she glances up at him, out of interest or as a precaution, and Aemond sees a white strand of hair sticking out, a rebellious sign of her Targaryen roots confirmed by the color of her eyes. He discreetly examines her, takes in every subtle detail he can notice as if her appearance can give him a clue for what’s underneath. But her face is a mask of reticence.

“This looks like Valyrian steel,” she infers, and Criston nods, pleasantly surprised by her guess.

“You have seen it before?”

“I have definitely heard of it,” she gives an oblique answer. “And it is truly beautiful up close. How long does it take to make one?” her voice suggests a keen interest, her demeanor so open and simple it’s only natural that Criston is driven to talk to her.

Aemond’s never been good at striking up conversations, avoiding them on the pretext of not liking any idle talk. And yet now his taciturnity weighs on him — and he doesn’t know if he’s troubled by the feeling of being excluded again or the blind urge to be the one she’s talking to.

Criston’s chattering comes with no reprehensibility, and she welcomes the nuanced explanation, listening attentively.

“You are quite passionate about the subject,” she concludes.

“It’s only fair for the knight to know more of the weapon he uses,” he explains, modest as ever. “Although, I believe we haven’t been properly introduced — I am Ser Criston Cole, the Master of swords. You’ve walked in on me and Prince Aemond training.”

She doesn’t react to the second part of his answer, not acknowledging Aemond’s presence, and he feels like a ghost, an unnoticed shadow, and the neglect unnerves him. Ser Criston is more worried about respecting social norms:

“And how should I address you?”

“Just Lia will do,” she bestows him with a smile so fleeting, he might’ve as well imagined it.

“Lady Lia, then,” he corrects, and her face is briefly shadowed by disdain.

“There’s no value in adding that,” Lia scrunches her nose.

Aemond comes up to them then, not waiting for any invitations and intending to be reckoned with, his brows draw together at her comment.

“Getting a title is something people usually pride upon rather than eschew,” he points out in a studiously courteous manner.

“Sounds like you care about it more than I do,” Lia barely spares him a glance, her head tilted as she follows the gilded pattern of the sword with her finger.

She doesn’t mean to mock him, her tone plain and stance relaxed, but the relative ease with which she brushes off his comment wounds all the same. Aemond is so used to people being intimidated by his mere presence that the lack of reaction does come off as an offense — or maybe he’s too eager to take it as one.

Ser Criston is oblivious to Aemond’s nerves slowly cracking, too absorbed in the conversation with Lia.

“To fully appreciate the craftsmanship, you should see it in action,” he carelessly continues. “Do you know how to handle a sword? I can show you.”

“It is really kind of you to offer but I’ve wielded a sword before,” her emotionless response implies she’s not affronted yet Criston notices a smile in the corner of her lips again. He wonders if it’s a sign of amiability or a contained jeer.

“I am sure you haven’t held — ”

“You can take one,” Aemond suddenly suggests, words escaping his mouth before he can think them over.

Ser Criston stops midsentence, darting an inquiring glance at him but the prince ignores it, his eye boring into Lia’s back.

“If you spar with me,” he adds — and sees that her finger stops at the edge of the blade, signaling that now he’s got her attention.

“You already have an opponent to entertain you,” Lia remarks, straightening her back.

“I am not looking for entertainment,” Aemond adamantly retorts.

He is looking for a fight, he wants to say — but when Lia finally glances at the prince, he catches an unspoken sign of understanding.

“If you win, the sword is yours,” Aemond continues, pressing for her to answer. His impatience simmers, risking to bring his temper to a boil.

There is no logical explanation for his persistence — Lia shows no interest and takes no offense, absolutely nothing suggests that she wants to fight, and she merely looked at him once since she came. Maybe that last part is the one he’s got a problem with.

Criston waits for the girl to refuse — and to do so sheepishly, in a ladylike manner. Instead, she fully turns to the prince.

“Seems like you’ve been training for quite some time, aren’t you tired?” Lia eyes him from head to toe. “I’d like us to have a fair bout,” she states impassively.

Aemond stifles a laugh, reeking of overconfidence, his reaction all too familiar to the knight but usually off-putting to the others — just this attitude alone led to more fights than Criston can count, even though the prince had no trouble winning all of them. The knight expects Lia to get annoyed, too, to lash back or quarrel — but she is a blank canvas void of any color.

“I won’t cut you, worry not. At least I will try my best,” Aemond’s reply is hardly a promise with his voice being so evidently teasing. Still, he has some decency to abide by the rules, so he asks in return: “Do you need a warm-up?”

She feels her legs humming from the number of stairs and turns she’s taken throughout the day, and the anticipation only gets the blood rushing, heating her body — but he knows nothing of it.

“I’ll pass,” she declines, and just for a moment, her gaze turns sneery, and Aemond guesses that she’s also not the one to back down. That bare glimmer of her character is enough to strike a chord in him.

Criston looks between them, finally grasping how the dynamic escalated, the air thick with tension as Aemond and Lia stare each other down without a hint of doubt on their faces.

“You are fortunate to spar with a very skilled swordsman,” the knight mentions delicately, hoping that his implication might cause Lia to reconsider.

“If you say so,” is her only reply — and there isn’t a shred of uncertainty.

Before going to pick a sword, Lia looks around. Aemond thinks she wants to make sure no one is watching them, and this time, he actually wishes there was a crowd to make a spectacle in front of. But as her eyes are roving through the yard, Criston guesses that she’s sizing up the space, memorizing every detail, — and it’s definitely not a sign of her lacking the experience. He has never trained a woman but someone clearly took their chance with Lia, and the knight gets curious to know if her training paid off.

She goes to the further end of the table where the shortswords are lined up, and Aemond silently sneers: he’s proficient in using longswords, maneuvering heavy blades with ease, and going for the lighter version will pose no challenge for him. Lia doesn’t think for too long, choosing the one with a smaller hilt, plated with silver and set with emeralds. She weights it, making sure it sits comfortably in her hand, and Criston notes that her thumb lays on the flat of the blade which gives her more ability to hold on to the sword. She twirls it a couple of times, her movements smooth and polished.

The knight turns to Aemond — and he is already looking at Lia.

“You do know how to hold it. Do you know how to use it?” the prince taunts.

“Do you?” she throws him an assessing gaze.

“We are about to find out,” Aemond’s lips twitch into a smirk. 🎵

Lia twists the blade backward, and it stops right behind her shoulder, barely an inch away. She holds it there as she approaches the prince, staying at a safe distance. The forged metal is tinted with the blooming sundown — it’s bright, sinister scarlet, and Criston gets a sinking feeling of worry, the idea of them sparring not so tempting anymore. But he hesitates for just a second too long — and then it’s too late to meddle.

Aemond strikes first, not harshly but rather testing — Lia swiftly moves out of his way, without even raising her sword, and his blade almost grazes her cloak, but the material slips away in the air, following its owner. The prince takes a step back, circling her as she stands, barely moving but not letting him out of sight, not shying away from him. His gaze hunts her like prey but she’s hawk-eyed, and she is yet to show her claws.

A surprised hum escapes Criston’s mouth, and he directs his focus to Lia. She’s got good awareness of space, her stepping is correct and aligned with her rare hits, her pacing akin to a measured cadence. Using the sword in one hand gives her a longer reach — but she hardly ever initiates attacks. Instead of stopping Aemond or trying to engage, Lia easily dodges, and that behavior only serves to embolden the prince’s fervor. It bothers Criston, and he furrows his brows, watching the girl closely, discerning how aloof and impassive she seems in comparison to Aemond — he’s smoldering, she’s stone-cold, and her movements are almost... lazy.

That’s when Criston realizes: she’s the one wearing the prince out, not the other way around.

It only takes Aemond a minute to draw the same conclusion, and he feels a flash of irritation in his chest. He might’ve underestimated Lia but he isn’t used to being toyed with, and even though her face is still without expression, now her style of fighting almost seems taunting. The prince usually took pride in his self-control yet he was slowly losing it — and he hates to lose, he never does.

Aemond quickly weighs his options, chancing a glance at the yard, and a distant object catches his attention. It’s a middle-sized barrel, but it’s enough to slow her movements, he thinks, and once she’s cornered the prince might consider mercy. He intensifies his hits, pressuring her to move further away, right into his trap, to his proclamation of victory. Aemond’s chest all but puffs, his hubris blossoming — but it turns out to be disastrously premature.

Lia looks over her shoulder — and then jumps over the barrel like it wasn’t ever there, barely an obstacle, or at least not for her. She gives him a look that makes him feel stupid — and Aemond is anything but. Even from a distance, Criston can feel the anger that sparkles in the prince, his shoulders tensing up and his grip on the sword tightening. He is scary when he’s angry — when he allows himself to be, when the build-up emotions emerge from the darkness of his stiff restrain — Aemond doesn’t hold back then, and he is scarily dangerous, dreadful, deadly.

But anger is only fuel and, shall you spill too much of it, the fire will be too hard to control — and the lack of control can be lethal when someone aims a blade at your heart. Yet it seems that what Aemond may lack, she’s got plenty of, and Criston finds himself wondering if that unemotional canvas of hers is actually a facade that covers something else.

They are separated by the barrel but Lia has no intention of hiding behind it — as she goes back around, she gets rid of another restriction, hastily tossing the cloak away, and Aemond finds himself involuntarily staring at her. Her clothes are also dark — the upper garment is long-sleeved and waisted, the material of her trousers dense and fitted tightly around her thighs. It differs from everything he’s seen on the ladies of the court, and she wears it like a second skin that stretches and covers every curve of her body. As Aemond’s eye lingers, he lets his guard down, almost missing the moment when she hits, fast and without warning — the prince blocks it at the very last second, their swords locking at foot level, and her blade stops right at his knee.

Aemond’s face expresses the utmost bewilderment. She didn’t cut him — but the intent was there.

The prince inhales sharply. He can forgive her still, he can dismiss her insolence and blame it on her lack of manners, on her luck, on any ludicrous reason that he may come up with in the next thirty seconds which he definitely needs to calm himself down. He is trying with his every breath, with his every muscle to regain control and resolve the situation peacefully.

But Lia isn’t looking for peace when she says — brazenly, her eyes fixed on him:

“Doesn’t seem like you live up to the praise you’ve been given.”

His temper explodes in a second. Aemond lunges at her, an annoyed grunt bubbling in his throat, and he strikes, merciless and quick, adrenalin roaring in his blood. She bends backward, his sword gliding just above her, and then she ducks under his arm and moves away. He barely has time to turn to her when she winds in from the other side, their swords clanging — and Criston regains his senses at the loud sound.

The knight feels his heart racing, the feeling of worry now bruising him as he can’t take his eyes off the two opponents.

Aemond’s blind spot is clearly on his left, and yet Lia never aims there, not taking advantage of his weakness, and Criston can’t help but respect her for that. However, she notes him having a dominant right hand, most of his blows targeted to cover the opposite side, leaving him open to attacks from the right. The moment she realizes where to strike, her blows become harsher and more vigorous, as her sword cuts through the air with a flick of her wrist. She’s got speed and agility, she’s unwavering, she’s a hunter too.

Aemond does not give in, furious and unflinching, and yet, even with the most ferocious attempts he misses her — merely by an inch — but misses nonetheless. Lia dodges every attack, each of her blocks calculated and her gaze alert, her desire not to yield only matching his. It’s refreshing, it keeps Aemond’s blood pumping, the anger-driven energy coursing through him. It also hurts his ego quite a bit.

There’s a bizarre harmony in the way they carry themselves, Criston notices, and their anger looks about the same — fiery and scalding. And it’s only a matter of time before anyone gets burned.

Aemond runs out of patience first.

Lia bats his sword aside once more and pulls back, falling into his blind spot, and Aemond needs to spin around to keep her in sight. But his mind is clouded with fury that pushes him to take the risk before he can think it through — instead of repeating the well-known movement, he takes a swing at her, his aim nothing but instinctive. He’s never followed blind instinct so literally — he’s also never done anything so horribly, dangerously stupid.

Criston’s heart plummets like a pebble through a hole as he watches Lia’s blade missing Aemond by a hair — and it truly is a miracle if he’s ever seen one. But then the prince’s sword lands right next to her shoulder, and they both instantly halt movement, their breathing heavy and eyes locked.

There is dead silence around them, the sun is long gone, the sounds vanished, all the guards witnessing are petrified.

It takes all of Aemond’s willpower not to press the blade further into the material of her clothes to cut it. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but he wants to leave a mark. A sign that he did win, a reminder of his victory just for her to keep.

“I shall teach you a lesson on how to keep your attitude in check when you’re talking to a prince,” his words are laced with frustration yet he smirks, bathing in the satisfaction that winning always brings him.

“Only when you learn to not get ahead of yourself,” she whispers — and with that, he suddenly feels a metal blade poking at his ribs. Taken aback, Aemond looks down and, surely, she’s holding a small dagger to his side with her free hand. His delight is as short-lived as ripples on a pond.

“Now, this is not fair,” he mutters, not looking so smug anymore.

“Fairness be damned when someone’s threatening my life,” she glances up at him, their faces so close they can feel each other’s breath. She smells of ashes and the crisp freshness of the forest, and her expression doesn’t change but her eyes darken, just like the sea does before the storm, which makes him feel uneasy.

And yet, Aemond refuses to lower his sword.

“Will you be as fierce without an arm?” he hisses.

“I can survive without one. But I’ll cut into your heart first,” her voice is terribly calm, and he knows she’s not bluffing.

“That is enough!” Criston is on the verge of yelling. “No one will cut anything!”

He tries to squeeze in between them but to no avail — Aemond doesn’t budge nor does Lia. Criston has never been the one in charge of the kids yet right now he wishes he had more experience with dealing with tantrums — because that’s exactly what it is, he thinks. Except the two participants have long outgrown the age appropriate for such behavior, and both are, unfortunately, armed.

He takes a deep breath and throws a hand in between them, more firmly this time.

“You know as well as I do that this has to end,” the knight gives them a stern look, keeping his voice low and impassive, “and with both of you intact.”

Lia’s eyes dart to Criston, and he takes it as a sign of her being the one he can reason with.

“I do not think using a dagger was acceptable but to be fair, we never established any rules. And you are a good fighter,” he puts emphasis specifically for Aemond, not letting the prince interrupt. “So I propose we agree on a draw, and you will still get your sword.”

She ponders for barely a minute before looking at Aemond again:

“I believe said agreement requires mutual consent.”

Criston maneuvers his palm next to Lia’s shoulder and puts his other hand close to where she’s holding the dagger. He glances anxiously at Aemond, and the prince scowls, irritated, not in the habit of backing down. He holds her gaze for a couple of seconds — and then they lower the weapons, the movement almost synchronized except Lia does so with grace while Aemond just does everyone a favor.

Crison gently stops the girl, his hand intercepting the one she’s holding the sword in.

“I will sharpen it myself and have it back in the morning,” he promises — and she gives it up with no objection.

Aemond seethes at her compliance he hasn’t been graced with, clinging to his sword while his pride whines in offense. He watches Lia putting the cloak back on, twirling the dagger in one hand, so unbothered and composed as if he left no impression on her while she all but carved her way into his head. While she has her back to him, he thoughtlessly makes a move in her direction, and Criston’s eyes widen, a word of warning rooting in his throat — but he doesn’t get a chance to voice it.

Lia stops and turns to Aemond in one swift motion, her gaze heavy and cold — and immediately on him again. For the second time she takes him by surprise, and the prince freezes at the spot. She looks directly at him and, without breaking eye contact, slowly shakes her head no. She doesn’t utter a single word but the coldness of her gaze speaks for itself. Her eyes are saying if you dare to pick the sword, I will kill you. I will bury my dagger in between your ribs, and my face will be the last thing you see.

She’s standing in front of him — a woman wrapped in the darkest shades of black, and she radiates the most alarming threat he’s ever seen. She gives him the same feeling he gets every time he touches the blade with his bare fingers, every time he flies with Vhagar up in the sky, rising above the clouds until his lungs start burning and the air is too cold to breathe in. It’s the feeling of imminent threat, of him balancing right at the edge of a foul. It’s challenging as much as it is fascinating. And Aemond likes a good challenge.

He takes his hand off of the hilt, his crooked grin a telltale sign of his refusal to wave a white flag just yet. Criston notices the movement and breathes out, looking puzzled but relieved. Not a single word is shared, and Lia doesn’t give them another glance before leaving, the prince and the knight gazing after her.

“I want to ask what just happened but I am not sure you will give me an honest answer,” Criston drawls.

Aemond keeps silent, his eye following Lia’s cloak, and the desire to go after her feels like an itch, like a pull he can’t explain.

“I don’t think it will be wise to tell my mother,” the prince says all of a sudden.

Confusion is evident on Criston’s face, brighter than the light of the torches it’s illumed with.

“She would’ve wanted to know of it,” Criston tiredly attempts to understand him. “I am your family’s sworn protector and it’s my responsibility to — ”

“I am asking you as a friend,” Aemond cuts in, his abrupt request leaving the knight stunned. The prince doesn’t move an inch nor does he look at Criston, his sharp profile not letting any emotions slip through. And yet, these words are the biggest sign of trust Aemond has ever shown the knight in years.

Criston bites down a smile:

“Understood, my prince.” Lia navigates through the corridors, taking directions from memory — she goes past her chambers, past the bed made for her, to the other end of the castle. She sneaks to the gates and lures the guards out by throwing a rock at the fence, trying not to laugh at the fact that it takes two grown men to go check for the source of the noise. The girl escapes into the darkness of the night, into the vibrant city that’s still awake, filled with noises and people scurrying about.

She blends into the crowd, feeling her pulse finally slowing down as she stems the fire within her, and it meekly fizzles. Rowdy alleys and dark corners seem more welcoming to her than the entirety of the Red Keep, and Lia is almost tempted to get lost and forget her way back — but she can’t allow herself to. So she only quickens her steps and pulls the hood lower, trying to race her own exhaustion that unavoidably catches up to her.

Halfway to the Dragonpit, Lia feels a gaze on her but the place is too crowded for someone to stand out — and it’s clearly an advantage not just for her. She peers into a bunch of unknown faces clumped up into a moving mass, a vociferous stream of voices. She sees a couple of drunk men staring, red-faced yet not threatening enough, same for a few beggars and street dancers that reach for her but can’t keep up. The only one who does stick out is a little girl barely eight or nine years of age winding after her — her face sly, her clothes too neat for her to live on the streets. Lia takes note of the kid but doesn’t let it show and only picks up the pace, her dagger hidden under the cloak saving her from the hassle of worrying.

The cavernous building atop the hill looks even bigger at night, grand and daunting, and the stern faces of the guards don’t soften the impression given but they let Lia in with no questions asked, most likely contrite about their hostile greeting earlier in the morning. She doesn’t gloat and only enters with a nod, slipping into the tunnels shrouded in stillness, her path accompanied by the rare crackling of the torches. When she walks into the cave, Olwen looks barely awake, blinking a few times in her direction, and Lia finally lets her body relax in the coolness of the twilight.

Weariness flows through her body like a stream of water, stripping her of the feigned composure and fake indifference. Her face falls and her fists open, and the build-up tension springs free with each inhale — deep, slow, blissful. As she’s standing there, in the dark cave only lit by the glow of her dragon’s eyes, she quietly reminds herself:

“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Calls himself Knuckles.”

Olwen glances up at her and lets out a roar, low and choppy, and it sounds almost like a purr. The dragon moves his head closer to Lia, and she sits on the ground, gently touching the rough skin of his snout. She knows he can feel it — her anger sparkling at the surface, ready to ignite at any second. But he also feels the pain that’s been wailing deep inside, vile and heavy on her heart. She thinks it’s unfair to him — this connection that they share, the unexplainable bond, and she almost wants to apologize. She knows he won’t understand.

Lia leans back on the dragon, using her cloak as a blanket and letting the exhaustion wash over her. Her eyelids flutter shut and she whispers again:

“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Goes by Knuckles. Raven woods. Yellow and brown...”

This reminder is not a lullaby but a never healing scar branded onto her skin, tearing her life in half, leaving nothing but ruins, bodies, death. But when Lia finally drifts off, she is greeted with no dreams, and it feels like a blessing, that oblivion of hers. Because most nights, when she closes her eyes, she sees a dark forest burning in flames, filled with endless screams. Back at the castle, the one-eyed prince lies wide awake, his restless mind not letting him sleep as he keeps replaying the events of the evening in his head. Aemond’s body has gotten tired but his nerves are strained, the image of Lia fresh in his memory — the way she looked at him, daring and unashamed, the way she moved — dexterous, fast, never giving up. A recalcitrant opponent, a resistant fighter, a bastard with a wild dragon.

Or maybe she’s a dragon herself.

He wonders if he can tame her.

• when she turns to him and shakes her head — that was inspired by the scene from “Hawkeye”. I think Yelena nailed that “I can kill you with my bare hands” look, and her character overall is very inspirational to me. • Olwen is supposed to be even whiter but I did my best:

🔥 my masterlist

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

tagging everyone who asked: @greenowlfactif, @iiamthehybrid, @melsunshine, @rosegardenpatsu

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ahotmesswithprivilege · 2 years

Text

Loved by Dragons

Part 1

Word Count: 3337

Characters inclueded: Kendra Caelus (OFC), Daemon Targaryen, Caraxes, Yngve Caelus (OMC; Kendra's father), Otto Hightower, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Viserys I Targaryen

Ship: Daemon Targaryan x OFC

Summary: While both Daemon and Rhaenyra are still struggling to adjust, life goes on and they have to move on too, whether they like it or not

Warnings: OFC, non canon (not even sure if it’s canon compliant. I am just here to take characters I obsess over for a fun ride), non beta read and written by a non native speaker (proceed with caution), major angst, discussion of death and loss, potential blood play if you squint really hard but still tagging just in case, If I missed something that you think needs taging, please tell me and I am going to add it to the list

Author’s note: Well part two was written quicker than I anticipated. Now I can finally focus on the scene that kinda started it all, so buckle up for the ride. Also, I am still contemplating a title for the entire series, so if there are suggestions, please feel free to come to my inbox. Or in case you wanna chat about what might happen next. I promise I don’t bite. General feedback is welcomed too

The following day, Daemon flew to the destroyed campsite himself, searching high and low to find any sign of who had ambushed his beloved, but he was too late. The rain had already washed away the little evidence the men had left behind. That meant all that was left for him to do was bring her remains back to her father, so she could be laid to rest in the soft hills full of the storm flowers she had loved so much. Lady Kendra's burial was to take place near Dies Keep, under the Caelus oak, the way it was the custom for her house and as much as Daemon wanted to protest and see her buried in King's Landing or maybe Dragonstone, somewhere close, where he could visit her whenever his heart desired, he couldn't bring himself to argue with her father about it. It pained him enough to see Lord Yngve, a man he had known as knight and Commander for as long as he could remember, being nothing but an empty shell. In the days since his daughter had gone missing, he must have aged a whole lifetime, with dark circles around his eyes and ashen skin. Not that his sympathy with the master of arms changed anything about his foul mood. Just as much as the dragonkeepers avoided Caraxes, the servants avoided him. Daemon had a reputation for his volatile nature and violent outbursts, but since his heart had stopped beating in his chest, leaving nothing but a gaping hole behind, you needed to be downright suicidal to be around the rouge prince.

Even the few people closest to him kept their distance, Rhaenyra avoiding him all together after the outburst in his chambers, though his accusations were still ringing in her ears. Not that those weren't the exact same ones she had battled since the news had reached her that Kendra had gone missing. From the moment the storm flower had come to the Red Keep Rhaenyra had felt safe with her in a way she did not feel around others, not even Alicent. The fierce redhead and the blonde had gotten along from the first moment they met, sharing an easy bond and the more time they spent together, the more Kendra gave her the feeling to be seen for who she really was, not for her title or the power one could get through being associated with her. No, Kendra had not a scheming bone in her body and the longer Rhaenyra was left alone with her thoughts, the more she believed that it was her compassion that had become her downfall. Westeros was no place for a kind-hearted woman, especially not if she was on her own. The only company Rhaenyra could stand right now was Argos who had not left her side since Kendra had left him with the princess. She knew that her father was not fond of the hound, especially since she kept him in her chambers but he couldn't bring himself to force her to leave the dog in the kennel or gods forbid give him back to the Caelus. Not that it would have worked in the first place, the dog being much too loyal to abandon the young girl and disrespect his mistress' wishes, even if he knew she was gone now.

It was the day before Lord Yngve would leave for Kendra’s burial when Daemon saw Rhaenyra walking through the gardens, her furry shadow by her side. Lost in his own melancholic thoughts that could not be drowned by all the wine in the Red Keep's cellar, it hit him how badly he had leashed out at Rhaenyra that night he returned from Essos. Daemon knew it wasn't her fault that Kendra had chosen to travel alone and as much as he was not allowing the thought to properly sink in, neither was he. The true fault was with the person who had forged her brother's writing and used her gentle heart to lure her into the woods, only waiting for the right moment to ambush her. For a moment the rouge prince stood in the cloister, eyes locked onto his niece who had chosen her very own tactic to deal with everything that had happened. While Daemon was looking for conflict to take out his anger on others and use the pain of the wounds to feel something other than the pain of his loss, Rhaenyra had gone into hiding, even distancing herself from Alicent who had been her best friend as long as the girl lived in the Keep with them. He knew that sooner or later he had to fix this, to apologise to her for what he had accused her of when pain and sorrow clouded his judgement, but there was no person worse at apologising than Daemon Targaryen. For a moment he closed his eyes, considering staying hidden in the shadows and heading back to his room to empty another bottle of fancy dornish wine when he could have sworn he heard his little storm flower's voice. Daemon suddenly turned around to look behind him, but all his tired eyes found was darkness. If his mind was so desperate to apologise it even conjured up the image of a deceased, he had to go over to her, right now.

Rhaenyra heard the gravel creaking under the heavy footsteps of leather soles, telling her that someone was approaching her. Her disposition was by far not as dangerously violent as her uncles but it was enough for people to keep their distance, so she couldn’t help but wonder who was brave or maybe rather stupid enough to come near, especially while her guardian was by her side. "Rhaenyra", the voice of her uncle made her turn around, Argos moving right in front of her, blocking Daemon's way to his niece. His eyes looked down at the massive dog a small smile creeping onto his lips. Even now when he was by Rhaenyra's side, the hound could not deny that he had been Kendra's, showing that he and his former mistress shared the same protective nature. A heavy silence hung between them while they looked each other in the eye, both waiting for the move that the other would make, Argos standing between them, ready to attack the other the moment his charge showed the slightest sign of discomfort. After waiting for a few more heartbeats, Daemon opened his arms slightly, a forthcoming invitation for his niece, hoping she would accept his peace offering. Rhaenyra's eyes wandered over her uncle, trying to gauge his state and his level of drunkenness. She had promised herself that she would not let him get away that easily, wanting a proper apology but she knew the moment she saw him that the rogue prince was a picture of misery and she could not be mad at him any longer. Gently she used her hand to move Argos to the side, wrapping her arms around her uncle's waist, hiding her face against his chest. It took a second before she felt his arms wrap around her, the genuine gesture of love making the tears stream down her cheeks once more, his head resting on hers he felt how her tears started to soak through his doublet. "I miss her so much", she whispered in Valyrian, body shaking from her sobbing, feeling how he pressed a gentle kiss upon her hair. "I know little dragon, I do too"

The king stood at a window of his study, looking down to the gates where his former master of arms rode towards his home. Viserys was unhappy about having to relieve him of his duty. Not just because it broke the tradition of the head of house Caelus being the master of arms going back to the time of Aegon the conquerer, but also because he lost a confidant and voice of reason, things that were hard to come by in court full of snakes trying to climb the ranks and he couldn't help but feel responsible for it. He had seen how hard Rhaenyra had been hit by the loss of her mother, so when he voiced his concerns for her to his friend, Lord Yngve offered to send for his daughter and Viserys welcomed the idea with open arms. He would be a liar if he said he didn't have ulterior motives, being in dire need of a wife and new queen to rule by his side and Lady Kendra was a perfect candidate. She settled quickly in at court, had an easy friendship with his daughter... and coming from a house that almost exclusively had male offspring, she was what he needed to secure his dynasty. Even with his brother's advances, he couldn't help but see the glimpses of a life with the storm flower by his side. But all of it was gone now, taken away by the gods as quickly as they gifted. With a heavy sigh, the king turned around, the meeting with his hand still weighing heavily on him. Not only did he have to find a suitable replacement for Lord Yngve, he also had to choose a new candidate for his queen, knowing all too well that every choice carried the seed of war. There was Laena Velaryon, the sea snake’s daughter, young in years, but considering her family’s power and influence, closing the rift between them that had grown since he had ascended the throne was a good idea, but it also meant that other great houses could feel at a disadvantage. The prospect of marrying Lady Guda Baratheon held a similar threat. She was not as young in years, but with his master of arms gone a strengthened connection to House Baratheon could be beneficial. And then there was the option his hand had suggested. His own daughter, Alicent Hightower. She was not of a great house, but smart and young enough to give him the sons he needed to strengthen his bloodline's claim to the throne. Marrying her meant he was favouring no one, but he feared that this choice might burn the bridges he had tried to build in the years of his reign. Viserys' eyes wandered over the heaps of paper that were spread all over his desk, all issues that demanded his attention, but how could he be a good king if he couldn't even give his people a proper heir? Yet another sigh left his lips as he turned around, walking towards the door. He needed a change of scenery and desperately so. Tonight was a feast to welcome an embassage from Qarth, here to negotiate a new trade agreement and as much as his court was still lamenting the loss of one of their own, he knew that the time of mourning was over.

Rhaenyra was sick to her stomach when a maid informed her that the king expected her to sit by his side on the dais today, conversing with the embassage, acting like everything was ok. When Lord Yngve had left with his brother Ser Yaron and his brother-in-law Ser Kenan she had been there to bid them goodbye. There was so much she wanted to tell him. Say how much she had loved Kendra, what a great confidant she had been and express to him how sorry she felt for his loss, but all she could do was stand there, tears glittering in her eyes while the wind caught in her white locks and her hand resting on Argos' head and now with the large hound laying on her bed, his eyes glued to the door so he could protect her in the event of an emergency, she stared at the dresses that had been deemed acceptable for her to wear. All of them were made of expensive fabrics in red and black, more than elaborately decorated to properly show off her status but she couldn't help but feel alienated by them. Her fingers gently brushed over the fabric, trying to decide which of the expensive silks satins and heavy brocades would make her feel the least miserable. It was a small huff that brought his new mistress into Argos' focus, tilting his head a little, his large, brown eyes seemingly staring straight into her soul. "Oh Argos... what shall I do?"

Daemon thought it was absolutely wretched, acting like everything was ok only for the sake of some more coin that they were not in need off. If it would have been just about him, he would have rather served a night shift with the city guard, but his brother had not just ordered him to show his face at the feast but also Rhaenyra and he couldn't bring himself to let his niece go there alone. So for the sake of keeping up the facade, he went over to the chest that held his clothes, pulling out a doublet that would be appropriate for such an event, not caring much which one he chose. It was only when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bronze mirror that he realized what he wore. Gently his fingers caressed the cloth, images of the nights he first met his little storm flower flooding his mind. The way her smile managed to light up the entire room, how it felt to hold her close as they shared their first dance. Yet again tears threatened to spill from his eyes, as they did so often these days whenever another memory of her came crashing down on him like a wave, washing over and threatening to drown him. With trembling hands, he started closing the buttons of his doublet, the Targaryen dragons that adorned the brocade pattern shimmering in the candlelight. When he had almost closed the garment fully the otherwise smooth lining felt uneven against the skin of his neck and when he folded the collar over his eyes teared up at the image he saw in his mirror.

Weeks earlier...

From the moment Lady Kendra had entered the compound, Daemon had only had eyes for her. So much so that even his sparring partner landed the occasional hit, which was really uncommon for the rouge prince who had learned his craft under the skilled guidance of Lord Yngve and Ser Yaron. As soon as he could, without drawing too much attention to him, he left the little arena they used, making his way around the back, climbing up to the stand so he could sit down right behind her. His eyes wandered over her, watching her as she embroidered a little, delicate flower with blue thread into the collar of a shirt. He had snuck up to her quietly enough to surprise her. "A lady, sweet and kind, sitting all alone in the presence of rakish nights. What will the Septon think about that", he whispered right into her ear, making her jump up and then mutter a curse under her breath as she looked at her finger. Daemon's eyes followed her, seeing that she had pricked her thumb with the needle she had been holding. He moved to her side, sitting down on the bench next to her as he gently took her hand in his as the first drop of blood formed on her skin.. Without another word he raised it to his lips, his eyes meeting hers as his lips wrapped around the tip of her thumb, kissing the blood away. "And what would the Septon say if the prince was to take advantage of a girl like this?", she retorted, a light blush creeping on her cheeks as her chest was heaving. Kendra thanked the gods that neither her uncles nor her father were close enough to witness this, because no matter his name or status, they would have killed the rouge dragon on the spot for his transgression. A small smile appeared on the prince's lips as his violet eyes locked with hers. "He would surely understand that first aid is necessary in a case like this" She chuckled at his answer, a spark shining in her storm flower blue eyes that made his heart flutter in his chest. "For sure...", the words hung in the air between them before she pulled her hand from his hold, readying herself to continue her needlework. "What are you doing?", Daemon asked now, seeing that she was working on a linen shirt that must have been bought recently, not showing any sign of wear or tear. "One of my uncle's old shirts was far beyond saving so he bought a new one", she started explaining, her focus now completely on her work," And before he could start wearing it, I had to make sure it was bringing him good luck... that he comes back home in one piece", the last part was more murmured for herself than him and Daemon cocked his head, not sure if he was getting what she just explained. With a couple of small stitches she secured the blue thread that she had almost used up before her eyes met his violet ones, puzzlement still visibly written over his features. "It's a family tradition. Usually, it's an iron flower done by the wife or mother embroidered onto the garments as a good luck token for the ones you love. To make sure they will always find their way back home", a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips," I use a storm flower for obvious reasons... and until Kenan has a wife of his own, I will have to keep doing it"

When Daemon entered the great hall, he felt the small storm flower sitting neatly against his skin, almost like a featherlight kiss of hers pressed against his neck. His eyes wandered over the room, searching for his niece, knowing how uncomfortable she felt these days without her furry guardian by her side and Daemon found her close to the dais by her father's side. Right next to them was Hightower with his daughter and two men he presumed to be a part of the embassage of Qarth. As little as he wanted to be bothered by the cunt that was Hightower, he made his way over to them, positioning himself right behind his niece who visibly relaxed when she felt his presence, a hand resting on the small of her back. "Good evening brother", the voice of his king sounded scolding, whether it was for being late or for looking like a ghost, Daemon was not sure but beyond that, there was no acknowledgement of his presence. Something he was content with considering how little interest he had in small talk even on his best of days. “Have you caught the men who committed the crime”, the Qartheen man asked, accent audible in his voice and Daemon already fumed when he thought about the topic they seemed to be discussing. “Sadly not, but I refuse to give up hope yet. We still have knights who are canvassing the area”, Hightower answered, almost sounding like he was the one who single-handedly was running the mission. It made Daemon feel sick that the hand used Kendra, his little storm flower to get sympathy from the emissary, playing his usual little court cabal game. “It is a true tragedy to lose a lady so young like this”, the other emissary added, making Daemon feel the prying eyes of the Qartheen men on them, who seemed to feel that there was some information hiding they might be able to exploit once the negotiations would start. “It was indeed for all of us. But Lady Kendra wouldn't want us to get lost in our pain”, Daemon felt his brother’s eyes on him, knowing that these words were meant for him, before he continued,” She was a strong woman and loved by dragons” “Is loved”, he corrected Viserys, voice harsh and cutting as a winter storm. "Daemon..." “Lady Kendra is loved by dragons”

#daemon targaryen x ofc #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen #hotdfic #house of the dragon fic #my own writing

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yummycastiel · 2 years

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''the dreamer'' part 3- aemond targaryen x oc

summary: Aemond and Daenys reunite in the library, and Aemond tries to come to a decision. (SERIES MASTERLIST HERE) (Fic also available on AO3)

a/n: Hi all! That was SOME finale for house of the dragon huh??? While there was a couple of things i had a problem with in season 1, i loved the show and I'm super excited for what's coming next! And how amazing is Ewan Mitchell who plays our very own Aemond?? He's incredible, truly steals the scene everytime. On another note, thanks SO much for all the comments, reblogs, and likes! The support has been overwhelming and i am overjoyed that you all are enjoying this story :) it means so much to me. here is part 3! we got 2 years to fill the void that HOTD left behind with fanfiction so lets go!

~~~

Daenys

Daenys was practically dragged out of the dining room by Jace, who was in a glowering mood. He and Luke muttered amongst each other, and Rhaena and Baela followed the siblings with concerned looks on their faces.

‘’You both let Aemond get to you too easily,’’ Daenys complained, wrenching herself out of Jace’s grip, ‘’Don’t let what he says bother you so.’’ She gave Jacaerys a pointed look with a raised eyebrow. Her dark-haired brother rolled his eyes, but he dipped his head in agreement.

‘’You’re right, you’re right,’’ He sighed, ‘’I can’t help it, whenever he says something, I feel as if I’m about to fly into a rage.’’ Daenys snorted. Guess the anger ran in the family, from what she’d heard.

‘’You’re going to be the king one-day Jace,’’ Daenys implored, ‘’You need to start acting like one.’’ Jace stayed silent, eventually giving Baela a nod for her to follow him.

‘’I’m taking Baela to her room, if you come with us, I can escort you to yours, sister.’’ Jace offered, trying to brush past her last comment. Daenys shook her head as she began to walk away towards her quarters.

‘’No, thank you, but believe I can manage. You all have a good night.’’ She replied, giving her older brother a grateful smile. Jace gave her one last look but nodded as he turned to walk away, Baela on his arm. Lucerys and Rhaena waved at her and followed him, leaving Daenys to walk to her room alone in the dimly lit corridor. As she made her way, she studied her surroundings, trying to recall the memories of her childhood in this castle, but it had changed quite a bit since she had last been here. She didn’t feel quite at home here as she remembered she once had. Of course, Dragonstone was her true home, but she always thought that she would be able to return to the Red Keep and still feel welcome. Obviously, while the Greens were residing here, she never would.

Daenys had arrived at her room and looked through her books for something to read but nothing tickled her fancy. The girl glanced at the door, considering taking a little trip to the library to search through the unending trove of literature that she so loved. Being in that library had been her favorite thing, especially when she would go with Aemond when she was younger. Those days were gone now, and she decided to go alone. The night was still young, and she had nothing else to do. Daenys lit a candle and slowly opened the door and peered out into the dark hall. No guard was posted, as she expected. Leave it to Alicent to forget about Rhaenyra’s children’s safety. She took a little step out and closed her door softly in case anyone was around to hear. It wasn’t so much that she was not allowed to go about the castle by herself, but she simply did not want to be disturbed by anyone wondering what she was doing. Daenys paused, wondering if there were any rules about wandering around the castle at night, especially as a lady. The princess groaned inwardly at the possibility.

As she creeped down the hall towards the library, Daenys thought about what happened at dinner, more specifically, Aemond’s taunting speech. Daenys felt a surge of frustration go through her. Why couldn’t he simply keep his mouth shut? She frowned at the memory of his little smirk growing on his pursed lips as he raised his glass to her brothers. She had heard about Aemond’s reputation. He was an accomplished swordsman, rode the biggest dragon. He was mysterious, tall, powerful, dangerous, and unpredictable. She wasn’t sure why she expected him to remain the nice boy that he was when they were children. Daenys should’ve predicted that his hostility that he nursed from age ten to bite the Velaryon’s in the back when they got older. Of course, he was mad, Luke cut his eye out. Now Aemond was living up to his severe reputation. Her own negative thoughts about the man was making Daenys’ heart hurt. She wanted to be friendly with him, to pick up where they left off all those years ago.

Daenys opened the door to the library and slipped in without a sound. The library in the Red Keep was enormous and beautiful, hanging candelabras emitting a soft glow onto the endless rows of bookcases. In their childhood, Daenys and Aemond had been one of the only visitors to the space, other than the maesters of course. It was like their secret refuge, and now it was Daenys’ alone. The girl placed her candle down and walked up and down the book-lined corridor, a finger tracing the spines of the books slowly as she perused. She finally picked one, Ten Thousand Ships, and opened it, looking through the pages gently. The calm silence of the library put her at ease as she leaned her hip against a pillar, fully engrossed in the book. The Princess didn’t notice a tall dark figure slink into the library, softly closing the door behind him.

‘’Wandering around in the dark Princess?’’ Said a soft voice from behind Daenys. Daenys, who had been giving her full attention to her book, yelped, dropping her book as she jumped about three feet in the air, before spinning around to come face to face with her uncle, Aemond. Her face turned pink with embarrassment as her hand went to her racing heart. Daenys cursed herself for getting startled. The Prince materialized from the dim light, both his hands behind his back as he studied her. A familiar smirk was on his angular face as he gloated over her moment of vulnerability. Daenys hated to admit it, but Aemond’s menacing presence had an opposite effect on her. She almost felt like stepping closer to him, wanting to reach out and touch his silver hair, touch his scarred face. He looked as if he had been sculpted by the gods in the gentle light of the library. The prince’s violet eye traveled up and down her figure, making a shiver roll down her spine. He had disarmed her with one look, much to her displeasure.

Aemond.

Aemond couldn’t feel anymore gleeful as he watched Daenys struggle to calm down after he had startled her. The silver-haired prince loved seeing her surprised, her cheeks reddening, her brown eyes staring, wide-eyed, up at him. Aemond felt like a wolf, licking his chops as he stared down at his vulnerable prey.

‘’Prince Aemond!’’ Daenys spluttered, ‘’You startled me.’’ The brown-haired girl composed herself and wrapped her robe tighter around her. Aemond drank in her appearance, just noticing how thin that fabric was. His eye snapped up to the young girl’s face.

‘’You really should be more aware of your surroundings, dear niece,’’ Aemond mused. Daenys ignored what he said and put her hands on her hips.

‘’Are you following me, Aemond?’’ Daenys questioned, arching her eyebrow with a slight playful tone. ‘’How did you know I was here?’’ Aemond felt taken aback, not expecting her to respond in anyway but with spitting venom, considering how he left the last situation they were both involved in.

‘’You’re not the only one who frequents the library Daenys, in case you’ve forgotten.’’ Aemond lied easily. He had been following her. Aemond wasn’t sure why, but the moment he had met Daenys’ gaze after the showdown during supper, he felt as though he needed to speak with her. The prince was talented at staying out of sight, his slim form and black clothes helping him blend into the shadows easily. He had followed Daenys to her room, making note of where it was (for what reason, he also did not know), and he followed her when she left, her robe on and candle in hand. When she had entered the library, Aemond almost hesitated, his childhood memories of them in there almost making him turn back. Daenys meanwhile, didn’t seem convinced by his answer.

‘’Well then, don’t let me stop you from finding a book, Your Grace.’’ Daenys said, turning around to pick up the book she had dropped in a casual tone. There was a moment of silence where Aemond didn’t move. His heart was racing, and he cursed himself for not being able to push whatever he was feeling for the girl away.

‘’I’m surprised you’re in such a positive mood after what happened at supper.’’ Observed the silver-haired prince.

‘’You mean your little speech for my brothers?’’ Daenys asked, cocking her head. ‘’Why would I be in any mood? It’s not like you mentioned me in it.’’ She sounded almost offended by the exclusion, which made Aemond chuckle softly.

‘’I didn’t mention you because I had a feeling that being called a bastard would not bother you.’’ Aemond said. A half-truth. He didn’t really want to involve her in the ugly business he had with her brothers. While she was technically also a bastard, very clearly not Laenor’s daughter, he thought she was more Targaryen than all of them combined.

‘’You’re right about that at least.’’ Daenys said, pride seeping into her voice.

‘’And why is that?’’ Aemond pressed, ‘’It never truly bothered you, all the rumors, all the gossip. We never got a rise out of you.’’

‘’I’ve been called a bastard and a Strong my whole life Aemond, if I let the insults get to me, I would not have gotten very far. Besides, it doesn’t matter what other people think, I know I have the blood of the dragon running through my veins, I know I am of the blood of old Valyria. What other’s think is of no consequence.’’ Aemond admired Daenys’ response as he recognized the infamous Targaryen pride that they all shared. The prince was beginning to forget himself, being too preoccupied with the princess standing in front of him in the soft candlelight, her big brown eyes glittering as she looked at him. It was impossible for him to look away, once again. He wished he had both eyes so he could fully take her in. Aemond could tell that she was beginning to feel uneasy, his piercing gaze finally getting to her.

Aemond began to feel angry with himself. All night he had been battling against his own mind, a voice screaming at him inside his head to not think about Daenys like that and to not feel the way he was about her. She came from a family that hated him and his own, and he should hate her in return. If they both hated each other, Aemond wouldn’t get hurt. Things would be easier.

‘’I was wondering when you’d come to speak to me.’’ Daenys mused after a moment of silence, ‘’To find ourselves here, in the library we spent much time in as children, is rather fitting don’t you think?’’

‘’Not really.’’ Aemond replied curtly, cold anger bleeding into his voice. His frustration was beginning to cloud his mind and his patience with himself, especially with Daenys looking like that, was beginning to wear thin. Aemond wanted to yell at her, hurl insults at her, anything to get her to lash out at him. He wanted her to seethe with hate and tell him that he disgusted her so that he could feel the same anger towards her that he felt for her brothers. But she didn’t. Her eyes were kind, her mouth was too as she ignored his rude reply. Daenys was kind and Prince Aemond so badly wanted to hate her for it. It would make things much easier for him if she would hate him as well. It would stop him before he could even begin to comprehend his feelings towards the younger girl. It would save him, and her, a lot of hurt.

‘’I always cherished those memories, of us playing together. You were a good friend Aemond, I must admit. You must understand how saddened I was the night you lost your eye. I wish my brothers had never gone down there with Rhaena and Baela. Perhaps things would’ve been different, and we wouldn’t be on opposing sides of one warring family.’’ Aemond was silent with shock, unclear as to why Daenys was willing to speak in such a vulnerable way towards him. Daenys continued, taking a step towards him, a hopeful look on her face as she raised both her hands to her heart.

‘’Do you remember what it was like when we were children, Aemond?’’ she asked in an almost timid voice. When Aemond had heard Daenys mention his eye, he had recoiled, expecting her to repeat what so many young ladies at court had whispered behind his back about his scarred face and eyepatch. He didn’t even hear the last thing his niece said as his ears began to ring.

‘’Why would I care to recall memories from when we were stupid children, Daenys?’’ Aemond said in a low, cold voice. This made Daenys freeze, her mouth opening slightly in surprise at his response. ‘’I didn’t need your pity. Believe it or not, I don’t spend my days reminiscing over meaningless memories like you. It doesn’t matter, you hear me. It meant nothing to me then. It means nothing to me now.’’ Aemond wasn’t even controlling the words that were spilling out of his mouth, all he knew was that if he didn’t push Daenys away with his hurtful words now, he would’ve ended up pushing her up against the wall and kissing her with full force. Then he would be a dead man.

What Aemond didn’t see coming was the fact that seeing her hurt expression nearly broke his heart. He steeled himself, steady in his decision. He had to protect himself first, he knew that someone like Daenys would never have any kind feelings towards him. Him expecting her to be the same way from when they were children was a mere fantasy. Aemond looked down at Daenys, clasping his hands behind his back, afraid that they would reach out for her of their own accord. Daenys’ jaw clenched and she looked down at her feet, avoiding his violet eye. She rubbed at her nose for a moment, some sort of defence mechanism, and then she looked up again with strained face, eyes shining.

‘’Right then. Have a good night uncle.’’ She murmured, voice too soft, as if she didn’t want him to hear. She gathered her book into her arm and stormed past Aemond, giving him the cold shoulder. Aemond stared forwards, afraid to look behind him at the princess who swiftly put distance between the two of them. Aemond spent the rest of the night convincing himself that he had made the right decision.

~~~

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#aemond x oc #aemond x original female character #aemond x ofc #aemond the kinslayer #prince aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond imagine #aemond fanfiction #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon imagine #lucerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon #daemon targeryan #rhaenyra targaryen #velaryon #targaryen

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